Holland Imaginarium

Who Dropped The 'Moneyball?'

2012-01-24T14:39:00.000-08:00

On rare occasions, I’m lucky to get the opportunity to read an A-list script before seeing its end product. Two wonderful experiences were the Ted Griffin-Steven Soderbergh ‘Ocean’s Eleven’ (better than the original, another rare occasion) and the wholly underrated by anyone who hasn’t read or seen it; Joss Whedon’s Pilot for ‘Firefly.’ I loved both those scripts and eagerly looked forward to seeing what Cast & Crew would bring to them. In both instances, Cast & Crew shined.

Flash forward to now (ish) when I get the opportunity to read the Steven Zaillian and Aaron Sorkin adaptation of Michael Lewis’ book ‘Moneyball.’ (Note there that I write Zaillian and Sorkin, not Zaillian & Sorkin, and that’s intentional, but more on that in a bit.) The ‘Moneyball’ script is breathtaking; and, no, I’m not using that word lightly. If you don’t believe me, have a little breath taken for yourself right here:

http://red-jacket.com/114/Moneyball%20%5B2010.03.06%5D.pdf.

Sure, it’s moving, funny, uplifting, honest, enlightening, surprising; all the great things we want in great movies. And, sure, people see Sorkin’s name and jump on board (I did) but I’ll go ahead and give Zaillian his due credit right now. If you don’t know his name off-hand, how about these? ‘Schindler’s List,’ ‘Mission: Impossible,’ ‘Gangs Of New York’ and ‘The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo’ just off the top of my head. But then get a rewrite from Aaron Sorkin – and this is what I meant about “and” and “&;” Sorkin did a rewrite, they didn’t write it together – and how could it not be great? Sorkin’s the master of witty pace and dialogue, not to mention he’s living in his wheelhouse: the behind-the-scenes look at something (in this case baseball, but he’s hit it out of the park with a sports show, The White House and late night sketch comedy). Honestly, how could it not be great?

Well, the script is. It’s better than great. It’s breathtaking.

But the end product?

Not so much.

Now, to be fair, a couple things to level the playing field. First of all, scripts in general aren’t meant to be read by the theatre going public. I’ll say this very quickly, and certainly don’t mean to insult anyone, but, to be honest, most people don’t know how to read a script (just like most people don’t know how to watch dailies, but I digress). More importantly, movies (and TV shows) are the end product of a hundred – hundreds – of different people coming together to make that end product. So the script, like the Director and Grip and Script Supervisor and Sound Designer and Publicity Agent, are there to serve The Story. It’s a blueprint by which everyone will build their movie. Looooots of chefs in the kitchen (and, to continue being fair, that’s usually a good thing). But reading a Script and then seeing its end product? It’s rare. (But, like me, if you’re a fan of film, and get the opportunity, gooooolden.) Add to that THIS minor inconvenience to all involved with ‘Moneyball,’ I got to read the script and see the movie ON THE SAME DAY. So that’s not easy for any Cast & Crew. After all, I had all these wonderful expectations very fresh in my mind’s eye going into the viewing and … well …

But first, more play-field leveling.

For second of all, the only version of the script I got to read was Sorkin’s. I’m sure there’s a version of Zaillian’s original floating somewhere out there, but I sadly haven’t seen it (and before writing this, I looked), so if anyone can, please send it to me. But I read a lot of Sorkin. Let me say that again. I read a lot of Sorkin. I don’t just WATCH ‘A Few Good Men’ and ‘Malice’ and ‘American President’ and ‘Sports Night’ and ‘West Wing’ and ‘Studio 60,’ I READ as much of his as I can. So I recognize his pace, his verbal hiccups, his style. And it explodes in this script. Not just is it stat filled (natch) it’s stat filled in a way that makes someone like me who can at-best SPELL the word “sports” follow what’s going on. And then, beyond the baseball, it’s that wonderful behind-the-scenes style of his. The failure and triumph. The family. The love and loss. The guys working together, fighting together, and their women looking in on them (and they so much stronger than the working and fighting). It’s great STORY. Really, Sorkin at the top of his game.

But the movie? I’m sorry, I really am, but it’s …

Just not so much.

I promised myself that I wouldn’t compare and contrast – after all, spoilers! – so I won’t say, “there’s this great scene in the script where …” and then argue why it should have been in the film. What I will say, simply, is that all of the script’s HEART doesn’t make it into the film. It tries, and I give Cast & Crew a hell of a lot of credit for trying. But all the CHARM of the script either falls flat or simply isn’t there.

All right, I lied, one (not spoilerish) moment. This is the scene right after Billy Beane (Brad Pitt) doesn’t get his player from The Cleveland Indians and (basically) meets Jonah Hill’s character (Pete in the film, Paul in the script).

INT. INDIANS’ FRONT OFFICE - LATER

BILLY comes into a bullpen with many cubicles. He walks through the cubicle maze, looking over the partitions, until he finds the preppy kid from Shapiro’s office.

BILLY

Hi.

PAUL

Yes sir.

BILLY

I’m going to talk like this in a

congenial way and smile and nod

like we know each other and you

do the same.

PAUL

Okay.

BILLY

Who the fuck are you?

PAUL

I’m Paul DePodesta.

BILLY

I don’t give a shit what your name is.

PAUL

You just asked me who--

BILLY

What are you doing? What do you do?

PAUL

I’m a statistician.

BILLY

I don’t give a fuck.

PAUL

Well again, you--

BILLY

You just cost me a left-handed set-up

man.

PAUL

I’m sorry about that.

BILLY

You’re sorry?

PAUL

I like Rincon.

BILLY

(raising his voice)

You like Rincon? You like Rincon? Who

the fuck are you?

PAUL

Paul Depo--

BILLY

I don’t care! I have never heard of you.

I have no earthly idea who you are. I

want to know why Mark Shapiro listens

to you.

PAUL

He doesn’t most of the time.

BILLY

He just did. So tell me what--

PAUL

I’m in seven fantasy baseball leagues

and I win all seven every year.

And now BILLY’s stepped off the edge of the world...

BILLY

(long pause)

What?

PAUL

I win at fantasy baseball.

BILLY

You win at...?

PAUL

Fantasy baseball.

BILLY’s nose to nose with Paul now...

BILLY

(calmly)

Did I misunderstand you or did you

say that you’re here because you

win at fantasy baseball?

PAUL

I do.

BILLY

I’d imagine it’s easier when you’re

playing with fantasy money. You ever

play actual baseball?

PAUL

I was the equipment manager at Harvard.

BILLY

(pause)

Wow.

PAUL

Can I give you some advice?

BILLY

Absolutely not.

PAUL

There’s no other first baseman like

Giambi so I think it’s a waste of

time to look for the summer stock

version.

BILLY

(pause--a little stunned)

That’s...What? That’s exactly what I

said. I said that exact same thing

yesterday except I said dinner theater

instead of summer stock.

(beat)

Same idea.

PAUL

Yeah.

BILLY

Yeah.

BILLY’s thrown off now...something tells him he wants to keep talking to PAUL but he doesn’t want to admit it.

BILLY

Some summer stock is good.

PAUL

Some dinner theater is good.

BILLY

Why are you talking to me?

PAUL

Do you understand how conversations work?

BILLY

(pause)

Alright. I’m done here.

(pause)

You’re saying statistically there’s no

first baseman like Giambi.

PAUL

My statistics or your statistics?

BILLY

They’re statistics, they’re the same.

PAUL

No they’re not and that’s your problem.

BILLY

I don’t have a problem.

PAUL

You don’t have Rincon either.

BILLY

I’m leaving.

But BILLY just stands there...

PAUL

(pause)

You’re actually just standing here.

BILLY

(pause)

Now I’m leaving.

BILLY exits down the hallway and disappears, but PAUL stays out there. After a moment, BILLY reappears.

BILLY

Show me.

Sorry, I’m not really sure what to write there except, “?!” I hope it comes across as a typed emoticon for, “How the fuck do you WRITE a scene as good as that?!”

I promise I won’t continue pulling direct references. For one reason, it’s simply too depressing that a scene as good as that was cut into the imitation that appears in the film. Because this is a key moment. This is the moment that made us believe in the Pete character and “thinking his way,” believing his crazy idea could work, that everything Billy Beane, clearly a smart guy, a clever guy, a good General Manager, has done hasn’t work so far, and he might try something as crazy as this to help his team win. Not to mention Pete doesn’t totally back down in front of this giant (I love the statistic exchange that ends with, “You don’t have Rincon either.”) This was THE SCENE. But the scene in the film? Most of the feeling throughout the film? You’re not sure why Beane would have tried this. In fact, in the movie, you kinda agree with everyone arguing with him. But have this scene? Have an exchange like, “I win at Fantasy Baseball” and have it mean EVERYTHING? Priceless. And I don’t want to take anything away from Mr. Pitt or Mr. Hill (both, at press, nominated for Best Actor and Best Supporting Actor, respectively). They’re actually very good in the film, as, honestly, they generally are. And I was excited at the prospect of seeing them rattle off Sorkin dialogue. But, alas, there just isn’t all that much Sorkin in this film. Scenes, moments, sure. But the film isn’t given the chance at half as good of material as Sorkin’s script is. (And not just their characters, but nearly all of them. For instance, I cried when reading the script – read that again if you have to, I cried when simply reading the script – as Scott Hatteberg is brought on the team and his wife overhears the good news from the kitchen. Ready to beat the dead horse? In the script, literally breathtaking. In the movie? No better than “eh.” And that IS sad.)

So what happened?

Who dropped the Moneyball?

Well, the short answer is, obviously, whomever made the decision to not go with Sorkin’s rewrite. As I say, I haven’t had the chance to read Zaillian’s original, so I don’t know if the film went back to his or is yet someone else’s uncredited rewrite of Sorkin’s rewrite of Zaillian’s original. (Follow that?) So is the short answer we blame the director, Bennett Miller? Possibly. After all, a film’s director can shoot any version of any script he or she wishes. But, to be fair, he did ‘Capote’ and that was a very good film. (The always wonderful Philip Seymour Hoffman is in ‘Moneyball’ as well.) And Miller’s DIRECTION here – camera placement, overall pace, actors’ performances, overall EXECUTION – is perfectly fine. He knows how to direct a movie. But did he pick the right script? (While ‘Moneyball’ was nominated for Best Picture – sorry to the hard work done by their Cast & Crew, but yawn – Miller wasn’t nominated for Best Director.) Or was Miller over-ridden by one of the (again, sorry, yawn) eight producers (of which Mr. Pitt himself is one)?

I don’t know; nor am I writing the great ‘Moneyball’ Making Of, so, to be fair, I’m not digging too deep to find out. After all, that isn’t what my writing this is about. I simply couldn’t help but say, “But have you read the script?!” ‘Cause THAT’S the movie. And if THAT movie had been made, it’d not only win Best Picture, but become an instant classic, rivaling that of ‘The Natural’ and ‘Jerry Maguire.’

As I was saying, it’s always dangerous for any end product to read its script – especially one by Sorkin – and then see its Movie or TV Show immediately after. Your mind’s eye simply carries too much into it. Of course, with something like his own ‘Few Good Men’ through ‘Studio 60’ – and the much anticipated HBO series – he had some control to continue his pace into that of the actors and editing. But that doesn’t mean an auteur can’t bring something of their own to it. Reiner did brilliantly with ‘Few Good Men’ as did Fincher with ‘Social Network.’ Their Cast & Crew ENHANCED the work. But I’m sad to say – and it is genuinely saddening – Miller’s Cast & Crew – and these are hundreds of really talented people – just didn’t get it. I think it’s best summed up in a quote my dear friend Diana Kongkasem shared with me (this about Clint Eastwood being a writer’s director).

“I’ve learned that when you have a good draft of a script, you just shouldn’t mess with it anymore. When I worked with Don Siegel, he’d get a script he liked and say, ‘Let’s not kill it with improvement.’”

Here here.

When trying to catch the badly thrown ‘Moneyball,’ at the very least, we can be proud that the script is, at press, also nominated for Best Adapted Screenplay. And if The Powers That Be have any sense at all, any legitimate power, they’ll ignore the movie while giving ~~Zailian and~~ Sorkin The Oscar two years in a row.

As The Beatles Wrote, "Love Love Love"

2011-12-27T13:13:00.000-08:00

Hello dear readers ...

So I know I haven't been here in a while, and I'm tired of apologizing for it, so please just know that I wish I could write more, wish I could write HERE more, simply don't have time, and, alas. (If it helps any of you wondering where I've been, I have a two year old and a nine month old -- and, granted, that really only means something if you have kids, but -- I have a full time job AND have been writing other things more, which is good. 'Frank's' is doing well, as well as 'Adventures By Morse' and 'Holly Would.' Anyway ...)

I read the following at Jo Blo (THE site for Movie News) and had to comment on it. Firstly, I want to say how great Jo Blo CONSISTENTLY is, as well as how great one of their leading correspondents is; Mike Sampson (who wrote this). It's on the (at press) much controversial replacing of the 'Thor 2' director. Recently announced (at press time) Alan Taylor will take the reigns. But I'll let Mr. Sampson tell it --

Patty Jenkins had been hired, at the suggestion of star Natalie Portman, to direct Marvel's THOR 2. But as Jenkins and Marvel had continuing script discussions it became clear that Jenkins, who hasn't directed a film since 2003's MONSTER, was in over her head. So despite Portman's protests, Marvel and Jenkins parted ways and the search for a new director was on. Enter "Game of Thrones." Marvel was looking at two directors who had been working on the popular HBO series - Alan Taylor and Brian Kirk. Well over the holidays, it was confirmed that Taylor has gotten the gig and will begin directing THOR 2 (which I'm sure will have a fancy subtitle) next year. How happy that makes Portman, who was reportedly "furious" when Jenkins was fired, remains to be seen. It also remains to be seen whether Marvel gives a shit. Let's all be honest and admit that the Jane Foster storyline was the least interesting part of the original THOR. More Asgard please. Another good question to ask regards who the villain will be in THOR 2. Loki will be the main villain in THE AVENGERS and audiences will likely need something fresh for the THOR sequel. Maybe Enchantress?

So there it is, the original post in its entirety. What I want to chat about very quickly is the comment on the Jane Foster storyline. That it's the "least interesting part of the original." While for some viewers it may not have been as exciting as Asgard or the battle(s) on Earth, let's be honest (to use Mr. Sampson's benchmark), IT'S THE ANCHORING OF THE MOVIE. You want to make a movie about The Civil War ('Gone With The Wind')? Give it a love story. You want to make a movie about The Sinking Of A Ship ('Titanic')? Give it a love story. You want to make a movie about a (and let's be REALLY honest here) fairly lesser known super hero such as Odin's son? For God's sake give it something that everyone can relate to, especially the girlfriends that are being dragged to it by their comic-book-loving-boyfriends (and I'M a comic-book-loving-husband): GIVE IT A LOVE STORY.

I can't think of an action-thriller-anything-NOT-a-cliche-love-story in the last bazillion years that didn't have a love story. (And, to be fair, I'm even considering 'Aliens' which, while "mother-daughter" between Ripley and Newt, is still that bond; much like 'Field Of Dreams' being between father and son. But that's for a longer article ...)

I'm thinking back to the 'Solaris' commentary with James Cameron and Steven Soderbergh in which they both wax lyrical about being suckers for a good love story (which 'Solaris' CLEARLY is, though I don't want to spoil anything here) ... and how much I'M a sucker for a good love story ... and how aren't we all? Really, it's the anchor of most movies, and how is that ever a bad thing? Especially in the case of this "lesser known superhero" (I'm talking outside us fans) in which HOW CAN WE NOT have a love story between god and human, not just as an anchor for the audience to the comic, but, just as significantly, God to Earth? He needs to care about this "lesser realm." Why? 'Cause she smiled at him. And really, guys, isn't it ALWAYS as simple as that?

As I say, I don't want to take anything away from Jo Blo or Mike Sampson, as they consistenly do great work. I just read that and had to say, "Whoa, shut the front door." 'Cause -- God, I don't want to sound cheesy here, but -- love IS the anchor, especially in story; poetry, song, story, film, tv, all of it. Lose that? Lose your audience.

And, let's be honest here once more: isn't it our audience for whom we all write?

The Great Buffy Rewatch: Something Blue

2011-06-14T11:02:00.000-07:00

w Tracey Forbes

d Nick Marck

As mentioned, this ep caps the big Angel crossover, Buffy mentioning to Willow she only saw him in L.A. for five minutes – yep, sniffle for those of you who know. As I say, I feel it could have been bigger than Pangs although I Will Remember You works so well that I write it off as “more of the change.” Buffy has to move on, so that her relationship with Riley can evolve; and fair enough. But the biggest change I realized in watching these episodes again (primarily Pangs and Something Blue) is this: this is where we begin to love Spike.

We’ve always loved to hate Spike, but these are the two eps in which Whedon & Co ingratiate him to The Scoobies and, more significantly, to us the audience. Whedon himself says (I’m paraphrasing), “When we lost Cordelia to Angel, we needed someone to fill that saying-what-we’re-all-thinking hole, and Spike does that beautifully.” So he was brought back. Of course, to give him those Cordelia moments, and not have him back just to wage war on Buffy, he had to get into the group, hence the implant (introduced in Pangs), being held captive at Giles’, and his (still biting but) more comedic handling.

Speaking of the comedy, Ms. Forbes handles it very well here; in most people’s opinion, getting a tabula rasa after her Beer Bad.

ANYA

Giles is blind?

Xander goes to Giles, waves his hands wildly in front of Giles' face.

GILES

Stop whatever you're doing. You smell like fruit roll-ups.

SPIKE

This is the crack team that foils my every plan?

BUFFY

Spike's right. We have to get organized.

ANYA

Why are you holding hands?

Xander turns, eyes them.

SPIKE

They have to hear it sooner or later...

BUFFY

Spike and I are getting married.

XANDER

(to Giles)

How? What? How?

GILES

Three excellent questions.

Buffy and Spike kiss, big time.

XANDER

(off this)

Can I be blind too?

As I wrote in The Zeppo how much I love What Ifs, this too has that feel. Some have said this ep feels like Season 1’s Nightmares, specifically in which (in that ep) Giles can no longer read, and everyone faces their own demons, but where I think Whedon & Co get away with it is in playing the comedy instead of rehashing a monster-of-the-week.[i]

And as I have the soft spot for Xander, I have to point out here that he’s the one to figure out what’s going on, underlining just how close he and Willow are.[ii]

All in all, I think these three eps playout quite nicely; as I say, especially in repeated viewings when you’re not just coming off the whirlwind Buffy/Angel storyline and can watch Season 4 for its own merit. I hope you’re enjoying it, and have enjoyed these three eps’ mostly comedic breather. Because what comes next is -- wonderfully -- anything but.

[i] (A similar argument can be made for Out Of Mind, Out Of Sight Vs Season 6’s Gone.)

[ii] Foreshadowing the Season 6 end. Speaking of that, do take note of D’Hoffryn inviting Willow to join his merry men, foreshadowing just how powerful she is, and will become.

The Great Buffy Rewatch: Pangs

2011-06-14T10:56:00.000-07:00

w Jane Espenson

d Michael Lange

More so than most of the writers in The Whedonverse, I tend to gravitate toward Ms. Espenson. While Whedon himself hits us with the big eps, Espenson tends to bring the funny, the off-kilter, and I often list more of hers under “personal faves.”

For me, Pangs is bitter-sweet. On the one hand, given as big a Buffy/Angel fan that I am (and I mean that as opposed to Buffy/Riley or Buffy/Spike), I was thrilled to hear we were getting our first crossover (after Angel left to L.A.). Angel’s The Bachelor Party ends with Doyle having a vision of Buffy in danger, Angel returns to Sunnydale here, Buffy visits L.A. in Angel’s I Will Remember You, and it’s capped in Something Blue. I just can’t help but feel that “Angel’s return to Sunnydale” should have been bigger – later in the season? – than for a primarily comedic episode such as this.[i] Now, on the other hand, as well as Ms. Espenson handles this episode – especially with the funny – what could have been a monster-of-the-week peppered by Indian-Vs-Native-American soapboxing holds up really well, even after multiple viewings.

The His Girl Friday banter of Giles and Willow arguing over that very “Vs” is really well written, from both sides, and is (almost) as funny as its counterpoint: Buffy just wanting to have a nice Thanksgiving dinner. There are great momens throughout like --

WILLOW

This isn't a Western, Buffy! We're not at Fort... Giles,

with the cavalry coming to save us! It's one lonely and

oppressed warrior guy who's just trying to --

BUFFY

-- kill a lot of people?

WILLOW

I didn't say he was right...

BUFFY

Will, you know how bad I feel. This is eating me up --

(to Anya, who holds up the bottle of brandy)

-- a quarter cup, and let it simmer --

(to Willow, as Anya goes back)

-- but even though it's hard, we have to end this. Yes,

he's been wronged, and I personally would be ready to

apologize...

SPIKE

Oh, someone put a stake in me!

Capitalized by the great end with all of them at the table, even tied-to-the-chair Spike as returned-from-Syphillis Xander, loveable old Xander, blurts out that Angel was there.

Alas.

[i] Though I Will Remember You is anything but comedic, and one of the really great tortured romance episodes of both series.

The Great Buffy Rewatch: The Initiative

2011-06-14T10:16:00.000-07:00

These three posts -- The Initiative, Pangs and Something Blue -- are another part of Nikki Stafford's The Great Buffy Rewatch on her blog, Nik At Nite; which, as such the Buffy fan that I am, I was honored to be a part. Like the first three I did -- The Zeppo, Bad Girls and Consequences -- they'll be broken into three posts, one per episode, with Spoilers as Endnotes. I hope you enjoy!

I promised Nikki I’d keep this brief.

My last entry – The Zeppo, Bad Girls and Consequences – ran nearly 6,000 words, longer than most, but she was kind enough to post as-is, and I do thank her for that. It didn’t feel long (to me, hope you agree), but I did promise to keep this one around 1,500.

I went back and looked at that first entry. Yikes, the Zeppo part alone ran more than 1,500 words! Had I once again bitten off more than I could chew? I have to admit, I was nervous trying to cram so much fun into so few words. (So why, you must be thinking, am I wasting so many with this drivel? Well …) Buffy’s a lot of fun. More than anything else, it’s great fun, and we as fans get to enjoy it over and over again (without it ever feeling old; probably the great compliment to Whedon & Co).

I started watching from the very first ep, and by Season 2 my then-wife and I hosted every Tuesday night so friends could watch together. (I actually miss yelling “It’s on!” when commercials ended, but I wax lyrical on that in a Dollhouse article I did: http://whedonesque.com/comments/24175.) I’ve always been a “more the merrier” kind of guy, but those get-togethers (especially by Season 4 when, along with Angel, it became a two-hour event) greeeeew; so much so that a couple people started staying home to watch because our viewings were getting too rowdy. “I can’t hear!” “Wait, what just happened?” (And we couldn’t TiVO back.) To that end, my dear friend Andy Gattuso wrote up this (I kid you not, it was taped to the outside of the front door every Tuesday night) --

Frankly I was surprised I still had it. (And I apologize for its crudeness. I even blocked out a bit. We were twenty-something then; oof, it was back when I still smoked.) Another dear friend of mine, Anne Mialaret, one of the regulars, actually stood out there until the first commercial break. Now that’s a fan! So much so, in fact, that when I couldn’t make it to Comicon during Buffy Season 3 to have our WB Posters signed, she got two and gave me one.

Now, if you’ve continued reading this far, I know you’re asking, “Why is he wasting all this time on this?” Because the show is fun. Because we as fans enjoy talking about the fun we’ve had watching it as much as the show itself. Because, as consistently good as it is, and the longevity with which it will continue (and not get old), we’ll continue having fun with it. So thanks, Andy and Anne. All fans deserve a few words before we begin.

Speaking of, I better do so. And so, once again, the camera pushes in on me staring wide-eyed at my laptop, furiously typing away and –

Opening Credits.

The Initiative

w Doug Petrie

d James A. Contner

I’ve always thought that Season Four works really well – certainly better – the second time you see it. I remember enjoying it as it aired, but there’s definitely a change in the air. We no longer have The Library as headquarters. Buffy isn’t living at home. Angel is gone. Oz having just left? Everybody’s changing. And, in typical Whedon & Co fashion, the first third of the season are pretty much stand-alones, only teasing with The Big Bad before finally revealing it. We’ve been poked by The Commandos, but now we’re hit with them head on. Not to mention the good-looking All-American who might be a new love interest for Buffy is one of them? Indeed, lots of change in the air.

In fact, Riley is the best example of Season Four working better the second time around. For three years we fell in love with Buffy and Angel right along with them. For my money they’re one of the great storytime romances.[i] So, yes, it took a lot of time for me to get on the Riley bandwagon. Years and multiple DVD viewings later. Now I do like him. But then? No, change wasn’t all that comfortable.

Which was most likely Whedon & Co’s plan, and one of the things that I think makes Buffy work through seven seasons. While – as I wrote throughout Zeppo et al – they never wrote against character (key in a good show) they do love to shake things up. And shake things up they do from Initiative forward.

It’s interesting that it rests on Doug Petrie to make the turn. He wrote Bad Girls which is Season 3’s turn, and here he is again, revealing for us The Initiative as Big Bad.[ii] While I prefer my Big Bads to be a bit more fantastic (a la The Master, Spike/Drusilla/Angel, The Mayor)[iii], I guess the idea of a Government anti-demon conglomerate was inevitable. Somebody was bound to ask, “Wouldn’t they have a hand in this by now?” After all, we see rumblings of the like as far back as Season 1’s Out Of Mind, Out Of Sight. That Whedon & Co handle it as well as Season 4 plays out deserves kudos.[iv] Remember, we’re in the change.

[i] I’m getting ahead of myself, but Pangs begins the two-part crossover with the Angel ep I Will Remember You which only solidified their relationship for us long-viewing fans even after he’d left!

[ii] And I’m indeed getting ahead of myself here, but David Fury’s The I In Team will reveal Adam, the personification of The Initiative as Big Bad.

[iii] Even Glory and eventually The First.

[iv] Especially considering the Penultimate and then Finale.

The Great Buffy Rewatch: Consequences

2011-05-03T13:25:00.000-07:00

w Marti Noxon

d Michael Gershman

I won’t give Ms. Noxon nearly enough credit in this Commentary, though she very much deserves it. Suffice to say her great script drives the roller coaster. While Bad Girls is the first rush down, Consequences is the first turn, the bare settling, the chug back up the track. It’s a breather, but only a short one, giving us just enough time to comprehend what’s happened; the resetting of a timebomb, threatening us with what we realize was there all along. And we still have to face.

As I say, both episodes are really a two-parter, so let’s get right back into it. Faith left us with, “I don’t care” so that’s where we’ll start. (Oh those walls of hers!) Faith herself doesn’t believe she doesn’t care, and Buffy knows it; but, as Milton wrote some four hundred years ago, “Long is the way and hard that out of hell leads up to light.” Buffy, as our hero, can’t shake what’s happened, as her dream personifies: she’s drowning in it. She knows how quickly Faith is falling; more importantly, were those the walls she herself built, how quickly she’d be dragged down with her.

As I began the Zeppo Commentary with how much I love What If episodes, the last half of Season 3 is, as I wrote, sort of a big What If, isn’t it?

What if The Slayer was bad?

As Bad Girls gave us the setup, Consequences is the payoff. And it’s a dark one. Not just for Faith (natch) but for Buffy too. Because Faith is the personification of Buffy’s Dark Side. So, really, we’re getting a glimpse of the shadow, the silhouette, in Buffy’s mind.

Magnifying that idea specifically, there are two big scenes in this episode. For nearly three seasons, we’ve had glimpses of it -- certainly Slayer Vs Buffy-As-Normal-Girl, but also Slayer Vs Slayer (the latter as far back as When She Was Bad) -- but now that Buffy’s inner demons are personified in Faith, we get to hear those thoughts. The first big is in the street –

FAITH

Buffy. I'm not going to "see" anything... I missed the mark

last night. And I'm sorry about the guy, really. But it happens.

(then)

Anyway - how many people do you think we've saved by

now? Thousands? And didn't you stop the world from ending?

In my book, that puts you and me firmly in the plus column.

BUFFY

We help people. That doesn't mean we can do whatever we want-

FAITH

Why not? This guy I off’d was no Ghandi. We just saw - he was

mixed up in dirty dealing.

BUFFY

Maybe. But what if he was coming to us for help?

FAITH

What if he was? You're still not looking at the big picture, B.

Something made us different. We're warriors. We were built

to kill-

BUFFY

(cutting her off)

To kill demons. But we don't get to pass judgement on people,

like we're better than everybody else-

FAITH

We are better.

(this stops Buffy)

That's right. Better. People need us to survive. In the balance?

Nobody's gonna cry over some random bystander who got caught

in the crossfire.

Buffy looks stricken. Finally-

BUFFY

I am.

Faith just looks at her. Shakes her head.

FAITH

Your loss.

This is key because most likely Buffy has had this exact … if not conversation with herself, the thought has to have crossed her mind.[i] It’s first personified in “Want Take Have” in Bad Girls, then magnified here. Indeed, Buffy and Faith are better, in a sense. Stronger, faster, all that. The difference, though, is Buffy chooses to use her powers to help people.

The second big is on the docks at the end.

FAITH

What bugs you is - you know I'm right. You know in your gut.

We don't need the law. We are the law-

BUFFY

No.

Faith moves in closer. Sees that she's getting to her.

FAITH

Yes. You know exactly what I'm about. Because you have it

in you, too.

BUFFY

No. You're sick, Faith-

FAITH

I've seen it, B. You've got the lust. And I'm not just talking about

screwing vampires-

BUFFY

(warning)

Don't bring him into this-

FAITH

It was good, wasn't it? The sex? The danger? Bet a part of you

even dug him when he went psycho-

BUFFY

No-

FAITH

See - you need me to tow the line because you're afraid you'll go
over it, aren't you, B? You can't handle watching me living my

own way and having a blast - because it tempts you. You know it

could be you-

That's it. Something snaps in Buffy. She rears back and POPS Faith a good one. Faith falls back, but she's smiling as she puts a hand to her bleeding mouth.

FAITH

(taunting)

There's my girl...

Nail on the head.

Because Faith has a point. This is what every Slayer, indeed Buffy, must fight internally; now, as I say, these inner demons are personified in Faith. Though, interestingly, Buffy hits first. Pushed to it, sure, but “her own way,” as Faith taunts her, pushes back. And can you blame her? They’ve been verbally dueling a while now, so one of them was bound to take it to the next level. But that it’s Buffy who first resorts to the physical? Well, even Luke in Jedi, hearing Vader will go after Leia, loses it. And, dear readers, don’t ever get between Buffy and Angel. I wrote a Spec of Smallville many years ago (that show’s Season 2) where Clark and Random Bad Guy are facing off and Random Bad asks him, “Everything you can do and you choose to help these people? Why?!” And Clark says, “Because I can.” Indeed: Buffy can. And does.

But is Faith truly lost?

For me, there are three key moments where Faith’s conscience kicks in, and she, however fleetingly, allows a crack in the wall. The first, and I think most significant, is in Bad Girls where, after killing The Deputy Mayor, she returns to the scene to view it, let it sink in. (This is probably the turning point, where she decides to let the walls build.) The second is in this episode when she and Buffy are snooping around The Mayor’s office and there’s this –

CLOSE ON PHOTO

A shot of the Deputy Mayor with the Mayor at on official function of some kind. The Deputy Mayor is smiling, proud.

FAITH

He came out of nowhere.

BUFFY

(sympathetically)

I know.

At this Faith’s eyes go cold and she returns to the search.

FAITH

Whatever. I’m not looking to hug and cry and learn and grow.

I’m just saying it went down quick, is all.

Buffy, a little stung, decides to let it go.

More letting it sink in – and no pun intended considering how our episode began – it’s what I was saying about Faith choosing to go down this path. Even here, Buffy doesn’t gloat or pry or do anything but agree with her. And Faith knows it. Catches herself and – “shields up!” – can’t buy that there’s any way out besides that which her past allows – no-mother, no-Giles, no-friends.

The third, and fairly most obvious moment is in the end fight where Trick is about to dine on Buffy and Faith stakes him, saving her. Faith could have escaped, let it happen – we see her pause – but instead she chooses to do the right thing and save our hero. There is an episode coming up named – I’m just naming it here, that’s not a spoiler, right? – Choices. I often thought that one of this two-parter should be called that, given how many happen in them. But there are certainly consequences to be faced, and fair enough.

The biggest of which (sigh) is Willow. I’ve often said that no two actresses working today cry better than Gillian Anderson and Alyson Hannigan. (Am I surprised both their first and last names have the same syllables? But I digress …) Our dear Willow has had to cry so many times in seven seasons, but one of the real hit-homes is in this episode, when she hears of Xander having sex with – losing his virginity to – Faith (and this, remember, two episodes later). It’s setup by a comical moment, the double “Oh” between Buffy and Giles, as they realize what’s happened, undercut by the solemn, “I don’t need to say it” Willow gives; she having realized it first. And then the cut-to her crying in the bathroom. Ugh. Did I mention the sigh?

The other big consequence is, after the same significant scene, the simple cut-to Xander laying on the stairs of the library thinking about what’s happened. Not that he’s slept with Faith, not that he’s lost his virginity, but that Willow now knows, again two episodes (call it two weeks) later. They talk every night, so two weeks? Willow, his best friend since they were six, who he knows has been in love with him for as long (pre Oz), who he knows must have cried after hearing the news. Once again, with as big a switch-up as Whedon & Co throw at us with turning Faith, and the consequences that births, it’s the simple everyday relationship issues that hit home the hardest. And work the best.

I mentioned the sigh, right?

As remiss as I would have been not to mention Wesley’s introduction in Bad Girls, I have to mention his key moment in this episode. Upon learning of Faith’s indiscretion, he takes it upon himself to SWAT Team her back to The Council.[ii] Whereas so far in these two episodes we’ve only seen him as the brainy bumbler, this gives him a moment of substance, some grounding to believe that there’s more to him than just the comedy. As well rounded as all the characters are in the Whedonverse, so indeed is Our New Watcher.[iii]

And last but not least, from a production standpoint, I have to mention the great Michael Gershman, who directed this episode. This is his second Directed By episode – after Season 2’s Passion (another Best Of The Series) and we’ll see him direct next on Season 4’s A New Man – and I think he does a wonderful job. You know his name as he’s been Buffy’s Cinematographer (and will be for eighty-some episodes); and, as Mr. Pateman pointed out so well in his first Commentary of our Rewatch, successfully helped establish the look of the show.

Couple of things, if I may.

First, I found it interesting in Gershman’s DVD Commentary of this episode that there were never storyboards for the show. An aside, really, but I found it interesting.

Secondly, please note the three long camera moves in this ep: through the crime scene to Angel looking on; following Angel out of the mansion into the courtyard to see Buffy; and off Giles’ office to Wesley listening in. Why significant? Because most decisions made on any TV Show have something to do with time. The less time spent on something generally means less money spent (all the way to the Network Cut of a show, as they want to cram as much Advertising in as possible). For a myriad of reasons for another much longer article, you just don’t see long shots like this in a TV Show; one of the reasons being how long it takes to light enough Set for that long a shot. But as Gershman was the Cinematographer on the show – knew the sets and what it took to light them – he could plan-for and get-away-with them as Director. Again, perhaps an aside, but I find it interesting.

As Ms. Stuller wrote so well in the Season 1 Prophecy Girl Commentary about The Hero’s Journey: redemption resolves. Unfortunately, as we see in this episode’s final scene, Faith chooses to continue down the dark path, turning herself over to The Mayor; not in any heroic sacrifice, but, in a sense, turning over her very soul. Does she really feel that alone? Are her walls that fully built? The roller coaster rushes on, redemption left to wait, as it seems Milton’s hard way into light is indeed still a long one before us all.

[i] Not to mention, um, “Death is your gift,” anyone?

[ii] Foreshadowing the Council “Wetworks” Team in Season 4’s Who Are You?

[iii] I know I mentioned this before, but oh the arc he’ll continue on, in the remaining episodes of this season and especially Angel. I wonder how long Whedon & Co initially planned to keep him around, considering he’s gone from Sunnydale in Season 4 and doesn’t show up in L.A. (on Angel) until that show’s tenth episode, Parting Gifts. In any event, I’m glad he returns, because he is our dear Wesley.

The Great Buffy Rewatch: Bad Girls

2011-05-03T13:21:00.000-07:00

w Doug Petrie

d Michael Lange

While The Zeppo is a stand-alone episode, barely if at all dealing with the mythology of the season, Bad Girls and Consequences – they’re really a two-parter, aren’t they? – are very much the mythology of the season. In fact, they’re the season’s very turning point. While up through these episodes we’ve been chugging up the track of that first big hill, the rest of the season is the roller coaster ride. And, wow.

As I say, I’d forgotten just how significant especially Bad Girls is, but felt better when the writer himself, Doug Petrie, said the same in his DVD Commentary Track. But think of it. The Mayor full-fledgingly (it’s a word) stepping into his role; the introduction of Wesley Wyndam-Pryce (as it’s spelled in Petrie’s script, though we’ll also see it Wyndam-Price and Wyndham-Price); Angel and Wesley meet; another character (Balthazar) references The Mayor’s importance; we’re introduced to Faith’s longbow; and The Mayor becomes invincible. (All in just forty-four minutes!)

There is always The Big Bad of the Season, and Season 3’s is of course The Mayor, but the more significant enemy – certainly to Buffy personally – is Faith. Throughout the first three seasons, though it will certainly carry throughout the entire series, Buffy has had to balance her personal life with the life of The Slayer. But what Season 3 looks at specifically, certainly from Bad Girls forward, is what happens when the life of The Slayer takes a different path. (Our great What If episode The Wish looked at this as well, but singularly, and from its Elseworld point of view. Now – much like the cool of The Zeppo – it’s really happening.)

What makes Buffy the hero she is are a myriad of influences, most significantly the people in her life. Remember Spike in School Hard? “A Slayer with family and friends. That sure as hell wasn't in the brochure.” Joyce as her mother – and this is the topic of a much longer article, but consider the impact Joyce had on Buffy’s life for the fifteen years before she became The Slayer. Giles as her Watcher and father figure. Willow and Xander as her friends. Angel (period). Even Oz and Anya. But just as significant as having her family around her proves, it’s the woman Buffy – Slayer aside – is inherently. Like Peter Parker, another hero we know is inherently a good person, Buffy enjoys quipping with her enemies in a light-hearted manner. She still wants to finish High School, go to College. She still wants to fall in love, shop, pay her bills. She still wants to be a normal girl. (Still very much a part of who she is.) So imagine stripping it all away from her. How she was raised, the family around her, her sense of humor, the girl inside the woman. Would she still be as good a hero?

Or, to put it as simply as possible … what if The Slayer was bad?

This is the fun Whedon & Company get to have with Faith. And as unnerving as it is, fun is indeed a key word. Because few people enjoy – find pure giddiness in – being evil as much as The Mayor and Faith. (Especially The Mayor. Like Sue Sylvester on Glee, reveling in The Dark Side, it’s why The Mayor is often a – without question my – favourite Big Bad.) As old a device as this is in Story – every Superman has his Bizarro – there’s always something enticing about delving into the dark mirror of our hero.

It starts innocently enough – “Count of three isn’t a plan, it’s Sesame Street” – but soon delves deeper – Buffy cutting class through the window (which, frankly, the teacher didn’t notice?) and dancing at The Bronze – then very deep indeed with the accidental killing of The Deputy Mayor[i]. And I think accidental is a key word, not just for their innocence sake, but for Faith’s turn specifically in that she knows she has a way out if she talks to Giles, but chooses to let the walls she’s built up keep her from doing the right thing. (The walls Buffy herself may also have if not for her mother, friends, et cetera. Again, this is the turn we see in The Wish, but I digress.) Faith isn’t drawn to The Dark Side for money or power or anything Evil offers her[ii], but is thrust there as accidentally -- as innocently -- as Buffy. And this is where Whedon & Co write her so well: Faith’s very walls simply let her flounder there. (But more on that in our Part 2, Consequences. For there’s more to talk about in this episode.)

Re Buffy herself, and this reiterates what I was talking about good writing always staying within character, one might argue that her being our hero – an inherently good girl – well, she wouldn’t do some of the things she does in this episode: lying about the Deputy Mayor’s death, stealing from the hardware store, injuring the cops to escape from them. But she does them all within the frame of her being who she is. I particularly like the moment after the car crash where she checks the cops to make sure they’re okay. This could easily have not been written or shot (or it could have been cut for time) but including it solidifies who she is. She may be delving into her own Dark Side for one episode – and fair enough – but she’s still our girl. Besides, who can blame her for almost being drowned a second time? Considering the Season 1 finale, Petrie says it’s a bit like “baptism by fire.” And perhaps she deserves burning off a little steam. I know I’m getting ahead of myself, but what ultimately solidifies her remaining our hero is the end of Consequences where there’s this exchange –

BUFFY

I really thought we were gonna lose her.

GILES

She still has a lot to face before she can put this behind her. But yes,

she has a real chance. Because you didn't give up on her.

The difference between Buffy and Faith is clear. Faith feels alone. But as Buffy has her mother, Giles, and friends, she can also be a friend.

This is, too, perhaps the topic for a longer article – Cops In Sunnydale – but it’s interesting to see when and where we see Cops in the series. Two significant episodes right in a row are Bad Girls and Consequences where they’re all over the place. I’d feel bad for not at least mentioning it, so here we go. I’m ashamed not to give credit to whomever mentioned this in the Season 1 Commentary, but there’s Giles’ line, “People have a tendency to rationalize what they can and forget what they can't.”[iii] And there’s the reasonable buy-in that, as we now know The Mayor is “a black hat” (as Faith will say in the next ep), that he might send the police after our heroes a bit more vehemently than before. Still, I’d like to one day read that longer article.

Before we get into Consequences, I’d be remiss not to touch on the introduction of our dear Wesley. And I hope you agree he is dear. I certainly think of him that way. When Doug Petrie originally pitched the character to Whedon, he says, “Originally I had thought of a Michael J. Fox type, kind of a George Stephanopoulos American young aggressive go-getter,” which I think would have been a fun balance, but then we’d miss the doubly British moments like this --

WESLEY

It's not all books and theory nowadays. I have in fact faced

two vampires - under controlled circumstances, of course.

GILES

Well, you're in no danger of finding any here.

WESLEY

Vampires?

GILES

Controlled circumstances.

Then both of them closing that scene by cleaning their glasses at the same time? Indeed, “Giles The Next Generation,” as Cordelia says in the next episode, just shines. Petrie also notes in his DVD Commentary Track that giving Wesley the brainy bumbling also allowed them to take most of that away from Giles, who, for two-and-a-half years, played that role. This, of course, more solidly places Giles in the role of the quieter, cooler father figure to Buffy, greatly solidifying that bond.

There are an abundance of insides in this episode – inside jokes, references and the like. Willow being admitted to Wesleyan (Whedon’s alma mater); the Gleaves crypt where Balthazar’s amulet is buried, Gleaves is Petrie’s wife’s maiden name; Balthazar being thought of as a Blade rip-off (though Petrie admitting he’d never seen Blade and instead ripped-off Marvel’s The Kingpin); The Mayor’s cleanliness obsession a friendly jab at Executive Producer David Greenwalt; and it was while shooting this episode – the scene in which Angel charges in to save Giles and Wesley – that Greenwalt said, “Yeah, I think there’s a Series in him.”[iv]

No doubt about it, this is a big episode. Sadly, I barely scratched its surface. For me it’s really about Buffy and Faith, a very special relationship, of which this is just the beginning. More specifically, this is Faith’s fall from grace. So the questions linger. How long will it be before she claws her way back up? Can she?

Or are her walls too strongly built?

[i] This too is a larger topic for another article – and may very well be dealt with in The Body or The Gift or Seeing Red – but human death is an odd thing in The Buffyverse. Demons are off’d left and right. And we accept demons killing their fair share of humans, but then some are singled out very particularly – Joyce, Ben, Tara – and then to the gravest effect. (Certainly Joyce whose The Body may be the best episode of the series.)

[ii] At least not until The Mayor fatherly showers her with the knife, apartment, Playstation and, in what may be the key moment in their relationship, the flowerly sundress in which he sees her prettier than she ever sees herself.

[iii] Recalled in the Angel episode The Prodigal when Angel tells Kate Lockley, “People have a way of seeing what they need to.”

[iv] While Angel had been prepped since the end of Buffy Season 2, his exit at the end of Season 3 was still up in the air, and it’s apparently during the shooting of this episode that Whedon and Greenwalt officially decided to pull the trigger.

The Great Buffy Rewatch: The Zeppo

2011-05-03T13:18:00.000-07:00

These three posts -- The Zeppo, Bad Girls and Consequences -- are part of Nikki Stafford's The Great Buffy Rewatch on her blog, Nik At Nite; which, as such the Buffy fan that I am, I was honored to be a part. They'll be broken into three posts, one per episode, with Spoilers as Endnotes, in case any of you are newbies to The Scoobies. See what I did there? Nothing? Is this thing on? (Cough) Right then, moving on ...

I hope I haven’t bitten off more than I can chew.

When I first read that Guest Commentators would be co-hosting The Great Buffy Rewatch, I knew I somehow had to be a part of it. But how? I wasn’t sure. I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting Nikki in person, just over email, but the little contact we’d had made me believe I could at least email her about it. So I did. And of course she was as wonderfully gracious as you’d expect; as most of you already know. That I – just another fan – could join what many consider the great Buffy academics around.

Which brings me to the biting and chewing.

First of all, who was I to join such academics? Sure, I’ve worked in Hollywood all my professional life – including a stint on Dollhouse – so perhaps I had a certain “in;” could give an insider’s opinion. And I write about The Whedonverse every once in a while. And I’m definitely a fan, having watched all of Whedon’s series live as they aired, including hosting get-togethers for Buffy and eventually along with Angel those wonderful Tuesday nights long ago. But would any of this give me cred among the real academics?

More biting, more chewing.

For second of all, by the time I garnered enough courage to throw my hat in the ring, all the episodes were already taken. Had I missed my chance? Well, I did see there were a few double-ups, so I thought, “Well, I’ll offer a couple of weeks and see what happens,” pretty sure I could write a little something entertaining, hopefully interesting, and succeed in my own original goal: to simply be a part of this exciting year.

I saw the Zeppo week and remembered how much I love that episode (I’ve always had a soft spot for Xander[i]) so I thought, “Yeah! Zeppo! That one will be fun.” But what I didn’t immediately think about was Bad Girls and Consequences being in the same group. I tried to remember what happened in those. (Before this Great Rewatch, I hadn’t seen Season 3 in a couple of years.) “Let’s see, that’s where Faith kills The Deputy Mayor. And one of them is where Wesley shows up. Anything else? Eh, I’ll figure it out. Yeah, I can do a write-up on that group.”

For the sake of this review, of course, I rewatched Bad Girls and Consequences again and, um, there’s a lot that happens in them. (As I smack myself in the head) They’re kind of the crux of the rest of the season.

Uh oh. Had I picked the wrong group? Especially considering my academic audience?

Had I bitten off more than I could chew?

Camera pushes in on me staring wide-eyed at my laptop, furiously typing away and –

Opening Credits.

The Zeppo

w Dan Vebber

d James Whitmore Jr.

I have always been a fan of “What If” stories. Taking established settings and characters and viewing them under different circumstances. We recently saw Buffy’s own best example with The Wish. And while The Zeppo feels like one – or, as I like to think of it, more like Back To The Future Part 2 where Marty revisits the adventure in the first movie while simultaneously being on another; seeing the events of one storyline from the different point of view of a simultaneous one – what separates it from being categorized as Elseworld is that it’s really happening. This isn’t a What If, but happening in our setting to our characters. And that’s something even cooler.[ii]

And “cool” is the theme here, isn’t it? It’s precisely how Xander isn’t portrayed at the beginning of this episode; and, for the most part, how he hasn’t been portrayed in the series thus far. There are moments when Nicholas Brendon is given the chance to play cool – say, The Soldier in Halloween (but this is a spell cast on the character) – and even moments of Xander playing it cool – say, his punching out The Clown in Nightmares or reenacting The Soldier in Innocence – but he’s never really been able to be cool yet. Well, in The Zeppo he gets his comeuppance in spades. For all the buttmonkeying he’s been put through[iii] and, as I say, for how this very episode begins, Xander goes from Zero to Hero in one of the best stories not just of the season but, in my opinion, of the very series.[iv]

Let’s talk about that, how great the story itself is. The two stories. The first is the End Of The World Apocalypse that’s bigger than most of the episodic bads we face. This is a Big Bad, as big as the two Season Finales we’ve seen thus far. As built up, wonderfully melodramatic as it is, it indeed feels like a Season Finale, including the scene between Buffy and Angel in the mansion that Xander awkwardly breaks into.[v] (I particularly love the music cues here, the score beneath Buffy and Angel that cuts out when Xander’s there then resumes when he leaves. But I’m getting ahead of myself, because …) The second story is of course the one playing out behind these scenes; the one in which, really, our primary adventure takes place. In which Xander saves the day – and all our heroes’ lives.

On his own.

It all begins when he’s sent off for donuts, a seemingly unimportant task until the great callback with Giles when he tells Buffy and Willow he’ll try and contact The Spirit Guides, and asks what happened to the jellies.[vi] And that’s just one example of the brilliance in this episode, and what I meant by it feeling like a What If, or at least slightly removed from our regular timeline. It’s packed with moments like that. And while the basic story is split in two – the Apocalypse and Xander’s Adventure – Xander’s Adventure is split in two as well.

First is the what I’ll call “brilliant wackiness” of it. Cordelia calling Xander The Zeppo (is she really enough of a Marx Bros fan to quip a reference like that?); Oz mocking Seth Green’s guitar playing; the cut from Oz playing light-of and Giles astutely serious that “it’s the end of the world;” Xander (always sex-on-his-mind Xander) – remember in Innocence, “I’m seventeen. Looking at linoleum makes me wanna have sex.” – all but flat-out turning down Lysette to hang out with Angel (of all people); the cool-in-the-face-of-death quip (and my favourite line in the episode), “Mostly I feel Katie” (though “Yeah, I think it’s Bob” makes a great best-line argument); losing his virginity to (of all people) Faith; his (in a very cool moment) grabbing the one baddie, dragging him with the car, about to get the information he needs and WHAM … well, you know; Oz, his memory simply “oddly full,” at dispensing Jack; all of it crystallized by the perfectly delivered, “Did I mention I’m having a very strange night?”

It is strange, brilliantly wacky -- as I say, slightly removed -- and that’s what makes it work. It plays like a dream, a fairy tale, but – and this really makes it work – at the end of the day, it’s really happening.

Xander is this cool.[vii]

But the other half of Xander’s Adventure is a serious story and, in most ways, a conventional one. There’s the Zero To Hero arc, sure, but with wonderfully conventional dramatic moments. (And I mean conventional here in a good way, giving us what we expect in any story by going above and beyond what we want from as good a show as Buffy.) One instance is the donut setup/callback itself – and I believe this is why, the episode running short or not, Whedon added this scene (missing from the original script) – where the seemingly irrelevant task means so much (this time Xander is the one out of the loop, mirroring everyone else being out of the loop on his adventure). But the biggest instance is the state of fear. Remember the setup outside The Bronze where Jack calls Xander out? “Fear. Who has the least fear.” And then the magnificent end when Xander turns that exact phrase back on his nemesis. (Quick aside. All of the script pulls throughout my Commentary are from the Shooting Script, not necessarily how they air in the finished episode.)

JACK

You'll die too.

XANDER

Yeah, looks like. So I guess the question really is … who has

less fear?

JACK

I ain't afraid to die. I'm dead.

XANDER

Yeah, but this is different. Blowed up isn't walking around and drinking

with your buddies dead. It's 'little bits swept up by the janitor' dead, and

I don't think you're ready for that.

JACK

Are you?

Beat. Jack. Xander. Clock.

XANDER

(smiling calmly)

I like the quiet.

“I like the quiet.” As Ferris Bueller would say, “So choice.” It’s the exact kind of Errol Flynn line we don’t expect from Xander – or the show, per se – but looooove when he says it. Because it falls right in line with the duality of the piece. The dreamlike reality. One more facet in the brilliant wackiness that is the entire episode.

(Speaking of asides, am I the only one that thinks the moment where Xander is chasing Dickie in the school hallway, only to be turned around and chased by The Demons must be an homage to Star Wars? And speaking of Dickie, I do love the moment where he’s the only one to see what’s going on in the library. “Wow,” he says! So funny. Okay, moving on.)

“But Xander’s totally brushed off by his friends,” a friend of mine said to me while we were discussing this episode one time. But it’s not really a brush-off, is it? Or, rather, it’s the kind of brush-off only real friends can give. Because they don’t want him out of their hair like an annoying sibling, they want him out of the way because they’re genuinely concerned for his well being. The best of these is Willow passing him outside The Magic Shop[viii], then coming back to tell him she loves him. And I particularly like Buffy’s reaction to Xander in the mansion scene. She waits for him to say what he needs to, even when he ends up saying nothing – she doesn’t come off as annoyed; it’s simply bad timing -- and when he asks if he can help, she just shakes her head, appreciative (I believe) that he’d even ask.

I remember the first time I saw The Zeppo, when it first aired, I thought, “A ha! The bomb’s in the basement of the school, right under the library (we’d dropped straight down from Giles – “Who knows what’s going to come up from beneath us?” – to first see it). Xander will save the day by using the bomb to destroy the tentacled monster the others are fighting!” (The same tentacled monster we first saw in Season 1’s Prophecy Girl; I love Giles’s simple, “It’s Grown.”) Well, how happy I was to be wrong.[ix] Because even better is Xander saving the day – indeed saving all our heroes’ lives -- and they never know. The episode is bookended by the wonderful Cordelia scenes[x] in which, at the beginning she berates him in wonderfully witty repartee – “Cool. Look it up. It's something a subliterate who's repeated the 12^th grade three times has and you don't.” – and at the end, she can only look at him, bewildered, while continuing to ask, “What? What? What?”

“I like the quiet,” Xander said.

So it’s no surprise, then, that it’s his silent smile, his back to Cordelia as he walks away, that’s the coolest ever.

[i] Which makes me hate Hell’s Bells with a furious passion, but we’ll get to that later. (I don’t even blame Xander. I love Xander. But Whedon. WHEDON! If I ever meet that guy at Willy’s after one too many, well … While I’m not giving Commentary that week, oh do I have a few thoughts to share.)

[ii] I’ve had this same argument about Restless. It too feels like a What If episode, but it’s not. Sure, it’s their dreams, but it’s happening within the construct of our real timeline (they remember their dreams at the end of the episode). Different than, say, spell-cast sagas – the swooning “Isn’t he just?” of Superstar or the “Who are we?” of Tabula Rasa (in which how can you not love when Giles and Spike hug as father and son?).

[iii] And will continue to be put through, he himself fed up with that very label in Buffy Vs. Dracula.

[iv] One of my arguments against “bad writing” in a series (not standalones like features, I’m talking episodic storytelling; a series of features, comics, especially television) is writing against character. Having a character all of a sudden do something that is completely not who they are. One of Buffy’s greatest strengths as a series is never failing here (including Willow’s Oz to Tara evolution in Season 4). Sure, Xander is the loveable buffoon, as he will be again, but it’s in his character to do the right thing, so his being the hero here indeed works. In fact, for me, Zeppo sets the stage for Grave when, again, Xander stands alone against all hell breaking loose.

[v] We’ll see a similar Buffy-Angel exchange “for real” in this season’s two-part finale, Graduation Day.

[vi] This scene isn’t in the Shooting Script, so it must have been written while they were shooting – by Joss? Feels like his work. (Perhaps the episode came in short so it was added? In any event …) If you’ve never been to the great site Buffy World, please do; it’s the best source for all the Buffy and Angel scripts online (that I know of). And this “missing scene” is just one of the fun things you find when reading a script. A particular favourite is in Marti Noxon’s stage direction in Bargaining Part 1 when The Biker Gang arrives in town. She writes, “The open highway. Razor leads a pack of demons, who roar down the road on their hogs. (or motorcycles. Motorcycles would be better.)” It’s just stage direction, nothing to be seen on screen, it’s just for those reading. I love when writers do that.

[vii] Foreshadowing the funny – and touching – The Replacement in which Xander’s cool is literally split from him, for everyone to once again realize it’s been part of him all along. (And who doesn’t love the Snoopy dance?)

[viii] A decent recurring character of its own, from Jenny Calendar buying the Orb of Thesulah there in Passion (easily a Top 10 episode, also directed by Consequences’ Michael Gershman) and Giles becoming its proprietor in Season 5, to its demise at the end of Season 6. (Anya, even in the afterlife, still cries at all its money lost.)

[ix] We won’t see a bomb in the library save the day until Graduation Day Part 2, and what’s really waiting to come up from beneath there until the series finale Chosen.

[x] While so many people talk about Willow’s character arc throughout seven seasons – and fairly so – what about our little Cordelia? How much she’s changed from the first couple seasons of Buffy to the woman she’ll become on Angel!

The Day The Movies Died

2011-03-16T12:34:00.000-07:00

The following is my paraphrasing the great article The Day The Movies Died by Mark Harris (GQ, February 2001). While I’m a big fan of comic book movies, I loved his take on Hollywood’s shift to branded entertainment; how Christopher Nolan’s Inception was indeed a gamble; and how fear has descended over the studio system. As James Schamus -- Screenwriter, Producer, and head of Focus Features – points out, “Nobody in Hollywood wants to be the person who greenlit a movie that not only crashes but about which you can’t protect yourself by saying, ‘But at least it was based on a comic book!’”

Here’s what’s in store for us this year. Remember, these are the big movies of the year that their respective studios are pushing.

Four adaptations of comic books. One prequel to an adaptation of a comic book. One sequel to a sequel to a movie based on a toy. One sequel to a sequel to a sequel to a movie based on an amusement park ride. One prequel to a remake. Two sequels to cartoons. One sequel to a comedy. An adaptation of a children’s book. An adaptation of a Saturday-morning cartoon. One sequel with a 4 in the title. Two sequels with a 5 in the title. And one sequel that, if it used numbers, would have a 7½ in the title.[i]

Now, to be fair, it usually takes two years for an idea to make its way through the pipeline and onto the screen. So, given the success of the likes of The Social Network and True Grit, let’s look at what’s on tap for 2012.

An adaptation of a comic book. A reboot of an adaptation of a comic book. A sequel to a sequel to an adaptation of a comic book. A sequel to a reboot of an adaptation of a TV show. A sequel to a sequel to a reboot of an adaptation of a comic book. A sequel to a cartoon. A sequel to a sequel to a cartoon. A sequel to a sequel to a sequel of a cartoon. A sequel to a sequel to a sequel to a sequel to a movie based on a young adult novel.[ii] And soon after: Stretch Armstrong. You remember Stretch Armstrong, right? The rubberized doll you could stretch and then stretch again, at least until the sludge inside the doll would dry up and he would become Osteoporosis Armstrong? A toy that offers less narrative interest than Bingo?

As I say, I’m a big fan of comic book movies. So let me say that we will all probably come out of three or four of the above shouting, “That rocked!” And, yes, it's even possible that in a few years a magazine article will begin with, “Stretch Armstrong’s surprising journey to a Best Picture nomination began when …” But for now let’s just admit it. Hollywood has become an institution that is more interested in launching the next marketable toy than in making the next interesting movie.

Of course, we can argue that any system that allows Aaron Sorkin and David Fincher to draw from the invention of Facebook and The Coen Brothers to visit The Old West (though, to be fair, remember it too is a remake) has to mean that American filmmaking is in reasonably good health. (Three cheers for the same system producing -- and America embracing -- the likes of The King's Speech and Black Swan and The Kids Are All Right.) But the truth is they’re simply the minority. And it’s hard to hold out hope for a change in these very strange tides indeed when one studio executive, who, while I won’t name, but could easily be speaking for all her peers, is ready to chisel on Hollywood’s tombstone, “We don’t tell stories anymore.”

Too harsh?

Lest we forget – and you know what a big Tom Cruise fan I am – Top Gun 2 is right around the corner.

[i] Captain America, Cowboys & Aliens, Green Lantern, and Thor. X-Men: First Class. Transformers 3. Pirates Of The Caribbean: On Stranger Tides. Rise Of The Apes. Cars 2 and Kung Fu Panda 2. The Hangover Part II. Winnie The Pooh. The Smurfs in 3D. Spy Kids 4. Fast Five and Final Destination 5. Harry Potter and The Deathly Hallows Part 2.

[ii] The Avegengers. Spider-Man (3D). Men In Black 3 (3D). Star Trek untitled. The Dark Knight Rises. Monsters, Inc. 2. Madagascar 3. Ice Age: Continental Drift in 3D. The Twilight Saga: Breaking Dawn, Part 2.

The Picture

2011-01-06T22:27:00.000-08:00

John stood in the hallway of his apartment staring at the collage of framed pictures that hung outside his bedroom. Like any home photos, they ranged from family to friends, old to new, and he liked to switch them out every once in a while and continue this particular scrapbook of his life. He often glanced at them as he passed by, smiling at the memories they thumbnailed, but today he stood still in that hallway, staring at one in particular. And he stood there in a daze, blank-faced and glass-eyed. The picture was just right of the middle, and wouldn’t stand out if you didn’t know its story. It was a picture of him and his nephew, at his nephew’s birthday party. John was wearing green sponge Hulk hands and his arms were wrapped around his nephew as his nephew blew out candles on a cake. But the story isn’t about that picture. Because that’s not the picture John was staring at. He actually stood staring at the picture that used to hang there. The one he replaced with the picture of him and his nephew. The one he could still see vividly, even though it hadn’t been there in almost a year. The one of him and Margot, from Chris’ birthday party.

John and Margot met at a wedding, in the Spring, outside in the afternoon, when the weather was still nice enough in The San Fernando Valley to have a wedding outside in the afternoon. The bride was Hawaiian so the wedding was in that theme. Most weddings that try it feel like a lunchbox luau, generally because the couple is trying to capture something that isn’t truly theirs. But that wasn’t the case here. Like the bride, the ceremony and reception had a quiet elegance, a relaxed gallantry that, like Hawaii herself, prevailed over something as silly as trying to capture something. The betrothed had captured each other, and anyone that knew them at all knew that was enough, that their chase was over, and they were happy.

When they finally had a chance to talk, John would lie to Margot that he first saw her across the seated crowd during the ceremony and wasn’t able to take his eyes off her from that moment on. Later that night, they’d come to know each other well enough that he could have admitted the truth, but didn’t; unable, he told himself, to destroy something as simple as the moment he first saw her. The truth is, the first time was at the reception dinner when she and her husband were seated next to him. It seems like a silly thing to lie about, and he wished he’d cleared it up when he had the chance, but by then they’d admitted far more lascivious truths, and it was those they would delve into when stolen moments permitted. Because it was, of course, the truth that when he did see her, he couldn’t take his eyes off her. And that, he told himself, was enough of a truth to permit their lies.

John never believed in love at first sight until he met Margot, and he didn’t believe it even then, when she sat across from him, wearing that white dress and tall heels, with pulled-back hair, and eyes that lit up whenever they caught each other staring. The only other time he’d felt something like it was in college, with a girl named Mina. Mina was a young model from New York, only nineteen but she’d already covered ‘Cosmo’ twice, and was in Las Vegas visiting a friend. He couldn’t remember her real name but they first saw each other across a crowd of people at a house party that ended in the wee hours with six or seven of them crashed in blankets and pillows on the living room floor watching Coppola’s ‘Dracula.’ They were both young and swept away, so she told him she’d be his forever, and he called her Mina. It wasn’t love, of course, but it was the singularly most powerful feeling he’d ever had. In four days he was more captivated by her than any girl before or since. And when she left, he went with her to the airport, and she looked back at him from the walkway to the plane, and they said goodbye as they’d met, across a crowd of people, and that was that.

But that wasn’t that. For those four days would for years to come continue to mean as much as they had then. Because she would be the bar by which he’d measure all the women to follow. It wasn’t fair, comparing never is, but that didn’t matter. He was so struck by her that he tried to recapture that feeling, and for years thought it would never happen. And then he stopped looking. And it wasn’t until years after that that he finally found it. Love at first sight. It still wasn’t love, Mina had at least taught him that, but it was the closest thing to what he felt then. And this girl – Margot – sitting at the table with him at his friend’s wedding, with full breasts and long legs poured into that white dress, with that smile that melted him, and eyes that burned into him across the flowers and linen and silver. He couldn’t stop staring at her. And when he first saw those eyes staring back, well, he stopped trying. After so many years of being blind, love saw him. He wouldn’t admit it was love, at first sight or at all. That wouldn’t come until a year later. After it was over.

It was the evening now, after the wedding’s reception dinner, but the sun was still setting, and John stood finishing a Mai Tai outside the enormous veranda on the deck by the lake. He didn’t often have Mai Tais, they were terribly sweet, but every now and then was all right, and he thought it was better to keep in the wedding’s theme than prevent the inevitable hangover. Besides, he thought as he downed the rest of it, they were tasty. Someone called his name and he turned to the bar where Dave was pointing to the cup in his hand. John looked at the empty in his then back to Dave. He nodded; sure, he could use another. Dave nodded and turned to the bartender and John looked around the crowd. He only knew a handful of the people there, ten or fifteen maybe. He’d come alone, met Dave there, and they trudged through the formalities together; including, apparently, getting each other drinks. He said hi to some people next to him and they traded obligatory comments on how beautiful the ceremony was, how wonderful dinner was, how unique the location was. It was all true, but it still felt obligatory since he didn’t know them. Luckily Dave came back with the Mai Tais and he was able to ignore everyone again.

That is, except for Margot.

He pretended to be absent-mindedly glancing around the crowd, as people do at these things, but he knew right where she was, and the absent-minded glances were just to keep him from staring. She stood with her husband and some friends at the edge of the deck, by the lake, but on the opposite side of the bar. Dave was saying something about how cute he thought one of the bridesmaids was, but somewhere between thinking how cliché it sounded and trying to figure out which one, Margot looked at him and smiled. It was quick and he knew she’d sneaked it, but its sincerity was written all over her face, and he smiled back at her and she looked away and smiled again, just to herself, but it was enough. John looked back at Dave who was trying to point out the bridesmaid and John feigned interest but it was useless. All he could do was think about Margot. The way the white dress clung to her frame, and her slender hand held the champagne flute, and the line of her neck shined in the light of the tiki torches. And that smile. Just like Mina had so many years before, this beautiful girl across a crowd of people consumed him. And he felt himself giving in to a renewed bout of fate.

“I’m married, you know,” she said.

“Happily?” he asked.

There was a pause before she answered. “Sometimes.”

“Sometimes.”

She looked away from him. “Yeah.”

It was an hour later, the reception in full swing now, and John and Margot sat on a short bench away from the deck and veranda, under a large banana tree that hung over them like a canopy. They were both smoking, he a Camel Light and she a Camel Wide Non Filter, but he tried not to feel inadequate about it. Actually, he found it uncontrollably sexy, like a glamour girl of the forties smoking real cigarettes between really red fingernails through really red lips.

He looked at her and said, “Doesn’t seem like it would be enough.”

“It is,” she answered. “Sometimes.”

He smiled. “I suppose we could go all night about being unhappily married – ”

“I didn’t say I was unhappily married,” she interrupted.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to speak for both of us.”

“You’re not married.”

“I was.”

“Unhappily?”

“Sometimes.”

She smiled now. “Let’s stop right there.”

He smiled back. “Fair enough.” He dropped his cigarette to the ground and stepped it out, then downed the last of his Mai Tai. When he looked back at her, he caught her staring. “What?” he asked.

She smiled and shook her head. “Nothing.”

“That wasn’t nothing.”

Her head was down slightly, and she moved just her eyes so they looked up to him. “But it has to be, doesn’t it?”

There was a pause, and he fell into those eyes and swam around the dark pools at the edge of the blue. Then said, “For now.”

She blushed, ever so slightly but it was there, and dragged the last of her cigarette. She dropped it to the ground and stepped it out with one of her long thin black heels and looked back at him with something of a renewed vigor. “So,” she said, “what do you do for a living?”

“I write,” he said.

“You write?”

“What, you don’t believe me?”

She smiled. “No, I’m just surprised. Not often you meet a writer.”

“Well, now you can check it off your Bucket List.”

She smiled again.

“What about you?” he asked.

“Architecture. Well, I’m in school for Architecture.”

“Like it?”

“Love it. I really do.”

“That’s amazing.”

“Why, don’t you love what you do?”

“No. I mean I do, but that’s not what I meant. It’s amazing that you’re an Architect.”

“Why is it amazing?”

“It just seems like everyone in this town works in the industry, so every time I meet someone that doesn’t, it’s amazing. Maybe amazing isn’t the right word. It’s … refreshing.”

“Refreshing.”

“Yeah.”

She smiled again. “I like that.”

“Good,” he said and swirled the ice around in the little plastic cup.

She noticed. “Want another?”

He looked right at her. “Another?”

“Drink. You ready?”

“Yeah, I’m ready.” But he wasn’t talking about a drink.

She knew it. Her eyes – the blue, the darkness around it, every bit of them – swelled and she said, “You’re dangerous.”

He let out a grin. “Sometimes.”

She grinned back – the same devilish way he had – then stood. “Come on.”

He followed, and they walked back to the deck by the lake.

It was late in the evening now, most of the wedding guests had gone, and John sat at a table inside the enormous veranda, watching Margot dance with her husband. She was barefoot and her hair was down and it was a slow dance, but it looked far from intimate, their happiness a little too forced. He held her close, his arms wrapped round her waist, his face buried in her neck, his eyes closed. And she held him close too, her arms wrapped round his shoulders, her head resting on them. But every time their slow circling turned so she faced John, she stared at him with those eyes that now burned into him with an intimacy too long ago taken from her husband. And John wondered how long it had been since she’d looked at her husband that way. With those eyes. He thought about his ex-wife and the way they looked at each other with that forgotten intimacy and he felt bad for Margot’s husband. For having to live with that emptiness. Or, worse, for not even knowing it was there. The song ended and Margot and her husband parted and started back to the table. But before they left the floor, John stood and started their way. Wonderfully oblivious, the husband smiled as if relieved, and with a simple hand gesture offered his wife to him. It was a moment John would ponder late at night for nights to come, as if somehow he did know and was offering her to him, succumbing to the inevitable. But it was far too romantic a gesture for far too placid a man, and John wrote it off as an imaginative safeguard. But she never stopped staring at him and they turned and started back to the middle of the floor. The next song had already started and they faced each other. John watched the husband loosen his tie and angle for the bar outside, so he wrapped his arms around Margot’s waist, she shuddered, electrified, and wrapped hers round his shoulders, and they began their own slow, slow circles. It was the first time they’d touched. And the only time they’d dance.

The rest of the night remains unremarkable. There was an after party at a friend’s house with more longed stares and mouthed words and even a warm hug as they said goodbye, but the dance was the highlight, what would best be remembered, so it’s perfectly fine to end on. Over the course of the next year, they’d think of each other often, but never act on it. How could they? She was married, and he promised to be a gentleman. And time, it seemed, would hold them to it.

John stood in the hallway of his apartment, staring at the picture. He clinked the ice cubes floating through the inch of Crown Royal in his glass, realizing, not for the first time, how long he’d been standing there. He could see his own reflection in the Ikea glass frame and he reached up and touched it, touching the reflection of his own fingers reaching out to touch him. He wondered why he’d even bothered changing the pictures. It wasn’t as if he ever saw this one. Him. His nephew. The Hulk hands. He never saw this picture. It was always the other one. The one that used to hang there. No matter how long ago he’d switched them out, he still only saw the picture of him and Margot. From Chris’ birthday party. As he always had.

Passion, Margot said once, is the essence of life. His eyes glassed over, like a drunkard’s, and he heard her saying it to him over and over again. Passion is the essence of life. She was right, of course, but knowing something and living by it are two different things. There’s the old storyteller’s adage that you should always keep reality and story-reality separate. In reality, it makes perfect sense that you don’t have an extra thousand bucks to blow on a ticket to Paris to tell the girl you love to be with you instead of him. It hurts and it sucks but, hey, it’s a thousand bucks. Well, that doesn’t work in a story. In a story, the hero must blow his last cent, get to Montmarte, run up its steps, and yell. Because the story’s over by the time the young lovers have to find a way home, eat, and pay bills. If love likes risk, then passion decrees it. But reality had played too big a part in John and Margot’s story. Or, rather, they’d allowed it to. And so he stood there, in the hallway of his apartment, looking at the cover-up picture, thinking how silly it was to let something like reality get in the way of passion.

A year after the wedding, to the month actually, the Hawaiian bride threw a surprise birthday party for her husband. Their house, a wedding present from the Hawaiian bride’s parents, sat in an odd pocket of isolated countryside off the 101 in West Hills; odd only because of how quiet and left-alone it is, despite being in the populated southwest end of the San Fernando Valley. And to make it even better, the house sat perched between the end of a cul-de-sac and the top of a large enough hill so that they practically had no neighbors.

It wasn’t the first time that group of friends got together since the wedding, so it wasn’t the first time John thought he might see her again. In fact, these friends got together regularly enough, and she’d not shown for any of them, so the anxiety he felt walking into places was completely gone when he walked into the Hawaiian newlyweds’ backyard. If possibly seeing her that afternoon even crossed his mind, he didn’t realize it, so his guard was completely down when he walked from the front drive, through the gate, down the side yard, into the back, and saw her standing there. She wore white again, linen this time and sans the tall dark heels, but, just as the first time, she basked in the warm afternoon, shining brightly in it, glowing like a Hollywood starlet in magic hour, and the linen tugged at her curves, and the light of the sun, and him. He went weak, and tried not to stare, couldn’t help it, and the past year fell apart in the seconds that people said hello and he feigned responses. To cover-up his failed composure, and partly in hope he’d not be there, John scanned the party for her husband, but didn’t see him. Was he inside? Maybe. When he looked back at Margot, she had turned and was staring back at him in a way that screamed her own surprise, and the past year had fallen apart to nothing at all. John smiled. She smiled back. And the fear of their inevitable reintroduction reached in, grabbed his heart, and squeezed.

Two hours later, John had had enough tequila that he should have felt it, but he didn’t. Thank God, he thought, that it was a big party. Big enough, at least, to hide among the people, able to talk to enough of them without seeming like he was trying to avoid her. They eyed each other across the crowd, just as they had that year before; only this time with a sense of urgency that dually cautioned and prodded, coaxing them around the backyard, into the house and back again. But they waited, neither of them wanting to give in, both of them enjoying the game. And the husband was there, of course. They’d not divorced, not that John had really expected them to. But, then, he hadn’t expected to see her that day, either. He made his way to the makeshift bar, outside by the firepit, watching Margot talk to the Hawaiian bride’s sister just inside the kitchen window. He started for another shot of tequila, opted against it, and opened a bottle of Pacifico.

“Could you have dinner with her?” Chris – the Hawaiian groom, the birthday boy – was standing next to him.

“What do you mean?” John asked.

“Margot.”

He tried not to show a reaction to her name, but his composure failed again. “Margot?”

Chris nodded. “Could you have dinner with her? Just dinner?”

“I don’t even know her.”

“Uh-huh.”

He knew he was failing, but continued anyway. “What do you mean ‘uh-huh’?”

“Uh-huh there’s no possible way you could just have dinner with her.” He paused, a funny man. “Which uh-huh did you think I meant?”

John decided against playing dumb anymore. “Is it that obvious?”

Chris shrugged. “Only when you’re together.”

John drank his beer, looking through the window, Margot’s face only slightly distorted by the beveled glass and setting sun. “Why ask?”

Chris watched him watching her. “We were at a thing together about a month ago. Your name came up.”

John looked at him. “Really?”

Chris nodded. “She wanted you.”

“Wanted to know what?”

“No, she wanted you. Said she’d have a hell of a time with you, too.”

John looked back through the window, at her drinking a margarita through a straw. He didn’t have to play dumb, and felt bad for trying. Chris was that good a guy. They were that good of friends. “That’s probably true,” he said.

Chris watched him watching her. “So you couldn’t just have dinner with her.”

John shook his head. He was about to drink, then didn’t. Looked right at Chris. “Why are you telling me this? So I do something about it? Or so I don’t?”

“You want to do something about it.”

“Yeah.”

“She’s married.”

“She asked about me.”

“Fair enough.” Then Chris added, “Would you have?”

“What?”

“Asked me about her? If you knew she was interested too.”

“I already knew she was interested too.”

Chris stood there waiting.

John took a long pull from his beer before answering. “Never mind.”

“Sorry?”

John looked at him and said, “She’s married.”

Chris looked back at him a long time, then nodded, “Okay.” He grabbed John’s shoulder, held it a beat, then walked off.

John looked back at her, through the sunlight kicking off the window, like an angel in stained glass. He called after his friend, “Happy birthday,” and finished the rest of that beer.

Later that night, the birthday party had split in two; half of those still there were inside playing Scene It on TV, while the other half mingled in the backyard. John sat at the burning firepit, its large pine logs burning brightly, the fire warm and inviting, its ambience a perfect dissolve from the afternoon barbecue to the quiet evening. The party was in John’s favorite part of its ebb; not over yet, but certainly in its last act, when the real friends are the only ones left – warmly drunk, telling stories, laughing – as friends that are really family do.

He sat on the opposite side of the pit from the sliding glass door, so he could look in at the living room. At Margot. Over the last hour, she’d turned a few times to look out at him, and of course his eyes were there to match hers, but neither had pressed further than this; sneaked glances from across the way. But then, as one game finished and most wanted another, she excused herself and walked outside. She walked right to him, and he felt a teenager’s surge in his blood, like when he met Mina so many years before, like when he and Margot danced at the reception. She sat down next to him at the firepit, and he couldn’t take his eyes off her. While before he’d tried not to stare, now he gave up, giving into it, uncaring who caught him, or what they thought. She didn’t look at him, not yet, and just sat there, staring at the fire. Then she reached out for his beer, he gave it to her, she took a drink from it and passed it back, all as if they were intimate enough that such an exchange should feel second nature. After a long beat, her eyes still never leaving the fire, she said, “Thanks.”

And, his eyes never leaving her, never so much as blinking, he said, “You’re welcome.”

John leaned against the opposite wall of his apartment hallway now, still staring at the picture. Him. His nephew. The Hulk hands. That that image should have so much an effect on him is funny, he thought. It had been a long time since he’d let himself go this far. But, then, it had been a long time since he’d had this much to drink at home alone. He was fine until he went to the bathroom and was on his way back to the living room, a commercial break from an ‘OC’ marathon, and he saw the picture. Usually, he just glanced at it, if that, and it didn’t affect him at all. But sometimes, sometimes it hit him like a wrecking ball. And, well, half a bottle of Crown Royal is a pretty good wrecking ball of its own. So it wasn’t much of a fight. Not that he was putting up much of a fight. In any event, ‘The OC’ would have to wait. He tried to move but couldn’t. So he just stood there, staring at the picture. The one that used to hang there. And he thought to himself, Why, John. Why’d you let her go?

“I didn’t,” he said, laughing.

Margot reached for his beer again. “You didn’t?”

“No, I couldn’t even move.” He handed it to her. “The thing was only a couple feet long, but to see Dave run, you’d have thought it was an Anaconda.”

She laughed. “And you’re standing there petrified.”

“Couldn’t even move. Andy’s up ahead, clueless we’re back here in Jurassic Park. He finally comes back and asks why I’m just standing there, Ruben’s up a tree, and Dave’s halfway back to the car.”

“Real adventure types.” She drank his beer.

“On a marked trail in Yosemite National Park.” He laughed. “We didn’t live that down for years.”

She shook the lime at the bottom of the empty bottle.

“Looks like you’re going on a beer run,” he said.

“Sure you’ll be okay here by yourself?”

“I’ll try.”

She smiled, got up and went to the bar.

John watched her go, from the orange and red of the firelight, into the dark, then into the weak white pool of the light hung over the makeshift bar. He watched her bend over and open the ice chest. She was barefoot, and the white linen dress clung to the small of her back, and – he swore it wasn’t the shadows playing tricks on him – he could make out the black bra and g-string that lay beneath it. She pulled out two Pacificos, opened them, and looked back at him. “Lime?”

He shook his head.

She tossed the caps on the bar and walked back, pulled the chair closer to his and sat down. No one else was sitting at the firepit, and those that mingled in the backyard were mostly over by the edge of the hill, looking out at the sea of lights in the west valley, so John and Margot were all but alone. “Seems like we’re always off by ourselves having a quiet chat over drinks,” she said.

He smiled. “It’s the only time we get to be alone.”

“Yeah,” she smiled, then paused. It was long enough that they both knew, were acutely aware, that the mood was shifting from the cautioned prodding to the inevitable conversation they needed to have. She pulled out a pack of her Camel Wide Non Filters, offered John one, he declined, and she lit it, inhaling and exhaling slowly, continuing to prolong the inevitable. But she knew she couldn’t put it off any longer, so she finally looked at him and asked, “How have you been?”

“Good,” he said. “You?”

“Good.” A beat, then, “I suppose Chris told you I asked about you.”

“He did.”

“And?”

“I’d been thinking about you too.”

“Had you really?” She said it as if she were genuinely surprised.

“Yeah,” he smiled.

“You never did anything about it.”

“Was I suppose to?”

“I’d have liked you to.”

“I’d have liked to, but …” he drifted off.

“I know.”

“How was I supposed to know I should do something about it?”

“No, you’re right.”

“You didn’t do anything about it.”

“I know.”

He paused, then said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to –”

“No, it’s fine. How could you know? I’m the one that should’ve said something.”

He lifted out his beer. “So say something now.”

She looked at him and smiled. Said, “Okay,” and they clinked them together.

On the other side of the lawn, Chris stood talking to one of his wife’s friends, but he was only half listening to her. Not because he was uninterested in their conversation, but because he was just slightly more interested in the unheard one at the firepit. He looked into the house and found Margot’s husband still playing Scene It; seemingly none the wiser. Chris looked back at John and Margot. Was there even something to be wiser about? They were just sitting there talking. Nothing more. His wife’s friend said something – he wasn’t sure what, but he thought she’d made a joke – so he looked back at her and laughed.

Margot finished her cigarette and tossed the last inch into the fire; looked at John and said, “You know, it’s funny. I’ve thought about you. A lot. And I’ve thought about what I’d say if I ever saw you again. What I’d say, how much I’d say. But I never thought I would. See you again. I mean I wanted to, and I suppose I knew I would sometime, but … I didn’t think it’d be so soon. Or … that you’d still have such an effect on me.”

He looked at her.

   His eyes caught hers, and she blushed, ever so slightly. She continued, “And then you walked into the backyard this afternoon, and I …”
   “Caught your breath.”
   “Yeah.”
   “Just as you did now.”

   She blushed again, caught off guard, though enamoredly so, that he was able to read her like that. “Yeah.”
   “And now you …” he drifted off, asking.
   She looked back to the fire. “And now I don’t know what to say,” she answered.

He looked back to the fire too. “I know what you mean.”

There was a long patch of silence, and all the banter and innuendo dissolved into a pronounced uncomfortability. Something they had both steered clear of since the moment they met that year before, but were now erratically thrust into again. The sudden – and very honest – reality that what had been that year before wasn’t just the dream they remembered, but that perhaps that’s all it could be: a stolen moment at a friend’s wedding. It was ill-timed that they should be forced together like that – crashed-into and only fleetingly-fused – a moment they feared had been lost with the summer-turned-winter, and winter-turned-summer again. John broke the silence. “I know what I wanted to say to you, if I ever saw you again.”

She looked at him. “What?”

He continued staring at the fire, never looking at her. “Let’s run away together. Just us. From whatever we have here. All of it. Even our friends, if we have to. Even from L.A. Let’s just run … together … and keep running until we don’t have to anymore … and that’s where we’ll start over. Together.”

Her eyes were wide and glassy like she were about to cry, but she held it back. He was quiet and stoic, having said it barely above a whisper, as if he wasn’t even saying it at all, but thinking it out loud, afraid to put it into words, to make it real. She looked at him a long time, he still staring at the fire, perhaps unable to look at her; afraid, too, that that would make it all too real. Her left hand was trembling, and she passed her Pacifico from the right just to stop it. “Really?” she asked.

He nodded. “That’s what I wanted to say. But now … now I don’t know what to say either.”

She leaned closer to him. “Try.”

His eyes never left the fire, and he shook his head. “I don’t know what to say because everything I want to say I can’t. I can’t tell you that I think about you, what I think about you, how much I think about you. I can’t tell you how I bring up your name in my cell phone, about to dial, then shut it off. I can’t tell you I’ve hoped you’d be at every one of these things, just so I could see you again, and look into your eyes, and see how you look at me. I can’t tell you that I still remember how you smelled the night of the wedding. When we hugged goodbye. And I can’t tell you how I felt when I saw you today, standing there, and you turned at me and smiled.”

A single tear hit her cheek. “No?”

He finally looked at her, and his eyes saw hers, how she was looking at him, and he caught his own breath, and he blushed, only more than slightly. “No. Because then it’s not just a moment a year ago. Then it becomes real. And that’s worse. ‘Cause I might defend it. And you’d try and fight it. And we both might give in because we’d want to. Because, in my own little fantasy world, I wouldn’t mind giving up this real one for you, all of it, right now, just to have you reach out and grab hold of me and – ” He stopped himself, cut himself off.

She reached out her hand, almost touching him, and for a long time they both sat there, he having bared his soul over fire and Pacifico, and she wondering whether or not to, in that instant, give up everything she knew, and be with a man that thought enough of her to bare that much. They both sat there, staring at each other, he wondering what he’d just said – the gravity of what he’d just said – and she wondering what to do about it. Her hand, trembling again, was close to his. So close. Close enough that all she had to do was drop it, no more than an inch, and he would pull her to him, and the dream they’d been pulled into and out-of would finally pull them together. But he didn’t move, nor did she, and they continued staring at each other, each of them hoping the other would give in, but knowing neither would. There was a cheer from inside, and she looked to her husband competing voraciously. Tears hit her cheeks and she pulled her hand back, wiping them away, and John knew, in that moment, that it was over. The dream was just that, a dream; one that they’d never be allowed to enjoy again. For years to come, they would, separately, fall asleep and try to chase it, but neither would come close to the two moments that made it so special: a dance at a friend’s wedding, and a couple of beers, next to a firepit, in the backyard of a little house in the San Fernando Valley. “Yeah,” she finally said, forcing a smile. “I guess you’re right.”

A few minutes later, Chris’ wife’s friend, enjoying her own funny story the most, realized she was out of wine, so she excused herself, back into the house, and Chris looked to the firepit, where John and Margot sat talking. And he relaxed a little, because there was something about them – the way they were sitting talking now – that made him relax a little. He couldn’t explain it, not that he had anyone to explain it to, but something changed. Where as before there was a remarkable energy emanating from them, between them, around them – like gasoline and gunpowder circling a lit match – now there was just two friends, sitting and talking. He decided against trying to understand it, and, so, decided to simply enjoy it. He walked over to them, and squatted between their chairs.

“There he is,” John said cheerily, but Margot could tell he was forcing it a little.

“Cold?” Chris said. “You two have been sitting by the fire for almost an hour!”

John did everything he could to not so much as glance in her direction. Hoped he succeeded. Smiled it off. "Nah." Then he stood and asked Chris, “Can I get you anything?”

“Sure, a beer. Thanks.”

Finally looked at her. Right at her. "Madam?”

She smiled. “No thanks.”

John moved to the bar. While he was away, even if just twenty feet behind them, in the weak white of the light over the coolers, Chris looked at Margot and asked, “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“No more dinner out?”

There was another cheer from the house, and she looked inside – where her husband stood now, his team congratulating him, because he’d won the game – then back at Chris. “No, no more dinner out.”

Chris smiled.

She reached over and touched his face. “You’re a good man, you know that?”

Chris shrugged, “Eh,” and they both smiled and relaxed just a little bit more.

John came back and handed Chris his beer, the two clinked them together, and they drank. Margot was about to say something, when Chris motioned widely.

“I almost forgot!” He looked at Margot. “Sorry.”

“That’s fine!”

“My wife -- I still love saying that -- my wife said I have to get pictures of everyone. You know, for the first anniversary something or other.” He pulled a digital camera from his back pocket. “Do you mind?”

“Shoot away.”

John put his arm around Margot, and she put hers around him. Chris stepped back a bit, looked through the camera, and said, “Say Focaccia.”

“Focaccia,” John and Margot said together. She pulled him closer, softly, he did the same, the flash went off, and that was that.

“Perfect,” Chris said with a smile.

And Margot, a little forced, but only John could tell, smiled and said, “Yeah.”

In the hallway in his apartment, John stood staring at the wall of pictures, at that one picture, the one that used to hang there. It had been two years since that party, since the last time he’d seen her; actually seen her, not just in memory. They never actually saw each other again, not even at another get-together their friends had. He heard she and her husband were giving their marriage a serious shot, and John thought perhaps she was avoiding him. Perhaps rightly so. They never even talked again. About a year later (a year ago), she called him, left a polite “hope you’re well” message, but he never called back. A day later – a day after all-day pulling up her name, about to dial, then deciding against it – he deleted her from his phone, from his life, so he’d no longer be tempted. Well, at least to call. Then, over the next year, to that very day he stood in the hall, her memory eventually faded. Not in passion he secretly promised her, but in how often it tormented him. Well, of course, except every now and then. Like that day.

He looked at the empty lowball in his hand, just a swallow’s worth of Crown Royal and a fast melting ice cube, and decided whether or not to fill it again. He looked at the picture on the wall once more – him, his nephew, the Hulk hands – and smiled, just to himself. He drank the last of the whiskey in that glass, crunched the ice into water, and drank that too. He stood there for a long moment, perfectly still, and let the past years wash away from him, once again, at least for that day. There would be others, there would always be others, but for that day, he was fine. So he said, very quietly, with a loving disdain, the way you do when you cheer a favorite villain in a children’s movie, “Damn you, Mina.” And then he walked back into the living room, sat on the couch, and watched TV.

The Cheerleader

2011-01-04T19:26:00.000-08:00

He wasn't staring at the cheerleaders. That would be creepy. No, it was just her. That she happened to be a cheerleader, practicing there with the rest of her team on that Wednesday afternoon, after school in the warm September sun, was merely coincidence. Were it Tuesday she'd be at home watching MTV with one of her friends. Were it Thursday she'd be at her piano lesson. But he never watched her at those places. He never watched her anywhere else, for that matter. No, it was just here. On Wednesdays. Cheerleading. Even he'd admit it seemed creepy. Staring at the cheerleaders. Seemed creepy, you see, because he wasn't staring at the cheerleaders. Not the rest of them, anyway. No, it was just her.

It had been six weeks since the first time he saw her, since they started practicing on the football field every Wednesday after school. He was walking home from the park, and absentmindedly looked over and saw them in a haphazard pyramid, balanced precariously on each other on large blue training mats near the southern goal post. And there she was, at the peak of that triangle, shining in the then hot August sun. And she shone. So much brighter than anything he'd ever seen before. Beams of light, god-rays of the dying sun, shot around her head, under her arms and through her legs. They did, actually, but he knew it wasn't just the god-rays. He always saw her that way. With that same energy, that same light. And so it was, every Wednesday, as August became September, that he watched her, ever as bright, as he knew she would be.

He wondered if what he did would be considered stalking. Probably, if anyone saw him, although he honestly didn't think of it that way. He never followed her anywhere else. Never knew she watched MTV or played the piano. He only watched her here. On Wednesdays. Cheerleading. But no matter his schedule, he was here to see her. He stood under the shade of the oak across the street, dropped his backpack off his shoulder, leaned against the low brick wall there, and watched her. It bothered him, to some degree, that he did this. Every Wednesday. Not so much that he stopped, but it did bother him. He wasn't the type to stalk, if what he did was considered that; and he would, admittedly, look at anyone else that did this with a certain veiled disgust. But despite the realization that he did what he did, he continued doing it, unable to turn away, to leave, to stop. And that bothered him even more.

For what was the attraction to her? He didn't even know her name. He called her Christina, but only because he already had a rich history with that name. Not only was it the name of the heroine in his favorite book, but it – just a short, simple love story – was his favorite because Christina was the name of the first girl he ever kissed. It was in his best friend's tree house during a birthday party. A part of him would forever love that Christina, and so he gave a part of her to all the girls he met or read-about or dreamt-of. And so he gave her name to this cheerleader now. But he didn't know the cheerleader's real name. And he only knew her face from fifty yards away, never venturing closer than the shade of the oak across the street. And he'd never heard her voice, per se, unable to distinguish it from the other girls' as they called out their cheers. And he didn't know the color of her eyes, for he was too far away to distinguish them; though that, more than anything else about her, he wished he knew.

She wasn't the most beautiful young woman on the cheerleading team, nor was she the most beautiful young woman he’d ever seen. So what was it about her? Was it because she was at the top of the pyramid that first day? Would he have focused on whomever had been at the top? No. The light around her was too bright. And not just the god-rays. The energy that shot from inside her was what captured his attention, spawned this addiction. He believed that despite knowing so little about her, despite having only a vague idea of specific features, he'd be able to spot her no matter where they were. And that was why he found her to be beautiful, more so than any of the other cheerleaders, more so than any young woman he'd ever seen.

He thought she'd smiled at him. Once. It was two weeks ago. He'd walked more quickly than usual that day, from the park to practice, as he came to call what he did now. Going to practice. He believed it took the creepy vibe away, or at least helped him come to terms with it. Not that he ever mentioned it to anyone. If anyone were to ask where he was going or where he'd been, he'd lie. For no matter what he believed, the creepy vibe would remain until he stopped going and put her behind him and never so much as thought about her again. But the more he thought about her, the more his beliefs helped him come to terms with it, and so it didn't seem creepy at all when she smiled at him. When he thought she'd smiled at him, anyway.

It's difficult to gauge if someone's smiling at you from fifty yards away. And when infatuation plays as big a role as it did here, it's even more difficult. After all, the want for something to have happened will override what has actually happened. So, as she did indeed smile his way, he couldn't be entirely sure it was at him. She looked his way, paused, and smiled. He smiled back, entirely sure she couldn't see it, and when she turned back to her friends he looked around as if to find who else might be there. But of course he was alone, as was even the most general vicinity around the oak tree, so infatuation helped him believe she'd smiled at him. Never during the two weeks that followed had she smiled again. Which, he rationalized, wasn't necessarily a bad thing, because at least it meant that she hadn't seen him ~~stalking her~~ ~~watching~~ ~~observing~~ going to practice.

Christina, the real one, the one to spawn the rest; he couldn't remember her last name. They used to go to school together. And they would eye each other across the classroom and recess yard. He remembered that but questioned its validity, suddenly wondering if kids at their age eyed each other across any distance at all. He doubted it, no matter that he remembered it. But he clearly remembered, as he would always remember, that she was the first girl he ever noticed. That made him feel that way. The way girls as an entire species only incalculable seconds before were unable to make him feel, now that this new world had suddenly opened up to him, well, she was the only one in it. And so, weeks after eyeing each other across desks and gymnasium floors, when they found themselves alone in that tree house at that birthday party, she looked directly at him, and he looked directly at her, and they kissed. It was peckish and awkward, but, as it is with all first kisses, unforgettable. They dated only a short while, breaking up not one week later, when her parents moved away and she along with them. But – as all first loves inevitably end – he swore he'd never love another. And – as true magic so rarely lets these things end – he never has. So perhaps it's no surprise that he continued to chase her, as he did in all the women he met or read-about or dreamt-of since. Even as he did in this cheerleader now.

But how far would he chase her? How far would he go to grab hold of that tenuous element he himself projected? He couldn't place it, couldn't see it, couldn't identify it. Not even during the late nights he sat beneath the covers with his flashlight, content and alone, trying to find grown-up answers to the child-like questions he had; answers that somehow always remained unattainable. Even if they remained there, in front of him, taunting him, teasing him, begging for him to chase them. And even though he was able to rationalize this mental merry-go-round, this masturbation of basic desire, he still chased the projection. And, as always, still failed to catch it. But, then, simply identifying a situation doesn't automatically solve its problem. Hmmmm, he thought. Something else to bury himself under the covers with the flashlight and think about.

He looked over at the field and they were running The Tomahawk. Oh no. He wasn't upset that they were running that particular cheer (it was the only one of nine that, after only six short weeks of practice, they hadn't perfected yet), nor that the cheer was called The Tomahawk (their school mascot was The Indian and, what with the way the girls' pattern windmilled, it indeed resembled one). What upset him was that he knew the cheer's name. That he was able to differentiate them. That he’d been watching ~~them~~ her that long.

He looked at his watch. It was ten to six. The girls would be done soon and Christina'd be heading home. He assumed it was home, but maybe it was somewhere else. He honestly didn't know. She usually caught a ride with the red head and curly brunette (it was tough to differentiate the girls by anything but their hair color, although, despite all the blondes, he was always able to quickly pick Christina out). She sometimes walked but it was rare. The Tomahawk ended and the girls clapped for each other and then grouped in a circle and put their hands in the middle. They yelled something and Christina walked off with the red head and they grabbed their backpacks from the bleachers. A couple of other girls called after them (but he still couldn't -- could never -- catch her name) and they said goodbye. Then Christina and the red head walked out of the gate and up the street and away from him.

He stepped to the corner, into the sun, and had to put his sunglasses on to see her walk along the length of the school, away from him, until she and the red head turned a corner and disappeared. Then he pressed the walk button and waited for the red light to change. When it did, he started across the street, west to her north, and wondered again when this would end. Because it had to. Nothing good could come of it. So why continue it at all? He didn't know. He really didn't. All he knew was that he had to stop. He had to. Stop. He had to.

"Stop!"

He did, startled from his reverie, and looked up at a little old lady standing next to him. It was a lucky thing she was there. He'd almost stepped off the curb, into traffic, while his light was still red. A car honked and he waved sheepishly at it. Then he looked up at the little old lady again and said, "Sorry."

She looked down at him and smiled kindly. "That's okay. Just be more careful."

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you."

She smiled and the light changed and they both walked on, he already ahead of her.

The little old lady watched him go. "What a polite young man," she said to herself.

And Billy Jameson, an eleven year old child prodigy, walked home.

More Than Fictions

2010-11-04T15:50:00.000-07:00

The second sentence of this article was originally the first, but before you see it, I want to note that, despite its title, dealing with a favourite television show, it’s regarding an incredibly academic and astute article about writing in general; so please, if you’re interested in story, give it a read. In David Kociemba’s extremely well written ‘Buffy Vs Her Very Mind Itself’ (http://blog.watcherjunior.tv/2010/10/buffy-vs-her-very-mind-itself.html), he mentions fiction evolving into something more. “These characters are not real, but they're more than fictions after 118 episodes. I think there's something ultimately healthy about that, actually. It might be a necessary step for artists towards the production of meaning.”

What I find particularly fascinating is, while I never so much as crystallized the notion before, that I whole heartedly agree with it. Characters in any series of books, comics, shows or movies do indeed take on an evolved existence beyond pure fiction to, not in any sense become real, but indeed surpass the mere everyday creation. They transcend into dimensional characters rather than just the templates their authors originally penned. And it is a series result. For however wonderful a single story is – ‘A Study In Scarlet’ – it’s the result of the next sixty adventures over forty years that breathe life into Sherlock Holmes. Into Watson. Into Mrs. Hudson, Moriarty, Mycroft, even London herself. They are lives we come to know. And not feel like we know in the sense of the “friends” we visit on a favourite radio show every morning (and there’s indeed something to that relationship). We know these people. We understand them, sympathize with them, love them, hate them, defend them, miss them. As we probably spend more time with them than our real friends and family – think about it, if you’re a fan of ‘Harry Potter,’ it’s been seven novels, almost as many movies, over the last thirteen years (and still growing) – even more so than our real relationships.

Just as significantly, we give our time to these people – er, characters – rather than their clocking in and out of our real lives. It is significant because, unlike dutiful time we give anyone else – work, sure; but even lovers, friends, family – fiction is time we give ourselves. And we relax into it. Whether in bed at night, on the couch on a rainy Sunday afternoon, even traveling on vacation, it’s our time; held, grasped, coveted, sometimes withheld just for us. You may not share some stories and characters with your lover or best friend – Edward and Bella are yours – and perhaps your lover and best friend don’t even understand. Well, they don’t need to. After all, DUH, Edward and Bella are yours! Or perhaps you share this time with several people – a bunch of us got together every Sunday night for ‘The Sopranos’ – and we became part of Tony’s families over the years. To the point that, admit it fans, we were glued to the end of their story as Journey carried us out. And it was indeed our time, away from any duties the world held for us.

Think about how much you were affected at the end of a favourite book or movie – a single story – filled with hope or despair, laughter or tears, a renewed sense of self or pondering more questions. (And I’m not belittling a single story’s impact. I was a mess the first time I saw ‘Moulin Rouge.’) But think about how you feel at the end of a subsequent novel, or the end of a great TV season, or – God, what a great example – the end of ‘The Empire Strikes Back.’ By that point in good series storytelling, we’re hooked. One of the great rules of storytelling is, “write characters people can relate to.” Well by the time a story has become a series, a good series; brother, we’re relating!

WE’RE PART OF THEIR LIVES.

Mr. Kociemba’s article is really about having characters and storyline strong enough to be able to take a series’ characters beyond their normal “universe” into Capra-esque (Elseworld in Comic-speak) episodes where – because they’re developed so well, because we’re so comfortable with them – we’re intrigued instead of off-put by the “what if” story. In fact, in ‘Buffy,’ some of the show’s best episodes live here; “The Wish,” “Dopplegangland,” “Restless,” “Once More, With Feeling” and “Normal Again” (the crux of Kociemba’s article) come to mind. And as intriguing as his article on this is – and it is – I still found myself more fascinated by the simple notion that characters can be developed so well, we can become so comfortable with them, that they evolve from merely fictitious into something more. Something more concrete from which to build on. Something more on which we can rely.

The Hardest Thing About Writing ...

2010-06-29T15:46:00.000-07:00

More than I care to admit, especially considering how few entries I’ve actually made here, I think to myself, “What am I going to write about next?” Because despite my being busy with my day job and home and (wonderfully) my now-eight-month-old son Jack, I often see little things that spur me – just recently I thought of doing something on my passion for The World Cup (at press time about to enter the Quarterfinals) – but, really, there are far better articles already out there; and, sadly, I simply don’t have time to write as much as I’d like. So much of that spurring unspurs too quickly. But I do love writing, and this outlet is exciting – not to mention I was pleasantly surprised to find, when Whedonesque linked to my Dollhouse article (http://whedonesque.com/comments/24175), that others enjoy it as well; so I can’t help but keep plugging along, if in my own little way. So as I thought, "What am I going to write next?" I thought of how little I write, and, as disjointed as these entries are, “What is this blog really about?”

A dear friend and celebrated writer, Rebecca Winters Keegan (Columnist for Time, The Los Angeles Times and Author of The Futurist: The Life And Films Of James Cameron), called it “a very cool stream of consciousness,” but if I really wanted to make a mark as a writer, I ought to steer away from an article on comics, then an article on Melanie Oudin, then an article on Dollhouse and focus on a single subject. Now it might be as generally singular – you like that, generally singular? – as Comics, or Tennis, or TV, but it should always focus on the one subject, and I should write small chunks (say, 750 words) every day. (While there were bursts in between, On Comics was 2800 words, For A Little While 3500, and they were nearly ten months apart.) She also suggested, as she knows my passion for Film and TV, as well as my having a decent standing in Post Production (having a built-in subject and audience there) that I was already ahead of the curve. She wrote me, “one thing you know about and have access to is Post Production. So blog about it. Write about unique Post processes in TV shows and movies. Use your access to get interviews with key people in the Post world. Link to interesting articles. If you do that, and then promote your blog to other movie blogs, they'll start picking your stuff up. Then you have some published writing samples which you can use to get more work.” And I thought to myself, “That’s a great idea!” So I started thinking about my first Post article.

Well, that’s not as easy as it sounds. Because, unless you work in this business, the one part of movie making that’s not as exciting as the rest, is Post Production. Writing? Brooding and sexy (unless you’re the writer). Shooting? Flashy and sexy (unless you’re part of the hurry-up-and-wait crowd, which everyone is). But editing and sound design and color correction? While all possibly sexy when finished, and without a doubt INTEGRAL – for those of you out there making movies, wanting to make movies, thinking of getting into this business in the absolute slightest, PLEASE underline that word as it pertains to EVERYTHING after Production wraps – none of it is particularly sexy to the rest of the world. (I work in Post and, as well Written and Published as it is, flip through about three pages of our Industry Mag, Post, and am nearly asleep.) So not only is it rarely included in the DVD Extras – though kudos to J.J. Abrams for mentioning Stefan Sonnenfeld’s contribution on Star Trek, and Jon Favreau actually taking a camera into the D.I. House on Iron Man – but writing about it? Reading about it? In as wide a relationship as we have here in this blog? Even considering that I D.I. Produced Twilight (and the mega frenzy surrounding that) was a Post Supervisor on Dollhouse (clearly a fan with clearly a fanbase) and am currently working on Glee (ditto, not to mention the Joss Whedon tie-in there), I didn’t think you were particularly interested in timecode and line count and color gamut. And fair enough. Frankly, I’m not all that interested writing about it either. Which, I suppose, all too well points to my (however cool) only random stream of consciousness.

And so we’re back to, “What is this blog about?” After all, busy or not, I feel bad that I only write now and then. And I feel bad that I haven’t written anything (specifically) about my son Jack. Or my family’s trips to England. Or The World Cup (it IS exciting, especially if you saw the U.S. win against Algeria). Or Firefly (writing the Dollhouse piece made me want to reminisce that far-too-short-lived masterpiece). Or Glee (yes, I’ve been working something out in my head, hope to actually write it soon). In any event, all of them are indeed scattered enough that the only real link between them is me. And, however cool I might be, Ms. Keegan is absolutely right: who the hell am I? A good writer (maybe) but without any focus; any real resume. So do I knuckle down, pick one subject, and write 750 words about it every day? Or do I continue as I am, writing when I can, about the things that really interest me – like that five-film retrospective on Bob Hope (if you’re a fan of his, a fun read). To be fair, this isn’t my only writing outlet. I’m still trying to finish one Web Series (Committed … To You) and start another (Holly Would), both hoping to launch this year. And there’s always the novel, plus two or three screenplays I’m in the middle of, all of which, while hanging heavy on my neck, taunt and tease just as strongly. (Ask any writer about that balance and they’ll tell you the same.)

So perhaps this blog is my own (and I hope it's cool) stream of concsiouness, that can be -- should be? -- only generally specific; that is, MY stream of conciousness. After all, this isn't my day job (work) or a story I'm working on (fun). This is my diary, my journal, my Status Update, my Twitter, my escape, all rolled into one. (Which is not to say I don't Status Update and Twitter as well, but I digress.) It's MY blog. And, however random in topic or lengthy between entries, well, there it is.

Or perhaps that's my way of leveling with the guilt of not fucusing on Ms. Keegan's advice to the degree it deserves?

Or perhaps I'm simply embracing Writer's Block, writing 1200 words about how I can't decide what to write about, what all this writing is even about, writing about nothing, writing just to write.

Or perhaps ...

I can’t help but be reminded of the old adage, “The hardest thing about writing is writing.” And how true that is. Once again I thank you, dear readers, for sticking by me. And so I’ll continue writing when I can, hopefully with a little more discipline, at least enough to write more often. I can’t swear as to more focus, but, hey, one thing at a time.

[This is Michael's first blog very specifically about nothing.]

For A Little While

2010-05-17T12:49:00.000-07:00

I miss yelling, “It’s on!”

Let me explain.

It was October of 2007 when we first heard of Joss Whedon’s return to television with a new series called Dollhouse about a young woman who is everybody’s fantasy. Sweet. And then we heard it would star Buffy The Vampire Slayer alum Eliza Dushku. Even sweeter. But then we heard it would be setup at Fox, the studio behind the mishandled masterpiece Firefly. Not as sweet, but we were in the hands of The Master and if HE trusted those suits again, well, so would we. And then we heard what it was; something totally different from The Whedonverse we’d lived in thus far. And then pages of the Pilot Script surfaced. They were confusing, not as “Joss” as we expected. But that’s okay; it was, after all, Joss. But then we heard Fox was once again meddling with The Plan. Joss? They pulled his Pilot. Demanded changes. “IT’S FIREFLY ALL OVER AGAIN!” Okay, not so much with the sweetness. But wait! Joss pulled the Pilot himself! It was still his show! WHAT’S GOING ON OVER THERE?! And then we saw the trailer. “Did I fall asleep?” “For a little while.” YEEEEESSSSS. And in February of 2009 the show premiered and we saw six words we’d not seen on television in almost as many years: Written & Directed by Joss Whedon. Indeed, Mr. Gleason: how sweet it is.

For two seasons we were given a glimpse inside this new world. Far too short a time for a show as involved as it is, and far too short a time for those of us that were glued to the screen those Friday evenings. A factory of our dreams, so long as we trusted that factory to not let the dreams become our nightmares. There was the clunky start – Stage Fright – and the early gem – Man On The Street. And there were those that beset the dolls’ mortality – Needs – and birthed the endgame’s immortality – Haunted. Writers wrote, Actors acted, and Fox seemed to relax its hold and allow Whedon to tell his story. By the end of the first season – Alpha! – things were looking up. And how we culminated? “I hope I’m still alive when we find me.” We never doubted the sweet for a second. We bought the Season 1 DVDs, poured over them, loved them. We couldn’t wait for Season 2! But then the news: it might not be coming back? We raced to Whedonesque. WHO KNEW ANYTHING?! TELL US! We fought. We prayed. And the benevolent Fox spared us. But for how long?

Elizabeth Craft and Sarah Fain went to Lie To Me while Michele Fazekas and Tara Butters came from Reaper. Fox cut the budget. But fear not, Joss was Writing & Directing the Season opener. With Jamie Bamber and more of the post-apocalyptic storyline! Then … Vows? Aside from the Whiskey scenes another (yawn) setup not only so UN-Joss but with all of the post-apocalyptic stuff cut! Perhaps another clunky start, but then there was Belonging, and we once again wonder where the show’s been all our lives. Then Public Eye and Love Supreme (Alpha!). Yes, we were toyed with, crammed into, stretched along, sped through; all the missteps that only someone as wondrously creative as Joss & Co are – whose hands were clearly tied in such a “how long do I have to tell this story?” fashion – COULD create. And with all of us hanging on every word. Not just the story’s, but the stories behind them. SPOILERS! the websites warned, but we clicked on them anyway, learning before we met The Left Hand that yet another Whedon alum would be joining us, and before we entered The Attic that Dominic was waiting for us. But isn’t all this info what we wanted? What we always want? What we would have paid Adelle anything for? A snippet of what came next? (Yes.) So much so, in fact, that by the time we returned to Epitaph 2 – and however badly titled the last few episodes are, how wonderful Getting Closer is – we should only be happily surprised they were able to keep the head of Rossum a surprise at all.

Sadly, in November of 2009, just two years after we were thrilled to hear Joss & Co were back, they were gone. Yanked from us; roughly; painfully. Sure, there was talk of Joss directing an episode of Glee (VERY sweet) and we saw the teaser posters for Cabin In The Woods, but what of The Dollhouse itself? Too soon, its doors were closed. Fox agreed to air the remaining episodes – one small lesson they learned from Firefly – and so, as if we were asked to pack our bags days before our plane was to leave, we were given back-to-back episodes, and scooted out the door. In January of 2010, Echo laid down in her bed for one last time … and went to sleep.

The reason I mention any of this is because we now live in a world where we can’t help but mention it. Because we can’t escape it. I, for one, wish I didn’t see or hear half the things I do in the course of watching a show. Because whatever happened to just watching the show? I remember watching Buffy in its initial run and I’d stay away from “next week on” just so I wouldn’t have a glimpse of what lay ahead. (When they intentionally kept Anthony Stewart Head’s credit from his return to the show? “I’d like to test that theory.” Thank you!) But that’s where we are now. With the Internet and Entertainment Tonight and TMZ feeding us info, not to mention the shows themselves feeding that very publicity, it’s the “secrets revealed” that spark our interest. The drama behind the drama. “What the network wouldn’t allow you to see!” The immediacy of iTunes and Hulu and DVD Boxsets and Netflix all but deny our escape. And as much as I too give in to the immediacy of our fandom – who can’t help but indulge? – I do miss the days when I got to yell, “It’s on!”

Okay, I’ll explain.

For some time now, I’ve been thinking about watching Buffy. Not again, as I often do, but rather – eventually along with Angel – live during their initial run in the late nineties and early aughts, when friends would come over for that wonderful two-hour event every Tuesday evening. And so I started thinking about watching ANYTHING live, before the coming of TiVO, when getting together with friends to watch The New Episode was indeed a case for getting together. We’d potluck dinner and drinks, inevitably bake chocolate chip cookies, and sit and watch TV. When commercials appeared, we’d rush to the restroom, or refill our plates and glasses, and when the show came back on, someone would yell, “It’s on!” – always sing-songingly long like that, “It’s ooo-ooon!” – and we’d rush back in … and sit … and stare …

One of my favorite memories of those years is those Tuesday night get-togethers, not just because I’m (clearly) a fan, but because those evenings were indeed happier times. Easier times. When friends came over, every week, and TOGETHER we’d eat and drink and enjoy a favorite show. And I don’t just mean the virgin territory that watching a favorite show in its initial run brings; episodic cliffhangers and the like. It’s the camaraderie of the thing. Ours was Buffy and Angel though The X-Files and The Sopranos were popular, as I’m sure Lost is today. At least I hope so. I hope get-togethers still happen, even if they’re TiVOd viewings. There’s something special about that thread between storyteller and audience. That there IS an audience, a GROUP of people, laughing, crying, reacting together. Sadly, there’s no longer an urgency to see The New Episode – “It’s on in five minutes! Drive faster!” – and therefore not as big a reason to call friends and say, “Let’s make an event of this.” Because you CAN watch it at your leisure. And, sure, that’s attractive. As we get older, all of us, no matter our age, time goes by faster, and there’s much less of it. There’s too much real life getting in the way. So as the opportunities to sit and watch TV become more precious, the desire to watch WHAT we want WHEN we want is great (and fair enough). But I do miss those Tuesday nights when we got together and watched Buffy and Angel and had to call out “It’s on!” as the commercial returned to the show and we rushed back to the glow of the screen.

And so perhaps you’ll appreciate a nostalgic melancholy for those of us, say, thirty and older who are the last to watch TV as it aired; the last to experience that weekly, episodic magic. Yes, shows still air, and they’re still episodic, but the birth of TiVO and boxsets and downloadable episodes and ever-evolving “seasons” have changed the way we view TV. The way we CAN view TV. Before, it was Buffy aired Tuesdays at 8:00. Now? I’d sadly have no idea. For instance, I love Glee. Never miss it. But when is it on? Haven’t a clue. At the beginning of the season my wife and I set our TiVO, it does its thing, and we watch. And if we miss an ep? Doesn’t matter, there it is for us to get to when we can. And sometimes real life butts its head enough that we go a week or two without seeing it and we have to play catch-up. So we cook a nice meal on a Sunday evening and sit and watch three episodes in a row. But you see what I mean? As the way we’re ABLE to view TV has changed over the years, HOW we view it can’t help but follow. And those special nights of staying in or rushing home – much less getting friends together to join in the fun (much less not seeing or hearing anything about the show before catching up our TiVOd viewings?) – simply dissolve into that very nostalgia of happier days. Alas.

“But what does this mean to DOLLHOUSE?!” you yell. And who can blame you?

Well, I wanted to write about this for a while, so as I started thinking about watching Buffy and Angel, I couldn’t help but think about watching Dollhouse, not to mention tackling any words on the Whedonverse is a tough market indeed, as there are far better writers out there that I knew in the wake of the show’s demise would delve deeply into its psyche. So I thought, “What could I bring?” Maybe it would help if I rewatched the episodes. Or perused the websites. Or chatted with fellow fans. After all, I knew I’d be up against some of the smartest and most devoted fans out there. And that’s when it hit me. What I had – didn’t have – working for me.

I wasn’t going to go back and revisit anything at all.

I was, like Echo, going to embark on this adventure with whatever memories I had with me. However tangible they may or may not be. Like those days when I first enjoyed Buffy, without her boxsets, having to run back when the commercials were over or I really would miss something, I’d now go back into The Dollhouse with just my mind’s eye to guide me.

Frankly, I think Echo’d be proud.

In any event, it’s time for my treatment …

Looking back on Dollhouse without studying it affords a fan such as myself – who already studies The Whedonverse as all us fans do – the chance to revel in what was great about it – and think about what wasn’t so great – without gloating or nitpicking. Frankly I don’t want to spend a paragraph talking about how Man On The Street touched me. It’s enough to remember the look on Patton Oswalt’s face when she walks up to him at the end, takes his hand, and, seeing him through the sprinkler, he holds her. I don’t want to spend a paragraph talking about how Vows upset me. I expect more from Joss, simple as that. Though, knowing we were supposed to see post-Apocalyptic Felicia Day again but Joss rewrote and reshot, well, there it is. More Fox meddling because Epitaph One never aired in the States? Fair enough. But I’d love to see his original Season 2 opener. (Perhaps something for the Season 2 DVDs? As of writing this, they’re not out yet.) But you see what I mean. Here I am making left turns and right turns and u-turns without so much as touching the clutch and could I do that without the freedom of not so much as popping in a DVD or clicking on a website? (At least while I’m writing this?) Not so much.

Where Dollhouse shines is its natural ability, Joss’ natural ability, to humanize the impractical. I was going to say impossible, but impossible doesn’t really exist for the storyteller. After all, we make this stuff up. But the impractical – everything from reinventing the classic (X-Men) to breathing life into the seemingly trivial (Toy Story) to stripping back the big (Alien Resurrection) to dramatizing the supernatural (Buffy et al) – mmmmm, that’s Joss’ petrie dish. And it’s not the impracticality of any of it. What Joss does, no matter the genre, the budget, the medium (I’ll argue this in his movies, TV shows, comics, even blogs) is he touches on the pulse of the matter. Not the gimmick – the imprintable whatever-you-want-them-to-bes, but the heartbeat – the Caroline; not the Echo, but the Caroline – of the matter. The BREATH of it. It’s that he makes all his worlds not just identifiable but touchable, huggable, FEELABLE. It’s not the cool of the thing, however cool the thing is, it’s the humanity therein. And Dollhouse, for all its tech-laden gimmicks, is a very human story.

My favorite moment in the redone Ep 1 is Ballard’s getting berated by his boss (Badger from Firefly) to give up looking for The Dollhouse, all the while intercut with Ballard’s sparring in a boxing ring. And when he’s down and out, beaten by this other boxer, Ballard tells his boss he’ll give up, AND IN THE RING HE GETS BACK UP AND KNOCKS THE OTHER BOXER OUT, clearly a man that doesn’t give up on anything. Well written, well shot, well cut? Sure. But what it immediately gave us was a second hero – we knew of Echo, but now there was this guy – not programmable with anything Matrixy or cool, but human, one of us, that would fight the good fight along with, and perhaps despite offense to, the dolls. Man On The Street gave us a man who didn’t hire this girl for sex (in fact the sex is comically undercut: “Porn!”) but in fact just wanted to enjoy a moment with the love of his life that he never got to have. Haunted birthed the idea that the tech could be used to immortalize The Powers That Be, but in essence it was about the very human idea of what comes after? And what, given its conscious chance, would we do with it? Say to our loved ones? Hear about ourselves? Spy In The House Of Love is one of the great reveals in the series because it humanizes Adelle, touching on the very basic idea that love is not just the greatest foundation-for but escape-from it all. Needs asked, “What if we take them back to their core?” Well, their core’s WHO THEY ARE, not WHO WE’VE MADE THEM. For Topher’s birthday? He just wants to play games. And the beginning of his spiral in Season 2? When the two women in his life are yanked from him; when he’s forced from who he is into who they’ve made him. And then (sigh) Adelle’s and Topher’s resurrection: in my favorite relationship in the series, they find solace in each other. (Not to mention the on-the-nose – but it works well because of Gjokaj’s and Lachman’s performances – Viktor’s and Sierra’s very natural love rising above all the tech.) And so it continues until the mythology of the series – everything leading up to the epitaphs – takes over and Ballard and Caroline fight to restore humanity to the entire world. All meaty stuff? Indeed. But that’s Joss & Co for you.

For me, Dollhouse is the movie version of its own book. That is, it’s so condensed that I feel like we’re seeing a screenplay of a novel. It’s great, and it is, but the real meat of it – the text to these scripts – is still out there somewhere. Therefore, the biggest problem with the show, and I think everyone would agree with me, is that Joss wasn’t allowed to tell his story the way he wanted to. And I don’t just mean the studio’s involvement. Every show has that, including Buffy. (And, let’s be fair, studio involvement often helps.) But with Buffy or Angel when he was greenlit for a season, it was twenty-two episodes. Nearly twice the number than the thirteen we were given here. While for Dollhouse’s first season they were still hoping to receive the back nine, I’m not surprised we had the stand-alones early on; and I’m not surprised the second half, overall, really took flight. Somewhere in there Joss learned he’d only get thirteen, and was allowed to tell his story with them. So when I heard the second season would ONLY be thirteen episodes, I thought, “Okay, here we go. It’s reprieve time. Joss knows it. No more fat. All about the story. Lean, mean, fighting machine.” (Not to mention I was hoping Fox had learned from their not tampering so much and would let Joss do his thing. Well, if they did …) The problem this time around was he attempted too much. Talent that he and his crew have, it was so good that we wished we had more time with it all. Besides, given he knew Season 2 was probably the show’s last, he wanted to tell it all. And, well, fair enough.

But this is what it boils down to. Shoving all that goodness into only twenty-six episodes. Total. Only four more, mind you, than a normal single season (and only two more than a single 24). Frankly, Joss works best when he has time to tell his story. When he has time to pace out his novel instead of paring it down to its screenplay version. I can’t help but feel Alexis Denisof’s wonderful Senator Perrin storyline, for instance, was drastically compressed. What a wonderful full season storyline that would have been! After all, the monster of the week is just that, a plot device to mirror what the ep’s really about. ‘Cause it’s what the SEASON’S about that matters to him; and, inevitably, to us. That’s the story he’s telling. And that’s the story we want. Or, in Caroline’s case, wished for.

In January of 2010, it was time for the show’s own treatment; and with two years of its young life wiped away, Dollhouse closed its doors for the last time. I hope that one day it will be looked at for the series it is, not the series it was when it aired, bogged down by all its baggage. Coming out of The Year Of The Strike. Budgets slashed. Joss’ first new series in so many years, returning to the medium that made him our hero, all our expectations put on that. Starring Eliza Dushku who, let me say quickly here, IS sexy, so why did so many critics argue against featuring her that way? (And if I hear one more time she’s a bad actress, I’m going to slap that person and then write another 3500 words convincing them to the contrary. But I digress …) It was a show with a difficult concept, on the dreaded Friday night, without the typical advertising support one expects for such a show. But, again, this was Fox; and Dollhouse isn’t the next American Idol. There was the immediate news – I think we were one episode in – that it wasn’t a hit. One episode? That’s the bar now? I don’t want to belabor the point, but the drama behind the drama IS effective: if you hear long enough that she isn’t pretty, no amount of Miranda Kerr walking in the door is going to balance that prejudice. But hopefully time will pass and people will watch the show on DVD and they’ll be able to sit back and enjoy a show that’s indeed worth enjoying. Maybe even get people together and make an event out of it. Certainly yell, “It’s on!” when it’s time for the next Act. Because for all its baggage, Joss & Co were able to do the one thing, week after week, that’s the mission statement of any show: ENTERTAIN. And for all the essays written about her, for all her critiquing, by the professionals and us fans, Dollhouse WAS entertaining.

Even if only, sadly, “for a little while.”

Just 'Cause, You Know ...

2009-09-22T17:57:00.000-07:00

... Wow.

Actually, there IS something to be said for the beautiful Brit being on the cover of 'Angeleno' this month; at least it's a reason for an L.A. blogger to post the picture (it's the issue's cover). After all, a Brit on the cover of an L.A. specific magazine? It's enough of a reason, right? We're all talking about it? The article? Right? Uh huh.

I know.

The Little Engine That Did

2009-09-10T12:46:00.000-07:00

Most of the time when it comes to blogging, I think of something, usually for quite some time, eventually conjuring some thousand-word piece, because (I feel) I have something to say. Because it’s important! And it must be shared! Well, this one was a little different in that I didn’t think about it at all. No planning, no thinking; not overtly, anyway. While I feel it’s important -- and must be shared! -- this one’s right from the heart. I hope you enjoy.

Anna’s father Peter is an avid tennis player, and he takes us out to the courts when we visit in Florida (we enjoy playing, really should do it more), and Anna’s often said that she’d like Jack to play, so I thought, “The Open’s on, why not watch a little and get a better feel for it?” I remember being glued to the TV for the now famous – and nearly eight-hour; eight hours! – Federer-Roddick Wimbledon Final; and, yeah, hell of a match. So I figured I’d enjoy watching a few more. After all, it’s several of the best players, over several consecutive days; a veritable feast of suspense in sport! How could I NOT enjoy watching a few more?

Well, enjoy it I have; no I've been loving it, thrilled by it, glued to the TV yet again. Why? Sure, Federer’s playing well. So are the Williams sisters. And The Queen’s Own Andy Murray. But you know that, right? Probably heard about them some more. But they’re not the reason I’ve been glued to the series. No, that honor goes to someone you may not have heard of, but certainly should have. A young lady named Melanie Oudin.

I don’t know if you’ve been following The Open at all, but Miss Oudin (pronounced ooo-DAN) has surprised everyone by steadily climbing the charts to the Quarterfinals. It all begin a week ago when the 70th-seeded 17-year-old (and keep those two stats in mind) beat No.36 Anastasia Pavlyuchenkova in the first round. A surprise to be sure; shocking even. But No.4 Elena Dementieva was next, and The Georgia-born-and-raised Oudin (her father is French, hence the name) didn’t even have a hotel reservation past the match. But beat Dementieva she did (and had to move hotels to accommodate). Then the third round brought No.31 (former No.1) Maria Sharapova. No way Oudin will beat her. Well, she did. And then in The Round Of 16 it was No.13 Nadia Petrova. “Match is over except for the playing,” they said! True. For Petrova. That all were Russian is a coincidence. That all were at least 34 seeds ahead of her (not to mention 3 to 8 inches taller with several years more experience) is something to talk about. She is The Little Engine That Could, that has, that is. And yesterday at 7:00 PM (EST), she played No.9 Caroline Wozniacki in the 2009 Quarterfinals, the farthest she’d ever progressed in any major tournament.

I wish I could say that Oudin won, but she didn’t. In fact, the powerhouse Wozniacki played extremely well, beating Oudin in the first two sets by a fairly wide margin. It was the kind of match that everyone expected from Pavlyuchenkova in Round 1, and Dementieva in Round 2, and Sharapova in Round 3, and Petrova in The 16. Where Oudin was expected to just show up in The 2009 U.S. Open, play as well as she could, and go home gracefully, it wasn’t until The Quarterfinals of the Grand Slam Match that she was outplayed by a better player. Fairly? Yes. But anyone that saw yesterday’s match saw that uncertain and just a little bit fearful look in Wozniacki’s eyes when she stepped onto the court. And you had to respect that she didn’t give Oudin anything; believing, as we all did, that Oudin could very well clutch the win away from her.

And “believe” is the word of the series, right down to the word literally printed on Melanie Oudin’s shoe; a battle cry to her opponents, just as much as a prayer of her own. And for those of us watching, a rallying chant that we came to … well, believe as we watched her win again and again, all the way through the valiant effort in yesterday’s Quarterfinals, knowing that it was not the end of her run in a Grand Slam Match, but just the beginning. Because if you think that this was a fluke, just a storybook tale, that that Little Engine won’t be back, with more determination, not to mention more experience, with more drive to go even further, then you never saw her play. You never saw her win. When everyone believed she wouldn’t, and grew to believe that she could. And you didn’t see her when she lost yesterday’s match, and instead of sadness or anger, there was, far more prevalent, burning in her eyes, the very determination that this WAS just the beginning.

Something we now ALL believe.

The One That Got Away

2009-08-26T10:15:00.000-07:00

When you work in this business long enough, there’s bound to be a moment when you look like an ass. Could be relatively big – studio that passed on E.T. (happened) – could be relatively small – an Assistant asked an Executive when she was due, though the Executive wasn’t even pregnant (happened, I was there) – but, big or small, they’re eventually inevitable. And, while of course these blunders happen in businesses other than the movie one, they just seem bigger in a town as small as L.A. where everyone talks, and simple little blunders are simply never little (at least not in a business as crazy as this one, in a city as crazy as L.A.). I’ve certainly made my fair share, but there’s one that keeps staring me in the face, at least lately. Lather on a heavy glob of coincidence – there’s a tie-in story with the same TV Show, the episode RIGHT BEFORE IT – and I thought, well, blunder or not, I’d better share. I hope you enjoy.

When we were in Pre Production on Backstage Pass, everyone wore many hats, especially Jace, Andy Barth and me. Well, one of mine was Casting Director; that is, while Jace, Andy and I sat in on the three-full-weekend sessions, and Jeff Hamm and Stephanie Chernak were key in helping out, I was the one that took it upon myself to set up with Backstage West and the like, be sent the boxes full of headshots to go through, weed-out, and prep-for those weekend sessions, AND then deal with contracts (some of our Cast were SAG) and negotiations thereof (because they were SAG, I then had to set us up as SAG-signatory; a daunting task to be sure, but one I’d never personally dealt with before, so interesting and educational indeed. Anyway …) One of the young ladies that sent in her headshot was Kate Mara, and for a long while she was on “the short list” to be called in for the female lead. But then – ready to see the egg on my face? – I pulled her out. Don’t remember why, really, just didn’t feel it for whatever reason. But, no, I never even called her in to be seen.

And who’s Kate Mara? At the time – remember, while Backstage Pass came out in 2006, we shot in 2003 – she was in an Ed, a couple Law & Orders. In 2003 and after? She exploded. Four Nip Tucks. Six Jack And Bobbys. Brokeback Mountain. Five 24s. We Are Marshall, Shooter, four or five others and … wait for it … the upcoming Iron Man 2. It seems ever SINCE I put her picture back in the boxes-full of hundreds of others, she not only didn’t get to be part of our little movie but (and, let’s be honest, perhaps better off for her) went on to much bigger and better. But for whatever reason, out of those hundreds of photos that came in, I still remember hers – not many others, and I’m sure there are others that sent in photos, didn’t get called, and are now “somebody” – but every once in a while, there’s Ms. Mara, smiling back at me, laughing it seems at my badly played hand.

And who DID get the female lead in Backstage Pass? Why, the lovely Tiffany Brouwer, of course. I remember seeing her picture in those hundreds and thinking, “She looks like Katie Holmes.” (I, it’s no secret, have always had a crush on Katie Holmes.) So I brought Tiffany in; really, just because I liked her photo. And she not only read well, but looked the part, was incalculably polite AND professional, and we cast her immediately. She hadn’t done too much before, and, really, hasn’t done too much since (though I do give her credit for How I Met Your Mother and CSI: Miami, both shows I enjoy). We’ve kept in touch, last saw each other at Lucas & Katia’s wedding, and she definitely deserves her big break, but you know how this town is. Time goes by and we cut to Anna and I watching Entourage two episodes ago (“Murphy’s Lie”) and who do I see with Vince – and then under Vince – on the college campus? “Hey, it’s Tiff!” I said! “Good for her!” A crazy town indeed.

So there’s one of my friends, the female lead from my first feature, in an episode of Entourage (not just a hit show, but one I’m a fan of). Good for her, indeed! Of course, I can’t help but think of Kate Mara, who I always seem to think of not just when I think of Backstage Pass BUT WHEN I SEE HER IN ALMOST EVERYTHING SINCE (I’m not bitter). And, so, who do I see in the very next episode of Entourage as E’s secretary at George Segal’s Management Firm ("No More Drama")? Why, only Kate Mara, of course! (And of course good for her.) But there it is, yet again, my own little blunder staring at me in the face. (It’s not terrible, I know, but I hate missed opportunities; while working with Tiffany was a gem both professionally and personally, I never got the chance to work with Ms. Mara RIGHT BEFORE SHE HIT! And, well, cest la vie.) There Anna and I are, watching Entourage, and in two episodes in a row, there’s the girl that got the lead in Backstage Pass, and the one that got away.

On Comics

2009-08-21T16:11:00.000-07:00

Friends and colleagues seem to be amazed at how quickly I write. A screenplay only takes a couple of weeks, blogs a couple of hours. “How do you do it?!” Well, all they’re seeing is me sitting in front of the computer typing. What they don’t see is the actual writing, which I do in my head for months, YEARS beforehand. I’m not one of those that can sit in front of a blank page for very long. It taunts more than teases; drives me nuts. I’d much rather be thinking about a story for some time – and usually multiple stories at once – before something clicks and I feel like I can sit down and write. And then, yes, it is pretty quick. Because by then all the hard work is done, and I’m just spilling it out onto that blank page before I forget it all. (Broken Tape anyone?)

What’s the point of this, you ask? Well, the blogs – any of my writing – aren’t different from a story. I think about them looooong before I sit down to type them. Perhaps not in as much detail as fiction, but, after finding something I want to write about, there’s still the inevitable “How do I want to approach it?” For a while now, I’ve been thinking about doing something on my love for comic books, but for almost all that while had no idea what it would be. A love letter to them, sure, but what else? My being a fan, the medium, as an artform, their history, cultural impact, all that good stuff. And then I started this blog (for I’d been thinking of writing something on comics before that) and I wrote two pieces that helped things click (always love when something helps things click). The first was The Chain where I talk about Mr. Whedon sharing his love for comics by dedicating one to a friend (I particularly like his line, “unless you care about [them] as much as I do”) and It’s On! (Alas) where I talk about the evolution of watching TV. And suddenly – click! – I thought, “There’s my in.”

As Whedon has often and openly voiced his passion for the medium, I thought I’d also share how magical I think they are – and they are – but also why it’s an important medium, especially today. (And while I perhaps talk more about movies and TV, books and comic books are equally weighty in not just my fandom but in my life.) And then I wrote about our TV viewing evolving (multi-platform access, TiVO, ever-evolving “seasons,” and therefore the diminishing event-ness of that viewing) and I thought, “You know, comics aren’t too different from TV. As much hard work goes into them, they’re episodic, they allow for character development, long-arcing stories and stand-alone adventures, BUT, unlike how the airing of TV is evolving, we still (wonderfully) have to wait for each issue, that ACTUAL episodic nature still intact.” (Though, no, I’m not missing that Trade Paperbacks mirror DVD boxsets, but to continue mirroring the two is indeed topic for another entry. But I digress.) And so I thought, “There’s my in.” Or, rather, “There’s at least a nice-enough segue for those of you, dear readers, who stop by here.” (And thank you for that.)

With my son Jack about to be born (just two months away now!) I can’t help but think more and more-often about my dad, who unfortunately passed away almost three years ago. And speaking of being a comic-book fan, he was a big one. Not so much in today’s titles, but certainly in the Silver Age of his youth, picking up (at various conventions and the like) single pages of his favorites (at often $200, $250 a piece) such as The Lone Ranger and Prince Valiant and Flash Gordon. Like movies and TV, it was his imparting his passion for comics onto me that left such an indelible mark; like his being supportive of my writing, he was as-supportive of my enjoying the worlds of comics and TV and movies; and, as significantly, teaching me the importance of their affect on us. (I particularly remember him buying me an original G.I. Joe Annual #1 that I desperately wanted – for $30, an ungodly amount to a ten year old – but, I think to him, money well spent to support that continued passion in me.)

In fact, that’s a good-enough segue as any to talk about the first series I fell in love with, Larry Hama’s great G.I. Joe. I remember the first issue I saw, #43, with its (haunting, frankly, especially to a ten year old) hooded-skeleton firing a machine gun. “What is THIS?!” I thought and a friend lent it to me and I was hooked. I went to my local shop (Continental Comics, still there at Balboa and Devonshire in Granada Hills) where I scrounged my measly allowance to pickup the next issue. Then as many back-issues as I could. Then each month, when a new issue came out (and I had the money) there I’d be, purchasing the next paper and ink treasure. I remember quite vividly being enthralled by that next year, as it was the best of series, those roughly fifteen issues, with the rise of Serpentor, Snake Eyes and Storm Shadow’s history, and Cobra Commander’s “fall.” To this day, G.I. Joe still holds a special place for me; every time I see an issue, or flip through one of mine (of the 155-issue series, I’ve off and on continued to accumulate nearly 100 of them) I still find myself awed.

***** RARE SPOILERS PARAGRAPH ***** I had always been a fan of the biggies, Superman and Batman and Wonder Woman, but mostly through movies and TV, so it wasn’t until G.I. Joe that I “discovered” them in comics, and became a BIG Batman fan, collecting regularly through the Bane storyline. At the same time, I became a big Spider-Man fan, another series I collected regularly, beginning with one of the to-this-day great crossovers, Kraven’s Last Hunt, in which Spider-Man is buried alive, and Kraven kills himself! A hooded skull firing a machine gun? The Joker beating Robin to death with a crowbar? Spider-Man climbing his way out of a coffin as the villain blows his own head off with a shotgun? I thought comics were supposed to be for kids! Right, Archie? Wow, my eyes – and imagination – were opened. (In one of the forewords to either Year One or Dark Knight Returns, Frank Miller – who I had the honor to meet when I worked on The Spirit – talks about one of the Batman comics he picked up as a kid SCARING him. “Well you know what?” he said, “It’s Batman. It SHOULD scare me.” And I have to agree.) ***** SPOILERS OVER *****

In High School and College I discovered lesser known greats (outside of the fandom) like Sin City and Cerebus and The Sandman, three series that carried me through those years, one of which springboarding my own “work.” While Cerebus was the first comic I ever tried to adapt into a screenplay – and if you haven’t read it, it’s one of the great sagas of any medium, especially the “Church And State” collection – Sandman WAS the first screenplay I officially finished, first (my personal favorite) The High Cost Of Living (I have an ankh tattoo on my left Achilles heel because of Didi) and then Season Of Mists; both of which, even if I have nothing to do with them, I’d still love to see produced. (It was after the adaptation of Mists that I wrote my first original, Ireilas.) It was also during this time that my friends Steve Demarest and Jeremy Warner and I made two attempts at our own comic, respectively a Batman tale and an original (Watchmen-esque thing set in World War II).

After college, I started work at Modern Videofilm where I met my friend Andy Gattuso, a big comics fan; not just a fan, but quite an archivist for them as well. Andy and I have since been friends for fifteen years, and to this day enjoy perusing a shop together, certainly talking about comics. While I was certainly a fan, Andy was a FAN, introducing me to all sorts of things, with as much care as a bartender coming up with a special drink. He didn’t just introduce me to The X-Men but certain Chris Claremont storylines he thought I’d like. He didn’t just introduce me to Daredevil but the Frank Miller origin story. The same with Conan (I’m sure I’ve said this before but Kurt Busiek’s great retelling needs to be a movie) and Superman For All Seasons and Hellboy and Barry Ween. Not “Pick an issue up, I think you’ll like it,” but (handing me issues) “Read this story, I think you’ll like it.” Like the great bartenders that save us with that special drink or untiring ear, it WAS always something I’d like. But, then, that’s Andy for you.

And to this day, I still continue reading them. Not collecting per se, at least not regularly, but I miss that. [Speaking of missing, I was excited when Jay & Silent Bob’s (comic shop) moved into Lazer Blazer (DVD shop) and two of my favorite places were under one roof, walking distance from mine and Anna’s apartment. And I was as-equally disappointed when Jay & Silent Bob’s closed in L.A. for good. Alas, Mr. Smith.] There’s the practically incomparable Kingdom Come, and the fun as hell Danger Girl. And I was a Witchblade and Fathom and Ultimate Avengers fan. (I know at one point New Line was prepping a Danger Girl film, which, if whomever does it just takes the first series to set and starts shooting, will be GOOOOOLD.) While Batman Year One is the character’s best story, the great Jeph Loeb and Tim Sale hit with The Long Halloween and Dark Victory (not to mention Daredevil Yellow). And, of course, there are Joss Whedon’s Astonishing X-Men and Buffy Season 8. Gattuso and I still get together, when we can, and geek out; but, like getting together to watch TV way back when (he was always there for Tuesdays At 8:00), it’s mostly reminisced treasures, scrambled-at and longed-for. (Alas indeed.)

But what continues, what I don’t think is even remotely slowing down (and thank The Powers That Be for it), is the very tradition of comics. Their ongoing production, their ongoing popularity. And I’m not just talking about their birthing hit movies. Or the annual San Diego Comicon (which, of late, is more and more about birthing hit movies). I’m talking about the pen and ink on paper medium itself. The talent involved in them, and the well deserved RESPECT comic writers, artists, letterers and editors are getting now. The notion that kids – of all ages – are still excited about a thirty-page episodic story coming out once a month, that they can’t wait to see how it continues, arriving at their local shop that Wednesday, putting down their hard earned money for each next installment.

Not to mention it’s a thirty-PAGE episodic story coming out once a month. Because in the days of The Internet and Playstation and iEverything, the notion that there’s an audience out there for the written word, for anything on a piece of paper you still physically hold, impresses me. Call me old fashioned, but it does. Getting kids – anyone – to be interested in READING anything is a blessed thing, not just because there’s so little of it these days. Sure, books still bound (no pun intended) but in the days of books on tape, hell books as an iPhone app, it’s nice to see, especially for kids, the physicality of the medium, their sitting and reading, still doing so well. And it’s without a doubt a credit to the team behind each issue, the level of talent that’s there, month-in and month-out.

Because remember, like TV, they’re doing this on a (fairly) consistent basis. As I wrote in the My Favorite Brunette review, “I’ve often defended TV – good TV – to near fisticuffs because of how difficult it is to put out such good work week after week. I love movies, but nowadays as much as two or three years can be spent on telling one two-hour story (and often for good reason) but a TV show is there, in the trenches, giving it to us again and again, each episode often as good as most movies. They’re two different mediums, sure, but good TV? Being that good, engaging us that often? Bringing us back for more on such a steady basis? Let’s not get to fisticuffs, but I do applaud them.” And I feel the same way about comics. Sure, the talent may ebb and flow. (I don’t like to say the quality ebbs and flows, because it’s still quality work, even if, for whatever reason, it may not click that month.) But putting that much hard work into something entertaining again and again IS impressive. And think of it, they’re doing it without sound and score. (And if you think sound and score are overrated, watch Jaws without them.)

Think of it, how important the LAYOUT of a comic is. I don’t just mean what pictures (and remember they’re single, specific images) are shown to convey the story; a close-up of her eyes, a single empty shoe laying on the ground, a fist hitting a jaw, a fluttering of cape leaving a phonebooth. All key, to be sure. But I also mean how those images are laid out THROUGHOUT the issue. The big images as expansive “wide shots,” the small images as “close ups.” The big splash pages creating a faster pace so you speed through them, and the multi-paneled pages that slow you down to pause and read. And this is my favorite, how well thought out they are: the surprise revealed as you turn a page. All of these things are thought out well in advance, so, like cinematic editing, the storyteller can lead the audience through the story. You may not think of it as you read – frankly, you’re not supposed to – but they’re there, very much part of the process, part of the hard work put into the entertainment. Words and pictures. No sound, no score, practically all of the crutches we’ve grown to rely on in entertainment today gone, boiled down to those two crucial elements, year-in and sometimes decades-out. And when it’s done well, when it makes you laugh out loud or tear up? (Swear to God, it happens!) In a word, breathtaking.

I recently started a gig at Encore in Hollywood, Post Supervising for TV, and the office is just a few blocks from Golden Apple on Melrose, perhaps THE comic shop in Los Angeles (I once had the honor of meeting Bob Kane at their old location down the street). A week or so ago, my friend Cliff Dugan and I went to lunch and, he a big comic book fan as well, couldn’t help but stop off on our way back. Just walking in there – I feel the same way about walking into a book store, especially a used book store – I love being wrapped in the stories, the possibility of all the stories there. Just a page-turn away, you can be in the desert, on the high seas, in an underground cave or an orbiting space station, in the 1940s or the far distant future. The possibilities are, indeed, endless. I walked around, looking at this and that, and (because the movie has just come out) there was an end-cap of G.I. Joe issues. I looked at a couple and thought, “Yeah, I could go back and read a few.” (I went home, started at #25, and have been enjoying an issue a night since. Anyway …) I was standing there, reminiscing about that ten year old that was first entranced by those stories when Cliff (he a well-connected Vice President, mind you) walked up to me with an issue, pure glee in his eyes, and said, “Have you seen this one? It’s great!”

And twenty-five years after I picked up my first issue, I thought, “Yes sir, it absolutely is.”

While I was writing this – sorry, typing this, in these couple-of-hours it takes me to put the months-of-thinking-about-it down on the page – this popped up in the news. A man, outraged by a recent storyline in a nearly 70-year saga, sold his copy of the character’s first issue. For nearly $40,000. It seemed so relevant, I had to share. After all … just for kids, huh?

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20090814/ap_en_ot/us_archie_comic_protest