SF/F Commentary

SF/F Commentary

The #1 Thing I Want on Extended Cut or Special Edition DVDs

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By “Extended Cut” or “Special Edition,” I am referring to any DVD release which includes additional footage in the movie itself or special features which otherwise are not available in previous versions. And what is it that I want from these special editions? The Theatrical Version! One of the things that drives me up the wall with DVDs is when the extended cut doesn’t come with the original theatrical release. If you go mucking about with a movie, I still want to be able to enjoy the film as it was seen by movie-goers. Star Wars fans were pissed off when George Lucas released the original trilogy on DVD without the original versions; we didn’t want the Special Editions that were released in the late 90s, and we definitely didn’t want a heavily edited Special Edition (remember Hayden Christensen put in place of Sebastian Shaw?). Even something like Peter Jackson’s Lord of the Rings runs into this problem.  The extended editions replaced the theatrical release with an extended cut.  They’re incredible movies in either for, but sometimes all that extra footage doesn’t make for a better movie; it’s there to make fans giggle inside. There’s nothing inherently wrong with these changes, even when those changes are kind of stupid.  But sometimes the theatrical experience is the better one.  Plus, I like being able to ignore the changes without having to buy two different versions of the DVD.  Seems like a really simple thing, but sometimes movie studios don’t give you both versions on the same DVD.  And it’s really annoying… What about you? What is the one thing you want in a special edition release of your favorite movie?

SF/F Commentary

10 Things I’ve Learned From Prometheus (Or, Prometheus: A Testament to the Stupidity of Mankind)

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Because everyone is poking fun at Prometheus, I’ve decided to join in on the festivities. Here goes: 1. Only an American-based expedition could be based solely on the personal beliefs of someone claiming themselves to be a scientist. The Evidence: Shaw and Holloway, the two archaeologists responsible for the Prometheus mission, have nothing but a handful of cave paintings to suggest that aliens visited Earth in the past. The rest of their hypothesis (aliens seeded Earth and left markers to convince humanity to find their makers) are based on absolutely no scientific evidence whatsoever. And the fact that the characters are from a variety of nationalities is irrelevant, since the entire mission is funded by a rich American businessman who has bought into the evidence-less hypothesis. In other words: America’s pathetic tendency to base political and social decisions on the whims of “beliefs” have so tainted the future that the term “scientific exploration” is more ironic than anything else. Thus, the only science in this movie is tangential. 2. In the future, medical pods will remind women that they aren’t important. The Evidence: The one automated medical pod in the movie is designed for the male anatomy. Why? Some argue that this has to do with Peter Weyland’s selfishness, but considering that the pod is perfectly capable of performing surgeries on women (Shaw uses a “foreign body” program to perform a Cesarean section), what this really tells us is that Scott’s future is a patriarchy for the sake of being a patriarchy. Considering that half the planet are women, it is absurd to think that medical pods are not being programmed for women; and if they are being programmed for women, then it really doesn’t make any sense to create two different kinds of pods when you could save considerable amounts of money on production to make one pod for practically all situations. After all, the pod in Prometheus can already perform the necessary surgeries on a female body anyway, just not under the appropriate surgical subheading. 3. Scientists are incompetent in the future. The Evidence: The geologist uses several orbs to map out the interior of the alien ship, but is completely incapable of using that map to find the exit. This is necessary for the plot, in which the geologist and his not-really-a-friend scientist buddy get lost and are then destroyed by evil alien snakes from hell. Likewise, there’s Holloway and Shaw, who refuse to observe quarantine procedures. Worse yet, Holloway decides that because the air appears to be breathable inside the alien ship, it is perfectly reasonable to remove his helmet. No worries about microbes. No attempt by an authority figure to reprimand him. In fact, it doesn’t seem like anyone put much thought into this mission at all. Oddly enough, the only technologically competent people in this movie happen to be the captain (Idris Elba) and his mini-gang of ship people. All three can read the geologist’s map, pilot the ship, use little computers and gizmos with expertise, and so on. But, hey, when you put together a mission based solely on the whims of a bunch of new age archaeologists, I guess you can’t expect to nab a few decent scientists to tag along. 4. Humanity hasn’t learned anything from all the science fiction stories they’ve written. The Evidence: Thousands of movies and books and short stories have been written in the last 100 years alone about robots, androids, and other synthetic beings going slightly mental, and yet we have not taken any of that into account in the world of Prometheus. Case in point — David (Michael Fassbender). Here’s what he’s responsible for doing in the movie: a) Invading the dreams of humans in suspended animation. b) Infecting Halloway with an alien sludge, resulting in Shaw’s impregnation with a mutant alien baby from hell and the death of Halloway. c) Denying Shaw the right to terminate her mutant pregnancy by using medicine (drugs) against her. Why? I don’t know. The movie never tells us his motivations for any of it. So either David is just naturally curious, and therefore dangerous to human beings, or he’s insane. Neither of those options sounds good to me. 5. The Roman statues were based on aliens. The Evidence: The Engineers (Space Jockeys) are all white as stone, perfectly sculpted, and surprisingly shaped like this guy: Some have criticized the film for its strange magic-Aryan-sperm-seeds-the-Earth ideology. I think it’s weird enough that humanoid aliens shaped like Roman statues could only seed other planets with their DNA goop by committing suicide. Seriously? You’re an alien race capable of interstellar travel and you can’t figure out how to stick your DNA into the lifeless streams of Earth without killing yourself?? You’ve got hands…just sayin’. (Yes, I’m aware that the concoction the Engineer drinks probably does something to his DNA. It’s still stupid.) 6. There are no female aliens. The Evidence: There are no female aliens. Seriously. None. Not a single one. Unless Scott is suggesting these nearly-human aliens reproduce asexually, like bipedal amoeba, then what we’re left with is an alien race that believes its lady aliens need to stay home and do whatever it is lady aliens are supposed to do. They don’t eat food, so maybe they just tend to the house (or whatever they live in). Why are there no lady aliens? Seriously. Are the man aliens the only ambitious and batshit crazy, dickish members of their species? 7. Two obviously different species can be the same species. The Evidence: We’re told in Prometheus that the Engineers are us, and we are the Engineers. On top of that, we’re shown it on a screen, where two strands of DNA (human and Engineer) are matched up. And guess what? We’re 100% the same! Wait, what? Have you seen an Engineer? They’re two or three feet taller than us, naturally muscular, and slightly off looking. Just look at him: He’s like Eugen Sandow on PCP! If that isn’t enough

SF/F Commentary

Mid-Year Movie Roundup: My Brief Thoughts On What I’ve Seen So Far This Year

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Thus far this year, I have seen the following movies: Chronicle The Hunger Games The Avengers Prometheus John Carter Snow White and the Huntsman American Reunion The Cabin in the Woods Not many, I know.  Most of them are genre fiction, minus American Reunion.  There are two proper science fiction movies (The Hunger Games and Prometheus), one that could very well be science fiction, but treats its universe like a fantasy one (The Avengers), and some that are technically science fiction, but really fantasy with some technological wonders (John Carter and The Cabin in the Woods).  The last is a pure fantasy (Snow White and the Huntsman). The movie I liked enough to see it twice falls to one film: The Avengers. The movies I thought were quite good: Chronicle (one of the few good uses of shaky cam I’ve seen), The Hunger Games (solid acting with a cool, slightly used-up idea), The Avengers (so far the best movie of the year — Joss Whedon at his best), John Carter (beautiful film with a decent little story), The Cabin in the Woods (Joss Whedon at his best again, ripping apart the tropes of the horror genre). The movie that were better than I expected: Snow White and the Huntsman (some really nice twists on the classic story).  The movies that were so-so overall: Snow White and the Huntsman, American Reunion (they tried to take us to a new level, but didn’t quite get there; still, it was a fun movie). The greatest disappointment: Prometheus (in fact, the more I think about this movie, the more I really hate it) Have you seen any of these movies? If so, place them in the categories I’ve given above and let me know what you think!

SF/F Commentary

First Novels: Are They Forgivable?

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While listening to SF Squeecast’s discussion of Kameron Hurley’s novel, God’s War, I was struck by the suggestion that the novel’s perceived faults were forgivable because it is a first novel. Not having read God’s War, I cannot speak to the accuracy of the suggested faults, and therefore cannot directly discuss Hurley’s novel. However, the question raised by the hosts compelled me to consider my own position on first novels. Are mistakes in first novels forgivable? If so, when do we start to fault an author for not being up to par? There are no quick and easy answers to this question for me, in part because I don’t think a first novel is a relevant starting point for the discussion. What matters, in my mind, is the reader’s first experience with an author, which may occur with that author’s first novel, or may occur at any other point in the author’s career. From my own experience, once I’ve read a bad book by an author, it casts the rest of their work in a different light. If I happened to have started with better work, then I can probably forgive that author for a crummier novel, regardless of when it arrives in their career. But if I started with a crappy novel, it becomes very difficult to convince me to try something else, perhaps because my experience has already been tainted by a negative. There is always the chance that I’ll try something else by that author, but perhaps only with a lot of prodding. After all, there are so many good books already out there — waiting to be read.  For proper first novels, the process is largely the same for me. If your first novel is crap, then it’s not likely I’ll return to your work. But so far in this post, I’ve taken as a given that the negative experience is the result of a truly awful novel. Can I forgive minor mistakes if the overall product is good? I don’t know. Maybe? That might depend on the author. Myke Cole’s first novel, Shadow Ops: Control Point, is far from a perfect novel, but you’ll be hard pressed to convince me to ignore anything else he writes (unless he turns into some kind of foam-at-the-mouth crazy person who thinks we should cut off the left foot of every first born son or whatever).* How much do I care about the flaws in his work? Where is the line between “reasonable flaw” and “complete disaster”? I’m not sure I can define the line at this moment; I’m still stewing over the idea. In other words: it really depends on the situation. Are first novels forgivable? Maybe. But that probably depends on the answer to this question: What makes the novel needing of forgiveness? If the writing is atrocious, then forgiveness may not be forthcoming. Minor plot holes? Who knows… What do you all think about this?  ——————————————————- *Control Point is a pretty good book. Lots of action. A nice take on superhero abilities, and so on. Plus, Myke is a wonderful human being, as I discovered when Jen and I interviewed him here and brought him on for a discussion episode here. Note: I’m using “forgive” rather liberally here for lack of a better word. There are very few instances when a bad book causes offense. So take my use of the word lightly.

SF/F Commentary

Gritty Fantasy: Why Do I Love It So?

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Today’s post is based on a question from Dirk Reul: What is it that people find fascinating about gritty fantasy compared to the classic story types like The Hero’s Journey? As I noted when the question was asked, I can only talk about this topic from my personal perspective.  Sadly, the radiation from Japan’s nuclear power plan problems has yet to give me the ability to read the minds of everyone on the planet.  I’m as upset about it as you (admit it, you wanted to get super powers too). First, to definitions, just so we’re clear what we mean (or I mean) by “gritty fantasy.”  George R. R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire is gritty fantasy.  J. R. R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings and successor works are the classic “hero’s journey” stories.  The difference between the two isn’t so much the lack of a quest, but rather a rejection on the part of gritty fantasy of romantic notions about medieval societies.  In classic fantasy, death is glory; in gritty fantasy, death is horrible, costly, and deeply personal for the characters.  There may be overlap, but I think the absolutism is essential.  For the purposes of this post, I will focus specifically on A Song of Ice and Fire (books one and two, which I will refer to as GRRM to save space and my fingers).  Expect a few spoilers. As much as I enjoy glorious tales of heroic quests, the gritty realism of GRRM and related works does something else for me:  it gives me a sense of insecurity.  I know the hero will survive in classic fantasy tales.  But I don’t know that is true in something like GRRM, because characters are routinely killed or abused by other characters.  Take, for example, Eddard Stark.  He is set up as our main hero in A Game of Thrones.  We come to love him, flaws and all, and to care deeply for his cause and for his family.  But he dies at the end of the book, betrayed by the very people he hoped would help him save the kingdom.  It doesn’t get any better for the Starks after that.  Sansa is kept hostage by the sadistic King Joffrey; Winterfell and the Starks are betrayed by Theon Greyjoy, their ward, and the city burned to the ground; Arya is forced to skulk through an increasingly dangerous terrain, at first pretending to be a boy; and Catelyn, Eddard’s wife, must watch as her son, Robb, makes war, worried that her two daughters will be killed by the Lannisters (Joffrey at the head), and that her son(s) will die.  There is nothing safe about this situation; for me, it produces a sense of compelling dread, because anyone could get hurt at any moment. Likewise, gritty fantasy gives me the violence that is almost always absent from classic fantasy.  As much as I love The Lord of the Rings, it is a narrative that, in my mind, finds a kind of honor and glory in war.  When I read Tolkien-derivative works, I expect this dynamic, and even enjoy it.  Romanticizing war creates an emotional connection to the moment that is two parts hope, one part fear.  One of the scenes that makes me cry in the film adaptation of LOTR is the moment when the Riders of Rohan appear on the hilltop looking over the fields of Pelennor, ready to ride into certain death.  I love this scene because it is so human.  It’s about sacrifice for honor, something I think we’ve lost in this world because we don’t seem to understand what it is that soldiers do — our honoring of soldiers is somewhat empty. But gritty fantasy tends to avoid these glorifications.  War is terror.  It is blood and mud and guts and death.  It is a sea of despair.  People die, and they don’t die well, because there is no good death in battle.  And death outside of war is equally without glory.  Disease.  Starvation.  Murder.  All of it working in conjunction to make a medieval world that feels lived in, rather than ideologically constructed (utopian).  GRRM does this remarkably well, taking the piss out of those moments when we expect honor and glory to drive men and women to victory.  Instead, they tend to fall, often to dishonorable men.  Wars are sacrifice, but whatever glory can be found there is bittersweet.  Take the first battles at the end of A Game of Thrones.  In one such battle, a small contingent of soldiers is sent to meet Tywin Lannister’s host, but only to distract him while the greater force heads out to take the armies of Tywin’s son, Jaime, and free Riverrun.  A lot of people die.  But there is no moment of glory for them. There are no beautiful horns chiming in harmony.  Whatever stories are told are glorifications, but the narrative itself never gives us that glory (in fact, the battle is show from Tyrion Lannister’s perspective, a mangled dwarf who has never served in battle, let alone been trained for it). Those are two reasons I enjoy gritty fantasy.  What do you think?  Do you agree?  Or are there other things that draw you to gritty fantasy?

SF/F Commentary

Game of Thrones vs. People Who Only Threw a Fit After-the-fact

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George Bush is in the HBO production of Game of Thrones (season one).  Not really.  A replica of his head was dressed up in a manky wig and put on a spike to represent one of the heads King Joffrey lobbed off towards the end of the first season.  Said replica was on the screen for such a short amount of time that nobody figured it out until someone made a passing comment in the commentary on the DVD suggesting as much.  Oh.  My.  God.  The world has just ended.  It’s over.  Hollywood wants to kill George Bush.  It’s finally true!  The liberals have come to kill our babies and eat our brains using parasitic tube monkeys.  And then they’re going to cut off George Bush’s head and put it up on a spike with a nasty black wig! None of that is true.  Well, except everything before “Oh.  My.  God.”  In truth, this is one of the stupidest things people have gotten upset about in Hollywood this year, let alone this decade (and the one before it).  There are a lot of more important things to get pissed about.  Such as how women are portrayed in films and TV.  Or representations of people of color.  Or the fact that most of the crap they put on TV looks like it was written by a 5-year-old missing half a brain.  But this?  Please.  Grow up. And, yes, contrary to what some of a different political persuasion than myself might say, I would not have cared either if the bust was Barack Obama, except for the fact that there are almost no black people in Game of Thrones (season one) to begin with.  Putting him up on a spike wouldn’t make any sense, and I might get a little annoyed at that if I actually noticed it.  But would I have?  No.  I didn’t notice George Bush either, and I don’t even like him as a President. That said, I don’t really know where I stand with the producers’ rational for why they used a replica of his head.  Is it possible they couldn’t afford to rent or make a whole bunch more body parts and heads?  Maybe.  Could it also be a veiled political statement?  I guess.  But that would assume David Benioff and D. B. Weiss are stupid enough to a) put it in their movie knowing some place like Big Hollywood will scrutinize everything they do, and b) mention doing so in the commentary.  If you wanted to make a political point, I’d think you’d take the moment to say something in the commentary.  Maybe they’re that dumb, but I find that hard to believe, and I don’t feel like making that judgment right now. So I will officially file this in my “stupid crap that the world got upset about” bin.  Do with it what you will.

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