Privileged in Toronto

In a red, folding audience chair of Studio Theatre at Toronto’s Harbourfront Centre sits a white man.  He is in the wrong place.  

He is attending an event at the Canadian Writer’s Summit of 2016, titled “Grants for Writers.”  But the white man should have read the summit’s website more carefully.  If he had, he would have learned that this event is about the Ontario Arts Council.  He’s from Saskatchewan.  When he finds out, he feels dumb, but decides to stick around anyway.  

Jack Illingworth, Literary Officer for the OAC, sits at a folding table, centre-stage.  In his opening remarks, he thanks the Mississauga First Nation, on whose traditional lands downtown Toronto is built, for hosting.  This is not the first time the white man has heard these words.  Writer Lawrence Hill began his keynote address with them.  At the time, the white man thought these words were a nice concession to First Nations people.  Toronto is progressive, and the writing community is at the vanguard of The Culture of Inclusion.  

This time, however, the speech strikes the white man as meaningless.  If The Mississauga First Nation asked Jack Illingworth to vacate his house, would he be waxing this eloquent?  Would he thank them for the previous use of their ancestral homeland and pack his bags?  

Desperation rises from the audience like stink-lines.  Destitute writers itch to discover the secret of the elusive Arts Grant.  Every one of Mr. Illingworth’s ums, hesitations, and miscellaneous speech disfluencies ramp the tension.  He pauses to take questions, and hands flutter.  Complaining ensues.  Illingworth apologizes, then commiserates, saying how hard it was to write all those rejection letters.  Funding has been shrinking for decades and people who deserve grants cannot get them.  

Another writer queries Illingworth about a new OAC policy: “Is it true blind juries will be abolished for arts grants?”  The embattled Literary Officer confirms.  “Why?” asks another woman, without raising her hand.  Because, says Illingworth, blind juries overwhelmingly choose projects from privileged artists.  The crowd gasps.  Soon, the OAC will consider an artist’s background, colour, creed and culture as well as their project.    

Tired and troubled, the white man leaves the talk early.  He strides down crowded York Street to the Union Station Subway, pondering.  How can privilege penetrate a blind jury?  Are white men really that good at manipulating the system?  Is the new OAC policy fair?  Is it discrimination?  Is it legal?  Will blind juries be eliminated in Saskatchewan?  

His survival instinct stirs.  He’s a writer, and when he sells a story, he makes an average of $25, USD if he’s lucky.  That’s no way to make a living.  He needs an arts grant, and fears extra competition. 

The next morning of the summit, the white man is in the wrong place again.  The panel discussion he was most anticipating was “Writing from a Remote Area”.  His home village, on the remoteness scale, ranks somewhere between Midway Atoll and Superman’s Fortress of Solitude.  He cannot wait to hear some valuable tips.  Arriving late at the outdoor tent, he sits in the front row and readies his notebook.  He should have read the website more carefully.  The panel begins: in French.  Apparently, in Toronto, the word “remote” means “Quebec”.   

Disappointed and feeling stupid, he wanders until he finds a panel discussion about collaboration.  He tries to take notes, but cannot.  His mind wages civil war.  His survival instinct rages, combining with self-hatred and his sense of dislocation.  The Culture of Inclusion threatens him.  He feels: 

1. Stupid, useless and hopeless
2. Excluded and ignored at the prevailing culture at the summit because it threatens his survival.  It calls him privileged, when he feels he is not.  It has no interest in his stories because of who he is.  It reinforces itself with catchphrases like "European narratives" and "colonialism", and its perpetrators compete with each other to see how loud they can clap when they are mentioned.  
3. Furious with himself for thinking a series of bigoted thoughts (which I will not publish here)
4. Angry with truly privileged people - the ones who get all the grants.  
5. Like he wants to go home and quit writing forever. 
6. Like he is in the wrong place. 

The white man tells himself to shut up; these are the thoughts of a victim and a bigot.  But he cannot bottle them.  Trembling, he flees the panel during question-period and eats a sad lunch at the café overlooking Toronto Harbour.  

Willing himself past the old power plant to the Fleck Dance Theatre, he trudges to his next event, “The First Page Challenge”.  He has anonymously submitted the first page of a short story to the organizers.  An agent, an editor and a professional writer will critique it and judge whether they would keep reading or put it down.  He dreads this event, for his self-esteem is in the toilet, and he is sure his writing will be lambasted.  He enters the dim theatre anyway.  

Two hours later, the white man emerges, transformed.  He received accolades from the onstage panel.  His writing is good.  Again he is competent and capable.  Again the universe is a place of abundance.  His survival is threatened by nobody.  

Most important, the encouragement has restored his clarity.  He remembers his list of itemized complaints against the summit, Toronto and the Culture of Inclusion, and sees that he was only a tourist in it.  Some people live that list.  Every day they struggle against privilege and feel like they are in the wrong place.  

The white man’s day at the summit concludes at a reception.  Some kind of LGBTQ awards are being presented.  He’s not sure which: he didn’t read the website that carefully.  Again the Mississauga First Nation is thanked, and again he notes overenthusiastic applause when the names of past winners are listed, but it doesn’t bother him.  It is only encouragement.  Encouragement helped him at exactly the right time.  It is the antidote to bigotry and hatred.  If he had not received it at his critical moment, he might still be thinking that white men are victims.  He joins the loud clapping.  

A man in a dress accepts his award at the podium.  The white man stifles a chuckle, not because men in dresses are funny, but because he cannot imagine this scene back home in Saskatchewan.  Yet he knows that if The Culture of Inclusion is so entrenched in Toronto, Canada’s most important city, it will be mainstream in Saskatchewan in a few years.  When that happens, it will change how writers interact with funding agencies and with government.  It may mean preferential treatment for some.  It might mean the end of blind juries for arts grants. It may be more difficult for the white man to get the money he needs to write for a living.  Even though they are privileged, men like him will feel persecuted.  

The privilege-party must be crashed, and space must be cleared at the table.  Though painful, it is necessary.  The white man vows encourage everybody he can, privileged or not, during the process.  

That evening, the white man decides to walk to his lodgings instead of taking the subway.  His route takes him across Bay Street, through the throngs of Yonge street, and along the circus that is Bloor.  He absorbs Toronto, and sees every conceivable culture, class, flag, and self-identifying gender during his stroll.  He is a lone human amongst millions, but feels inclusion in the smiles he meets on the street.  He is in the right place.  

Let's Do Something

As a man of independent mind, it has been a hard lesson learned that it takes two, baby.

So let's do something. Yes, we may live in different places. Many things can be accomplished over the internet, by phone, or via weekend visits. It's a new year and I am mentally prepared to cooperate and collaborate.

But what should we do? The hell if I know. Let's talk about it. Surely we have complimentary skill sets. We'll seek others within our friend circles with similar interests. If we all work together, we can accomplish something spectacular. Or maybe not! Maybe we'll just play something. Or maybe form a club or circle?

Examples:
A writing group, an artistic collaboration, a band, a company, a book club, a secret society, a gaming circle, a roleplaying campaign, a short-story compilation, a video-game clan, a child-care coop, or simply a group of drinking-buddies.

Or perhaps you have your own ideas? Get in touch and we'll talk about it.

My Daughter's Eyes

As I drive home a new moon hangs unseen in the sky. The highway is dark, save for my feeble headlamps and distant farm lights twinkling in the blackness. Road noise and the voice of a victorious Prime Minister fill my cabin.

I cannot bear to listen anymore. I depress the power knob on my radio. Again I am alone. But not for long. My old companion, Despair, flits into the passenger seat.

There are many things that Despair could tell me. He could remind me that once again I backed the losing team. He could explain again how every time I dare to hope the universe punishes me. He could tell me I didn't do enough. But this time he shows me an image. He shows me my daughter's eyes.

Those round, staring blue-grey eyes watch and wonder. The lids crinkle when she smiles and bulge in surprise. They hide nothing and betray every emotion. So innocent, so unknowing.

Despair shows me those eyes aged and worn with hardship. He shows them narrow with cynicism. He shows them downcast and red-rimmed, weary with disappointment like her father's.

I see her fretting because she can't pay a medical bill. I see her exhausted, working two jobs. I see her begging. I see her huddled in a locked van with other terrified people, driven to a fate unguessed. I see her treading through unknown, barely-imagined burning landscapes where trees once grew.

Tonight her elders edged her toward one of those futures. They traded her health for lower taxes. They rewarded contempt for democracy. They chose to leave vast sandy expanses of waste and black tailings ponds for her generation to clean. They cared more about unregistered long guns than her. They sold her fate to Lockheed Martin. Tears blur the highway.

I wipe my eyes. Still Despair lurks next to me. There are two ways to banish him. I can battle him or I can ignore him.

If I choose to battle Despair, it will mean patience, vigilance and dedication. It will mean that I must lend my voice, my time and my life to prepare for the next campaign. I will speak, I will protest, I will write, I will persuade. And maybe, after voters see four years of the true, brutal agenda of these cynical opportunists they will hunger for change.

But I tire of yearning for change. Change will happen, regardless of my actions. Canada has survived worse debt and greater tyranny. Canada can wait for me in four years. If I ignore despair and live my life as a happy and free man, my daughter will see my example and learn the same. I love my family and joy lies in nurturing them, not righteous anger.

The decision of action versus inaction, yin versus yang, Confucius versus Tao weighs, but it can wait for tomorrow. Thirty-two kilometres away, my family slumbers in my soft bed. My daughter's eyes are relaxed in sleep. I want to embrace my wife and feel my baby's hand grip my finger. If peace and love cannot be found in government, at least I know they await me at home.

http://pharoahphobia.blogspot.com/

Review of "The Haunting of Hill House" by Shirley Jackson

"The Haunting of Hill House" is a novel by Shirley Jackson, published in 1959. It was adapted for film twice, in 1963 and 1999 under the name "The Haunting". It's been called a haunted house story. Right now I'm trying to think of a clever reason why it's not, but I'm drawing a blank. It's just different, okay???

The story follows what can only be called a neurotic loser, Eleanor Vance. Because her life is so lonely and friendless, she agrees to spend a summer in a reputedly haunted house. Dr. Montague, her host, has invited several people with experiences with the supernatural. Only Eleanor and a flakey beatnik named Theodora actually show. Also joining them is Luke, the future-owner of the house. Together, the four become fast friends and endure the ghostly tortures of the unhappy mansion in the name of science.

Here's what the book does very well: terror. (There's a difference between horror and terror. Terror is the dread that anticipates something scary happening while horror is the fright at the actual scary event.) The supernatural terrors of Hill House are not equalled in many books or movies. This terror is established in the book's opening paragraphs with the brilliant phrase, "...and whatever walked there, walked alone." When you identify with Eleanor, you feel acute dread at something invisible and malign looking for her. I recommend it as a how-to for other writers interested in terrorizing their audience. Remember, o ye horrorists, that the spook you describe is never as scary as the spook that an audience can imagine.

What makes this book different as well is the dialogue. The house's occupants speak in the style of sophisticated socialites. Eleanor, Theodora, Luke and the Doctor are all clearly intelligent and they are always playfulling razzing each other even in the midst of blackest terror. It adds a note of authenticity to the story that makes the moments of fear more surreal for the characters and more real for the audience.

Here's my only complaint with the book. Eleanor. She sucks. The story is told from her perspective and we are constantly offered insight into her deepest thoughts. She starts the story as a friendless milksop with an overactive imagination. From there she is robbed of her few admirable qualities by Hill House as she starts losing her marbles. By mid-novel, I found her constant neurotic inner monologue to be irritating rather than scary. I stopped caring about her as a character. By the end I was begging Hill House to put this poor slob out of her misery.

This is a lesson in character identification when you're trying to create your protagonist, you writers. When you're crafting a protagonist, you have to give them at least one admirable quality. This character has to be not only realistic and therefore easy to sympathize with, but the readers also need a reason WHY they would want to sympathize. This reason has to be a personality trait that makes him or her better than the other characters.

This personality trait doesn't even have to be that admirable. People like James Bond for some reason. Why? Because he's a way more effective spy than everybody else: he's an efficient killer and he always gets the girl. But if you really think about it, why would you ever want to know a guy like that? He's kind of a sociopath. Yet millions of people worldwide continue to identify with him.

In the case of Eleanor Vance, she starts the story lame, but you can see her vivid imagination and will to make her life better despite her past hardships. You want to like her. But then, her imagination is turned against her by the evil will of Hill House and her desire to change her life is subverted. With these qualities removed, Eleanor Vance is just a crazy-lady and it is very frustrating to be inside her head.

The Haunting of Hill House is a masterpiece in a way, but I cannot give it an extremely high recommendation because of problems with Eleanor. I still maintain that it is a must-read for anybody interested in horror because of the terrifying way that Jackson handles the spirits of Hill House. But because I was asking myself, "Why am I reading this?" near the end, it honestly breaks my heart to give it:
3 1/2 doors that shut on their own out of 5

By the way, I loved the 1963 movie adaptation of this book. For once. the movies did it right. The terror of the book is captured perfectly and the majority of Eleanor's insane inner-prattle is omitted. Go rent it!

http://pharoahphobia.blogpot.com/

I, Mister Stay-at-Home Dad

It has been a little over a week since my wife went back to work and I officially became Mister Stay-at-home Dad. This situation has produced several career challenges and family difficulties. However, the family's got to eat and Suzi and I have agreed that this is the best thing to do.

Firstly, I want to make it absolutely clear that this wasn't my first choice. Kara is nearly three months old and I think that she should be with her mom. I offered to go apply to shite-jobs in Rosetown many times so that I could be the manly provider and Suzi could be the stay-at-home mom. But she wouldn't let me do it. She believes in my talent as a writer and she thinks that I will be miserable at 7-11.

When she first told me this, I felt relief, flattered, fearful and distressed. But it makes sense. Her new job is well-paying. 7-11 isn't, and it's true that rejoining the workforce in an unskilled job would be a crushing blow to the old ego. Now I just have to succeed at my writing career and make her sacrifice - being separated from her little girl too soon - worthwhile.

So here I am with this little human in my lap. I have to balance her needs with Suzi's first and foremost. Then I have to somehow find time to write. I also have to find time to exercise, because damn, I'm getting bloated. I have to keep our house tolerably clean. And then I have to take care of myself somewhere in there too. I'm tired all the time because I rarely get a full night of sleep. I have no idea how I'm going to manage this.

Despite appearances and attitudes, I am no stranger to hard work. A mere six years ago, I worked as a production assistant on the movie "Just Friends". It was ten to fourteen hour days on my feet. It was physical work and it was frequently unbearably cold and thankless. But those two months were some of my happiest days. Every night when I laid my head on the pillow, I knew I had done a good job and slept easily.

So that's not much different from my present situation, right? Not exactly. The paycheque in my name was a real motivator. Also, I could be assured of a good night's sleep with Just Friends.

While I struggle and juggle tasks at home, Suzi pines for her baby and pumps her boobs to keep the milk flowing. She comes home more exhausted then I do. It will be interesting to see how our situation works. Will we get used to it? Or will something become intolerable enough that we have to change it?

Much depends on Kara. I look eagerly forward to her first time sleeping through the night. I will equally relish the day she picks up toys and stops relying on me to keep herself entertained.

This situation may not be ideal. Ideally, I'd be independently wealthy, nobody would have to take a nine-to-five job and we could both spend our days raising Kara. Or I'd be one of those hard-working guys with a well-paying job in a trade so I could be the big man. But I'm not either. All I have is a musical education, a difficult-to-realize dream of living as a writer and a baby in my lap.

Oh, and love. I love my generous and hardworking wife. I love my little, brilliant daughter. That is more than enough to sustain me as I navigate my new role in the world.

http://pharoahphobia.blogspot.com/

Legend-haunted Saskatchewan

I was once riding a bus from Saskatoon to Edmonton. In my lap was a book of short stories inspired by The Shadow Over Innsmouth, by H.P. Lovecraft. After reading a particularly good one, I stared out the window at the summertime fields, imagining the rotting seaport of Innsmouth with its shuffling denizens. I imagined Lovecraft's Massachusetts: an ancient land with malicious things lurking in lonely places, a land where civilization is clapboarded onto a wild landscape and unimaginable creatures writhe at its edges. Here's a nice one of Innsmouth taken from darkmartin.net.

It is a compelling setting, one which easily lends itself to horror. Other writers have their own horror settings. Stephen King has his Maine. The early horror writers had scores of tumble-down European castles, mansions and abbeys for their ghosts to populate, settings which are now old-hat. But what about my home province, Saskatchewan?

This I pondered as the scenery whizzed past. I tried to see why Saskatchewan was scary. I imagined dark things lurking under the trees, creatures hiding in the fields, strangers gone missing, unspeakable acts committed in anonymity amongst the farmhouses.

I couldn't. All I could see was beauty. Everything was pleasant, canola was blooming, pollen was in the air, the sky was blue and golden. Outside, I knew a warm wind was tickling the aspens and if you strolled one of the dusty grid roads, curious people would wave from their trucks as they drove past. This land is inherently friendly.

Since then, I've been on a mission to find the scary in my province and mostly been frustrated. The scary is minimal or hackneyed. Nobody needs another Indian-burial-ground-ghost or squeal-like-a-pig-hillbilly troubling their literature. There are no abandoned castles here.

So after several years, here's what I've come up with. Rather than explain it to you in rant form, I'll use flash fiction. In no particular order, this is why Saskatchwan is scary:

1.
The orange farm light in the distance didn't seem to be getting any bigger. Daniel trudged along the bleak road. No moon lit his way, but the snow reflected cold starlight. The stars blazed innummerable and white above him. Cold wind blasted from them and stole his breath.

Daniel turned to shelter his bare face from the gust. The wind rattled the leafless poplars at the roadside and hissed in the snow. It leaked through his parka and chilled his legs under his jeans. He found his breath and stared to the indescernable horizon. He could no longer see his Toyota.

The wind passed over the wood and vanished onto the prairie, leaving figid silence. It blew still, but in a deadly whisper. The snow scrunched under his boots. In the dark, where his car should be, something black on the road moved.

He shut his eyes and spun back toward the farm light. He shielded his face, muttering, "I didn't see anything." But when he heard the echo of his snowy boots from the woods, the trees resounded another set of footfalls.
---
2.
The old wood creaked under Greta's step as her eyes adjusted. She was on a dance floor speckled with mouse droppings. An old stage loomed before her. Light spilling through broken panes revealed a pile of wheat husks at the far end of the hall where some farmer had stored grain. A podium was toppled against a dusty upright piano.

Here, decades ago, her great grandfather had tuned his violin. Her grandmother sat at the piano and her great aunt strummed a guitar in one of these overturned chairs. Where she stood, a vanished community had waltzed and jigged. It was a place of warmth and laughter.

The hall was not warm now. It was damp and musty. The only music was sung by distant meadow larks.

The roof creaked and settled in the prairie breeze. Greta rubbed her bare arms, flattening goose pimples. She felt like an intruder. She wanted to leave, but did not.

Instead, curiosity drew her to the piano. She lifted the lid from the keys. Real ivory shone in the dim. With a thumb, she played middle C. Her eyes widened. The note was in tune. Her fingers traced the first melody that came to mind, "The Blue Danube", each note well-tempered. She stopped when she felt something clammy clap on her shoulder.

A hollow voice asked, "Would you like to dance?"
---
3.
It wanders into town at night. When I first saw it in my headlights, I thought it was a bear. But giant eyes, round as the full moon, reflected back at me. It shuffled into the ditch and vanished into the endless forest.

When I see it, it makes no sound. It travels from house to house, wanders the landfill, opens sheds and outhouses and just looks. It rummages through piles of trash by the road to the airport and watches children on the playground swing set if they stay after dark.

It haunts certain people the most. It follows Wendy Bear every night, loping just beyond her vision as she staggers home from the hotel, drunk. It peeps in the Delorme's trailer window and watches Norman beat his wife. When I found that baby skeleton lying in the woods, it was crouched on a mound of moss in a nearby strand of jackpine.

I don't know if anybody else can see it. If they can, they don't tell anybody. Nobody tells anybody anything here. They just live with it.

I would leave town if I could, but I don't have the money. I never will. And every night as I light my glass pipe in the dark, I see the lighter's flame shining in its round eyes as it stares through my window.
---
That's what I've come up with. I'm sure this is not an exhaustive list. Dear readers, what do you find scary about Saskatchewan? I invite you to share. Relate a tale, post some flash fiction, or give me a mini-essay. Leave it in a comment, e-mail me or Facebook me. If I get at least three responses, I'll make a separate post and publish it here. Fire up your creative brains and let's hear it. Hokay? Hokay.

http://pharoahphobia.blogspot.com

Screenplay Breakthrough at Last!

I was planning on writing a post entitled "The Crime Against Robot Jox", about how the script for the film Robot Jox is actually pretty good once you remove the influence of director Stuart Gordon. However, I find that I am actually unable to do my research and unwilling to write. For once, my urge to write my screenplay is overpowering!

I have finished the beat-by-beat outline and I am in the extremely fun stage of actually writing in screenplay format. I am satisfied with the story and all that remains is to fill in the details that I've been longing to write. It is very freeing to be able to just write by my own guideline and know that everything is going to be okay, all the big story problems are already solved and nothing is going to confound me until I finish.

It's set in my Necromantic States of America universe in the year 1992, about a necromancer's sheltered daughter who is kidnapped by rebels and begins to learn the truth about her world. I'm looking forward to seeing what exactly it looks like when I'm finished this stage.

Gotta go. Writing now.

http://pharoahphobia.blogspot.com/

Watchmen: The Graphic Novel, the Movie and Adaptation

When Watchmen was released in 1986 it changed comic books forever. At the time, comics were viewed as a children's medium. Watchmen is for adults. Written by Alan Moore and drawn by Dave Gibbons, it is introspective and intelligent. It made the industry and audiences take notice. Post-Watchmen, the terms “graphic novel” and “sequential art” came into common use.

For many years DC comics had been searching for the right director, the right screenplay and the right concept to make Watchmen into a movie. As the 20-oughts came to a close they found their director: Zack Snyder, who had previously directed an adaptation of another graphic novel, 300. In 300, Snyder framed and filmed shots to recreate still images from the comic, so great was is zeal for faithfulness.

When Watchmen was released in 2009, similar attention to detail and love was paid to each frame. It can rightly be called a faithful adaptation. Yet it is still different. Certain elements of Watchmen the comic book were impossible to translate to the screen and others were ignored. New ideas and images were added.

With this post I will examine the differences between the two Watchmen media as far as plot, structure and backstory are concerned. Cosmetic differences will be ignored. Screenwriters and storytellers, pay attention! This post is specifically for you! With these insights, perhaps we can gain some understanding of how a graphic novel ought or ought not to be adapted to the screen.

Author's note: This post is not for people who have seen neither the movie nor read the graphic novel as it is rife with ***SPOILERS*** The insights listed here are only based on outsider's observations and may not represent the actual views of the creators. In other words, it could all be total bullshit. I guess you'll just have to take that chance. Read on.


The Tales of the Black Freighter sequences which punctuate the graphic novel are absent. In the comic, a young black kid reads Tales of the Black Freighter comics while a nearby white news vendor chatters about world events and his views thereon. Their two worlds are disjointed: the kid reads his dark pirate comic, the narration balloons and panels of which are interspersed with events in real life. He seems to pay no heed to the babbling news vendor.

The Black Freighter comic itself is a reflection of the views of many of the Watchmen's characters: that the world is a dark, unhappy joke. A sailor travels through a hellish ocean with corpses as his raft to save his family from the pirate ship that slaughtered his crew, only to beat his wife and commit murder in his resulting madness. “How had I reached this appalling position, with love, only love, as my guide?” laments the narrator.

Finally, as the kid's comic ends in tragedy, the news vendor himself laments upon how unconnected are his fellow humans and asks the kid what he's doing there. The kid says he has no place better to be. When Ozymandias' disaster descends upon New York, the news vendor and the kid clutch each other in terror, their last fearful embrace becoming the connection they lacked in life.

The mood, if not the message of the Black Freighter infects Watchmen, but was neglected for the film. The reasons why are obvious. The sequences, as important as they are, do not advance the main plot, nor do they serve as backstory. Most adaptation requires cutting and editing in pre-and-post production, and it makes sense that The Black Freighter had to go. The comic reader and the news vendor are there at the end, getting blown-up, but that is as much homage to the Black Freighter as could be spared. Zack Snyder must have found this omission painful because he lent his talents to the production of The Black Freighter as a separate entity from his Watchmen movie. A link can be found to the animated short here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kdVDztzynjU

Next, Watchmen contains several sections which were originally included at the end of issues which are newspaper clippings, Rorschach's psych profile, and quotes from “Under the Hood”, a book by the original Nite Owl, amongst others. These sections serve as valuable backstory in the comic book, exposing the events and intentions of the costumed heroes of days past.

Film is a visual medium, but it ain't that kinda visual. Showing too many words onscreen would be death by boredom and showing all that backstory would make for a nine-hour movie. Instead, the Watchmen movie attempts to convey to the audience as much meaning and backstory as possible through imagery, particularly in the opening credits. It is a poor substitute for the sheer amount of information in the graphic novel, but it is the best that film can do without boring the audience.

Also serving little plot in the graphic novel are the sequences that take place in the New Frontiersman's newsroom. Once again, while serving as flavour for the universe of Watchmen, little happens there. The only event of note to the main plot is the discovery of Rorschach's journal in the crank file at the end. This event, and this New Frontiersman event only, is shown in the film.

What was changed in the film? And what was new material? Watchmen the movie was a labour of love for its crew. They could not resist adding their own touches to the final canvas.

The Watchmen film includes many more aspects of life in this alternate 80's than the comic. For one thing, there is far more President Richard Nixon. Where Nixon has two scenes in the comic, he and his distracting false nose have at least four in the movie.

The film also contains more 80's nostalgia. At the beginning, the Comedian watches the McLaughlin Group on television, for instance. Interestingly, 80's nostalgia wins over the comic's backstory in some cases, such as the automobiles. In the comic, Dr. Manhattan has allowed for the mass production of electric cars and airships by his ability to create lithium in vast amounts. In the movie, while airships are seen flying about, the automobiles appear to be standard gas-powered models available in the 80s.

One of the most noticeable additions is the amount of violence. It has been over twenty years since the publication of Watchmen. At the time, comic books were criticized for the amount of violence therein. However, since then, the action-loving public has developed a bloodlust that is difficult to slake. The bloody 90's have made their mark on film. As a result, Watchmen the film is filled with gore and fighting, not that the comic lacks, but just more of it.

Examples? The Comedian's death is protracted and involves the flinging of knives and a smashed hand. Instead of being escorted off government property, the Silk Spectre II instead attacks a government agent, slams his head into a sink and escapes. The assassination attempt on Adrian Veidt in the comic results in the shooting in the chest of Veidt's secretary. In the film, while she doesn't die, she does get shot through the leg and loses two fingers, while an old plutocrat is shot in the chest and head. When Roschach is framed for the murder of Moloch and jumps out a second-story window to escape, instead of landing painfully on some garbage cans and being quickly subdued by police, he rolls and keeps fighting, landing eleven ninja-like blows before he is pacified.

Another way in which the movie is “amped-up” is that time is truncated. While the motif of a ticking clock is powerful in the graphic novel, the clock is ticking faster in the movie. The novel contains a scene where Richard Nixon discusses the escalating nuclear threat with his advisors. The scene ends with Nixon saying, “I think we'll give it a week, gentlemen, before bringing out our big guns. After that, humanity is in the hands of a higher authority than mine. Let's just hope he's on our side.” In the film, Nixon delivers the same speech, but says, “Dr. Manhattan has two days. After that, humanity is in the hands of a higher authority than mine. Let's just hope he's on our side.” In theory, the film's creators hoped to add more tension to the story by making time even shorter.

I leave the biggest change for last: the nature of Ozymandias' plot to prevent nuclear catastrophe. The novel's story has him kidnapping intellectuals and genetically engineering a monstrosity. This monstrosity is huge and has the cloned brain of a powerful psychic. Using teleportation technology imperfectly crafted from Dr. Manhattan, Ozymandias transports the creature into the middle of New York, where the teleportation process kills it. In its death throes, it lashes out psychically, killing millions. Amongst the images it telegraphs into people's brains are hints of an alternate dimension. Believing that the world is under inter-dimensional attack, the forces of earth unite to stop a common foe.

Ozymandias' plot differs in the film. There, he uses Dr. Manhattan's power to create what the world believes is a limitless energy source. Instead, he uses its power to launch terrorist attacks in metropoli around the world. The attacks bear Dr. Manhattan's energy signature, and the world, believing he is responsible, unites against him.

What could possibly be the reason for changing the nature of Ozymandias's plot? I have two theories, both of which could be true. The first is that the film's plot is simpler. The comic's plot requires a lot of explanation and, frankly, it would confuse a lot of moviegoers. Film once again earns its reputation for dumbing-down the plot.

But, secondly, the film's plot is slightly more compelling than the comic's. When Dr. Manhattan realizes that Ozymandias has killed millions to save billions, he must not only accept the greater good, but he also must overlook the fact that he is being demonized by a deluded world. The fact that he doesn't care about being the world's boogeyman is very revealing of his character. This revelation about his character, while it is based on events which don't happen in the original story, is true to the novel.

O ye screenwriters and storytellers who have stayed with me to the end of this post, what have we learned about adaptation? If you know anything about writing Hollywood movies, probably nothing you didn't already learn elsewhere. When you go to adapt a novel, graphic or otherwise, for the big screen, keep these guidelines in mind:

1. Eliminate plot threads that don't influence your main characters.
2. Don't bore your audience with too much exposition.
3. If you are writing something historical from the living past, play on nostalgia.
4. Add more violence.
5. Add a ticking clock. If there already is a ticking clock, set it forward.
6. Make it simpler.
7. You can always make your characters more involved in the plot.

Does that sound formulaic? Maybe cynical? Maybe like it's capable of destroying great works of literature by turning them into screen-trash? There's some merit in those criticisms.

I believe in good writing, not necessarily Hollywood writing. The Watchmen graphic novel is sublime. It's film adaptation is one of the more faithful that I've seen, and it's very entertaining. But it didn't move me. I am truly at a loss to describe why. I don't think it's because it became more Hollywood-ized, either. As often happens with adaptations, something was lost in the medium transfer.

However, if you do your job as a writer well, changing the medium of a story from page to screen can make a masterpiece. It was watching The Fellowship of the Ring that inspired me to become a writer. The Lord of the Rings, Pride and Prejudice (the 1995 version), Master and Commander and Rosemary's Baby are among my favourite screen productions. Some productions, like the Sharpe series, are actually better on screen than the page. When I read anything I am always adapting it for screen in my mind and considering what scenes will work and which won't. Adaptation can be very rewarding for audiences and lead them to reading the original source material. That's a good thing. If some dude decides to read Watchmen because he saw some lady's fingers getting blown off, I'd say the movie has achieved a noble goal.

http://pharoahphobia.blogspot.com/

The Moral Responsibilities of Storytelling

I once had a fascinating discussion with a friend. We were talking about the effect of movies and television upon society. His point was that modern entertainment has an evil effect. People see evil things acted out upon their screens and imitate them. He believed there was a case for the viewpoint that the images we see in our entertainment need to be controlled for the good of society. I asked him if he was playing devil's advocate and he insisted he wasn't. It was a conversation that haunted me for years afterward.

This idea returned while I was reading An Arsonist's Guide to Writer's Homes in New England. In it, a judge considers the idea of good stories and morality. He asks, if a story compels somebody to do something terrible, can it be said to be a "good" story? Is it to be tolerated or legislated? Entertainment as societal evil is an idea rampant in our society. The effect of entertainment, especially the young, has been under media scrutiny at least since the 80's, when parents of suicidal teens claimed that heavy metal music was responsible for their children's deaths. It returned with renewed force ten years ago when violent video games like Doom were proclaimed to be partially responsible for the actions of Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold when they murdered twelve students and each other at Columbine High School in 1999.

But the question is older than the 1980s, older than television and radio. It is present wherever stories are told. Consider the case of Swift Runner, a plains cree who succumbed to Wendigo psychosis in the winter of 1878. He butchered his family, hung their corpses from trees and ate them. Before he was executed, he claimed he was a Witiko. The legend of Witiko (Wendigo or Windigo), the evil spirit who possesses humans and makes them cannibals, was a part of his upbringing. If he had never heard the stories of Witiko, surely Swift Runner would never have killed and eaten his family.

Arguments are always strengthened by science, of course. What does science have to say? Much of the data are contradictory, but many studies, such as this one indicate that seeing fictional depictions of suicides on screen results in a significant jump in real-world suicides through imitation. There are many other scientific examples and many other evils.

This is what disturbed me about the conversation I had with my friend. Here I was, pursuing a career as a storyteller, whether on screen or the written page, and suddenly I was burdened with a new responsibility. Something that I lovingly craft for the enjoyment of others could result in violence, a murder or suicide. If something I wrote inspired even one murder anywhere in the world, how could I live with that? I tried to justify my career by merely ignoring the problem and denying what I had heard, but it didn't work. It made me sick and not want to write anymore. Either that or commit myself to writing stories about pixies leaping from toadstool to toadstool, drinking snapdragon nectar and being friends with each other.

If you too are a storyteller, take heart. Here's how I felt better about myself. As I pondered the morality of storytelling, I remembered that the interpretation of art is done by its audience. If a story has unforseen negative societal consequences, surely it must have unforseen positive consequences as well. For every teen who commits suicide because he imitated a fictional depiction, how many people who saw the same depiction were pushed from the brink of suicide by what they saw or were inspired to commit some act of kindness that saved somebody's life? For every evil your story inflicts upon the world, it is surely balanced by strengthening of spirits and kindly acts that the media rarely report upon.

Is this merely fanciful rationalization to make me feel better about myself? At its emotional core, yes. But check out this study, which shows the effect of fictional suicides on non-suicidal people. It shows a short-term increase in depression and tension, followed by a lasting increase in self-esteem and happiness. The rate of suicide also drops. Good enough for me.

Further, I believe the people who imitate the violence in stories are troubled individuals before they are inspired. They are primed explosives and any event or story may inspire them to violence. I believe that if Eric Harris, Dylan Kelbold and Swift Runner only had stories of merry pixies hopping about on toadstools to entertain them, they would probably have murdered people by drowning them in snapdragon nectar.

But this is not to say that I, as a storyteller, do not have a moral responsibility to society. While I cannot be held responsible for the ways in which my art is interpreted by individuals, there is still the matter of my intent. Every story or object d'arte should have a message or a moral. When I create, I always have a message in mind. I hide the moral so as not to be preachy, but it's there. It is my responsibily to live with the consequences of THOSE morals. If I craft a story that I feel advocates teen suicide when confronted with parental control, I must be prepared to deal with suicides that result. In this case, I'm not prepared, so I would never write that story.

And, as an artist, it is never too late to disavow an interpretation or even the moral of your own story if you change your mind. For instance, Radiohead reportedly became alarmed when they performed their song "Prove Yourself" and heard their teenage audience singing the lyric, "I'm better off dead". It was removed from their concert playlist.

What about artists who advocate evil stuff? If a storyteller purposefully embeds a violent message within a tale which inspires acts of brutality, should the storyteller be held legally responsible? Is it even possible?

It would be disastrous. There are few ways for the legal system to discern harmful intent from an unintended interpretation. It would require mind-reading and thought-policing. It's a recipe for witch-hunts and the punishment of innocent artists. It's best for the legal system to make the perpetrators of evil acts responsible for their actions and leave their artistic inspirations out of the equation. For now artists who advocate violence, rape and suicide are safe from the legal system. But that doesn't mean they're safe from their own consciences. If they have no consciences, that still leaves them vulnerable to societal criticism and WalMart and Blockbuster pulling their products off the shelves. I'm okay with that.

Lastly, there is a final aspect of the morality of storytelling to consider. I have often heard a criticism of modern entertainment which equates it with tranquilizer. It is usually levelled at television, film and video games. It goes something like this: modern entertainment keeps people at home, glued to their sets, forgetting about problems in the world, instead involving them in fictional conflicts. People forget about real problems facing the world, which allows the military-industrial complex, which controls the entertainment industry, to continue carrying out their corrupt political outrages worldwide.

Should this be a moral concern for storytellers? Bah, I say. Do people who argue this idea believe that if every single monitor, television and movie screen on earth vanished, the population would morph into brooding revolutionaries and democracy would be restored? If television disappeared, we would soon be hearing about how books are keeping people in the home, tranquilized. The vanishing of books would not work either: we would soon be hearing about sell-out corporate storytellers seducing us by the campfire.

Storytelling is escapism. But it is not forced upon us by fatcats. As humans we seek stories because we love them. Maybe we need them. They are a part of human evolution and have been with us before the written word, shaping our worldview for tens of thousands of years. Yes, it sometimes inspires madmen to murder and the depressed to kill themselves. But it also has spread knowledge, morals and happiness throughout the world. It has inspired countless selfless and kindly acts. It is one of humanity's most complicated and wonderful creations.

So follow your passion without moral hesitation, you creators. To entertain is truly noble.

http://pharoahphobia.blogspot.com/

Vanishing

Zoey wants to explore ruins. Sort of. My twelve-year-old niece mentioned it in passing as something we could do while she's visiting us in Harris. She thinks it would be creepy, and therefore fun. I'm not entirely sure that she was serious when we discussed it, but I was. I know that a ghost town called Valley Centre is located on Highway 768, so on the sunny Saturday before she is scheduled to leave Harris, Zoey dons proper exploring shoes and an embarassing shirt of mine that we don't mind getting dirty. We leash the dog, board the Mazda and drive the gravel highway looking for someplace "creepy".

The old Hillview schoolhouse is locked and, despite Zoey's urging, I am unwilling to force the door. We peer inside basement windows at a plastic Christmas tree and octopus boiler, then decide to move on. Set against the golden hills in the distance is a brown grain elevator. I am reasonably certain from my memory of Google Maps that Valley Centre is located on 768, but the distant elevator is north of the highway. Then again, Google Maps also thinks there is an Indian Reserve to the east of Harris and the Stonebridge neighborhood in Saskatoon is called "Stonerideg". We decide to check it out.

It is not Valley Centre. According to the faded paint on the elevator, it is Bents. I stop the car on the hill to prevent the undercarriage getting scraped by weeds on the disused track into town. To our right is an abandoned house with smashed windows and flaking white and red paint, beyond that is a cluster of wooden buildings greying with age. To our left is the elevator.

"Oh my god," says Zoey. I feel the same way. I had expected to explore some toppling farmhouse with outbuildings filled with old paint. This find is scarcely believable. Such places exist.


We decide to avoid the nearest house because it looks the most recently-occupied and for some reason I find this unnerving. We follow the track to what was obviously once the general store. We tell the dog to sit and stay outside the door. I enter first, partly because I have no idea how stable the structure is, partly because Zoey is skittish.



For an abandoned ruin, this store is surprisingly sound. It is dark inside but light leaks through broken panes. Where on tracks more beaten an old building like this would be thoroughly ransacked and looted by boozing teenagers and people like myself and Zoey, the Bents general store is surprisingly intact. Stock still sits on the shelves, including a display of women's shoes. Old appliances and cabinets lie open everywhere. In places the floor is plastered with ancient paper and piles of swallow shit.


A counter with a porthole in the wall separates the general store from what looks like a post office in a rear room. Tiny cubby holes are labelled "McNaughton", "Wylie" and other local family names. Here the layer of paper on the floor is thicker. Zoey discovers a pamphlet promoting John Diefenbaker's Conservative government from 1962. I smile to myself as we sift the papers and discover personal documents from the late fifties and early sixties. Confidentiality was apparently not a huge issue when this office was abandoned.


The dog is now whining and circling the building. Before we leave, Zoey searches the women's shoes to find a pair that match as a trophy. By now, any fear she felt in exploring this place has vanished. So has her search for identity: the need to prove herself as a good person, a bad person, or a pretty girl. In this desolate yet beautiful place, I am also seeing Zoey for the first time. She is adventurous and free-thinking and I am secretly pleased.

We stash a load of loot at the car and then head toward the first house we saw. Hundreds of swallows wheel around the old TV antenna. Inside are drooping light fixtures, swallow nests, wood panelling, a used bar of soap and signs for an auction sale.



Judging from the No-Name shopping bags lying on the bathroom floor, this house was abandoned in the late eighties or early nineties. The whole town of Bents must have been auctioned off in this way. The last resident of Bents, probably an octogenarian, lived in this house on the edge of this rotting town, watching it collapse. At last concerned family members or death pried them from this home and their life was auctioned for a pittance. If ghosts exist, one surely stares from the windows of this home, watching the remains of Bents slowly vanish beneath the grass.

The next house we explore is in worse shape. In the living room a rusty pram is sinking into the floor. Zoey and I have found the creepiest thing we will see today. As we are leaving, we discuss why it was so creepy. I tell her, "Icons of youth in the midst of death are always creepier than just death." She agrees.


Zoey can't help posing every time she sees me readying the camera. I try to secretly photograph her without much success as we search the grain elevator. The elevator shelters an enormous scale, old machinery for scooping wheat and rotting bowls full of screws and nails.


A sturdy-looking ladder leads to an upper floor. Zoey wants to climb it. I forbid her to do so. When she asks why, I tell her it's because I don't know anything about architecture and I wouldn't want to be the one to tell her dad that she was crushed when a grain elevator collapsed on her. She says, "So, if I was your kid you wouldn't have a problem with it?" I confirm.

Outside the elevator is a graveyard for farm machinery. As Zoey and the dog clamber around in it she speculates on the function of various contraptions. She believes that the tractor she is sitting on might still run. "Alright," I say, not wanting to shatter any fantasies. Zoey's mind is open and imagining possibilities in this place and I don't want to spoil it. Just by being here she's discovering volumes about the lives of long-dead Saskatchewan and I don't even have to say anything. I am proud of her again and keep my thoughts to myself.

As evening approaches the sky turns radiant and high clouds paint strange patterns in the eerie blue. It occurs to me that this moment is of such shocking reality and beauty that it is to be treasured forever. In my adulthood, I can recognize these moments as they happen, but when I was a child I had no idea. Now I have only scattered memories and regrets that I didn't pay more attention. I hope that Zoey will remember this moment as I will.


On our way back to the car, Zoey wants to get a picture of herself riding on a rusty swing set. It's awkward but she manages to take a seat and pose. The symbol is painful. There she is, a girl poised on the edge of maturity, the toys of childhood becoming uncomfortable, her youth vanishing as surely as Bents is vanishing. In twenty years she will be a freethinking woman and Bents will be but piles of windblown, grassy timber and iron.

All things must change and have their beauty. But for now my niece, this town and the prairie that surrounds us are perfect. I thank God that I remembered to bring the camera to capture them as they were in this moment.


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The Necromantic States of America

The last couple of years I have been working on a speculative alternate reality which it occurs to me I have not yet discussed here. It has been called, until recently, "A History of Southron Necromancy" but I am now thinking of as "The Necromantic States of America". It seems to be very important to mention it now because one of my short stories which is set in this universe is going to be published soon.

It all started one day when I was watching the news. I don't even remember what it was that I saw, but it once again started me fuming about the American South. My brothers and sisters, that place is seriously fucked. It's a land of delusion where fools command millions and ignorance is worshipped. It's a place where Christian values have been warped into a cult of greed and intolerance. I thought to myself, could The South get any more insane? At that moment I began to concieve of a way that it could.

I've had a soft spot for the American Civil War since I was a teenager. It is natural that my point of historical divergence should begin there. When I was a lad, I had a fascination with plucky underdogs so my sympathies lay with the Confederacy. I subscribed to the romantic view of The South as a land of free men invaded by a bully-nation of bankers and factory drudges, defending their homes and loved ones with chivalry and honor. I made the common mistake of believing that every Southerner was like Robert E. Lee. After a bit of historical research later in life I realized, "Holy shit. Those guys were a bunch of assholes!"

Side note: I sure am talking a lot of shit about the South, aren't I? Apologies. I could defend my viewpoint eloquently if I wished to explain my harsh words, but this post is not supposed to be about the history of Antebellum America. If you are filled with righteous zeal by my angry words, I would ask that you do a little rudimentary historical research on the years 1849-1860 and you'll see that the South had it fucking coming. Screw you Jeff Davis, Roger Taney, William Walker, Franklin Pierce, Millard Fillmore, Edmund Ruffin and John C. Calhoun!

Anyway, my history is an examination of what would have happened if the decadent slave-economy of the South had survived the Civil War. The immediate problem with such an idea is that slavery collapsed for a reason: it sucked compared to free-market capitalism. It gave great wealth to slaveholders and left poor Southerners poor. I believe the subjugation of America's blacks could never have survived into the 20th Century, that it would lead to widespread rioting and slave revolts and perhaps foreign invasion. Mechanization in the North was already beginning to outproduce slave labour by the start of the war.

The only way the slave economy could survive is if slaves were better, ie. they were cheaper, worked harder and had no will. Let's see here, what does that remind me of? ZOMBIES, THAT'S WHAT!

In 1860, an Oxford-educated and enlightened slaveholder from Mississippi named Bernard Welles begins a series of conversations with his slave Abigail. Abigail has been in the family for two generations, originally imported from Saint-Domingue. From Abigail, Welles begins to learn about African religion and Voudon, including the craft of raising the dead. After his plantation is sacked by Union marauders, he calls upon his educated friends the world over and forms the Initiates of Anubis, a society dedicated to saving the South from the invading Yankees and using the new art of necromancy to destroy the evil of slavery. After the war, necromancy becomes a state institution, indespensible in manufacturing, agriculture, the military and the home.

I rarely do anything unless I am burning with some sort of passion. For this project it is anger. I see the hypocrisy of so many Christians living in the South and other rural areas of North America. The Bible is very clear on certain matters: Thou Shalt not Kill, for instance. "It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God", sez Jesus, for another. Jesus wanted you to give up your worldly possessions and live the pure, non-violent life of an ascetic. Period.

Yet our world is crowded with pious Christians who believe that making money is a holy duty, who believe criminals ought to be killed and that God needs to be defended by taking the lives of unbelievers in other countries. There are millions of them out there right now, deluded fools who believe that attending church = heaven, that God is rewarding them with material wealth. Why? Because that's how their parents and grandparents lived.

The Southron gentleman of the Confederate States of America in 1990 lives on his plantation with his extended family and household of undead servants. His most recent servant, Natalya, trained as a housekeeper, is prized because she is white. She died in Russia and was smuggled to the Confederacy aboard a freighter on ice. Reanimated dead work his fields. The gentleman's son drives to the city every day in a pickup truck, which is built by zombies, to learn necromancy at the Society of the Black Roses. The Society is housed in a building near the airport, seaport and manufacturing zone which is surrounded by fortifications and undead soldiers to keep unemployed ruffians and revolutionaries out. Every Sunday the gentleman attends church, where the pastor reminds him that King David was a sorcerer and Jesus raised his friend Lazarus from the dead. After church he puts on a polo shirt and his extended family gathers in the compound for a barbeque. There he earnestly thanks Jesus for his bounty and they all chow down, secure in the knowledge that the Pearly Gates await them. This is his old-time religion and no power on earth can convince him otherwise. This, despite the fact that any citizen in any other country on earth recognizes that he is an unholy demon-blight upon the world who, according to his own religion, is going to hell.

Okay, I have to stop now. I just deleted a paragraph of angry jackassery about how much I loathe hypocritical Christians. Nobody needs to read that. Anyway, you get the idea, I'm sure. That is merely the inspiration behind the universe I've created. Each story deals with a different issue, particular point in Southron history or aspect of the effect of necromancy upon the world.

The publication of "Rosie's Knife" is an important first step in my writing career. If I can publish more short stories, the chances of releasing them in an anthology later is increased. What's more, my latest screenplay also occurs in The Confederate States of America in 1991. If I can create sufficient buzz around the universe, the screenplay stands a significantly greater chance of being noticed.

So brace yourselves, readers. The History of Southron Necromancy will unfold before you. (insert rebel yell here)

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