Eehh! Caught ya! It’s actually free books, three of them, to be exact. I’m giving away signed copies of The Ship to Look for God trilogy. Now through 14 Dec, go here, fill out the contact form, and pray for victory.
Giveaway rules are here.
Eehh! Caught ya! It’s actually free books, three of them, to be exact. I’m giving away signed copies of The Ship to Look for God trilogy. Now through 14 Dec, go here, fill out the contact form, and pray for victory.
Giveaway rules are here.
Not in the Darth Vader/Luke Skywalker sense; more in the Max Perkins/Thomas Wolfe one. (Now THERE’s a literary reference that’s going to cause a Google scramble!). If anyone fired up my imagination and urge to write stories, it was Stan the Man. And Ray Bradbury. And Alexander Key. And Sheila Moon.
But I digress.
Because, back then, those halcyon 60’s, Stan Lee fired up my geek/nerd/dweeb/spaz imagination as I raced down the street to Carl’s Drug Store with my allowance in hand to snatch up his creations: the first Fantastic Four, the first X-Men, the first Ghost Rider
(the real Ghost Rider, not the later scary one. Which I also bought). I was in the Merry Marvel Marching Society and uttered “Nuff Said!” and “True Believer!” and ”Excelsior!” in every other sentence. I read Stan Lee’s Soapbox religiously, as well as the letters, and knew who John Romita and Jack “King” Kirby
and the hapless Artie Simek (they always insulted the letterer in the credits box) were. But Stan was the king, the conductor, the guy running the show and keeping that unruly Marvel Bullpen in good-natured line so we FOOMs could get a new adventure every month. Or so. Or three.
I learned to read with those comics. Piles of them, from Rawhide Kid to Iron Man, on the back porch of my best friend’s house as we poured through them over and over with me going, “What’s that word? What’s this word?” and him patiently teaching because he was in fourth grade and I was in first. By the end of second grade I was reading at a fifth grade level. By the end of third, I was trying to write stories. I’m still trying.
All because of you, Stan.
Take a look (hint hint hint) at Frank Vaughn Killed by his Mom to see how important Marvel was to 60s kid-dom. Me and about a million other pointy-heads were obsessed with X-Men and the Avengers and Sergeant Fury up till we were about fifteen years old, then it was Shang-chi and Iron Fist and Daredevil and scary Ghost Rider
and the other lower level heroes as the galactic fell to the mundane. And then the mundane fell to the daily struggle and we didn’t buy comics anymore; we bought furniture. Then we had children and introduced them to Grampaw Stan, a re-introduction and renewal and there we were again, buying graphic novels of the stories we’d missed like Civil War and Secret Wars and Frank Miller’s Daredevil and then the movies, the marvelous movies. My childhood came back, in Dolby.
And there Stan still was, still conducting, still running things…well, maybe not so much. What Stan did to Jack and how he let Jim Shooter cudgel Marvel into pudding and his growing distance from the universe he’d created, well, this is what time does.
But that’s okay. It’s okay, Stan. You birthed a nation. There are hordes of aging Boomers with gravel in the expanding gut and spit in the cataracted eye who fondly remember, who soar the universe on silver surfboards and walk the streets of Asgard and swing from building to building on webs and rope canes. Rest easy, Dad.
They gave the Fist to Colleen Wing.
Are you kidding me?
Now, before you leap on your feminist high horse and give me all that I-am-woman-hear-me-Kiaa crap, understand that it’s not grrl power or anything like that which sparks my incredulity. It is the baffling lack of logic behind what was obviously a pandering, politically correct move. What baffling lack of logic, you inquire? Well, like, say, what is the reason or purpose for K’unlun? I mean, if all you need is some old Fist blood and a brand new tattoo, then why the deuce do you have to spend your entire life training to fight a dragon?
Danny Rand got rooked. Danny Rand should ask for his life back.
Other considerations, like, why didn’t Davos think of this earlier? Why didn’t his Mom? How in the blue blazing hell does a former member of the Hand end up with the Fist? And what the heck is that last sequence with Fist Bullets?
This is not Iron Fist. It’s not even a reasonable facsimile. I think the closest the writers ever came to it was glancing at an Iron Fist comic book cover on a newsstand as they were driving by. I actually started rooting for Davos. At least he understood what the Fist was for.
which is why I upgraded it from Jell-o to Pudding. But it was still nonsensical. Colleen is a good basic-level sword instructor but a martial arts master? No. Not even close. A guy who spent twenty years practicing mystic martial artists and fighting a dragon is, however, and certainly doesn’t need some iffy samurai showing him how to fight. And a Japanese girl and a white boy telling the Tongs they must give up their centuries’ old traditions? Well, why don’t you invade Manchuria and machine gun the Boxers while you’re at it?
Other upsides: Typhoid Mary as the female Punisher and Misty Knight coming into her own, although her cyborg arm should be far more badass than it is. I would love to see Misty in her own series…own. With Colleen and Jessica Jones. That would be badass. How ’bout a team-up between Typhoid and Punisher? Oh, man. Get the popcorn.
But there aren’t enough upsides to save the show and it looks like Netflix has figured that out and thrown in the towel. Good. Iron Fist is one of my favorite Marvel characters and what they did to him was criminal.
Matt Murdock should sue them.
I went to Capclave 2018 instead of Lost Weekend 10 because the two conflicted. And because I can’t hang. At least at Capclave I can go to sleep at a reasonable time and wake at a reasonable time and take breaks and eat and do all the things that a 30-movie 4-day marathon exclude. Yes, getting soft in my old age.
I showed up around 3 on Friday, Sep 28th, about an hour before the first seminars kicked in and threw my stuff in the hotel room. Nice place. Then to it. The first thing I did was jump into a game of Valeria: Card Kingdoms,
which I had never heard of but is now definitely on my list of games to get. It was fun and I think I was on my way to winning but had to move on to the seminars:
This turned out to be the best panel I attended the entire convention because it was free-wheeling and fun and it was more like a big discussion at a party than a lecture panel. Near Future scifi is the term replacing “mundane scifi,” I guess, because it deals with things as they are now, just taken a step further. I always defined mundane as scifi of the here and now, no FTL or galactic populations, and that pretty much is what we talked about. It is more a commentary about the world as it is, not what it can be. I buy that. Besides, writing mundane…er, near future…scifi is a lot easier than world building. Trust me. One of the panelists (regretfully I cannot remember who) said we are not in the Space Age, at least not any longer, because two guys with a canoe doesn’t make you a seafaring nation. So spot on. A guy in the audience said that Orwell did not anticipate we would actually like Big Brother. He wrote 1984 as a warning, not a prescription. The seminar then turned into a wide-ranging discussion about virtual reality, facial recognition technology, ads that social media offers and Amazon choosing your books for you. Very stimulating and lots of fun.
And on that note, I went to bed.
The next morning started out with some forgettable breakfast in the hotel’s restaurant and then on to:
During her first marriage, she was out in the country taking care of Irish twins…Irish twins? What’s that? Her husband was gone all day and at school at night so she began writing. Her first story was accepted by Galaxy…right before it went bankrupt. Every other writer in America knew it was going under and had stopped sending them stories, which probably helped her get accepted, but it took her three years to get paid the $105.00. While she was taking night courses, she met Judith Merril. Kress has written 136 stories, many of them novellas. Beggars is her best known and she wrote it out of jealousy of those who don’t need much sleep because she does. Her favorite of her novellas is Fountain of Age, and said she didn’t like all of her stories. I noted a slight tone of regret in her voice when talking about Beggars. I suspect she’s already heard enough about how good that story is and doesn’t want to be a one trick pony. Her first stories were lush fantasies, but she became hard scifi as she went along. Can’t take everything with you on a journey. Her first novel was Prince of Morning Bells, which she described as picaresque. She sent it to Ursula Leguin’s agent and the only reason he bothered was due to her short stories. Theodore Sturgeon gave it a good review. She has had a haphazard career, nothing planned, writing things that lit a spark within her, like a character or an idea. Her favorite author is Jane Austen and she does not understand why people don’t read fiction because the brain is wired to understand the world in stories. Her older son, though, reads only non-fiction: “Why would I read something that didn’t happen?”
The Dispossessed was the first scifi novel she read where the characters were rounded. Scifi up to that point was under the thumb of Clarke and Asimov and others who believed only in ideas, not characters. Asimov actually wrote an essay called The Little Tin God of Characterization.
Kress went to the Sycamore Hill workshop run by Bruce Sterling, who is not a tactful man. He described the novella she brought as “rearranging decorations on a moldy scifi cake.” He called it a series of tropes and said she had not considered economics, what the haves owe the have-nots. So she rewrote it into Beggars of Spain.
She really hates scifi movies because they get everything wrong. Apparently the only things that can escape a black hole are Hawking radiation and Michael McConaughey.
Danielle and her husband, Michael, are my two favorite people at Capclave although they are far too busy to do much more than exchange greetings and gossip when I pop around. So I jumped at the chance to take a basic book design workshop she put on because she knows what she’s doing. I am trying my own hand at formatting the Frank Vaughn trilogy and could use some tips. She worked publishing for 25 years, the past few with Dark Quest Books, which died at its own hands. I’d love to hear that story. It was a good workshop and I learned that I don’t have a clue what I’m doing so maybe I’m going to hire a pro.
I went to the Awards Ceremony as standard and talked with some people and bought a couple of books, one I didn’t want but I like the author so there’s that. I got Nancy Kress to sign a couple of her short stories in a couple of anthologies I have, one of which
But not before buying a ticket for next year. They’ve got Robert Sawyer as the Guest of Honor.
Figured it was about time I updated things, like several series I finished over the past few months:
7. Second season of Iron Fist. Hmm. I’m only halfway through and have mixed feelings. When I’m done, I’ll give this the full treatment.
The 49th anniversary of the first moon landing passed a few days ago with no fanfare, no notice, no interest. As has every single moon landing and its anniversary since about the time Alan Shepard whacked a golf ball into orbit there.
I get that. Once something’s been done, subsequent doing of those things stir little interest. Whoever was tenth to reach America didn’t get the press that Columbus did.
But the first moon landing was a big deal to me so on July 20th I did what I did back on July 20th, 1969 and took my telescope out and gave the moon a look-see. These pictures are courtesy of a Samsung 9 through the eyepiece. It was a cloudy night and things were a bit eerie, but not bad.
Not bad at all.
Look at this place. Harsh mistress, indeed.
We should be there. Maybe not on the moon itself because, harsh, but a space station orbiting it, definitely. Then we can shoot things over to Mars and go monolith hunting around Jupiter and haul back an asteroid or two for fun. All the enviro-istas will scream about exploiting space but, gotta ask, strip mine for minerals here, or pick up a few loose rocks lying around the Kuiper Belt? Your choice, dudes.
I saw the movie Mary Shelley a little while back. Pretty good. Enjoyed it. Elle Fanning
was far more ingenue than Mary Shelley ever was but, fine, she has the look. Thought it gave a very accurate portrayal of Percy Shelley and Lord Byron, two of the biggest creeps in history but even better was the treatment of a long-forgotten historical figure: Mary Shelley’s father, William Godwin. Played by Stephen Dillane (who most of you will know as Stannis Baratheon),
this is Godwin as aftermath, shell shocked and hammered to his knees, fallen from grace yet still filled with grace, even though a few more hammer blows are coming…at the hands of Mary Shelley. Godwin was one of the greatest persons of those times, greater than Percy and Mary. Funny how things work out.
William Godwin was the first Communist…first published Communist, I should say, pre-empting Karl Marx by about seventy or so years. Indeed, the Marxster took a lot of his ideas from Godwin. Godwin was an enthusiastic supporter of the French Revolution and called for the annihilation of society so we could all live together in a state of free love and free food and free everything. Like I said, communist. He was the toast of the radical sect, the toast of the town, hung out with Thomas Paine and Thomas Holcroft while the cool kids, Coleridge and Wordsworth and Hazlitt, followed him around like a puppy. He went to all the best parties. He was the Bernie Sanders of his time. He was also quite the novelist, having written the first literary thriller, Caleb Williams. Bon vivant.
And then it all went to crap.
Why? Well, the oldest story of all, love.
Godwin fell in love with an unusual, beautiful, wondrous woman named Mary Wollstonecroft.
She was a radical feminist and the two of them not only hit it off, they became pregnant with Mary — without benefit of marriage vows — which was about the lowest thing you could do in 18th Century London, especially since Wollstonecroft already had an illegitimate daughter, Fanny, conceived with an American (gasp!) when she was living in revolutionary France. Friends and relatives shunned them. When the French Revolution turned ugly and bloody, everyone else shunned them and they were hounded and jeered and sneered at and shaken to their ultra radical cores to the point that they compromised their principles and got married, although they gave a nod to said principles by maintaining separate households (next to each other), communicating by notes most of the day. For a few months, anyway, before Wollstonecroft died from childbirth complications.
It broke him.
More so than the wholesale repudiation he got from kith and kin over his radical philosophies because Godwin loved Wollstonecraft with an intensity, a purity, a completeness that is the stuff of legends. Gone. Just like that.
Reputation gone, too, no friends, no family, everything he believed and taught now ridiculed and proscribed, saddled with a baby girl and a stepdaughter…what to do? The worst thing possible: he married a widow named Mary Jane Clairmont with two children of her own; one of them, Claire, becomes an important figure in the whole Percy Bysse/Mary Shelley saga. Clairmont was a horrible woman, a harridan with a cruel streak directed mostly at Mary but often at Godwin. She was a spendthrift who quickly drove the already indebted Godwin into the slums. But she had an excellent sense of organization and she pulled together a bookstore as she directed Godwin to pen a series of children’s books under a pseudonym. Now known as the Juvenile Library, the books are still in print. No surprise, William was a great writer. Just read his St. Leon.
It’s one of the scariest novels ever written, even more so than Frankenstein.
That’s the William Godwin you see in the movie: wounded, trashed, scorned and spat upon and grieving the one great love of his life. He still keeps Wollstonecroft’s portrait over the fireplace. And then to have his one daughter run off with that cad Percy Shelley and go live the very bohemian lifestyle he and Wollstonecroft encouraged…most of us wouldn’t be in the best of moods.
But yet, he is. Well, not happy-dancing down the street or anything, but Godwin reacts so well, so calmly, In the movie, he’s self-possessed and fair and even, a very accurate portrayal, if contemporary accounts can be credited. What a great soul.
I’ve often wondered why Hollywood has never done a film about Godwin and Wollstonecroft. I mean, radical anarchist with radical feminist defying social mores, what’s not for Commie Hollywood to like? Maybe because it didn’t turn out so well? Pish. It turned out wonderful. The love is still in Godwin’s eyes.
I was sitting around doing nothing this past Friday when my son called and said, “Hey, would you like to meet Nick Foles?” Seems the Nickster has written a book and was signing copies at a bookstore in Harrisburg. Harrisburg? That would mean driving in Pennsylvania, something no true son of New Jersey takes lightly. What is the most terrifying sight on the highway? A Volvo with PA plates. Every accident in New Jersey is caused by someone from Pennsylvania so it is with trepidation that one crosses the border. But, what the hey, if we survived, might be a pleasant afternoon’s diversion, so I went.
I figured this would be like one of my book signings: a few people, mostly relatives, would show up to drink coffee and eat canapes I bought and then hit me up for a loan while studiously ignoring the purpose, which was, buy one of my books…although SOMEBODY must be buying my books because I just doubled my Amazon income. Yep. This time last year, I made $4.08. Today, I got $8.16. Thanks, relatives!
There were, though, a few more people than I anticipated:
The line stretched for six blocks. It took us longer to find the back of the line then to drive to Harrisburg. Yes, that’s an exaggeration, but not by much. I was dressed for an inside-the-store tete-a-tete — button down shirt, dress pants, black leather shoes, you know, old guy clothes — not standing on a cement sidewalk for three hours in 92 degree weather, no shade, no water. I went back to my son’s brand spanking new Mazda something-or-other to sit in the air conditioning. Couldn’t start it. Friggin’ thing doesn’t have an ignition key slot even though it’s got a friggin’ ignition key. What the eff? So I called him and called him and called him and he finally deigned to answer after I had lost six pounds in the sauna bath of the front seat and there’s some button and you push on the brakes and, ya know, screw you kids. Get off my lawn.
Anyways, made it back and it was, despite Vietnam jungle conditions in high summer, quite pleasant. We were mixed in with a rather affable group of Eagles fans…yes, they do exist…and had lively conversations of Wentz vs Foles (Foles, hands down), Buddy Ball versus Pederson ball, and who do we hate more, Roger Goodell or Chip Kelly. I remain in firm conviction that Randall Cunningham, Captain Scramble, was the best Eagles quarterback of all time and no one beats Reggie White and DeSean Jackson and yes, yes, I’m stuck in the 80s and 90s, when football was football and not the slightly rougher version of soccer that Goodell and the rest of the jelly spines seem bent on turning it into and, ya know, screw you kids. Get off my lawn.
at us and we laughed because it’s the Steelers, the Eagles’ annoying little brother, and we tolerate them. But then some drunk Dallas Cowboys fan came out of a local bar and, well. Best no more be said. There were Eagles chants and a guy with a guitar singing Eagles songs. Yeah, there are some.
We shuffled along and eventually we were inside and air conditioning, thank you Lord, and the line was shuffling up to some long table where about four or five guys were standing while pulling books out of boxes
and handing them off to the shufflers who then shuffled off to the left. My son got his book and I followed along craning my neck for the next watering station and couldn’t really see anything so I asked, “Where’s Foles?”
Wow. I completely missed it. Can that man run an offense, or what? It was so fast I didn’t get a book.
So I walked back there and gave him one of mine.
A couple of days ago I finished Caliban’s War, the second book of James. S. A. Corey’s The Expanse series, an event duly noted and then reported by Goodreads. Without my input. Sheesh. If they know when I finish a book, I guess I’d better not rob a bank.
In the Expanse’s case, it’s (b), but also for another reason I’ve mentioned in other posts: the difference between book and movie…er, TV series. Because you can’t discuss the Expanse without giving tacit nod towards its rather extraordinary dramatization; at least, not with any completeness. So let me get the comparison out of the way: they’re both great. And different from each other. Thank God.
There is a strong school of thought that original material must be adhered to slavishly, or it’s a sellout, abomination, bastardization, travesty, crime against humanity, pick your judgment. I once adhered to the same school, watching series or movies made from my favorite novels/stories/comics whatever with a critical eye for any deviation from text…Aha! Look! Matthias isn’t a vampire!
He’s just a nut! There’s a certain smug satisfaction from noting such deviations because we readers are better people. Sniff. We haven’t needed pretty pictures in our books since kindergarten…except in our comic books, er, graphic novels. Sniff.
Over the years, though, my moral superiority has eroded. It started with Doctor Zhivago,
believe it or not, which I saw when I was about ten or eleven and just loved. Yeah, seriously, I did, although I didn’t understand half of it so, decades later, I tried to read the book.
Tried. Couldna make hide nor hair.
But the stake through my non-revisionist heart was Peter Jackson’s Lord of the Rings,
which Jackson valiantly tried to take verbatim from the books but couldn’t because, Holy Hannah, each movie would be a week long so he had to deviate. Horrors! But they were very good, so I sniffily re-read the series with an eye towards looking down nose at that reprobate Jackson and, ya know? Tolkien is turgid.
Just is. The movies are actually better.
Yes, you can now revoke my library card.
Conclusion: it’s not a sign of superiority to demand the rigid correlation of book and movie. Why? Because text and film are such radically different mediums, and one does not mesh perfectly with the other. Ten pages of Tolkien can be ten seconds of the movie. Vivid lush description is a delight to read on the page but boring as hell on the screen. How much of a Bergman movie can you actually stomach? So trying to literally reproduce one into the other isn’t always a good idea. Por ejemplo, 2001 Space Odyssey. Great movie, great visuals, still not sure what it’s about. The subsequent novel? Reads like a script of the movie, the only positive is at the end of the book where you get a bit more clarification of Space Baby.
One plot, that is.
Presented for your re-consideration, then, the Expanse novels and TV series. I can tell you straight up that they are so different from each other that you can enjoy one without spoiling the other. Indeed, I don’t think I would have continued reading the novels if I had not seen the series first because the first book, Leviathan Wakes, has a very murky opening. Yes, so does the series, but not enough to puzzle you completely, like the first one does. Soooo, since I knew from the series what was going on, I could cut through the novel’s murkiness and continue without running into any spoilers because, different from each other. You don’t even meet Secretary Avasarala (played by Shoreh Agdashloo,
to whom I pledge undying love) in the novels until Caliban’s War, but she’s right there from episode one of the series. Thank you, just thank you. And Caliban’s War ends with an event that I have been anticipating since the end of Season 2. Not a spoiler, an anticipation.
So, yes, I will continue reading the series and begin Season 3 with nary a concern one will cross centerline and smack head-on to the other. And if it does? Eh.
Alright, alright, no more puns. Upun my word.
The next event after Greg Bear was David Brin talking about the future. Wow, a double header and I was all a twitter but, I messed up the time because I was hobnobbing with Greg Bear (we hobnob) and thought the Brin show was actually an hour later than it was and holy moly! I’m late! and I burst into the middle of Brin’s…Skype call. Drat. I thought this was gonna be an in-person performance and that may have been the original intent but circumstances prevailed. I guess. I came in late so I was not entitled to an explanation. So I surreptitiously put away my copy of Murasaki
Brin is a bit PO’d at Andy Weir because Weir liked the movie version of The Martian while The Postman
had its synapses removed. I haven’t actually read the novel so I cannot make a comparison between book and screen version but the movie…yeech. I wonder how many authors hate their screen versions? That’d make an interesting survey.
Brin thinks going back to the moon is stupid. There’s nothing there. Now, putting a space station around the moon…yeah, do it. The tourism alone would pay the fare, and it would be a good place from which to launch intra-solar missions, like collecting asteroids or looking for the proto-molecule. It would also be an excellent place to keep security assets because they’d be immune to anti-sat weapons. Brin is my kind of militarist. And futurist. He believes there is a never ending human impulse to fall back on feudalism. No kidding. Instead of ever onward and upward to the Bright Shiny Future, we are one temper tantrum away from the Dark Ages. Be on your guard.
I then drifted into another panel I had been looking forward to, Faith and Reason in Science Fiction. I sort of have a stake in the topic
and was interested in the latest takes from the oh-so-smart panelists:
One of the pastors on the panel said she did not believe in the literal Bible and that it was “too serious to take seriously.” This is why I no longer go to church. This is why a lot of us no longer go. The only churches left that still hold to a modicum of Bible-based faith are obsessed with evangelizing their already evangelized congregants or are taking the Bible too literally, like that whole 6000 years-old Earth thing. Or bringing in rock bands for two hour singalongs. No thanks. Soon to be spewed.
I don’t get the whole faith-versus-science trope to begin with. How does one obviate the other? How many of you have taken samples from a neutron star? Yet, you take their existence as a given because it’s based on “science;” no it’s not, it’s based on faith, faith in human thought and logic and the scientific method. God? Tut, how quaint, a sop for the ignorant masses who aren’t as brilliant as we. Word you’re looking for here is “arrogance,” which is the main issue between God and Lucifer, who wants to be like the Most High. It’s the reason we’re all here, to resolve the dispute. You say no, we’re here because there was so much nothing that there was something…which is just as silly as claiming we are riding on the back of the cosmic turtle. But you’ll cling to the “so much nothing” theory because the idea of a Creator interferes with the party. And we do love a good party.
It is not “either-or.” Indeed, each new scientific discovery speaks more and more to a Designer because, Holy Hannah, are we wondrously made. And science tends to refute itself, like that whole steady state universe thing, each refutation underscoring the wondrousness of how we are made and proving that science can’t be the basis for your faith. Find something else. Like that cosmic turtle.
Some of this was offered by the panelists, ironically enough by born-again atheist Robert Aldrich, who said science is not a faith system but an investigative system, which is dead-on right. He pointed out that scifi isn’t very sci because there’s laser swords, which are impossible. Lots of things that defy natural science show up in scifi because it can; it’s fiction and imagination and a grand playground where every kid gets his own swing set. Guy seems squared away on this whole faith and science non-controversy. At one point, he rolled his eyes when one of the so-called believers on the panel contended that morality was Bible or God based, and I took it from aforementioned eye roll that he believes morality is an evolved trait that allows us all to live together in a civilized society, or something along those lines and I wanted to ask if that was, indeed, his position because I was going to challenge him to drive a school bus for one week and see if that revises his opinion but the Q&A, like all Q&As these days (see previous post) turned into a writing seminar for one guy who was interested in character development.
Other points raised seemed to be apologetics of one kind or another. The Battlestar Galactica reboot was scifi concerned with the questions of existence, yeah, yeah, and the older scifi tradition had room for religion and Star Trek had a chapel on the Enterprise, yeah yeah which doesn’t make any point towards the topic at hand. It seemed like the so-called believers on the panel were intent on looking progressive and open-minded while the non-believers got to be radically dismissive of any religious belief, even ones involving the backs of turtles. A world that does not believe in God will believe in anything, (yes, I know, a paraphrase of an apocryphal G. K. Chesterton quote).
I gotta ask: why are scifi people so reflexively pro-Marxist, anti-conservative, anti-Trump, anti-America? Is it just vogue? Prerequisite for invitations to the best parties? Because it makes me think that scifi people think in bumper stickers. Just a spare survey of history shows what a disaster planned economies are, yet on any given opportunity they gush about them. Don’t actually have to live in Cuba or Venezuela, so can be exuberant. And, boy, don’t mention Trump. Scifiers get downright poetic in their vitriol, I guess because his election has set the Federation back a few decades. You know, the Federation? where everyone will have their own hospital and neurosurgeon for free and we’ll all eat organic protein that’s non-organic and love each other regardless of species and have jetpacks?
This is the 50th Anniversary of 2001: Space Odyssey, the movie, and all stops were pulled out in celebration, as it should be because that movie turned scifi topsy and turvy. Before it, we had Plan 9 From Outer Space and It Came from Outer Space and other cheese and occasional good ‘uns like The War of the Worlds and Invasion of the Body Snatchers but this one, whoa. Never have so many loved a movie in which they walked out going, “Huh?”
EV2018 put on a seminar hosted by people who wrote books about the movie or who knew people who worked on the movie or were the children of people who worked on the movie. Like Fred Ordway, Jr, whose father worked at NASA, was a pal of Werner von Braun and Arthur C. Clarke. Ordway mentioned to Clarke some of the projects he was working on and next thing he knows, Kubrick is calling: say, Fred, Art tells me you’ve got all this neat stuff at NASA, can you box it all up and bring it to London for some movie I’m working on? Guess security was a little looser in those days. John Lang, the son of art director Harry Lang, said a lot of the original drawings for the movie were tossed, but his Dad fished them out of the garbage for later posterity. Oh, Greg Nicotero was on the panel, too. He said he was the model for the apes.
Harry Lang didn’t go to the movies much so he didn’t know who Stanley Kubrick was which, according to everyone, was a good thing. Apparently, Kubrick was rather difficult. Oh, just say it, he was a downright pain-in-the-ass, wanting to know such things as the payload capabilities of the Discovery, which had nothing to do with the movie other than background accuracy. At some point, Kubrick decided to change from Jupiter to Saturn but, when the costs came in, decided to keep Jupiter. Kubrick and Ordway ended up hating each other. Wonder why.
Ordway was an Army Intell officer gathering information on rockets. He was having meetings with Russian colonels in Greenwich Village cafes, and making the rounds of science conferences, where he met Clarke. Clarke was working on a short story, the Sentinel of Eternity and a timeprobe anthology when Kubrick contacted him, elements of both ending up in the 2001 script. This was in 1964 and Kubrick wanted the movie to be as accurate as possible and only NASA knew what the moon and rockets actually looked like hence the call to Ordway and the boxing up of Uber Top Secret plans and photos for later cinematic display. Sheesh. Today, if you Email your yoga schedule, you go to jail.
Ordway went to every aeronautical company in existence and got thirty scientists to show up on set and put in their two cents. Like the design of HAL,
which was first conceived as a walk-in computer. That design ended up as Mother in Alien.
Everyone thought computer memory would be molecular by the far distant year of 2001, so that’s why you’ve got those liquid filled baby monoliths that Dave is fooling with…what are you doing, Dave? The HAL 9000 was actually supposed to be the IBM 9000, but Roger Caras sent them a letter going, “Oh, by the way, your IBM 9000 is going to kill people.” “Really?” IBM responded. “Take our name off, then.” That’s how we ended up with Heuristic ALgorithm 9000. This was one of the first product placement movies, with logos and stuff everywhere. The companies wanted everyone to know they were still going to be in business fifty years from now. You know, Pan Am, Howard Johnson’s, Bell Telephone?
Then we got to watch the movie. In company of these people.
How cool is that?