Bibliography XVI

 “Shattered Love” – Richard Chamberlain

My best friend in junior high was a huge fan of Richard Chamberlain, otherwise I would have little to no idea who he is. In case you don’t know, he played Dr Kildare on TV in the 1960s, graduated to leading man status on film in the 1970s, and was king of the TV miniseries in the 1980s. Handsome, charismatic, and possessed of a voice like a blend of milk and dark chocolate, in his day he earned the admiration and adulation of fans – particularly female ones – pretty much everywhere.

His autobiography was published in 2003. Media around its release seemed more focused on his coming out than anything else he had to say, and I confess the press combined with the book’s title conspired to have me avoid it like the plague. I mean, “shattered love” in the context of a celebrity coming out could only mean one thing: a “poor pitiful me” tell-all where the intimate (sordid?) details of his hidden life were finally revealed.

I did the man a severe disservice by thinking those things. Turns out the book is more about his spiritual journey than it is about secretly being gay in his line of work (though he tells some dandy stories about his career, too). There is nothing whiny or pitiful about it. In fact, he gives an objective, completely honest account of life as the younger son of a difficult man, of growing up and living for decades with a major inferiority complex, and of his continuing path to inner peace. And he tells it all with a gentle, self-deprecating humour that in no way negates his eventual discovery and acceptance of his true self.

This guy is practically a guru. I related to much of his story, from his description of a complicated Life with Father right down to his faith in a loving, friendly and generous Universe. The title “Shattered Love” reflects his belief that each of us represents a shard of one singular love so immense that it shattered itself in order to experience its own existence. Or something like that. He certainly subscribes to the same theory as me, that we are as divine as we are connected to the Divinity who created us. God exists around us and apart from us and within us all at once.

I learned a lot from reading this book, especially about the nature of forgiveness and when it applies. I actually learned a whole lot more than I ever expected to learn from a movie star’s memoir, and I am eternally grateful for the lessons.

I do wonder, though, what my junior high bestie would think ...

A Creative Life

I am eternally curious about the lives of entertainers. Rock stars, film stars, artists, writers and architects, if there’s a biography on film, I am likely to watch it. Documentaries are fine, but the best ones are those compiled from the artist’s own words, from interviews and articles and performance clips. Naturally, someone whose work I admire is a draw, but I am equally intrigued by the life of someone whose career played in my periphery—David Bowie, for example. “The Last Five Years” of his life was utterly absorbing. I came away with a strong sense of his individuality and his determination to preserve that individuality by reinventing himself with every project. He was brilliant. Not at all tragic, just brilliant.

Mind you, he lived to a fairly ripe old age before cancer took him out. The ones who die young seem to be more tragic, probably because we tend to lament the work they might have done even as we celebrate the work they did. Often, those young ones lived hard, deeply troubled lives and checked out early (either deliberately or accidentally) because celebrity only amplifies what already exists. People like Amy Winehouse and Kurt Cobain were doomed before they started. Fame made it worse for them. Then there were Prince and Michael Jackson, twin geniuses in crippling physical pain, who succumbed in one form or another to the drugs prescribed to alleviate it. Even Chris Cornell’s lifelong struggle with depression must have hastened his end.

Then there was Heath Ledger. Young, strong, successful, talented—and dead at twenty-eight. Surely a tragedy lurked somewhere in his life, right?

Wrong.

I sat down to watch the documentary “I Am Heath Ledger” with the expectation of a common thread that would link him to other famous figures whose lives were cut too short. A dysfunctional family, substance abuse, or maybe some childhood trauma that he never got over; surely something pushed him beyond the brink. But, no. He was a happy kid, a good brother, a loyal friend, a determined actor, a gifted director (he shot music videos for friends in the biz), and was making plans far into the future when his light went out.

And what a light it was. His buddies reminisced about his energy, one even wondered aloud how he could sustain so bright a burn. Another mentioned how strangely aware of mortality he was, how he kept saying he had so much to do and limited time in which to do it. He had known from the start that he would be an actor, and he worked steadily toward it, but he remembered his friends and family along the way. He was warm and generous and loving, and asked nothing in return. It seemed to me that this intense and inherently good soul was operating on a level the majority of us never reach.

The one thing that pinged was his trouble sleeping. When I heard that, I thought of Michael Jackson—there was the common thread. A bright, intense white light, snuffed before the rest of us were ready by prescription drugs and a flu bug that got in the way. A truly tragic accidental death.

Celebrity death is traumatic because our icons are supposed to be immortal. Truth is, they are immortal. Look at the legacy of everyone mentioned in this post. None of them is truly gone when the spirit in their work lives on. I was not so big a fan of Heath Ledger that I followed every move or saw every film he made—but “A Knight’s Tale” is one of my favourites and without him, it wouldn’t be.

Viking Visdom

I admit, it’s harder to keep the faith when I’m hurting. This darned human experience sure gets in the way of my being a divine spark.

Thank the gotts for diversions like season five of Vikings. The character of Ragnar Lothbrok, played so hideously/beautifully by Travis Fimmell, continues to beguile. In almost every episode, he drops a line worthy of remembering not just because of his delivery, but because the words apply—seriously—to my own life.

Take the argument he got into with his grown son Ivar, for instance. Ivar is historically known as “Ivar the Boneless”. None of the saganistas knows for sure why, so the series’ writer has depicted the character as a cripple. He hauls himself around on his hands, dragging his useless legs behind him and fighting like all get out to be considered as normal as his well-formed brothers. The kid isn’t particularly likeable. He certainly isn’t a sympathetic character, not with that attitude.

Anyway, Ivar goes on a raiding voyage to England with his father and nearly dies in a shipwreck. He and Ragnar, along with the other survivors, end up trekking inland from the beach, and because of Ivar’s disability, he falls behind. Ragnar stays with him, but finally loses his patience and demands that the boy quit trying to be normal. “Let yourself be a cripple!” he says. Naturally (to me, anyway), Ivar loses his temper. They get into a fight, shouting into each other’s faces, the boy screaming that he can be normal. Ragnar screams back that he can’t be normal because he isn’t normal, and “only when you accept that, can you become great.”

Blink.

That line hit me as hard as Ragnar telling his sons in an earlier episode, “Don’t look behind you. That’s not where you are going.”

I embarked on this series because Ter was curious about it so I thought I’d go along in support. The first season was so awful that I have no idea why we came back for season two, but that was when things got interesting. I still consider it one of the funniest shows on TV—the scenes between Ragnar and King Ecbert of Wessex are truly priceless—but pearls are present if I listen closely ... and I maintain that Fimmell’s portrayal of Ragnar makes it all worthwhile. He has the best lines and he delivers them brilliantly. I can’t say I’ve learned everything about life from Vikings, but I’ve sure picked up a few gems to get me through my recent struggles.

Uff da!

Starlight

A light year is the length of time it takes for light to travel from its source to Earth. A star that shines a hundred light years away can die, but the light will continue to shine for a century before we’ll see it go out.

A lot of stars have gone out this year. David Bowie. Glenn Frey. Leonard Cohen. Prince. George Michael. (That one hurt more than the others put together because I have more of his albums than I do of all the others put together.) Then, in tragically quick succession, Carrie Fisher and Debbie Reynolds. It seems to me that a mass exodus is happening, but I may only be so aware of it because these famous names are a part of my generation; after all, thousands of people die every day and most of us don’t even blink. At least the famous ones leave behind a legacy of work that keeps them alive in the hearts of their fans.

Truth is, the world is always a little bit darker when someone dies.

I like to watch Jeopardy! to test my memory banks and see how far out of the loop I’ve fallen with regard to pop culture. Once in a while, I’ll take an inexplicable shine to a contestant and root for that person through victory after victory. Halfway through December, a quiet young woman named Cindy Stowell won her first game and took her place as the defending champion. Her run took her through six wins and over $100,000, before she was inevitably defeated. She gave Ter and me more than one heart attack over the course of her appearance—she wasn’t always quick with the buzzer, but she consistently came back from the red to win the game with a clever bet on the Daily Double or knowing the answer to an obscure Final Jeopardy question. And she never lost her cool. She was a little mouse with big eyes and dark hair, a shy smile and sweet demeanour. Something about her was delightful and fragile and made you want to cheer for her.

On her seventh appearance, at the start of the game, Alex Trebek mentioned that her goal had been to win $100,000 and she had accomplished this with her previous win. My radar pinged with an uh oh, and sure enough, regrettably, she lost her seventh game. At the end of that show, however, a clip of Mr Trebek came up after the credits, in which he explained that, during the filming of Cindy’s shows a few weeks earlier, she had been fighting stage four cancer. She lost her battle with it on December 5, almost two weeks before her shows aired. In short, she had already departed when her championship run was broadcast.

Like a little star whose light took a few weeks to wink out of our sky.

A Patient Man

The first season of Vikings was hilariously painful, but once our hero, Farmer Ragnar, through a series of strategic manoeuvres, became King Ragnar, things got a little interesting. A new cast of characters in England (specifically Wessex) expanded the story in season two, and I have to admit, I kinda like the shifty King Ecbert because I cannot for the life of me figure out his game. In season three, the Vikings tried to take Paris, which brought in another band of individuals, mostly a pushy Frankish princess and a nutty Mercian queen, but through it all, Ragnar has maintained his magnetic mystique.

Four episodes into season four, and I’m hooked.

Is it possible for an actor to earn an Emmy by saying nothing? Travis Fimmell probably has fewer lines per episode than any other actor in the series, yet he owns every scene he’s in whether he speaks or not. He can simply sit and stare, and I’m enthralled. It’s not like he’s eye candy, either—he modelled when he was younger, but he’s matured into, well, a Viking. Age and scruffiness haven’t dimmed the wattage in his smile, though. When he flashes teeth, it’s like panning along the bench at a World Cup hockey game. The beauty in a Viking smile is unparalleled.

Let’s just forget that he’s actually Australian.

The annoying characters have remained so, alas, but Ragnar’s enigmatic methods have appeased my frustration with them. Floki the Nutcase, for instance, has bugged the h*** out of me for three seasons, but crossed Ragnar last year by making a deluded gaffe and has paid dearly for it—to the point where he may have been driven sane (not a typo) while awaiting the killing blow that hasn’t come yet.

Then there’s Princess “My Father Was A Gott” Aslaug, who replaced Lagertha as Ragnar’s wife in season two—why, I still can’t fathom because Lagertha kicks serious butt and I may just have answered my own question. In any case, Aslaug has also crossed Ragnar and is paying the consequence. The honeymoon is definitely over.

Firstborn son has grown up and is fighting to prove worthy of Dad’s affection. First wife now rules over a neighbouring community but I think she’s still in love with Ragnar so we’ll see where that leads, especially since he’s become so disenchanted with Aslaug. Older brother Rollo, whose jealousy of Ragnar is eclipsed only by his idiocy in trying more than once to overthrow him, is stranded in Paris and being wooed by the local aristocracy in hope of keeping the barbarian horde from crashing the city gates. I’m pretty sure he’ll oblige them just to piss off his little brother.

And through it all, Ragnar watches in patient solitude, listening, assessing, planning and swiftly executing. He’s a complicated man, seldom lovable, sometimes infuriating, always entertaining.

And he has the best lines. Last week’s episode had him speaking directly to the camera:

“I am constantly torn between killing myself, or everyone around me.”

I - love - this - guy!

Michael, My Michael

He turned 73 on March 27. My first screen love. My only love, really. I’ve had brief infatuations and short term affairs over the past forty years, but he has been my one and only movie star, my enduring romance, my sentimental favourite.

Who knows why? Because I was fourteen when he played D’Artagnan. Because I was newly in pain and looking to escape. Because I loved a good story and he was the passionate if inept hero of a dandy. I wanted to write my own swashbuckler and The Four Musketeers got me started—but he’s played more than one character. He was busy in the 70s, too, playing everything from Shakespeare to science fiction, sometimes a bit of a miscast and other times a perfect fit, but always blond, handsome, and gifted with that golden syrup voice.

I could listen to him speak forever.

It was during something like the sixth or seventh viewing, in the scene where D’Artagnan finds Constance dead and sets out to avenge her, when all the requisite factors combined to awaken the giant. He was the catalyst that kicked my imagination into gear and started me writing in earnest. I wrote about heroes who looked just like him, but I started reading, too. Dumas and the Bard, and George Clayton Johnson—if his film was based on a book, I read the book as well. I saw every movie, staying up late on weekends to catch his earlier work in The Strange Affair and Something for Everyone on TV (the days before video tapes and DVDs). I went to the university for the Franco Zeffirelli double-header of The Taming of the Shrew with Romeo and Juliet. I kept a scrapbook of promo pics and articles and “seen around Hollywood” snapshots. I guess I was a little obsessed with him, with the movies, with the stories, with the fantasies of all three combining to ignite my true passion for the written word.

It was a magical time of intense contrast. Every day was a fight to get mobile, of physio treatments and medical appointments, but every day was also a revelation of new ideas, of literary discovery and expanding imagination. It was truly the best of times and the worst of times, and Michael York was in the middle of it.

I did all the stupid teenaged stuff, but four decades later, despite the aforementioned flings and affairs and rock stars notwithstanding, my heart yet leaps when I hear his voice or see his face. It’s more than the remnant of a schoolgirl crush. It is a comfy blend of respect, admiration and gratitude.

It is also—definitely—love.

Star Quality

Why do the brightest spirits lead the most desperately troubled lives? Is their light so bright that, by law of contrast, their darkness must be opaque? And why do they often perish before their time?

The list of luminaries is a long one, but the most enduring legend may be that of Marilyn Monroe. Even I am fascinated by her story, perhaps because it was so tragic, but more likely because I want to understand the paradox of a spirit so pure trying to survive in a world so impure that it broke her.

Imagine, burning so fiercely in life that your memory lives longer than you did. Not to suggest that she was pure in the “virgin-snow” way of being pure; to the contrary, I think she was far savvier and more practical than society at the time allowed her to be. So why did she choose a traumatic childhood and 1950s Hollywood?

Only she knows for sure. It doesn’t stop the speculation, the judgments or the opinions, but no one who embarks on a quest to discover the real Marilyn will unearth the diamond that was her true essence. She was most definitely a light being in a human experience. She had a purpose for being here, she chose her time for a reason, and we will never know what she took with her when she left.

The same can be said of so many others, a few who were global icons compared to the many bright stars who were special to none but their own. This life is a struggle. Even if you achieve your dream, it won’t be easy to get or maintain. But really, wasn’t Marilyn’s dream the same as Princess Diana’s or Michael Jackson’s, Philip Seymour Hoffman’s or JFK’s, my own dear niece’s or everyone else’s, for that matter? The dream of all dreams, the quietest to admit, the easiest to want, and the hardest to make real:

To be loved, to be valued, to be accepted as we are … and, for some, to die trying.

August 5 is the nth anniversary of Marilyn Monroe’s death. Hers is the eternal mystery, a life celebrated in public, suffered in private, and ended abruptly. I think of her and wonder how she might have fared in my time? Not much better, I decide. Her tragedy is everyone’s tragedy, for we are all born stars. Some will shine, some will twinkle, some will burn out, and some will implode.

The things we do for love.

Swashbucklers

The Musketeers 2014

Plumed hat—check.

Boots—check.

Cloak—check.

Sword—check.

Pistol—check.

Open sea—

Open sea?? Bah. Forget pirates. When my swash wants buckling, give me the King’s Musketeers.

My fondness for the elite among Louis XIII’s military began with Richard Lester’s movie version in the 1970s. I saw The Four Musketeers something like 14 times because my then best friend was crazy nuts for the actor who played Aramis. Subsequently, I fell for Michael York, who played d’Artagnan (but that’s another story). During the course of flowering hormones, I delved into the Dumas novels and discovered a world that I couldn’t imagine had existed, a world without modern convenience, where hats were plumed and pistols played backup to rapiers. The Musketeers were a joyride in writing and on film. My imagination never recovered.

Though other attempts have been made, I’ve stayed true to the Lester films. Thanks to his direction, and to George MacDonald Fraser’s scripts, they still number among the best movies I’ve ever seen, and feature what remains one of my favourite lines of dialogue—Porthos playing cards with Aramis and lamenting that, “Either your priestly intentions have got all the saints on your side, or you’re cheating.”

Whether or not Aramis seriously intended to join the priesthood I don’t recall, though the theme continued via Jeremy Irons in The Man in the Iron Mask some thirty years later. One thing’s for sure: Aramis is the most romantic in the group. I’ve always been partial to d’Artagnan because of Yorkie, but these days it’s hard to choose a favourite.

The Musketeers are back, this time in a TV series produced by the BBC. Ter an I caught it this spring on Showcase and, yup, we got hooked. It’s the best spin on the legend since the Lester films 40 years ago; the writing is quick, the delivery is quicker and the actors playing the iconic foursome have each made his character his own. Particularly good is Tom Burke as Athos, who was the least appealing Musketeer in my teens, but now that I’m older, has assumed the perilous allure of dark water—a deceptive stillness that could all too easily pull me beyond my depth. But truly, the whole cast is brilliant for bringing the characters to such vivid life that there are no boring moments.

Once again, I am inspired by a good story peopled by distinct and unique individuals set in a time that feels like home. I would dearly love to pay homage to my heroes, but how does one write a good swashbuckler without it turning into a hokey bodice-ripper?

As with all good stories, it starts with a character …

Man of the Hour

Who loves ya, baby?

Not sure which hour, precisely, though my faulty memory seems to recall a teen magazine reporting that he was born around 6:30 in the morning of June 20, 1960. By the time he reads this (as if), he’ll officially be 54 years old ... and still ticking. Still hot, still inspiring, still gorgeous, still my muse, still the god of my idolatry.

He was not, however, my first. That dubious honour falls on David Cassidy when I was ten, who was succeeded four years later by Michael York, who reigned supreme until that fateful day in 1985 when Ter spied JT’s face on the cover of Star Hits magazine.

Yeah, the bass god has pretty well wrecked me. Though I dabble with other lookers, I always come back to him.

I owe him an ode, but after a crazy workweek, words have finally failed me.

Happy birthday, handsome.

The Edge of the World

There’s nothing beyond the lone outpost marking the edge of the world.

That’s what we think.

It’s what they think, as well—the people on the other side of the edge of the world.

* * *

Ter dropped me in the village this morning so I could return “Passengers” to the DVD shop and get my walk in early. The movie was a welcome break from fighting through the headache yesterday, and it wasn’t too taxing on the intellect, either. Once I got past the size of Anne Hathaway’s eyes, it kept me interested, curious, and whether I was dulled by drugs or the writers did a truly superior job, I was not ready for the twist at the end. I’m ready for next week’s Philosophy Quest, though. Life after death, death after life, the thinning of the veil and ripples in the matrix—bring it on; I have an opinion and everyone is entitled to it.

One scene remains in “The King’s Man”—I think it’s the final, but in truth, this one has surprised me at every turn. That ballroom scene I thought would be a dandy? I barely brushed the silks in the crowd. It turned out to be less important than what happened after the ball, so a brief description of the event itself was all the story needed. The characters are reminding me, it’s about them. Not me. Not painting sunsets or indulging myself in lush sensation. They’re keeping me honest. Focused. I’m thrilled about it, really. When I go back to work on Monday, I’ll be able to say that I actually wrote a complete story, not “almost finished” one as usual.

But that’s three days from now. There’s a lot left to cram into those three days so I’d better get started. Oh, wait. I have started … with this post!

Uff Da

Ter and I went to see the Vikings exhibit at the museum on Monday. Aside from being über-cool in general, the set up was clustered into themes rather than running a chronological sequence—describing how they operated in society, religion, war, shipbuilding, etc. I’m no sailor, but from an engineering perspective, how they accomplished what they accomplished on the water is as astounding as the Egyptians building the pyramids. Crossing the north Atlantic now is dangerous; packing the wife and kids into a longboat and trying to skim the surface to Newfoundland 1000 years ago … what’s the Viking word for “crazy”? We took a break halfway through to hit the IMAX, then finished up by pillaging the gift shop. Well, I didn’t buy anything, but I’m a cheap Scot, not a Viking. Ter maybe kinda halfway sorta is, as we suspect her maternal grandfather was of Swedish descent. They didn’t make 6' 5" Finns in his generation and he was a big dude. Mind you, Ter was a little girl when he died. Everyone is big to a six-year-old.

It was helpful to see the artifacts and whatnot, though, as we’ve been watching the TV series Vikings on History channel. The series is produced and written by Michael Hirst, whose fast and loose play with historical facts in the name of fiction made me immediately suspicious of what he might try to pass off as an accurate depiction of 10^th century Scandinavia. Turns out he’s not that far off the mark, though the series itself makes me scratch my head because the characters are regrettably either ho-hum or out-and-out unlikeable. The main character, played by Australian Travis Fimmell, consistently has me torn between worshiping him and knocking him in the knuts—and don’t get me started on the female characters. His first wife is awesome, but why he dumped her for the second still escapes me. They had princesses in Viking times, too, and I don’t mean of the royal variety.

Today is Thorsday, named for the God of Thunder, which is eerily appropriate given the headache that’s beating a tattoo against my frontal lobe this morning. I hate when life happens on vacation. Can’t let it stop me, though—I’m on a roll with the Russians, so Tylenol is down and I’m eager to delve deeper into the unfolding tale of Viktor and the royal family. The ballroom didn’t get done yesterday; the third scene took a hard left and dumped me into an unexpected and very emotional recollection. I’m at the stage where I’m wondering where this is going and it has me mildly panicked about the purpose of the piece. After much mulling and mental wrangling, I believe I see an ending—hopefully happy, but knowing my style, probably not. Best I can foresee is bittersweet. I’m trying to keep everyone alive except for the one who, ironically, is emerging as the main character. So it appears that this story is about love, loss and healing. Nothing new in the literary world, I guess, but it’s foreign turf for me because there are no vampires and no magical powers along to give it some supernatural pizzazz. It’s all about the people. Plain, normal, fragile mortals. I really hope I can do it—do them—justice.

Random Ramblings

Recent ramblings of an idle brain …

The German word for stupid is doof—and I’ve lately had so many opportunities to use it that it’s already become a permanent part of my vernacular.

Citrus juice is an enemy of open wounds—I already knew this, but I’d forgotten it until my molar was pulled. As part of my liquid diet, I decided to treat myself to a fresh fruit smoothie and ordered one with mango, banana, orange and lime. It’s called a solar flare, and that’s what happened when it hit the extraction site. Doof!

I was actually prepared to become a temporary NY Rangers fan until Montreal beat the Bruins in Game 7. I may think I don’t care which team wins a playoff series, but it comes clear when the first goal is scored that I do have a preference. *&%$ (chink!)

My body can be a healthy weight and still be waaaaaaay out of shape.

No matter which version or how many times I watch it, I always hope for a different ending to Romeo and Juliet. I claim I’m not a romantic. I’m starting to wonder about that … and by the way, Leonardo diCaprio played a fabulous Romeo in Baz Luhrmann’s 1996 offering of the eternal tragedy. Ter and I watched it last week and I was gone the whole time. Just fell into the kid’s eyes and bled for him. Doof mushpot.

Long weekends are the best weekends! Enjoys yours.

With love,

Sleepy Hollow

With Halloween lurking, it’s time to spook things up a bit. I’ll start by raving with confidence about my new favourite show – an updated version of Sleepy Hollow executive-produced by the writer-geniuses behind the rebooted Star Trek films. I watched the first episode, loved it, made Ter watch it on demand, she loved it, and now we’re both hooked. Count us among the loyal followers known collectively as “Sleepy Heads”. 

Normally, I’d say nothing. I have a habit of flipping out over things that the rest of the world doesn’t get, ergo any TV show in which I see potential will disappear in six weeks or less. In the days of Twin Peaks, NBC tried a forensic crime drama called Unsub that was simply too far ahead of its time and thus did not last. Ter and I were on board from the first episode, which is especially ironic since we watch none of the series so popular nowadays, most of which owe their success to that sick little show being the first of their kind: FBI forensics team investigates murder scenes and builds a profile of the killer, who is then hunted down and brought to justice. Sound familiar? It’s all the rage ... now. 

About ten years ago, a new spin on Tarzan was attempted. Sure, it was kinda hokey, but it was harmless fun and Travis Fimmell was yummy in the title loincloth. It should at least have played out its first season, but no, it was axed after six episodes. 

Sleepy Hollow, however, has already been signed to a second season, so either the rest of the TV viewing public is finally getting up to speed, or my standards are dropping. In any event, the actor playing Ichabod Crane – a comely fellow named Tom Mison – is simply superb, as is Nicole Beharie in the female lead. Their rapport developed quickly and is part of the fun in watching, but there’s other creepily cool stuff in the plot: witches and demons and the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, all trying to bust through and destroy the world as per the Book of Revelation. It’s such a good show that we were vexed when the local station re-ran the pilot instead of a new episode this week, doubtless trying to snag those folks who are hearing about it from other people and going, “Sleepy what?” (Actually, it was to excuse regular viewers who care about the World Series – Fox is broadcasting the baseball finals, which means we’re screwed for next Monday, as well.) 

So if you missed it on the first round, now is your chance to find it on demand and get caught up before November 4. I dare you not to fall in love with Ichabod and his buttery British accent!

Female

No matter how many versions of the Arthurian legend I encounter, I cannot make myself like Guinevere. “Camelot” (the musical), “Excalibur”, “King Arthur”, “Camelot” (the TV series that died after one season) – in every one of them, the Queen bugs the hell out of me. She’s either simpering or smug, and while Arthur himself was best portrayed by Clive Owen, even the King can be difficult to respect because he’s more in love with his round table knights than he is with his wife. I watched “Camelot” (the musical) on the weekend and much as I love the music and the scenery and the costumes and even the story … augh. I wanted to smack the Queen, punch out Lancelot, and shake the King until his pearly whites rattled. Was it the writing or the acting? The characters are the stuff of legend, so how could it be them?

Except that, in “Excalibur”, “King Arthur”, and “Camelot” (the TV series that died after one season), I generally feel the same – about Guinevere, at least. I like my knights on the tarnished side so Lancelot does nothing for me, hence I don’t see why she falls for him when Arthur is much more interesting … if you can get him to stop talking to Merlin’s ghost and being so darned idealistic all the time. Richard Harris didn’t have much to work with in the musical, truth be told. Clive Owen put way more grit and savvy into his King Arthur – and Ioan Gruffud’s Lancelot had an appealing ragged edge as well. But Guinevere? She was no mooning milksop when Keira Knightley played her, and I still disliked her.

So. Do I expect more from female characters than I do from male? Tough one. I can’t tell if it’s the way I was raised, the culture in which I was raised, my hardwired chromosomal response to other women, or me seeing in them what I dislike in myself, but I seem to be way less forgiving with females than I am with males. I take more care when I’m writing them, especially in the first person. I like them to be smart and a little sassy, but there’s fine line between confident and pushy. They must stand up to their men without hysteria or henpecking, and they must also know how to stand down without caving. I myself am a smartmouth, so I have to watch that my girls don’t overdo the sass because it gets annoying and I do not want to annoy the audience. Children can get away with it to a point, but even then, Lucius’s daughter Aurelia, who began as an opinionated eight-year-old, is now, at twelve, being schooled in the finer points of diplomacy and artful conduct … though she still blurts her mind in safe company. Despite being more natural for me, writing women is hard work. My guys can be rat bastards and still be appealing, but my girls … yeah, just like in the real world, more is expected of them. They don’t always oblige – I have one or two real peaches in the orchard – but I do worry more about them being likeable than I do their male counterparts. I don’t think it’s a reflection on me; I think they themselves want to be accepted and are therefore more aware of their behaviour. A few of them don’t care. A few others are completely unaware. Many are truly caught between duty and devotion. Most of them are just trying to survive. Gee, they sound like real women!

But I still don’t get Guinevere.

The Captains Kirk

There’s an ongoing debate among Star Trek fans as to who was the best captain of the USS Enterprise. My stand has never changed. Hands down, it’s James Tiberius Kirk.

Nowadays, there’s a second level debate raging: who makes the better Kirk? My stand on this one is a bit less definite. Like my position in the case of Connery vs. Craig as the better Bond, it depends. In the 1960s 23^rd century, William Shatner was perfect. He made Kirk smart, sexy and self-assured, laying solid groundwork for Chris Pine to take over some 40 years later.

In the 21^st century’s 23^rd century, Kirk has by necessity become street-smart and somewhat wild-eyed, prone to decimating Starfleet’s rules rather than bending them to his purpose. The elements of Shatner’s Kirk are present and respected, but this kid Pine has propelled our hero to courageously crazy heights. His Kirk is caught in an alternate reality brilliantly devised by Alex Kurtzman and Roberto Orci that has honoured the history of Trek while opening up a literal universe of possibilities for the captain and his crew. Tinkering with a cast of iconic characters could have been a disaster, but it’s proved to be genius. For me, it was Kirk who would make or break the reboot.

I was sold from the first moment in 2009. Yesterday, Ter and I saw Star Trek: Into Darkness. With no idea what to expect, I was blown away again. It all works so well, as well as or maybe better than the original series, but whether the vision is Gene Roddenberry’s or JJ Abrams’, it’s all about the Captain. (Sorry, Spock fans.)

So kudos to Chris Pine for doing proper homage to a character whom I have loved since I was a kid. His James Kirk is the perfect hero for our modern future, just as Shatner’s was perfect for it in the 60s.

Best of all, the rear view swagger is just as captivating now as it was then.

The Great Gatsby



Leonardo diCaprio - the 21st Century Gatsby



Once in a rare while, I’ll see a 30-second TV trailer for a movie I had no idea was being made and every hair on my body will stand up like it’s been fried. It happened a fortnight ago when I saw a blurb for “The Great Gatsby” opening on May 10. I can’t explain why, but I just had to see that movie.

So I did. Gods love her, Ter wouldn’t likely have gone on her own, but she came with me last weekend and wants to see it again before it hits DVD. I’ve been playing the soundtrack thin (except for two heavier-duty rap tracks—I’ve never been big on rap and Mr. Beyoncé produced this one) all week. Everything about this production was flawless: the story, the cast, the setting, the costumes, the music, everything hit the right note and left us stunned as the credits began to roll. Walking back onto the street was like beaming onto another planet; I wasn’t sure where we’d left the car and couldn’t conjure the words to ask. We hardly said a word until we got home and then I think it was Ter saying, “We have to see that again.”

Five days later, I’m still aglow with the beauty of it all. I was grateful to learn from the pre-show that Baz Luhrmann produced and directed, as I may otherwise have experienced the same initial WTF? reaction I had with “Moulin Rouge” some years ago. I came this close to sacking that one until my right brain kicked in and the story started to make sense. Not so with Gatsby. This time, I was ready for the genius instead of resistant to it. (BTW, “Moulin Rouge” has become one of my favourite go-to pictures when I want a good cry.)

The cool thing about Luhrmann is that he uses modern day music and effects to tell a story from another time. He totally nailed the crazy excess of the idle rich in the Roaring Twenties, and underneath it all was this wrenching love story that broke my heart even as I was dazzled by the decadent chaos around it. The players were awesome, really talented actors who aren’t so famous that they couldn’t make the characters real. I think, too, that I may be a closet Leonardo diCaprio fan, as I’ve liked him in everything I’ve seen though I’ve not actively sought out his films. He’s the big name in this one and he played the perfect Jay Gatsby. Perfect, I tell you! He’s grown into quite the movie star, in the same class as Gary Cooper and Gregory Peck and all those guys from the golden age of cinema. He’s got that rare charisma that improves as a man matures. George Clooney has it. So does Brad Pitt. Actually, a few actors in our generation have it, but the films themselves are less interested in capturing glamour these days, alas.

I haven’t read the book so I don’t know how true the script was to the original. All I can say is that it hit all the notes for me as a moviegoer. It also hit me in another odd way, but that’s another blog entry. Right now I have a story of my own to finish writing. “Between the Storms” is past the halfway mark and the climax is looming. I want to push it as far as I can today, as I’ve got other commitments tomorrow and this weekend which, while I will enjoy them, will also demand that I tear my gaze from the stars and flip my extrovert switch to “on”.

Before I forget, I’ve had to include a link to “Young and Beautiful” from the soundtrack. My inner romantic swoons every time I hear it. Gorgeous!

Later, old sport.