Remembrance

Tweet I don't really wish to make this blog overly personal, or political, but sometimes I'm overcome by a need to write something that isn't related to films, or art, or books. As a writer, I absorb influence from everything around me, and my writing is as much a reflection of me as anything else. Besides, today isn't about me, it's about remembrance. 11 November marks Armistice Day, and I want to take some time out from waffling about films or wittering on about my NaNoWriMo effort to remember, not just those who lost their lives in the cold mud of northern Europe, but for those who continue to lose their lives in pointless conflict around the world today.

DULCE ET DECORUM EST
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Dulce et Decorum Est was written by Wilfred Owen, a soldier who fought in the First World War, writing poetry in the trenches. He was killed in action just a week before the war ended. The Latin title comes from a poem written by Horace;

Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori:
mors et fugacem persequitur virum
nec parcit inbellis iuventae
poplitibus timidove tergo.

"How sweet and fitting it is to die for one's country:
Death pursues the man who flees,
spares not the hamstrings or cowardly backs
Of battle-shy youths."

We should remember them. Today, we will.

The image at the top is my own photo; I came across the grave in Brompton Cemetery and found it incredibly poignant.

Just why I love Pixar

Tweet I may have a fascination for zombies, a lifelong passion for Die Hard, and undying respect for Ripley, but in my heart of hearts, I simply adore Pixar. I've seen all of their films at the cinema, with the exception of The Incredibles, and the release of a new Pixar film fills me with the kind of childish glee normally associated with Christmas Day morning.

So it was with a lot of excitement that I saw Up last week. It's not their best film ever, and I couldn't put it in the same category as Cars or Monsters, Inc., but it's still a cracking good yarn, and just proves that Pixar are slowly moving into slightly more grown-up territory, managing to tackle such themes as miscarriage and being widowed in a short introductory session that manages to communicate such themes without being preachy, or spelling anything out.

Why can other filmmakers not manage this? So often I watch a film, or read a book, and feel like I'm being spoon-fed the plot, as if the director or writer feels I'm too moronic to get what's going on. Dan Brown is guilty of this on an epic scale with The Da Vinci Code, and Chris Colombus over-egged the pudding to such a stupid degree in Harry Potter & The Philosopher's Stone that it almost ruined an otherwise enjoyable film. Yet Pixar avoid this trap. Personally, I think it's because they simply enjoy telling stories, and they trust that their viewers can detect and understand the visual clues that tell the story, without having to brow-beat anyone into epiphany.

The trend towards CG films has exploded ever since Toy Story came out in 1995, with varying degrees of success. The first two Shrek films were interesting and enjoyable ventures from Dreamworks, but then they also foisted the godawful Shark Tale upon us. Such a preachy, horrible film carried the core message that you should always be happy with your station in life, and never strive to better yourself because if you do, you'll fail. What kind of ideal is that to be pushing onto people? Yet among all the dross, Pixar have always shone as an example of decent filmmaking. Some of their efforts haven't quite connected as well as others (e.g. A Bug's Life, Ratatouille), but even their 'poor' films are strides ahead of the best films released by their competitors.

I think their success is due in part to their attention to detail. Fur moves like fur, water behaves like water, objects appear to have true weight - all a testament to their partnership with Disney. Old Walt used to send his artists to draw from life, so even if the animals or birds were cartoons, they still had a level of verisimilitude that is unmatched today. Beyond that, they're happy to cast an actor based on how well they fit the role, not on their box office draw at the time of casting. If an A-lister happens to win the role, it's because they're the best person for the job. The characters thus become believeable, and not simply star vehicles.

Pixar love their craft, and it shines through in the finished film. They tell a story for the pure joy of telling a story - they leave the money-making aspect of the business to Disney. You can go into the cinema feeling burdened by the weight of the world, and come out feeling lighter, as though maybe this crazy lil thing called life isn't so bad after all. And in this day and age, that's no bad thing.

Day Two

Tweet So I've written over 5,000 words for my NaNoWriMo attempt. Over 10% written and it's only Day Two. Don't worry, there's no way I'll keep up this pace. Anyway. I'm not at all happy with what I've written so far, but instead of expecting myself to write something perfect straight out of the gate, I'm going to keep what I've written and just keep going. No rewrites until December. I keep forgetting that other writers have a process of revision, and that great novels aren't birthed without corrections, edits and even complete rewrites. The grammar needs to be tightened up, I need to work on my characters and iron out the plot, but you know what? To hell with it. I'm just going to run with it and see where it goes...that's what this is all about, surely?

Fiction Friday #2

Tweet Here's my attempt for this week's Fiction Friday challenge on the Write Anything blog. Today's challenge is;

A couple of adults get dressed up for some Halloween fun but the night doesn’t go as planned…

"Are you ready, honey?"

"Almost."

William adjusted his tie and smoothed down his hair with one hand. He grimaced slightly at the oily feel of the gel Mary had insisted he use.

The top step creaked as his wife made her way down the stairs. A halo of tight black curls surrounded her pale face, and she'd balanced a pair of horn-rimmed glasses on her nose. A string of pearls drew his attention to her neck, that beautiful neck which first attracted him to her so many years before.

"Sweetheart, you look amazing!"

"Thank you, darling. You look rather handsome yourself. I love that look on you." Mary smiled at him as she twirled, giving him a better look at the pastel pink skirt suit she’d found in a thrift store.

"Then we're ready?"

"Almost. I just need my treat bag."

Mary darted into the kitchen, her heels clacking on the wooden floor. She came back carrying two plastic pumpkins with black handles, found in the bargain bin of the 24-hour supermarket over on Eighth Street. Mary handed one to William, and beamed.

Leaving the house, William thought of just how clever their costumes were. 1950s car salesman, and dutiful wife. Such a normal choice, so different from their normal selves. The Pattinsons would simply crack up.

"It's quiet, isn't it?" said Mary. He could hear her sniffing the cold night air as she peered into the gloom ahead.

"Yeah. I thought all the neighbourhood kids would have been out trick or treating, or something," replied William. He heard faint footsteps behind them.

"It is late, I suppose. Maybe they've all gone home."

A rustle made William look sharply at the dark bushes to their right. Four shapes melted out of the shadows, forming as gangly young men in front of them. The tallest, a buck-toothed youth with greasy blond hair and bad acne, stepped forward. He held a flick knife in his badly bandaged left hand.

"Money. Now."

William and Mary exchanged a glance. The initial surprise on Mary's face morphed into excitement. William suppressed a snigger.

"What's so funny, Pops? Gimme your money, or I'll cut ya." The youth's voice squeaked as he struggled to sound threatening.

"You're supposed to say, 'Trick or treat', you fool." Mary stepped towards him, suddenly seeming so much taller than her usual 5ft 3ins.

"What? Just give us your money." A second youth spoke. He stood behind the first, lank black hair curling over the collar of his biker jacket.

William heard Mary growl, a soft rumble rolling around her throat.

"Er, trick or treat?" The first youth took a tiny step backward. William noticed the knife trembling in his hand.

"Treat. For us!"

Mary pounced on the blond, knocking his knife to the ground. He cried out as he hit the tarmac, his cry turning into a wet gurgle as she sank her fangs into his neck. His three accomplices screamed as they fled down the street. William watched them leave.

Mary looked up from the corpse, blood smeared across her face. Her eyes faded from yellow to green as she smiled at William.

"Did you enjoy that?" he asked.

"Yes. I’ve had better, but he’ll do for now. Do you think they’ll tell anyone?"

"They’ll try, but who’ll believe them? Come on, let's get rid of this as quick as we can. We don't want to be late."

Mary stood up, straightening her jacket. William bent to grasp the ankles of the body, dragging it behind them. He would dump it in the Pattinsons' pond.

The Fugitive (Flash Fiction)

Tweet Charlie crouched under the porch, listening intently. The pounding of feet on the stairs subsided hours ago, but that didn't mean they weren't hiding, waiting for him. His ears buzzed with silence as he lay there with his head cocked on one side.

He poked his head out into the backyard. Abandoned toys littered the lawn, but their owners were nowhere in sight. Breathing a sigh of relief, he crawled out into the open. Almost immediately, a rough hand grabbed his collar and dragged him toward the house.

Yet again, he had failed to escape his monthly bath.

Literary Remixes

Tweet The tendency towards remakes and sequels has been present in cinema for decades now, but for a long time it seemed that literature stood apart. A book was an individual creation by an author/genius, and was therefore sacrosanct. They could be adapted for performance in the theatre, or on screen, but it was rare for other authors to continue the story, or to retell it altogether. However, this seems to have changed over recent years, with more authors 'retelling' classic fairytales, or taking inspiration from earlier works.

There have already been plenty of novels released that either continue the story after the final page of classics such as Mansfield Park, or that tell the story of an alternative character (see the series of 'Diary' novels for Jane Austen's heroes), but now a new literary 'remix' trend seems to have exploded out of leftfield. Horror is being injected into the works of Austen - we've already had Pride & Prejudice & Zombies, Sense & Sensibility & Sea Monsters and Mr Darcy, Vampyre, with Vampire Darcy's Hunger: A Pride and Prejudice Adaptation due in December. Exactly what has prompted this trend? Personally, I can't help thinking that a great deal of it relates to the publishing world's grudging acceptance that women do read horror, and they enjoy it. They also enjoy romance and the classics, so...why not combine the two?

However, I cannot work out whether this trend either devalues the original classic, or devalues the horror genre as a whole. Horror is a particular genre, defined less by its iconography, themes or typical characters and more by the feeling it provokes in the reader or viewer. It has long been seen as the 'poor man' of both literature and cinema, looked down upon by loftier genres, a sort of 'trash' for a less discerning audience. Therefore on one hand, injecting this 'lowest common denominator' genre into classic novels brings the reputations of these novels into a sort of disrepute. The subtle social commentary or historical value of such works is obliterated by the introduction of zombies, vampires and sea monsters, rendering the (often poorly written) original text almost worthless. However on the other hand, horror is actually a complex means of conveying wider themes as it reflects social anxieties current at the time of its inception, and to ham-fistedly cram it into a classic novel tells the world that actually, horror is a bit of silliness, only good for amusing or entertaining the reader as a new spin is put on a well-known story.

Beyond this, I also can't work out why it seems to only be Jane Austen's work that is so far afflicted. She only wrote six full novels, two of which are in my opinion truly dire (Mansfield Park and Emma, in case you were wondering), and surely there are other authors with a larger oeuvre who would benefit from the introduction of a little silliness in their stories? Charles Dickens is a po-faced bore at the best of times, and I can't help thinking that a scene depicting Pip battling a werewolf Miss Havisham would truly improve the work as a whole.

Still, it's an interesting trend, and with any luck will prove that horror is a viable genre for female readers. I shall be watching with interest...

The image in this post is actually a drawing by me!

The Music Man (Flash)

Tweet The peace doesn't last on a Tuesday morning. Footsteps ring out on the cobbles as streams of notes curl down the street like wisps of smoke. Children too young for school press their faces against windows, and adults stand smiling in doorways. Coins flash in the air, and for once, money buys happiness as the music man goes by.