Thursday, September 24th, 2009

the shark jumped house – an eruption

Oh, come on, for the love of something that you scriptwriting people actually love, your gnawed pencils, perhaps, or your iPhones with the witty applications. Not that I have any hope that writing this stuff down will do any good externally, meaning as it concerns you scriptwriting folk, but venting does help the entity that is letting go of steam, thus in this case, me. It’s self-medication, really, right up your alley. Pompeji likely might be less of an attraction of death and doom today if Mount Vesuvius had vented just a little more and exploded in fire and brimstone and rivers of ash a little less.

So I saw the double hour season premiere of House last night, and was, by and large, not very much amused. To frame the impending venting, House has always been a glorified soap opera. The medical profession that the show supposedly was about was never portrayed in anything resembling realism, the acerbic wit and deep insights were ever only shallow facade to elevate Laurie’s unshaven jerk, and greater responsibilities are on the mind of hardly anybody on TV, it would seem, no matter how multimillioned the audience. Sure, walk into MR rooms to have a secret chat without checking your pockets, it’s only TV after all, and if you do it in real life and kill a patient, it’s your own bloody fault.

And that’s not even the venting, yet. So the season opening shows House dealing with his depression and darkness, except it doesn’t. The message of these two hours is that all it takes to emerge from an existential crisis is a stretched out hand and a few pills, and the shallowness and sheer stupidity of such an assertion in the face of a civilization choking on epidemic numbers of the clinically depressed is astounding. I say this, of course, assuming that following episodes will not put the lie to this soppy, infuriating opener.

Which isn’t the main beef necessitating venting, at all. They also missed a very obvious pun for Mr Smartass to make, when he referred to the new treatment method of blackmail, it should have been blackmail by a black male, much more acerbically witty this way, and unsubtly active-agressive, indicating this and that, though, in fairness, that might have been implied in his saying blackmail the way he did, though again on the other hand, this would be uncharacteristically subtle in an episode where everything gets named and thus nothing gets pointed out at all.

But that’s a bit beside the point and not raising the gas pressure very much at all, either, of course. So then House steals a car, abducts a delusional patient and endangers the guy’s life, all to prove a point. And but what should happen next but him getting absolution from a cringe inducing German, Franka Potente of all people, for his improvised manslaughter attempt, because, get this: he meant well. Says the German, in her German accent. Hugs all around. Aww.

Which still isn’t the truly upsetting part and not what I would want to vent superheated acidic gases from a rocky orifice for under normal circumstances. But now if I am somehow connecting this to politics, in a country recently obsessed with Nazis and socialists and its bloody misguided war in the Middle East, parsing Bush as the leader type with issues who took Iraq out for a ride to make a point, and, oops, Iraq jumped off a crumbling wall, if I make this connection and then hear an American written German absolve the whole mess because, hey, at least he meant well, then the sheer level of lack of reflection, emotional or intellectual depth, and moral bancrupcy becomes a tad much to bear. It’s OK to ruin someone, as long as you MOVE ON ALREADY, like the Deutschländer did. Uh huh. Thanks, daddy-o, feeling much better already, moving on, nothing to see here.

So that finally this now is the actual lava-deferring and eruption-avoiding hot air bubbling to the surface here in the middle of this wasteland of a post: why on the face of this abominably hurling rock of dirt and shit and seas full of plastic waste, all stuck together by quark and glue am I even watching this mindless drivel, still, and will very likely tune in again next Monday, see if I don’t? Just what kind of a passively watching mindless superdrone am I?

Do not answer this, please. Ha, see? I control your mind now. All through the power of venting.

Tuesday, June 16th, 2009


Fragmente eines Verrisses des unterirdisch schlechten “Auf der Spur des Engels” von Herbert W. Franke:

“[…] Science Fiction, das Universum, in dem Autoren und Leser sonderbare Welten umkreisen[…] Vier Hefte Perry Rhodan wöchentlich durch das Austragen von Perry Rhodan zu finanzieren: Anfängerdealerfehler […] naiv und reaktionär […] schon heute veraltet […] hier stimmt rein gar nichts […] Romanzen auf Pennälerniveau […]”

Laßwitz-Preis für besten deutschsprachigen Science-Fiction-Roman 2007. Das hätte einem vor dreissig Jahren auch keiner geglaubt.

Saturday, January 7th, 2006

Robert Lieberman – Legends of Earthsea (5)

When I realized three minutes into the movie, that the script had swapped Ged/Sparrowhawk’s true and public names, I suspected impending doom. It’s a minor detail, but it betrays all the reckless disrespect and cluelessness, as well as the love affair with superficial deepness (Sparrowhawk! Doesn’t it just sound more magical!) that makes this one of the most horrid adaptations of written material to the screen I’ve ever seen. So much money and effort, so foolishly and pointlessly wasted, with some of the most subtle storytelling in fiction warped into a crude, martial mockery. The only good thing about this disgrace is that in contrast, Le Guin’s books shine all the more. If you think you want to watch this, shoot yourself in the foot instead and moan for three hours. At least that way you’ll have learned something.

Friday, December 23rd, 2005

Robots (5)

If there’s anything meaningful that’s not sickeningly cute and mindlessly inspirational in this movie after the first fifteen minutes, feel free to knock up the rating to a solid “4/avoid”. We switched off when pabot told sonbot to follow his life’s dream, cause pabot never did and now sorely regrets it. Sniff. To think of all the cool gadgets that could have been made from the robot parts if the moviemakers (Two directors! Two writers! Ack!) would have done as father did, not as he says.