Wed, 16 May 2012 08:40:57 -0800WeeblyMon, 14 May 2012 09:15:41 -0800http://www.swordwhale.com/2/post/2012/05/the-avengers.htmlOther than knowing a calico cat (who lived to the epic age of  21) named “Pirate Jenny: Agent of Shield”, I had no familiarity with Marvel comics’ Avengers series. X-Men, yes, Batman and Superman (DC), yes: they were  icons of 60s TV as well as the first superheroes of the 20th century. I watched the Bill Bixby/ Lou Ferrigno version of the Hulk, so I knew the big green guy. I
read Norse myth, lived in Aelfheim (a house in State College named by some fellow fantasy fans) and hung out with Vikings (sailing two different Viking longships over the years with the Longship Company) so I knew who Thor and Loki and Odin were. I grew up on Robin Hood (the 50s British version) and fell in love with another archer when I first read Lord of the Rings in 1978... then I
played a few Elvish archers  while kicking orc butt on paper in D&D, and fired a few real arrows into the air (mostly, into the air) with the SCA. Somewhere about 1981 I dyed my hair red,
picked up a sword and spent some time beating up guys in armour.
 
So some of the Avengers is beginning to look very familiar. Verrrry familar: some of it was shot in Pennsylvania.
 
I am sucked through the imaginative wormhole into comic book films as easily as I find my way into Middle Earth, or the worlds of Pixar and Aardman and Lucas and Spielberg and Burton, Miyasaki and Rodenberry. I loved Ironman, Captain America and totally missed Thor. 
 
Bad Viking. Ggzzzzzzzzzzzzzottttzzz!!!
 
The Blockbuster had closed, and I loathe the epic journey into the city to find a merchant for the little round disks that I can put in my magic movie playing box.
 
Then someone put up the Evil That Is Red Box.... right there at the Walgreens on the corner of my not quite rural anymore road. I approached the Evil Box, looked for directions. The screen flashed ominously. I poked at it. 
 
After more poking, some conversing like a mariner, and some mighty wishing for my own version of Mjolnir, I succeded in wresting a copy of Thor from it for a buck and some change.
 
Somewhere in the first five minutes of the film, it was apparent that writer, actor (Chris Hemsworth, you rock!) and director had nailed the character I remembered from the myths. The good hearted summation of the power of lightning and thunder and forge, the warrior who’d take out an entire army by himself to protect his people, then pass around a few dozen kegs. Oh yes, and the overenthusiastic hotheadedness and the Fall From Grace (how often in myths, comics and cartoons it is a literal fall from a great height), and the Learning What It Means To Be Mortal, and the Offering of Oneself In Place of the People as the Sacrificial Hero, and the Regaining of Power... with a bit more wisdom this time. They had done a nifty sci-fi twist on the myths; Asgard and Jotunheim and the rest are actual planets connected by a “world tree” of energy and wormholes in space. A character quotes Arthur C. Clarke at one point (famous sci-fi writer, he did that 2001 a Space Odessey thing); “any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic”. Thor is a wonderful fish out of water, floundering about in the 21st century without a clue. He has the heart of a Golden Hero, mere mortal strength (he has some trouble adjusting to that) and a serious problem with a relative. How he regains his power, the emotional arc of the character, all plays beautifully in the midst of some great action and gorgeous settings (Asgard, space, New Mexico). The girl who runs into him with her van (twice) is a science geek who helps him adjust. I hope they bring her back. 

One of my favorite bits of the Thor myth, missing in the film (but apparently not in the comic) is his chariot pulled by goats. I've had a number of goats in my life, including one Toggenburg wether (neutered male) who we taught to pull a cart. He's been replaced by three Siberian huskies in this decade, but I have always loved goats.   Tanngrisnir (Old Norse "teeth-barer, snarler") and
Tanngnjóstr (Old Norse "teeth grinder") are the goats of Thor, mentioned in the Poetic Edda (13th century) and the Prose Edda. Goats generally do not bare teeth, snarl, bite, kick or do much of anything else obnoxious and predatory; they're pretty mild mannered. But, then, these are Asgardian goats.

Perhaps the films could have him driving a Dodge Ram... though the appearance of a goat chariot in the midst of a traffic jam would be hilarious. Especially when everyone expects Heroes to drive up on a White Horse.

I noted that all of the characters in the Avengers (also, Spiderman and other comcic film adaptations) move and fight in very specific ways; it appears to echo the wonderful poses of the comcis... and it does. Here's what Chris Hemsworth had to say about Thor;
      ... gained 20 pounds for the role by eating non-stop and revealed that "It wasn't until Thor that I started lifting weights, it was all pretty new to me". Regarding his take of the character, Hemsworth said, "We just kept trying to humanize it all, and keep it very real. Look into all the research about the comic books that we could, but also bring it back to 'Who is this guy as a person, and what's his relationship with people in the individual scenes?'" About approaching Thor's fighting style, he remarked, "First, we looked at the comic books and the posturing, the way [Thor] moves and fights, and a lot of his power seems to be drawn up through the ground. We talked about boxers, you know, Mike Tyson, very low to the ground and big open chest and big shoulder swings and very sort of brutal but graceful at the same time, and then as we shot stuff things became easier.

It occured to me, somewhere along the line, that Thor is a Leo. Big-hearted, extroverted, strong, thunder and lightning and fire, wild-maned, hotheaded, sometimes arrogant Leo. He is born to be a leader (as Leos are) but must learn compassion and wisdom before he can. And that's what makes him someone I can relate to, empathize with, even though I'm female.

Oh yeah, and he's hot.

In the film, the imagery of Heimdall, the all seeing Guardian of Bifrost, the Rainbow Bridge, was awesome: Idris Elba, he of the awesome real name, and the glowing eyes, the imposing figure in golden armour. Elba's casting prompted a proposed boycott by the Council of Conservative Citizens and a debate amongst comic book fans, some insisting it was wrong for a black man to play a Nordic god. In response Elba called the debate "ridiculous". To these idiots I say: "What part of Rainbow Bridge do you not understand?

And Natalie Portman's take on her character? Worth repeating, especially to young women... 'What a great opportunity, in a very big movie that is going to be seen by a lot of people, to have a woman as a scientist'. She's a very serious scientist. Because in the comic she's a nurse and now they made her an astrophysicist. Really, I know it sounds silly, but it is those little things that makes girls think it's possible. It doesn't give them a [role] model of 'Oh, I just have to dress cute in movies'".
 
I returned the epic on Thorsday, and the Avengers appeared on Friday (which I believe has something to do with Freya). 
 
I postponed a date with Johnny Depp to see this.... ok, I postponed a viewing of Dark Shadows to see Avengers instead...
 
OK, that was fun. Definitely fun.
 
The only characters I was unfamiliar with were Black Widow and Hawkeye. And they were quickly introduced and explained. Hawkeye is the archetypal Archer, the same figure as Robin Hood and Legolas. He of the keen eye, the perfect aim... and mere mortal powers among Superheroes. The Black Widow is a little too slinky, too deceptive, too pretty for me to identify with, but when she goes into action... holycrap she’s awesome crazy!
 
So, we have our band of misfits... (oh, wait, that was Aardman). The Keen-eyed Archer, the Dangerous Beautiful Woman, the Purehearted Golden Hero, a high tech Trickster Hero, the Beast (or Jekyll and Hyde), and another Golden Hero with a good heart and a really big hammer.
 
And a villain: complex as the best are. The interplay between Thor and Loki is great; the tension of brothers, of secrets that grew bigger and toothier in the dark, of power, recognition and love wanted, and lost. And of the difference between Hero and Villain... the line is very thin. Both Thor and Loki have their falls from grace. So far, only Thor has redeemed himself by offering himself up as the Sacrificial Hero.
 
There are two Tricksters here, and a wonderful scene between them. There is Loki, the iconic Trickster of Norse myth, dark and brooding and manipulative, he would probably score quite high on the Psycopath Test I heard about on NPR the other day. Then there is Ironman. Yep, Trickster. A lighter, funnier, generally goodhearted one. And it is his unusual heart that fuels the confrontation. Loki, who has already done Evil Mind Control on Hawkeye and a scientist tries it on Ironman... it fizzles. We laugh. The Ultimate Trickster tricked by another Trickster.
 
There are other great little moments; a knock down (trees), drag out (vast tracts of land), blow heroes) out (of the scene) battle between our heroes (before they figure out they are, in fact, on the same side): Thor, Captain America and Ironman. I think this is something comic book writers love: “Wonder what would  happen if we pitted a demigod with an irrisistable force against a superhero with an immoveable object...” The clash between Cap’s shield and Thor’s hammer... well, epic. Hulk has some great momets, including a clash with Loki himself. Let’s just say it's what you want to do to all the Stupid People you meet every day...
 
The creatures that come through the wormhole to level Manhattan looked a bit like a number of other Epic City Levelling Critters of Sci-Fi-Land. There are only so many ways you can make something look scary to humans, and generally it requires plugging into the unconcious, to the imagery of predators in the dark (glowing eyes, big teeth), slimy tentacles, bones (especially on the
outside of bodies), slithery snakelike movements, and stuff that looks like bugs that are waaaaaaaaaaaay too big.
 
I note that WETA did some of this, and as always, they are awesome. The Epic City Levelling Critters resemble, slightly, the ones from Transformers, Dark of the Moon. Those were mechanical constructions that coiled, slithered and flowed, snakelike, through the city. Avengers’ Critters swim
through the air like giant mosasaur skeletons with photon torpedoes. There’s a great little Jonah and the Whale reference from Ironman.
 
The film is full of GLMs (great little moments); one liners (Thor: “He’s adopted.”), Hulk casually punching out one of his teammates at the end of a fight (payback’s are a stitch), Hawkeye shooting down flying BEMs (bug-eyed monsters) without looking, the Black Widow doing an entire fight
scene... while strapped to a chair. Thor crashlanding spectacularly, then approaching Mjolnir, hand outstretched... and nothing happens...
 
Thor summoning lightning.
 
The Black Widow flying a BEM bike... with the BEM still attached.
 
“Was the Hullk scary?” I heard a dad ask his preschooler (hey, yeah, it’s PG-13). Yes, he was. And the actor playing the Bruce Banner half was the perfect slightly Stephen Hawking scientist.
 
There’s a nifty camera shot of the Heroes in a Last Stand Circle, camera panning around them, one of those Iconic movie Moments.
 
Of Thor and Loki in a confrontation on a dark hill... and two ravens fly past, croaking. A flash of dark feathers and gone.
 
Hugin and Munin, thought and Memory. Odin’s ravens. Dad is still watching....
 
Avengers generally follows the Hero Journey format that works so well for this genre. We gather the heroes, they disagree, they disagree louder and harder, it seems like they will never work as a team, they get a Reason to work as a team, they wade into battle... 

Josh Whedon, on just that subject: (at the 2010 San Diego Comic Con International), what drew him to the movie is that he loves how "these people shouldn't be in the same room let alone on the same team—and that is the definition of family."
 
There are enough surprises to keep you from guessing what’s next. Despite the number of characters, it makes sense, each one gets developed, gets great little moments that endear them to us, make us identify with them, even if we don’t have superpowers, or flying cars, or a really big
hammer. It lifts us, as all good myths do, out of our mundane world into the Realm of Possibilities, the place where we can be our own superheroes.

And it'll surely send some of us to the toy dept. for a set of those Hulk fists, or a Nerf Mjolnir...
 
 
 
 
 
]]>Fri, 23 Mar 2012 11:16:58 -0800http://www.swordwhale.com/2/post/2012/03/the-hunger-games.htmlI grew up on the likes of Star Trek; which, despite rampaging Klingons and Salt Vampires and the guy in the red shirt getting eatern by the alien slime monster, showed us a pretty hopeful future; touch screens and slidey doors and tricorders and fliptop communicators that would beam us all up to Big Adventure.

So I'm not much for dystopian apocalyptic futures. I like worlds you want to go live in, worlds I can explore, worlds I can run around in. Worlds with galloping horses and rising moons and trees and Elves who talk to them. Maybe that's a bit escapist. J.R.R. Tolkien said something about that, that of course you'd want to escape your dreary mundane grind. But fantasy and SF are not escapist; you step out from under the trees of your own forest (into the world of the story) so you can see your forest more clearly.  Good SF/fantasy is a Hero Journey (go ahead, read some Joseph Campbell, George Lucas did) in which the Hero crosses a threshold into another world, journeys there, overcomes obstacles (with the aid of magic, tech, helpful wizards, talking animals, Obi-Wan and Gandalf, etc.) and returns to his/her world with a boon for the home village; a Grail found, a One Ring or Death Star destroyed.

The Hunger Games fulfills the Hero Journey model, down to the Hero(ine) being a rather ordinary person, no Warrior trained from birth, no "you're the last of the Jedi", no "you're a wizard, Harry", no "you know that ring you got from the little gnarly guy in the cave? You know all those Black Riders out there lurking in the shrubbery? Well..."

I first heard about The Hunger Games in a program on YA fiction at Balticon 2011. It sounded interesting. It gives us a girl who does far more than obsess over pale glittery boys with weird teeth and no frontal lobes. Katniss is a Hero in the finest sense of the word, an ordinary girl from a coal mining district (which echoes Appalachia, pre-WWII... in fact, it IS Appalachia, post apocalypse) who offers herself in place of her very young sister for The Games. Teens put their names in a lottery; the more you enter, the more supplies you get for your starving family... and the higher your odds of being chosen for The Games.

The Hunger Games are a penance, a (ironically, Rue, one of the characters, is a synonym for pennance as well as an herb) for an uprising against the Capital. A teen boy and teen girl are chosen from each district, each year. They fight in an unsettling cross between a reality show and Roman gladiatorial combat... only one emerges the victor...and alive.

The Capital is rich, everyone else is poor. The Capital is decadent, baroque, over the top. It's as if Elton John's designers had taken a tour through the Baroque period, the hot pink section of a toy store, and collided in a black hole with Andy Warhol and the dark side of Tim Burton. Brilliant creativity from the film's designers; it gives just the right cringing vomitive aura to the hideously artifical world of the villains. The "luxurious" apartments that our Heroine is escorted into are a sterile museum of artifice. When she picks up a remote and cues a holographic wall it shows her, first busy city streets, then a desert, then her own forest; the only "real" thing there is an illusion.

The poverty stricken coal mining district at least has the forest at its back, where Katniss practices her woodcraft and archery skills (her name is related to the Latin word sagittate, meaning shaped like an arrowhead). Some of her opponents are trained warriors (kids from rich districts who are trained from birth for the Games). She is not. She is a more classic hero, the Luke Skywalker, the Frodo Baggins, the one who takes on the Journey even though "I do not know the way" (Frodo, the LOTR films). Like all classic White Hat Heroes, she doesn't strike first (even though the point of the Game is to kill off everybody else). She runs. She hides. She uses woodcraft. She waits. She shows compassion. She sacrifices. She kills when cornered, and then, reluctantly. Actress Jennifer Lawrence (Katniss) is ... well... just wonderful, "providing a much higher level of acting than is normally requird in action films" (Clint O'Connor; the Plain Dealer). I belive her, I relate to her, and so do, apparently many others, teens or older. And it was nice to see Josh Hutcherson (Journey to the Center of the Earth) all (mostly) grown up.

There is a lot of reference to things Latin and Roman in the names; well worth researching. It adds layers of meaning to a story already awash in it.

The cinematography left a girl in my row reaching for the dramamine. There's a lot of handheld shaky camera (as if someone was running through the woods chasing the characters with a cell phone). There's the woo-woo-woozy camera effect when Katniss gets stung by hallucinagenic wasps. There's the PG-13 rating which doesn't let a gory story reach the level of say, 300; the shaky camera covers up much of the gore... and much of the martial arts. (whattheheck IS going on there?!?!?). In a book, even a YA, you can write anything (just not TOO graphic), and the reader will make their own movie in their head according to their experience. A nine year old told me she had no trouble reading Inkheart, but was going to wait till a bit older to see the film. A film puts the images right out there in front of you on a huge screen in surround sound, so the "let's hide stuff" camerawork gives you the sense of chaos, danger, panic...without the gore. Just bring the ginger root and dramamine.

As for me, I may have to check out the books.

Here's a brief description of the plot (wiki):
     In an interview with Collins, it was noted that the books tackle issues like severe poverty, starvation, oppression, and the effects of war among  others. The book deals with the struggle for self-preservation that the people of Panem face in their districts and the Hunger Games in which they must participate. The starvation and need for resources that the citizens encounter both in and outside of the arena create an atmosphere of helplessness that the main characters try to overcome in their fight for survival. Katniss's proficiency with the bow and arrow stems from her need to hunt in order to provide food for her family—this necessity results in the development of skills that are useful to her in the Games, and represents her rejection of the Capitol's rules in the face of life-threatening situations. The choices the characters make and the strategies they use are often morally complex. The tributes build a personality they want the audience to see throughout the Games. Voice of Youth Advocates (VOYA) names the major themes of The Hunger Games as  "government control, big brother, and personal independence". The Capitol makes watching the games required viewing. The theme of power and downfall, similar to that of Shakepseare's Julius Caesar, was pointed out by Scholastic

And here's a review:

http://rogerebert.suntimes.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20120320/REVIEWS/120319986

“The Hunger Games” is an effective entertainment, and Jennifer Lawrence is
strong and convincing in the central role. But the film leapfrogs obvious
questions in its path, and avoids the opportunities sci-fi provides for social
criticism; compare its world with the dystopias in “Gattaca” or “The Truman
Show.”  Director Gary Ross and his writers (including the series'
author, Suzanne Collins) obviously think their audience wants to see lots of
hunting-and-survival scenes, and has no interest in people talking about how a
cruel class system is using them. Well, maybe they're right. But I found the
movie too long and deliberate as it negotiated the outskirts of its moral
issues." (Ebert)



  ]]>Fri, 17 Feb 2012 19:57:24 -0800http://www.swordwhale.com/2/post/2012/02/calling-owls.html20120217: Nightfall: Hanover Junction on the York County Rail Trail.

It had been a warm sunny day, toasty enough my three huskies degenerated to a pitty pat trot towing the rig down a different set of trails at Pinchot Park. By the time I fed them and tucked them away in their kennel, the lack of sun and clouds had called back Winter. I scarfed down some leftover chicken, some goat cheese (made on my stove with milk I'd personally wrestled from two somewhat reluctant goats) and veggies. I bundled into the Good Jacket (a $3 yard sale leather special, painted with a raven, an orca, and a near likeness of one of my sleddogs), added a few more layers, found the headlamp with the red mode, and headed to Hanover Junction for Nixon Park's Owl Walk. The Rail Trail, like Nixon Park, is part of the York County Park system, with which I volunteer, whose walls I have painted randomly, and who put on great public education programs. Tonight, Rose-Anna Behr would lead us on a Quest for Screech Owls, with a CD player (not loud enough) and a wheelchair (colorful injury sustained playing games with refrigerator sized guys on ice).

It was cold, cold enough I wished the Rail Trail was open at night, the dogs would have loved a run right now. It was dark (owls are nocturnal)... but not really dark enough. Light pollution from dozens of houses lining the Trail, headlights of cars roaring past on the roads, the old rail station of Hanover Junction (which Lincoln once visited) lit like a Christmas tree.

We left the parking lot, turned haw, north up the trail (at a considerably slower pace than the three screaming Siberians I normally leave Hanover Junction with). After discovering that wheelchairs go over bumps backwards (big wheels first) better than forwards, Rose-Anna finds a spot, we all stop in the semi-dark, turn off our red flashlights (the better to preserve your night vision and not scare the wildlife), turn on the CD player, and listen.

There were a number of screech owl calls on the CD, we'd heard them in the preliminary lecture. The two main ones are the "ghost horse whinny" a sort of eerie descending "whoooee eee eee eee  eee!" and the tremelo, which sounds like giant crickets who might have a shot at winning American Idol (insect-like, but mellow). We played the whinny, waited, played it again, and from far off came a faint tremelo. Then another from another direction, and another.

The owls remained invisible. They are small (about the size of your hand, and the weight of a can of tuna), camoflaged (either tree-grey or mottled chestnut... with an occasional one in chocolate), and a prey item (larger owls eat them).

We moved farther up the trail, called again, to no avail. Turned, wrestled the wheelchair back over some bumps, listened to the sound of running water in the dark (a stream runs along the trail, making this prime screechie habitat). Stopped, played the calls. Stood straining our ears into the dark, past the distant dogs, the rush of traffic. Overhead Orion climbed up the sky.

No owls answered this time.

Another spot, farther south. We decide the CD player (cranked to max volume) is inadequate. We play it anyway, tweeting our message into the night.

No owls.

Down the trail in the near-dark, more recorded calls. No answer from the wooded skyline. No answer from the pines lining the trail. From the bare branches of deciduous trees in backyards (prime nesting sites).

No owls.

"Looks like we had all our luck at the beginning," someone says.

It's cold, we're thinking fondly of the hot chocolate and cookies waiting at the station. We head back, stop in the dark, play the CD. Move closer to the station...

One...last...time.

Silence (of the owls, at least). Then the kid points off into the trees, dark brushstrokes against a deep slate sky. We strain our ears.

Nothing. That's it. Time to quit. To go in for chocolate. To warm up. No more owls tonight.

We are standing in front of the brightly lit station, someone jokes that the owl should land right there in that tree. Just picture it.

"Whee e eeeeeeeeeeeee eeeeeeeeeeee eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" goes the CD.

And out of the dark comes an answer, a faint tremelo.

Then a pale flash against the dark trees, silent wings heading out of the canopy down to the bottomlands by the creek.

We stare after it, trying to guess where it went in the dark. We play the owl songs again.

We wait. You know that bated breath thing is a reference to wings...

Wait.

And out of the dark comes a mothlike flash of pale grey. And the owl has settled on a branch right above our heads. It stares into our lights, into the lights of the rail station, whinnying at an owl that doesn't exist. From the other side of the station comes a faint answering tremelo. Someone fires off a camera (which refuses to focus in the dark). The owl, clearly one of the chestnut ones, stares and whinnies.

If we had given up a minute sooner...

Owl is seen by Native cultures as a messenger. As the Guardian of the Gates between worlds. Screechies are one of the species which are not endangered, not threatened... in fact, they're doing just fine. Part of the reason is they are generalists; they eat anything that moves, they aren't fussy about habitat, or nesting sites. Part of the reason is they are cryptic, camoflaged, hard to see. A tough little guy in a world of much larger predators. As a wildlife rehab volunteer, I have held them on a gloved hand, their wide eyes taking in more than ours ever could, their sharp little talons stronger than they look, their camo feathers covered in silencing velvet, the leading edges of their wings fringed to make them the stealth bombers of the bird world. A lot of awesome in a tiny package. I've known several personally: Dead-eye, the red one who looked like a mad wizard with her one-eyed squint. A little grey one we carried into lectures, making third graders go wide-eyed in amazement.

And then there is one owl in the dark, at the last moment before we gave up the Quest.
 
Messenger. ]]>Tue, 13 Dec 2011 20:36:16 -0800http://www.swordwhale.com/2/post/2011/12/arthur-christmas-move-over-hermie.htmlArthur Christmas



When I was a kid, Rudolph the  Red-Nosed Reindeer was the height of animation technology, it aired every  Christmas without fail, and if I failed to see it, I had a ten year old
meltdown. As an adult, I note the awfulness of the very basic stop motion
animation, and the awesomeness of the classic Hero Journey structure of the
story (read some Joseph Campbell if you don’t know what a Hero Journey is). As a
kid I related to the misfits (Rudolph; Hermie the Elf who had the coolest job on
the planet but wanted to be a dentist) and their struggles to find their place
in the circle of life...
 
...oh, wait, that's another story.
 
Enter the 21st century. Ho ho ho  hum, another chipmunk movie, another rom com,  another...
 
What's this? Another offering by  the awesome geekiness that is Aardman (or is it Aardmaan???). Those brilliant  Brits who brought us Wallace and Grommit (and the Wrong Trousers), Curse of the
Were-rabbit, a moon made of real cheese, a pet rat who gets Flushed Away, and a  riff on WWII prison camp escapes called Chicken  Run.
 
They have left behind their  clever stop motion animation, trading it for CG, as the Santas trade in the old  sled of carved and bent wood for the S1 (which looks as if the USS Enterprise
had spawned an illegitimate hatchling with a giant space squid). The CG still
has the look of Aardman, of their great characterizations and designs (the S1 is
actually quite awesome, and it's resemblance to the Enterprise may or may not be
intentional; it certainly looks like what our generation thinks of as a
spaceship). It's just easier to do snow, and hair, and stuff blowing around with
CG (it's impossible with stop motion).
 
Arthur is the younger, geekier son of the present Santa and Mrs. You know, the one who can never do anything  right, the one who has the Perfect Older Brother Who Will One Day Be Santa (if
the present, rather absentminded one ever ever retires!). The Older Brother With  SixPack Abs, Christmas Camo, and a military haircut... it took me half the movie to realize his closecut goatee was in the shape of a Christmas tree.
 
It's the stuff I loved about Rudolph in the 60s. Here, though, is a family we can identify with, imperfect, complex, warm, funny, the characters go beyond stereotype. They may begin as
archetypes, but then they take off at mach ten in their own mad directions.
There are fine little clues to character; Mrs. Claus, after playing the grandmotherly role of getting dinner ready and herding the family together, sitting down to the table with her sewing... we see some slashes on her jacket she is mending... she says something about polar bears and it's really good I took that defense course...

 There's Grandsanta, using a  reindeer antler as a crutch. The old reindeer in the doggie Elizabethan collar (those things you put on dogs to prevent them from bothering a wound). The
stable of young reindeer (animated beautifully; the artists clearly studied  reindeer) whose first flight is rather like beginner surfers on really big  waves. 

And the Elves. Despite my love of  Rudolph and Hermie, my idea of Elf is Legolas from Lord of the Rings. Steely  eyed and longbow wielding, able to talk to horses, trees, or rocks, run on snow,
and take down a hundred orcs with only a  knife.

Well, these are short, funny  looking, squeaky voiced... and somehow hilariously real. Sort of like the minions in Despicable Me...or not. Diverse. Bryony the Wrapping Elf who comes
along on the journey (using her skills as a wrapper of gifts) is beyond  brilliantly funny and quirky. Although I only figured out at the end of the film that she was a girl (must have been the mohawk). 
 
It is a film suitable for smallish kids…that will entertain the adults thoroughly. Up there with Pixar,
with the finest offerings of Disney. Of Miyasaki. It is a film without villains.
There is no grand battle of Good and Evil, only the quirky interactions of a
hilariously real family. There is grand adventure; eye-popping “effects”, action
that makes the price of 3D worth it. Each character has their own set of
obstacles, their own Hero Journey to accomplish (even GrandSanta and the ancient
reindeer). It has huge imagination. Small moments of warmth, of humor (the Elves
holding up cell phones with pictures of burning candles, rather than real
candles… the seal sliding off the surfacing S1… the polar bear who wanders into
Santaland because, darn it Arthur, SHUT THE DOOR, IT’S THE NORTH POLE! 
 
It bears watching a few times  over; there are a plethora of nifty details you’ll miss the first time…or the  second…or the 48th. It’s  one you want to own, and savor over and  over.
 
Move over Hermie; Bryony kicks  butt!


 
]]>Sun, 16 Oct 2011 09:57:14 -0800http://www.swordwhale.com/2/post/2011/10/the-villagers-are-coming-with-torches-to-the-longships-a-brief-history-of-viking-raids-and-why-its-really-dumb-to-burn-your-escape-pod.htmlAn email missive from one of our longship company members clarifies (with a heavy dose of common sense, and humor) the legend that Vikings burned their ships before a raid to prevent retreat. (A. they're the Ultimate Tough Guy image, you thing they're gonna retreat? B. how're they gonna escape with the booty...with no ships...) This was so good I had to post it...

On 10/13/2011 8:06 PM, T Neill wrote:  "Someone e-mailed Janet and me asking for help 
debunking a myth that Vikings burned their ships before a raid to prevent retreat. Here is our reply. Heavy on the snark but perhaps good for a laugh.  Research those myths before you pass them on, folks!"

"Dear Person  Who Asked –
  
Extraordinary claims require  extraordinary evidence. Ask her where is her evidence that they
burned  their ships upon landing?

For one thing, it’s absurd on its  face.Viking raids were snatch and run. Not snatch  and then  twiddle their thumbs on the beach loaded down with loot they have no way of  moving.These guys weren’t stupid. They were vastly outnumbered  in England, Scotland and Ireland when the raids started. If they’d stuck around with no method of retreat, the locals would have ganged up and killed them dead.

King Æthelread wouldn’t have been so Unræde and King Ælfred wouldn’t have  needed to be so Great if the Vikings had conveniently cut off their own  retreat.Their very success was because they could jump back in their ships and raid somewhere else faster than word could spread they were there.Come on, apply some rudimentary tactical logic. Even we know this stuff and we don’t even play a soldier on TV!This isn’t military policy from an organized State; it’s biker gangs raiding under-defended gold-studded monasteries. 

Which then morphs into the Danish Mafia running a  protection racket in Danegeld. For much of the Viking age, they’d threaten to  invade then allow themselves to be bought off to go away. King AEthelred the  Unrede (Ill-advised) paid thousands of pounds of silver in Danegeld. Can’t take  that home if they’d burned their ships.

In 865 a great army  of Vikings invaded England and stayed for years, raiding up and down both the  Eastern coast of  England and the western coast of Europe. Can’t do that  if they burned
their ships. Some stayed and settled in the Danelaw in England.  Some were offered land in France to stop them sacking Paris. (Northman’s  Land--Normandy)

There’s one hundred years between the  beginning of the Viking raids and the Danelaw being settled. What  did they do in  all that time with their ships burned?Run from  village to village  chased by the whole of the Fyrd?A bit tiring carrying all that  loot I should think.

The Vikings used their ships as transport so why burn them? Even if they won, they’d want
to keep them  for future raids, going home, and trading. Few Vikings were only raiders. Most  were also traders as opportunity presented itself. Viking is a job description  not an ethnic designation. Vikings raided. They didn’t settle. They took their  loot home and raided and traded more. Can’t do that if they’ve burned their  ships.

Other Norse settled and even they wouldn’t  burn their ships. They needed them for trade and
transport. York, Dublin, Cork, etc. were all trading towns that relied on trade  from unburned ships for wealth.

Take the Battle of  Maldon. The Vikings in that battle had been raiding along the Essex
coast before winning that  battle. (A classic case of the English snatching  defeat from the jaws of  victory.) The Vikings wouldn’t have been able to raid along the coast and get to  Maldon if they’d burned their ships when they landed.

If  they burned their ships (to force themselves to stay) then how did they go home  to bring their wives and kids back to settle? Raiding ships aren’t meant to hold  cattle and goods. Knars (a wider sort of ship) hold cattle and goods for  settling. But word has to get back to Norway or Denmark
for Wives and kids and cows to come over to the  conquered land. Need an unburned ship for that.

Let’s see.  King Harald Hardrata of Norway invaded England in September of 1066. He came  with over 300 ships and the remnants of his army only needed 24 ships to return  to the Orkneys and
overwinter before returning the rest of the way to Norway.  Well known historical data. The remnants wouldn’t have been able to get back to  the Orkneys if they’d burned their ships.

The first  recorded Viking raid in England was on the Monastery of Lindisfarne in 793 ad.
  Lindisfarne is an island and the raiders didn’t stick around. Two months  later the Monks were writing to the King and complaining about the raid. These  raids were followed by Jarrow (794) and Wearmouth (794), and Iona (795, 802 and 806). These raids were exclusively for money—if the Vikings burned their ships, how did they take the money away? And where did they take it to? Plus, Iona is an island.

Building a ship takes time--hundreds of man hours--and skill. And money. Why burn a very valuable asset?"


]]>Fri, 26 Aug 2011 20:09:02 -0800http://www.swordwhale.com/2/post/2011/08/earthquakes-hurricanes-pirates-sprit-topsls-and-duct-tapeor-how-i-spent-my-summer-vacation.htmlMy vacation this year included; an earthquake, a pirate voyage, a hurricane (and forced evacuation from a barrier island), pipefish, sandburrs, wild horses, spaceships and cowboys, and a lot of duct tape.

Each year (or more often if I can make it) I make a sort of pilgrimage to a set of barrier islands off the coast of Maryland and Virginia. Assateague is a long, low dragon shape, stretched across the MD/VA border. Chincoteague lies like a tiny egg inside the curve of Assateague's "tail" (The Hook). Assateague is home to wild horses, waterfowl, and sea life. Chincoteague is home to watermen, saltwater cowboys, art galleries and nifty shops, and the only wild horse roundup on the east coast.

First, the pirate ship. Lewes DE lies on the edge of DelMarVa. Occasionally, during the summer, it is the home port of a "pirate ship", the Kalmar Nyckel, a glorious big blue wedding cake of a vessel, carved and decorated and square rigged and cannoned, with a leaping lion on the bow and merrows on the stern and fighting tops aloft (so the crew can go, literally, "over the top"). A reproduction of the 1638 ship that brought the first settlers to Wilmington DE (New Sweden then), she does "pirate sails" out of Lewes, out into the open waters of the Delaware Bay. The guests are invited to help haul on lines, to sing sea shanties, to perch on windlass or cannon, to take ridiculously cool pictures of themselves with a set of 1630's rigging or deck carvings as the set. The crew is in period garb. They climb picturesquely aloft... with a purpose; to set the 17th century windmachine that will haul us out into the High Seas without fossil fuels (mostly, they do have backup engines). One young man tells a fun tale  of a kid who becomes a pirate for a day. Another talks about the real history (and misconceptions) of the Golden Age of Piracy. We learn Captain Lauren's last name is Morgan... we think she's a lot cooler than the guy on the rum bottle. We form a line and help set a tops'l. It's a lot harder than jumping in the car and turning a key. The Helmsman steers from a cubbyhole about the size of Harry Potter's closet. There is a huge stick (the whipstaff) attached to a tiller below the deck he's standing on, (the tiller attaches to the rudder, the whipstaff gives some mechanical advantage to the mere human attempting to heave the 100 foot ship on a new course). From HP's closet, the helmsman can see masts, yards, deck stuff, tourists, more tourists, rigging, and a tiny bit of water to port and another tiny bit to starboard. He mostly listens to the orders coming from the Captain, above. We set only the tops'ls (the big square bits above the bigger square bits on the masts... masts = levers that the wind pushes on... a light wind pushing on sails higher up... topsails... is more efficient)  as the wind is very light, and the deck is very full (of tourists). We also set the sprit tops'l.

The wha??? you say. Pay attention, this is significant. The boat has a big pointy thing in front: the bowsprit. It helps hold the whole thing together (standing rigging runs through the bowsprit and the masts, like a big string puzzle). The bowsprit on a 17th century Dutch vessel of this type has a sprits'l (a square sail slung low on the bowsprit like a baby's bib) and a sprit topsail, hung a bit higher. Kalmar is the only ship in the western hemisphere to have a sprit tops'l, and she doesn't usually set it. There's a guy from some museum ( in, I believe it was Sweden) who is sailing the next day to study how this works (they have an original vessel of this time period, raised from where it sank in a harbor on its maiden voyage; it was preserved by freshwater in the port... and the sewage... all of which created an anaerobic environment which preserved the ship). 

Not quite as ordinary as boarding a comuter flight to Miami.

Somewhere in the midst of the voyage, over the ship's radio, comes the earthquake report.

Back in PA, my uncle is sitting in the car, in a parking lot, waiting for my aunt. He feels someone "shaking the car"...turns around to see no-one.

Kalmar sails back to port with no rumbles felt, no tsunamis seen. We get some pirate booty (T-shirt, a cool line drawing of Kalmar) and I head south by land.

Chincoteague VA, island of the wild ponies, made famous by a 1940s book, Misty of Chincoteague (and 60s film) by Marguerite Henry. I saw it first in 1972, the last year Misty (the pony in the story) was alive. I toured her stable, saw her snoozing in the back corner of her stall (she was old, and her palomino gold color was faded to sand), and didn't take a picture (the flash would have disturbed her). She died a few months later. I never got the picture.

I park, find my buddies, we eat dinner, and someone produces a set of DVDs of a short run TV series called Firefly. It's a sort of post-apocalyptic sci-fi/western with a crew of pirate-smuggler-privateer types flying under the radar of the Evil Totalitarian Government that controls the galaxy. Sort of the opposite of Star Trek. The last image in the opening credits pretty much sums it up: a herd of thundering horses with a spaceship (firefly class, the ship of the title) zooming overhead. Over the next few nights, I find the need to stay up way too late, have too many beers (two, which leads to a headache, and a need to drink lots of water and find the porta-bucket in the middle of the night), and absorb the entire series at once.

I get up early for the Marine Explorers program done by the Park Service, we launch a couple of kayaks into Chincoteague Bay, I test the underwater housing from the Dark Ages given to me by a buddy (anybody remember the old Jaques Cousteau specials? Yeah, it's like that stuff), I use the giant sized kitchen strainer to sift out eelgrass, algae, sea-lettuce and a pipefush from the grass beds in the Bay,  climb the lighthouse in winds that led the lighthouse interpretive guide to suggest I batten down my hat, I try leaping the waves like I did when I first came to Assateague...

My knees reminded me that leaping like a dolphin is for 20 year olds.

Chris finds the first sandburr. I am aware of this by the sudden shrieks reminiscent of a torture scene in Firefly when the Captain is kidnapped by a psychopathic mobster. I find sandburrs (for the record, Teva sandals, the hiking/river/kayaking sort, are immune...the flipflops are like wearing marshmallows where sandburrs are concerned), Heather's bare feet find more sanburrs. She, always barefoot, resorts to the dreaded Shoe. I find more: on the edges of my longish shorts, stuck to the webbing of my sandals, under my toes...

The islands are full of vampires: several kinds of bloodsucking flies, several dozen kinds of bloodsucking mosquitoes, 3 kinds of ticks, and sandburrs. Perhaps if the Twilight series had been written here, it would actually be scary.

Then we got wind of the weather...

To quote the guy at the beginning of The Little Mermaid..."hurricane a'comin'!!!"

The skies remained sunny, the wind too brisk now for kayaks. The birds went about their business as usual; egrets and blue herons, tricolored herons and sandpipers fishing the shallows, beaks pumping like sewing machines in the sand at the sea's edge. Pelicans soared over the waves like pteradactyls. A mysterious fin surfaced near my kayak (maybe a dolphin).

Oh, we'll just have some rain the last two days of my vacation...I'll drive home Monday, as planned.

Went to the museum that used to be called The Oyster Museum. It's grown in scope from its days as an ode to the local industry. There are exhibits on local culture, waterfowl, the oyster industry, history, the fire company, watermen, the pony roundup...and Misty.

Really, Misty herself, in all her stuffed, taxidermied glory (along with her daughter, Stormy, who I once sketched alive). Taxidermy done by a well-meaning local craftsman with a rather random knowledge of horse anatomy. I take pictures, mostly video, anyway, an experiment in filmaking (shooting around the bad bits, trying to make the stuffed horses look more... unstuffed).

I burn some memory card, abosorb Vast Knowledge until my brain is full, and my eyes glassy.

The guys at the front desk are packing their bags, their boxes...the entire museum, in fact, is being battened down. Back on the beach, the Park Service is using some interesting large Tonka toys to move the changing rooms and porta-pottis off the beach. The girl at the Kite Koop advises me to leave Thursday night, before the causeway (the only way on and off the island that doesn't require a boat) is closed, and we are actually stranded on a desert island. And before the traffic to the north becomes a dreaded crawl through gale force winds and closed bridges and torrential rain.

At the rental house we hover around the weather channel, watching the worst storm since 1962 (the nor'easter that inspired Stormy; Misty's Foal) form and advance toward the Outer Banks. We learn the beach will close at ten tonight, and not reopen until the storm has passed.

We opt for food, beer, and more episodes of Firefly. But first, three of us pile into Janet's car and head for one last look at the beach. The sky sputters. Pours. We drive in the dark out the causeway to Assateague, headlights of other cars occasionally shining through the downpour. Water pools on the road; rain? or rising seas??  Heather rumbles from the backseat as if she is driving a dogsled; "...gee, gee, no haw...stay out of the lagoon!" I remember my dive instructor said to never drive through standing water.... I can't remember how much it takes to sweep you off the road and into the lagoon.

The road becomes packed sand with beach parking lot signs. 

The rain peters out into a fine drizzle.

We step out, headlamp shining on rolling surf. I turn the light out. Dim light, the continual roar of surf on sloping sand. The flash of the distant lighthouse on the white breakers; blink-blink....blink-blink....

Friday am, we aquire tarps, plastic, plywood, and copious amounts of duct tape, battening down our buddy Heather's houses, and treasured old books. Chincoteague issues an evacuation notice, rental houses are called; non-residents must be off-island by 6pm... residents by the next day.

We pack, reluctantly, under skies that morph from rain to sun to cloud to sun to drizzle to sun.

Vultures perch on the roof of the condo. The lighthouse is visible across the marsh, sentinel from the Civil War, on the highest piece of ground for miles around, double walled brick tower still flashing its light through the rain Thursday night.

I drive north Friday under sunny skies, calm hot windless skies. The mighty landship Fearaf (my 1983 Ford Econoline van) is loaded with gas, food, water, blankets. I only fear getting out too late and sinking the van.

And the Traffic Jams of Doom.

Chincoteague's Main street is being boarded up (the bay is only a few yards away, and most of Chincoteague is actually below sea level). I take some last pictures, throw good wishes at some guys boarding up a store front. They grin, keep working. They've been through it all before. No big deal.

One of them says; "Everybody gets all excited when God starts rearranging the furniture..."

The Traffic of Doom does not materialize, only some Friday evening rush hour traffic in Dover and Smyrna. Gale force winds do not materialize. The kayaks remain lashed to the roof of the van. Neither I or they blow to Oz. Torrential rains do not materialize. Nor do bridge closings (I still have to get off DelMarVa, which was a penninsula, and now, due to the C&D Canal, is actually a rather large island). I drive north in weather that can't decide what outfit to wear; rain, sun, cloud, rain, drizzle, sun, setting sun.

Somewhere in the middle of the rain, my driver side windshield wiper goes "kraat!" and lurches hard aport.

"That doesn't look right..."

I pull over and inspect this small, and ridiculously important piece of technology I just had replaced a month ago. There's a greebly that turns and a thingie that pops and something that holds it all on the windshield washer arm thingie...

I twist it and poke it and sort of get it back together.

It pops loose.

"@%$&^%$!!!!!?!!!"

I delve into the Mighty Landship Fearaf, laden with Hurricane Survival Gear, searching for....

Duct tape, the Force that holds the universe together.

I drive north through rain, the wipers slapping a happy, and slightly offbeat rhythm...






]]>Thu, 14 Jul 2011 09:13:46 -0800http://www.swordwhale.com/2/post/2011/07/dark-of-the-moon-on-the-sixth-of-june-and-a-kenworth-haulin-autobot-butt.htmlWhy would a kayakin' sleddogin' birdwatchin' scubadivin' nature-lovin' horsewoman in her 50s care about a movie full of stuff blowing up and giant butt kicking robots???

Well, keep your vampire weddings, I'd rather go back and see more stuff explode. And the Transformers song (from the 1984 TV cartoon) keeps running through my head. (Two red Transformers inhabit my bookshelf to this day). I remember the cartoon, I was 29 when it appeared; a 29 year old woman training horses, doing living history, camping in mosquito infested salt marshes, backpacking, and randomly knocking guys upside the head with rattan broadswords. I loved Saturday morning cartoons, and this CARtoon was one of my favorites. Why? It was obviously designed for 12 year old boys with a technology fetish.

Or was it?

The thing I liked about it was the characters, the eternal Battle Between Good and Evil. And now, looking at it from the perspective of an artist/writer with a fascination for myth and legend, I see it's mythic roots.

The first thing that comes to mind is an archetype I can't quite put a name to. I saw it in the Jungle Books (Kipling's version) which I read as a kid. I wanted to be the kid in the jungle with a bear, a wolfpack, a black leopard and a thirty foot python for buddies (take THAT mean girls!). Or Bud whose best buddy was a dolphin named Flipper. Or the boys who had Big Black Wild Horses for buddies (Joey and Fury, Alex and the Black Stallion, Zorro and Tornado). I caught a glimpse of it again with Arnold's Terminator ("Cool! My own terminator!") in Terminator 2. Sam (boy) and Bumblebee (Autobot) are the same pair.

The next thing is the archetype of the Shapeshifter. Every culture has stories of shapeshifters. Animals who become people, people who become animals, and beings who are both, or somewhere in between. Some Native American Coyote tales seem to star a humanoid who is called Coyote, or  maybe it's a coyote who can talk, or is it a being that looks like Wile E.? Shapeshifters trick humans into better behavior, help put the stars in the sky, awaken the first humans, teach, lead...

...transform.

Early humans had only to look around them to see shapeshifting at work: the egg that becomes the nymph that becomes the dragonfly; the tadpole that becomes the frog; the nut that becomes the tree. Old tales tell of barnacles that become geese, horsehairs in the water trough that become worms (admittedly, their grasp of natural history was a little vague).

Easy to transform those legends, adapt them (shapeshifters are adaptable) to our technological world.

And finally: our relationship with technology. I hate it, I loathe it, I detest it. OK, not entirely, I need the computer, the digital camera, the car, the van, the pickup truck, the microwave. I just don't understand them (despite occasionally catching the hilarious and helpful "Car Talk" on NPR); they are as alien as autobots, and less friendly. I can relate to the (hysterically funny) scene in Dark of the Moon where Sam's cheesy car breaks down and he pounds on it in frustration. You can have a conversation, an argument even, with Bumblebee, but not with a cheapo hatchback. Lots of films, from Matrix to Terminator to Star Trek, have dealt with our relationship with our technology, and whether we are using it wisely, or whether it is out of control. Humans, as storytellers, tend to anthropomorphize; animals (talking animal fairy tales, bedtime tales, and cartoons), trees (see Tolkien and CS Lewis, and JK Rowling, whose trees didn't talk so much as whomp), forces of Nature (all those Greek, Norse, Celtic etc. Gods and Goddesses), psychological archetypes (more Gods and Goddesses). Surrounded by technology, with most of us clueless as to how it actually is made or how it works, we anthropomorphize it.


...and its two sides, dark and light; Decepticons and Autobots arise from the collective unconcious, playing out our deepest fears and triumphs on the big screen. Superficially, it's a 3D CG cartoon, a boomfest of big cannons, bigger explosions, buildings crashing like the Titanic (while our doughty heroes scramble, unscathed, through oceans of shattered glass). If you look a little deeper, you catch references to our deepest cultural scars: 9/11. Falling towers, paper fluttering down like snow, evil lurking under the sane surface of the mundane world, leaping out and catching us by the throat when we least expect it. I lost count of how many times someone said "Let's roll!" But that's what faerie tales do; they address our fears, failings, obstacles, triumphs. They point the way, they give us hope.

That said, Transformers is a bit more than just two hours of explosions, of awesome effects, incredible mind-boggling animation, Shia LeBeouf's cute self (or the sleek runway model, running from danger in ridiculous high heels, for you guys), muscular military guys, daring stunts, stuff crashing and burning, giant robots crashing into each other, cars crashing into each other and giant robots, stuff blowing up.... there is actually character development. While many of the characters are pretty loosely sketched (Hot Girl, Beefy Warriors), many are archetypal. Optimus Prime is the iconic Hero King (even to his long-legged, broad torsoed build). Wang is the iconic Geek Science Guy (with some seriously hilarious quirks). There's a young warrior who is the first to volunteer for the "kamikaze" mission, he manages to make us care for the few moments he's onscreen. 

And finally, there's just A Boy and His Car. Sam and Bee are the core of it, the buddy team we all want to be part of. The Boy who nobody takes seriously until he proves (again) his great worth as a hero. The Man who finds himself helpless against huge odss...and finds a way. The bumbling autobot who is somehow more human than many flesh and blood actors.

Wish my car would do that....

Well told story is well told story...the rest is just shiny paint and a flame job.

]]>Sun, 27 Dec 2009 09:51:47 -0800http://www.swordwhale.com/2/post/2009/12/blue-moon.htmlAbout thirty lightyears ago, I heard about a new film with starships and aliens and wicked cool new effects. There was no internet, only the SF mags and word of mouth and the odd movie trailer and TV ad. I heard about it after it had already exploded onscreen with a Death Star sized bigbang. SF/fantasy fan that I am, I went. I went out of the theater going, "hmmmm, that was cool." I thought about it for a few days. Went back with more friends.

I went back something like 25 times. Star Wars was one of those nifty turning points that introduced me to a whole new world: friends of like mind, SF cons, fantasy illustration, real world adventures that sprang out of all that.

That is the point of well told stories. They connect us. They inspire us. They teach us. They say something about our past. Our future. Our choices.

I like James Cameron films. Terminator 2 and Titanic are on my ten best list (although I think that may include several dozen by now). He understands Joseph Campbell's concept of The Hero Journey (see my earlier blog or look it up on Wikipedia). He talks about the relationship between humans and technology; the use and abuse of it. The dangers we face if we blow it. Our relationship with each other and Nature. He's a Leo, born two days after me and one year earlier. He's definitely from the same planet.

And now here's our planet.

I heard about Avatar much the way I heard about Star Wars; after everybody else knew about it. Yeah, I have internet access now. I even check my email once a week or so. I blog or twiddle the website when I can. This week I was running sleddogs, hacking my way through Suckway (unlike my Disney princess namesake, I hate food service), eating fattening PA Dutch food with relatives over Christmas, wrangling my friend's young, enthusiastic Malenois, ducks, free range chickens, horses, goats and other critters while Mona and Joe escaped to the great white north. I watched the great white north melt into mud before Mona could break a sled dog trail around her farm. I hashed out the rest of my Christmas presents ( I don't Mall anymore, mall, that's a verb, a four letter verb).

"I should probably see this." I said. "After all, it's James Cameron, how bad could it be."

I bought a black leather jacket at a yard sale and learned to play the Terminator theme on a Native American flute. I bought the action figures (uh, it's for my nephew). I asked Bob Ballard (the guy who found the Titanic) a more or less intelligent question at a program at the Baltimore Aquarium. I leapt off of several perfectly good floatin' boats in the midst of the Atlantic Ocean (well, we were out of sight of land) to look at the sunken boats. One of my dive buddies did that 'soaring on the bow/king of the world' move on the bow of one of those sunken boats. I went to the Titanic exhibit at the local museum, stood with my nose inches from things that had lain two and a half miles down in 375 atmospheres of pressure (that's how geeky this gets).

Yep, I'm a fan.

I considered that fact that this could be one more of those grand heartless fx extravaganzas. Blow lots of stuff up and nobody will notice there isn't a plot or character development.

Ok, I'll go watch stuff blow up for three hours, at least once.

The James Horner soundtrack hooked me from the beginning. After looking him up on Wikipedia (easier than going through my CD collection or my own memory banks) I realized he's scored a bunch of my favorite films. I love "Echoes" on National Public Radio; that sort of soundtracky, epic stuff with spacey electronics and indigenous instruments and voices. This soundtrack captures that quality; epic, emotion, eerie, otherworldy. Horner's a Leo too, born on the same day and two years earlier.

I could analyze the film for hours; it's a place you can get lost in. "Haven't got lost in the woods?" the badaxx Colonel says to Our Hero. Of course I have, I know those woods.

This is the archetypal Garden. This is the place we all remember (well, some of us do). This is the place Richard Louv talked about in "Last Child in the Woods". In his book he shows how this generation has become plugged into their 'avatars'; Game Boys and cell phones and computers. How they've lost the ability to run soundlessly through the forest, to read the trail, to bond with other living things, to just sit and look and feel and experience. Louv tells us the cure for ADD and a thousand other modern afflictions is to just go outside and play.

He's right. When the SAD felt like a space marine's backpack, I hitched up two dogs and slogged through a foot of snow on half a trail in a sunlit wood. I felt like I might keel over a few times. The dogs hadn't run more than in the dogyard all fall. I had sleazed off the rider and the stationary bike for weeks.

It was good! Ooooraahh!

The plot was described by someone as "trite". No, not trite, not stereotypal, archetypal. The Hero Journey. Sure, I knew how certain scenes, certain situations had to play out. I knew how I'd write them. Same way I know that stuff in a good Disney flick. I know the pattern, I've been over this trail before. But every time you go over the trail, it's different. Different animals have walked there, leaving different signs. Different weather, different seasons, different things blooming, fading, dying, rebirthing.

This is a rebirth of the Hero Journey.

Tolkien gave the old archetypes back their power. Rescued the Elves and Dwarves and Wizards and dark things from the nursery and made them tall and strong; a Force of Nature to be reckoned with. Lucas sent them to the far far away edges of the universe, and showed us that those tales are, well, universal. J.K. Rowling showed kids that they too had power, and must learn how to wield it.

Cameron has shown us the place we come from and that there is still time to change our course. Change our relationship with Nature, with technology, with other living things. Much of the film has already happened in real life: we know that, not from our history books, which always tell the tale from the viewpoint of the winners, but from listening to Native American, African, Australian Aboriginal, Polynesian and other indigenous authors/storytellers/bards/artists/teachers. (The excellent Wes Studi, a Native American actor, is the voice of Neytiri's father). The concept of communicating with animals (on levels beyond verbal) is not new to anyone who's ever worked with them. The concept of trees communicating chemically or electrically is not new to science. The idea of a world organism, the Earth as one big biosphere is not new either. What is new is putting it all into an action-packed, thrilling adventure that twelve year olds will absorb.

And maybe they'll go home and think about it.

Maybe they'll pick up a bow, because Neytiri made it look so cool. Maybe they'll try riding an earth horse. Or flight. Or diving into the clear waters that are still left. Or saving the rest. ]]>Sun, 27 Dec 2009 09:22:28 -0800http://www.swordwhale.com/2/post/2009/12/the-twilight-groan.html200910.25 letter to Mike Argento, York Daily Record

Argento is a brilliant, hysterically funny columnist with a wit sharper than a Na'Vi arrowhead. He can write serious stuff too, but mostly he sends up the Morons of our culture (no shortage of those in York County). This was my (not entirely tongue-in-cheek) plee to him to save our tweens from the vampires.



The rise of the New Moon sparked a deep, insistent urge to lurk at my computer, biting deep into the bloody depths of the Thesaurus, and Spell Check. Then I considered that you only write articles of Deep Social Meaning, sending up the Idiots of Society.

Wait; this has Deep Social Meaning. We must save our young girls from the ravages of...

...a meaningless life obsessing over boys with bad hair and weird eyes.

I noted your excellent send-up of 2021, or 2012... or 2010, no wait, that was Real Science Fiction, written by a Real Science Fiction writer; Arthur C. Clarke.

We need, in this benighted age, Mikey the Vampire Slayer. Or, perhaps, Van-argento.

J.K. Rowling gave us a complex, unique world of Wizards and Good and Evil. She addressed the Deep Questions of The Meaning of Life. She gave us three Heroes on a Hero Journey that made sense and resonated with our own lives (note that one of them is an intelligent girl, with a career, and a Life, and a Purpose, and cool guy friends, and... a cool guy). Rowling gave us Quidditch, and Time Turners and an owl delivery service and a large drooly dog, and a larger droolier gamekeeper, and the wonderful vision of turning a horrible relative into a hot air balloon.

J.R.R.Tolkien and C.S.Lewis gave us entire planets to run around on. Middle Earth and Narnia with their Elves and Orcs and Centaurs and Talking Animals had plenty of room for each of us to pick up our longbows and broadswords and learn to slay the evils in our mundane lives. To ride into the sunset, to wax poetic over the song of gulls in the dark, to talk to trees, to ride without saddle or rein, to have seven meals a day, to sail with the Corsairs of Umbar, to ...

Oh, yes, I digress...

George Lucas and Gene Rodenberry eschewed the use of initials and went with their full names, which may be why they gave us the whole universe to play in. Go ahead, snicker at the kid whomping womp rats on his game boy, or the girl with the pointy ears at the sci-fi convention doing the Vulcan salute, but when your computer breaks down, or your rover is stranded on Neptune; who 'ya' gonna' call?

In the wake of these greats, yea, in the Twilight of their existence, comes a saga of a girl and a vampire. And some other vampires who are not as nice. Although the main one isn't very nice either, at first. I tried very hard to finish the first book, but after two hundred pages of a very boring teenager obsessing over a badaxx boy I had to donate the book to the Library for the Literary Impaired, and go find a copy of Treasure Island, which, despite its political incorrectness, is a romping good yarn, and contains a young hero who acts impulsively but with good heart and wins out in the end. I also plowed through several thousand pages of the Inkheart Trilogy, which contains a heroine who has better things to do with her life than obsess over boys with bad hair and weird teeth.

I think you should do an interview with the vampire's girlfriend: it would go something like this...

“So, Bella, how was school today?”

Her eyes glaze over. Hoarsely she whispers. “Edward.”

“Ah. What are you studying?”

Her eyes have now developed a strange shape, like those anime or manga characters: little hearts. They seem to be twitching in a weird rhythm. “Eeeeedwaaard.”

“Um, went by the animal rescue earlier this week, I think you should have a dog. What kind would you like?”

“Edward.”

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

“Edddddddward.” The eyeball hearts are definitely thumping like manic bunnies. Bunnies, bunnies, ohgawd, what do bunnies do best?

“You realize this is kind of gross, I mean, he's dead and everything...”

She's stopped talking, only the weird little thumpy hearts are visible. You knock her upside the head, duct tape her to a chair and make her watch all three...extended DVD... Lord of the Rings films. At least Orlando Bloom and Viggo Mortenson aren't dead. Then you drag her kicking and screaming to the library.

Save us Argento-wan, you're our only hope.

The rest of us will sling our longbows over our backs, our swords, lightsabers and phasers at our hips, mount our steeds of Rohan (or centaurs, or landspeeders, if you're horse-impaired) and sally forth to rescue True Fantasy and Science Fiction from the clutches of the Pseudo-vampiric hordes. Some of us will probably settle down with a good Anne Rice book, or a Sookie Stackhouse novel. We might, (gasp) even turn on the TV and catch a drop or two of True Blood, or a rerun of Buffy.

Live Long and Prosper... ]]>Thu, 13 Aug 2009 21:00:30 -0800http://www.swordwhale.com/2/post/2009/08/my-kind-of-town-chincoteague-va.htmlSmithsonian Magazine runs a series called "My Kind of Town" where you (briefly) sum up what a certain place means to you and why. It didn't take me long to realize my certain place was an ever-shape-shifting island at the edge of the world...

When I sat in my first sea kayak, I realized how much it was like the horses I had grown up on: both carry me on The Journey, respond to the rolling shape of land or water and the tilt of my body. Both have their own quirks and require some skill to ride.

There's a place at the edge of the world (or at least, the continental US) where horses and the sea meet: a set of sandy barrier islands, shapeshifting in wind and tide, just off the east coasts of Maryland and Virginia. Assateague is a long, protective dragon shape, the place of the wild things: National Seashore, state park, wildlife refuge. Chincoteague, a small round egg tucked inside Assateague's southern tail tip (the Virginia end), is home to watermen, craftsmen, artists, "saltwater cowboys", and the only wild horse roundup on the east coast.

Local legend claims the ponies swam ashore from a Spanish galleon loaded with treasure. Surely Spanish galleons, and hundreds of other ships wrecked on the shifting sandbars of these shores (a chart I saw marked sixty of the known ones; the beach is about forty miles long). Science and history say the ponies came from a more prosaic place: colonial livestock turned loose on a pasture fenced by the sea.

I've lugged a fifty pound backpack barefoot up Assateague's beaches, stood in Chincoteague's muddy marshes (shrimp bite nearly as hard as the infamous saltmarsh mosquitoes) to watch the annual swim of the ponies across the narrow channel between the islands. I've stood eye to eye with Misty and Stormy, of Marguerite Henry's famous kids' books; "Misty of Chincoteague", and "Stormy, Misty's Foal". But it was the kayak, galloping over the waves, that showed me the real islands; the little blue heron feeding yards from beach houses, the stingray the size of a stall door inches below my fins, the low-flying skimmer unzipping the dawn lagoon for tiny fish.

Here, you can chill on the beach, leap the waves, or dive below the "undertow" searching for that perfect whelk shell. Or, empty-handed, search the back streets for shell stands, where you plop your quarters into a can for the Perfect Whelk, collected by a local kid after winter storms. You can eat real oyster sandwiches, buy a handcarved canvasback decoy, or a signed print of a great egret. Or take your own photo of one, right from your car. You can buy a T-shirt from The Purple Pony that says (upside down) "if you can read this, please put me back on my horse". You can paddle up the channel at twilight in the company of dolphins, or shove your boat off the beach and wonder if there are sharks down there bigger than you (the fins turn out to be more dolphins). Here you can still climb a working lighthouse, or follow its flashing beacon at night, where you might hear the snort of a wild pony in, where else, Horse Marsh.
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