Monday 27 August 2012

How to Make "Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom" Good.

It's a bold statement for a title. Everyone has a soft spot for the film in their hearts'. It's got interesting special effects and visuals, some of the sequences are downright classic, the mine-cart chase influenced a whole generation of neck-cruntching theme-park rides, and the freeing of the slaves just makes you want to scream "FUCK YEAH" at the top of your lungs because it's such a Big Damn Heroes moment. On the other hand it's regarded as the worst of the "classic" Jones' films since, frankly, the script is a goddamn mess. Things just seem to... happen, regardless of narrative flow or basic logic, usually just to artificially escalate conflict that isn't present. Characters seem to just be supplementary and superfluous. I'm not even sure Indy has anything to learn, or has any character developments that don't seem tacked on. Also, there's some, just awful racism in there. Like, Seriously.
So, here's a few idea's of mine that I thought that add to the overall tone of the picture. You can still have all the loveable sequences (plus a few extra), you can make the secondary characters interesting, by adding some extra traits here and there, and you can still have the Thuggee exist in the quasi-realistic nature of the Indy Canon without fucking everything up completely (which they totally did). The beauty is, the whole story remains intact and we get a movie that remains on par with "Raiders" and "The Last Crusade".
Okay, so first off, don't start with the fade in on the Paramount mountain to a mountain on a gong, because, really, who puts a mountain on a giant gong unless you're making a movie for Paramount. Secondly, don't jump into the whole "Anything Goes" number. at least, not right away. Like in the other films, Indiana is front and centre to the action. I suggest starting out on the street outside the club, fading in from a picture of a mountain on a poster or a newspaper or whatever, maybe with a a picture of "The Beautiful Willie Scott performs at Club Obi-Wan!" it's a much more organic fade in and sets us up with a feeling of anticipation for Willie's introduction.
Fan-Made of fucking course.

 Secondly, until Indy jumps out the window in a few minutes, we have no idea where this is set. In a club somewhere (perhaps just generally in Asia) leaves things too vague. So, we begin through the streets to the club, Indy hops out of a taxi, dressed to the nines in his tux, maybe he straightens his bow-tie instead of straightening his fedora. We see a few swanky types enter the building in the fancy phantom convertible we see a little later (I'd like to see Short-Round, dressed a little more pauper-ish, and not like a suspiciously Americanised child, maybe hang close to the valet, we don't know what he's up to... just yet)  He get's out a ticket to the club, but the doorman can see through the scratches and the tan that he's not the regular sort of patron. There's a suspicious question regarding how much money Indiana has and he quips something like, "Not a lot, but ask me again when I get out." This not only tells us what brings him to here in the first place, but also it gives us his motivations for the entire movie. Capital Gain, baby.
So anyway, he enters the club, is ushered to his seat and then we get into "Anything Goes". This way you get to have your cake and eat it too. We don't follow Willie to the table, we just get back to Indy, enjoying the show a little, nodding to his friend/plant/waiter as he passes by. and finally Lao arrives at the table, fashionably late, with his hired muscle at his side. Everything is more or less identical, except without Willie, who's only there to (ineffectually) to diffuse the tension with comedic relief. Instead we can have the odd quip that alludes to more of Indy's motivation ("You could get enough money from that diamond to buy anything." "Or just another wing for the museum.") and Lao's, which I imagine would be quite complicated for a Mob-Boss who's city is about to be invaded by the Japanese (Indy even mentions it in regard to Short Round's origin, so it's a real and present danger). Maybe the remains of Nurhachi are rumoured to have special powers that grant you protection or something.
Anyway, trade, poison, stand-off, but this time, Indy doesn't throw a flaming sword through someone. The whole point is, Lao doesn't want a kerfuffle with Indy in a public place, which explains why he poisoned him instead of shooting him, and waiting until the champagne corks were flying before shooting It's obviously hiss private club and he wouldn't like it's reputation to be tarnished.. But Indy is dying and has a gun from his martyr/assistant, so why not threaten Lao with it? He get's his antidote and causes and dashes behind stage (where he's followed by the mooks, since he can now be taken care of out of the public eye).
Here we finally meet Willie. And she isn't the prissy, terrified, pliable girl we were introduced to in the original. Here she's relaxing in between sets, wrapped in a fur coat, acting pompous, and arrogant to everyone beneath her, which is pretty much everyone. I want this Willie to hate doing the things she does in the movie not because she's grossed out or scared, but because it's so beneath her own status to do such a thing. Marion Ravenwood was gruff, flaky, and obtuse, but in a sense, that's why she was such a good character. She was interesting. And Willie needs to be interesting too.
Indy has the mandatory entertaining fight scene backstage using props, costumes, scaffolding, whatever's lying around. Willie save Indy by hitting one of the mooks or something, and Indiana sweeps her off her feet to save her in turn for saving him. They jump out the window behind the stage, and this time the jump makes sense. because  Indiana moved towards the back of the stage intentionally and that meant he probably scoped the place out beforehand for an appropriate exit. But still, they're about to be surrounded before Short round pulls up near them. He's either pick-pocketed the car keys from the valet, or he's hot-wired the car, either way, that makes him Awesome,  because literally anyone can sit in a car, waiting for someone to show up, rather than quickly steal it. Anyway, car chase through Shanghai, with the Wilhelm scream put in if you want. Don't have Willie drop the gun because it's hot and she "cracked a nail" she already fell through about ten different awnings for christ-sake. have her misfire because she's inexperienced or refuses to kill someone. I realise that right after this scene, they hop into a plane, and they don't need the car anymore. So it makes sense for them to do something awesome with it since it no longer serves a purpose to the plot. Ram it into the other car or something. Give them time to escape to the airport on foot.
It makes sense for Indiana to have bought a plane beforehand for a quick escape, and you know, not get one owned by the guy he was trying to escape from. Also, we've just been introduced to a man who is anchored to Shanghai, and it makes very little sense that he has international ties. This explains why Indiana believes escaping Shanghai would make him safe (and not leaving him open to reprisal for escaping like he would normally in the original film). Have Indiana know they're heading to India immediately. So, there's a hasty escape, an the plane is shot by a few stray bullets from the gangsters as it leaves the runway.
While you have a (seemingly) quiet moment, use it to build character dynamics. Willie sees Short Round as a peasant, and is infuriated by saving Indiana and leaving Shanghai prematurely. I can see her practically roll her eyes when she learns he's an Archeologist ("*Sigh*, An academic. Just what I need." "Not exactly, m'am."). Short Round is more of an accomplice than a surrogate child, and he's maybe a bit pissed that they didn't get the diamond. Indy mediates between them, suggesting he'll drop off Willie at Delhi where she can contact her manager and He and Short Round can pull a few short cons while they're there to be able to afford a few more plane tickets back to America. So we're beginning to see more of a symbiosis between the two, a partnership instead of Indy pulling around a kid for no reason. Also, now short Round has a realistic motivation, live safely in America instead of a crime-ridden cess-hole (His words, not mine).
The Plane begins to show problems after they pass over the Himalaya's, the pilots are frantically trying to do everything they can, but realise the whole plane's going down, they take the cowards way out and take the only two parachutes. Indy wakes up just before they're about to jump out, and they have a comedic punch-up with Indy trying to drag them back in while they're trying to get out.  He manages to knock one of them out but not before one escapes. Unfortunately, the engine catches on fire as he jumps, and he's subsequently enveloped in flames. Add another Wilhelm scream. So, at this point, when Indy goes to the cock-pit, it's not to try and fly the plane, since he doesn't know how and despite it being an okay joke, is kind of stupid. Have Short Round once again prove his usefulness by killing the engines and stopping the geyser of flame melt them when they try and hop out. Now, you can either    
have them parachute out using the sole parachute into some trees, or you can still use the raft bit, but use the raft and parachute in conjunction with each other so you don't press the suspension of belief so much. So now they're in India, but not where they're supposed to be, but it's at least kind of possible that they meet a strange old man who leads him to his village.
I'm in the camp that's credulous that Indiana can somehow understand enough Hindi to have entire conversations with natives, but not speak a word of German. So don't have him fluent. he seems to rely on other people speaking english in other scenes, so have someone who credibly speaks english when he arrives at the village as well. My money is on the soldiers encamped around Pankot hearing about bandit rounding kidnapping children and maybe sending a small detachment investigating it. You have everything else the same, because it's a pretty good info-dump scene. All the way up to the child with the scrap of scroll. He should ask for it to be translated, and have it say there's definitely another Sankara Stone over in Pankot. And maybe another weird, cryptic phrase like "all those who betray Shiva, beware". Have Indy reveal the diamond core in the Sankara Stones centre early on, to entice Short Round and him to go to Pankot. The attache from the army go to report to their immediate superiors about the rumours of Slavery at Pankot, but leave a note with Indy to deliver to Captain Blumburt who is stationed closer to there.
We get the Elephant Ride and camping scenes, but with less slapstick. Willie doesn't scream at everything that moves in the camp-site, at best she's nauseated and stand-offish. Indiana and Short Round hang out with their guides, because they're good sports about being taken to Pankot. And maybe they play a minor hustle with them regarding their card game that was in the original. There are no "Giant Vampire Bats" because vampire bats only live in South America, and the idea that a genus somehow thrived in India is unbeleivable. Do your research.
I pretty much like the movie at this point. There's that appropriate sense of dread when they find the shrine to Kali, and the way they enter the palace seems natural enough. But frankly, there should be more fan-fare with Willie's arrival, she is an international celebrity after all.
The dinner scene is great for exposition as well, touching on Indiana's notoriety but also the deal behind the Thuggee in the area. Have the Prime Minster be more sociable, not shooting down everything Indiana says. Comedically it falls a little flat. You could remedy this with the status obsessed Willie attempting to eat the rancid feast to fit in, while it then doing a reversal, with the entire feast being ceremonial or a prank for the new guests before the real food comes in. What would you rather have, indian savages cheerfully eating chilled monkey-brains while the girl with the weak stomach faints, or the determined woman who take "local customs" seriously being fooled by a table full of incurable pranksters. Less mean spirited, see?

"Hey George, I just wondered, should we degrade the Indian people even more with this scene? I mean, we've already shown that they're bloodthirsty, primitive zealots, isn't this going a bit far?"
"You mean they don't eat chilled monkey brains?!"

When you need to press sexual chemistry with hokey dialogue, your relationship doubtlessly feels forced. They don't need to have an overt romance at the moment. Maybe it's one sided. Indiana is feeling sleuthy and paranoid, and watching the shadows for clues or whatnot. And Willie still thinks he's a prideful jerk ass, but is maybe slowly warming to him. Use this scene with them together to maybe gloss over Willie's globe-trotting and the fact that she's actually pretty worldly. Maybe as much as Indy is.
So anyway, assassination scene, yadda yadda. Except this time, Indy tells someone about it. Since he, you know, has no reason to distrust anyone at the palace yet. The Prime Minister acts empathetic, and stations more guards around them. Indy secretly talks to the Captain, flashes his note from the soldiers and tells him about the kidnappings, the rumours of the Thuggee amongst the villages and the fact that Indiana's assassination attempt was probably orchestrated by someone at the dinner table who didn't want the army interfering. The Captain wakes the fuck up at this point and justifies his appearance as something other than a deux ex machina and decides to "rouse the troops", giving him a reason to be separated from the action for so long. Indy feeds his guards something about "feeling safer sleeping in one room tonight" and goes into Willies room, discovering the secret passage which is not hidden behind a statue with enormous breasts.
Willie stays behind because, come on, really? You're actually going to investigate a creepy tunnel with no firepower and a ten year old for back-up? The Tablet that shows the epic history of the Sankara Stones really could have been elaborated on further. At this point we should hear that they do some crazy magic or something, which to a layman, would justify hoarding a bunch of diamond filled rocks rather than, you know, selling them. If you have Short Round compare the insects on the ground to fortune cookies, I will cut you. The crushing chamber trap happens with a few adjustments: Short Round and Indy are more proactive at blocking up the gears and crap, and when they call out to Willie for help, she shouldn't be petrified by the insects. Disgusted, sure. I think the lever system that helps them reset/deactivate the trap should be complicated, or maybe even have a secondary trap attached, which would show Willie being smart and justify more of the tension since it's a life or death trap for all of them.
So, yeah, The Thuggee ritual is so classic, I wouldn't want to change it. It's spellbinding, horrifying and damn if it isn't gorgeous to watch. But as soon as it's over, have Willie call bullshit on the whole thing. She's seen magic acts all around the world and they're all impressive until you get up close. Short Round's half traumatised, and Indy's transfixed on the Sankara Stones which are just sort of lying there in the giant Kali Statue. He goes to get them, but, of course, it's a trap! Because you would otherwise never leave your priceless, ceremonial artefacts just lying around, no matter how loyal your henchmen might be. Before he get's caught though, he lifts one of the glowing stones off the pedestal, and it turns out it's being illuminated via a panel in the bottom. The stones aren't magical after all, just deceptively opaque. The Prime Minister is a actually working for the Thuggee, but his deception is at least slightly surprising, since he didn't seem like an overly antagonist dick the whole time.
They get rounded up and are forced to look through the mines, where the children are mining for special, precious Thuggee artefacts that were lost more than a century before, also, precious jewels, metals and raw ore, since their business model isn't just wasting thousands of man hours for a fucking rock with grooves in it. Indy see's the dark side to his quest for monetary gain, looking at the cost for the children. Willie also has a notable change of heart when she sees countless malnourished, enslaved children sprawled on the ground being whipped. I actually love the whole, counter-colinization the Thuggee have going on, it's not a bad plan in theory and they'll use the Sankara Stones and their freaky rituals as a propaganda tool to insight rebellion in more Hindu's against the British, while using the artefacts and jewels as a means of funding. We also find out that hell-pit that was used in the ceremony is just a gigantic forge being used to create artillery, because if you're going to wage a war against the christian world, you're going to need more than bows and arrows. So now, instead of being a bunch of primitive, underwhelming cultists, we have an organised army that's now a credible threat.
So, yeah. While Mola Ram is gloating over Willie and Indy, Willie totally calls him out on defrauding his believers, and he freely admits to not having any magical whammy. But he's still vengeful on them trying to foil him, so he decides to sacrifice Willie and turn Indy using "The Blood of Kali Ma" which isn't actually magical and is just a drug, and if Indiana is highly suggestible in this state, it stands to reason he's just a walking drone. Also, there isn't a fetish that the Sultan kid uses to make him open his mouth in pain. A better way would be Mola threatening to kill Short Round, which shows that Indy actually does care about him in an almost familial way (we earn this relationship by seeing them bond as buddies and partners).
So yeah, Short Round escapes, avoiding the (Pat Roach's character) who instead of having an ineffective flail, has a whip similar the Indy's. So now, at the ceremony, we finally see things from the other perspective, there are secret vents that channel smoke to make the statue look dark and mysterious, the hidden panels that light up the stones, and Mola Ram uses a prop heart instead of ripping it out of Willie (why doesn't he take Willies heart out in the original? Sloppy writing probably). You don't have Indiana narrating the chants in english, since he's poor at understanding Hindi, drugged off his tits and The Prime Minister could do it anyway. Short Round gets in and rouses Indy by sobering him up with a little fire. Ritual is disturbed like in the original.
We have the Slave freeing scene because it's awesome, but I'd also add in a quick bit with Short Round and Willie throwing some of the Jewels or the precious metal back to the children who mined them up. You still have the wicked (Pat Roach) conveyer belt fight scene, except have Indiana's lack of gun, and the Head Mook's enormous size keep the fight going on, and not the freaking voodoo doll. If you want the young Sultan to do anything, have him send more goons to fight Indy (You can have Willie find a way to help, rather than just mime punching in the background) while it's happening and also have him in control of the conveyer belt's controls, speeding it up when it looks like Indy has the upper hand. Have Short Round punch this evil little jerk's lights out, because even if he is a kid, The Sultan is still an evil little jerk. And he wouldn't be drugged, because that's ridiculous.
The Mine-cart chase still happens, except, Mola Ram doesn't try and flood the shafts, something that would ruin years of labour and lose him the stones for countless years.
We get to the climax at the bridge and all the Thuggee have gun's, instead of bows and arrows, and Mola Ram doesn't say something stupid like, "They (the stones) will be found. You won't!" when Indy threatens to drop them. because they're about to be dropped in a large, fast-flowing, caiman/crocodile infested river. But he's willing to pretend to barter their lives for the stones. Suddenly, when Mola walks onto the bridge to get the stones, the British army arrives in the nick of time. (instead of after when they're needed), Indy does the old "tie yourselves to the bridge" trick. cuts the bridge. ect. Indy and Mola Ram struggle for the stones while holding on for dear life, while an epic battle between the Thuggee and the British army, which could go either way, is occurring. Let's say Mola Ram has a knife though, and stabs Indy in the arm (instead of trying to pluck out his heart, which he can't do, since he isn't magical) and is about to claim the stones for himself, when Indy uses the old, "You betrayed Shiva!" thing which makes the stones ignite. Mola Ram grasps on to one of them for a second, but his head suddenly catches fire (not in a way dissimilar to what happens in Raiders), and then falls. Being eaten by the crocodiles, or whatever they are. Indy catches the rock, and struggles up the bridge, finding out the British Army won.
It's more or less the same ending as the original, but with the Children giving away some of the Jewels to Indiana as thanks, with his spiel about "it just being another rock collecting dust (in a museum)" and actually meant it, instead of it being a forced lesson being tacked on. Indy says he's unhappy that he and Willie will have to part ways at Delhi, but Willie coyly suggests she might come with them back to America. They don't kiss, but they ride off with the promise of more adventure.
There. I think it fixes up a lot of the mistakes of the original. The Indiana Jones series is at it's best when the magic/wrath of god/ miracle is earned. Faith is a great key. But Occam's Razor also comes into affect as well, since Indiana is a Scientist and Historian, and can only go as far as the information available suggests (until the third one anyway). The secondary characters exist as more than annoying stereotypes. The Villains use intelligent, original methodologies to achieve their aims, and the story is generally the same.







Tuesday 31 July 2012

Shoestring Spellcraft: Tarot without a deck

So, here's a semi-regular series of posts that mixes two of my great loves, magick and being a cheap wanker, and gives it to the verminous, venemous and I'm also betting, venereal vox populi. The real secret to magic/k, spells, and fuck it I'll just come out with it, getting a cheat-sheet for you everyday life, is this: Any old cunt can do it.


So, let's start it off with something really simple. Tarot.
Sure it's surrounded in a lot of old rigmarole, and it's the mainstay for any fortune teller who's looking for a quick buck. Just a tip, unless someone's offering you a free reading, and you trust them with judging yourself and your life, then it's probably a scam. Frankly, the best reading come from yourself. YOU should be the one who knows yourself the best, and if you aren't, playing with the tarot will probably help.
The Tarot is essentially two decks joined together. 56 minor arcana cards which divide themselves into 4 suits, cups, swords, pentacles, wands. And the Major Arcana, which has 22 (21 numbered, along with number none, The Fool) cards in it. In here you have your Tower, Sun, Moon and Death cards in it.
Usually the Minor Arcana is more day to day in its scope, while the Major Arcana traditionally shows stages of deep personal or spiritual growth.
Regardless of what you might have glimpsed from the media and fucking idiots, the Major Arcana are generally pretty rare to pick up in a spread, and generally a good practitioner of Tarot would re-contextualise an entire spread for every time one turns up in a reading.
The point of Tarot isn't to tell your future. Anyone who says so or uses it specifically for that purpose is going to be disappointed, and laughed at all the best parties. The point of the Tarot is WAY more archetypal. It shows the broad-strokes of persons, trials and relationships that appear in peoples lives, and it's, to a fault, VERY GENERAL. The greatest specifics you're going to find is the crap that you equate the imagery and metaphorical intensity attached to a card. Technically, you could use it to get a broad outline of your future, but if you somehow get it into your head that an actual, physical manifestation of the future is going to happen after you've looked into the cards, I'm either going to call you a liar and to please your clothes back on, or ask you for some of that primo-voodoo-space shit that you've been smoking.
But, at the same time, the generality of the cards also comes to your advantage. YOU DON'T NEED A FANCY DECK MOTHAFUCKA*. You see them in stores, and the traditional Rider-Waite deck that you know just cost 20 cents to make is almost 40 bucks. Well fuck 'em all. Here's a way I read that works just as well. And al you need is a normal deck of playing cards and the internet.

"All this nature, and dogs, and flowers and shit... Just makes me want to look up into the sky wistfully."


Kay, so, you can buy any standard pack, I got mine for $2.50 at a $2 store. It has a truly ugly photoshop-ed image of Sydney on it (why it was for sale in a Melbourne store is one of those mysteries of the universe). Open the pack. Take out the Jokers (which don't correspond to any Tarot card) and shuffle and cut like a demon.
Now, all you have to do is attribute swords to spades, wands to clubs, diamonds to pentacles and hearts to cups and you've got yourself a Minor Arcana deck.
An easy reading I've devised with this requires maybe a little drawing ability or a good printer.
First, get in the mood, use whatever aesthetics you need to get you into the "magick"/wicca zone, fancy robes maybe, incense, whatever. Then, use a Major Arcana card (or, an image of/from a card) that typifies a problem or a challenge you're feeling at the moment. Maybe you're feeling socially alienated, so you pick The Hermit which stands for introspection and solitude (in most readings). Or, you're a tad between projects and feeling torn between them, so you Choose the Hanged Man, which stands for-okay, I'll just quit telling you the meanings for the cards here, because it's all contended between a million different interpretations and you may as well just find a site or an app that you like the feel of. Yeah, so anyway, the card you picked is a signifier.
Any who, then pick a card that describes what you want to be, or what you want the outcome to specify. Maybe if you grabbed the Hermit before, you'll pick the Lovers, or the World (okay, I'll shut up now.) Place that a bit underneath the first image/card.
So finally, you use your Minor Arcana deck. Cut three times. While you're doing that, focus on your desire, and put them all back together. Draw your first card and put it on your left between the two signifiers face up. This represents a past context that's shaped your need for the thing. You know, the thing. That you want. Second card in the middle, right between the two signifiers. This is the present context, what you're experiencing now, and if you're savvy enough, you could probably scout out any problem you have with just these two. But then... The Third card represents future events that transpire from the second minor arcana card to the second signifier.
It requires a load of interpretation, and you can't get distracted in any way while you're doing it. Not for snacks, not for sex and definitely not for other social interaction. Cloister yourself somewhere where you won't be disturbed for this. Then again, I'm suggesting you use the internet, so good luck with that.
Anyway, if you want to zazz up your cards, or alter the reading in any way that makes you feel more comfortable, whatever, I'm not your mother. Do what thalt will shall be the whole of the lore (he said, badly paraphrasing).
So that's me for now, until the next time when I have something interesting to write. Bloody Babbler out.


(*Sorry I said that. It was to get your attention. And not because I'm a racist. Assuming that makes you a racistist.)

Wednesday 4 July 2012

Hellblazer: Fish in a Barrel (Prologue)

The rasping, grinding sound of the rusty hacksaw as it made it's way through the last of the padlock set Gavin's teeth on edge. With a hard nudge from his shoulder, he barged the door open with a jarring thud. The hinges, corroded with age, still held firm.
Gavin McCloud wasn't very big, had a very general kind of face, and wasn't particularly notable in any sort of sense save one: He was a real Bastard. As if the crowbar on his back and the thirty eight crammed in his Levi's couldn't tell you that already. He also had the virtue of being one of the best burglars left in the country. He'd never been snuck up on his whole life.
Gavin had heard the rumours like anyone else in the East End had. Donny Wilkins, newest hot young thing to try for the position of Crime-lord, had a dirty little secret. He'd made his way in the Lansbury estates the traditional way, scrapping with the other hoods for the biggest take, with a healthy amount of death and violence to consolidate his hold, but his recent moves over a dozen different territories had been meteoritic to say the least. Small-time gangs were being swept into line by him left right and centre, and some of the older families had put aside old grievances to end his reign. He had twice the cannon fodder on them though, but the bosses had heard rumours about his bizarre extra-cirrucular activities...
Which is what brought Gavin here. He had a camera in a bumbag, and he'd been told to snap up anything "interesting" that could maybe be put in the morning papers. They'd heard rumours of snuff films, kiddie porn, and there was a highly unbelievable rumour involving chickens and a wax figure, but Gavin was prepared for anything, including any kind of resistance that came his way.
As soon as he'd entered the threshold, he took out his gun. Felt the smooth action as he pointed it at the shadows, blasting away invisible phantoms, relishing the fear he imagined came from them as he mimed pulling his trigger. A grimy smile stretched across his face. He hoped, in the back of his mind, that he might meet some resistance so he could feel the recoil, smell the gunpowder and hear the bang of the thing in his hand.
He'd gone through an old staff entrance round the side, and honestly hadn't actually expected anyone to be around anyway. He could see the grot and the mildew from years of abandonment, and he knew he'd be safe here, off in the dead, decrepit portion of the warehouse. It was hard to concentrate though, he could hear the scrabble of rats and the pitter-patter of the evening rain falling, and kept twitching back to where he'd been. The silence of his approach being engulfed once again in a bevy of background noises.
His night-vision was excellent, and in between the feral blades of glass that raged trough the cracks in the floor, and the soft glint of distant street-lights that glowed through cavernous holes in the ceiling, he could make out an edge to the hulking filth of the building. Someone had taken the slightest of efforts to wipe it down, and make the space (at the very least) functional. The dust didn't seem so gagging here, and there was a faint but distinct trace of disinfectant in the air.
Through the half-lit corridors finally came a sliver of light just visible through the periphery corners that Gavin was creeping through. There was no movement, or sound, that indicated a living soul, but there was a definite warmth that seemed to stretch underneath the crack in the distant door, that implied, if not habitation, than at least some kind of application.
Gavin breathed tensely as he crept towards the flimsy, wooden door. It would be easy to break into, as far as he could tell, it didn't even have a handle. But Gavin steeled himself for bloody confrontation for what laid inside. At the foot of the door, he closed his eyes, inhaled, and exhaled sharply as he rushed through-
-To find the room empty. An ancient bulb hung from a fraying wire, the light that shone from it was dim and turgid. There were a couple of fold-out chairs that had been tipped on their sides, but the room was otherwise empty. Gavin was disappointed. A dead lead and a waste of time. He thought to himself sullenly. But at the same time, as sense of unease told him that something wasn't right.
He took a deep breath again, this time though, he tasted something different in the air. At first he thought it was nothing. The air was as foul as it was outside. But a second thought brought him back to a minute beforehand, where the hallways had been wiped down with detergent beforehand. This room was as clean as they were, but they still smelt like piss and rat-shit.
The Gavin took a closer look at the ground.
To say it was scorched was an understatement. What Gavin had mistaken for dirt and grime, was actually a deep soot, and burn-marks gouged through peeling Lino at odd intervals. Not all the burn seemed black either, some of them were mottled green, and other seemed a rusty brown.
Gavin stroked a finger across the floor, pulling away a thin streak of the brown stain onto his finger, it felt slightly greasy to the touch.
When he realised what he was looking at, Gavin took out his camera immediately.
The light was poor though. Gavin let out a muttered "fuck" as he strained to get a decent image. The best he could do was a faint, indeterminable series of scrawlings. He barely registered the soft clunk s a doorstopper slid on the other side of the door, and it took the soft smell of sulphur and burning hair to realise he wasn't alone.
Gavin turned to the door to find it blocked by a behemoth of a man. Seven feet tall, and bulging at every muscle. But that wasn't anywhere near as intimidating as his face, dark hair cropped to a widow's peak, pointed, sloping brows and a pair of eyes that seemed to contain nothing, just a blackness. He had a saucy grin though, which made a particularly disturbing contrast. A little like a shark. Gavin thought.
Gavin drew his gun again. "Oi, mate. I don't know what you're playing at, but if you don't shift your arse in two seconds, I'm gonna put another hole in it."
The big man kept on giving him a smile, "Ha, a second one. That' real clever that is." he said, walking towards Gavin slowly.
Gavin wouldn't give him a chance to get any closer, he raised his gum, aiming fro the head and squeezed.
CLICK. CLICK. CLICK.
The big man kept on coming.
"What the fuck-" Gavin looked down to his hands, and saw the camera in his hands, he took a moment to register it as impossible, before he was scooped up by the collar, and raised hight up from the ground.
As his face started turn a subtle shade of blue, he met the big man's lifeless gaze. "..H-how...?" he asked to himself as much as much to the man as to himself, how could he have gotten the drop on me?
as if to answer, the Big Man answered, "How? Well... Because I'm fucking magic, that's how."
As Gavin began to feel the life fade from himself, he could also see the light in the centre of the room fade, at first he thought it was because he was blacking out, but then as the darkness fell, an he saw what was in the shadows, he still felt enough breath left in him to scream...


Wednesday 27 June 2012

The Amazing Spider-Man: Retro Rehash of The Sensational Youth Icon

Okay, so as many of you are probably aware, from billboards, TV Spots, Viral Internet campaigns, ect. that a "new" Spider-Man movie is coming out on the 4th of July. In America, it's expected to take over $150 million in the box-office on it's opening weekend alone.
 Except, as you can probably ascertain from my use of inverted comma's, It's hardly new. It's a prequel that reinvigorates the entire series, and sets everything back to year zero, where Peter Parker as recently gained control of his abilities, and is freshly exploring them. It was done in Sam Raimi's series, but they seem to have reinvented certain themes that were in the comics, the inclusion of Gwen Stacey as a (valid) love interest, the use of Peter's web-shooters, and the introduction of Curt Connors as The Lizard, who, as you can probably guess, is a giant lizard-man.
 And while certain of these themes are important to the Spider-Man Mythos, Peter inventing and using the Web Shooters shows his intelligence and altruism (he could have just patented the ultra-strong webbing material and retired), and Gwen Stacey opens up a love tetrahedron concerning Peter and his friends,it still feels a little... Pointless? I guess?
 Spider-Man has had a rich, 50 year history, and he's had plenty of notable stories that have affected fans, but at the present point, we've struck some kind of universal rut concerning how we tell Spider-Man stories. In the past 10-15 years, we've had a massive series of re-hashes and retcons (retro-continuity) in the Spider-Man stories spread across the media. The Sam Raimi films, the current film series, Spectacular Spider-Man, Ultimate Spider-Man (both the comic book series AND the cartoon series),  Spider-Man Noir, Mary-Jane loves Spider-Man and the controversial comic book story line in "regular" continuity, Brand New Day, seem to have sent Spider-Man backwards instead of forwards.
 Either thematically, they've reintroduced a young, hip, in some way "new" version of the character, or reintroduced certain themes used by Stan Lee and Steve Ditko back in the 60's, the use of social-life intruding on his heroic alter ego, and visa-versa, the fusion of a Teen Drama/Soap-Opera/Super-Hero saga that it once was. In Spider-Man's early years, this was considered, edgy, original and was great for hooking young legions of fan's.
And so the tradition of telling Harry to shut up, a tradition carried out until this very day, began. 

 But in perhaps the last 20 years, the character hit a snag, he was growing up. He was no longer in college, he was a slave to the dollar like anyone else, he was married, he had, in essence, GROWN UP problems. Now, whether it was the difficulty for new writers to put him through the wringer in relatable, yet mature ways, or legions of ageing fan's putting down the comics or even Marvel's realisation of Spider-Man's merchandising potential, Marvel, and Spider-Man's fan's began to realise something.
 Spider-Man is not a grown-up character.
 Peter Parker is the constantly anguished, tortured soul who is often unable to ascertain the correct moral path, or recognise the consequences of his own actions, in other words, the perpetual teenager. Adults are usually more morally upstanding, someone to be replicated. It's probably the reason why a character like, say, Batman is considered mature. He's so righteous and morally justified in his actions, it's easy for more grown up fans to follow and place on a pedestal. Spider-Man's (ironic) irresponsibility, and striving for a consistent ethical path, the juggling of social life and other obligations is something younger fans find more relatable.
 Of course, I doubt even though we all do adult things, pay rent, work a job we don't like, and generally put on a brave face against the rest of the world, that we feel in control of our lives, or that we feel as grown up as we think we are, which I think still explains Spider-Man's appeal to older fans. Perhaps as a way to retain a piece of one's youth in the face of an overwhelming adulthood as much as anything.
 Spider-Man (despite the name) is an overgrown kid. A motormouth that's always poking fun and cracking jokes at his enemies expense, with near limitless energy and (dare I say it) archetypal "adult" enemies. The Vulture maintains a literally generational conflict, not to mention Norman Osborn's sinister connotations as a sadistic father-figure. Even Kraven the Hunter is testosterone dripping example of primal manhood.
"Hey, Kid, do you want to take a look at my sub-text, if  you know what I mean..."

 So the real problem is how to keep a character that's marketable as a youth icon, and be able to let him mature and grow at the same time. It's a tricky conundrum made worse by a sense of nostalgia, and the thoughts of writers and fan's that the Spider-Man stories of the 60's were part of a "Golden Age", a time of now unattainable originality and greatness that contained the absolute and concrete version of the character. that's why we've seen a resurgence in retcon's and redo's, where Spider-Man fights classic characters that are virtually the same fights as they were 40 years ago. Social relationships that have already reached their logical conclusion begin all over again to pander to a new generation. and all the while, the stories that allow a new kind of Spider-Man story to come into genesis are still-born or aborted to take a "fresh" take on an old formula.
 "Back in Black" a story arc where Peter Parker revealed his Identity to the world, and where his Aunt May was shot, his wife Mary-Jane was forced to flee underground, and his pantheon of villains baying for his blood allowed this new kind of story to appear. Peter's Past mistakes had caught up with him, and he had to face the music, either become mature enough to handle the loss of his sole parental figure and protect what was left of his family. This was a MAN'S story. Of course,  a retcon in the form of "One More Day", came calling, where Peter literally sold his marriage to the Devil so he could wipe out everyones memory of his identity, and the life of his Aunt back, occured. Conveniently allowing him to be free from the responsibility of marriage, AND guilt from the loss of his aunt, and continue his life as a Man-Child.
 Ultimate Spider-Man is even worse, this version of Peter Parker died at 16, only having started his career at 14, just as his character exhibited character growth and maturity, and then was replace by a new Spider-Man, Mike Morales, another 14 year old that has to get to grips with a complicated social life, alter ego and new powers. He still faces all the old enemies.
I think we've reached a stagnancy when it comes to Spider-Man stories. I'm sure it's not a problem for most people, but I've spent all of my teenage years reading and watching essentially the same story over and over again, and no matter how skilfully or innovative it is, it still isn't original, and that's something I need.
 Other comic book writers, like Scott Snyder and Grant Morrison are endeavouring to try and inject something that hasn't been done before into Batman stories (introducing cosmic and psychological motifs), a character that's been around 30 years more than Spider-Man, and they're actually doing a pretty good job, which makes me wonder what's wrong with the writers at Marvel.
 Regardless, I'm probably not going to go and see "The Amazing Spider-Man" in the cinemas. It's a little too depressing.
I'm raising my hands in the air, because at this point, I just don't care.

Monday 25 June 2012

Danse Macabre

Best taken with an auditory aid, chiefly, this one:
Now let the Dance of Death... Begin!

Danse Macabre - poem by Paul Verlain

(translated from French)

    Zig, zig, zig, Death in cadence,
    Striking a tomb with his heel,
    Death at midnight plays a dance-tune,
    Zig, zig, zag, on his violin.
    The winter wind blows, and the night is dark;
    Moans are heard in the linden trees.
    White skeletons pass through the gloom,
    Running and leaping in their shrouds.
    Zig, zig, zig, each one is frisking,
    You can hear the cracking of the bones of the dancers.
    A lustful couple sits on the moss
    So as to taste long lost delights.
    Zig zig, zig, Death continues
    The unending scraping on his instrument.
    A veil has fallen! The dancer is naked.
    Her partner grasps her amorously.
    The lady, it's said, is a marchioness or baroness
    And her green gallant, a poor cartwright.
    Horror! Look how she gives herself to him,
    Like the rustic was a baron.
    Zig, zig, zig. What a saraband!
    They all hold hands and dance in circles.
    Zig, zig, zag. You can see in the crowd
    The king dancing among the peasants.
    But hist! All of a sudden, they leave the dance,
    They push forward, they fly; the cock has crowed.
    Oh what a beautiful night for the poor world!
    Long live death and equality!

Thursday 21 June 2012

To Frankie

Bottles and bottles and bottles of the stuff.
It burnt your nose just to sniff them, venomous vapours streaming off their corks and caps. Each held a viscous eerie fluid, hazy and undefinable, one second it was swirling, and contained a brilliant, opalescent sheen that captured the mind's imagination and held it giddy, on the lower shelves, further away from the day-lit windows, the fluid was voluptuously dark, as exquisitely murky and mysterious as the most exotic of sins.
A rum-runners ransom in liquor,  a veritable horde of hooch, In the year 1929, it was worth it's weight in gold. But today, a year later, it was all legal.
"It's not even very good. I've nipped turpentine that tastes smoother going down." Said Henry Peaks, hidden under a hat and twice his weight in trench-coat. His ratty little mouth held a cigarette limper than the two noodles he called arms.
"Well this gut-rot won't sell itself, Henry. What about Kenny Mc...Whositsname, over on Garland Street. You know, owns the Gilded Cherub...?" Marco Geraldo. Six and a half feet of muscle, gristle, and barely restrained rage. Also, suspenders and buzz-cut.
"...McGrady? That mook won't touch the stuff. He's found a legit supplier from Chicago. Apparently they make a mean gin. Frankly, Kenny only took from us after the Darmout Brothers started overcharging him on the bourbon."
"Those assholes have their place on Northburn. The... uh, I'm pretty sure it has a fox in the title..."
"The Jazz Joint? Yeah, but only cause they muscled in on Eddy the Ear. Poor guy. Heard he can only eat his meals through a straw these days. And then only when someones holding it for him." Henry took a brown, hefty bottle off the shelves, that was labelled "TWO HUNDERED PROOF, FINEST CHOICE GARUNTEEED!" and dragged it over to the water-warped lump of furniture that they used as a table. "Marco, do you ever wonder why it all happened like it did?"
Marco was casually trying to part back his hair with an inferior brand of hair-wax, but found that the quantity and the quality of the hair belonged somewhere closer to a scrubbing brush than a human head, and so instead wiped the wax across his mammoth chest, parting his chest hair evenly across his two biceps.
"It gotta be when Frankie died. Almost six months to the day, would you believe that?"
Both the fella's quickly crossed their hearts. Marco hadn't gone to church for almost two years, and Henry was Jewish, but it was a mark of respect to a man they had called their friend, their brother and their boss.
"We was about to own this town." Said Henry with a look of awe in his beady, ragged little eyes. "The Darbouts, the Francheski's Even Bobby Blanco gave us a piece of respect when Frankie was around."
Nostalgia seemed to be catching, as Marco joined in with the commemorating. "He used to just stand there and no what to say. He never had to hit anyone to get 'em to listen to him, and he always knew how to make someone shut their traps."
"Yeah. He's give 'em a look with those great big green eyes of his. Smile that smiles of him, and every politico to pimp would be butter in his fingers."
"Yeah..." Marco looked away fondly at nothing in particular. He caught himself though, and busied himself by grabbing some glasses from the crockery cupboard.
"Hey. You remember that time with Moses Sizzles?"
The story seemed to be one that they both knew, but still one they would mind retelling to one another a million times over.
"So, Sybil Raceway gets a hot tip that Moses and his boys have something hidden from The Law out on the Docks up with those slant-eyed Celestials."
"Why'd they call her Sybil Raceway, again?" Marco could never remember the names, probably one of the reasons he could never lead a gang of his own.
"Cause you ain't never seen so many people in and out of her so quick. Now anyways, Frankie, he's the smart type, and knows the scent of something big when it's screamin' on his lap. So he says to us: '"Now you two boys go turn over the chink love-house and the opium lounge and you see who's willing to play ball."' And so we go over and snatch up a squeaky little slant eye-"
"-I remember them being some o' the slantiest eyes I've ever gone seen-" Marco chimed in.
"-And so we's brings him back to Frankie, all squirmy like, I swear someones put him in Vaseline before we got to him, and Frankie just looks at him."
"With those green ol' eye's of his. Not slanty at all"
"And this little, yella fella crumbles. Like and eagle smashes a turtle, or a turtle smashes a head, or whatever, and he spills. Tells us what Moses is hiding down on the Docks, and boy is it big."
Marco took an opportunity during the pause in the tale to pour them both a considerable sized glass of the fiery amber liquid each.
"A treasure trove of the fanciest imported spirits you could think of: A million pesos worth of genuine Mezcal, worms all crawlin' through the bottom of each bottle. Crystal clear Vodka from the proletarians over in the Motherland. Rice wine from Japan so fresh you could almost still see the husks attached. And if you remember, we almost waded in like patoots to go get it ourselves."
"Man, back then we were dumber than a sack of... Elephants."
"I hears ya. But Frankie... Frankie had a mind clearer than a kike's ledger-book. Always tickin' away. So instead of us and Two Bars Charlie going to the Docks, and bustin' heads and taking the hooch, Frankie asks the little fella where Moses Sizzles was holed up."
" So. Like Satan's teapot, we get fired up and march out to Fiddlers Junker over in New Street, and while you're holdin' a baseball bat in one hand and a snub-nose in the other-"
"-and you've got a shotgun hidden in your trench-coat. You can't even see it."
"Yeah, yeah, Marco. But you ruined the story a bit. Anyway, Two Bars has his two bars and you two rush in, breakin' faces and that pelvis, when some old barfly takes out his .22 and is about to blow you one on the brain-pan when POW! I shoot him where the sun don't shine with a shotgun I've got hidden in my trench-coat all sneaky like see."
"Very sneaky."
"So we go up to Moses' room and you kicks the door down like it's made 'a' cheap cheddar. Frankie walks in on behind us, see's Moses puffin' away on one of his stinky ol' cigar's and sippin' on his brandy. Frankie just gives him the look, then he says '"Everything you own on the Docks now is mine, capish?"'
"And Moses laughed at him, I remember that. I was about to go over across that desk and turn his scrawny little neck around." Marco started to turn kind of raddish-ish with even the distant memory of the fact.
"Yeah, but then he would'a been called Moses Turnaround, not Sizzles. Anyways, so Frankie grabs that glass of brandy of his, takes a sip of it, swirling the glass a little, cause that's the ritzy thing to do, and then he tosses it full into Moses's face. FWOOSH, it goes up in smoke and so does Moses."
"Yeah, I still don't get why that happened. Frankie musta' known some hocus pocus from the old country, I guess."
"... It was the lit cigar that Moses was smoking, Marco. It made the brandy catch."
"...Oh. Still, pretty clever of Frankie."
"Yeah, never seen anything like it. To Frankie!" Henry and Marco had both let their glasses full until the story was over as a mark of respect. At the point that it petered out, they both raised their glasses in salute to Frankie."
"To the smartest, greatest guy I ever knew."
"Hear hear." chirped in Henry from underneath his fedora.
They drained their glasses dry.
"...pity about how he died."
"Yeah, that fire just came outta nowhere while he was drinkin' some of the haul from the Docks."
"Marco... he was smokin' while he was drinkin'."
"And?"
"...Nothing. It's just, everyone seems to have moved on and found a way to go Legit. Even Two Bar Charlie is running two bars on Elworth and Nobbs. I just know that if Frankie were still here..."
Henry's eyes drifted across the tabletop where the two's glasses sat. They weren't alone.
Marco saw it too. "I'm sorry. Must of just been a force of habit. My head's a bit fuzzy today."
Henry just gave a sad little sigh, and flicked his ashes into the third glass. Where it fizzled and was drowned.
"We've had to water down everything in this cellar so much you couldn't even get a kid drunk off the stuff. We're never going to be able to shift it."
"I bet Frankie would 'a' had a plan for it." Marco added.
"Yeah... He would have. Hey, Marco pour us another one."
The slosh and splash of the watered bourbon as it poured into each glass was so refreshing, you could have gotten drunk off the sound alone.
"To Frankie. Maybe not the smartest, but definitely the best guy I ever knew." said Henry with a heart filled with pride and starting to be filled with cheap hooch.
"Hear hear." Said Marco, gazing at the shelves of opulent scotches, murky jugs of Applejack, two bit  Rum sitting next to five hundred dollar Cognac, some a little bit drunken away, all of them dusty from being on the shelves too long, and wondered how long it would take for them to drink it all from Toasts to Frankie.
Not as long as you'd think.
 


Sunday 20 May 2012

The Hollow Wing: The Man with the Red Eye

And so the haunted cells that laid between the nefarious concrete monolith known as J Block, and the Administration offices, claimed yet another soul. The bricks that made up the squat rooms smelt of poisoned blood, and they reverberated with the crying of anguished maniacs. And there was the sense of hunger there. Hunger of something colossal, abnormal and monstrous that was sated by the ecstatic release of a tortured souls. The Hollow Wing.
And so the Man with the Bloody Eye rested there for the night. Dreaming of nothing and resting completely untroubled.
The Doctors didn't understand him. He had been a normal man once , He had a wife, parents, siblings, children, pets and neighbours who loved him and filled him, nourished him with purpose. He did everything in his life for them. Laboured tirelessly to please them. And each day he fell down in bed exhausted, he always knew he hadn't done enough for them, and rent at his mind with a secret shame.
 He had tried pills to quash this festering anxiety, saw all the best specialists, reached out hopelessly to strangers in an effort to fill this abyss in him. But every night he'd hear the words not good enough over and over. It became his mantra. And he'd sing it to himself every day to himself when he was alone.
One day, after a wearisome day of work. After he had taken a handful of bitter tablets to settle his nerves, and listened to the oblivious voices of his family, he blanched in privacy, and fell into a final fit that he would never awaken from.
He started to shudder, quivering in a quiet corner of the house, gibbering the familiar phrase he always chanted at times like there. Not good enough. Round and round in circles. Unexpectedly though, his limbs began to spasm in a mangled dervish, a tornado of flailing appendages, his back arched with tempestuous agony, and he thought that he would die from the way that he felt.
In truth, it was a kind of death. But only one of certainty.
NOT GOOD ENOUGH. The words that were a void in his soul. Except this time, instead of trying to bury it,  or cover it up, he finally surrendered himself to it. A journey into his own abyss. And in the dark, the light of truth gleams ever bright.
He was never good enough for the people around him that made him feel so loved, so needed, so purposeful. He couldn't ever do enough or be enough to pay back the way they made him feel. Their love for him, and his own for them had somehow toxified  his own love for himself.
The Doctors said that this was a minor stroke brought on by an epileptic fit. Certain blood vessels had burst like crimson fireworks in his left, sinister, eye. It had also brought about a complete shut-down in his empathy-centre. He would never feel another emotion again in his life that wasn't about himself. A sociopath in mere seconds.
The suicides and murder-suicides that followed in the surrounding months were noted by the media and the police. His distraught parents drowning themselves in the nearby dam. Two neighbours houses yielded freshly carbon-monoxide-ed cadavers. His wife's poisoning the children's school lunches before jumping off a bridge. The newspapers said that his sister burnt herself alive and they never found his brother's body.
They even said when they came for the Man, that they found his cat starved itself to death and his goldfish suffocated by forcing themselves up out of their water.
When asked why he thought all his loved ones killed themselves, the man spoke sincerely, but briefly, "I finally made them feel the same way I felt for all those years." And when asked if he felt sad about their passing, he uttered with an upturned lip, "Do you think this eye could still shed a tear?"
No-one ever visits him, no-one ever speaks to him. The nurses only stay as quickly as they can. Guards whisper superstitious mutterings about the horrible deaths that happen to those that feel the slightest hint of emotion for him.
The Man with the Red Eye sleeps content, or at least, in peace. Feeling nothing, and hearing only silence as he falls asleep.