John Hughes was a hack

I received an email from a good friend which contained the following giggle-ditty:  ...the John Hughes montage from the Oscars last night made me feel all warm and nostalgic inside.

The lengthy recognition that The Academy bestowed upon the late Mr Hughes (who's creativity died twenty-three years ago) was extremely generous for such a hack-writer.

For twenty-nine years between 1979 and 2008, John Hughes wrote almost 40 screenplays for film and TV.  While six of his films, released between '84 and '87, were good-to-great:  Ferris Bueller's Day Off; Sixteen Candles; The Breakfast Club; Planes, Trains and Automobiles; Pretty in Pink; and Some Kind of Wonderful (the last of which is debatable), Mr Hughes only directed four of those gems.  I recognize Home Alone is popular with six-to-eight year olds—and those who were that age twenty years ago—nonetheless it's as much a vacuous, ham-handed, template-driven, piece of shite, as Drillbit Taylor, Beetoven, and all his Vacation movies were.

For every good film that came out of John Hughes's head, he wrote four absofuckinlutely terrible movies.  He got by with a 15% good to 85% terrible ratio.  And don't forget...he was so ashamed of the dreck he was generating towards the end, that he wrote under the pseudonym Edmond Dantes (and yes, I think he was trying to send a message of some sort by using the character's name from The Count of Monte Christo, but I don't care enough about him to hypothesize what that might've been).

For comparison:

• Stanley Kubrick         wrote/directed about 15 films      60% good to 40% bad.
• Akira Kurosawa         wrote/directed 60+ films             18% good IN THE US!

• Cohen Brothers        wrote/directed 18 films                45% good to 55% bad.
• Kevin Smith               wrote/directed about 9 films        50% good to 50% bad.

This is how Kevin Smith could become the next John Hughes:  with the handful of good films he already has under his belt—all he has to do, now, is continue to spew out the same unwatchable movies he's shat for the last decade (at a rate of one-turd-a-year) and die of a heart attack around 2023.  The Academy could, then, compile a montage of Clerks, Mallrats, Chasing Amy, and Dogma and have Ben Affleck, Jason Lee, Matt Damon, Chris Rock, and Selma Hayek provide verbal tributes.
 
There’s always the chance you could die right in the middle of your life story. — Chuck Palahniuk

Paper Digital drafts

Davecat, a long-term pen pal Squire mate (my first two marriages were shorter than the six-years he and I've been equainted) wrote an article about the ephemeral nature of writing in this après-paper world.  He highlighted one quality that separates the convenient-for-archiving-medium of the last few centuries and the convenient-for-editing-medium which has become de rigueur.  His conclusion (I'm presuming...because his landing was a mite soft, stopping on a ? the way he did) was that one of the negative side-effects of the digital age was the loss of all the unsaved preliminary sketches, initial drafts, and index card outlines.   He questioned if there were some past tangible benefits from the preservation of the unrefined building blocks of the creative process.   

In an imaginary monastery in 1453 a similar treatise was written (by Brother Davidcatatoniacal of he Chanting to hear the Graduals order) about how the newfangled and inexpensive pulp caused fellow-scribes to discard preliminary scrolls, which—if they were still writing on parchment—would have been reused.

Man has communicated with himself in many ways.  To name a few:  Wax tablets (very etch-a-sketch meets twitter); papyrus (fantastic in the desert, but rots in the rain-forest); quipu (where messages were knotted and worn); and now—the new paradigm—digitally communicating with Squire.

Synchronicity may explain the thing—where you stumble across a word for the first time (a while back, for me, it was: abstruse) and then every time you turn a page someone else has found a way to utilize that neat-o abstract/obtuse combination-word you just learned.

Was it also synchronicity when, two days ago, I learned about Rudyard Kipling's preference for writing longhand and about his paranoia that the labors of his writing might profit someone besides himself—so much so, that he insured his "roughs" were burned, daily, under supervision?  Because I think it's an answer to Davecat's question:  that the largest thing lost by the digital-snake eating his own tail (second and third drafts consuming the initial) is the profits to be made from selling the "discovered in an old trunk" sketches and rough drafts of famous artists, authors, and musicians. 

As I was writing this Echo, I came up with a question which is related-in-a-abstruse-sort-of-way:  How long will the world's governments continue to subsidize socialized communication?  The postal service is being used less and less.  Squire is being used more and more.  Eventually (in as soon as ten years?) won't corporate shipping companies completely replace government postal services and if not, why not?   When was the last time you wrote a letter with pen and paper?  Will your children's children think of postage stamps the way we think of sealing wax?

Leonardo's Mona Lisa is just a thousand thousand smears of paint. Michelangelo's David is just a million hits with a hammer.  We're all of us a million bits put together the right way. — Chuck Palahniuk (Diary)

let yourself feel—Esteban Diácono

Deliver me from Swedish furniture.  Deliver me from clever art.  May I never be complete.  May I never be content.  May I never be perfect. — Chuck Palahniuk

Heavy Rain

A video game for film lovers, Heavy Rain is a unique detective and revenge thriller that will keep you entertained for 12-15 hours the first time (I'm almost finished with my second go-round).

Reasons to like this game:   Death is death.  In most other games when your character "dies" he returns at a previous save-point or re-spawning location (which my paramour calls 'the Shoots and Ladders element', bless her heart)—not in Heavy Rain.  If one of the four characters you control dies, you're 25% closer to game-over.  It is possible to identify the serial killer and win the game with only one remaining character alive and mobile.  

No cheats or work-arounds.  The most common work around in other games is to save your game (especially before a conflict) and when you die you re-load and resume where you saved—not in Heavy Rain.  Saving your game is not an option.  When you make a mistake the game immediately autosaves...so that's where it will return if you try to start over. 

No jumping through the movie scenes.  In many games the "story" may feel like it is slowing your game play so you skip the story and get on with the mission—not in Heavy Rain.  You are watching a movie.  The plot unfolds differently depending on what actions (or inactions) you choose with each of your characters, but you can't skip the (sometimes lengthy) film and dialogue.

Emotional investment in the characters.  With the use of theatrics (music score, camera movement, mise-en-scène, script, and stereotypical protagonist/antagonist plotting, etc.) you begin to care about your game characters like you would a film character.  Your emotional desire to "protect" or "save" your character(s) influences your game decisons.

A desire to re-play more than once.    The outcome of the entire game will be different if you defend yourself completely, drive the car expertly, and don't trip at that crucial moment.  But, as the story unfolds from four points-of-view you'll choose what to say, you'll accomplish some "mini-missions," and you'll make mistakes.  Consequently, you'll want to go back and make a different decision or master the unique controls one more time.

All Trophies are unknown.  Trophies provide a record of additional accomplishments for those who want more goals than just the completion of the game.  In many games you can scroll through the list of trophies to determine some of the important "mini-missions".  In Heavy Rain all trophies are locked and unknown until you earn them. 

Reasons to dislike this game:  Linear-gameplay.  This isn't a sandbox-game and, therefore, you can't roam and explore beyond the confines of the scene-area, which enforces the "film feel" of the game.

Vehicle driving.  Although your characters drive different vehicles, you don't have much—if any—driver control; again, enforcing the "film feel".

Character similarity.   Two of your characters look very similar...so much so, that—until one grows a beard—you confuse them.  The first time I played the game, I thought this was intentional and that I'd eventually learn they were related (brothers or, maybe, a Fight Club-thing).  Nope.  Just poor casting by the director.
 
No Jumping through the movie scenes.  Yea, this is/was a plus...but it's only positive the first time or two through.  On the fifth viewing, now you've memorized what they're going to say for the next five minutes, and you may abandon the cut-scene heavy game.

I have heard, and read, strong criticism about the unique character controls.  I think it's important to understand that the uniqueness of the controls is crucial to enjoying the game.  If the controls were simple or similar to other games the challenge of moving your characters in a stress situation would be non-existent.  As your character gets excited, it translates to his thoughts and to the controller, then you make mistaken statements or take clumsy movements which adds to your fear for your characters safety...and that empathy drives your desire for a win-finish.  It wouldn't be a thrill if you could rely upon muscle memory to control your characters, so...floating a "button/movement" on the screen when specific actions are needed lends a spontaneous immediacy that could not be attained in any other manner. 

On a long enough timeline, the survival rate for everyone drops to zero. — Chuck Palahniuk (Fight Club)

Unfriended the old fashioned way

          Last year I was unfriended by my last, outspoken conservative-christian-republican (ccr) friend.  I've written about him before.  I did not learn of our no-longer-friendship in the Facebook-way (I don't book) but rather in the protracted, adult, manner of heterosexual men.

          Although I can't recall the specific words I said which (hindsight affords me the knowledge must have) drove a wedge in our friendship, I remember our last debate was about religion.  His routine, after hours of alcohol-fueled conversation, was to begin to proselytize—mine was applying logic to debunk his religion.

          Just before he started talking about god, we'd been discussing porn:  

"...because I'm a man and men have needs.  Even though my job takes me on the road for long periods, I still need it daily.  Hell...three or more times a day!  But because of those needs—that I, as a good christian and a good husband wouldn't allow to be met by anyone but my wife—I rely on porn even though I hate doing it."  He said, nodding in the direction of his laptop.

"You...I don't understand.  You're saying you hate porn, but it's a necessary evil?"  I asked.

"Porn is...yea.  It's bad.  Horrible."  He said.  "It can...it sucks you in.  Like dope's a gateway drug— pornography's a gateway perversion.  You can get addicted to it.  It...there's so much out there...it's too available."

"I disagree."  I said.  "It's more like guns than marijuana.  To call it a gateway means that once you start whatever you're 'headed-down-a-slippery-slope'.  Porn doesn't do that.  The adage: 'guns don't kill—people do' is more appropriate, I think.  If you follow a link from a porn site to a chat site to a webcam site and eventually end up driving to a prostitute you found on craig's list...you can't blame the porn, only yourself."

          At this point he shifted the conversation directly to religion and god.  His god.  He touched on his belief in the bible...his being saved from an afterlife in hell (and my lack thereof)...how homosexuals were terrible sinners...and then said he didn't vote for Obama because he was a Muslim.

          I called him a willfully-ignorant bigot—afraid of people who thought or behaved differently than he did.  When he tried to rebut, I replied that he'd just proved his prejudice by stating someone should not be president because of a religion different than his own; and proved his ignorance by believing something he read on the internet or heard on FOX.

          I, then, dropped the blade on our 12-year friendship (I guess) by calling his entire belief-system a fantasy...no different than scientology...and saying that after death he'd return to the state of nothingness he was before he was born; as had—and would—every living thing.  I also said that even though there's no such thing as hell, I still took offense when he proclaimed I and others were headed there, since it's the thought that counts and his thoughts were not those of a friend.    

          For three months after that, our communication was one-directional, then I stopped trying.  It's been a year.  I no longer have any more ccr friends to alienate.  There are some extended family members and a few acquaintances who are ccr, but they (unfortunately) know not to discuss their prejudices, flaunt their superstitions, talk about their imaginary friends, or embrace their ignorance around me. 

          I don't think he'll ever read this blog (heathen's words are probably a gateway to a lower ring of hell or something equally imaginary) but if he does:  Jim, I'm sorry I was rude and dismissive, forgive me?   

Reprove your friend in secret and praise him openly. — Leonardo da Vinci

Vanishing Point - Bonsajo

My creativity is hibernating so I'm sharing the art and music of others.

A painter should begin every canvas with a wash of black, because all things in nature are dark except where exposed by the light. — Leonardo da Vinci

The Universe

There are these adorable little organisms—did I say little? I'm sorry, minuscule creatures—who've survived for less than an infinitesimal tic of time (bless their hearts) on a almost invisible mote of gravity revolving around a mediocre speck of light.  Here's the giggle:  they imagine all of everything was created for them by a magic being who looks like they do.  I know!...Right?

Blinding ignorance does mislead us. O! Wretched mortals, open your eyes! — Leonardo da Vinci

Kill twitter, kill it dead & happy Lunar New Year

I received a comment worth commenting on today:  nice post. I would love to follow you on twitter.  The appreciative glint brought on by her first sentence was arrow-pierced and sword-beheaded by her last...creating in me a supernova-dwarfing impulse to verbally pummel a portion of Donnie Darko dinnertime conversation into the anonymous ingénue.

Maybe her comment was an attempt at irony (the 140 character-thing).  Although I'm proud of the chapter upon which I received this comment-l'exaspérant, it's not short (coming within hand-grenade range of 1,200 words).  It could also be that this néophyte had yet to read my previously written thoughts on the ridiculous fad.

This bit of artistic expression should clarify my position on the twitter matter.

(I realize my anonymous twitter-friendly commenter may be male, because some gay men do tweet—but, if that's the case, he'd be ok with my feminine pronoun usage.)

Thirst will parch your tongue and your body will waste through lack of sleep ere you can describe in words that which painting instantly sets before the eye.  —  Leonardo da Vinci

Pogo - Alice

The color of the object illuminated partakes of the color of that which illuminates it. — Leonardo da Vinci

'Til ya drop from muscle fatigue

I got my exercise today by pushing 250 pounds (114kg) of groceries around Costco for over an hour.  For those unfamiliar with this wholesale retailer, it's a quantity-not-quality store (think IKEA for food and sundries).  Need a gallon of Mayonnaise or a 50 pound (23Kg) bag of rice?  Costco is the place to go.

I pushed the cart at Costco today, because my paramour cringes when she looks at the receipt after I shop.  If I buy groceries, (and I never go to Costco) I select items based on:  my personal tastes and item-quality (which I admit, I can't always clearly explain).

For example, I buy only organic milk even though it costs almost double.  Why? She asks.  Because I refuse to drink milk from a container bearing the disclaimer: The FDA has determined there is no significant difference between milk derived from hormone-treated and non-hormone-treated cows.  If they need a disclaimer, I don't want to consume it on a daily basis.

I prefer brown free-range eggs.  Yes, they taste exactly the same as the white ones that drop through the bars of a cage; but my brain says they look and sound better no matter what my stomach says.

European butter, imported from Ireland or some-such far-away land, is the only butter I'll buy.  My tongue can definitely tell the difference (and don't even consider trying to get me to use a tub of whipped oil, because I can definitely believe it's not butter!).

Don't get me wrong.  I appreciate some of the bulk items available at Costco.  My cats never complain about the cheap clay they cover their shit with.  A gross of Toilet paper rolls or a double-peck of bread (which can be frozen for a few months) makes financial sense.  Whatever Ok, I get it.

But something I realized about Costco—which occurred to me today—was if you are low on money, on a fixed income, or unemployed:  definitely become a Costco member.  Go daily for lunch or dinner.  Take your entire family.  Put an item or two in your cart (there's bound to be something you need).  Stop at each of the different "tasting booths" scattered throughout the store and eat what they offer.  (The primary function of a "Tasting booth" is generating a continuous effluence of "pleasant cooking odors."   The type of odors which make you hungry.  Hungry people buy more groceries.  So, don't think you are taking advantage—even if you fill your gut at the "tasting booths" every day for months and years—because they are trying to take advantage of you!)  Wanna try a small slice of pizza?... eat some roasted almonds?... taste a four-cheese ravioli?... sample some spicy sausage?  Before you know it, you and yours will be too full from eating the residue from the pleasant cooking odor stations to want the foot-long/drink combo (available for a dollar-fifty at the food concession on your way out).

The truth of things is the chief nutriment of superior intellects. — Leonardo da Vinci