Feeling the Music

I mentioned in my review of Locked Out from the Inside and Only Revolutions at the start of the year, that I had been doing some thinking about what I think makes music good. This is linked with my distinct apathy towards the Arcade Fire, which I talked about a bit last June. That apathy has since extended (to varying extents) to Broken Social Scene and Pavement. You would think that, as big fan of indie music who even likes Neutral Milk Hotel, I would love these bands and any more like them that I’ve not discovered yet. I alluded to the reason why in June and I wanted expand on that a little more having given it a bit more thought. Today seemed as good a day as any given that nothing else has happened of note that I want to blog about this week.

The first thing that I feel I need to make clear is that I don’t dislike any of the bands I am going to talk about, or indeed any bands similar to them, in fact I do find their music quite pleasant. I just don’t love them in the same way that people think I should. When I first started listening to the Arcade Fire I thought I was missing something because they simply didn’t stand out in the same way I thought they should. The music didn’t grab me like music from Porcupine Tree or the Flaming Lips does. It took me a while to realise why the music was little more than quite pleasant but nothing special, in fact it took until I listened to You Forget it in People by Broken Social Scene.

One song on that album stood out for me; Anthems for a Seventeen Year-old Girl, the rest was ok, but nothing special. I soon realised that the reason it stood out was because it was packed full of emotion. Perhaps it was technically less interesting than the rest of the album, the lyrics are fairly simplistic and the overall message is pretty obvious, but that didn’t matter. For the first and only time the album made an emotional connection with me. I could feel the sense of loss and of regret, it was heart wrenching and I realised what had been missing from the rest of the album and from most of what I’d listened to from the Arcade Fire. It was what had been there in the Flaming Lips and Porcupine Tree. It’s what made bands like Nine Black Alps and Biffy Clyro stand out to me. Emotion.

Art is all about creating an emotional connection between the audience and the artist through the art. Good art is deeply moving because the emotions that the artist is pouring into the art are effectively expressed. Ultimately this is more important than creating complex, intellectually interesting art; complexity has to be aimed at creating deeper, more complex emotions, it is not an end in itself. A simple painting of a sunset which inspires awe is more effective than a complicated, technically brilliant painting which loses any emotion in the complexity.

This inevitably applies to music; a good song is one which invokes strong feeling in the listener. The purpose of a piece of music is to establish that same link between the artist and the listener through the music, so when I listen to the Arcade Fire and simply shrug apathetically I know that the music has failed. There is no emotional connection, there is no passion, and there is no reason to keep listening. By contrast I can listen to the Decembrists (a band that I have not mentioned yet, but rank alongside Porcupine Tree, Pink Floyd and the Flaming Lips as one of my favourite bands) and feeling the emotions that are surging through the songs. I can listen to the Flaming Lips and get feel buoyed by the sheer joy of their music. The more I listen and the more I pay attention to the complexities of the song, the stronger the emotional connection.

When I listen to a new band I look for this emotional connection. I try to experience the emotions of the artists through the music. I don’t look for the technical quality or the lyrical complexity because that’s meaningless without the emotional connection being established. The kind of indie music which the Arcade Fire exemplifies is simply trying too hard. They over-think the music and end up sounding aloof and disconnected. The music might be technically brilliant, but it’s all for nothing because I simply could not care less. No emotional connection has been established, so all the technical brilliance is all for nothing.

Of course some of the song from the Arcade Fire and other such bands do have emotion and I can connect to them, it’s just that for the most part this is severely lacking. I am making very general statements and there are exceptions. It would also be a mistake to say that this lack of emotion makes these bands bad. I don’t dislike them; I just think they slightly miss the point.

Art is an expression of emotion, once you let technicalities get in the way of that expression; you have missed the point of what you are doing. In trying to be all clever and artsy, this particular brand of indie music has forgotten what art is. It doesn’t necessarily make for bad music, but it does make for bad art.

Making everything better

I was going to do a photo based entry based on my recent skiing holiday, but I lost the thing that connects my camera to my laptop so I can’t upload any photos. This is also the reason for the lack of project 365 for the last week. Don’t worry when I get a replacement I will update it.

Anyway, I have no idea what to do this week and I’m pretty tired, so I’m going to cop out slightly. Over the last week I have had a good look at some of the fiction I’ve written recently, most notably this and this and done some pretty major editing. I’ve had quite a bit of time to go through them in the last week when I should have been working, so I’ve made a lot of changes, especially to the first one, some of which has changed beyond recognition. The plot and the dialogue has remained pretty much the same although there are some subtle changes to the dialogue and I’m still not entirely happy with it.

Anyway, here is the first one, the original can be found here.

She sat in the corner of the coffee shop, the novel she’d picked up on her way out of the door this morning sat open on her lap. The tattered, well fingered pages were not her work; she had read the first page and a half, and then thrown it across the room in disgust. Her coffee was cold on the table where she’d left it after buying it for far more than it was worth. Bland, characterless sound blared far too loudly into her ears from cheap earphones. The sound of the music, if you could call it that, was audible from anywhere in the empty room.

Her hair was mostly black with streaks of red and blue scattered like emotions dancing motionlessly in her head. The black was as natural as the blue and red; blond had never suited her. It lay unkempt over her ears and her forehead, obscuring her emerald green eyes. It had once fallen down past her shoulders and rolled part of the way down her back.

She didn’t see him trying too hard to look absent minded as he walked too casually to her table, coffee in hand.

“Excuse me, do I know you?” He did not ask permission to sit down.

Not looking up, she murmured a barely audible “I hope not.”

“You look like you could use some company?”

“Can’t you seem I’m reading?”

“You’ve been on that page for twenty minutes now.”

She looked up. The boy’s hair mirrored hers, except that his was sandy blond and styled to achieve the same unkempt look that she achieved naturally. “So how long have you been watching me?” her voice was even, but betraying hostility that he either did not pick up or chose to ignore.

Half a smile crept across his face. “About twenty minutes. How long have you been sitting here pretending to be busy?”

She did not answer, returning her gaze to her book. There was a silence penetrated only by the sound of the power ballad inserted arbitrarily into the middle of the album she was pretending to listening to. He supped his coffee and looked around; studying without interest the drab, meaningless splatters of emotion they called art and hung on the walls.

“What are you listening to?” It was asked apathetically, forced out by the pressure of silence.

She looked at him through her eyebrows and the hair falling over her eyes like a drawn curtain. “Music”.

“Just sounds like noise from here.”

The curtain was blown aside briefly as she snorted air through her nose in what could be interpreted as a laugh and allowed half a smile to flirt onto her face. She wiped it off and looked back to her book, redoubling her efforts not to care.

The silence resumed as though the fleeting bond of solidarity between them had never existed. He sat and watched the emotions dancing in her hair, not on the wall this time, leaving the coffee to get cold.

She looked up, half out of boredom, half out of the uncomfortable feeling that his grey-blue eyes were fixated on her. “Any reason why you’re staring at me?”

“Because you’re pretty.”

She raised her eyebrows and peered through the curtains. “I know” she returned again to her book.

“So why do you object to me looking at you?”

“Because it’s unsettling.”

“Being ignored is pretty unsettling too you know?” For the first time his relaxed, conversational tone was cut with frustration.

“No one invited you to sit down.” Her voice carried a chill that invited no excuse.

“You looked like you could do with some company.”

“And what made you think that?”

He shrugged. “You looked lonely.”

“I’m not.”

“Then why are you sitting in the corner of a coffee shop all alone, pretending to look busy?” the agitation rose in his voice.

“Because I wanted to be alone.” There was a icy coldness to her voice that should have ended the conversation.

“Why?” he asked anyway.

“If you must know, apparently you must because you consistently fail to take a hint,” the ice had melted away to anger. “My parents died in a car crash a week ago.”

Silence descended like a pall, he just stared at her, unable to force words that had come so easily to him before. The colours in her hair danced.

Eventually he choked out noises that sounded like words. “I’m sorry, I had no–”

“Just go.” Her whispered voice pierced through his bumbling apology.

“I honestly didn’t know. I’m so sorry. Please, I… if I’d known…” he left, his unfinished sentence hanging in the air.

She sighed and slumped back into her chair, ripping the earphones from her ears, and throwing them to the floor. She sat and stared through drawn curtains at the drab, meaningless splatters of colour they called art and hung on the walls. The colours in her hair were still.

She didn’t like lying.

You see, it now has metaphors and deeper meanings. I realised that I could still do clever things with descriptions and imagery while keeping my narrator as a fly on the wall, rather than in the head of one of my characters. Anyway, I think this is much more interesting and poignant now, although I may still change it a bit.

The here is the second one, the original can be found here.

“Will he ever wake up, doctor?” It was a man’s voice. His confidence barely masking creeping exhaustion. I recognised it, but could not place it.

“I sincerely doubt it.” The voice was youthful, but its formality was grinding. I assumed he was the doctor. “I’m sorry.” His tone was professional; he could think of nothing else to say.

There was a pause. I thought I heard the sound of weeping and gentle comforting over the whirr of the medical equipment, buzzing and clicking, carrying out its own conversation with itself, without a care for the flesh and blood and tears.

“How long, doctor, until…” the man choked as he spoke, trying not to cry, “Until he passes away?”

“His position is stable.” The words came in a clipped, over formal, unsympathetic tone; I wondered how long ago the doctor had been a mere student in med school. “There is no reason not to say that his life may go on… indefinitely.”

“So he could remain like this… forever?” there was an incredulousness in his tone, with undercurrents of anger. I wondered exactly who this man was, and why I recognised his voice.

“As long as we continue to sustain him, in theory, yes.”

“And if we don’t ‘continue to sustain him’?”

“Then he will die.”

“So he is to spend the rest of his life attached to a machine, with tubes stuck down his throat to feed him?” The anger dominated is voice now. “You see, Penelope, what kind of existence is that?” I wondered if it was Penelope I though I’d hear crying.

“How can you talk like that John?” I guessed that this was Penelope speaking. I could not blot out the feeling that I knew this voice too. “He’s your brother for god’s sake!” If my eyes had been working, I would have blinked. How could I not even identify my own brother’s voice? And if my own brother was but a familiar stranger, who the hell was Penelope?

“I’m just saying that it’s not much of an existence. That body, that empty, functionless shell is not the man you once loved.” My world shattered. Anger and shock battled through my motionless, un-sensing body.

“I can’t believe you could say that! How do you know that he’s not still alive in there? How do you know he can’t hear us?” her voice was tight with anger and barely disguised tears.

“Doctor, can he hear us?” I screamed that I could, but my mouth refused to listen.

“As far as we are aware his mind has all but closed down completely, I doubt if he can even think, let alone hear anything.” I redoubled my efforts, hopping that will power would miraculously mend my broken body.

“You see Penelope; he’s nothing but a body. He’s an empty shell, a body, nothing more. Not the man you married anymore.” His words made my mind spiral in despair. The madness of not knowing and not seeing consumed me.

I heard a door slam.

“I think we should consider turning off the life support machines. There’s no sense prolonging a life so devoid of meaning.”

I screamed. And no one heard.

The changes here are more subtle. The wording is less awkward now I think and the whole thing flows a bit better. Some of the dialogue is changed a bit too. Again there are metaphors, but this one is less steeped in imagery than the other; I was still trying to keep to roughly 500 words.

You might be asking the reason for all this editing. Well before half term I went to a creative writing even organised by a group at my school which it occurred to me that I should join. Unfortunately I have a chronic fear of humiliation, so I wanted to edit them until I was happy enough with them to present. I have a couple of other pieces that I’m not entirely happy with yet and a few poems that you don’t get to see (you might in the future if I run out of other things to do).

To all your lovers out there (lessons from History 4, valentine's day edition)

A cursory look at your calendar (and most shops) will inform you that Valentine’s Day is just around the corner. You might have noticed that last year I completely ignored this holiday, because back then I was bitter and alone. This year I’m bitter but slightly less alone so 14th February means something to me. Fortunately I have managed to suppress my awful soppiness about the holiday and actually done some research into the origins of this celebration of love and all things red (which basically means I googled it).

Anyway, 14th February is Saint Valentine’s Day, the patron saint of, inevitably, marriages, love, lovers, affianced couples, engaged couples and young people. However he is, rather bizarrely, also Patron Saint of bee keepers, epilepsy, fainting, greetings, plagues and travellers. Don’t ask me why. Saint Valentine, like all good saints, was a Roman Christian who was martyred for some crime or other. The problem is that there are at least three that know of. The one we know most about was imprisoned by Emperor Claudius II in the third Century AD for marrying young people. This seems like an innocuous enough offence, but it came after the Emperor had banned young people from marrying because he noticed that unmarried soldiers fought better (maybe they spent less time moping and more time raping and pillaging). He needed all the soldiers he could get because the Roman Empire was, as always, fighting almost everyone who bordered their territory and some who didn’t. Valentine soon realised that this was unjust and so went around marrying young Christians. Although he was imprisoned, he managed to make a good enough impression on Claudius that he was not executed, until he tried to convert him to Christianity, at which point he was promptly beaten with clubs, stoned and then beheaded.

It is reported, but not certain, that he, or one of the saints of that name, sent the first ‘Valentine’. Apparently he fell in love with the jailor’s daughters and sent her a note signed ‘From your Valentine’. Combined with the marrying of younger couples there is some ground for having the Saint be the patron of lovers, but it still seems pretty tenuous. The marrying (you’ll excuse metaphor) of Saint Valentine with a festival dedicated to love may have more to do with the date than anything else. February was seen, in the roman world at least, as the start of spring and hence fertility. The Roman festival Lupercalia happened on the Ides of February (the 15th) and was a celebration of fertility, a time for purification and an occasion for matchmaking, in a slightly more random way than that used today. It would be perhaps justifiably cynical to accuse the early church is simply hijacking a festival which already existed and repurpose it as a Christian festival; they did much the same for Christmas after all. Saint Valentine died in February, or at least one of them did, probably, so it made sense to make Saint Valentine the patron of love and make his Saint’s Day a celebration of love, marriage, couples and plague… no I still don’t know why that last one is even there.

So where does that leave us? A little more educated about the slightly haphazard and pretty incoherent history of what has become a painfully commercialised celebration of love, which millions of couples worldwide indulge in and have indulged in throughout history because they wanted an excuse to celebrate their relationship, and who can blame them.

Shame I wont be able to do the same because I leave for France in the morning for a very poorly timed family ski holiday, which is why this is uncharacteristically early and why next week will probably be a collection of holiday photos. I may change this slightly cop-out tradition because you get a photo from my life every day here anyway. I won’t be updating that at all next week for lack of internet (I expect) so I will do a massive update next Saturday.

Well I’m rambling now, so I hope all those couples out there have a wonderful Lupercalia and I hope all those singles out there can impress members of the opposite sex enough with knowledge of the origins of Valentine’s Day that they find someone to celebrate it with by next year.

Random Encounter

As part of my continuing mission to learn to write stories that actually end, I wrote this interesting little encounter a while back. I've tried to write in a slightly more implicit tone than I usually do. I wanted to take the mantra of 'show, don't tell' to a level that I am not really used to. Normally my narration is fairly explicit as to what emotions the characters feel and what is going though their minds generally. I've tried to cut that out as much as possible here and just describe what happens in a fair amount of detail, leaving the atmosphere and emotions of the characters up for interpretation. I quite like it, but I think my style leaves something to be desired at times. Read it and tell me what you think.

She sat in the corner of the empty coffee shop, pretending to read the bullshit fantasy novel she’d picked up on her way out of the door this morning. She had bought it from charity shop months ago because the front cover had some cool artwork. She’d read the first page and a half, then thrown it across the room in disgust. She reckoned that she could write something better. The book was open in the middle somewhere, but it didn’t matter because she’d not read a word in the hour that she had been sitting there. Her coffee had turned cold by now. She hadn’t even touched it since buying it for far more than it was worth. The bland, characterless music blared far too loudly into her ears from the cheap headphones. She knew that, were anyone else in the shop with her, they would hear every painfully generic riff, although they would, perhaps be spared the meaningless lyrics screamed tonelessly out as though they were worth hearing.

Her hair was mostly black with streaks of red and blue. She wore it short, so that it came down past her ears but not much further. For the brief period that she had worn it long she had found that looking after it was more effort than it was worth. Her natural colour was blond, but she had long ago gone off the idea of looking like every other platinum blond clone she had gone to school with for years. The only makeup she ever wore was black eyeliner.

She was so engrossed in staring blankly at the page in front of her; the same page that she had been staring at for the past hour without reading a word, that she didn’t see him approach, coffee in hand.

“Excuse me, do I know you?” he asked, sitting down without waiting for the permission he assumed he’d get.

“I hope not.” She did not look up from her book.

His pause was barely noticeable. “You look like you could use some company?”

“Can’t you seem I’m reading?”

“You’ve been on that page for twenty minutes now.”

She looked up. The boy had sandy blond hair that fell about his face, half covering his pale blue eyes. “So how long have you been watching me?”

Half a smile crept across his face. “About twenty minutes. How long have you been sitting here pretending to be busy?”

“Long enough.” Her gaze returned to that page in her book. Suddenly the tribulations of the generically young and charismatic protagonist in his cliché battle against the inexplicably evil Dark Lord and his hoards of unquestioning minions became interesting.

There was a silence penetrated only by the sound of the arbitrary power ballad inserted at random into the middle of the album she was listening to. He supped his coffee and looked around, more for something to do than anything else.

“What are you listening to?” he asked finally.

She looked at him through her eyebrows, only tilting her head up slightly. “Music”.

“Really? Just sounds like noise from here.”

She snorted air through her nose in what could be interpreted as a laugh and allowed half a smile to briefly paint her face before remembering herself and looking back to her book.

The silence again resumed after the brief interlude of fleeting contact between the two. He sat and looked at her this time, leaving the coffee to get cold alongside hers.

She looked up after a while, half out of boredom, half out of the uncomfortable feeling that his grey-blue eyes were fixated on her. “Any reason why you’re staring at me?”

“Because you’re pretty.”

She raised her eyebrows. “I know” she returned again to her book.

“So why do you object to me staring at you?”

“Because it’s unsettling.”

“You ignoring me is pretty unsettling too you know?”

“No one invited you to sit down.”

“You looked like you could do with some company.”

She looked up at him again, indignation barely visible in her features. “and what made you think that?”

He shrugged. “You looked lonely.”

“I’m not.”

“Then why are you sitting in the corner of a coffee shop all alone, pretending to look busy?”

“Because I was trying to avoid human contact.” Her stare was icy now and her voice had a hint of anger.

“Any reason or are you just being a loner?” his voice was cut with frustration.

“If you must know my parents tied in a car crash a week ago.” There was a hint of a challenge in her voice.

There was silence.

“I’m sorry, I had no–”

“Just go.” She whispered.

He sighed and got up, snatching his coffee. “I honestly didn’t know. I’m so sorry. Please, I… if I’d known…”

She watched him as he walked out of the dooe, cursing to himself. She sighed and slumped back into her chair. She ripped the earphones from her ears and threw them to the floor. She didn’t like lying.

Mercy Killing?

In the last couple of weeks there have been a couple of news stories that have interested me. I mentioned months ago that I thought euthanasia should be legal, or at least not legislated against, which is basically the same. However given recent cases highlighting the issue of consent, I feel the need to clarify my position.

The cases I’m referring to are the deaths of Thomas Inglis and Lynn Gilderdale by their respective mothers. Both deaths actually happened in 2008, but they have only just been resolved in court. Frances Inglis was given a life sentence with a minimum of nine year, whereas Bridget Gilderdale was cleared of the charge of attempted murder. Despite this seeming contradiction, I broadly agree with both of these verdicts. Although the sentence is questionable, Mrs Inglis acted immorally, whereas Mrs Gilderdale was perfectly within her right to do what she did.

The difference between these two cases is consent. Thomas Inglis had brain damage and was unable to make the choice of whether or not he wanted to die, Lynn Gilderdale was desperate to end her life. Frances Inglis too her son’s will into her own hands, where as Bridget Gilderdale was acting in accordance with her daughters wishes. Lynn wanted to die and we should not begrudge her to right because she is unable to do it herself. No-one could have known whether Thomas wanted to die or not, and even if he did, his mother had no right to take his life into her own hands, even if it was out of sympathy.

What makes the Inglis case even worse is that the doctors said Thomas would recover. Mrs Inglis refused to believe this and took her own, subjective and uninformed opinion. She might have been acting out of compassion, but it was out misguided and ill-judged compassion, based not on reasoned judgment, but on gut instinct and blind ignorance. She murdered her own son out of a misplaced sense of pity.

Thomas Inglis was in a vegetative state having fallen out of an ambulance following a pub fight. He could not communicate with anyone or even move. Obviously this is a thoroughly unpleasant way of living, indeed it barely represents a life at all, but it was not permanent. His condition was not terminal, despite what his mother chose to believe. It is another case altogether to be in a vegetative state from which one can never recover, and, while this explains Mrs Inglis’ actions, it does not make them any more excusable. Thomas Inglis had a poor quality of life, but he would recover and potentially lead a pretty normal life. He was robbed of this opportunity by his mother, claiming to be acting in his best interest.

Inglis was wrong to do as she did and should be punished accordingly. Killing someone without their consent, even out of compassion, is murder. One cannot take the life of another into one’s own hands, no matter the circumstances. She may not be guilty of malicious intent, but she is guilty of acting purely out of passion and instinct, not reasoned consideration. Her unthinking, ill-judged actions cost her son his life; a life which could have gone on for many years had it not been cut short.

Contrast this with Mrs Gilderdale’s actions. Her daughter had repeatedly expressed the desire to die and had even attempted suicide in the past. She was entirely conscious and capable of making a decision about her own life. Her ME had caused her great suffering over 17 years, through which her mother had given her constant support. She had begged her not to take her life, but when it became apparent that Lynn was desperate to end the pain, she reluctantly conceded to help her. She acted out of the same compassion and love as Mrs Inglis, but she did it with reluctance and only with the consent of her daughter.

Both of these cases are tragic, but in one the right thing was done and in the other, the wrong. The law must make a distinction between these cases and has done. Mrs Gilderdale is innocent of any immoral act, and the ruling reflects this, Mrs Inglis is guilty of murder and her sentence reflects this. While Euthanasia should not be legislated against, killing someone without their consent must be.

Avatarded

What’s this? A movie review? The first in about a year. And I though I’d be doing more of these, but no, apparently I don’t like going to the cinema. I would promise to do more because I like doing them, but I doubt I will. Here’s hoping I guess. As always there will be spoilers, so go watch this film now then come back (or don’t, the plot is not why you watch the film, but if you do care about the plot then don’t read this until after watching it)

Anyway, the film I just watched was Avatar. James Cameron’s 3D, CGI extravaganza set on some alien planet somewhere which the evil human race has come along and tried to mine for hard-to-get-ium or something, the motives were pretty paper thin let’s be honest. Anyway some clever scientist has created technology to allow a human to go into the brain of one of the giant blue aliens specially bred for the purpose. Again the reason for this not exactly made clear. But that’s not really important to the film.

What is important is that it looks to goddamn pretty. The 3D works most of the time and the CGI as a whole is truly stunning. The whole thing was so wonderfully animated that I could not take my eyes off it. The creatures moved so naturally and the environment interacted with them so well. Combined with the 3D it made one of the most visually stunning films I have ever seen. However, I was constantly reminded that I was looking at an animation, not real life. Little niggles in the 3D, little problems with the way the water looked or the way that everything was just a little too perfect. Even when the evil humans were killing lots of the aliens it was all too perfect. It lacked the little faults; the subtle imperfections that make things look real.

Avatar was essentially a show case of how far we’ve come in terms of technology and how pretty we can make our films look. However the technology will continue to improve and, while stylistically Avatar may still be beautiful, it will be surpassed and made to look ordinary compared with other films. A film simply cannot ride on the strength of technology because the technology will always get better. It is not enough for a film to be pretty and we should not settle for that. Good use of technology is not good art. That is not to say that stylistically Avatar is not good art. Cameron has shown as he always does that he makes very visually good movies. Avatar will continue to look good in spite of its outdated technology, not because of it.

However visual style is not the only thing that makes a good movie. A movie can look as good or bad as it likes, I honestly don’t care. I don’t pay good money to go to a cinema to look at a display of the latest in CGI; I go to be told a good story, with strong characters and beautiful writing. I did not get this with Avatar. I got a simple story, with interesting, but underdeveloped character and mediocre writing. The film gets away with it because it’s a well told story with a truly wonderful setting.

The story is pretty predictable and wafer thin; a very poorly disguised metaphor for imperialism which was largely predictable from the off. There was nothing complex or intriguing about the plot; it was straight forward and distinctly predictable. It set the evil humans with their technology and guns against the ‘Noble Savage’ aliens with their bows and arrows and connection to the earth. Predictably the aliens repulsed the evil men with the help of a man who had become one of them and seen the beauty of their simplistic ways. Obviously Cameron had devised this story in the midst of a serious bout of Imperialist Guilt.

The problem was that it was so straightforward. All but about half a dozen humans were unquestioningly gung-ho about killing aliens and the aliens themselves were unrealistically virtuous and wonderful. Such almost child-like simplicity becomes quickly tiresome. As did the glorification of the simple ways of the savage; the aliens ran around half naked, living among the trees and being at one with nature. This romantic view of the world is painfully simplistic, to the point that it was laughable. The reason why these savages were so much better was never really examined; the unsophisticated, unthinking way in which they lived was only contrasted with the worst of human progress, never the best. The film makes outlandish statements about human nature without ever examining them because it’s too busy showing off its beautiful CGI.

Similarly the characters were all underdeveloped. The lead was an ex-marine who had been crippled in the line of duty. Is he bitter about this? Does this make his dislike the military? Who knows? The film never explores the character so we have no reason to care about him. If Jake (his name) had died at some point I’m not sure anyone would have cared. If anything I might have been glad to be free of his inane narration and painful one-liners. Similarly the main Antagonists seem to have very little motivation for what they were doing. One is a big heavy military nut job who just wanted to kill everything that moved for no real reason. We could infer that it was because he hated the aliens because they gave him the scars that were all over his face, but this is more inference than anything the film actually told us. He was almost comically heartless and larger than life. I questioned whether he was any more human than the mech he was driving at the end. The other antagonist was a pen pushing corporate type who had about as much personality as he did screen time – so not very much. He was possible a more knockdown evil villain than the heavy – at least the heavy was entertaining on screen. There were also several Alien characters, but again the film spend too long showing off to really make us care when most of them died. They’d spent as much time on screen as the corporate scarecrow so the reactions of the other characters and the fact that they weren’t human were the only things telling us to be sad when they popped their clogs.

This not to say that the story was bad or the characters were all terrible. The story was very well told and, while simple, it was quite nice. The characters were not bad, they were just underdeveloped. I guess what frustrates me is that Avatar could have been a brilliant movie. With as bit of work the story could have been compelling and original and the characters could have been fascinating and human. The emotions the audience felt at key moments could have been more than spoon deep if only the film had stopped trying to overawe us. All this could have been achieved in the almost 3 hours that the film lasted, but too long was taken establishing that the film is really pretty for sufficient time to be given to what actually matters about a film.

Avatar is a showcase held up by a tolerable if a little predictable and simplistic story. The characters have potential but that is disregarded in favour of aesthetic appeal. It is worth seeing because it is extremely entertaining and so damn pretty. It’s not like the film is just a showcase of technology; it does have a story and, while not the greatest, it is decent. It certainly holds up the movie well enough for it to show off its impressive technology. I fear that movies will simply use 3D as a gimmick to make up for a nonexistent storyline. Avatar does not do that, but it is still not one of the classic films. You should watch it if you haven’t already and don’t be worried that I’ve given away some of the plot, that’s not why you’re there.

The night of the Lemurs

Ok, this week might be a little odd. You might notice on the side of this page my Twitter feed. You will also notice that I am asking some stranger from the internet if I can take up some challenge she posted to some other stranger from the internet. (If you two are reading this, you’re not strangers, you are both awesome.)

Anyway, the challenge is to “evaluate the statement ‘one day, the lemurs shall evolve and rule us all’. Give your response.” My evaluation is that the concept of Lemurs evolving and ruling us all would make for a pretty entertaining short story. This then is my response:

The couple walked down the rain soaked path through the park. The dark blanket of night was falling, leaving only that dim half-light; the fading memory of day. The lampposts formed pools of yellowy-orange light every ten yards or so. The trees that lined the path blocked part of the moonlight that fell from the clear sky. The trees rustled slightly in the wind, making the moonlight dance on those parts of the path not drenched in the light of the lampposts. The breeze made it a chill night, so the couple hugged each other close, part out of a desire for warmth, part out of affection.

They paused their slow walk briefly and inexplicably. James looked up at the moon and smiled a half smile. His head turned from the sky and down to Eleanor and his half-smile turned into a broad grin the exploded over her face at the same time as it did his. The leant together and kissed. James closed his eyes and held her close for no reason other than that he could. Over the quite buzz of the city enveloping the park, the trees rustled. Louder than before, as if blown by a stronger gust of wind. The moonlight danced around the embracing coupled.

But there was no stronger gust of wind. The couple did not notice this inconsistency however, nor did the notice the light thud behind them as the loved ones, continuing their walk, holding each other closer now that before. They had no reason to notice. The park was full of strange noises; nocturnal animals waking as the human world put itself to bed. This was no different of course; these gentle nocturnal animals were just waking up, hungry for a spot of breakfast. And breakfast was there, blissfully unaware as they wandered through the park, lost in each other’s company.

“We should get back.” James said, not turning to look at Eleanor, or slowing, or changing direction. “It’s getting dark.”

“Mmm” it was neither and agreement nor a disagreement. “Not getting tired I hope.” She looked up at him, smiling a coy smile.

He looked down and bent slightly to kiss her again. “Come on, let’s go.” She drew him into a fuller, more passionate kiss before making towards the nearest exit. They walked with a little more purpose now, their hands clasped together.

They reached the rusting Iron Gate that always stood open, welcoming walkers to the quite park. The barrier between the quite world of the park, trying in vein to emulate the beauty of the countryside, and the loud, polluted world of the city, constantly encroaching on the paradise within its bounds was guarded tonight by two small furry creatures.

James went down onto his haunches, straining to get a better look at them. “Hello little fella” he said in a soft, patronising tone. “What are you guys doing out here eh?” He smiled and looked closer at the creatures, trying to work out exactly what they were.

He rose to his feet again. “Do they look like any breed of dog that you know of? You’re into that sort of thing.”

Eleanor shrugged. She was about to respond but was interrupted by a sharp, high pitched bark from one of the creatures. The two flinched back at the alien sound. The looked down at the small creature who had made the ear piercing sound. It was more aggressive now, snarling and pacing towards them. Although it was only small it painted a vicious picture in the fading light.

James laughed nervously. “I think we should try a different exit. Leave the strays in peace.”

“Ye. I’m not sure they’re dogs James. They look more like monkeys to me.”

“Monkeys?” James snorted. “This isn’t a zoo dear.” He pulled her into a reassuring hug nonetheless. There was another bark from the creature, angrier this time. “Well whatever it is we ought to leave it be. Come on.” He turned and was confronted by another of the creatures. He stopped half turn.

“Look at that tail!” Eleanor exclaimed. “There’s no way that’s a dog.”

James smiled. “Whatever they are they’re very cute.”

“I think they’re more angry than cute.” There was a fear in her voice as she looked at the creatures prowling around them.

“Probably because they want us to leave them alone and get on with whatever it is that monkeys do around here. Come on, let’s get out of here.” The monkey-like creatures did not make any effort to stop them moving past and further into the park, now covered in darkness but for the occasional circle of light below the lampposts. They seemed further apart now, and the air seemed colder. The moon has disappeared behind a cloud. The animals kept their wide eyes focused on the two. James had not noticed how huge their eyes were until now. It troubled him that he recognised them, but could not place what they were.

They walked faster now, hurrying to get home and put the strange creatures from their minds. They tried not to pay any attention to the fact that they followed from the shadows, more of them, racing on all fours. From the rustling of the trees it was clear that they were swinging from the tree tops as well, easily keeping up with the couple. Monkeys indeed. The ominous sounds of tiny feet urged them on to greater speed.

Suddenly Eleanor stopped. “Lemurs!” she exclaimed out of the blue.

“Lemurs?”

“Yes, the creatures, that’s what they were; Lemurs. I saw a documentary on TV about them.”

“I thought they lived in Madagascar”

“Yes they do.”

“Then why-“

He was cut of by the soft thud. They both looked up to see one of them, standing on two legs, rising up almost as tall as Eleanor. It snarled and they noticed the sharp, off-white teeth. They turned to go in the opposite direction to be faced with another such creature. It hopped like a kangaroo. It was almost comical in its ungainliness. Nonetheless they jumped backwards and Eleanor let out a yelp in fright. All around them Lemurs of all sizes closed in around them. They spun, searching for an escape, but there was none. They both turned to see the first Lemur, standing toe to toe with them. Although it was shorter than both of them, it’s large eyes and bared teeth more than made up for the deficiency.

The couple’s eye met for the last time and love danced with fear in their gaze. The Lemur jumped at the couple and breakfast began.