I’ve always said: Hallowe’en encourages the inner drag queen.
I rarely get dressed up for any occasion, my wardrobe limited to t-shirts, ragged-ass jeans and a fleece sweater to keep the chill off my aging bones.
But this Hallowe’en coincided with the birthday of a dear friend of ours. A costume party was the celebration of choice, its theme “the Sixties”.
Several different ideas passed through my mind, but then Sherron discovered a couple of sweaters in a thrift shop and, well, we were off.
Happy Hallowe’en to my fellow Trekkies.
Photo: Karen Williams
I’d count Gene among my first heroes, along with Bobby Orr, Neil Armstrong and William Shatner (“Captain Kirk”). The Yorkton TV station used to play old Gene Autry serials early Saturday morning and I can recall watching them on our cube-shaped black and white television. Listening to his Texas twang is like a trip down Memory Lane on an air conditioned tour bus with an open bar. Sherron, sadly, does not share my affection for the singin’ cowboy–if she hears “Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer” one more time, she’s going to string me up at high noon.
It’s finally starting feel like Christmas around here. Usually, I’m a lot more excited and pumped for the arrival of St. Nick, but with both of our lads grown up and moved away, there isn’t the same kind of ambience. Ah, well. They’ll both be joining us for the holidays, along with Liam’s wife, Erica, who has learned to tolerate our goofy, stubbornly immature family and their strange antics. This 105-year old house will be rocking with music and laughter.
Frequent visitors to this blog will know that, despite my cruel, cynical outer veneer, I am a sucker for Christmas. This time of year finds me very reflective, emotional and sentimental. It doesn’t last long, thankfully, by New Year’s Day I’m back to my cranky, hard-bitten mindset…but for awhile, a week-ten days, the world doesn’t seem quite as bleak and hopeless.
This year, I think I’ll confine myself to a few words of gratitude directed toward the the Vast Active Living Intelligence System (VALIS) operating in this universe, the timeless, inscrutable force directing and inspiring us, trying to help us achieve our great Destiny. When I’m really on, working at a high level, fully immersed in my writing, I can sense the proximity of that force, that consciousness, feel like I’m part of some eternal, infinite continuum. That is…intoxicating. Nothing like it. It’s why I put up with the physical, mental and psychic pain that accompanies the artistic life, the despair, the anonymity, societal indifference. Anything for a few, fleeting moments of contact/collaboration with the Ineffable.
Throughout autumn, I worked on one short story after another–over eighty (80) pages of prose. Why? There are few decent fiction markets any more and they’re so inundated with submissions, it’s hardly worth the effort of sending anything their way. The short story format is nearly as dead as the dodo…or poetry, for that matter. So why bother? Search me, you’d have to ask my Muse for the answer to that one and she’s famously enigmatic and unhelpful.
I write, therefore I am… (apologies to Rene Descartes).
For me, nothing else matters but words on paper, regardless of the genre, length, marketability, whatever. Just keep my pen moving across the page, the flow of words uninterrupted.
Keep the words coming.
My prayer for the past thirty+ years…and for 2016, as well.
Drop by once in awhile, see where all those words are taking me.
Some very odd soul journeys ahead.
By handing the Star Trek franchise over to J.J. Abrams, lock, stock and pointed ears, the folks at Paramount Pictures made it manifestly clear: we want to see a new, fresh look at the Enterprise and its namebrand, trademarked crew, a re-invention, if need be.
Mr. Abrams, let’s be candid, is no auteur, more like a cross between Michael Bay and M. Night Shmayalan. His films and projects are slick, gimmicky and well-attuned to the tastes of the moment. How long his vision and body of work will survive is another matter: action movie directors are a dime a dozen these days, their films virtually indistinguishable. Mr. Abrams has shown us little so far (“Lost”, “Mission Impossible III; Exec. Producer, “Cloverfield”) except that, like any half decent utility man, he knows how to handle a good bounce…and how to make an easy play look spectacular.
Mr. Abrams has an undeniable gift for concocting middlebrow eye candy and so many within and without the Trek universe reacted favorably when it was announced he was producing and directing the next film. The first trailer was released and that really got the grapevine humming. Leonard Nimoy started popping up, speaking cryptically about the plot of “Star Trek XI” but professing himself thrilled with the script. Wow, cool, an endorsement from Mr. Spock himself! Trekkies everywhere held their breath, waiting for May, 2009 to roll around.
Well, it’s clear from the forums and fan message boards that the latest film has met with overwhelming approval–and why not? It’s filled with action and special effects and there is that much-touted return to the early days. And you get to see Uhuru in her underwear! Fan-dumb seems to like the three young leads and don’t appear unduly concerned by the liberties taken with the premise and backstory. Like the screenwriters, most film-goers grew up on comic books/graphic novels and are used to things like alternate universes, mirror realities, lapses in logic, plot discontinuities and (yawn) “red matter”.
I’m willing to put up with Jim Kirk’s troubled childhood, a different, sleeker Enterprise, a command bridge that looks like a cross between a high-end china boutique and a really cool video arcade, but what I find most objectionable, unforgivable, in fact, is the ridiculous romantic subplot involving Spock and Uhuru. Reinvention is one thing but this notion of a repressed, lonely Vulcan and a thoroughly professional Starfleet communications officer snogging like a couple of teenagers is nothing less than an abomination.
The plot is standard revenge stuff. The bad dude, a Romulan renegade named Nero (Eric Bana barely registering in the role), is an over-familiar Trek villain, a tattooed terrorist who hardly merits an individual episode, let alone a $150 million movie.
Star Trek’s minor characters—Scotty, Chekov, Sulu, Uhuru—are easy to ape or emulate. Simon Pegg is, frankly, a distraction as Scottie and Anton Yelchin’s (Chekov) outrageous Russian accent makes Walter Koenig’s seem pitch perfect by comparison. To be fair, most of the youngsters acquit themselves ably, within the limits of the material…but can someone please explain to me the thinking that went into casting Winona Ryder as Spock’s mother, Amanda? A favour? Act of charity?
I liked Karl Urban as Leonard McCoy, though on a few occasions he tries too hard (“Damnit, I’m a doctor, not a physicist!”). Playing up Bones’ tendency to catastrophise is a nice touch. A passing grade.
Zachary Quinto’s resemblance to a youthful Leonard Nimoy has been much discussed. He’s a ringer, all right, and at times his mimicry of Nimoy is uncanny…but is imitation, impersonating a guy impersonating an alien, really acting?
Chris Pine as James T. Kirk, future captain of the U.S.S. Enterprise, gets better as the film progresses. By the latter third he has Shatner’s sidelong glance, swagger and half smile down to a “T”. The only thing missing is the keylight on his eyes. Pine is likely the one cast member who has the most opportunity to grow into his role (no swipe at Bill Shatner’s midsection intended). The other players can resort to tried and true catch phrases, retreat into caricature, but Jim Kirk must always be vital, three-dimensional, flawed, impulsive, heroic, endearingly and recognizably human, or the whole franchise founders.
Abrams and Co. have presented us with a new, unimproved Trek—glossy and diverting without being particularly likeable, engaging without involving us emotionally. “Star Trek XI” makes no stirring appeals to human destiny, mortality, cosmic evolution, democracy, tolerance or any of the other high-falutin’ ideals the show once espoused. That moral core is notably absent from “XI” and the film suffers as a result. This isn’t a “message” picture, it’s a thrill ride, an experience, with tons of explosions, rapid fire editing and starships going foosh!
Initial box office returns are promising so it looks like we’ll be subjected to a sequel or three. Perhaps the next film (an even number, gotta be a good one, right?) will feature a story worthy of being told, something that will contribute meaningfully to the mythos and grow the legend.
They’ve added some fresh faces, sunk a lot of money into a franchise some believed had run its course. They even coaxed poor old Leonard Nimoy out of retirement for a cameo appearance—he looks like a superannuated sea turtle but his last hurrah is supposed to lend authenticity to the venture, a tip of the hat from one of the Original Cast.
It isn’t enough. “Star Trek XI”, like all of Mr. Abrams’ projects, is overlong, clumsily structured, superficial, implausible, instantly forgettable. He has temporarily salvaged a series that was on the rocks, but is his “aesthetic” compatible with a concept that has remained remarkably consistent through 40+ years and various incarnations? How far are fans willing to let him go in terms of rewriting or tossing out great swathes of the accepted canon?
Star Trek, whatever its faults, didn’t used to shy away from big ideas and cosmic themes and it was never intended to be a Saturday morning children’s show. Gene Roddenberry had higher aims than that.
But the Great Bird of the Galaxy is gone now and the whizkids are in charge. They’ve studied the demographics and done their test screenings. The gamers, geeks and mall rats are their target audience, aged between 14-23 and not overly concerned with such niceties as characterization and a coherent plot. The old fogies may complain about what’s been done in the name of progress but even Star Trek must move with the times and if that means getting bigger, dumber, louder, so be it.
Warp speed, Mr. Abrams, the helm is all yours.
I’m a Trekkie.
I realize I just cost myself a lot of cred with my hard core readers, the ones who expect me to be a cynical bastard 24/7. But I can’t help it. If I was ever in the same room as William Shatner, Leonard Nimoy or Nicholas Meyer, I’d probably swoon. Ridiculous. Stupid. But there it is.
I spent all afternoon–that’s right, all afternoon–putting together a model of the starship Enterprise and I’m feeling positively giddy as I look at the end result of my endeavors. Okay, it’s not perfect. It’s been thirty years since I put together a plastic model kit; I took one look at the instructions and howled for my son Liam to come and help me. Liam is a genius at Lego or, really, anything that requires assembly. He put together our barbecue when he was eleven because I went into a stuttering rage and had to be restrained from smashing it into its component atoms. True story.
I have a terrible temper. Murderous. Especially when it comes to recalcitrant objects.
Liam very patiently lent his assistance to assembling the kit. To his credit, he insisted I do all the work, he just supervised to make sure I didn’t end up splashing the fucking thing with gasoline and setting it ablaze.
I screwed up, no question. Supposedly the snap together unit (from Polar Lights) was “Skill Level 2, For Ages 10 to Adult”. Ten? Maybe a ten year old Stephen Hawking. I chose mismatching engine nacelles and my spray paint was too old, my hands shook too much and I didn’t have the right colours so had to mix and match but, y’know, I got the thing together and got to spent three quality hours with my oldest son.
It brought back a lot of memories for me too. From the time I was eight or nine years old, I loved watching “Star Trek”. Every Saturday morning at 11:00 a.m. (after Bugs Bunny), I’d be in front of the TV, ready to watch the latest exploits of the Enterprise crew. And, later, me and my buddy Brent would buy and build the AMT models; his were always so much better than mine (fucker had a lovely touch) but I forgave him. His Klingon battleship was gorgeous (except he kept dropping it and breaking its long neck).
Scan-read William Shatner’s autobiography some weeks ago and was somewhat surprised to learn that he and Nimoy didn’t become friends until long after the series was over. Gene Roddenberry doesn’t fare well in Shatner’s account–in fact, the Great Bird of the Galaxy turns out to be a first class asshole. Sigh.
Ah, well, so Gene wasn’t a nice guy or a good writer or faithful husband…his initial concept of a “wagon train to the stars” was a good one and he was fortunate enough to secure three leads who, despite their disdain for each other, created a rare chemistry on-screen.
Whenever I’m in a bad mood, I crack in “Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan”. It’s by far the best of the series and a terrific movie, by any standards. Lots of action, suspense…and a death scene that makes my eyes sting every time.
Trek‘s message, however crudely delivered, was a positive one, humans using their ingenuity and courage to overcome obstacles, revealing the very best qualities of our species (while not shrinking from portraying the absolute worst). It’s a theme that resonates, not just with kids but with grownup kids too. Human existence need not be nasty, brutish and short. We can aspire to reach the stars and use the enormous mental capacity that we’ve been given to achieve great things.
Shatner was a shit, Nimoy a drunk, Roddenberry…well, no need to speak further ill against the dead.
But what they succeeded in creating, together, transcended all of them and for that we can forgive them their flaws and foibles.
They lived long and they prospered…and by accident or design, succeeded in creating a legendary series that is still relevant, still entertaining (especially if you like camp) and still capable of instilling joy in the heart of a 45 year old man with a bent back, stiff fingers and irritable bowel.
And that’s saying something.