Lost: An Epitaph, or The Tyranny of “Why?”

(there's going to be spoilers in here; proceed at your own risk)

Not too long ago, I wrote a little about a novel by Hideki Murakami entitled The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle (http://perrynomasia.blogspot.com/2009/10/wind-up-bird-chronicle.html). As a wannabe writer, I found that the more I thought about the novel, the more I appreciated the writerliness of it—the flexing of a writer's imagination and art. But it felt like it broke many of the tenets of what is an unspoken contract between writer and reader:

It's frustrating for the reader, because we have been trained to try to make connections between the events in a story, to unify them in some way that pushes the plot along. But not only does Okada [the narrator] resist any such impulse, so does the novel, actively forgoing any but the most ephemeral of relationships between events. And as a writing device, it's wildly successful: while I wanted to throw the book aside in frustration as more and more inexplicable things happened, I was determined to make it to the end of the novel to find out why they were happening.

Mrs. Speculator and I have watched every episode of Lost, culminating in the series finale last night. And then as we lay in bed, disquieted and discomforted, trying to figure out not only what we had just witnessed but what had happened over the last six seasons, I felt more and more like I had read another Murakami novel. The end of the story had been achieved; happy endings had been given to every character that we were allowed to care about and almost all of the agonizingly tragic moments of the past six years were reversed. Couples who belonged together and were torn apart were brought back together in, of all places, a sort of purgatory/limbo they all went to after they died, just before the door to heaven was opened and they all went on to whatever's next. And with the swell of tear-inducing music, the audience is supposed to walk away from the conclusion feeling good, because the suffering was all over and characters that we had grown to know all went away happier than they had been at the start of the series, even if that happiness was centered on dying and going to heaven together, to be with the people that mattered to them the most.

But it may not be enough. Six years of the cruel vicissitudes of one of the most labyrinthine plots ever on TV demanded something more than "they live happily ever after." What forces were fighting on the island? Who represented which sides of the battle? What was the power behind the island? We wanted answers to the big questions that Lost teased us with for nearly six years. And we wanted answers to smaller questions as well—why push a damn button every 108 minutes? Why did the Dharma Initiative keep making food drops? (I realize as I look back at these questions that the real geek state has been achieved; someone reading this without ever having seen an episode would shake their head in concern and amazement that such esoteric things could consume an imagination.) And like the other 119 episodes, the final episode provided no answers. Instead with a paradoxical ham-handed gentleness, we (and the characters) are told to move along. The story is done; that's all you get.

And while the characters are fulfilled by the nearness of the ones they love, most of the audience is not fulfilled at all. We've been trained to follow plot threads to a satisfying conclusion: things make sense at the end (unless we are being set up for a sequel, but even cliffhangers have rules). The audience always gets to find out why. Yet the writers of Lost refuse to give us resolution, some might say arrogantly so: the audience has given so much time to the mysteries of the island—how dare the writers hold off our reward?

I abhor the phrase "the journey is more important than the destination" especially as it applies to story-telling. Writers often say this as a final response to irate readers who are left unsatisfied by a story's ending. Usually, I find that such an excuse covers up what I feel to be shoddy writing, condescending and smarmy and sometimes not at all true. And yet I find myself circling back to this sentence over and over again as I think about Lost. It's clear to me that on one level, Carlton Cuse and Damon Lindelof are not bad writers at all, so talking about the journey as a "get out of jail free" card against the angry masses is not really valid. Face it: millions of people watched Lost because they were made to care about the characters that inhabited the story. Viewers usually liked the interesting narrative tricks Cuse and Lindelof employed. Poor writers could not have made this happen.

At the same time, Cuse and Lindelof broke an important rule: they spoke outside their story to tell us that answers would be coming. They went to conventions and did interviews over the past few years, teasing and hinting, sometimes contradicting themselves, but always promising there would be explanations to come. Unfortunately, I don't see that as a failure in writing (except that these writers made the mistake of getting into PR), but as failures in marketing. But even that perspective is skewed by my role as a consumer of the story—this will be resoundingly cynical, but their marketing worked: audiences watched for six seasons. Advertisements were watched, products were sold. And at the end, the show had a fair-sized market that made money for six years. And now that the show is over, and they are no longer dependent on that audience, why should they care what we think of the show (except, I guess, for DVD sales; but people are stubborn and they'll buy DVDs to "figure it all out")?

Cynicism aside, I'm still left with what does it all mean? Why did the events we saw happen? I find that I can't get out of my straitjacket of desire for an explanation so easily, and the writer part of me wants to find the framework and make it all make sense. And a very visceral part of me is a bit disappointed: I deserve an explanation! For weeks, I've been planning this blog entry, where I would triumphantly point to the final episode as justification that my belief that Lost was not so much about good and evil as fate vs. free will. And as the episode concluded, I realize that really what it was "about" isn't so important. The allegory, the symbolism, the hidden meanings we want to call out just don't exist; they were teases or perhaps excited optimistic over-readings of what the show did actually supply: plot devices that grew the characters. Cynically, Lost could be seen as masturbatory writing, writing just to write, not really trying to connect pieces but playing a sort of roulette with a big "wheel o' plot devices."

But if there's a message to be had, and I really want there to be one, I think part of the point is that every character fought for what they believed in. What exactly did they believe in? Sometimes I don't think even they knew. I'm pretty certain Jack has no idea what the power behind the island is, even as he saves it and dies as a result. Is the island a cage for the world's evil, embodied by the smoke monster and Man in Black? Probably not, and the point is that it doesn't matter. The writers just set a stage and put interesting people on it. They pushed those characters around, much like game pieces, and wrote episodes about the results. It wasn't about why they did what they did, but what they did that made the show compelling. The writers spent time giving the characters interesting back stories as well, since they make good story-telling tools as well. And then the writers just set the characters in motion, pretty much without a goal. The result was just watching well-constructed characters interact. It's not about good and evil; it's about people and, from a critical point of view, story-telling.

It's just not what modern viewers are used to. It's not fulfilling and not satisfying. I freely admit to some resentment at being misled, at not being given answers. But, at the end, we're still left with characters we'll treasure, and stories that we'll remember. And while that's not something that our generation of entitled readers wants, it's still something valuable.

(hours after publishing this and looking around at some reviews, I foudn this blog, which says what I was attempting to say more clearly, and without thinking about the writers' issues: http://www.nytimes.com/2010/05/25/arts/television/25lost.html)

The Losers

Last summer, I decided that I would work harder at accepting media as it are presented and not worry so much about what I would like them to be. As you can imagine, this is a tough line for an amateur blogger/critic/wannabe writer to toe. It all arose from finally accepting that Mad Men is just a big soap opera instead of driving myself nuts trying to find a critical nugget that made it feel worthwhile. So, if it appears the goal is to be a lightweight "beach book" then I'll strive to talk about the success of that attempt. I may complain that something could have aimed higher, or that it tried to do something else and failed, but I trying very hard to fight my own bias against media that's just fun.

Fortunately, The Losers doesn't really aim for anything more than just being fun. And it really succeeds, in part by being different than most action movies. There is real space for the characters to develop and interact, and there is not a breath-taking explosion every 20 seconds. An action movie that relies on storytelling is a rare and pleasant thing; I may have missed some recently, but movies like the original Die Hard and True Lies leap to mind. They may not be your specific cup of tea, but they are more than "things blow up good"; there is some character development and advancement of some sort of story around all those nice explosions. And The Losers blows things up even less often than those films, giving more space for character development.

The film begins when a squad of soldiers led by Clay (Jeffrey Dean Morgan) is guided by a CIA handler into the home of an apparent Middle/South American drug kingpin. The team is supposed to only provide a laser guide for a missile run, but they discover that a busload of children are there also, being "recruited" as mules for the drug operation. With the fighter jets on the way, the team breaks into the estate and rescues the children. Clay runs into the kingpin, who asks if Max has sent him—Max being the CIA handler. Clay is astonished and replies that it was Max, to which the kingpin ruefully tells Clay to be careful. Clay and team escape with the kids, the estate is blown all to heck, and a school bus full of children heads to the pickup point. I don't want to spoil too much here, so let's just say that the helicopter is blown up, Clay's team all survives but are extremely irritated, and the world thinks they are dead.

What makes this movie really work is the chemistry among the team members, which is put on display in the opening sequence. Roque (Idris Elba), second in command, is the stern taskmaster who acts as Clay's foil—if Clay gets a crazy idea, Roque is the voice of reason. Jensen (Chris Evans) is the tech geek and smart aleck. There's a character named Pooch (Columbus Short) who is mostly along for comic effect and for drivig vehicles; it becomes something of a running gag that if they get involved in a fight somehow, he gets hurt. And finally, there's the sniper expert, Cougar (Oscar Jaenada), who while he never speaks is the glue that holds the team together. Their camaraderie and conversation just feels right; rather than the bravado and one-upmanship that is often the dialogue in similar movies, these men recognize talk about shared experiences and recognize each others' strengths and weaknesses. And so, as they fight their way to the villainous Max (Jason Patric), we care about their progress not because it moves the plot forward, but because we like these men.

The movie does fall to one cliché, however; whenever a woman gets involved in a team of men, dissension is sure to follow. The cliché is embodied by Aisha (Zoe Saldana), who catches up to the team and offers to help them bring down Max. The team is careful, but not so careful that Clay and Aisha have some romantic scenes (the first of which is just hysterical as it envisions the natural result of two such forceful personalities coming together).

I've seen comparisons of this movie to the upcoming The A-Team, and on the surface, such comparisons may hold water; but based on the commercials and trailers I have seen, that movie relies more on over-the-top action, while The Losers trends more towards thriller fare, like covert actions. However, when action is called for, the team is ready to dispense as much as is required to punish Max the CIA guy. Furthermore, there were two plot twists in The Losers I just didn't see coming; one of them was obvious as I look back in hindsight (I was just enjoying the movie too much to really try to unravel it), but the other one really did come out of the blue. This is not to say it was deus ex machina stuff; no, thinking back, I can see the hints that are obvious in hindsight. At any rate, I doubt that The A-Team, if it sticks close to its source, will have any such plot machinations.

I also doubt that The A-Team will have such an over-the-top villain as Max. Jason Patric is just delightful as he stomps all over the line between villainy and dark humor.

The end result was a fairly light-hearted thriller/action movie with moderate depth and whole lot of fun. The movie, like the comic series it is based on, leaves open the possibility of a sequel, and I have to admit I wouldn't mind such a thing. Not for serious or lengthy consideration, nonetheless The Losers is worth at least one viewing.

Under Heaven

Did you ever have a craving for something? Something you know is going to be good, something that has never let you down, something that will scratch an itch that's been pestering you for a while? And then, when you finally get that want fulfilled, it's something of a letdown?

Wow, that's subtle, isn't it?

Guy Gavriel Kay is one of my favorite living writers, and one of the few that I will by hardback versions of as they come out. And for a couple of months, I have been craving some really strong writing, not just stuff that was "okay" or "it'll do." I wanted to be swept up in a book and consider skipping work in order to finish it, breathless until the last word went by. Usually Kay does that for me. And I'll admit right up front that such a load of expectations may easily have swayed my final opinion of his latest novel, Under Heaven. This newest book has all the right pieces and parts (flavors and spices) but it just does not come together as well as others of Kay's novels. This is not to say, by any means, that this is a bad book—heavens, no; Kay still takes his readers on a roller coaster of pseudo-historical fiction, with strong characters, tremendous interplay, and some of the most deft plotting I have ever read. Something was lacking this time around, and I find my craving not quite subsiding. The Pizza Rule—there's two kinds of pizza: good pizza and pizza that is still better than most any other food out there—may be in effect.

If you'll recall from previous reviews of Kay's work, Kay generally writes about historic periods in world history, transmuting them slightly to give them a light fantasy touch and then runs with them. In the past he has written about Medieval Italy, Moorish Spain, and the Byzantine Empire; this time around, Under Heaven takes us to the Tang Dynasty in China. As I think about it, it really isn't necessary to know the correlation between Kay's fictional worlds and their real-world counterparts; everything you need to know is somewhere within the Kay's storytelling. However, in a larger sense, it's fascinating how Kay can bring these vibrant and exciting periods, now dead in most of the minds of current readers, brilliantly to life.

The general movement of Kay's "historic" novels goes like this: introduce a character, then move along the web of that character's association with other characters, then begin to fill them all out with back story and interaction with each other, while at the same time, begin to build the setting for the crisis of the novel. It may sound formulaic, but Kay is fine craftsman in his development of characters and plot, such that the formula isn't really visible until you sit back and compare the progression with other of his works. Kay often introduces his main character in the middle of a smaller crisis, thus quickly revealing to the reader not just how this character appears, but also how he/she truly is. The effect is an almost instantaneous rapport and interest in what happens in the character's life. Under Heaven is no different: we meet Shen Tai, the second son of a powerful general of the Kitai Empire, in the midst of performing ritual mourning duties after the death of his father. Tai has chosen to go to a battlefield where his father had perhaps his greatest victory, over barbarians intent on invasion, and to live a fairly monastic life burying the remains of both his fallen countrymen and those of their enemy. Tai generally works alone on this task, accompanied only by the nightly voices of the ghosts of those he buried, angry and sad at the disposition of their remains.

But Tai's tremendous memorial service has not gone unrecognized in the two years he has been serving; the local garrison of the Kitai brings him supplies, as does the local garrison of the Tagurans, the foes of his father. And as the end of the period of mourning approaches, the Tagurans, led by a commander that Tai has begun to consider a friend, bring him news of the tremendous gift a princess of the Tagurans offers him in gratefulness for his actions: 250 of the greatest horses alive. While the Kitai have horses, mostly they are small and weak compared to the great Sardian horses that are prized throughout the continent, whose only analog on Earth would be Arabians. Not only is Tai immediately wealthy beyond his every imagining, such a gift makes him an immediate political power, one to invoke jealousy or admiration among the officials of Kitai. Which, in turn, makes him an immediate target, as that very night he has to thwart an attempt on his own life.

The rest of Under Heaven sets about describing the political and cultural climate that Tai must now enter into with his ridiculous gift, a process Kay accomplishes by introducing the reader to more and more individuals throughout the empire, making them real to the reader by making them full, and then offering their opinions and judgments on the world that Tai is returning to. And even as Kay describes it, that very world is trembling under various shifts going on around it, not the least of which is the potential arrival of 250 horses. The reader's attention is torn between what is happening to the empire whose rulers Tai is suddenly thrust among and the development of Tai, as he realizes his two years have dramatically changed him and the world he thought he wanted to be a part of.

I've said elsewhere that Kay is a masterful storyteller, tweaking the reader with humor and pathos with skill. Characters on whom Kay spends just a few pages are tragically killed, and the reader's heart breaks because we know them so very well in such a tiny space. And generally there is no predicting where the paths of the characters will end up, so the reader must hang on until the story is concluded. And so it goes in Under Heaven, as the novel rushes to moments of consequence to the Kital Empire. All the threads that Kay lays out so skillfully weave together in a tapestry, and the reader recognizes that even the trivial moments that Kay has described all lead to the crisis, and that as important as the crisis may be, it is made up of individuals who are people, with assets and faults that make them sometimes achingly human.

The weakness in Under Heaven is only noticeable by comparison. There is a crisis, and all the characters' lives are changed by it, but it doesn't carry nearly the emotional and dramatic force that similar crises in other novels have. Everything sets up for it, and Kay deploys the same strategies that have worked so effectively in other novels: foreshadowing and plot devices and turns of phrases that over his oeuvre have become laden with portent. And yet when the crisis happens here (and I apologize for clumsiness of trying not to give any spoilers away), the main character Tai, doesn't have nearly so much emotional resources tied into it and ends up being something more like a witness rather than a participant. Kay also talks about how future historians of the Kitai will view the crisis that we get to see firsthand, and all of their descriptions blunt the emotional effect of what we see, in part because the historians get it wrong. No doubt, however, that there is power in this crisis; the reader recognizes as the characters do that immense power and privilege do not excuse even emperors and their court from What Must Be. And therein lies something of the tragedy that undergirds Under Heaven. But through Kay's descriptions, it has become clear that a change must be made for the life of the Kitai Empire, so what happens is not nearly so much a shock, again, as other similar crises in other Kay novels.

It's still evocative, and again citing the Pizza Rule, it's still better than most of the fantasy published today. And I will more than likely read this book a number of times in my lifetime. It's just that, when asked, it will not be the first Kay book I would recommend. That said, I still do recommend it, especially to readers who want something more than the formulas that make up most of the current heroic fantasy. Some Kay is better than no Kay at all.

Iron Man 2

Back when I bought far more music than I buy now—back when everyone bought vinyl, for heaven's sake—I realized that there was an interesting anecdotal phenomenon I referred to as the "sophomore effect." It seemed to me that an aspiring artist spent years trying to get their first album (that's a bigger version of a CD for you young'uns) in the hands of a record company. Endless nights at horrible little clubs, interminable practices, and hundreds of ideas written on scraps of paper as the artist tried to put together something to wow the money people in the industry. (You'll notice this idea is not entirely based on reality—I have no idea what a musical artist's life is like; I only know what I have seen on TV and in movies.) And then they hit it, and they have a years-wide repertoire of music to choose from to put on that first album.

The real test comes in the creation of the second album, where they have far less time to produce quality work—sometimes a year, sometimes less. And pressure! Suddenly you have a contract, and it's not as much about love of the art as it is, a legally binding promise to produce. Completely different circumstances, and many artists falter on that second release. Some figure it out and go on to do good/great things, and some fade away into obscurity. That second work: that seems the real crucible.

Spending time with my book group discussing speculative fiction, I realized there is probably a similar effect in writing. Years spent honing the craft and especially revising that first sale. And then you're asked to do it again. In a year. You can get a good gauge of how a writer is going to do with that second book.

Which brings me to Iron Man and its recently released sequel. Iron Man would have been the top superhero movie in 2008, had The Dark Knight not also come out the same year. It was fun and smart and witty, and the cast bristled with chemistry and energy (http://perrynomasia.blogspot.com/2008/05/iron-man.html). The story was lively, there were few dull moments in the movie, and while the crew paid attention to enough continuity to make the fanboys happy, it remained accessible to people who did not know the characters.

And Iron Man 2?

It's a lot of fun. Robert Downey just shines in his portrayal of Tony Stark/Iron Man. It seems clear that he is having a lot of fun playing this role, and it shows in what are either some of the best writing a character can have or in Downey's talent for improve. The effects are brilliant, and it is still a little breath-taking to see the suit, especially in action.

But something is missing, especially in comparison to the first movie. The most noticeable is Don Cheadle taking over the role of James Rhodes, Army liaison to Stark. Somehow, Academy Award-nominated Cheadle comes across as wooden, especially in comparison to Terence Howard. Part of the reason for this is that the two actors are not on screen together very often when they are not in their respective Iron Man suits. As a result, one of the best parts of the first movie, the interaction between Stark and Rhodes, is just gone.

The other major relationship in Stark's life, with Gwyneth Paltrow's Pepper Potts, is also lacking in Iron Man 2. In what may be the most telling anecdote, one of the best interactions between the two characters only takes place in the movie's trailer. The best interaction between them that remains in the movie is one where they talk to each other via webcam, and so aren't even in the same space. Paltrow does just fine in her scenes; Downey is just not in them. In fact, through most of the center part of the movie, Downey is by himself not doing much of anything. And while most actors would not survive this, it turns out that Downey doing nothing is kind of entertaining. But it's not the chemistry that made the first movie especially fun.

Samuel L. Jackson's Nick Fury has a larger role in the sequel, but I'm not sure if it makes much sense to the casual movie-goer. Fury and Stark just riff off of each other for a bit (which honestly, is something of an immovable object meeting an unstoppable force), but there's barely any explanation of what S.H.I.E.L.D. is doing, beyond pushing Stark to rethink his relationship with his father. Scarlett Johansson is a lot of fun as Natalie Rushman (who ultimately is the Black Widow, though she is never really named that in the movie) but she is somewhat underutilized and often comes across as just a prop for Downey's manic improve moments.

But let me go back to what I originally said—Iron Man 2 is a lot of fun. It only seems weak in comparison to the original Iron Man, and even then it's only through reflection that I can make this commentary. While I was sitting in front of the movie, I laughed and I thrilled. Mickey Rourke and Sam Rockwell make for good villains, but as I think about it after, it's strange that their offbeat chemistry is better than that of the "good side."

The result is a fine popcorn movie, with action sequences galore…not shot with shaky cam and that make sense. Things blow up real good and Iron Man saves the day.

RIP Frank Frazetta

http://www.comicbookresources.com/?page=article&id=26160

When Edmund Spenser, author of The Faerie Queene and Renaissance poet, died in 1599, the surviving great poets of England each wrote a poem in memoriam to him and read it at the funeral service. Brilliant writers such as Philip Sidney, Ben Jonson, John Donne, and William Shakespeare each wrote a unique poem dedicated to Spenser, and then after each was read, it was placed in the coffin. Those poems were buried with Spenser in Westminster Abbey, never to be seen or heard again. My mind boggles at the incredibly appropriate action of the poets, memorializing a great talent with pieces of their own, gifts to him that will never be reproduced.

Like the best poets, Frank Frazetta's art had the power to not just capture the imagination but to also set it free. For thousands and probably millions of readers, his cover work was their first introduction to speculative fiction, an invitation to worlds they barely imagined. For myself, I remember wandering through a chain bookstore as a youth and stumbling across one of the volumes of The Fantastic Art of Frank Frazetta from Ballantine Books and just being unable to look away. Inside, I found cover art for Edgar Rice Burroughs's Barsoom series, my favorite series of all, and then went on to see other pieces by a man whose name I did not know until that moment, but who just took my breath away. Knowing very little about art, I was amazed and walked away, forever able to identify Frazetta's work from that point forward. Others I know actually got to see the Frazetta covers of the Barsoom books, and of Howard's Conan as they were released. I can only imagine the thrill finding them in a bookstore must have been. For myself, I wasn't allowed to buy that book, in part because it cost, I believe, the princely sum of $14.95, but also because of the scantily clad women who threatened to ensorcel my heart, if not other pieces of my anatomy.

His work became a touchstone to which I can always return, mingling an aftertaste of my youth with the critical eye of an adult. And rarely does a piece of his work not astonish me, no matter how many times I see it. Instantly identifiable, visceral moments of interrupted action.

His influence on the illustration industry is unmeasurable. There is not an illustrator alive today who is not responding to Frazetta in one way or another. He is, I think, the standard to which all illustrators are compared. It would not be a stretch, I think, for current illustrators to bury their memorial art in Frazetta's coffin, a tribute to the man who molded the industry and delighted so many.