Some might call it an infantile dream, one I should long be too old for. No doubt, all manners of folly have gone into it over the decades. Resulting only in less than middling success. I am, of course, talking about my efforts as a writer of fiction. Lately the pen, for want of a better word, has been dormant. A few feeble attempts, but mostly rehashes of past exercises. In lieu of new writings I did the next best thing: I updated the related websites. Thus, HandsOn Productions, the gateway to five of my sites, has been simplified with a single Flash page. Similarly, The Storyteller's Logbook, where most of the short story fiction is available, has had a complete makeover. Again: need for simplicity served as the primary motif. Next in line are streetwalker, the poetry site, and ny-ny gallery, which really does need a more relevant exhibit.

As always, my life right now is in a flux; I am in the middle of a semi-serious countdown towards a departure from New York - but I have been doing that since the day I arrived. The question: Where am I going with this?, has yet to be solved. Any ideas? Anyone?

Posted by DocRorlach at 01:21 MEST

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You might be forgiven if you were to think that lately all I ever write about is movies. Of course, that is utter rubbish. Films are just a means to an end. At times they fill gaps, when I cannot think what else to write, when write I must. Other times they fill another gapping hole: that of time, a tradition a century old and honored by many.

Now and then, however, they are a momentary inspiration. When they instill, for whatever minute a moment, that we could actually be better then we are, if only we had a half-decent director and maybe a not too morose screenplay writer. Such cinematographic efforts do not need to themselves uplifting in spirit; in fact they could be about something quite brutal, or totally silly and foppish. Some emblematic fantasy about worlds that do not exist, or futures that we can never meet; some distinctive tale about a man going to see another man about a horse might do it as well.

In the end is but us, and how we see the efforts by those untold hordes necessary to create even the most simplistic of celluloid efforts. And they all seem to have in common the very basic ability to tell a story well; in that such greats are quite bookish. It is one such tale that brought about this entry in the diary: Finding Neverland, the story about the writer who manage to tame Peter Pan into the covers of a good book. It is not that it is inspirational in the usual sense of the world, nor that every actor and actress seem to have slipped into their characters so effortlessly. Rather it seems to me the synergy of the story itself, the people in it - both real and imagined, and of us the, the viewers, that allows this tale to tug at strings we usually hide so well.

Or may it is just me; after all, my name is Peter, and as many will attest quite readily, I've always had difficulty growing up. Even now. As you will see if you just read these words again..

Posted by DocRorlach at 06:35 MEST

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Granted, I will watch almost anything the movie moguls care to serve up. If not in the theaters then on the small screen or the idiot tube. It has been a minor obsession since I first could reach the on switch on our first TV, way back when. But - I said almost!

This year's helpings have been especially poor and - if on will place faith in the official statistics - the rest of the movie-going public agrees with my assessment. The paying numbers have declined seriously; the rise of DVD, both pirated and legit, plus in particular Hollywood's continued inability to gauge public tastes have served notice that change is not only necessary but inevitable.

Of course, the paymasters will not take notice until some major studio fails catastrophically. Even then it is doubtful that the managers and bean counters will be able to fathom the real reasons for their failures: Lincoln's Axiom. This states quite clearly that you cannot please all the people all the time. And still the studios try it by neutralizing every concept or sentiment, pandering only to the lowest possible denominator, thus trying to do just that. What will it take for them to realize that once you dumbed everything down to rock-bottom lower no longer exists?

The past few weekends have brought us The 40-Year Old Virgin (would you believe that there are some forty-one year old real virgins planning to sue the studio for defamation?). We have been offered the Great (melodramatic) Raid. Plus an American male prostitute's take on Amsterdam, and Two Imbeciles And A Wedding. Add to that the countless failed attempts on remakes, sequels, re-interpretations, and other plagiarism, and you have the Sum of the Summer of 2005, digitally re-mastered.

There were a few, very few exceptions; accidents of cooperations between directors and actors. Tim Burton's candied-up Johnny Depp showed us the bittersweet side of Roald Dahl; Jessica Lange managed to curb Kevin Costner's baseball tongue enough to permit Mike Binder to create one of the view real movies of the year. And even the abominable showman, Chris Rock, was coxed into producing a memorable line in the animated take on New Yorkers called Madagascar. Bill Murray made two memorable attempts to revive the dying audiences with The Life Aquatic and Broken Flowers. Unfortunately for him the Land of Super-sizing Everything failed to comprehend his minimalist messaging.

The outlook for the remaining year is bleak: Zorro is coming back for no reason at all; more ghosts and ghouls are heading for the silver screen; and we are heading head on into the schmaltz season - as already announced last February - with this years crop of Christmas movies. I do not know exactly what the ensuing skirmishes for the Oscars of 2006 will try to shove past our eyeballs, but I am sure it will be worse, a lot worse than what we have seen since last Labor Day. Makes me wish I could truly watch almost anything.

Unfortunately I cannot.

Posted by DocRorlach at 06:15 MEST

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You could call me "a fan of the genre", I guess. And in part, to be sure, what attracted me was the hullabaloo that hit the literary world when J.R. Rowling was selected for a Man Booker Price - Britain's most prestigious book award. So I read the first one. And was quite keen on both the second and the third one. And yes, I did watch the movies; though, in my defense, I can say I did not exactly rush to either the book store or the movie theatre

What's more, the last film was intriguing, fascinating to watch, and did the book more than justice. Largely that credit has to go to its director, Alfonso Cuaron. But even he will struggle with the latest installment of the Harry Potter saga, despite his excellent credentials. One of the reason a screen version will be difficult is that this time around the book contains mainly fluff! Plus large gaps in logic, character formation and drama. Of the latter there is hardly any.

Ms. Rowling, whose ability to convey her characters as larger than life remains unchallenged, has unfortunately followed the erroneous assumption that her now teenage charges need to go through the same pubescent dilemmas as her growing readership among pre-teens. Unfortunately she has chosen to present us with a highly sanitized version of teenage Sturm & Drang. As a result there might be legions of very young readers frustrated by the evasiveness of their elders whenever they ask about "snogging" - a typically English euphemism for "making out". Even more unfortunately, this installment of young Harry contains pages upon pages reserved entirely to the where, the why, and the who is who of snogging, much to the detriment of the overall story. Moreover, her usually tense writing has been relaxed in view of the nearly guarantied sales. Neither Harry nor Ms. Rowling need to prove themselves anymore. Their adventures now take place on the marketing and hyping front, clearly following Master Lucas and his motley band of marketing misfits down the path to the dark side of exploitation.

At the end of the book I felt cheated. Clearly Harry has grown up and become another arrogant but boring almost-adult. He is about to drop out of school; and most likely he will muddle his way through the final seven-hundred or eight-hundred pages of the last installment, in a year or two. Will I read it? Certainly, just like with Star Wars, like with the Matrix Trilogy, I need closure. But as in both those cases I can wait until I can rent it or download it. Ms. Rowling's books are no longer worth the price - not even discounted.

Posted by DocRorlach at 01:30 MEST

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By now I can hazard a guess that everyone (all five of you!) who regularly reads these pages knows that I have an ever so slight addiction to movies. In that sense I am probably an escape artist. I do watch the the good, the bad, and the tarnished - even if I do draw the line at the truly horrific.

A favorite category has always been what commonly labels itself as "romantic comedies". The true last frontier of Science Fiction. Lately I had been thinking that it has become a dying art, and that its throes began right after Harry rode from school with Sally. Imagine: someone has drawn up a "sequel" to The Graduate, with Shirley MacLain playing the now very aged Mrs. Robinson, and Kevin Costner weighing in as the erstwhile student Lothario about to deck the Granddaughter, too. Just how bad is it in Hollywood?

The reason for why this arises here is John Cusack's latest effort. As far as the genre is concerned his last real success was Gross Point Blank. With today's release of "Must Love Dogs" he seemed to try and recapture old vainglory. I cannot truly say he succeed, nor could I attest to his failure. While his costar, Ms. Diane Lane, was part of the reason for my confusion, the bulk of the blame must be laid at the script writer(s).

In this the movie represents a first for me: a script written so well it actually stank. No amount of acting skill or starry leverage could have rescued this one - its demands were simply inhuman. My suspicion is that the perpetrating literati were former political speechwriters or Washington (DC) hacks! No-one else would smother the protagonists with so many one-liners, aphorisms, steals of entire pages from Bartlett's, and - the piece de resistance - the Little Brown Penny from Yeats, delivered by ex-Horror star Christopher Plummer. I honestly do not know whether or not I like it or if I should thumb my nose at it. I guess that if you really have nothing else planned it is still better than pizza and a trip to Blockbuster. But beware, the script really is full of it.

Posted by DocRorlach at 09:50 MEST

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Let's see: I do have a considerable amount of annoying habits and traits; a surplus, many would agree. Which, of course, float more readily to the surface now that I am getting older. I know, I know: my recent obsession with the age thing is just one of them. Still, consider the mental problematic of a man who has physically aged along with everyone else, acquaintances, strangers and friends. Yet mentally a retardation of time set in at an early age. It has always been a deficit of a few years, which has now grown into more than a decade and half.

Thus we will be talking or debating or arguing or joking: and in the middle of it all someone nearly always does a double-take. As if they saw me for the first time, without the rosy spectacles words and phrases can impose on listeners. Suddenly they count the lines and the weigh the gray fringes on the side. Aided perhaps by a reference to a different era they are confronted with the blunt truth. Few mustered the nerve, yet some have blurted it out, arresting the small talk around us.

That discrepancy also drives memories and their erasure. Some of it, naturally, is simple self-preservation. Our minds can hold on to only so much After which something has to give. I don't know if our capacity is really shrinking, or if it simply that preoccupations are rising as years go by. I just wish memory would talk to more detailed directions from us. So that I can forget not only the woman in the middle distance, with her butterfly glasses and those legs sticking out from under my sweater. And maybe remember someone else's name and face from way, way back when; maybe even instead of the lady silently mouthing the lyrics of a song that seemed to make her amazingly happy yesterday, on the subway. She has been stuck in a corner of my meandering mind like a commercial jingle.

What am I to do with her?

Posted by DocRorlach at 15:03 MEST

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Sometimes even the Gray Old Lady, The New York Times, gets it right: While reading the first half of this here article I actually fell for the intended pun. I went to the site covered by the article and followed the blog. It seemed plausible, for a while. Maybe because the cam used is real, even if most everything else is not.

A the article points out correctly: the web is full of false identities - just go to any "social site" like Friendster. Few of the participants in these largely unscientific experiments are willing to face their own realities. Like on Second Life or Backwash, hyper-realities are created on a whim. Of course, the avatars and assumed identities do tell a tale about their originators; the desires play a prominent role when these alter-egos are created. My own foray into these worlds always faltered on my insistence on trying to remain grounded in who I am - after all, it took nearly six decades just to figure that one out. And I still cannot be sure of myself since perceptions of others, acquaintances and strangers alike, will differ vastly in their descriptions of the "real me".

Like the young woman on the train today: I had just returned from a lengthy and tiring trip and surely looked a fright. We were alone in the car, and the nervousness of her jumpy imagination filled the space between us. Hiding behind my rather dark sunglasses I could see her fear; after all, this is New York, and this is the underground. The poor woman: when I left the train at my stop, a far worse looking individual entered by the other door.

Or maybe that is just my mistaken perception; maybe with him around staring at her long, lithe legs will make her feel comfortable, and more real than my trying not to look at her. Who knows?

Posted by DocRorlach at 01:25 MEST

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Doesn't anyone think it strange that the attacks in London took place not only at the beginning of the G8 meeting, but at a time when President Bush is clearly losing support for his failed war in Iraq? Or that every radical Muslim grouping, including the ultra-violent Hammas condemned the attacks as soon as the news hit the Arab world?

It is ever so convenient for the survivors, especially the those with political agendas that could be side-tracked or derailed by the new-found focus on Africa, to lay this on the doorstep of Al-Queda. The problem, however, remains that - as with September 11, 2001, nobody has claimed responsibility for it. Which in the past has always been the hallmark of terrorists the world over, and has been earmarked in every terrorist handbook as the primary propaganda tool after a "successful" attack.

I am not trying to spout some arcane conspiracy theory here; the days for that type of nonsense is over. Rather this attack, like Nine-Eleven in New York City, was the work of very desperate and heinous people. This was not a suicide mission by a small band of radicals but cold-blooded murder of innocents by highly sophisticated criminals. Criminal elements equipped with technology and access on a scale that would be hard to obtain by fundamentalist movements, especially in London. The United Kingdom has far tighter controls concerning weapons and explosives than the US, where any schoolboy can obtain an assault rifle without breaking into much of a sweat.

My only hope is that these poor folks have not died in vain; that the men and women in the British Intelligence community will not follow the American example of ignoring their own findings; and that those investigators will be independent enough to resist the political pressure that is sure to oppose their search for the culprits behind this cowardly attack. Maybe this time we might actually learn the truth - instead of politically adjusted screams for yet another war!

Posted by DocRorlach at 13:57 MEST

Updated: Friday, July 8, 2005 15:06 MEST

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The fireworks are over; the crowds, thick like the drifting smoke over the East River, disperse slowly. I am miles away, over in Brooklyn, but I know the picture: since now three years it is the same every Fourth of July, my fifth on this continent.

Unlike the preceding four years, I am doing much better now. There is less reason to complain, I am back in my metier. Well, almost at least. The air of the senseless drifter has grown thinner, it evaporates with the years. Still, home this is not, just like nowhere else has been home during these past six decades. A rootless, randomized existence someone called it recently; close enough a description, I concur.

And yet: the insidious canker called home-sickness still shows up on days like this. With no place to memorize, it calls for street corners or hilltops or beaches I once knew. The unwanted images creep in, displaying blurry silhouettes of people long scattered into other homes, safe from me and my inaccurate remembrances. Only one figure is clearly visible among the wavering cut-outs: sitting atop a make-shift stage table in an old, wooden house in Bangkok, wearing butterfly glasses and a long-lost sweater, she smiles at the camera with barely suppressed glee. For once she is the model, and - as it turned out - the best of them all, even if she never would have believed it.

No worries, tomorrow, or maybe the day after tomorrow, I'll be back. My grumpy old self still knows what it takes to survive: don't let the fantasies of yesteryear or of tomorrow sidetrack you from the only existence possible, the one which knows neither memories nor dreams.

Posted by DocRorlach at 04:55 MEST

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It started off well enough: a "cosy" portrait of a typical, dysfunctional American family in Newark, NJ (never mind that the docks Cruise "works" at are in fact in Brooklyn). Two kids, a wise-ass, screaming Dakota Fanning, and a moronic teenage Justin Chatwin; one mom not old enough to have had them both; her new, SUV-equipped second husband, and the errant dad unable to cope with the kids for the weekend. It would have surely ended in disaster, except that daddy got lucky: the Martians intervened!

Right you are, you guessed it. I have gone, betrayed my instincts, and watched Steven Spielberg's "War of the Worlds". And to make a long story short: the special effects team could well earn an Oscar nomination for their untiring efforts trying to save what soon became a doomed movie. Everyone else involved in this abysmal venture, including Mr. Spielberg, should receive a two-year ban from the movie industry. Maybe then they will think before they "act" the next time around.

As I said, it really started off well enough. H.G. Wells' concept of the aliens has been splendidly updated; the introduction of the protagonists almost succeeded in making you forget all the negative propaganda that led most of tonight's visitors to the theater. And the first appearance of the Martians, whose ships were apparently buried beneath our world for eons, was a remarkable piece of digital special effects. But then the idiosyncrasies started to set in and from then on it was a downhill affair. Like: just after the magnetic storm caused by what appears at first to be 27 lightening strikes into the same spot knocks out all the cars, power supply, cellphones and even watches, Cruise & film family promptly find the only car still working. One that obviously never needs gas, despite being a van that at best of times only gets about fifteen miles per gallon.

It goes on like that. Mr. Cruise manages to knock out the huge alien ships with less than a handful of hand grenades. Ms. Fanning, naturally, never learns her lesson(s) and constantly wanders off, runs off, and is generally off, in a wide-eyed still reminiscent of the cheesy "bug-eye" postcards that Hallmark used to sell.

The nearly packed midnight audience mostly laughed throughout the movie. American theater crowds are strangely participative, and this one literally exploded with four-letter expletives when - with most of the Eastern Seaboard destroyed - the aliens miraculously missed the Boston neighborhood where the ex-wife, new hubby, and her parents appeared on a stoop, obviously unruffled by the world-wide catastrophic events.

In summation it is clear that Byron Haskin's 1953 version, starring Gene Berry and set in small town USA, was clearly more believable and better acted for a tenth of the cost. And that neither film even comes close to to Orson Wells' 1937 radio broadcast that cause real-life panic among the far less jaded listeners of the New Deal era.

Posted by DocRorlach at 23:05 MEST

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