I Expect Perfection From My Props Department

There are people who enjoy the movies, who might refer to themselves as “movie buffs,” if you will. These people know a lot of trivia, enjoy discussing their favorite directors, and like to discuss with their friends afterwards what a movie “meant.”

I am not one of those people. If you work in the television or film industry, you may understand what I’m about to say a little better than everyone else. After years of going to see at least a movie a week in theatres, watching even more on netflix or DVD, not to mention the endless scripts I’ve read during class, internships, and in my own free time, I have nearly lost my ability to suspend my disbelief. For the layman, I refer to the act of letting oneself be completely absorbed into the story and can laugh, cry, gasp, and cheer with the characters as the journey on the screen progresses.

Flashback to:

Int. The Grove Movie Theatre - A week ago (Night)

Steinho sat alone in the dim movie theatre, irritated by the fact that the new assigned seating policy forced her to sit next to a couple on a date when there were five million empty seats available.

The film was “Super 8,” and on a purely superficial level, I enjoyed the film. No. The train wreck in the beginning was incredible and intense, and the teen actors were quite good. They were weird looking and funny and behaved more like normal teens than in any other movie I’ve seen lately. Do I think it was a classic? No.

Without going into an intelligent, analytical film review, I’ll get straight to the point. Towards the end of the film (SPOILER ALERT) the young hero, Joe, played by unknown actor Joel Courtney, watches with his roguishly handsome cop father, played by Kyle Chandler, as an alien being finally escapes the grim clutches of the government.

Wait, wasn’t there already a film with that plot line produced by Stephen Spielberg? Anyone? Anyone?

So anyway, they’re watching E.T., I mean the alien, prepare his ship for blastoff. This process apparently requires sucking up all the metal left lying around the street. Cars, skateboards, appliances, and Joe’s dead mother’s locket. Just as it’s about to be ripped away from him by magnetic forces, Joe snatches the locket in mid air, and it opens, revealing a photo of him and his dead mother. Joe and his father embrace, and at last, they’re both able to let her go, symbolized by Joe physically releasing the locket into the air.

What a touching moment! Except for the fact that the picture was upside down.

Wait, what? What nonsense are you talking Steinho?

Yeah, so when the locket flew out of his hand, he caught it with the charm pointing up into the sky, upside down. Yet when the locket opened, the picture was perfectly oriented for Joe and his pop to have their touching moment. So either Joe’s mom walked around wearing an upside down picture in her locket, or this was a conscious decision to fuel the emotional moment, which I totally get. We go to the movies for escape, not to face the harsh laws of reality and gravity.

The locket bit was so far into the film, and so minute, it certainly didn’t keep me from enjoying my cinematic evening. There were other things that accomplished that, like the overall anticlimactic ending. But I bring this up, because it was remarkable how quickly my brain picked up on it. I wonder, am I forever unable to watch anything without thinking of the number of scripts the production assistant had to copy? Or if there was a meeting between the director and the head of props concerning which way should the picture face in the locket? Have I become a freak of nature…or has my mind and powers of observation simply been honed to a razor sharp edge? Or, does this merely mean I have too much time and need to go watch some “Futurama” reruns?

All of the above.

In Which the Author Proves the Full Extent of Her Nerdliness

Last Friday, at ye local purveyor of books, Messrs Barnes and Noble played host to one of my favorite actors, Simon Pegg. You may remember him from such films as “Shaun of the Dead,” “Hot Fuzz,” and most recently, the grown up version of E.T. “Paul.” He was visiting the book store to promote his new biography, “Nerd Do Well.” Now, normally I am not a fan of the celebrity biography. Or regular biographies. Histories I like, but only when they’re written in the style of a sweeping epic fiction novel.

To be honest, the only part of Simon Pegg’s biography I’ve read since purchasing it five days ago was the few chapters I took in while waiting in line during the signing. No offense to Mr. Pegg, but the book was the equivalent of all that chocolate the little children ate in “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory” to try to meet Willy Wonka.

I purposely went by myself to the book signing, and I’ll tell you why. Having lived in Los Angeles for almost six years now, I’ve gotten used to running into Orlando Bloom at a breakfast place on La Brea or the guy who played Hiro from Heroes in West Hollywood. Celebrities are typically very boring, shorter versions of the people they play in the movies or on television. Except for when they’re your nerd hero. In that case, they are not boring at all, and in fact make you act like Renfield from Dracula. For those of you unfamiliar with this character, Renfield used to serve Dracula with undying devotion and later ate bugs. I did not do this when I finally met Simon Pegg, but there were a few minutes as I approached his table where I thought I might puke on myself.

I’m getting ahead of myself though. I’ve gone to a few of these book signings before. Basically you show up early, stand around for an hour or so, then spend five minutes oggling at the celebrity/writer in question before you are herded towards the front, someone slaps a book with your name written on a post-it note onto a table, and the celebrity/writer endeavors to make small talk with you in the time it takes them to sign your and their name and whatever witticism they choose to grace you with.

I arrived for the Simon Pegg signing about an hour and a half before he was supposed to come on the scene. The geeks, dweebs, nerds, and spazzes were all lined up in numbers. I’m very sorry to say it, but these were some of the least attractive people I have ever seen. I spend so much time trying to convince the “normals” that nerds can be attractive, functioning people, too. Unfortunately, none of those people decided to show up to the book-signing that night. There were a few normals mixed into the crowd, including one of the lovely accountants from another Disney show who I recognized. Still, this was definitely one of those situations where I felt out-nerded by the masses. There were girls giving him fan art. If you don’t know what that is, you’re probably too cool to be reading my blog.

At long last, Mr. Pegg arrived on the scene. Like always, he was shorter in real life. Most of all, he looked very normal. Like a normal dude I might run into walking around England. When the press started flashing his photo, he seemed rather pained to be standing there, holding a copy of his book. Not angry, or obnoxious or anything bad. He seems the sort that when he says he’s not doing this for the publicity and fame, you actually believe him. I was instantly charmed.

Back to the part where I was standing five feet from him and thought I might faint or hurl. The regimental bookstore employee passed my book over to the table and I shuffled forward, my mind blank. I was a writer dammit! Where was my banter? My hilarious quips? But every ounce of cleverness had evaporated into the ether.

The scenario went a little like this.

Simon Pegg: Hello, Amanda. Thank you for coming.
Me: Thank you for coming….. I like your hat.
Simon Pegg: Thank you.
Me: I’m sorry. I tried to think of something clever to say, but I couldn’t.
Simon Pegg: (Charmingly disarming) I’m going to tell you a secret about this hat. I’m only going to share it with you. It’s a Canadian hat.
Me: (Swooning) Your secret is safe with me.

Then we talked for two seconds about Vancouver and Mission Impossible:4 and then he shook my hand and it was all over. I walked away, clutching the autographed book like it was a notebook doodled with hearts. So thank you, Simon Pegg, wherever you are, for making this nerd feel even if just for a few moments, that I was a little cooler than I really am.

Camus Would Have Been More Interesting With Pretty Pictures

After submerging myself in last week’s death overload, I decided to cleanse my pallet this week by reading “Daytripper,” a graphic novel written and drawn by Brazilian duo, Fabio Moon and Gabriel Ba. And, it also turned out to be about death. I hope the universe isn’t trying to tell me something.

Okay, that’s a heinous lie. To say “Daytripper” was just about death would be missing the whole point of the comic. It would be like saying Star Wars was merely about space, and Lord of the Rings was just a little tale about stolen jewelry. “Daytripper” is an existential piece of art. It was beautiful, both in its vibrant, skillful illustrations, as well as its meaningful themes. After a lifetime of more typical comics, with their over the top violence and hyper-reality, it’s nice to come upon something truly poignant and thoughtful. That’s not to say superhero comics are incapable of possessing weighty topics or heart wrenching, emotional storylines. Really, I was simply pleased that “Daytripper” was something unique, something I’d probably never have discovered had it not been recommended to me. I always like when I push myself out of my typical reading repertoire and am pleasantly surprised.

The story of “Daytripper” focuses on Bras de Oliva Domingos, a Brazilian man who is simply trying to live his life to the best of his ability, the same as any man or woman. He struggles in his writing career, he searches for love, lives, learns, all that jazz. The graphic novel jumps back and forth through time, each chapter showing Bras at a pivotal moment in his life. At age twenty-eight, when he sees his future wife for the first time. At eleven, stealing his first kiss. At forty-one, experiencing the birth of his son. Each chapter ends with Bras dying shortly after these momentous occasions, posing a whole fleet of questions. When does life really begin? Does it take a dramatic moment to stir us into true existence? What does it mean for us to die? How are we shaped by each tiny event we experience, each seemingly trivial moment? And how are life and death linked? Like I said, existential up the wazoo.

In the end, we make the biggest leap from reality. Instead of another chapter and another important moment in Bras‘ life, things take a turn for the dreamlike. For the first time, it seems to show Bras after his various accidents, contemplating his own mortality and asking the very questions the work hints at to its readers. Characters from different time periods appear side by side, Bras running as a child through the fields, only to come upon his own son, the same age. Throughout it all, Bras’ father, who happens to be a writer himself, explains to Bras that every story must have an end, just as every life must eventually conclude in death.

Dare I suggest that the point is not to focus on each chapter as an individual, because the worth of one life cannot be judged by any particular event, only the greater whole? I suppose I can suggest all I want, but books like “Daytripper” are not meant to be deciphered in clear terms. They are meant to be poured over and experienced. I feel like I need to invent more lovely and artistic words to even describe it.

Two chapters in, I worried that “Daytripper” would leave me in the same funk I’d felt after “Machine of Death.” The reality was quite the contrary. “Daytripper” made the process of death almost poetic. The stunning visuals and the real, human interactions between characters left me feeling, if not utterly blissful, than at least calm and contemplative. As far as existentialism goes, that’s all you really need.

Watch, Now I'm Going to Get a Piano Dropped On My Head

I really don’t know what I was expecting from a collection of short stories entitled, “Machine of Death,” but the name kind of says it all. I certainly shouldn’t have been surprised by how depressed it made me reading story after story about a machine that samples people’s blood and tells them exactly how they’re going to die. Never a specific time or circumstance, just a vague description, like “CRASH” or “HEART ATTACK,” or sometimes even weird things like “VEGETABLES.” Macabre as it may be that is the premise, or at least basis of every story in the book.

But who the devil would make a short story contest about death machines? The answer, is three gentleman of the monikers, Ryan North, Matthew Bennardo, and David Malki ! The exclamation point is not a typo. That is actually how he writes his name. I know this because David Malki ! also happens to be the creator of a whimsical old-timey online comic strip called Wondermark.com. If you enjoy steampunk, the Victorian era, Monty Python, talking dinosaurs, or any combination of these items, you might enjoy Wondermark.

I first heard about “Machine of Death” on a friend’s facebook wall. See? Facebook isn’t all just Farmville and drunken pictures from college! The link advertised that it was a collection of short stories, all on this specific theme, and this would be the collection’s second year. I thought to myself, considering my new found and somewhat ironic life goal of writing myself to death, it would be a cool writing contest to submit to. First though, I wanted to read the original “Machine of Death” to see what had already been done. The collection holds about thirty-four stories and most of them were seriously depressing.

As I said before, I knew given the concept there would be a degree of darkness in such a collection, but I guess I thought there’d be a little more humor mixed in there as well. Several stories dealt with a young person finally reaching an age where they could be tested, with mixed results of success. Some were horrified by their test results, while some were delighted with their unusual readings. Some were more concerned about how their death would affect their social status. Then there were the depressing ones. One man can no longer look at his wife, knowing “LOVE” will be his undoing. Another deals with finding the news that it’s his son who will kill him somehow. This brought about a very interesting existential topic. Were these authors all being melodramatic or is there something wrong with me for thinking they shouldn’t take death stories so seriously? In Monty Python’s “The Meaning of Life” there is a short scene where a woman accidentally kills a whole dinner party by serving them bad fish. As death arrives, all she can say is “Oh, how embarrassing!” If John Cleese and Michael Palin can poke fun at dying, why can’t everybody else?

After awhile, I found reading the book to be a chore, but not because the writing was bad. Obviously some were better than others, but there were only a few who I felt relied on kitschy concepts rather than quality writing. The topic was just so damn depressing. Again, what should I expect from a book about death, but isn’t the point of entertainment to offer up a release from real life pain and sorrow? The more I read, the more somber I began to get. The more I started seriously thinking about my own death, and what I might pull if such a machine really existed. Now it’s my turn to be overly dramatic. Reading this book bummed me out in a major way.

But there were a few stories who shone out amongst the dark matter. My favorite tale was called “Prison Knife Fight,” by Shaenon K. Garrity. This one is about a young boy who’s wealthy, snooty parents are desperately trying to get him into a good prep school, despite his future death in a prison knife fight. Instead of making him a social pariah in his school though, his three best friends look upon him in awe. And as the boy grows up, instead of feeling trapped by his possibly violent future, it frees him from the structured, boring life his parents intended to force on him. It was comical and inspiring, making the best out of a bad situation to speak.

Now, let’s hope when I write and submit my own “Machine of Death” stories, I can breathe a little life into the genre. See? See me trying to use a bad pun to make light of serious topics? Anyway, you get my point.

In My Heck, the Books Are All Just Copies of Twilight

I own three bookshelves, which doesn’t sound like a lot, three being such a small number and all. But compared to the vast armies of people who own zero or less bookshelves in their house, yes, three is in fact a lot of bookshelves.

Yet, no matter how many bookshelves I add to my supply, I am in a perpetual state of always having more books than space to put them. This means small stacks of reading material inevitably sprout up in every available crevice of space. Beside my bed. Next to my comfy pod chair. Underneath that little plastic tray thing my roommate’s mom bought me to work on my writing in bed but is more often used to set ramen noodles on while watching “The Simpsons” on Hulu. There are books everywhere. If there is an earthquake, and you can’t find me, check underneath the books. At least I’ll die surrounded by something I love.

Anyway, so I don’t have enough books. Why don’t you recommend some to me already? Seriously, forty unread books in my apartment is not enough. That’ll only get me to September, MAYBE, so get on it, people of the Internet. Send your suggestions to makesteinhoread@gmail.com

My pile dwindled by another book last night when I finished “Fibble,“ the next installment in one of my favorite young adult series, written by the always amusing Dale E. Basye. I’ve blogged about it before but honestly, it’s worth mentioning again. I speak of “Heck: Where the Bad Kids Go,” a tale that is not afraid to send children into the nastier parts of the afterlife.

In “Fibble,” our dead brother and sister duo, Milton and Marlo Fauster, face another round of dead historical figures who want to make their afterlife miserable. This time, Marlo gets trapped in Fibble, the level of Heck for kids who lie. The head of Fibble? P.T. Barnum, who teaches his inmates the finer points of product placement and market manipulation. Meanwhile, Milton goes to Hell-ywood, where he and Orson Welles plan the next season’s lineup on Heck’s own TV network. This includes a show called “Teenage Jesus.” Maybe it was just the comparisons between Hollywood/Los Angeles and that infamous fiery underworld, but I got a real kick out of young Milton’s attempts to serve as Production Assistant to a fleet of demon filmmakers. As if that particular occupation weren’t trying enough.

There were times in reading “Fibble” when I thought to myself, “If this weren’t a kid’s book, this would be pretty darn controversial.” Mostly though, Basye manages to skate around any serious issues by taking the South Park route, and giving all religions the same unbiased comedic treatment. He also includes a lot of jokes about cat poo and teenage hormones to distract readers from taking any of the heavier themes too seriously. I always have respect for authors who aren’t afraid to sneak a little thought-provoking material into their children’s reading material. It’s a lot easier than thrusting a copy of “Crime and Punishment” in their face and asking them to figure out those moral judgments.

I’m going to guess that considering the references in all Basye’s novels, he’s got to be a fairly smart fellow. Or else he’s good at researching. Or at making people do research for him. Therefore, I have to believe that the decision to include both Orson Welles and William Randolph Hearst in this book was both deliberate and hysterical. I was really hoping that their paths would cross at some point in the book, but alas. Perhaps in the next one? Regardless, I appreciate any book that references both how fat Orson Welles was before he died, and how he had to make a Muppet movie to support his disturbing gravy habit. Okay, I made that last part up, but the guy was fat.

I will close by saying this. If there was an award for coming up with puns in the literary world, it would most likely go to Dale E. Basye. If colleges could give Masters degrees in punnery, Basye would be the Dean of the school.