Source:

http://www.tumblr.com/dashboard

“The Ghost Writer”

in my own words…”…taken from my Heart”

I don’t think I am a film buff. I have seen a lot of films, but I hardly qualify for a person who knows all that much about films, film industry, this and that director.  The knowledge must be very expansive and I don’t have it.

I did indulge in watching movies simply because it was my way of escaping from life.  And lately I do not watch movies for a few fairly simple reasons.  I barely have the time, I have no money and I am too immersed in doing something else.  I indulge more in reading about self-development.  Whether I can show much result for the latter, I am not quite sure, but I certainly seem to have developed more tolerance and patience and open-mindedness.

So, coming from these new heights of being improved me (LOL)…  I wouldn’t have the opportunity to go and see “The Ghost Writer”, but I was lucky enough to make a new friend and she invited me to see a movie to celebrate the fact that she had recently found a job.  The choice of a film we made together, but I still have the feeling that I influenced her choice more than she influenced mine.  The reason I am saying this is purely that our choices don’t seem to be so spontaneous as we sometimes tend to think.

And the opinions we had about “The Ghost Writer” at the end were quite different.  I enjoyed the film immensely despite the fact that thinking back about the story itself I found that it was hardly realistic.  But I abandoned the idea that films should be realistic long time ago.  But everything else gave me pleasure.  The scenes by themselves.  Open and dark and gloomy sea, winds, sand, cold atmosphere, the house with glass walls.  I dare say, the plot did not interest me all that much; I was submerged in something all-encompassing.  What it was exactly, I don’t even know.  But when I found a picture in the review, it struck me again – it was precisely “IT”.  It was my gut reaction to the visual beauty.  It did strike something in my heart, in my mind, it was so much on the emotional level.  Maybe the film very much reflected my own mood indeed.  Quite possible.  I liked Ewan McGregor, he felt so genuine in his role.  And the best thing that he said was “…take it from your Heart”.  Maybe it was not exactly what he said, but I think it was the essence.  I felt it and kept this feeling throughout the film.  I was more in the character of the writer, than the whole political scene that never interested me.  The appeal of Ewan McGregor’s character is that he seems to be open, innocent, naïve, very touching person with whom it was easy for me to identify.  It felt like I could be him, our hearts beating in unison – I go through life making the most ridiculous mistakes.  And his death at the end of the film seems so pointless yet so profound.  In my opinion, of course.

Source: http://www.cinematical.com/2010/02/27/review-the-ghost-writer/

Review: The Ghost Writer

by Dawn Taylor Feb 27th 2010 // 1:03PM

 Roman Polanski’s latest thriller, The Ghost Writer, is a fascinating mash-up of homages, cinematic in-jokes and self-references, the sort of film that tends to either delight or irritate film buffs — sometimes inspiring both reactions silmutaneously — while leaving more casual viewers a bit flummoxed. Surely Polanski couldn’t have meant for his green-screen backgrounds to be so patently false! And oh, the performances are stiff and self-conscious! Almost immediately, the arguments begin in one’s own head as to whether this movie is deliberately, stylishly melodramatic, or a tad clunky by accident.

As good as The Ghost Writer is — and it really is quite good — the film itself doesn’t seem to know, either. Part of the problem may lie in the road it took to the screen, what with the director finishing the film while under house arrest in Switzerland, and additional studio meddling which resulted in a painful number of overdubbed line-readings turning effing F-words into “soddings” and “buggers” in order to acquire a PG-13 rating. What’s left is the feeling that this could have been one of the director’s great films, in the same league as Chinatown or Knife in the Water, but the distractions of Polanski’s personal life, and other forces behind the scenes, kept it from reaching masterwork status.

The plot, adapted from Robert Harris’ novel The Ghost, is a clever bit of nouveau noir: A professional ghostwriter (Ewan McGregor) is offered a truckload of money to complete the memoir of former British prime minister Adam Lang (Pierce Brosnan) after the original ghost dies under suspicious circumstances. Isolated at Lang’s coldly modern beach house and warned by Lang’s assistant (Kim Cattrall) that the manuscript must be kept under lock and key, the ghost slowly pieces together a puzzle that connects the memoir, Lang’s involvement in a CIA torture scandal, and his predecessor’s death. McGregor’s wide-eyed, “who me?” demeanor brings the right note of dewy dimness to the role, playing as he is a man who should have heard klaxon horns as soon as he was offered $250,000 for a month’s work.

The heaviest handed of Polanski’s homages comes with the way he fashions his picture as a modern-day Hitchcock film, with Cattrall standing in for Hitch’s signature icy blonde (and doing a fine job, despite an accent that veers wildly from upper-crust British to mid-Atlantic and back again) while Olivia Williams, as Lang’s wife, fills out the darker side of the neurotic-noir-gal quotient. A propulsive, orchestral score by Alexandre Desplat evokes Bernard Herrmann’s music for North by Northwest without being nearly as memorable. Polanski is at his Hitchcockiest in scenes that involve driving (a long set piece that has McGregor following the directions on a car’s GPS recalls James Stewart tailing Kim Novak in Vertigo) and an almost-final sequence that follows a note, passed hand-to-hand through a party, that goes on for about six hands further than it should.

The Ghost Writer also suffers a bit from overall tone, in that Polanski’s best films have had an intimate, close-in, almost claustrophobic quality to them, while here the action takes place in a glass-and-concrete mansion and outdoors on windswept winter beaches. All this chilly expanse is intended to create a sense of isolation, but unfortunately it also fails to draw us into McGregor’s increasing peril, as does Polanski’s insistence on presenting a couple of key plot turns via characters watching the news on enormous plasma-screen televisions — it keeps us at a distance, where the Hitchcock films on which Polanski is obviously basing this picture all become tighter framed, more entangled and tense as the story gallops toward conclusion. Despite a lot of wonderful imagery and a smart screenplay, the film is just too visually expansive and laconic to inspire an overwhelming sense of dread.

It’s interesting to note that one of the better references in The Ghost Writer is to Polanski’s own work. As McGregor’s writer unravels the unsavory facts about his new job and his employer, we return two or three times to shots of Lang’s groundsman, a middle-aged Asian man, attempting to sweep off the deck outdoors next the beach. The wind whipping around him, he keeps adding detritus to a wheelbarrow only to have the wind blow it all back out onto the deck again. It’s a clever visual metaphor, and also recalls the Japanese gardener in Chinatown, who provided a key clue when he told Jake Gittes that his employer’s salt-water pond was “bad for glass.”

Almost any film by a master director offers moments that delight and illuminate, even when the movies themselves are minor offerings in the director’s oeuvre (see as well: Scorsese’s Shutter Island). The pace of The Ghost Writer is deliberate and assured; the performances by the actors are wisely considered. It’s a good-looking film that feels as if it could have used a bit of tightening up, as well as an R rating to avoid the unfortunate overdubbings — but there are moments of brilliance that make it more than worth tolerating the missteps.

It seems strange nowadays, but I do have difficulty even picking a film.  Maybe I just do not want to waste my time watching some garbage.  The major difficulty is, of course, in defining what garbage is.  I can only pass a judgment after having watched a movie.  Now, I try to laugh at myself on many accounts.  This one is no exception.

Maybe it simply was awhile since I was aware of what is out there.  There is no list in my mind of what I should watch.  So I feel like a blind person in a forest.  Then I go to the “Hidden Gems” category and try picking something suitable.  Then I get stuck with what is exactly suitable.  Suitable for what?  For my mood?  For improving it or for reflecting it?  Or neither?

When I picked “Two Lovers”, it is hard to say what exactly I expected.  I think instinctively I knew it would not be a simple comedy you forget right after the film is over.  I like Joaquin Phoenix and he was so highly praised for his performance, that it was hard to resist.  The fact that Gwyneth Paltrow was there also was almost a turn-off, but you can’t have everything.  So there, the choice was made.

After having watched “Two Lovers”, I haven’t thought much about the film.  Not because I would say it was not good.  It was not thrilling; I would even say it was boring to a point.  But I kept thinking about it, which is always a sign, that the film is really not bad.  Anything that makes you think is worthwhile.

I read the reviews later.  The critics sympathized with Leonard (Joaquin Phoenix) and commented how likeable he was and how the critics knew what he should have done and how he should have behaved in order to make the right choice in love.  Pick somebody familiar and safe (and boring) and forego flashy, unstable and instantly attractive.  Save yourself trouble, trade excitement of love and a possibility of heartbreak for security, stability, maybe friendship. 

“However, while it is clear to the audience which of the two women Leonard should focus his attentions on, he instead pursues the other one.”  (Cinema Autopsy, Thomas Caldwell)  http://blog.cinemaautopsy.com/2009/06/06/film-review-two-lovers-2008/

Of course, there is truth and merit to that, but I wonder how many people could actually resist falling in love and how many of us sit and calculate the odds and the possible outcomes.  Maybe those who took the decision-making courses (you know “What-if analysis”, “Strategic Thinking”).  I know I did.  But I still prefer to be in love rather than not.  Maybe that is why Leonard is so likeable.  Not because he is bipolar, because he is very human.

That is the word – BIPOLAR. 

The film does not put such emphasis on his diagnosis and Leonard is only shown as a depressed person, rather than manic.  The diagnosis is mentioned in one of the reviews and whether it is an assumption or not, there is no way of knowing.  Being bipolar, I know the difference much better than film critics.  But, let’s say it does not matter.

But one point was so touching, so it took me a few weeks to really come back to it and remember.  Subtlety and gentleness of the film is chiefly responsible for the fact that I cannot stop thinking about it.  The first scene – Leonard is going (home?) or on his way to deliver dry-cleaned clothes – and he jumps into the ocean.  Suicide out of the Blue?

Here critics should have said that it was not advisable to jump fully-clothed in freezing water.  Oh, no, I never jumped.  I only thought about jumping from the balcony from the 20^th floor.  Oh, yes, I can sympathize.  That scene is now somewhat haunting and somewhat a relief really.  To see it from a different perspective.  You do have to jump in order to see the light of day.  To realize that there actually will be another day and …who knows what.

Just do not ask the film critics what is right and what is wrong.  Whom to pick and fall in love with.  Make your own decisions.

Et si tu n’existais pas, J’essaierais d’inventer l’amour

I started this post wanting to write about the film “Two Lovers”.  I could never actually get to write a review.  (Well, later I will do it, promise!)  I was thinking too much about how fast I fall in love and how fast I create that infatuation out of which I could not so easily escape.  Infatuation?  Creating feelings out of thin air.  Falling in love with the images of my own and on my own and then projecting them onto a real person.  I guess I am being creative.  Or insane, even ever so slightly.  I was thinking about how it is like projecting a film, its characters and a story onto an empty screen and expecting a feedback from that imaginary life.  That’s me.  Feelings are real, the feedback?  I am afraid, it would take a long time to get one.

Being a somewhat strange person, I do have somewhat strange conversations.  Coming from my dream…

“It is what it is, you feel what you feel, it is neither right nor wrong”, – my friend usually says.  Yes, the one that I like so much for so little reason.  That is the quintessence of our conversations, I think.  Apart from the fact that he is right and I am wrong.  I think way too much about him, only because I created those feelings and then I fell under their influence.  Well, how clever of me!

Well, it takes time to recognize that I am all-alone in that fantasy world.  In love with an image, a reflection, a mirage…

Is it time to forget, to wake up?  I am afraid so. But…deep inside, I don’t really want to.  I love this haze and intoxication.  And then I find a song.  An old one about another person who would have created love and a lover even if the lover did not exist.  To find the secret of life by creating a lover…  I might be slightly insane, but why so many other people like this song?  Maybe there is something to it?  Longing for love?  I guess, it is what it is – neither right nor wrong.

Et si tu n’existais pas

Je crois que je l’aurais trouvé

Le secret de la vie, le pourquoi

Simplement pour te créer

Et pour te regarder

[first lines]

Arthur Edens: Michael. Dear Michael. Of course it’s you, who else could they send, who else could be trusted? I… I know it’s a long way and you’re ready to go to work… all I’m saying is wait, just wait, just-just-just… please hear me out because this is not an episode, relapse, fuck-up, it’s…

I’m begging you Michael. I’m begging you. Try and make believe this is not just madness because this is not just madness. Two weeks ago I came out of the building, okay, I’m running across Sixth Avenue, there’s a car waiting, I got exactly 38 minutes to get to the airport and I’m dictating. There’s this, this panicked associate sprinting along beside me, scribbling in a notepad, and suddenly she starts screaming, and I realize we’re standing in the middle of the street, the light’s changed, there’s this wall of traffic, serious traffic speeding towards us, and

I… I-I freeze, I can’t move, and I’m suddenly consumed with the overwhelming sensation that I’m covered with some sort of film. It’s in my hair, my face… it’s like a glaze… like a… a coating, and… at first I thought, oh my god, I know what this is, this is some sort of amniotic – embryonic – fluid. I’m drenched in afterbirth, I’ve-I’ve breached the chrysalis, I’ve been reborn. But then the traffic, the stampede, the cars, the trucks, the horns, the screaming and I’m thinking no-no-no-no, reset, this is not rebirth, this is some kind of giddy illusion of renewal that happens in the final moment before death.

And then I realize no-no-no, this is completely wrong because I look back at the building and I had the most stunning moment of clarity. I… I… I… I realized Michael, that I had emerged not from the doors of Kenner, Bach, and Ledeen, not through the portals of our vast and powerful law firm, but from the asshole of an organism whose sole function is to excrete the… the-the-the poison, the ammo, the defoliant necessary for other, larger, more powerful organisms to destroy the miracle of humanity.

And that I had been coated in this patina of shit for the best part of my life. The stench of it and the stain of it would in all likelihood take the rest of my life to undo. And you know what I did? I took a deep cleansing breath and I set that notion aside. I tabled it. I said to myself as clear as this may be, as potent a feeling as this is, as true a thing as I believe that I have witnessed today, it must wait. It must stand the test of time. And Michael, the time is now.

 http://www.exclaim.ca/motionreviews/generalreview.aspx?csid1=115&csid2=808&fid1=27797

Alexandra

Directed by Alexander Sokurov

By Travis Mackenzie Hoover

Alexander Sokurov is the kind of master who amazes and infuriates in equal measure — there’s no denying his artistry or his seriousness but his grandiose sweep of the arm can sometimes lapse into arrogance. But no matter what political assumptions he makes during the short running time of Alexandra, the sensitivity he brings to the material forgives all sins.

 

The Alexandra of the title is an elderly woman visiting Chechnya for the sake of her soldier son; she’s taken into his encampment and witnesses the boys as they play with their guns, gobble down her gifts of food and blithely accept the fact that they’ve been sent off to die. Our heroine is stunned at this, as is Sokurov, and as she wanders out of the camp and back to it we see her desire to live differently.

 

The movie is a nuanced and sensuous portrait of military life like nothing since Claire Denis’s Beau Travail. Though it sadly evades a proper position on the Chechnya conflict, its evocation of a normalised war culture and the lack of resistance surrounding it are better than most films can even imagine. So to are the director’s typically gorgeous golden hues and fluid, enveloping environment.

 

Cinematic critics of the Iraq war could learn a lot from this movie: its approach, which makes human what is usually idealised or demonised, might help break the deadlock between moralism and sympathy, which plagues the debate, as well as replacing the mushy rhetoric that vulgarises the discourse.

 

I’m not exactly sure that this is an anti-war movie but Sokurov’s beautiful plunge into the cosmic unfairness of it all was enough to lodge the movie in my brain and let it grow in significance with each passing day. (Proline/Rezo)

Surprisingly enough, I saw “Beau Travail”.  I even liked it.  With “Alexandra”, I had no idea what is was about when my mother and I started watching it.  I simply relied on my father’s opinion when he said “oh, it is a good movie, watch it.”  We did.  We kept watching it waiting and waiting when the “good” part will come.  It never did.  The film was dark and gloomy and it was absolutely and totally boring.  We watched the whole film and then I was so mad at my father.  “How possibly could you recommend something like that?”  I vowed not to listen to his opinion ever again.  Maybe I was angry for him for a month.

But now, when a few months have passed after I watched the film and I came across this review, so beautifully written, I made me think.  Why was I so mad?  This film is not a piece of entertainment.  It is a vision and it is a piece of art.  I should be more open-minded.  Maybe my anger was a direct result of my expectations not being met.  At that moment I was not ready to think about anything.  I was suffering.  But I am in this never-ending suffering mode.  I have to find a way to live, not just suffer.  What is a definition of a good movie anyways?  Is there such a thing?  When I watched “Bruno” and I loved it, majority of people did not share my enthusiasm.  “Oh, it is gross, it is too much.”  Too much of what?  Entertainment?

Павел Лунгин в фильме “Олигарх” продолжает исследовать загадочную русскую душу, хотя в этом и не признается.

Разумеется, свой новый фильм “Олигарх” Павел Лунгин показал сначала VIP’у. Действо проходило в кинозале Центрального Дома литераторов и привлекло не так уж много VIP’а – действующих олигархов замечено не было, если не считать таковыми Михаила Лесина и Евгения Киселева. Прохаживалась пара братьев Гусманов, рассекал толпу вездесущий Ярмольник, тусовались телевизионщики разного калибра. Тем не менее в короткой приветственной речи режиссер сладко польстил собравшимся, назвав всех пришедших в определенном смысле олигархами. “Вас настолько мало, что в зале полно свободных мест”, – заключил Лунгин, – “и именно ваше мнение повлияет на мнение простых зрителей”. Ну что ж, коль скоро автора этих строк на один вечер ввели в высокие олигархические сферы…

Павел Лунгин – режиссер серьезный. В том смысле, что снимает всегда абсолютно всерьез, без халтуры, сюжет сбивая крепко и как-то по-крестьянски основательно. Остается добавить, что так было раньше, когда сделанные на постперестроечной волне “Такси-блюз” и “Луна-парк” оказались своевременной художественной публицистикой. За “Такси-блюз” Лунгин, как известно, даже получил приз за режиссуру на Каннском фестивале. С тех пор прошло много времени. Лунгин осел во Франции, но российской действительностью интересовался весьма живо. Результатом живого интереса стала лакировочная “Свадьба” про жизнь шахтерского городка и про то, что бедность не порок, что заскорузлые шахтеры, безнадежные алкоголики и бывшие проститутки любить умеют, но при одном условии: если они русские. Миф о загадочной русской душе расцвел в этом фильме буйным цветом, и Лунгин очень обижался, когда ему говорили, что в жизни так не бывает.

Следующим шагом в освоении загадочной русской души стал “Олигарх”, экранизация бестселлера Юлия Дубова “Большая пайка”. Прототипом главного героя, бизнесмена Платона Маковского (Владимир Машков), вероятнее всего, стал Борис Березовский и его товарищи по “Логовазу”, хотя Дубов утверждает, что Платон – образ собирательный. Впрочем, это не так принципиально. Сама по себе история превращения молодых математиков-интеллектуалов в воротил и магнатов безусловно интересна. По сути это – история новой России. Группка друзей, во главе которых – Платон Маковский, финансовый гений, а заодно красавчик, немножко гусар, любитель чужих жен и водки из горла – и есть те самые люди, которые сделали Россию такой, какой мы сейчас ее видим.

Еще более интересной могла бы стать тема обретения денег: чем туже набиты карманы, тем скуднее любовь, чем больше нулей в сумме счета в швейцарском банке, тем меньше друзей. Да и не остается никого из друзей, с кем когда-то, пятнадцать лет назад, начинали свой копеечный перестроечный бизнес – писали чужие диссертации, варили джинсы, вязали веники. Все пали жертвами прожорливого золотого тельца. Один Платон уцелел (если не считать дружка-предателя), да и то – почти виртуально: для всех – погиб, похоронили, могилка даже есть. И вот сидит он, сломленный Кремлем и ФСБ, на собственной могиле, пьет водку из горла. Идти некуда, кто умер, кто предал, в Кремле – бандиты, в ФСБ – убийцы. А тут еще милицейский патруль по кладбищу проезжает: чего тут сидишь? Да вот, на собственной могиле водку пью. А те его – хрясь, хрясь – и дубинкой до полусмерти. За то, как объяснили, что похож. В смысле – на того, кто на надгробной плите. Вот классовая ненависть и до ночного кладбища докатилась. Хорошая была бы концовка.

Но Павел Лунгин и Александр Бородянский, видно, страдают общей и плохо поддающейся лечению хворью наших кинематографистов – остановиться вовремя не умеют. Настрадавшийся Платон, избитый, преданный, загнанный в угол, которого зритель уже готов всем сердцем полюбить и пожалеть всей своей широкой русской зрительской душой (даром что олигарх), вдруг устремляется к шоссе, где разворачивает в обратную сторону встретившийся на пути кортеж мерседесов, плюхнувшись в один из них. “В Москву”, – коротко бросает он. Тут хочется голоса Копеляна за кадром: “Штирлиц возвращался в Берлин. Он ехал работать”. Но Штирлицу из русской народной сказки было позволительно и не такое.

Русскому же олигарху-магнату-воротиле, разумеется, лучше быть не там, где на него покушаются с завидным постоянством. Но нет, решает Лунгин, фиг тому, кто думает, что олигарх – он и в Африке олигарх. Наш, российский воротила – классный парень, со сложной, но в целом – чистой – душой, и, как всякий русский, любит кидаться на амбразуру. Честно говоря, вообще сомнительно, что есть концептуальные любители кидаться на амбразуру, а если даже и есть, то процент олигархов среди них наверняка ничтожен. Одним словом, опять режиссера потянуло на кисленькое – урожай клюквы в фильме знатный. Кстати, в романе Юлия Дубова и концовка другая, и акценты совершенно иные.

Выбор Владимира Машкова на главную роль понятен – он красив и любим зрителем. Как нынче любят выражаться, харизматичен. И секс-символ, разумеется (Господи, и кто их только назначает этими символами?). А значит, полюбит зритель и главного героя, которого, как уверен режиссер, не полюбить нельзя. Логика Лунгина такая: “Вот у нас почему-то думают, что если богатый – значит, обязательно плохой. Я хотел показать, что это не так”. Хочется ответить контрлогикой: “Вот Лунгин почему-то думает, что если богатый – то обязательно хороший, сложный и несчастный. Вряд ли это всегда так”.

Харизматичный и сексуальный Машков, с некоторой ленцой вспоминая систему Станиславского, на протяжении всего фильма (кроме начала, где все молоды и по-козлиному восторженны) играет значительность. Синеватая небритость, пробивающаяся седина, взгляд исподлобья и заиндевевшая мимика – вот, пожалуй, и все, что нужно настоящему олигарху. И еще обязательно присутствующий во время всякой трапезы ананас на столе. Эй, кто хорошо знаком с бытом олигархов? Они обязательно ананасы едят? Если еще и рябчиков жуют – совсем плохо их дело.

В оправдание Машкова (если он в таковом нуждается) заметим, что его окружение играет еще хуже. Бледные тени, друзья жизни и заклятые враги, с тихим шелестом проносятся по экрану за главным героем, заштампованные по самую макушку. Злобный кремлевский бандит Корецкий (Александр Балуев) лишний раз напоминает, что злодей должен быть всегда мрачен; провинциальный следователь, ведущий дело об убийстве Платона (Андрей Краско, кстати, и Левани Учанеишвили, играющий ближайшего соратника героя, – самые живые персонажи), – непременно честен, имеет внешность Акакия Акакиевича и душу Данко.

Не хочется скатываться до сравнения “Олигарха” с классикой жанра – фильмами “Крестный отец”, “Однажды в Америке”, “Путь Карлито” и т.п. Слишком ясно, что “Олигарх” в данном случае – последыш, слабенький отблеск великолепных образцов гангстерско-психологического кино. А ведь акценты иначе расставь, актеров к ногтю – и получилось бы. Тема-то сама по себе хороша была. Убили.

Date:  Thu May 30 2002 11:55 pm

Author:  Bill

Subject:  Re: Counting Electric Sheep

——————————————————————————–

Thank you for your kind words, Svetlana.

You are correct; you did not say that fiction was useless! I did, however, get the impression that you had little use for science fiction. You are also correct that there are not any science fiction writers with the stature of Shakespeare. I will agree that there is a lot of pap out there. However, even as relatively young as the science fiction genre is, some “classics” are beginning to emerge. If you have not come across them, let me point you in their direction. The original “Foundation Trilogy” by Isaac Asimov is considered a classic, and was written in the 60’s and early 70’s I believe, and so does contain some dated outlooks. For instance, computers are not very prevalent in the trilogy, as Asimov had no way of knowing how pervasively computers would invade our lives.

I respect your decision that science fiction is not for you. Many works of science fiction are not for me, either. I pick and choose which ones I read, and I enjoy the selections I do make.

I, too, enjoyed Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. It was immensely funny, and I was disappointed that the library did not have the video version of it in stock, or that would have been my selection for the presentation.

If I may ask, from which book did you get your quote? It doesn’t sound like something I’m familiar with.

I agree as well with your last statement. I do not like gloom and doom, either. It is a chore for me to read books like that, because I do not enjoy them. It is one of the reasons I do not like Kurt Vonnegut’s style of writing.

Thank you for making me think, Svetlana.

Cheers!

Bill

——————————————————————————–

Current Forum:  Bonus Assignment Forum

Date:  Fri May 31 2002 9:35 am

Author: MIKE

Subject:  Re: Counting Electric Sheep

——————————————————————————–

I would just like to interject that the best science fiction starts out as quality fiction. It is the story that matters, and what makes great science fiction great is that the story could be moved to Victorian times and still be a great story. Science fiction serves simply as a backdrop to a good story. Poor science fiction is akin to movies that are big on special effects for the sake of the special effects. Good science fiction is like a film where the special effects are simply the icing on the cake.

Mike

——————————————————————————–

Current Forum:  Bonus Assignment Forum

Date:  Fri May 31 2002 9:58 am

Author: SVETLANA

Subject: Re: Counting Electric Sheep

——————————————————————————–

The book I quoted from is “Moscow 2042″. If you go to www.amazon.com it will let you even read about 12 pages of it. I think you would enjoy it even without knowing many of the references as I do simply because I know what exactly Voinovich makes fun of. It is about a possible scenario for the Soviet Union. Ironically, there would be a sort of Kutz at the end, but the immense sense humour of Voinovich makes it a great and pleasurable experience. You do not have to force yourself to finish the book, as I did with “Heart of Darkness”. And Voinovich never fails to make the point.

——————————————————————————–

Current Forum:  Bonus Assignment Forum

Date:  Sat Jun 8 2002 5:59 pm

Author: Vernon

Subject:  Re: Counting Electric Sheep

——————————————————————————–

Not to jump on the bandwagon, but I have to disagree with Svetlana on the merits of Science Fiction. Like BIll said, there are many books that are considered classics like Asimov’s Foundation and I, Robot series. They have stimulated the minds of thousands of children who went on to become some of the best scientific minds for that very reason. Science Fiction is also the first glimpse we get on what political and social issues may arise with the advent of new technologies and helps many people see the issues before they even become a problem in society.

Well-written science fiction is as stimulating and sometimes even more stimulating than many of the good fiction books out there. It allows us to not only visualise what we know today, but also perceive of a place that doesn’t exist. A place that could possibly become reality one day, for better or worse.

Like other fiction, there are a lot of works out there that are not worth reading. However there are as many titles in science fiction that have merit as there are in other fictional categories. You should give them a try.

——————————————————————————–

Current Forum:  Bonus Assignment Forum

Date:  Tue Jun 11 2002 10:07 pm

Author: SVETLANA

Subject:  Re: Counting Electric Sheep

——————————————————————————–

I agree with you and Bill and Mike. Mike probably put it the best that science fiction is only a backdrop for a good story like decorations for a stage play. And it is not the genre itself that makes it good or bad, but the talent of the author. Maybe, science fiction is a more difficult genre to succeed in because a writer needs a fertile imagination to make it interesting and substantial and not stupid and outdated in a few years after publication. Somehow, Philip K. Dick did not make it for me. Although I must admit that he hit on many good ideas worth of exploring. Too bad, he did not give himself enough time to develop those ideas more thoroughly.

But you know in light of our discussion of science fiction and literature in general, I came across the very interesting statistics. A couple of weeks ago, BBC (?) published the data that 40% of the population of Britain does not read books at all. And some 20% have not read a whole book (even once) in their whole life. I am quite positive that the same could be said about North America. So, soon the debate about literature in the “beer garden”, which I quoted, could be changed to saying that not only realism but also the whole literature is the thing of the past. It would not matter then, which genre is the best and what books are worth reading if they are not read at all.

Current Forum:  Bonus Assignment Forum

Date:  Thu May 30 2002 11:33 am

Author:  Bill

Subject:  Counting Electric Sheep

——————————————————————————–

P.K. Dick wrote this thing back in 1968. The world was a different place back then, with a different political and social climate. The cold war was at its height. The genre of science fiction was still trying to find its way. Many of today’s sci-fi fantasy authors write merely to entertain and for escapism, but back in the ’60’s, many Sci-Fi authors felt they had to convey some sort of social message in their works. The times, they were a changing, and all that.

By now, we’re pretty well familiar with some of the major issues that Dick was portraying in his novel. He wrote of the subjugation of an entire race of people. It was taken for granted back in Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness that the Europeans were just inherently superior to the natives of Africa. That did not need to be explained. Likewise, in Dick’s novel, it is assumed that of course androids aren’t real people. But he still toyed with the idea that ok, they aren’t people like us, but they still go through the motions. I’m not sure that the message that Dick was trying to convey was that the androids were equal to humans, but more as a metaphor of attitudes that people have regarding their own humanity.

Today, people are more willing to see and accept a fuzzy area between intelligence in any form. We are having theoretic discussions about artificial intelligence, and if that constitutes a valid life form once it evolves to the point of self-awareness. The human race’s consciousness as a whole has progressed beyond what it was back in 1968, and is more able to accept certain ideas and concepts.

The evolution of ideas is what will define us as humans in the future, more so than the evolution of biology.

I leave you with perhaps the most memorable quote from the movie Blade Runner: “more than anything, shows that androids have Soul”.

I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser gate. All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain. Time to die.

-Roy Baty

——————————————————————————–

Current Forum: Bonus Assignment Forum

Date:  Thu May 30 2002 6:48 pm

Author:  SVETLANA

Subject: Re: Counting Electric Sheep

——————————————————————————–

As for the equality between androids and humans, I thought they might be unequal in life, but they are certainly equal in death. Fear of death is their strongest emotion.

About science fiction (I am pretty positive that everyone will disagree), but I happen to like and agree with this excerpt:

“Rudi is so fascinated by all this technology that I don’t think he reads anything but technical journals and science fiction. He hasn’t even read my books, although he does display them prominently and always brags to his horse-world friends about having an unusual friend, a Russian writer.

He tells me (even without having read me) that I write too realistically, realism being the thing of the past. To be honest, such ridiculous opinions infuriate me, and I am always telling Rudi that his horses are also a thing of the past. But if some people still have need of horses, there still must be some use for a literature that depicts life as people really live it. People are much more interested in reading about themselves than about robots and Martians.

I had just said this to him in the beer garden where we were sitting. With a condescending grin, Rudi replied that we should compare the sales of my books with that of the average science-fiction writer. “Science fiction,” he said self-confidently, “is the literature of the future”.

That statement exasperated me. I ordered another mass and said that science fiction, like detective stories, is not literature but tomfoolery like the electronic games that induce mass idiocy.” (Voinovich, “Moscow 2042″)

——————————————————————————–

Current Forum: Bonus Assignment Forum

Date:  Thu May 30 2002 10:49 pm

Author:  Bill

Subject Re: Counting Electric Sheep

——————————————————————————–

Thanks for your response, Svetlana.

Now… Where to begin… First, I agree with your first statement about humans and androids being equal in death. And they do have a strong survival instinct. I’d say you’re right on the mark, there.

Regarding your next statement and quote concerning the uselessness of science fiction, I would have to strongly and completely disagree with that viewpoint. And no, it’s not just a knee-jerk response. I happen to believe that if you thought about it the right way, you too would come to see the value that fiction has in our society.

First, the person whom you are quoting… I don’t get the impression that he has read much of the science fiction that he chooses to so readily relegate to the Trash Heap of Useless Things.

Let me say a few things about fiction. Not just science fiction, but all fiction. Virtually all the great works of history and society are… you guessed it… fiction. If fiction was so useless, why has only it endured through the centuries when more “useful” things have not? Perhaps, then, it might not be that useless? Rarely can we have a conversation without some reference to literature of some sort. The English language is rife with phrases lifted directly from Shakespeare that even today are still in common use. Phrases like “something is rotten in the state of Denmark”, “pure as the driven snow”, “at one fell swoop”, “in the twinkling of an eye”, and the list goes on and on. How plain and poor would our language be today without the contributions of people like William Shakespeare?

Fiction has enabled our culture and many other cultures to attain a depth and richness that often is the only thing from that time period which endures. In ancient Greece, the Parthenon and other structures are in ruin. Yet, the ancient Greek tragedies are still performed for audiences all over the world. Homer’s The Odyssey and the Iliad are a part of every well-rounded library. In pre-Roman England, very little is known about the people that lived there or their culture. Yet from that time period, the epic ballad of Beowulf has endured.

Edgar Rice Burroughs, creator of such works as Tarzan and John Carter of Mars, has this to say about fiction, “highly imaginative fiction, such as I write, demands the retention of a youthful and elastic mind, to achieve which one of my principal aims in life is to keep my body physically fit and my mind responsive to a diversity of simple stimuli.”

Or, to quote someone a little more modern, according to renowned physicist Stephen Hawking, “science fiction is useful both for stimulating the imagination and for diffusing fear of the future.” Interest in science fiction may affect the way people think about or relate to science.

Fiction, and by extension science fiction, is not useless. There is value to be had. I enjoy the journey my mind takes to far off worlds and universes that I could not have begun to imagine on my own… To feel my mind stretching as it wrapped itself around a concept that had never before occurred to me. As existing social issues were displayed to me in a new light, and my understanding of them deepened as a result. As I became less aloof from the humanity about me and came to understand and even love the diversity the people I interact with each day.

I would never say that “mere fiction” is useless. It has real value, and ultimately, as history has proven time and time again… Perhaps the only enduring value.

You can’t discover new oceans until you are willing to lose sight of the shore…

All the best!

Bill