"So you don't really have to worry,” she said, comfort in her voice.
"I just want a railroad,” he said. “A model railroad."
"Consider it done,” Chief said.
"So first, everybody stays on the layout."
"Done.” The figures on the floor moved up clever little steps on the sawhorse.
"See?” Chief's wife said. “You can make it work. The AI is you, Matthew Pike."
But the next night he crossed the back yard to run the trash out behind the garage. Somebody had left the door open, and as he went to close it on his way back he took in the smell of rubber and batteries and the sight of his mom's car plugged in. A movement caught his eye. Along the stud above the outlet he counted five of the figures moving along like a centipede. Up in the corner, he saw a half-dozen more.
"Matt?” his mother asked as the sliding door thumped behind him. “Have you been in my closet?"
* * * *
He slept fitfully.
He was up at first light. He should have known better.
His father had come home late and his parents were still sleeping.
When he got some juice he saw figures by the back door. There were two in the kitchen cabinet. The little figures were all over the house now, like ants.
He went downstairs and looked. The layout seemed healthy, green and colorful, but he couldn't see any people.
He studied the place, a lovely little world with its square fields, farm trucks on the roads, tiny boats at a dock on the monorail lake. As he scanned the retro town, a color caught his eye.
Hanging on the line outside the cottage was a blue piece of silk.
"Hi, Matt!” A stranger in a gold jacket spoke from the cab of the Santa Fe.
"I'm telling my dad. I'm telling him now."
"Matt!"
But he had already turned away. He was climbing the stairs. Then at the head of the stairs he saw the crowd of figures. He would have to step on them to pass by.
He ran back down the stairs, slipping off his GPS bracelet. He pushed it into the tool drawer of his father's workbench.
He watched the line of figures crawl back down the stairway. When they had gathered by the workbench, he tiptoed past and up the stairs.
"Dad!” he yelled. He heard a voice, his mom's. He pushed open the door of their bedroom.
* * * *
His parents were bound by fishing line in the bed, swarmed by the tiny figures. The shock was numbing, like he'd been hit by a car.
His mother looked at him from her pillow with a wan smile. “Hey, kiddo,” she said. “Can you help us out here?"
He was transfixed by the pattern of fishing line that bound her to the bed. It began at her shoulders, crisscrossing down to her ankles, passing beneath her arms and between her breasts, like a web across her stomach and hips outlined beneath the sheet. His father had been gagged, trussed in the fetal position and wrapped in a blanket, utterly helpless. Maybe the main breaker, Matt thought. Maybe if he pulled the main breaker for the house?
"Kiddo?"
Well, now he had a plan. Too bad about the children. It was so cool, but.... Then he noticed a tugging at the backs of his calves, his muscles already tight enough so that when he turned to get a better look at the web forming around his feet, like a net, his knees began to buckle.
"Kiddo?"
"Mom! Dad!"
He was twisting, tumbling, falling.
The cold oak floor was hard against his burning cheek.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Department: FILMS: BLOCKBUSTER AS RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCE by Kathi Maio
Critics, philosophers, and theologians (with much greater intellectual chops than your humble servant) have long identified the link between popular culture—notably fantasy fiction and film—and the human hunger for mythology, and even spirituality. The modern superhero clearly plays the mythic role of the demigod, even when the plotline isn't as ham-fisted as in February's Percy Jackson & the Olympians: The Lightning Thief. And numerous dissertations (of the Ph.D. variety) have been written on the Christian meanings and messages of the Lord of the Rings cycle and The Chronicles of Narnia.
Times have greatly changed since the Inklings of Oxford purposefully wove their grand tales with theology. But it is good to know that the more things change, the more they stay the same. Even filmic fantasies of the twenty-first century display a healthy (if sometimes partially hidden) dose of religious symbolism and spiritual yearning. This includes two of the biggest blockbusters of this past winter.
New Moon, the second adaptation from the Twilight series of novels by Stephenie Meyer, entered theaters in November and was still playing in January. Building on the previous success of the first Twilight movie, the new installment became an immediate hit, based on the ferocious devotion of “Twi-Hards” and those of us who were just trying to figure out what all the fuss is about.
However, if you were not a previous devotee of Ms. Meyer's inelegant Harlequin- cum-horror prose, and especially if you had not previously seen the far superior 2008 Twilight film, directed by Catherine Hardwicke, you would likely not be able to fathom the Twilight phenomenon as either a cinematic hit factory or as a worldwide cultural obsession.
For those few of you who might have spent the last four years under a mossy rock in the Hoh Rain Forest of Washington, perhaps I should say a brief word about the storyline, so far. In the first film, a young teen named Bella Swan (Kristen Stewart) moves from Arizona to a damp small town in Washington State to take up residence with her father. Entering the local high school, she starts making friends, but also appears to repel her new biology lab partner, a pretty, pale, tousle-haired lad named Edward Cullen (Robert Pattinson).
Turns out the repulsion is anything but. Edward, a member of a “vegetarian” vampire clan who nobly feast on animal blood instead of that of their human neighbors, actually feels an overwhelming attraction to Bella and her corpuscles. And Bella's teenaged carnal desires are soon directed back at Edward, even after she discovers his dark secret.
Since sexual abandon might well lead to Bella's death or undead transformation, Edward craves but doesn't consume his sweetheart, showing a courtly devotion equaled only by his simmering sexual restraint. It was all enough to make teeny-boppers swoon and sigh. But it is not just young girls who flocked to see Twilight. While the audience was predominately female, mothers, too, caught the fever—attracted not only by the high romance but also by the abstinence-only message of the movie.
Many have seen a correlate between Ms. Meyer's Mormon religion and the semiotics of her stories and the subsequent films. But this goes beyond Twilight being a shill for the “True Love Waits” Movement. (After all, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints isn't exactly the only religion that considers premarital sexual congress to be a sin.) Many pivotal scenes in the Twilight stories take place in meadows—Is this an allusion to the Mountain Meadows Massacre? Do the Cullens (the good, moral vampires) represent Mormonism while the Volturi (the murderous, powerful governing coven) in Italy signify Roman Catholicism and the old Christianity that seeks to destroy the LDS?
I have to admit that the theological analysis of the Twilight saga interests me less than retrograde gender roles and politics of the series. Although certain Mormon sects are content to give child brides to older men, there is undeniably something creepy about the eternally youthful-looking Edward (who is actually a centenarian) wooing a high-schooler. For all his celibacy, courtliness, and I-like-to-watch-you-sleep devotion, there is a controlling undertow to the Edward persona that makes him something less than an ideal man (or ghoul). He is the one who dictates the expression and limitation of the couple's sexual relations. And even when he leaves his inamorata—for her own good, of course—he keeps appearing to her in vaporous clouds to tell her not to do this or that, making him seem less like a astral exemplar than one of those emotionally abusive boyfriends they do television PSAs about.
Beyond the theological under
pinnings and the sexual politics of New Moon is, of course, the real question for the film critic: Does it work as a movie? The female fan base would squeal a resounding “Yes!” But this female critic would have to offer an equally emphatic negative.
In the first movie, Twilight, the heroine Bella has a more interesting character arc as she moves to her estranged father as an act of love and support for her newly remarried mother. We see her attempting to build a relationship with her father, acclimate to school and new friends, and figure out what the story is with the mysterious Edward and his clan. It's a recognizable coming of age story with a fiendish twist. Director Catherine Hardwicke showed her understanding of teen girl angst in her early film, Thirteen (2003), and she was able to bring a similar energy and authenticity to the first book's adaptation, along with screenwriter Melissa Rosenberg.
The second movie, New Moon, suffers from one crucial challenge. That is, undead heartthrob Edward Cullen, in a misguided attempt to protect the girl he loves, moves away from Washington, leaving young Bella to a heartbroken senior year of high school. That makes the story an inherently frustrating one for both return scripter Rosenberg and new director Chris Weitz (About a Boy, The Golden Compass)—not to mention the viewer.
Kristen Stewart's Bella descends into a catatonic mopeyness that your average fourteen-year-old girl might find quite relatable, but which is less than entertaining to watch; especially through Mr. Weitz's rather unimaginative lens. When he circles the stony-faced Ms. Stewart several times to symbolize the passage of time in her disconsolate funk, I felt no sympathy. I only wanted to give her a shake and tell her to get over herself or get to a psychologist for some counseling and pharmaceuticals.
Even when Bella finally gets out of her bedroom, she remains a sullen and boring movie hero. Eventually, she decides to take up reckless activities like helmetless motorcycle riding, because risky behaviors briefly bring Edward to her as a deus-ex-fog-cloud telling her to stop whatever she is doing. Nebulous chastisements do not make for a very satisfying relationship, however. So Bella finds herself increasingly drawn to a muscular Native American family friend, Jacob (Taylor Lautner).
But, wouldn't you know, Forks is a town where all the eligible young men seem to have a secret. In this case, Jacob and several other young male members of his Quileute tribe are shape-shifting werewolves pledged to hunt vampires.
Although the werewolf transformations and associated action CGI are serviceable enough, they don't really add much interest to the lackluster plot. The proceedings are amazingly dull, except for a couple of scenes like the one in which Bella's gal pal, Jessica (Anna Kendrick), babbles on about the questionable symbolism of vampire movies and then denounces the erratic Bella as an adrenaline junkie. It is a moment of modest fun in two hours of clumsy cinema.
While much of the weakness in New Moon can be blamed on Stephenie Meyer's original source material, I can't help but think that Catherine Hardwicke would have invested the proceedings with a greater vitality. Heck, even the CW series The Vampire Diaries is more lively and engaging than New Moon. But lackluster or not, any Twilight movie (like any Harry Potter film) is likely to do boffo box office. Devotees will delight in any moribund memento of their cultural obsession. Those of us who haven't been bitten by the Twilight mania should give this movie a pass.
I found another box office smash of the winter easier to enjoy. Although far from original in its story or narrative style, at least it wasn't a franchise...yet. Moreover, it was designed to be a big (and I mean 3-D GIGANTIC) dazzling conveyor of movie magic. And, by gum, that is exactly what it was.
Of course, I am referring to Avatar, the long-awaited new movie by James Cameron, noted helmer of sf and fantasy film as well as the King of the World responsible for the ultimate in big cheese disaster romances, Titanic.
Years in the making, more expensive than any previous movie and more successful than any flick you can name—consider the rest of the superlatives uttered—Avatar aims to be a memorable spectacle. Its heady mix of state of the art CGI, finely meshed motion capture animation and live action performance, along with IMAX (or Real) 3D elements that emphasize enchantment just as much as violent action, really do let even the most jaundiced critic understand why this movie was a worldwide megahit.
Is the film overripe and overlong? Yes. Does it shortchange the more expository aspects of its story? Indeed. Cameron can't be bothered to explain properly how the GMO human-alien avatars really work. And you quickly get the feeling that “Unobtainium,” the substance Earthly invaders hope to mine on the planet of Pandora, is a Hitchcockian MacGuffin of the first degree.
The plot is hodge-podge of New-Agey spirituality and vaguely progressive politics. The hero, Jake Sully (Sam Worthington), is a disabled Earthling Marine and veteran of the “Venezuela” conflict—look out descendents of Hugo!—who seems at first to be firmly aligned with the military-industrial complex exemplified by the mining corporation and their Blackwater-ish mercenary enforcers. But Jake is born again in his Na'vi alien persona. Experiencing the wonder of the primitive paradise in the Pandoran rainforest, and further enchanted by the noble nature-honoring culture of the Na'vi population, our jarhead starts to transform into a tree-hugger. And when he falls for the brave and beautiful Omaticaya “princess,” Neytiri (Zoë Saldana), heart, head, and brawn all switch sides, causing Jake to, in the words of the G.I. Joeish Colonel Quaritch (Stephen Lang), “betray [his] race."
White boy as warrior-savior of a threatened indigenous people isn't exactly a novel storyline. (Just call Jake Dances With Pterosaurs or A Man Called Direhorse.) But Cameron undeniably keeps his eye-popping saga feeling fresh and new. You easily set aside the racist aspect of the plot—especially since Jake seeks not only to assimilate but actually to become genetically a member of the clan. And the neo-paganism of the story's underpinnings is easy to embrace in a CGI landscape this filled with wonder and enchantment.
James Cameron, more than any other director today, knows how to integrate spectacular effects into an affecting movie experience. Nonetheless, he is kidding himself (and his cast) when he says that his “Volume” motion capture system doesn't seek to replace actors but “empower them.” Avatar is filled with superlative computer animation, but Neytiri is a gorgeous, bewitching cartoon. She is not a physical performance by Zoë Saldana, no matter how often the lovely actress says that the character is “all me."
If I were a member of SAG, I'd be worried. But as a member of the audience, I am happy enough to spend an afternoon communing with a society of blue creatures that look nothing like me.
And if I were an environmentalist or an aboriginal rights activist I'd be relatively pleased with the slightly preachy messages in Avatar, as well. As for the theologians in the audience; well, their comfort level with the movie will likely be dependent on how open-minded they are. Many would prefer the New Chastity/early marriage model of the Twilight movies. Others may favor the kind of end times extravaganza that 2012 offers. (That thing was enough to send anybody racing for the pews!) And then there is the post-apocalyptic fable about a bible-carrying, machete-wielding prophet we find in The Book of Eli. (Give us that old time religion, but protect us from the heathenish hordes!)
As for me, I'll take the pagan delights of Avatar. Now, if I could only find that Tree of Souls.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Short Story: THE GYPSY'S BOY by Lokiko Hall
Lokiko Hall lives in Oregon and you can find her blogging adventures online at lokikohall.blogspot.com. She quips that there's a street in Florence, Italy, named for people like her: Via dei Malcontenti.
Ms. Hall also says that during the dry summers of western Oregon, she likes to bed down outside and watch meteors and satellites sail by. But for one stretch of time she had to use a tent and while feeling blinded and discontent, she began to listen to the wind.
His father traded him when he was nine to a gypsy in exchange for one of the man's fine feather-footed foals. The cart
horse was old and his father would soon need another to get his goods to market, and besides, he had always suspected that the boy was not his. His mother raised no objection. She had five more beyond him to raise, and the gypsies were famous for their good horses.
So the gypsy and his father parted, each pleased that he had gotten the better part of the deal. But the horse soon got colic and died, while the boy caught a fever and went blind.
The gypsy man beat him when he first took sick, but then retired to drink and fret about his investment while his wife struggled to keep the child's spirit from parting with his body. When the man discovered that the boy's sight had left him instead, he beat him again and would have abandoned him then and there had it not been for an old gypsy woman, near crippled with arthritis, who happened to be camped in the same field outside the town.
The man sold the boy to her, taking from the old woman her silver rings and bracelets, her gold earrings and necklaces—in short, all her worldly wealth except her home and her horse. But the old woman haggled only for show, quickly acceding to his demands. She could not possibly have afforded the price the man would have commanded had the child been healthy but she saw in the blinded boy a bargain, as well as the son she had always wanted, and the companion and servant she desperately needed.
The old woman's eyes were still sharp, except for tiny things up close. And so once the boy was fully recovered from his illness in every other respect, she was to him his eyes while he was to her two good hands and a young strong body that grew stronger every year.
The old woman had no recourse but to teach him to do all that he possibly could without sight. She instructed him in how to harness and unharness the patient mare who pulled her caravan, how to brush her down and clean her hooves and otherwise care for the horse. Around the caravan she taught him to do every housekeeping chore. She made the boy so aware of his body in space that he could, with much caution, perform such tasks as splitting wood and gutting fish. For the most part, though, she tailored their life and diet to fit what he could do most safely.
FSF, May-June 2010 Page 25
