"Is the drink any good?” asks Susan.
Mr. Hudson sniffs the scotch then sucks a drop onto his tongue. “It's excellent,” he says.
"Then it's okay,” says Susan, turning to order a gin and tonic.
The androtender makes Susan's drink without a single wasted motion. “I will fear no evil,” he says. Susan takes her drink and sits down at the vacant table where Mr. Hudson joins her.
"To health,” says Mr. Hudson, raising his glass.
"And long life,” laughs Susan.
Susan sips at her drink and stares at the bar. The androtender is back to washing glasses. “Do you fear evil?” she asks, turning to Mr. Hudson.
Mr. Hudson has never been asked this question before, at least not in this way. He thinks about it for a moment and then replies, “All the time."
"So do I,” says Susan.
* * * *
Early afternoon slips into late evening. Mr. Hudson and Susan have moved all the androdrunks to their table. They are not really programmed for conversation, but they make wonderful listeners with a few appropriate comments: “Ah, yes, I see what you mean—Do go on—I always thought so myself."
"Do you think we have drunk too much?” asks Susan.
"That depends,” says Mr. Hudson.
"On what?"
"Do you still think I'm a jackass?"
Susan considers the question. “Does it really matter?” she asks.
"It does,” he says.
Susan thinks for a moment and raises her glass. “To jackasses."
"To jackasses,” toasts Mr. Hudson, “and tulips."
Susan drinks to the toast, sets her glass on the table, and stares down at her ice cubes. “I guess I'm done growing tulips,” she says.
"Ah, yes, I see what you mean,” says an androdrunk.
"Maybe we should slow down on the drinks,” says Mr. Hudson.
"Yes,” says Susan, “I would hate to feel bad in the morning."
"Dust to Dust,” says the androtender.
The front door of the pub swings open. “Jack,” says Danny, stepping into the room, “I think it's time."
Laura storms in with an androporter close behind. “We've been looking for you, Daddy,” she says.
"It's getting late,” says Danny. “You probably haven't even had dinner yet."
"I'm not hungry,” says Mr. Hudson. And he isn't; he isn't hungry at all.
"I think it's time for Daddy to go to bed,” says Laura.
"Just a little longer,” says Mr. Hudson. “We were toasting."
"You've had all day,” says Laura. “It's time to come with us now."
Mr. Hudson looks at Susan.
"It's all right,” says Susan. “We've had a good day."
"Come on, old man,” says Danny. “I'll walk you to your room."
Susan stands, picks up her drink, and raises it high. “To the next step,” she toasts.
"To the next step,” says Mr. Hudson.
Laura and Danny walk Mr. Hudson back to his room. “How are you feeling, Daddy?” asks Laura.
"I'm tired,” he says. It is true; he is tired.
"Then you should get some sleep,” says Laura.
"I'll see you in the morning,” he says, without thinking.
"No, you won't,” says Danny. “You understand that, don't you? You won't see her in the morning."
"I understand,” says Mr. Hudson. “Good night."
"Good night, Daddy,” says Laura. “I'm going to miss you."
Mr. Hudson closes his bedroom door, undresses in the dark, and lies down on the bed. He falls asleep thinking of tulips.
* * * *
Mr. Hudson opens his eyes and stares into darkness. At least he thinks they're open. He waves his fingers in front of his face. He sees nothing. He touches his nose. His nose has feeling; his fingers smell of scotch. He is alive. Mr. Hudson turns on the lights and squints at his hazy reflection in the mirror across the room. He is alive. Being alive has never surprised him before. He has actually gotten very used to it, but today he finds it strangely unsettling.
This is a very poor day for Mr. Hudson to be alive. His throat is dry; his eyes are pushing their way to the back of his skull. Too much scotch.
What went wrong? Mr. Hudson wants to call someone; he wants an explanation, but he doesn't know who to call or what to do. He pulls on his clothes and goes to Danny's room as fast as he can, but he is tired and moving slowly today. He knocks on the door, but there is no answer. “Danny!” he calls. Nothing. “Danny!” Nothing. Laura's room, next to Danny's, is vacant too.
An androporter, busily making his early morning rounds, whizzes by. “Help,” says Mr. Hudson. The androporter slides to stop and turns around. “I'm looking for Mr. Severs,” pleads Mr. Hudson.
The androporter makes quick calculations and, without a word, takes Mr. Hudson to the stairs leading to the viewing platform. At the top of the stairs, Mr. Hudson finds Danny, motionless, looking out a dark window onto the surface of the Moon.
"Danny,” says Mr. Hudson, his voice weak and lifeless.
"Old man,” says Danny, without turning around.
Mr. Hudson moves closer. “It didn't work,” he says. He wants to reach out and touch Danny, but he doesn't.
"What didn't work?” asks Danny.
"Smooth Passing made some kind of mistake,” says Mr. Hudson.
"Smooth Passing doesn't make mistakes,” says Danny, staring intensely at his own reflection.
"I don't understand,” say Mr. Hudson.
"Did you know there were tulips up here?” asks Danny.
"Yes,” says Mr. Hudson, looking down at the perfect row of yellow flowers. Five urns snap into focus on the surface of the Moon. The scrolling banner behind the tulips matches names to urns: Smooth Passing is proud to honor Harold Davis, Philip Gilbert, Susan Weiss, Jackie Halloway, and Laura Severs.
Mr. Hudson sways, dips low, and almost falls.
"Are you all right, old man?” asks Danny reaching out to catch him. He holds Mr. Hudson tight, straining to lift his enormous bulk.
Mr. Hudson stabilizes himself in a crouch and stares at Laura's urn. “This isn't what she wanted,” he moans.
"She signed the form,” says Danny. He loosens one hand from under Mr. Hudson's left arm, pulls the sheet of electronic parchment out of his pocket, and hands it to Mr. Hudson. Mr. Hudson unfolds the form and reads Laura's name immaculately printed on a line labeled “Honoree."
"You put Laura's name on the form?” asks Mr. Hudson.
Danny says nothing.
"Did she ever know?” Mr. Hudson can remember Laura signing the form; it seems clear, as clear as if it has just happened. But did she read it? For some reason he can't remember that. But they had reviewed the form since arriving on the Moon. Hadn't they? “Did she know?” Mr. Hudson asks again, trying to sort the scattered thoughts spinning around in his head.
"Smooth Passing reviews every application,” says Danny, echoing Laura's words. “They would never have accepted the application unless it was the right thing to do."
Mr. Hudson stands up, steps away from Danny and moves close to the window. He stares out onto the bleak landscape and forces the center urn, Susan's urn, into focus. It seems a little larger than the others.
"Was that your friend from last night?” asks Danny.
Mr. Hudson stares at the delicate flowers carved into the stone urn and says nothing.
"She seemed nice,” continues Danny.
"She wanted to grow tulips,” whispers Mr. Hudson.
"We should grow some tulips when we get home,” says Danny. “If you want to."
"That would be nice,” says Mr. Hudson, turning to stroke the glass above the blemished tulip.
"I wonder who brought tulips to the Moon?” asks Danny.
Mr. Hudson turns to look out the window one last time as he and Danny descend the stairs.
Mr. Hudson is on the Moon, and he knows why he is there.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Films by Lucius Shepard
FLAVORLESS, ODORLESS, SOULLESS
Under ordinary circumstances I would begin by slagging the producers, the director, the retard actors, everyone associated with Fantastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer. I'd mention their impoverished intellects and impotent imaginations. I'd ridicule their children, slander their girl/boyfriends, talk trash about their housepets ... and maybe I'll get around to that. But first I have to admit something: I was all geeked up for this one. In some aberrant plane or dimension, I've painted myself silver and fabricated a board from papier-mâché, and I'm strolling into the theater at the head of a gibbering fanboy army. I mean, the Surfer, man. The Herald of Galactus, the gigantic dude in the mauve-and-black power suit who treats planets like hors d'oeuvres. Owner of an FTL fully chromed board and a body to match, resembling the niftiest hood ornament ever. Talks like he's carrying a portable reverb unit through which he intones neat stuff such as, “All you know is at an end.” Has a mystical, Christ-like cachet and possesses nearly the same absence of expression and inflection as Clint Eastwood.
How cool is that?
So you might assume that I was hoping the movie didn't suck.
Oh, well.
Since making Barbershop, a clichéd yet charming little picture about the barbers and clientele of an African-American barbershop, director Tim Story appears to have had something crucial removed at a lobotomy clinic. His subsequent movie, the formulaic dud Taxi, sought to make a star out of a second-rate comedian named Jimmy Fallon, and compared to Rise of the Silver Surfer, Barbershop had the gravitas of Dostoyevsky and the emotional nuance of Jane Austen. We're talking about a movie based on a comic book here, about what is commonly described as “summer fun” (review-speak for “schlock"), but using any standard you select, Surfer grades out at a solid F. Given an end-of-the-world scenario, several competent actors, and a heroic villain with the potential for mystery and intrigue of the Surfer, Story and script-hacks Don Payne and Mark Frost (both of whom once did credible work, Payne on The Simpsons and Frost on Twin Peaks and Hill Street Blues) have turned all this into an affectless jumble of scenes. Story seems to have no idea of how to evoke a mood, let alone sustain one, and thus the specter of cosmic doom plays out as if it were a problem only a tad more consequential than a wedding-day zit on Sue Storm's (Jessica Alba's) forehead, with the draining of the Thames, the near-destruction of the London Eye, and the splintering of the Great Wall of China being treated as annoying impediments to her union with Mr. Fantastic, Plasticman clone Reed Richards (Ioan Gruffudd). The plot can be best summarized as a headline:
WORLD ENDS—
STORM-RICHARDS
NUPTIALS POSTPONED
I can't recall a single issue of the comic that generated less suspense or, for that matter, had less of a kinetic feeling.
The Surfer (played by Doug Jones, voiced by Laurence Fishburne) first appears as a comet circling the Earth, causing snowstorms in Egypt, seas to harden, and enormous craters to open in the crust. The FF soon learn that the comet has left a trail of dead worlds in its wake—it looks as if our world is next. In their efforts to thwart this menace, the FF is assisted by General Hager (Andre Braugher, a fine actor who, though utterly wasted here, does his best to enliven the lazily written dialog, but essentially has a Time of Death stamped on his forehead), and by Dr. Doom, embodied (yet not enlivened) by Julian McMahon of Nip/Tuck, who plays the FF's old nemesis as if alternately possessed by fits of boredom and pique. Chris Evans is provided the opportunity to display his torso (recently voted the third hottest body on Gay.com) in his role as the Human Torch, and the talented Michael Chiklis rumbles along as the Thing, mostly in the service of comic relief ... but since the film is basically a poorly made sitcom, there is scant relief to be had.
The FX range from good to shoddy. In one sequence, the Torch chases the Surfer through the canyons of Manhattan and then into the upper atmosphere, where the Surfer, with an offhanded gesture, discards his unconscious body, allowing it to fall back toward the Earth. That gesture perfectly captures the ambiguous essence of the Surfer's character and the sequence succeeds in bringing the comic to vivid life. But this along with a few other moments are the only times that the words “vivid” or “life” can be associated with the picture, and whoever decided to transform Galactus into the Mother of All Dust Bunnies.... Well, let's just say that it was an unfortunate creative choice. True, portraying the Eater of Worlds as he was in the comic would have looked dopey on screen; but a vast figure could have been suggested, embedded in the debris storm that surrounds him, and this would have had a far more sinister effect.
The sole value of movies like Rise of the Silver Surfer, flavorless, odorless, soulless product, is that they provide a register for the flatlining of our culture—not of its intelligence, really, but of its will to excel and to strive. We have ceased as a nation to demand of our government other than that we be permitted to survive each successive administration. Instead of desiring to confront the significant challenges that face us, we cling to the status quo as if it were a raft on a stormy sea. In the realm of entertainment, we increasingly seek out the undemanding, saying that life is challenging enough and when we go to the movies, we want to be entertained, thereby equating entertainment with comfort food. Only the most dewy-eyed of Pollyannas would claim that the world is not in trouble, that the fabric of society is not developing a few rips, yet it might be more interesting, more entertaining, and certainly more pertinent, to examine the culture through the lens of a camera, rather than burying our heads in buckets of buttered popcorn.
I once had a Swedish editor tell me, after buying one of my books, that he was going against the grain of Swedish publishing by purchasing a science fiction book, because the Swedes didn't believe in the future. This view is borne out in two recent Scandinavian films, both winners of multiple awards and now available on DVD. The first, The Bothersome Man, a curious and disturbing film directed by Norwegian Jens Lien, may be a depiction of the afterlife, either hell or a misbegotten heaven, or it may simply be a bleakly comedic view of urban life, perceived as a river of hopelessness barely contained beneath a veneer of modernist décor and empty relationships ... or it may be all of the above. Its protagonist, Andreas (Trond Fausa Aurvaag), a distraught-looking forty-year-old, appears to throw himself in front of an oncoming train after watching a couple making out in a subway station. The next moment he's getting off a bus at a café in the midst of a desert where, shortly thereafter, he is picked up by a driver and conveyed to an unnamed city and a new job as an accountant in a successful firm whose purpose seems, to say the least, poorly defined. His boss and co-workers treat him with a vague amiability, and before long he finds himself in a kinda-sorta arranged marriage with an interior designer, Anne Britt (Petronella Barker), whose lacquered hair and compliant manner go well with their furniture. Anne Britt and Andreas fall into a routine centering around dinner parties, making home improvements, and bouts of sex that can best be described as mechanical.
The world Andreas finds himself in has a distinct Prisoner vibe, but is even more surreal. Everyone smiles and is unrelentingly even-tempered, yet is infected with a lassitude that verges upon the moribund. Sex is joyless, food is tasteless (literally), alcohol doesn't get you drunk, and there are no children. And when Andreas accidentally slices off a finger, he discovers that it grows back. Afflicted by the ennui and despair that initially drove him to attempt suicide, he makes another attempt, throwing himself once again in front of a subway train; but he survives with nothing to show for it except a bloody shirt. Soon thereafter he notices cracks in the veneer of city life, beginning with a literal crack in an acquaintance's cellar, the exploration of which leads him to a partial understanding of his circumstance and to think that there may be a way out.
If you have seen Fritz Lang's Metropolis, Jean-Luc Godard's Alphaville, or Andrew Niccol's Gattaca, then The Bothersome Man may seem to tread upon familiar—perhaps overly familiar—ground, a
nd, at times, appears to be too much in love with its own cleverness. But Lien's dystopian vision (leavened with a deadpan humor reminiscent of the films of masterful Finnish director Aki Kaurismäki) is achieved with such confidence and skill, such an economy of dialog and a cold precision of image, it overwhelms these flaws and impresses itself on the brain with the force of a recurring nightmare.
Roy Andersson makes TV commercials, the best commercials in the world, according to no less a personage than fellow Swede, the late director Ingmar Bergman. Indeed, his picture, Songs from the Second Floor, the most acclaimed Swedish film in many years, might have been made by Bergman in the midst of a belladonna trip. Using amateur actors (his protagonist, Lars Nordh, who plays Kalle, a merchant who has burned down his store for the insurance, was discovered shopping at Ikea), Andersson evokes a generic, modern-day city and a whiny, pasty-skinned populace whose single apparent virtue is their brutish endurance. In a series of loosely connected vignettes, we see a crowd of business types parading through the streets, beating each other with knotted ropes; we meet refugees from an enormous and perhaps permanent traffic jam; we encounter a magician who has cut into a man's stomach while essaying the saw-someone-in-half trick; a crucifix salesman who wonders how he ever thought to make money off a “crucified loser"; a group of burghers who, in an effort to ward off the end times, sacrifice a bright young girl by pushing her off a cliff; the ghost of a suicide to whom Kalle owed a large sum of money, a debt that caused the man to take his own life; Kalle's catatonic son who went mad from writing poetry in praise of the enervated and the doomed; and a centenarian general who squats on a bedpan in a crib, salutes the memory of Hermann Göring, and—alone at night—cries out for help.
Andersson's beautifully composed shots, striking images, and elegant, static camera made the film worth watching for me, but I can't recommend a picture that is little more than a carnival of despair. It occurred to me while watching that this wallowing in the gloom of the millennial West may be what passes for comfort food in Sweden, and that Andersson's grim austerity and absurdist dialog were the cinematic equivalents of Rise of the Silver Surfer's trashy brightness and vacuous banter. The two films were engendered, it seems, by the same cynical world view, only packaged differently, the first as an art film that won the Jury Prize at Cannes, the other as disposable product that will win a week or two at the box office, yet both testifying to an abject hopelessness, to the abandonment of art as a tool for change, and to our overall surrender to the implacable forces that threaten us. I imagine them as two cheerleading squads, one wearing uniforms sporting an N for Nihil on their chests, slack, unenergetic blonds raggedly intoning some dire chant, saying essentially the same thing as do the second squad in a bouncier, perkier style, shaking their pompoms in a dumb show of delight and fraudulent enthusiasm, and with, I suppose, a W emblazoned on their sweaters.
FSF, December 2007 Page 13
