Otherwise Known As Kevin Miller (XI)

Avatar truly is an avatar--of other films, that is

Considering the incredible amount of work James Cameron and crew put into creating this visual feast, I really hate to complain. Especially after having the privilege of watching it in 3-D (for free, no less, thanks to a friend). Everybody should see this film. It's truly astonishing to look at. One viewing isn't nearly enough to take in all of the information on screen. But come on, would it have killed him to spend a couple of extra weeks--a month, even--creating a script that had something fresh to say to the world?

At the very least, he could have tried to hide the glaring parallels to so many other films about rogue agents who "go native" and wind up leading a rebellion on behalf of the indigenous people they originally set out to betray (Dances With Wolves, The Last Samurai, District 9 and Dune come to mind). Couldn't he have found some way to subvert the genre? Did he even try? I'm confident a one hour story meeting would have yielded a wealth of ideas that any capable screenwriter could have implemented with minimal effort.

But then again, perhaps the joke is on us. The film is called Avatar, after all. So maybe that's all it's really meant to be--an avatar for other films that get to live a second life through this one. Better yet, perhaps it's Cameron's way of summing up the end of an era, because from a visual point of view, I truly believe Avatar has ushered in a new age.

That's what I admire most about people like Cameron and George Lucas. They don't just create movies; they create new ways of making movies. Now if only they can transfer those innovative skills into the realm of storytelling--or humble themselves and hire someone who can. Then they'll really have something.

I get hate mail...

Kevin, 

With all due disrespect, here's hoping there is a god, heaven and hell, and that you will take your rightful place on some medium-hot burner in-between, at a station Dante would reserve for callow, payday-seeking bums (read "writers") like yourself. Your willingness to put your name on that Ben Stein "shlockumentary" must be a testament to the size of your mortgage, if nothing else. It certainly indicates your readiness to represent any kind of specious intellectual flotsam just to get a royalty check from the WGA. Conflating morality and science, as if they were flip sides of the same coin, then invoking the images of the Berlin Wall and the memories of victims of Nazi atrocities -- man, it just doesn't get any lower or more facile than that! You yourself should have worked for Goebbels, with your obvious facility to adopt whatever ideas butter the La Brea Bakery bread.

One expects Ben(d over) Stein to represent dogshite as if it were caviar -- that universal pitchman has already been thoroughly discredited by claiming to be an "economist," then repping a bait and switch credit report operation that stiffs people $30 bucks a month for the "free" service. You, my friend, signed on because no one else demanded your services that week, and you sniffed opportunity to keep your car tuned and your kids fed. No sin in that, I suppose, but I sure am glad I am not your bathroom mirror! I couldn't stand the daily indignity of seeing your shallow mug staring at me as you tried to wash the dishonesty from your dirty visage. Evolutionary theory leading to genocide, indeed! Have you no more respect for the complexities of history than to take this sophomoric stand? You are an insult to the writing profession, sir! 

As Dawkins is my witness, may you find more honorable employment in future. This execrable film you tout so proudly on your website is no less than a disgrace to thinking people everywhere. "It's on Showtime," you gloat, as if this qualifies you for a Nobel Prize!! Pathetic.....

Who has it worse--actors or screenwriters?

As someone who has both acted and written for the screen, I'd definitely say actors have it worse. Way worse. At its best, a writer's life is typified by endless rejection punctuated by brief moments of despair. But acting has to be one of the most demeaning professions I can imagine.

Unless you're one of two dozen A-listers in Hollywood, you're nothing but a slab of meat. You have no control over the material you're given, you have to humiliate yourself in a thousand different ways just to get a part--a part that you probably don't want but you have to take in order to pay your rent and get another notch on your resume in the hope that one day you might actually get a part that you really do want. And if you're not exactly what they're looking for, you're gone.

Apparently, writer/producer Rob Long agrees with me. I laughed when I read this recent piece, in which he debates the merits of acting vs. writing, especially this part:

Actors, at least with each other, are also kinder. I have seen actors waiting to audition for the same role genuinely wish each other well. “Break a leg, man,” they’ll say to each other, and you know they mean it because they’re wearing that mentally-exhausted expression actors wear when they’ve said something unscripted.

Writers, of course, loathe each other. Writers are enemies-list makers and gossip-spreaders, score-settlers and secret drinkers. Sure, the business makes us angry and bitter. But we’re writers. We were angry and bitter before we got into this business.

In other words, when writers tell each other to "break a leg," what they really mean is, "Break a leg or I'll hire someone to break it for you."

I don't think I'm that bitter, but I do confess to pangs of jealousy when writers I know experience any modicum of success. In fact, sometimes I feel the same way about writers I don't know. And I'd be lying if I said I didn't sneak a secret drink now and again. But then again, I've never actually gone out and ordered a hit on anyone. At least not yet...

I just figured out how the economy works!

It happened this morning when I was listening to John Lee of Mau Capital Management on Michael Campbell's Moneytalks podcast this morning. He broke things down like this:

"When you owe the bank one dollar and can't pay it back, you have a problem. When you owe the bank $100 million dollars and can't pay it back, the bank has a problem."

Any questions? Okay then, class dismissed.

Do writers have the right to strike?

"I'm thinking of calling a general strike of all writers until mankind finally comes to its sense. Would you support it?"

    "Do writers have a right to strike? That would be like the police or firemen walking out."

    "Or the college professors."

    "Or the college professors," I agreed. I shook my head. "No, I don't think my conscience would let me support a strike like that. When a man becomes a writer, I think he takes on a sacred obligation to produce beauty and enlightenment and comfort at top speed."

    "I just can't help thinking what a real shakeup it would give people if, all of a sudden, there were no new books, new plays, new histories, new poems..."

    "And how proud would you be when people started dying like flies?" I demanded.

    "They'd die more like mad dogs, I think--snarling and snapping at each other and biting their own tails."

    I turned to Castle and the elder. "Sir, how does a man die when he's deprived of the consolations of literature?"

    "In one of two ways," he said, " petrescence of the heart or sympathy of the nervous system."

    "Neither one very pleasant, I expect."

 

I hate my dog, I love my dog... And sometimes he inspires movies

As some of you may know, a couple of months ago we got a Boxer puppy named Blue. He's now about five months old, and he's a good pup for the most part. But for a while there, I was having a bit of a problem with him because he didn't like to go for walks. I'd never heard of a dog who didn't like walks. Not even the Dog Whisperer had anything to say about that. Now I realize now it's because young puppies don't like to stray too far from the "den." But at the time, he was driving me nuts. 

So one day a few weeks ago, I took off his leash and tried to coax him along by running down the road and then calling for him to follow. But he just sat there like a dunce and looked at me like I was the one with the problem. Fed up with my defective dog, I told him fine. Sit there. You may not want to go for a walk, but I do. So off I went to complete the rest of my one-mile circuit. The last I saw him, he was still sitting there vying for the title of stupidest dog in the world.

When I came back, however, he was gone. I wasn't too worried, seeing as he was such a chicken, I knew he'd just run straight home. But as I rounded the corner, I saw something else that concerned me--a man wading through the deep grass on the South side of the road. I guess I should mention that I live right on the Canada/US border, and the road I walk Blue on each day literally is the border. Wander into one ditch, and you'll be in Canada. Fall into the other ditch, and you'll create an international incident.

So you can imagine my concern at seeing a man wading through the ditch. We've had a lot of border runners in the two years I've lived here--mostly Hondurans sneaking across to sell drugs in downtown Vancouver (which is a story all in itself). This guy turned out to be an American border agent. He approached me and asked what I was doing--careful to stay on his side of the border, just as I was careful to stay on mine.

I told him I was walking my dog, and showed him the leash as evidence. He gave me a skeptical look and said my behavior seemed rather strange. (Turns out he had been watching me through binoculars from about 200 yards away.) For example, why was I running earlier? "To coax my stupid puppy into walking," I said. He still didn't believe me. And then he warned me that if I crossed over he'd have to take me in. I told him it was a good thing I didn't cross over then. In fact, I wasn't even on the American side of the road when I was dealing with my dog. He still wasn't buying it, which frustrated me to no end. But seeing as he was in his country and I was in mine, I simply walked away. I was angry, but I wasn't really angry at him. I was angry at the dog. Not only was the recalcitrant mutt defying my authority, now he was getting me in trouble with the law.

Over the next few weeks, Blue became better at walking. Now I think he actually enjoys it. Especially when I take his leash off for the trip home. He even obeys my voice commands when a car comes by. He heads straight for the ditch--the American ditch, but nobody's perfect.

More importantly, his insurrection that day gave me a great concept for a short film that I've thought about many times since while walking down that lonely road. It's about a guy who goes out walking his dog along the Canada/US border one day when masked men leap out of the tall grass and pull him into the US. At first, he thinks he's being kidnapped. But then he discovers it's US border agents. They promptly charge him with drug trafficking and crossing the border illegally. He's outraged, telling them they'll never get away with it. But they just laugh. Who are people going to believe--him or them? 

I'm not sure where the story goes from there, but it feels like the beginning of a good thriller. I bet could even develop it into a solid low budget feature. And if I do--and it gets made and I receive loads of critical and commercial acclaim--I guess I'll have Blue to thank for it. Even though he still drives me nuts.

Can you believe it? "Expelled" is on Showtime

It airs tomorrow night at 7:00 and then on-demand until January 7, 2010. If you're a subscriber and you haven't seen it yet, now's your chance.