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He’s a Dancer

iuThe dispute over maintaining the construct Seattle occupied the mind of Syndicate Engineer G9 Anna-Maria Cannoli as the bunny with enhanced intelligence stared at her pensively in the rearview mirror from the bunny modified car seat as she drove to the Syndicate elementary school. If she was going to lower herself by allowing her daughter a pet, it would be a pet with enhanced intelligence. Good thing baby bunnies were receptive to bio-engineered modifications.

The Mercedes S Class was self-driving and not really a Mercedes at all, rather it was technology from what in essence was 200 years into the future, by construct standards, self-driving with a small kitchen and a sensory deprivation panic room and sleeping quarters in addition to a complete command and control for emergencies.

And the bunny? It was easier bringing animals into the construct than bringing people out. Even Syndicate children were difficult to deprogram. They would know the construct as their only home and it was a painful decompression period during the mandated mid-teen extraction, adding to an already confused pubescence. However, the consensus among syndicate engineers was that growing up construct prepared them not only for a career in construct management, it was a valuable accomplishment in a general sense, like achieving Eagle Scout. The goal was to keep families together. Family was important.

Children love animals, especially housetrained pets which understand up to 1000 words of English. Children also have a unique ability to network with other children and help them detach. Adults were the real challenge and multitudes were lost to the Billionaire Cartel. In the past, a syndicate engineer could stage an event such as a biking accident or a pretty sunset. The billionaires were making those kinds of breaks in the fabric of mass delusion more difficult due to social media and the expanding light rail. Many of Anna Maria’s associates even started to murmur about a quarantine scenario.

The cartel was aware of the presence of the syndicate in all but name, although they didn’t know the identities of the members or the meaning of the syndicate in the general scheme. The excruciating pain accompanying such knowledge kept minds closed. The cartel only sensed a threat, not as a concrete menace, but a threat to the construct.

The Cartel had succeeded in neutralizing the tactical advantages of the syndicate, and what was once considered a plum assignment was viewed by most engineers as a career dead end. Andre David, one of the principle Cartel adversaries, maintained firm control over The David Hive, that area of influence wherein he was the sub-conscious referent in subject’s minds even among husbands and wives. David was aware of the control dynamic and the vital importance of reproductive choice in keeping subjects tied to the construct. Anna-Maria was often asked by her children if the construct was real and she replied that it was mapped to a real place called Seattle, a quiet midsized city in the northwest United States. Mass delusion warped physical reality along with moral reality, and construct currency had no real existence and was easily synthesized.  Anna-Maria selected an expensive residence next to David posing as the wife of an affluent derivatives broker. The selection was made in anticipation of a gracious invitation to the annual neighborhood Christmas party at the David estate, the gala event of Mercer Island featuring reindeer and elfin clad waitstaff. Her children befriended the David children who agreed to care for the bunny while the Cannoli’s were “out of town”, and it escaped the notice of the David estate that the Cannoli’s hadn’t actually gone anywhere due to the electrostatic brain cloud surrounding the bunny. There was no suspicion that the bunny understood human speech and could communicate telepathically, a factor that combined with the extraordinary rabbit hearing to provide the Cannoli’s with a reliable stream of intel.

The Orb, the most powerful weapon the syndicate possessed, needed to be presented to David via a trusted 3rd party named Ali, a shadowy figure who supplied the billionaire’s periodic contraband needs. The Orb was delivered to Anna-Maria from reality via Ospry per SOP, causing a major wind storm extending as far as the Portland construct and collapsing the power grid for tens of thousands of homes. Anna-Maria felt the density of the softball sized sphere as it was placed in her hands. She had been in the construct for such a long time.

The Orb would be introduced to Ali using a delicate tactical operation by another syndicate operative posing as a narcotics dealer. The Cannoli’s knew that Ali would sycophantically introduce it to Andre David even before using it himself.

David felt the weight and density of the sphere which Ali identified as a rare polished meteor. He could also feel the wholeness as he caressed its smooth surface. It made him feel like his true self was calling him from a faraway place, and would become addictive to everyone who used it. An inspiration at first, it became a trap of despair owing to the dissonance between the delusional life and the life intimated by The Orb. The David compound, his wardrobe, his cars, his chef; he had the best of everything and everything became squalid.

He stopped grooming, but he couldn’t stop holding The Orb.

The Cannoli family continued to be “out of town”, as servants in the David household continued to feed the bunny and clean its cage.

The goal was to cleave souls from the loop. Most individuals in the construct believed their thoughts were their own. In fact, they were fed collective thoughts by social media and talk radio sustained by a cycle of trivia, fear and wrath which had the most tenuous and random interface with reality. They might see real things like their own precious children, but the cartel immediately smothered these perceptions with sentimentality and the weeds of self. As long as the children were diverted themselves, any regret or fear would be contained. Everything was pre-scripted and Andre David was the playwright.

Anna-Maria Cannoli accepted the invitation to the annual Christmas party after returning from being “out of town”, such was the power of lupine enhanced intelligence and telepathy that no one asked when the Cannoli’s would take the bunny home.

Now, a bunny is different from a rabbit because it is a pet. At the David sponsored institute for sustainability, the “One-Week Wonders,” rabbits grown to half-size in rectangular containers to optimize protein yields relative to BTUs. Brains, a source of vitamins and fat for the supplement industry driven by the increasing demand for a low carbohydrate diet, were genetically enhanced to grow to an unusually large size without enhanced intelligence and telepathy.

At the party, Andre casually sat on the custom Teak decking in a state of quiet psychosis. He fixated on Anna-Maria’s large breasts across the crowd and ignored the other guests. No one else dared to approach him, but Anna-Maria walked across the deck and extended her hand.

“Mr. David, I’m Anna-Maria Cannoli from next door. Thank you for the lovely party.”

David allowed her to take his limp hand and opened his mouth in a manner which acknowledged the social obligation of replying, but was lost for words, and the couple stood for a moment of what would normally be understood as awkward silence, but in reality gave Anna-Maria time to mentally prepare for what would happen next.

“Beautiful evening for December, don’t you think. How did you ever arrange it?” Anna-Maria playfully asked. “Is there any limit to your power?” David seemed to acknowledge that Anna-Maria said something charming in the way a penumbra might acknowledge its core.

The couple stood on the deck and appeared to survey the party in a manner of casual sociability.

“Smile,” she said, “look happy.” David obeyed, happy neighbors. “Come with me,” she said, “I have something to show you.”

Taking Andre by the arm as if he was a child, Anna-Maria escorted him to a bench under a Japanese Maple tree where she removed her phone and showed him a You Tube video of Kristy and Jimmy McNichol performing “He’s a Dancer.”

A telekinetic opiate fell on the guests as waitstaff bobbed and weaved through the crowd with trays of crab cakes, Copper River salmon and Moet Champagne.

And Andre David became transfixed by Kristy and Jimmy McNichol.

“You’re dying,” Anna-Maria said, “It’s all a sham and it’s time to go mad.”

It might have been the pained choreography, the expressions of beautiful pain, or the sense of the parasitic violence of celebrity which David had nurtured and grew that made him truly see. He saw like a blind man whose sight had been restored, and he began to understand the paralyzing horror and sense of ugliness and sadness of a race of new creatures not worth ruling or manipulating or even existing.

David suddenly stood up and observed himself for the first time in his life. He observed himself observing himself, and observed himself crying and screaming, a crying scream really, as he rent his clothes like a demoniac from The Bible.

Now screaming like an animal, David jumped six feet from the deck onto the perfectly mowed checkerboard lawn below. It was at that point that The Hive, Ali and many other guests, began to wake from their trance and started to tear off their own clothes in the belief that Andre David was initiating an orgy of violence and sex. Many screamed themselves as they assailed the neighbor ladies in a rape frenzy.

Severed from the world of power, David ran from the estate into the streets of Mercer Island, running for miles and falling to the ground in exhaustion. It began to rain and the wind began to blow. The Ospry set down invisibly due to its perfectly reflective surface. A ramp opened and Mr. Cannoli stepped out of the Ospry and knelt on the ground beside Andre David. “Are you ready to be loved,” he asked. And Andre boarded the Ospry never to be seen again.

 

FIN

 

 

 

Raskolnikov – Part 1: Chapter 1, Stanzas 14-19

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One chapter down; forty to go! Today’s post concludes Part 1, Chapter 1 of my attempt to rewrite Crime and Punishment as a verse novel à la Eugene Onegin.

Click here and scroll down to review the story to date.

Thanks to all who have read along so far. As always, your comments — including, but not limited to, negative comments — would be very welcome.

Is the story bogging down at any point? Is the action or setting ever confusing? Are there any trite rhymes? Any syntactic absurdities, prosodic infelicities, or lapses of characterization?

And is there anything that ‘works’ especially well?

1.1.14
He scans the space: a table (smallish),
A sofa (tall), and chairs (a few) —
All cheap and old, yet bright with polish,
Immaculate; the floor gleams, too.
(‘Lizavéta’s work’, he thinks; ‘that’s certain.’)
Here hangs a small icon… A curtain
Hangs there, in lieu of bedroom doors;
Beyond it stands a chest of drawers,
He knows — though he has yet to enter
The shadow of that shrouded cell….
… His hostess pipes up sternly: ‘Well?’
‘I’d like to pawn…’ he says; presents her
A pocket watch (worn silver-plate).
‘Good sir, your payment’s two days late:

1.1.15
‘Your other pledge is past redemption.’
‘I know, Alyóna, ma’am — my ring….
Please give me just a month’s extension.’
‘I’ll do as I please with that thing.’
‘Well…. How much for this watch? It’s silver.’
‘Not even worth the work to pilfer
A piece of trash like that, my friend.’
‘It was my father’s…. If you’ll lend
Four roubles, ma’am, I will redeem it.’
‘I see. Before, I was too nice —
I lent you more than that ring’s price.
As for this watch, now, take or leave it:
A rouble and a half.’ ‘You might —
One and a half, good sir.’ ‘…….. All right.’

1.1.16
She takes her keys out of her pocket;
She takes his watch behind the shroud.
He strains his ears; hears her unlock it —
The top drawer, scraping high and loud….
While he had been discreetly peering
At her (right pocket’s) steely keyring,
One key’d looked larger than the rest:
(‘Not for a drawer…. A trunk? A chest?
… But this is all so nauseating!’)
‘You owe me thirty-five, all told.’
(She’s back!) ‘Here’s one-fifteen; I’ll hold
The watch.’ He stands there, hesitating —
Then speaks: ‘In one more day… or two
… I might… have another pledge… for you…

1.1.17
‘… A cigarette case… silver… fancy!’
‘All right. We’ll talk about it then.
Good night.’ ‘Your sister! Any chance she
Might sort of… sometimes… wander in?’
‘What do you want with Lizaveta?’
‘Oh, nothing, ma’am.’ ‘You want to meet her?’
‘No no, madame, I just… Good-bye.’
He turns, and goes — and starts to cry:
‘Oh God! Can I –? Can I imagine?
How could –? Is my mind capable –?
My heart, so hateful? Horrible!
A month! A month, bent to this passion –!’
His self-disgust is oceans wide….
He sinks, and chokes — and steps outside.

1.1.18
The evening sun continues bleeding
Its dying light upon the host
Of Petersburg, while, all unheeding,
Our Rodya passes like a ghost
Among them, heart and mind encumbered:
He reels, colliding like a drunkard
Along the boulevard, until
His feet and thoughts at last are still:
Up from a dingy basement tavern,
Two tipsy, cursing men emerge;
Raskolnikov now has the urge
To go spelunk that urban cavern.
A sticky table; frosty beer;
A gulp. His thoughts begin to clear!

1.1.19
‘No need to worry any longer,’
He says — and smiles! — with rising cheer.
‘A simple side-effect of hunger;
Just takes a little bread and beer!’
Smiles all around! Lighthearted, hearty,
He beams at one departing party
(Four men; a girl; accordion),
Grins at a fat Siberian.
Above the pale cucumber salads,
Black bread, and kippers past their peak
— Which emanate an evil reek —
Drone mediocre drinking ballads.
An ex-official sits aloof —
Alone, but for his eighty-proof.

Raskolnikov – Part 1: Chapter 1, Stanzas 11, 12, & 13

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The adaptation of Crime and Punishment into a verse novel à la Eugene Onegin continues.

Click here to catch up on the story.

1.1.11

If you’ll excuse the interruption,
Dear reader — Something in the way
Of a digression on the Russian
For ‘crime’: It’s ‘prestuplénie’,
Which (in more literal translation)
Means (to a close approximation)
Transgression, or ‘a step across’ —
Concision’s gain, nuance’s loss.
(I claim no special erudition;
I’m just repeating what I’ve read,
But this is what I think it said
In Norton’s Critical Edition.)
We here conclude our brief aside
And rejoin Rodya in mid-stride.

1.1.12

He’s in. His hostess glowers sharply —
Sharp little eyes, sharp little nose:
A tiny, desiccated harpy,
Of sixty years, one would suppose.
Her head is bare; her hair is sallow,
Just touched with grey, smeared thick with tallow.
Her neck is yellow, long, and thin —
Much like the leg of some old hen.
Upon her shoulders hangs a mangy
Old capelet cut from yellowed fur,
For even summer’s cold to her.
She coughs, regarding Rodya strangely.
(‘Does she suspect –? Of course, I must
Act all-correct… establish trust…

1.1.13

‘… show some respect — That’s always prudent!’),
He thinks, and makes a little bow.
‘Raskolnikov, madame — a student.
I came last month…. I’ve come back now.’
‘I know, good sir.’ She’s brusque and hurried.
(‘Was she this way before? I’m worried….
Her piercing eyes… her voice’s edge….’
)
‘I’m here about — about a pledge!’
She glares, then points — still coughing, groaning,
‘In there, good sir.’ And so he goes
Into a faded room that glows
With ruby hues before the gloaming…
Stained scarlet by a long, late ray….
(‘The sun will blaze like thisthat day!’)

Raskolnikov – Part 1: Chapter 1, Stanzas 9 and 10

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In honor of Ss. Cyril and Methodius, Apostles to the Slavs, whose feast-day was 14 February, here are the latest stanzas in my ongoing project of adapting Crime and Punishment to the sonnet-stanza form of Eugene Onegin. It’s been thirteen-and-a-half months since the last update, but, plot-wise, things are, I daresay, on the verge of getting real.

Click here to read the previous stanzas.

I welcome your comments, whether effusive or abusive.

1.1.9

The stairs he climbs are dark and narrow.
‘Still dark… still safe…. That’s good… but think!
Just now, I’m frozen to the marrow!
How, then, will I feel… on the brink
Of –?
’ Rodya all but crashes into
A pair of porters — two old men who
Are lugging down the furniture
From someone’s flat… Fourth floor! He’s sure
It’s from the old crone’s only neighbor.
‘That German clerk is clearing out
… So no one else will be about
If I…. That’s good! Then why belabor
The point? It’s time. I’m doing well….’
He’s at the door. He rings the bell —

1.1.10

And flinches from its tinny tinkling:
Its feeble chime seems to recall
Some distant, half-remembered inkling.
‘That certain sound…? It’s nothing! All
These flats have bells like that! … I know this!
Why did I cringe? It goes to show this
Is still too soon; I’m still too weak
For now!’ The hinges groan and creak:
A little gap; a glimpse; the glitter
Of wary eyes that peek, then spy
The porters and the clerk nearby.
The hag seems reassured a bit: Her
Apartment door now opens wide —
And now, our Rodya steps inside.

Food for Thought

How to Avoid a Sexual Harassment Lawsuit

  1. Be handsome
  2. Be attractive
  3. Don’t be unattractive

Poor Banished Children of Eve

I am sitting at a custom Parnian Executive Desk in my office at DreamWorks. I recall that I am President of Production. I observe the object dimensions and study the intricate knotted pattern of the desktop’s Carpathian elm burl. It is 4 feet wide by eight feet long. My secretary rings to tell me that “Mr. Spielberg” has dropped by the office for a visit. He is interested in discussing the post-production details of something starring Jessica Alba. I remember that it is a motion picture involving a fictional story of some kind. Mr. Spielberg enters my office. He is below average height. One percent of his body mass is comprised of bacteria. His words and body language reflect comfort with my presence and the space known as my office. If he understood my mental condition he would not be so comfortable. If he knew that I experienced a level 1 head trauma this morning due to a two ton automatic garage door falling directly on my head as I attempted to realign the chain mechanism, and that I stopped in at a sporting goods store on my way to Universal City and purchased a Ruger 10-22 with an extended magazine and a brick of hollow point bullets, he would be alarmed. His life is in my hands, just as the post-production is in his hands. I begin to wonder why we are making this movie. I am the arrogant general played by Adolphe Menjou in Paths of Glory, sending our audience into the maw of Ludendorff’s machine guns. The details of the film are too tiresome to relate. It will receive a combined Rotten Tomatoes score of 57. I can see the end from the beginning. I am Bill Murray in Groundhog Day, I am a god. I will say that the 81% of men respond favorably to Jessica Alba’s ass based on a sampling of 150 respondents in a market test conducted by Frank Luntz. The frames depicting Jessica Alba’s ass will translate into 35% above break-even DVD sales volume, off-setting a likely 8% below margin theatrical gross. This is because of masturbation. The Director’s extended cut will have extended ass frames. In other words, for reasons unrelated to artistic merit, Spielberg will never confront the fact that he produced a movie that should never have existed. Masturbation lines my pocket with gold as well per the post-theatrical gross clause in my contract with DreamWorks. Mr. Spielberg discusses the production and I am encouraging. I am Brad Dourif beguiling King Thioden of Rohan.

“Mr. Spielberg” of course is a type of reference common in Hollywood. If he were not both powerful and famous his first name would be included in third person references. This has a mark of irony which is an anachronism, as if it could refer to any “Mr.” Of course, the irony is long forgotten and it has become an empty practice of obsequiousness as mindless as the movement of a cow to a feeding trough. I am dead set against wit. The wag who first used the form referring to “Mr. Selznick” or “Mr. Hitchcock” never anticipated the custom being a shackle of malaise confining souls in Hollywood hell for generations. All wit descends into malaise as it becomes emptied of its original discovery.

At this moment I am feeling like a bent thing. While Mr. Spielberg is talking in a casually self-conscious master of the universe way, my mind organizes the factual content of his words, which is not substantial, and I wonder about his life force and how a single act of will can take it away and how strange I would be to myself during a brutal act of murder. Cold blooded murder. Star Trek II said that revenge is a dish best served cold. Murder could be just a word with a value judgment attached. I am Hannibal Lector, a moral superman. I live in feudal Hollywood. Mr. Spielberg is now discussing a new property in pre-development. He is following a pattern I have previously analyzed; initial enthusiasm followed by diligent effort becoming complete disinterest masked by a face-saving mock enthusiasm. It would be at the disinterest phase that my real work will begin. What had started as an innovative script will become a pre-packaged running cliché that could just as easily be generated by a computer. This is a necessary work of spiritual destruction which must occur prior to the invasion of my people from Gamma Six. I have been sent as an advanced force to bring about spiritual lethargy and make the Earth an easy spoil for my humanoid race. Right now, a brilliant scientist who doesn’t play by the rules has come to this conclusion, but no one will listen. I must stop him from getting to the President. We have conquered many planets through their entertainment industries. At the beginning we offer novel concepts to impress the masses as fresh and self-referential. However, these modes are dead ends. Furthermore, once universal self-consciousness has been achieved there is no going back. The fruit of the forbidden tree has been consumed. The average man will occupy the main part of his precious life watching the most venal individuals imaginable, actors who smoke crack and shave the pubic hair of prostitutes, actors who have been carefully selected to be objects of fantasy. Jessica Alba was created on this basis, her butt genetically designed to distract a docile Earth population from seeing our insidious work right before their eyes.  Many people might be inclined to believe that once dominance is complete we will destroy or enslave the human race. This is not true. We seek only to control it that we may harvest its spiritual life force at the point of death. It is in the fourth dimension where our lives are primarily spent. We use the souls of other races as dumb beasts of burden to ride and haul cargo. As Mr. Spielberg discusses the property, tentatively titled Children of Eve, my secretary brings in coffee and teacakes. The property is about a corporation which has been taken over by aliens. I realize immediately that I must assume control of the project and begin a diversionary brainstorming process. Fortunately, Mr. Spielberg’s wife, Kate Capshaw, is one of us. Perhaps my secretary is too. Or, maybe I am experiencing severe head trauma. I am viewing myself participating in a Hollywood executive discussion and believing that I am an alien and also experiencing the pain and abstraction resulting from a severe head injury. I have a Ruger in my top desk drawer and can shoot Spielberg right now. Then I can go across the hall and shoot Chief Executive Officer Stacey Snider. I could shoot myself. Or not. I have the power to green light a wonderful film about a boy without a father and lonely star in the night sky. I also have the power to green light my own death.

The office I occupy is twenty by forty-two feet. Here, my sins are hidden behind glass and steel. I could walk out in the street in front of Universal City Plaza and hold a sandwich board listing all the horrible things I’ve done. It might read, “I dishonored my parents; I have committed numerous acts of adultery; I have bore false witness against my neighbor to advance my career.”

I could leave the office without explanation and begin my mid-life crises. It could be an adult comedy.

I could shoot Spielberg while he raptures, then cut to me having never shot him. The audience will realize that it was just my fantasy. It could be Adaptation, or Up the Sandbox. I reach for the pistol in the top drawer. Something tells me no. How close you came Steven. Capture that on film. Try 3-D.

“Steven, I was reading Thomas Aquinas on falsity this morning. Aquinas says that no falsity can exist in things that belong to God. It can only exist in voluntary agents who withdraw themselves from what is so ordained.”

He looks at me as if waiting for a punch line.

“There is no punch line,” I say. “It was a stand-alone statement.”

“What are you getting at,” he asks.

“Kate is one of us.” I am the villain and this is the moment of revelation. “Now at the last you understand.” I ponder my professional demise. My career will be destroyed for an unrelated reason like Gentleman’s Agreement. What to do, what to say? There is meaning or meaninglessness. God is the Word or God is the Void. I choose. I am free. I am getting lightheaded.

“DreamWorks should make movies that are true and beautiful, beautiful and true. We shouldn’t make movies to make society better. I don’t even know what ‘society’ means.”

“I disagree,” he says.

“I am the king’s good servant, but God’s first.”

“Pardon?”

“Fred Zinnemann.”

“What about him?”

“A Man for All Seasons.”

“Good film.” Spielberg looks alarmed now.

I realize that my fingers are numb. “Call 9-1-1,” I say.

“What’s that?”

“Do you have a cell phone?”

“I have Blackberry Satellite phone.”

“That’s good. Can you dial it?”

“I can speak a number.”

I am losing consciousness. “Would you speak 9-1-1?”

“I don’t get it.”

“There is something wrong with me, will you call for help.”

“I get it.”

“I can’t move my arms, please call for help. Dear God, forgive me for the horrible things I’ve done. Jesus save me.”

“David, if you’re not happy here…”

“You’re a nitwit. I should have shot you. I forgive you.”

Spielberg removes the phone from his belt. He tells the emergency operator what is happening, and sheepishly asks me the address.

“You don’t know the address of your own company?” The world is going dark. “One Hundred Universal City Plaza, Building Ten, eighth floor” I say with my dying breath. I am the redeemed Anakin Skywalker at the end of Return of the Jedi. This is the end of the movie.

 

Epilogue

It is a surprise ending. I wake from a coma. I have a subdural hematoma. I have been asleep for three weeks and awake for three hours. My ex-wife, Corinne, is sitting at my bedside. It took something like this for us to realize the love that was always there. I hope it is a happy ending. Somebody knocks and comes into the room and asks how I’m feeling. It is Steven Spielberg. Corinne kisses me goodbye and tells me to call her if there is anything I need. I feel happy.

“How was the Dead Zone?” Spielberg asks.

“Shake my hand and find out,” I say. He laughs.

“Stacey and I have been talking…”

“Stacey and I” can’t be good. Of course he doesn’t fire me after being in a coma. That wouldn’t look right. They are making me head of a new development company for “serious films.” It will be called Buried Treasure. They will put me in a basement. They will bury my projects. I broke the code of silence and must be punished. I respectfully decline.

“I’m going to buy a motorcycle,” I say.

“That’s great,” he says.

“I’m going to ride around the country and help people.”

“Like Then Came Bronson.”

“Or, Sam Jackson in Pulp Fiction, except real,” I say.

My wife and I will not get back together. She remarried. I will never remarry. Spielberg offers me a sip of water.

“I don’t know what Spielberg means in the big life picture, Steven. Maybe nothing. Maybe I don’t mean anything either. When I see a hungry child on one of those infomercials I think that he might be poor for a short time and that I might be rich for a short time and it makes me very worried. I also know that eternity is longer than a movie. By the way there is something you should know.”

“What’s that?” he asks.

“Shindler’s List was fakey. Public virtue is a conceit. We are not good people, you and I.”

Spielberg stands up, touches me on the shoulder, tells me to get better soon and leaves the room. I am alone. The camera pulls back slowly to show how small I am in the big picture.

FIN.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Next Is Silence

Deadline Hollywood‘s Mike Fleming, Jr. has the scoop:

Martin Scorsese will finally realize his long-held dream to direct Silence, an adaptation of the Shusaku Endo novel about 17th century Jesuits who risk their lives to bring Christianity to Japan. Financing for the film has been secured […]. The plan is to shoot in Taiwan in July 2014 […].

When I interviewed Scorsese for Hugo during our awards season coverage two years ago, I asked him about why his passion for Silence has never waned. Here is what he said:

DEADLINE: You’ve tried to adapt the Shusaku Endo novel Silence, about 17th century Jesuits who risk their lives to bring Christianity to Japan. It isn’t commercial, it has been hard to finance, but it looks like you’ll finally get your chance to make it. Why has it been so important to you?

SCORSESE: My initial interests in life were very strongly formed by what I took seriously at that time, and 45-50 years ago I was steeped in the Roman Catholic religion. As you get older, ideas go and come. Questions, answers, loss of the answer again and more questions, and this is what really interests me. […]

DEADLINE: We Catholics are always struggling for answers.

SCORSESE: There are no answers. We all know that.* You try to live in the grace that you can. But there are no answers, but the point is, you keep looking. […]

Norm Macdonald (Adult Content)

For no particular reason here are a couple of links featuring the comedian Norm Macdonald. This first is an excerpt from the show, “Me Doing Stand-up”(if you haven’t seen it, live stream or rent it ASAP). The second is a poor quality video of Macdonald talking about atheists generally, and Bill Maher specifically. His wisdom is on full display in both clips.

Funny and fearless. Recommended.

Raskolnikov — Part 1: Chapter 1, Stanzas 7 and 8

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For those who never knew or have forgotten, I’ve been rewriting Crime and Punishment as a verse novel in the style of Eugene Onegin.

Click here for the story up to now.

Here’s the latest ladle of psycho-stroganoff. As before, your candid appraisal would be most welcome. That includes criticism, constructive or otherwise.

1.1.7

Each fateful footfall draws him nearer:
His destination looms ahead,
Its details redrawn larger, clearer.
He counts each step with mounting dread
And racing heart as he retraces
The seven-hundred thirty paces
From his room to… that place’s door.
What seemed an ugly dream before
Now fills imagination’s page
With dialogue… direction… action.
Repulsion yields to the attraction
Of playing that scene on that stage.
Despite his nerves, he can’t reverse.
He mounts the stage; he must rehearse.

1.1.8

Between canal and Sadóvaya,
It rises — the familiar shock:
Higher and higher, layer on layer,
That building hulks above its block.
Within its warrens dwell assorted
Tradespeople; Germans; unsupported
Young ladies…. Now the fading day’s
Rush-hour foot-traffic runs two ways:
Both back and forth; its hot disorder
Swarms two courtyards. Through one yard’s gate,
Into a stairwell, swift and straight,
Unseen by any lurking porter
(Four porters work here… maybe three?),
Slips Rodya, thinking ‘Lucky me!’