This forthcoming film sounds interesting, so I’ll be watching out for it:

Meanwhile, although the vampire in Let the Right One In is altogether more dangerous, she symbolises as much the dark side of the human psyche as an external threat. “I was thinking about these two characters as though they are mirrors,” Alfredson, the director, says. “She is everything that he is not. She is awake when he is asleep: he is very afraid, she is very brave; she is strong, he is weak; she’s dark, he is blond. She is everything that he would need to be to survive. They are two sides of the same coin.”

The vampire craze shows no signs of abating. An English language remake of Let the Right One In has been announced. With three remaining books in the Twilight saga, there is potential for a vampire franchise. And although the Twilight books series is complete, Nash reveals that “Stephenie does have the bare bones of a chapter of a book provisionally titled Midnight Sun, which is the Twilight story but from the point of view of the vampire not the human girl”.

  Love, C.

Twilight’s got all the cooties: romance, girl and YA — no Harry Potter adulation for this series.   Shoot, it’s as bad as Sex and the City, except – it haz shoes? It should haz belly dancing.  Does it?  Myself does not know,  not being a romance fan nor generally a YA reader. (I am a fan of belly dancing, and for long time now.)

Salon dot com analyzes.

[   No wonder the media has heralded Twilight as the next Harry Potter and Meyer as the second coming of J.K. The similarities, however, are largely commercial. It's hard to see how Twilight could ever approach Harry Potter as a cultural phenomenon for one simple reason: the series' fan base is almost exclusively female. The gender imbalance is so pronounced that Kaleb Nation, an enterprising 19-year-old radio show host-cum-author, has launched a blog called Twilight Guy, chronicling his experiences reading the books. The project is marked by a spirit that's equal parts self-promotion and scientific inquiry -- "I am trying to find why nearly every girl in the world is obsessed with the Twilight books by Stephenie Meyer" -- and its premise relies on the fact that, in even attempting this experiment, Nation has made himself an exceptional guy indeed.    ]This is an interesting piece, though, because it attempts to track similarities, if there are any, and contrasts, which there certainly are many, among Buffy The Vampire Slayer, the Harry Potter series and the Twilight series, and their audiences.

Another quote:

[  If Harry Potter has a vampire-loving, adolescent female counterpart, it's Buffy Summers. ] 

This article and the others I’ve read concerning the Twilight books do make them sound as if they were written for someone as anti-moi as they could be.  It is pointed out that the author is a Mormon.  The Church of the LDS does believe that women are to be submissive, that men are the head of the family, the home and everything else, and that’s how it should be.

[  Even the most timorous teenage girl couldn't conceive of Bella as intimidating; it's hard to imagine a person more insecure, or a situation better set up to magnify her insecurities. Bella's vampire and werewolf friends are all fantastically strong and fierce as well as nearly indestructible, and she spends the better part of every novel alternately cowering in their protective arms or groveling before their magnificence. "How well I knew that I wasn't good enough for him" is a typical musing on her part. Despite Edward's many protestations and demonstrations of his utter devotion, she persists in believing that he doesn't mean it, and will soon tire of her. In a way, the two are ideally suited to each other: Her insipidity is the counterpart to his flawlessness. Neither of them has much personality to speak of.  ]

Buffy is personality plus! 

This paragraph appears to be the center of the salon piece:

[  The "underdog strange girl" who gets plucked from obscurity by "the best guy in school" is the 21st century's version of the humble governess who captures the heart of the lord of the manor. The chief point of this story is that the couple aren't equals, that his love rescues her from herself by elevating her to a class she could not otherwise join. Unlike Buffy, Bella is no hero. "There are so many girls out there who do not know kung fu, and if a guy jumps in the alley they're not going to turn around with a roundhouse kick," Meyer once told a journalist. "There's a lot of people who are just quieter and aren't having the Prada lifestyle and going to a special school in New York where everyone's rich and fabulous. There's normal people out there and I think that's one of the reasons Bella has become so popular."  ]This is diametrically opposed to the stated objectives Whedon had for Buffy.  Whether or not Whedon completely succeeded with his objective to turn the pursued teen blonde girl in the alley from victim into the victor, just the desire to do is what women need.   So now we’ve turned women back into a Dickensian helpless, hapless girl, only to be acted upon, never to act for herself, and that seems really sad.  Give me Hermione any time!

Has anyone read these Twilight books?  Do you agree with this assessment of them?

This is x-posted on my Live Journal.  The comments there were so interesting that I wanted to see what other people thought too.

Love, C.

The matter seemed resolved, but in the newest issue, No. 12 — written by Drew Goddard, the screenwriter of “Cloverfield” — Buffy and Satsu are in bed, naked under the sheets. “It puts the reader in this ‘Oh my God’ moment,” Mr. Whedon said during a telephone interview. “And it puts Buffy in an ‘Oh my God, what did I just do?’ moment.”

But before fans start blogging frantically, they should know that Mr. Whedon is clear where this is headed. “We’re not going to make her gay, nor are we going to take the next 50 issues explaining that she’s not. She’s young and experimenting, and did I mention open-minded?” ]

 More here.

 Love, C.

“Oil and Blood“
By William Butler Yeats

In tombs of gold and lapis lazuli
Bodies of holy men and women exude
Miraculous oil, odour of violet.

But under heavy loads of trampled clay
Lie bodies of the vampires full of blood;
Their shrouds are bloody and their lips are wet.

. . . y, otra . . .  from Byron’s The Giaour  . . . .

A turban carved in coarsest stone,
A pillar with rank weeds o’ergrown,
Whereon can now be scarcely read
The Koran verse that mourns the dead,
Point out the spot where Hassan fell
A victim in that lonely dell.
There sleeps as true an Osmanlie
As e’er at Mecca bent the knee;
As ever scorn’d forbidden wine,
Or pray’d with face towards the shrine,
In orisons resumed anew
At solemn sound of “Alla Hu!”
Yet died he by a stranger’s hand,
And stranger in his native land;
Yet died he as in arms he stood,
And unavenged, at least in blood.
But him the maids of Paradise
Impatient to their halls invite,
And the dark Heaven of Houris’ eyes
On him shall glance for ever bright;
They come—their kerchiefs green they wave,
And welcome with a kiss the brave!
Who falls in battle ‘gainst a Giaour
Is worthiest an immortal bower.

But thou, false Infidel! shall writhe
Beneath avenging Monkir’s scythe;
And from its torments ‘scape alone
To wander round lost Eblis’ throne;
And fire unquench’d, unquenchable,
Around, within, thy heart shall dwell;
Nor ear can hear nor tongue can tell
The tortures of that inward hell!
But first, on earth as Vampire sent,
Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent:
Then ghastly haunt thy native place,
And suck the blood of all thy race;
There from thy daughter, sister, wife,
At midnight drain the stream of life;
Yet loathe the banquet which perforce
Must feed thy livid living corse:
Thy victims ere they yet expire
Shall know the demon for their sire,
As cursing thee, thou cursing them,
Thy flowers are withered on the stem.
But one that for thy crime must fall,
The youngest, most beloved of all,
Shall bless thee with a father’s name—
That word shall wrap thy heart in flame!
Yet must thou end thy task, and mark
Her cheek’s last tinge, her eye’s last spark,
And the last glassy glance must view
Which freezes o’er its lifeless blue;
Then with unhallow’d hand shalt tear
The tresses of her yellow hair,
Of which in life a lock when shorn
Affection’s fondest pledge was worn,
But now is borne away by thee,
Memorial of thine agony!
Wet with thine own best blood shall drip
Thy gnashing tooth and haggard lip;
Then stalking to thy sullen grave,
Go—and with Gouls and Afrits rave;
Till these in horror shrink away
From Spectre more accursed than they!

The intereview talks extensively about Buffy, Season 8, the probable Season 9 — and the very probable Angel – After the Fall, Brian Lynch doing the outline. 

Which, of course, explains why Angel was always b and c level when compared to Buffy, coz the guy just doesn’t have the imagination, the emotional penetration or sense of rhythm that Whedon’s got.  It would all be great — except there was Buffy … and they dragged all the secondaries in, and that showed why they were the secondaries on Buffy, and not the primary.

He also speaks about the Wonder Woman project, as to why it didn’t work out, and very graciously too.

I checked on The Onion’s website, but though other articles included in this “AV Club” section are there, this isn’t listed.  It is in the paper edition though.  Vaquero very kindly picked it up and brought it home because he thought I’d be interested.  Wasn’t that sweet?

Love, C.

http://www.jstarfilms.com/index.html

It was also simply wonderful to watch a movie where the magic was used in service of the story, not trying to sell any variety of cute tie-in toy or get on the cover of Fangoria.

What is it?  It’s a movie by Guillermo del Toro (who I nearly fainted on top of a few years ago at Comicon when the air conditioners gave out), in Spanish with subtitles, currently out in certain cities but going out everywhere Friday.  Last Comicon, I had to crawl through a giant tree and stick my hand in slime to get a golden key as a movie promo, and this is the main character, Ofelia’s, first task as the fairytale unfolds.  Except her key is cooler, she dodges bugs and toads rather than fanboys, and this all happens against the backdrop of Franco’s Spain rather than Comicon.

I don’t want to spoil anything except to say Go.  Go now.  Go if you’ve ever loved fairytales, especially the dark ones where wicked stepfathers are actively evil, monsters actually eat children, and virtue is its own reward.

Consider it a sort of Christmas card to the blog.

“The Longest, Darkest Night”
by Lois Tilton

The little white lights, like stars.

There is a thin crust of icy snow on the ground. I hear it crunch under my feet. The air is still, crisp and silent. This is my favorite season of the year, the longest night. Somehow I almost feel … there only seems to be one word to describe it – alive.

In this weather I can pull my hood up over my head and wrap a scarf around my face without looking suspicious. To walk like this, out in the open street, is liberating, exhilarating. My step quickens without urgency. I have hours, the whole long night ahead of me.

I enjoy looking at the lights. Almost every house has a tree in the window, and most of the shrubbery outside is illuminated, too. On the corner – a magnificent spruce at least twenty feet high. There must be a thousand white lights.

I can remember the Christmas trees in our parlor when I was a child: those few minutes on Christmas Eve while the candles were lit, the glorious blaze of light. Oh, it was beautiful. And so painstaking to achieve, fastening each little holder, making sure the flame couldn’t touch another branch …

I hear voices up ahead, and I instinctively seek the shadows. It’s a group of children, boys heading home with skates and hockey sticks over their shoulders, strong and vital. I let them pass. Too many of them, and it’s early yet. Besides, I’m enjoying my walk.

A solitary jogger comes past me, stripes flashing silver on her sweatsuit’s arms and legs. The warm fog of her breath hangs in the crisp air, and I can sense the heat and sweat of her exertion, the strong, healthy pulse of blood through her body. I think, if she keeps going into the park, I’ll follow. But instead she turns onto another street, lit by the headlights as she runs against the traffic. I shrug and keep walking. There’ll be another, later on.

I think I hear a radio somewhere ahead, playing Christmas carols. Then I turn around a corner and see them – about two dozen people standing in a rough semicircle in front of a house on the next block, all wearing coats and boots and gloves. Singing.

I’m amazed. A caroling party! I can remember doing this, so long ago. Before …

I watch them, curious, as they finish the carol and move on to the next house, laughing as they get into position. There is a pause, then a woman’s voice begins to sing, and in a moment the rest are joining in: Silent night, holy night …

They go from house to house, closer to where I stand watching, listening. I’m not sure just what I’m doing here. There are twenty of them, at least. It’s late enough now that I’m starting to feel my hunger coming to life. I should be heading back to the shadows of the park, waiting for a solitary man out walking his dog, or a kid taking the shortcut home.

Instead, I’m standing here. It’s not that the singing is all that good. But it isn’t so bad, either, and most of them seem to know all the words to the verses. They’ve obviously rehearsed this, at least once or twice. I find it astonishing, in today’s world, that people would still do this simple sort of thing.

The stars in the sky looked down where he lay …

I glance upward, into the deep black of the sky. They still do.

But now the carolers are crossing the street, coming my way, and I know I’ve waited here too long, I can’t afford to draw attention to myself, let myself be seen. But I still don’t move as they assemble again in front of the brick colonial on the corner, not fifty feet from the tree where I’m standing in the shadow, and the leader begins the first notes of “O Holy Night.” The key she’s chosen is a little too high for most of the singers, and the song is a little ragged. I find myself silently forming the words along with her: the stars are brightly shining …

The thing that I’ve become has lost the capacity for tears. Yet I feel a deep melancholy welling up in my chest, the more painful because it has no means of release. My throat aches. A few yards from me the voices are falling away on the higher notes. The leader’s soprano is almost alone as she reaches the line: O hear the angel voices …

Then, without willing it, I hear my own tenor joining in, supporting her. O night divine!

Her eyes dart in delighted surprise toward the parkway where I’m standing in the tree’s shadow. Most of the others turn around to stare, but a few join in on the final notes. I can see the leader hesitate, but then she begins the more obscure second verse, and I’m with her, I still remember the words.

But it’s my voice that I can barely believe, even as I hear myself. Not in over a hundred years.

But the song comes to an end, and the leader turns around and hurries in my direction. I suddenly realize the tremendous reckless foolishness of what I’m doing, exposing myself this way. I’ve pulled my scarf down from my face so the words won’t be muffled, and now I pull it up again, shivering as if I were cold. I’ve schooled myself over the years not to flinch away from their eyes, but I’m still not ready for this encounter.

The woman is smiling – friendly, welcoming. I can sense the warmth of brandy on her breath and a suggestion of nutmeg – eggnog. Her cheeks are slightly flushed with it, and the cold, and the happiness of what we’ve just done, but the flush is blood, and the closeness of her is flooding my senses.

“That was lovely! We’d be so glad to have you join us,” she’s saying, but I back away a step, from the others surrounding her, the bloodwarmth of their presence, almost overwhelming.

“No,” I say, trying to keep my face in the shadow, “no, it’s already too late, I have to go …”

I hurry away, back toward the darkness and safety of the park. My hunger is aroused now, my senses are acute, but deep inside I’m shaken. The echo of the song, the thrill of the high, clear notes ringing in the air – had I really done that? I try to clear my throat, but all I manage is a constricted croak. After so many years …

It doesn’t matter. Nothing has changed. The night is silent. The loudest sound comes from the slow heartbeats of a nest of squirrels dormant in the branches of a nearby locust tree. I cross slowly to the other side of the park beyond the frozen lake. The floodlights where the hockey players had been skating are dark now. Everyone has gone home.

No. I hear them now, the sound of running shoes – crunch, crunch, hitting the snow-crusted pavement. Coming closer, the breath pumping in and out of his lungs, the warmth of it. A man in strong condition, his breathing is regular as he jogs, even in this cold. Plain gray sweatsuit, no reflective stripes, a navy watch cap pulled down over his ears.

I see where the path goes past a stand of trees, a good place for shadows. My hunger is working in me now. I pull the scarf away. By the time he sees my face, it will be too late.

A midnight clear. The stars in the sky look down, silent and bright and cold.

Where he lies. In the bloodstained snow.

Sleep in heavenly peace.

copyright 1991 by Lois Tilton

I also have the contract in hand now, so I can go ahead and broach radio (or actually blog) silence.  Last spring, I met up with Robert Mims, a new producer looking for material for a short film.  I sent him a copy of “Clove Smoke,” a short of mine that’s been well-received and even translated into Spanish.  Next thing I know, I’m looking at a screenplay adaptation by Robert’s writing partner, Justin Queen.

A thumbs up, and next thing we’re in the fast track.  Principal shooting finished yesterday at the House of Shields in San Francisco, where I’d gone both to get to see the actual production of the filming of my story, and to set myself up for a cameo as background.  Stephen Watts, the director, then surprised me by offering me the role of the bartender, since it gave me a speaking line and also offered some contrast visually since I’d known the color palette the production designer was going with and I’d dressed to match it, adding the red that the principal actors weren’t wearing for the scene.

I also got to meet the actors, Anissa and Jason, who are playing Aurora and Jimmy, a strange bit of serendipity giving them the same initials.  They were great, both in terms of acting and in looking the parts.  The second, in fact, even better than I’d pictured them, thanks to Anissa’s wardrobe (she’s also a model) and Kirsten Larsen’s skill as production designer.  Richard Cascio, the director of photography, was also getting some amazing shots, or at least from what I was getting to see literally looking over his shoulder–one shot was from the bardtender’s perspective, so I was standing right behind him so Jason could get the right line of sight to my eyes for when we later reversed the shot.

And I stepped on a light box one of the grips had left behind the bar, mistaking it for some sort of platform you’re supposed to step on.  However, one fluorescent bulb is not a disaster and it was fascinating to watch a full production up close.  The dolly shot curving around the bar was particularly amazing.

What was also amazing was the location.  The House of Shields is a hundred years old, literally, being built in 1906 and opened in 1908 (delays caused by the great quake and fire).  Edwardian lamps, the bar from the old Palace Hotel, coffered ceilings and so on.  Gorgeous.

1. Monsters that don’t eat children.

I’m sorry, but I have to ask–what’s not to like about children?  They’re small, tender, slow-moving, and are easily lured into gingerbread houses–how hard can it be?  Yes, fate, in the form of the author, may conspire against you, but that’s no excuse for not offing at least one child, even off stage in the past.  This goes double for horribly evil dark wizards who lead reigns of terror across the countryside only to have it all blow up in their face when they try to kill even one baby.  (Yes, this means you, Lord Voldymort, and tell the so-called “Wicked Witch” I said “Hi”).

Same problem, different day, with ancient evils, devils and demons who seem to be fans of The Godfather, starting out on their reigns of terror by killing family pets, then boring family retainers or dull recluses who no one would miss much anyway, then working up to the adults and still never quite getting around to the kids.  Hello, you’re supposed to be the Forces of Hell, not uptight Italian Catholics still vaguely concerned with getting into Heaven.

When the average nursery bogey has a higher bodycount than you, how do you expect anyone to take you seriously?

2. Evils that never manage to kill anyone.

As a subset of this are evils coasting by on their old laurels.  (Yes, this means you again, Lord Voldymort.  Six books and all you’ve managed to kill is one teenager, one unicorn, and a boring family caretaker who could have been killed by local punks for all the difference it makes.)

How do we know you’re evil if you don’t actually kill people?  I’m not talking stacking corpses like cordwood (though it would be nice), but one or two victims at least gives us the idea that you’re serious.

3. The Marvelous Fantastic Land of the Boring Food

While there is a certain entertaining comfort in the fact that Babylon 5′s Narn has something that looks, smells and tastes like Swedish meatballs, and fully realizing that everywhere you go there will be some variety of flat bread and stuff to spread on it, one of the biggest keys to both culture and characterization is what people like to eat. Go traveling, and if you can’t afford that, just pick up a “Foods of the World” cookbook. What they’re serving at the local diner is not what they’re going to be serving in the middle ages, especially not in a land which has actual flying dragons. And don’t have all your characters eating and liking the same damn thing. Have you ever tried to order a pizza with a group? Why on earth should it be any different in fantasy land? If all your character’s tastes are the same, and all the food is the same as current day earth of your locale, you’re not inventing anything new, and moreover, all you’re writing is your own personal food porn.

4. Impossible Imports

I realize fully that coffee, tea, chocolate and silk are luxuries we adore and even necessities we need, but there are also certain biological facts about the plants these come from which you need to take into account. The Scandinavians can brew a mean cup of joe, but the reason they’re able to do this is global trade to get coffee beans from the tropics. Unless this is going on in your world, reliably, you’re not going to get any of these things in the far regions except as an extremely rare luxury good.

Moreover, if there’s anything you use a lot of, let us see the source of it, even if just in the distance or in passing. I still remember an old Siskel & Ebert review, I believe of one of the Beastmaster movies, where they asked, “Since we see so much leather in these movies, why do we never see a cow?” And if you’ve got an extended war, let’s see some famine not to mention raised prices of luxury imports which are obviously not getting through, okay? I wanted to buy some Aleppo pepper a couple years ago but the spice trader was all out. Why? Because Aleppo is in Syria and trade is kind of messed up at the moment. Things like that would happen in fantasy worlds too.

5. Failure to Abuse the System

This is what happens when you fail to connect Clark’s Law “Any sufficiently advanced science is indistinguishable from magic” (and vice versa) with Gibson’s observation “The street will find its uses.” This is also known as the artificial enforcement of genre, where a particular use/abuse of any given magic/technology fails to occur to anyone because the author has the orbital mind control lasers going to keep people from taking advantage of it. I realize that a certain amount of suspension of disbelief is necessary for any fantasy, but as once said by some famous comedian I’m forgetting, there’s a difference between suspending disbelief and hanging it by the neck until dead.

6. Unbelievable Utopias & Absurd Dystopias, especially ones that are thinly veiled political tracts

I know that our stock in trade includes a lot of wish fulfillment and cautionary tales–and sometimes both at the same time–but for myself, all good or all bad simply doesn’t work. Similarly, while I’ve noticed that same-sex marriage, religious freedom and women’s reproductive rights are all currently hotbutton issues, and granted that a whole school of literature is commentary on society, I have a real problem believing in worlds that read more as propaganda than as fully realized alternate realities. I can picture a world where same-sex marriage is accepted and ordinary, but I can’t picture one where all marriages are happy and healthy and don’t occasionally end in ugly divorces if not outright murder. Likewise, while I can picture a world where whole classes of people are enslaved, tortured and so on, I can’t picture one where this is done with 100% efficiency and zeal and where all of the people doing the assorted evil shit are 100% with the program. Sorry, won’t buy it. And while I can somewhat deal with the idea that ancient goddess worshippers acted remarkably like modern Berkeley neo-pagans (emphasis: somewhat), I refuse to buy that every priestess you run into is going to be uniformly wise, compassionate, knowledgeable and kind. Where are the incompetent bitchy ones who are just in it for the kewl magical powerz? If you have witches whose magic actually works, there’s going to be someone who says, “Hot damn! That’s for me!” and completely forget the ethics requirement.

My first lesson in how to do a Utopia right came as a kid reading Edith Nesbitt’s The Story of the Amulet where the Edwardian kids step forward in time to the clean shining future utopia and the first person they encounter is a little boy crying because he’s being shunned for littering. The protagonists conclude that the future is better than their present, but parts of it still suck. Similarly, if you’ve got a dystopia, the quickest way to make real is to let us meet someone who never got the memo and is leading a happy life anyway, or at least having a nice day.