And Now The Whining Starts

Dear Diablo,

No one cares what shoes Robert Towne is wearing. Until I read in the newspaper that he's been seen wearing a french split toe from J.M. Weston, whatever you're wearing is between you and your left and rights.

You've been doing really well lately, and you seem like you've got a good head on your shoulders, so you must have been waiting for the other diamond-encrusted shoe to drop. Still, coming off what should have been a universally-accepted bit of awesomeness like winning the Oscar, seeing you get slagged online over your choice of footwear of all things is a shame. Seeing as very few of us will ever take a meeting over which pair of slides we'd be endorsing by way of foot, I don't think too many people can question your behavior.

As for why spec-writing wretches are now gathering with torches and pitchforks against you, it's because you used to be one of them until you started winning awards, and now that the world has seen you win the Oscar, you are most definitely Not One Of Them.

In the end, one can't write with their feet, but if we could, you'd still be a better writer than most of the green-eyed wannabes railing against you. Hold that golden bastard high, you've earned it.

Tom

Reality Rocks My Boat

I was reading this true story today and I was reminded of the post-Oscar inspiration I was feeling Sunday night, the feeling that juices up your "Yes I Can" a few notches. While sitting up after the show and feeding my daughter a bottle, I was running through story ideas in my head and one idea floated to the top, an extrapolation of the actual experiences of a friend of mine. Since this friend is more than capable of writing out and publishing her story if she wanted to, I've never pursued the idea of putting it to paper myself, but still the idea came back, mostly fictionalized but with the one anecdote I first felt made her story potentially cinematic the only remaining thing specific to her actual experience. The circumstance would be generally the same, but beyond geographic specifics necessary for the story, the rest would be fiction.

I tucked that idea away Sunday and thought of it again today while reading the Cougar Ace story and thinking someone must have snatched up the film rights to the article already since it lays out a macho team of mercenary adventurers on a dangerous mission right at the outset. That led me to thinking about my friend's story and whether or not to arrange for the rights to put elements of her own and her family's life experiences onscreen. Have any of you ever thought about or done something like this? I'm sure the specifics of what to do legally are obtainable, that's not what I'm concerned with. Rather, I'm interested in the dynamic such an arrangement brought to your relationship with your friend or acquaintance.

Wow, Sony Finally Wins A Format War

I'm into high-def, as is my right as a red-blooded American male. At first it had more to do with the aspect ratio than anything else, the 4:3 AR for television just seemed too narrow for modern programming. Seeing modern European films where TVs were displaying the Euro PALPlus 16:9 aspect ratio made me jealous. As I worked in video post-production, the standard-def 4:3 looked low-class next to even letterboxed standard-def, the equivalent of wearing horse-blinders rotated 90 degrees. While working for a firm a few years back that was remastering stock footage to high-def tape, I got to stare at HD footage all day for a few months and I was spoiled for less than HD at home and at work. I offer this in my own defense in case you're one of those folks that says a show is a show is a show, because there is a world of difference between say Lost in standard def and Lost in HD. Hell, even Jeopardy likes to party in HD.

So it was with interest that I began to follow the format war that a group of manufacturers led by Sony launched against another group led by Toshiba four or five years ago. Back then it was Toshiba's AOD vs. Sony's Blu-Ray, with Blu-Ray the latecoming underdog. Eventually AOD took the catch-all moniker the industry had generally given the emergent technology, HD-DVD.

I was a high schooler when the VHS vs. Betamax war was going on, and since Sony's Beta technology was better (and grew into the Betacam spec used across the broadcast industry), I was sorry to see Sony lose out. Sony has had bad luck with new formats ever since.

Seeing the format war gain momentum online was a new wrinkle, however, and I think the internet had a huge impact on the fight. I'm not talking about the fanboy drivel in forums, but the speed at which news hits the target consumer base. Sites reporting that Warner had dropped their HD-DVD exclusivity last month mere moments after Warner had issued their press release was as big a blow than the announcement itself, I think. The Syms retail chain advertises that an educated consumer is their best customer. Well, educated consumers became Best Buy and Circuit City's worst customers that day, bringing back the HD-DVD players they'd received for Christmas by the truckload. Last week's three 'We're dropping HD-DVD' announcements from Netflix, Best Buy and (the biggest blow of all) Wal-Mart even hit the mainstream news sites. Toshiba never had a chance to try and move their remaining player stock to uninformed buyers.

Toshiba announced this morning that they are dropping their format by the end of March. Of the two last exclusive studios, Universal has already announced plans to release new and catalog titles on Blu-Ray, and Paramount is expected to follow sooner than later. Having just one format should open the floodgates on catalog titles now that the studios know the consumers won't be waffling on which format to buy, so that's great news for someone like me that wants to see some old favorites released. As it is, I'm glad to finally be able to order the new Blade Runner package in an HD format. I just hope Universal gets on the stick and starts opening their catalog up. I'll pick the first three titles for you, Uni: Jaws, The Sting and Serenity.

Look Up 'Cantankerous', There's His Picture

Years ago in my late teens, I made my way into Manhattan to (what was then) the New York Penta Hotel to my last sci-fi convention. When I was fifteen, taking a ride into the city to look at old posters and props and get David Prowse or Jimmy Doohan's autograph was cool (Mr. Doohan was a gracious and charming man, I must say, but David Prowse was an autograph machine - 'Next, please...Next, please..."). One weekend we saw Tom Savini showing off pieces from Creepshow about a year before release and completely out of context, pulling out Adrienne Barbeau's shredded face (the thing under the stairs was supposed to spit it out onto the floor...Yeah, ick.) and E.G. Marshall's head from a cardboard box. It was an odd time to be a geek; we had great, great movies coming out but there were very few channels of information to learn about them from, and none of them had a lead time faster than Starlog or Famous Monsters, so a convention filled with nerd effluvia was Mecca.

But as I got older, the company that ran the cons shifted their emphasis from pricey New York to Los Angeles and the NY shows began to fade. That last show I attended was moved from the main convention floor to a series of spaces mapped out in one ballroom; tiny trade show to one side, presentations room on the other. I was on my way out when I heard over the PA that in five minutes Harlan Ellison would begin his presentation.

That made me turn around and come back. I didn't know much about the man, but I did remember he'd written a great Trek episode, and that made him cool, so I figured I'd hang for a bit. I wound up staying for the whole hour. Ellison was actually onstage with someone else, maybe a current collaborator, I don't know who, but the other guy obviously knew to be quiet and let the Mouth roar. Ellison was on fire, blasting anything he didn't approve of and lavishing praise on the few things he did (he lit up when someone mentioned Blackadder and he started singing the closing theme song from memory). I couldn't possibly tell you everything he talked about, but I can tell you he can command a room effectively.

Now that the WGA strike is all but buried, Ellison has come out with a statement regarding the settlement. I'd say he's disappointed (and though I usually refrain from cussing on the interwebs when I can, I'm going to let Mr. Ellison have his say any way he sees fit).

HARLAN ELLISON ON THE WRITERS STRIKE SETTLEMENT

YOU HAVE MY PERMISSION TO RE-POST THIS ANYWHERE:

Creds: got here in 1962, written for just about everybody, won the Writers Guild Award four times for solo work, sat on the WGAw Board twice, worked on negotiating committees, and was out on the picket lines with my NICK COUNTER SLEEPS WITH THE FISHE$$$ sign. You may have heard my name. I am a Union guy, I am a Guild guy, I am loyal. I fuckin’ LOVE the Guild.

And I voted NO on accepting this deal.

My reasons are good, and they are plentiful; Patric Verrone will be saddened by what I am about to say; long-time friends will shake their heads; but this I say without equivocation…

THEY BEAT US LIKE A YELLOW DOG. IT IS A SHIT DEAL. We finally got a timorous generation that has never had to strike, to get their asses out there, and we had to put up with the usual cowardly spineless babbling horse’s asses who kept mumbling “lessgo bac’ta work” over and over, as if it would make them one iota a better writer. But after months on the line, and them finally bouncing that pus-sucking dipthong Nick Counter, we rushed headlong into a shabby, scabrous, underfed shovelfulla shit clutched to the affections of toss-in-the-towel summer soldiers trembling before the Awe of the Alliance.

My Guild did what it did in 1988. It trembled and sold us out. It gave away the EXACT co-terminus expiration date with SAG for some bullshit short-line substitute; it got us no more control of our words; it sneak-abandoned the animator and reality beanfield hands before anyone even forced it on them; it made nice so no one would think we were meanies; it let the Alliance play us like the village idiot. The WGAw folded like a Texaco Road Map from back in the day.

And I am ashamed of this Guild, as I was when Shavelson was the prexy, and we wasted our efforts and lost out on technology that we had to strike for THIS time. 17 days of streaming tv!!!????? Geezus, you bleating wimps, why not just turn over your old granny for gang-rape?

You deserve all the opprobrium you get. While this nutty festschrift of demented pleasure at being allowed to go back to work in the rice paddy is filling your cowardly hearts with joy and relief that the grips and the staff at the Ivy and street sweepers won’t be saying nasty shit behind your back, remember this:

You are their bitches. They outslugged you, outthought you, outmaneuvered you; and in the end you ripped off your pants, painted yer asses blue, and said yes sir, may I have another.

Please excuse my temerity. I’m just a sad old man who has fallen among Quislings, Turncoats, Hacks and Cowards.

I must go now to whoops. My gorge has become buoyant.

Respectfully, Yr. Pal, Harlan Ellison

Vote Early, Vote Often

I'm glad to see there will be a vote tomorrow on lifting the WGA strike, I'm certain the good (everyone gets back to work) outweighs the bad (vocal minority doesn't like the 17-day clause of the deal). There's a nice article covering the human element of the big Saturday meeting here in New York from Sunday's NY Daily News. To underline the point of the article that the average person wouldn't recognize a writer on the street, I noticed CNN.com's front page article on the meeting featured, as a visual representation of writers in attendance, a shot of Michael Moore. Filmmaker, yes, and union guy, absolutely, but hardly your typical TV or film writer.

Already the industry is said to be running in post-strike mode and one can only think that the SAG agreement will be wrapped up before the old agreement expires. I do wonder, though, about the after effects of the strike, the relationships between writers and the below-the-line folk affected by the work stoppage.

Good luck, everyone, it's good to know you'll all be back to work soon.

Let's Make A Deal

I can't access the particulars of the proposed deal with the WGA from their site since I'm not a member, but I have faith the negotiators have taken care to address the interests of the guild and its members (although I reserve the right to change my mind once the details become more public). I just paid a visit to United Hollywood and see there is already loud vocal dissent, so I'm eager to see what today's bi-coastal meeting will bring forth. My hope is this is a good deal (remember, the idea is to settle the conflict, not destroy your opponent) and that everyone, EVERYONE, can get back to work.

Stuff I Like This Week

Free videos from iTunes. This week I grabbed the preface to Lost's fourth season, Past, Present & Future. I get as many freebies as I can from iTunes, it helps even out my mental iTunes ledger.


The teaser poster for the next James Bond flick, titled Quantum of Solace. Casino Royale was great, I'm loving the Bond-as-blunt-instrument angle they're using for the character rather than the ridiculous fop Roger Moore wound up playing toward the end.


Using your head. (Yes, I know this makes me the kabillionth person on the web to reference The Play. Get used to it.)



The 50th (and last) episode of Dinner for Five. Vince Vaughn, Peter Billingsley, Justin Long, Keir O'Donnell and Jon Favreau discuss, among other things, chewing tobacco, Ted Levine impressions and The Dirt Bike Kid.


Homemade frosting, made by my wife and son on my birthday. No, there's no picture, the frosting won't last long enough for me to snap a photo.

Giant Inspiration

If you were watching what happened in a movie, you'd have never believed it. It was too perfect, too much of a dramatic turnaround to be truthful.

It gets more unbelievable the deeper you get into the story. Take a young quarterback, right out of college. He's good, good enough to have won several awards, just not the Heisman, the big prize for college footballers. The kid gets drafted by a team in a small-to-medium sized market, a team that with only 4 wins the previous season has earned the right to pick first from the eligible college pool, but just before the draft occurs, the kid tells the team if they draft him, he won't sign a contract. Already, before he throws one pass, the kid looks like a jerk, maybe one with a chip on his shoulder. After all, his older brother is already in the NFL, having made a huge debut as a rookie quarterback himself years earlier.

The kid wants to play for a big market team, and luckily there's one that wants him in the biggest market there is, New York City. Big team makes deal with small team, giving up the rights to pick college players later that year and the next year, plus trading away the player they'd snagged with their first-round pick. The kid goes to New York, and after such a costly trade, the spotlight is on him.

His first year, however, the kid doesn't start. The team shepherds him along by giving him a mentor, a veteran QB on the tail end of his short career. Halfway through the season, the veteran falters, and the coach puts the kid in as starter for the rest of the season. He loses five in a row, finally winning the last game with a late touchdown. The next two years, the kid is inconsistent, his performance rating far below his contemporaries. The public sours to him, the press routinely referring to him in disparaging headlines.

Now we're in the kid's fourth season, and the most public face (and mouth) of his big city team quits and jumps into television, using his very first broadcasts to tear the kid's reputation apart, calling his attempts at leadership comical, even laughing about whether the kid's "testes [were] finally dropping." The season starts and the team loses the first two games, their opponents scoring a total of 80 points against them. The press writes them off for the year, no one thinking an 0-2 team could bounce back after such a blow. They're down 7 points going into the fourth quarter of their third game when they score twice, putting them up seven, but their opponent drives them downfield in the final seconds of the game. All seems lost, until the defense successfully keeps them out of the end zone, a demonstration of will and strength that will keep the kid's team believing the rest of the season. The following week, they begin a display of defensive force unlike anything they could have hinted at in the weeks prior. Offensive linemen are knocked aside, all-star quarterbacks are plowed into the turf before they can get rid of the ball. The rest of the team is excelling, setting the stage for the kid to come into his own.

But he's still struggling with interceptions and weak decisions. His team wins six in a row, but not against any particularly strong teams. In a rematch against their division leader, they lose again, unable to score a touchdown at all in the second half. A squeakout win the next week, a complete blowout loss the next and two narrow wins follow, but the team is losing key players to season-ending injuries. A loss in a nationally-broadcast game and a win against a low-ranked opponent sends the team into the playoffs in a wild-card berth and brings the kid to his biggest opponent in the last week of the season: The Perfect Team.

No one else has been able to stop The Perfect Team all season. They score an average over 35 points per game. Their star receiver is the best in the game, and is not afraid to tell you so. They've won three Super Bowls in the past six seasons. Their quarterback...well, their quarterback is perceived to be everything the kid isn't. He's confident, a passing machine. He'll close the season with a record 50 touchdown passes. He's a brand name, the darling of the media, a serial-dater of women unattainable to mere mortal men. He's just dumped his actress girlfriend in her eighth month of pregnancy with his baby, but this scandal can't touch him or his greatness as he merely picks up where he left off with the biggest supermodel around, squiring her to all the best nightclubs and into the gossip pages, mostly in the kid's team city, outmatching him socially without blinking. Prepare all you want, work out all you want, practice all you want. YOU WILL NOT BEAT THE PERFECT TEAM.

But the kid isn't phased. He doesn't even look tense. The press, so used to seeing star athletes showing the strain of achievement on their faces like a tribal tattoo, can't reconcile the kid's desire and heart with his puppydog expression. The press even questions the coach, wondering why he'd bother playing the game at all instead of sending in his second-string.

The anticipation for the game is unprecendented for a regular season matchup. Three national networks carry the game. Everyone wants to see The Perfect Team get their Perfect Season.

But someone forgets to tell the kid. He's solid on his feet, throwing for over 250 yards and four touchdowns. In the end, The Perfect Team squeaks by, winning by 3, tying their most narrow point margin all season. Out of this loss, however, a new fire begins to fuel the kid and his team. They know now what they are capable of. They are confident. They're not perfect, but they're hungry.

Every expert in the game says they'll lose in their first playoff game. After all, the quarterback they're facing has beaten them before.

They win, and handily, taking the lead in the second quarter and not looking back.

Every expert in the game says they'll lose in their second playoff game. After all, they're facing a team that's beaten them twice this season, won the division they share and features the next great quarterback leading America's Team.

They win, limiting America's Team to three points in the second half.

Every expert in the game says they'll lose in their third playoff game. After all, they're facing a great veteran quarterback in what could be his last season, a fantasy season that has captivated the media with its poignancy, plus they'll be playing in sub-freezing temperatures in the other team's storied stadium amidst their avid fans.

They win there too, in a game that would be a nail-biter if you dared expose your bare fingers in the -24 degree wind chill. Tied at the end of regulation, their opponent wins the coin toss in overtime and gets the ball first. The veteran begins his storybook drive to the end zone---and throws an interception. The kid gets back on the field and can't get very far. They call on their kicker, who has already missed two field goals that day due to bad snaps from frozen fingers. This time, the snap is good, the kick is good.

The kid is going to the Super Bowl.

Against The Perfect Team.

Every expert and every casual expert and every once-in-a-blue-moon football fan and everyone who watches just for the commercials says they'll lose the Super Bowl to The Perfect Team. The onslaught of dazzling offense and experienced defense will knock them silly. Despite their post-season achievements, the kid and his teammates are still 12-point underdogs. They won't win. They can't win. They'll be playing against destiny and they don't stand a chance.

But they do win the game. It's not pretty or graceful or even perfect, but when it looks like they're down and won't be able to scratch their way back, the kid pulls his team down the field and scores the winning touchdown. They and he are finally celebrated as champions, respected as great players and heralded as making a historic contribution to the game. More people see him named the most valuable player than have seen any other sporting event.

Millions watched this unfold as fans. I watched the game on Sunday and felt inspired. Eli Manning has been maligned by the press, booed by fans and at best underestimated by his opponents, yet he still was able to keep focused on the game, perform at his best and lead his team to fight together, and after the Giants won the Super Bowl, he didn't gloat, didn't brag. He stayed humble and respectful, even on the world stage where he could have said anything in his defense.

This is the measure of a man, a champion, a hero. This is a giant inspiration. Thank you, Eli.

Taking The Day Off

I've got my feet up, a hot cup of coffee, my daughter snoozing in her swing at my side and the Giants victory parade on the TV. It's a good birthday. I'll see you tomorrow to give you my take on the Super Bowl and what it meant to me (and it's not just about football).