Spotlight: “Iron Fist” Season One

Warning: spoilers for season one of “Iron Fist” follow.

…Oh boy……

Ever since “Iron Fist” premiered on Netflix back in March, it’s been panned by many critics.  It’s easily considered the worst of the Marvel Netflix shows and possibly even one of the worst shows on Netflix period.  The reception to it was so bad that Finn Jones, the actor who plays the main character in the show, blamed Donald Trump for the negative perception of the show.  According to him, because of the wide distrust of the president people can’t root for Danny Rand because he’s a white billionaire superhero.

 

This is the appropriate reaction to what you just heard.

 

But I digress.  “Iron Fist” is currently sitting at a 37 on Metacritic and a 17% on Rotten Tomatoes.  Why?  Were critics just being unfair?  Was the show really made more for the fans like Finn Jones also suggested?  Or was there something else, a reason that the show was so negatively received?

Well, as it turns out, there was a reason.  You see, “Iron Fist” season one is boring.  Like, really boring.  I have to admit that I struggled watching through the entire thing.  That’s not to say that there aren’t good points to the show, but they’re faint pinpricks of light in an otherwise gloomy sea of tedium.

And the problem starts with Danny Rand himself.

Now, to be fair to Finn Jones, I don’t think he’s a bad actor.  He does a serviceable job here.  The main problem is the character.  But before we get into that, we have to give some backstory.  As a kid, Danny Rand was in a plane crash with his parents in the Himalayan mountains and was the only survivor.  After being rescued by a pair of mysterious monks, Danny spends his formative years in a place called K’un-Lun, a mystical monastery that is only accessible every fifteen years.  There he learns martial arts and gains the power of the Iron Fist, turning him into a mystical living weapon.  He returns to New York fifteen years after his supposed death and tries to reclaim the life he once had.

The thing is, Danny Rand is perfect…too perfect.  In fact, he’s so perfect he’s boring.  He spouts off Zen sayings left and right.  He’s in total control of his emotions (at least in the beginning).  And he’s practically unbeatable in a fight.  I mean he walks into the dojo of Colleen Wing (one of the side characters) and almost immediately schools her in martial arts.  It’s ridiculous.  And then later on, any time his company runs into a scandal, he always does the morally righteous thing.  And I mean always.  There’s nothing interesting about his character because there’s no flaws to his character.  At least, not until like three-quarters through the season when the writers suddenly decide that his guilt over the death of his parents clouds his judgement and renders him unable to summon the Iron Fist most of the time.  If this was implemented from the beginning of the season, that would be one thing.  But the way it just shows up later is jarring.

 

The impeccable Danny Rand.

 

Danny Rand reminds me of that stereotypical rich guy who constantly shares pictures of his vacations on Facebook or Instagram.  You know the type: you constantly see them posing in sun-bathed tropical locales or other exotic locations.   And they’re always spouting off life wisdom like they know that’s best for everyone else.

But enough about Danny.  What about all the side charac-

They’re boring.  Just…boring.  Aside from Colleen, the dojo teacher that becomes his love interest, none of the characters really have anything important or interesting going on (except for maybe Joy…I found some of her scenes to be kind of interesting).  I don’t care about the day-to-day business of the Rand corporation.  I don’t care about corporate backstabbing.  And I certainly don’t care about a boring subplot dealing with painkiller addiction.  Seriously, screw that noise.  It’s like the show is caught between being a bad superhero show and a bad soap opera.

And the pacing…oh god the pacing.  It’s so off.  Like I said before, the main problem with “Iron Fist” is that it’s just boring.  I hope you like martial arts poses because I swear that at least sixty percent of this show is people striking martial arts poses and talking about what they’re going to do next instead of, you know, actually doing it.

 

Who cares about plot when you can strike some sick poses brah?

 

Even the title sequence is boring.  “Daredevil”, “Jessica Jones”, and “Luke Cage” all had nuance in their title sequences that hinted at certain aspects of their characters or overall themes for the show.  What does “Iron Fist” have?  A silhouette of a man leaving inky trails all over the place as he strikes a bunch of poses.

 

Whoo…it’s so good guys. I’m not even being sarcastic…

 

And speaking of pacing, my god the show has no idea how to build or sustain momentum.  When the show isn’t being dull and full of people talking or striking poses, things seem to happen way too quickly.  For example, the end of the first episode has Danny being drugged by his former friends Joy and Ward Meachum, then being placed in a mental hospital.  And then he breaks out of the mental hospital at the end of the second episode.  Like…what?  This is the kind of stuff you do in the middle of the season, not at the beginning.  Not only that, but the show spends the first four episodes or so dealing with Danny trying to prove his identity.  And there isn’t even a real payoff to it.  The conflict is abruptly resolved and the people trying to keep Danny from getting back into the company are suddenly like “hey Danny we’re your friends again…we can just forget about that whole mental hospital thing right?”

There are so many little things with this show that I could complain about.  A villain becomes a not-villain only to suddenly become a villain again later on in the season.  The characters spend way too much time talking about duty and honor.  The last episode feels like it belongs in an entirely different season.  Certain things just happen without any real explanation (I still don’t understand how Danny suddenly winds up in a freaking penthouse after being kicked out of Colleen’s dojo).  Characters make decisions that don’t make any sense.

It’s a mess.  But if I keep going, this review will go on forever.

In the end, I feel like if the show had been done with a lighthearted tone, things probably would have worked out better.  The silly nature of Danny’s character and all the overemphasized martial arts combat doesn’t really blend well with the show’s dead serious tone.  But even if they did go for a lighter tone, then it just wouldn’t fit with the other shows.  Any way you slice it, “Iron Fist” just fails to deliver.

And yet, it was still Netflix’s most binge-watched drama.  Kinda sad when you think about it, but that’s the power of Marvel.  People will watch it regardless, especially because of how the stories are interconnected.

All I can say is that I hope “The Defenders” was worth it.  Because Marvel has seemed to be in a hurry to get that out the door for the past couple of years, and that has led to a decrease in quality for the Netflix shows.  The second season of “Daredevil” felt disjointed at times, with two major arcing plots that didn’t seem to mesh together well.  The second half of “Luke Cage” season one saw a complicated villain being swapped out for one that had very little depth and whose only motivation is revenge against Cage.  But clearly, “Iron Fist” was hit the worst.  There’s so much unnecessary subplot that could have been left out in favor of focusing on making Danny not suck as a character and giving him an origin story that’s actually enjoyable to watch.  But as it stands, “Iron Fist” season one is only worth watching for the connection to “The Defenders”.

If you watch it on its own hoping for a good standalone story, you’ll most likely end up disappointed.

 

But hey, at least there’s martial arts poses…right?

 

Thanks for reading.  Check back next Wednesday for a new post, and as always, have a wonderful week.

You can like the Rumination on the Lake Facebook page here or follow me on Twitter here.

You Asked For This

This past weekend in Charlottesville, Virginia, something terrible happened.  White nationalists marched in Charlottesville to protest the removal of a Civil War era Confederate statue.  They were met with counter-protesters marching against hate and racism.  At some point, the violence broke out and culminated in a car ramming into counter-protesters, injuring over a dozen and killing thirty-eight-year-old Heather Heyer.

Now, I’m not going to sit here and say racism is bad.  Of course racism is bad.  And of course groups like the white supremacists who showed up last Saturday are repugnant and loathsome.

I’m not going to sit here and criticize President Trump for his initial response to the situation.  Nor am I going to go on a rant about how it took him forty-eight hours to condemn white supremacists and neo-Nazis by name.  I think the internet, the public, and the media have done a good enough job of that already.

No…what I want to talk about is this:

 

 

How about another one?

 

 

Still not getting the point yet?  Let’s take a look at one more:

 

 

I’ve seen memes like this posted all over Facebook in the past year or two.  To the people who have actually shared these memes, I have only one thing to say:

You asked for this.  The callous attitude expressed by the memes above is what made Charlottesville happen.  Republican legislators have even called for legal protections for people who hit protesters with their cars.

This is what you wanted.  I hope you’re pleased with yourselves.

And I know someone out there will say it.  “It was just a joke.  I didn’t actually want protesters to get hit.  Stop getting so triggered you snowflake!”  Well Kathy Griffin holding up a fake version of Trump’s head was “just a joke”, but I didn’t see many conservatives jumping to defend her free speech rights.  Because that’s the world we live in today, isn’t it?  It’s all about freedom of speech…until someone says something you don’t like.  Then they should just get out of the country, right?

Besides, I doubt it was a joke for everyone sharing those memes.  No…I bet there are a few cold-hearted individuals out there who were hoping something like this would happen eventually.

It’s amazing to me how many people will back off when it comes to acknowledging the racism in white supremacy for what it is.  And that includes our president.  Even though the marchers were chanting things like “white lives matter” and “Jews will not replace us”, people still refuse to call them what they are.  It’s as if they’re afraid to acknowledge the fact that these groups even still exist.  They keep using euphemisms to describe the groups, as if trying to soften the blow for themselves.  It doesn’t matter.  They are who they are.  And they didn’t just suddenly appear.  They’ve always been there.  The current political climate has merely emboldened them, made them feel safer in espousing their toxic, hateful worldviews.

And yes, I know people on the other side can be violent as well.  That doesn’t excuse what happened.  It wasn’t a crazed leftist that hit Heather Heyer.  And it wasn’t the left advocating for laws protecting drivers who hit protesters.  Any way you slice it, Saturday showed us just how dangerous extremist rhetoric on the right can be.

So please, don’t deflect from the situation by saying “but the left is violent too!”  It doesn’t change anything.  It’s a false equivalency.  Even if it comes out that the counter-protesters engaged in extreme violence or even started the violence (which we may never know due to the chaos of that day), it doesn’t change the fact that the people marching were there to protest the removal of a Confederate symbol, a symbol that stood for a faction fighting to keep an entire group of people enslaved.  It will never change the fact that the Confederacy was fighting against equal rights.  If all this was really about preserving some kind of heritage, then that’s part of the heritage they are trying to preserve.

I don’t know what’s going to happen going forward.  Our president doesn’t seem to know either.  He initially blamed “many sides” for the violence before issuing another statement on Monday condemning white supremacists, neo-Nazis and the KKK.  But then, just yesterday he returned to his previous statement, blaming what he called the “alt-left” for some of the violence as well.  I think we’re standing at a crossroads, and soon we’re going to have to make a choice to decide what kind of future our country will have.  Do we continue forward with the progress we’ve been making?  Or do we let the country slip back by fifty to a hundred years, back to a time when racism was far more acceptable than it is now?

I know my answer.  Do you?

 

Thanks for reading.  Check back next Wednesday for another post, and as always, have a wonderful week.

You can like the Rumination on the Lake Facebook page here or follow me on Twitter here.

Spotlight: Dunkirk

Warning: minor spoilers for Dunkirk follow.

I’ve never been a big fan of war movies.  There’s only so many times I can be told that “war is hell” by watching a ragtag group of soldiers make their way through hell and back before it gets old.  This is why, despite the Oscar buzz around it, I’ve never been particularly interested in seeing “Hacksaw Ridge”.

Enter “Dunkirk”.  All of the pre-release hype surrounding the movie billed it as something totally different.

And you know what?  For once, the hype wasn’t wrong.

“Dunkirk” is about the event itself more than the people involved in it, which on its own is unique for the genre.  But the movie takes a non-linear approach as well.  The story is told from three different points of view: on land taking place over a week, on the sea taking place over a day, and in the air taking place over an hour.  This means that as we move through the movie, we see events happen from these different perspectives.  For example, at one point in the movie we watch as a couple of spitfire pilots take down a bomber that had just sunk a large warship.  From up in the air, we see people bailing out into the water, but because of our distance from it we don’t feel the full impact.  Then later, we see that same event but from the people down at sea level, which instantly makes the event far more harrowing than it was before.

This happens more than once throughout the movie.  The three points of view weave in and out of each other (for example, we see the three spitfire planes from the “air” perspective fly over the boat from the “sea” perspective).  My only gripe with this narrative style is that at first it can be a little disorienting.  The movie spells out for you at the beginning the time frames each perspective takes place over, but it still might take viewers a little bit of time before they understand what is meant by “one week”, “one day”, and “one hour”.  That, combined with the disjointed nature of the plot, might be a little off-putting to some.

I was also thrown off a little by the fact that the land segment was titled “the mole”.  I didn’t find out until after the movie, but “the mole” refers to the large concrete jetties they used to facilitate the evacuation of troops.  It’s a nice detail, but it seems inconsistent when the other segments are simply titled “the sea” and “the air”.

Despite these minor qualms though, the unique chronology of the film is what makes it so great.  It tightens the pacing, making sure that we’re never at ease or too far away from the action.  And this is underscored by the tense soundtrack, which features a low ticking noise that gets faster and louder the closer you get to something bad happening.

This non-linearity becomes an integral part of the film’s themes as well.  “Dunkirk”, at its core, is about the small victories in the face of a massive failure.  Historically, the battle of Dunkirk was a bitter and devastating defeat for the Allies.  They were forced to retreat all the way to the town of Dunkirk, where they were surrounded by the Germans and had to wait for rescue.  The movie captures the sense of hopelessness the event must have inspired in the Allied soldiers.  And the non-linear style of it allows us to see the struggles from land, sea, and air, which gives us a compelling overview of the entire event instead of focusing on a small group of people within the event itself.

The movie does give us key characters to observe all the happenings through, but in the end it is about the Dunkirk battle itself.  And even though we feel a sense of triumph by the end, it is tempered by the knowledge that this was a bitter defeat for the Allied forces.  The movie culminates with a reading of the famous “we shall fight on the beaches” speech by Winston Churchill, but the rousing words are at one point superimposed over a shot of empty infantry helmets lying on the beaches, reminding us of the toll Dunkirk took.

In many ways, “Dunkirk” succeeds.  It succeeds at being a non-linear narrative.  It succeeds at being a tense and thrilling movie.  It succeeds at giving us an in-depth look at a historical event that is likely not well-known in popular culture.

But most of all, it succeeds at reminding us that “war is hell” in its own unique way.

 

Thanks for reading.  Check back next Wednesday for another post, and as always, have a wonderful week.

You can like the Rumination on the Lake Facebook page here or follow me on Twitter here.

Children These Days

Stop me if you’ve heard this rant before:

“Ugh…children these days are so spoiled!  They have no respect for their elders and spend too much time on their smartphones and iPads.  They’re getting pregnant and doing drugs.  They lack discipline, and it’s all those participation trophies and weak parenting that’s to blame.  These kids need a good spanking!  Back in my day, if I stepped out of line, my dad would give me an ass whuppin’!  And I turned out better for it!”

Sound familiar?  I’ve heard this quite a few times, or at least some version of it.  The basic gist of it is that everything was so much better “back in the day”.  You’ve probably heard this mentality before.  Maybe you’re even one of those people who have this mentality.  If that’s the case, then I have some unfortunate news for you.

The facts don’t support it…

One of the biggest components of this mindset is, of course, a perceived epidemic of rebellious behavior.  And while yes, the purpose of the teen years is to push the envelope in a sense, most of the time what people are talking about are drugs, alcohol, and sex.  But the thing is, kids these days are far less likely to do any of these things than they were back in the “good ol’ days”.  According to an article by the New York Times these types of behaviors have been declining for decades.

Some interesting numbers for you:

  • In 1980, about 60 percent of high-school seniors had tried marijuana and roughly 9 percent smoked it daily.  Today, only about 45.5 have tried it and only 6.6 percent smoke it daily.
  • 72 percent of high-school seniors in 1980 said they had recently consumed alcohol, whereas in 2011 that number had dropped to a historic low of only 40 percent.
  • In 1988, half of boys aged 15 to 17 had experienced sex.  By 2010, that number fell to 28 percent.  Same goes for teenage girls, dropping from 37.2 percent to 27 percent.

In the end, what this all means is that the story of an out-of-control generation of kids just isn’t accurate.  In fact, according to the research, today’s kids are better behaved then their parents were at the same age.  But the real question is why?  Why are kids these days so different?  What shaped the changes in their behavior?

Well…there’s no easy answer.  Like everything in life, the reality is that it’s a complicated issue.  The New York Times article points to some helpful possibilities:

“The last three decades have included a rise in the drinking age to 21; a widespread fear of H.I.V.; and legal challenges that stymied tobacco marketing. And while cellphones and Facebook have created new ways for teenagers to stir up trouble, they may also help parents monitor their children.”

The article also points out that today’s teens still found ways to rebel with things like sexting, but still reasons that every generation is subject to harsh scrutiny by the previous one.  And I think that’s the important lesson here, that every generation thinks they know what’s best and that the generations after theirs obviously don’t know what they’re doing.  In all this fear about smartphones and iPads, we forget the fact that the science simply isn’t there yet.  We dismiss the fact that some of the science even says that these things have beneficial effects on kids.  Because, clearly, we know what we’re doing.  Our way is the best, and damn every other way.

But, if I may, I would like to point to a possibility not raised in the New York Times article.  I would like to suggest that maybe part of the reason children are better behaved and generally more responsible may have to do with moving away from one simple thing: the idea of corporal punishment.

I can hear the protesting now.  “But I was spanked and I turned out just fine!”  Maybe you did.  Maybe you’re a perfectly fine, functional human being.  Or maybe it affected you in ways you can’t really see or understand.  I talked a long time ago about corporal punishment, and I’m going to link you to the same article I used back then.  As it turns out, spanking your kid may have detrimental effects on their brain development.  As the article says, “the sad irony is that the more you physically punish your kids for their lack of self-control, the less they have.”  Most people assumed that spanking led to compliance in children.  But that’s not necessarily true.

“What is spanking associated with? Aggression. Delinquency. Mental health problems. And something called “hostile attribution bias,” which causes children, essentially, to expect people to be mean to them.  This bias makes the world feel especially hostile. In turn, children are on edge and ready to be hostile back, ” the article says.

I’ve felt for a long time that spanking was more for the parent than it was for the child.  Think about it for a second.  What’s easier?  Getting to the root of why your child is misbehaving?  Or simply trying to beat it out of them?  Parents are human beings too, and sometimes they don’t have the time or the patience to deal with a child that’s acting out.  In such situations, it’s very easy to turn to the physical approach because it seems like it has immediate beneficial effects.  But, as the science says, there may be a lot more going on underneath the surface that we can’t see or understand until it’s too late.

Let me be clear, I’m not doing this to crap all over the previous generations.  My generation is old enough that I’ve noticed people my age donning the same mindset.  I’ve even caught myself doing it every once in a while.  Like I said before, every generation thinks they know what’s best and are afraid when things start to change.  I think it’s worth understanding that every generation sees the world a little differently.  And I think it’s worth remembering that it’s not necessarily a bad thing…just a different thing.

No one is perfect.  Children are going to act out in some way or another.  But that’s just part of growing up.

 

Thanks for reading!  Check back next Wednesday for another post, and as always, have a wonderful week.

You can like the Rumination on the Lake Facebook page here or follow me on Twitter here.

Corpus Machina

Welcome to the seventh of twelve.  Once again, for those who don’t know, my New Year’s resolution this year was to write a short story each month and post it to my blog on the last Wednesday of the month.  So without further ado, I present to you “Corpus Machina”.

 

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“One-twenty east, first avenue north in the industrial district. Inside the abandoned warehouse, you’ll find the body of a man. His jaw has been fractured…repeated blows to the midsection have resulted in ten out of twenty-four ribs being broken. He suffered three twelve-gauge shotgun blasts to the chest, collapsing his lungs and destroying his stomach, liver, heart, and spleen.”

“Sir…why…how do you know all this?”

“Because I killed him.”

 

A peal of light…electric veins crawling across the sky. A deep, grumbling boom shaking the world.

Doctor Cyrus Fortner observed the storm through his rain-spattered windshield. The wipers were trying their best, but the torrential downpour was so thick it remained difficult to see. The storm hadn’t let up all afternoon. He shook his head. It was a terrible night to be out and about.

He let out a yawn. It had been a long day at the hospital. Due to a scheduling error, Fortner had three surgeries in the same day, two of them organ transplants. But he wasn’t one to complain.

Fortner was in his late thirties. He had medium-length, reddish hair and deep brown eyes. Off work, he traded in his lab coat for a brown t-shirt and blue jeans. It was spring now, and the rain never seemed to stop.

He was driving a moderately affordable, yet luxurious gray four-door sedan. Glancing down at the touch-screen computer in the dashboard, he saw that it was nearly ten-thirty at night. His hands were folded in his lap. There was no need to steer. The car did that well enough on its own.

Voices filled the car. The radio was on…tuned to an all-news channel.

“-missing since Tuesday night,” a male voice was saying. “If you’re just joining us, it appears the infamous Oedipus Killer has struck again. This serial murderer exclusively targets women, particularly those in positions of authority. His latest victim is TV news anchorwoman Evelyn Blaylock. Blaylock is the host of the morning show on channel five and is well-liked throughout the community. She is best known for her feature pieces on local animal shelters, and is credited for a recent increase in pet adoptions. She was reported missing Tuesday afternoon when she failed to show up for work that morning. Blaylock has long blonde hair, green eyes, and was last seen wearing a red-“

Fortner turned off the radio as the car made a left turn. He had heard enough for now.

After a minute of driving down a long gravel road, the car pulled up to a large, darkened house. It had three separate floors. Although impossible to see in the dark and stormy night, the house was made of fine yellow bricks imported from overseas in the late 1800’s. Under the cover of darkness, it had a looming atmosphere to it.

Fortner turned the car off and gazed up at the shingled roof. The manor had been in the family for generations. A few years ago, a historical society made an offer on the house, but Fortner declined.

Grabbing the black umbrella on the passenger seat next to him, Fortner opened the door and stepped out into the rain. The sound was deafening, like he was standing under a waterfall. As quickly as he could, Fortner made his way up the stone steps and to the front door, punching his code into the gray alarm keypad.

In his hurry to get inside, Fortner didn’t notice the absence of a chime confirming the code…

As he stepped inside the door slammed shut behind him, muffling the roar of the rain. The foyer was dark and gloomy, misshapen shadows cast around the room. Fortner flicked a switch on the wall and immediately the darkness was dispelled by dazzling yellow light. A vibrant, glass chandelier hung over the grand, carpeted staircase in the middle of the room. The stairs split into two separate paths in the middle, veering off in opposite directions. Situated above it all and dominating the room was a large stained glass window with shades of purple, yellow, and green. Varnished wood lined the walls and floor, emitting a glossy shine under the light.

The house was an amalgam of old and new. A high-tech video screen was embedded in the wall near the stairs, standing in stark contrast to the Victorian-era aesthetic. Fortner walked up to the screen and pressed a button. It flickered and displayed text in soft blue lettering: “no new messages”.

Closing the umbrella and setting it down by the brown coat stand near the door, Fortner strolled into the darkened den. He caught the gaze of the moose head mounted on the wall, its eye a milky white under the light that filtered in from the foyer. Reaching along the wall, he pressed a button on another video screen which turned on the radio, tuned once again to the news station. Faint but familiar voices filled the darkened room.

Fortner was about to flick the light switch when he paused.

There was a silhouette seated in the brown leather chair at the far end of the room. At first Fortner thought it was just his mind creating an illusion…manifesting the vision out of the tangled webs of darkness.

Then he saw it shift…ever so slightly…

In a flash, Fortner flicked the lights on.

A man was sitting in Fortner’s favorite chair. He was watching him with deep blue eyes. From what Fortner could tell, the man was young, still in his mid-to-late twenties. Carefully cropped, short brown hair sat on top of his head. He was wearing a brown coat with a gray shirt underneath and faded blue jeans.

But more than anything, it was the strange detachment in the man’s gaze that unnerved him.

Fortner took a step forward. “Who-” he began, but paused. Something stuck out to him that hadn’t at first: the man was completely dry. But he had to come in out of the rain at some point, Fortner thought to himself.

“…How long have you been sitting there,” he finally asked.

“Two hours, eleven minutes, forty-seven seconds,” the man replied. His voice was flat and emotionless.

What in the hell…? Fortner was dumbfounded.

Slowly, he took a few steps around the room, placing himself in between the man and the large, ornate wooden desk situated to the right of the entryway. He hoped the man didn’t notice. If he did, he didn’t show it or care. He continued regarding Fortner with the same impassive expression.

A moment passed. Seeing that the man wasn’t going to speak first, Fortner gathered his courage.

“Who are you,” he asked.

“Who I am is not important,” the man responded. “But you, Doctor Cyrus Fortner…who you are is very important.”

The stranger’s manner was deeply troubling to Fortner. His choice of words and the way he talked was…strange. It matched his expression in a way, devoid of feeling…as if he wasn’t altogether human.

Fortner knew he needed to get control of the situation. He hated not having control…

Stepping over to a nearby table, Fortner grabbed a glass decanter full of whiskey and poured himself a glass. “Want some,” he asked the man, pointing to the glass on a table next to his chair. The man remained silent. “I’ll take that as a ‘no’ then,” Fortner said, replacing the decanter and picking up his glass. He stepped around to the other side of the desk, trying his best to put on a mask of calm authority.

After taking a sip, he turned around to face the man again. “So I guess the question is, why am I important?”

“You were asked to consult on Project Machina,” the man responded.

Any semblance of calm and control Fortner had vanished the second he heard that name. But regardless, he tried to collect himself once again.

“I have never heard of any such ‘Project Machina’. I’m afraid you have wasted your time.”

“You cannot lie to me Doctor Fortner. I know you were asked to consult on the project, and I know you were forced to sign a non-disclosure agreement. It would be in your best interest to be forthcoming with me.”

Fortner scowled. “Very well…yes I remember Project Machina. Something to do with machines and the human body, correct? But since you seem to know so much about me, then you must know I was dismissed from the project early on. I don’t know what information you expect me to provide.”

The man said nothing. Then, in the silence that followed, Fortner remembered something. The gray alarm panel flashed back in his mind…the keypad looming before him.

“How did you disable my alarm system,” he asked, unable to hide the faint tremor in his voice.

The man averted his gaze. His eyes began to flick back and forth in a steady, yet ominous rhythm.

“There were traces of epithelial cells on the front door code panel, with concentrated amounts on the numbers ‘2’, ‘0’, and ‘3’. The birth date of Doctor Cyrus M. Fortner is March 21st, 2033 at 10:53 AM…five pounds, six ounces.” The flicking stopped and the man returned his gaze to Fortner. “You see Doctor Fortner, with that knowledge deciphering your alarm code was simple.

Fortner was profoundly disturbed by what he had just witnessed. Where in the hell did he get that information, he thought to himself. And the way he rattled it off…like a damn machine.

It was then that he understood.

“You were a candidate, weren’t you? For the project?”

“Yes,” the man replied.

“Then it was a success, wasn’t it?”

The man looked away. His eyes began flicking back and forth again.

“They took me to a darkened room…gray cement walls, one light, metal table in the center. On the table was a nine-millimeter pistol…black leather grip, seventeen round magazine. Seated in a chair, bound by handcuffs, was a young man. He had darkened skin, brown eyes, black hair dampened by perspiration. His heat was beating fast…one hundred and twenty beats per minute. He was scared. I was handed the gun and told to shoot him. I asked why”. The flicking stopped. “They did not like that.”

“Because you wouldn’t follow orders without question,” Fortner observed.

“That is the most likely assessment,” the man replied.

“You were a soldier before the project, weren’t you?”

“And how would you know that, Doctor Fortner,” the man asked.

“Your hair is a dead giveaway…it’s meticulously taken care of. But there’s also the way you carry yourself. You took a seat in an area of the room with no windows and no door at your back. It shows tactical planning, ensuring that you have unimpeded sight lines in case of incoming danger.”

“Very astute doctor,” the man replied. “Yes, I was a soldier.”

“I thought as much.”

Fortner pulled the black office chair out from behind the desk and sat in it.

“Look…I’m sorry,” he began. “But-“

“She tells me not to worry…”

Fortner paused, turning his head toward the man. “What…who are you talking about?”

The man ignored him and continued his strange rambling. But this time, Fortner observed, his eyes weren’t flicking back and forth. They were just staring off into space.

“Her hair is golden, long…it blows in the autumn breeze. Her face is bright and sunny. Leaves of green and brown cover the grass. She smiles, her teeth shining white, and tells me not to worry…”

“What are you going on about,” Fortner demanded to know.

But just as soon as it had begun, it ended. The man laid his eyes back on Fortner and said nothing.

A glitch in the system? Fortner couldn’t be certain. Great…he’s damaged goods. Probably got tossed out of the project like I was.

“I’m truly sorry,” he said. “I am. But I can’t help you. As I said before, my involvement in Project Machina was very limited. I had barely finished signing the NDA when they let me go. You’ll have to find someone else involved in the project to give you whatever answers you want.”

The man didn’t respond…still fixing him with that passive gaze. In the absence of conversation, the voices from the radio filled the room.

“We’re here with Police Chief Gordon Phillips, who has spearheaded the local investigation into the killings since they started two years ago,” the male voice from before said. “Chief, thank you for joining us.”

“You’re welcome,” another male voice said.

“Now, what can you tell us about the Oedipus Killer?”

“Based on our investigations, we’ve concluded that the killer is a male, likely in their late thirties. We believe that, because of his choice of victims, he has an issue with female authority, probably stemming from an abusive childhood.”

“Now, before we came on, you said something about the wounds on the victims. Care to elaborate,” the first voice asked.

“Certainly. During the examinations, the coroner discovered that the cuts on the bodies were incredibly precise. They also showed extensive signs of bleeding, meaning that they were inflicted before the victim died. It seems that the killer specifically chose those areas to cause the most pain with the lowest risk of fatality. In short, he wanted these women to suffer.”

“Truly disturbing,” said the first man.

“Incredibly. This tells us something important however. Due to the precision of the wounds, we can surmise that the killer has had extensive medical training. He is likely a surgeon or a doctor of some kind and-“

With shaky hands, Fortner reached across the desk and silenced the radio.

And then…for the first time since the conversation began…the man’s face changed. His mouth curled into a faint smirk.

“I see it now,” he said, his tone still calm. “I did not make the connection before, but now I understand.”

Fortner averted his gaze, looking down at the almost empty glass of whiskey before him. He lost himself in the smooth brown liquid.

“I knew that you were not involved in the project any longer. I knew that they had let you go, but I never uncovered why…until now. They let you go, Doctor Fortner, because they figured out what you were.”

Fortner managed to look up and lock eyes with the man.

“I suppose they were afraid of knowledge about the project getting out, which is why they never turned you in. But they could not allow you to stay on board…knowing what you were. Knowing what you had done.”

A moment of silence passed, then the man cocked his head to the side.

“Tell me, do you enjoy killing them?”

It took an immense amount of will, but Fortner managed to channel his fear and anxiety into anger. It was something he excelled at.

“You think you know me,” he growled. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“You are Doctor Cyrus Fortner, age thirty-eight. After high school, you went straight into a four-year medical program. Once you had acquired your degree, which included a year studying abroad at a prestigious medical school in the United Kingdom, you went into a general surgery fellowship. Five years later, at the age of thirty, you became a fully licensed surgeon. You then moved back into your family home and started work at the local hospital. Everyone around you has always remarked on your unique talent for surgical operations.”

Fortner glared at the man. “So you know my college history. Big deal. That doesn’t mean you know me.”

“On the contrary, Doctor Fortner, I know all about you. I know that you grew up surrounded by wealth, but not many friends. I know you keep that moose head mounted on the wall because it makes you look like a hunter. But I know that, in reality, your dad was the hunter. I know that your dad left when you were only seven years old, so you do not have many memories of him.”

“That’s enough,” Fortner said, his voice trembling with anger.

“I know that you have a vintage 12-gauge hunting shotgun that you keep loaded in case of intruders. I know that you keep the shotgun tucked away in a hidden panel underneath your desk.”

In a flash, Fortner had removed the shotgun from its hiding place and stood up, bringing it to bear on the man. The office chair slid backwards, crashing into the wall with a loud bang. The man remained unfazed by the shotgun. His eyes seemed to register its appearance, but he stayed sitting back in the chair.

“Who the hell do you think you are, breaking into my home in the middle of the night?!”

“I also know what you keep buried in the backyard…doctor.”

Fortner’s jaw dropped. He loosened his grip on the shotgun.

“Did you start with cats and dogs, doctor? No…I imagine you started with flies or ants, something small that would not be missed. Once you grew bored with that, you moved on to mice or raccoons. And then, when that could no longer excite you…it was time to upgrade. There are a surprising amount of old missing pet cases that could be traced back to that mass grave in your backyard, Doctor Fortner.”

“Shut…up,” Fortner demanded, although it sounded more like a plea.

“Did your mother ever find out?”

That was the last straw. Fortner cocked the shotgun and took a step forward.

Enough! I’m sick of these games. Get the fuck out of my house!

“That is fine doctor…you do not have to answer. You already told me what I needed to know.”

Fortner squinted at him.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You twitched…or rather your face twitched. You would be surprised how easily the human body betrays someone’s secrets.”

The gun started to shake in Fortner’s hands.

“So your mother found out…and she beat you. She beat you because she was an abusive mother. And with your father absent, no one was there to protect you.” The man’s eyes seemed to glow with frightening malice. “You are an intelligent man Doctor Fortner. Do you know why they call you the Oedipus Killer?”

Fortner said nothing, so the man continued.

“You always wanted a deeper relationship with your mother…but when you confessed your love to her she reacted with anger and violence. She was a firm believer in that anachronistic idea of ‘family values’. So she tried to beat it out of you. But that only made you turn inward. You became bitter and hateful. It was only a matter of time before you started killing. It is surprising that you held out for so long. I would imagine you satisfied yourself with the study of human anatomy and illicit videos on the internet.”

“Stop talking,” Fortner shouted, raising the shotgun and taking a step forward. “Just shut the fuck up!

“You were smart Doctor Fortner. You took people no one would miss…homeless women and criminal offenders. But it was not enough for you, was it? So you escalated. The first victim that got any real attention was the manager of the local food co-op…Margaret Gilman. That triggered the police investigation. For so long they went to scene after scene…but you remained elusive. You kept yourself well-hidden, ensuring that no trace of you would be found on the body. But this time, you went too far. Evelyn Blaylock…a broadcast news anchor…a very public and well-liked person. They are coming for you doctor. It is only a matter of time before-“

The sound of the shotgun blast ripped through the den like an explosion. Unprepared for the kickback, Fortner felt a burn ripple through his shoulder and winced with pain. But a moment later he saw that his aim was true. The blast had hit the man dead center in the chest, leaving bloody holes in his shirt.

For a long time, Fortner thought the man was dead.

But then…he let out a long exhale. His blue eyes opened and turned toward Fortner.

No way…that’s impossible, Fortner thought.

The man slowly stood up from his seat. He didn’t stumble. He didn’t groan. It was as if he considered the wound a mere annoyance.

Fortner took a couple steps back, pumping the shotgun.

“Stay back! I’m warning you!”

He almost didn’t see it in time. In one fluid movement, the man scooped up the glass near the chair and hurled it. Fortner saw the glittering object flying at him and let out a yell, pulling back on the shotgun trigger. The glass exploded in mid-air, showering him like dozen of shimmering knives. They cut into his face, causing him to yell and stumble backward. Fortner bumped into the desk and nearly collapsed to the ground, but managed to steady himself with one hand. It took a few moments, but he finally opened his eyes.

The man was lying on the floor near the chair, motionless. Fortner stood still for a long time, not certain what to do. He inched close and nudged him with his foot. No response.

“Fuck…fuck,” Fortner breathed heavily.

He was dead. The den would have to undergo a thorough cleaning.

But first, he had to get the body in the trunk. And once he was done cleaning…he knew exactly where to go…

 

Fortner closed the door behind him, the heavy metal clanging as it slid into place. A single, faint overhead light cast on ominous spotlight on the chair in the center of the room. Seated in the chair, bound with rope and gagged with a handkerchief, was a woman with blonde hair and a bright red blazer. Fortner set the shotgun down, leaning it against the door. Then he stood there for a moment, eyeing his captive and fiddling with the scalpel in his hands. He was enjoying himself.

Then, he stepped close to the still form and leaned in.

“Hello, Miss Blaylock,” he whispered in a sinister and playful tone.

The bright green eyes shot open immediately and found him. But, much to his frustration, instead of fear they radiated nothing but anger. Still, Fortner wasn’t about to let himself get caught off guard…not twice in one night.

“Now…I’m going to remove the gag…you better not start screaming,” he said.

He slipped around the back of the chair and untied the knot that held the handkerchief in her mouth.

Help! A man with inadequacy issues is holding me hostage,” she shouted at the top of her lungs.

“Fucking bitch,” he screamed, coming around to the front of the chair and viciously slashing her across the cheek with the scalpel. Crimson blood drizzled down the side of her face. “What did I just say?!”

Evelyn Blaylock raised her head and glared at him. “I don’t know,” she said. “I couldn’t hear over the sound of your obnoxious ego.”

“You really think you’re clever, don’t you?”

Fortner moved in close, pulling her head back and resting the scalpel against her throat.

“Now you listen here,” he growled. “I’m not in the mood for playing games. You mess with me, and you’re done.”

Her eyes locked with his in a hard stare.

“You won’t kill me,” she whispered. “Not yet. Because you want to enjoy this don’t you? You want to take your time and convince yourself that you’re the top dog, that you’re the man in charge. Hell…I bet you even get off to this.” Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t you?”

Fortner let her head go and just laughed.

“What happened to your face anyways,” she asked.

Fortner fell silent. He didn’t want to think about the man who had shown up in his den, the man who had taken a shotgun blast to the chest without so much as a gasp of pain. He didn’t want to think about the shattered glass that had dug into his face.

He didn’t want to think about the body that lay at the other end of the hallway, sealed away in a darkened room. Dumping two bodies at once would be difficult, but it had to be done.

“Tell me Miss Blaylock,” he said, steering the conversation in a new direction, “how long have you suspected me? I gathered from your line of questioning during our last encounter that I was high on your list.”

Blaylock’s eyes softened a little.

“To be honest, Doctor Fortner…you were my number one suspect.”

Fortner smiled.

“My reputation precedes me,” he said, performing a demented bow with the scalpel still in hand. “But I must know,” he began, walking around the chair and letting the scalpel hover precariously close to her face, “how did you come to this conclusion?”

Blaylock craned her head up to look at him, defiance returning to her eyes.

“Bite me,” she said. With a growl, Fortner yanked her hair back. She yelped in pain.

Don’t fuck with me,” he snarled.

“Fine, fine, fine,” she said, her voice hasty. Good, he thought. She’s understanding her place…

“I started investigating shortly after Margaret’s disappearance…the co-op manager?” Fortner nodded. “After interviewing the detective assigned to the case, it became clear that the person behind these killings was someone with a medical background. It was only a matter of time before I stumbled upon all those domestic incident calls the police made to your house when you were a kid. I mean, really, you ‘fell down the stairs’? It was like a bad joke. Combine that with the disappearance of local pets in the area, and you started to fit the profile more and more.”

“What profile,” Fortner asked with a scowl.

“The police had you marked down as a victim of parental abuse. They figured you had lacked an intimate relationship with your parents. Your dad had probably been absent since before you were born or left when you were very young. Your choice of target, women in positions of authority, was an obvious homage. You killed those women because you hated what they represented.”

“Stop talking…stop talking right now,” Fortner snarled.

“They were your mother, weren’t they,” Blaylock asked, a faint smirk on her face. “Because, in the end, you’re just another momma’s boy.”

“Shut up,” he shouted. “SHUT UP!”

“Little ol’ momma’s boy,” she said in a singsong voice. “Never got his momma’s love…”

Fortner rushed forward, snapping her head back and holding the scalpel up to her left eye.

“If you don’t shut your goddamn whore mouth, I’ll cut your fucking eyes out,” he threatened. He was letting her get to him. And he knew that was a bad thing. But Evelyn Blaylock was so good at pushing the right buttons.

A journalist, he thought to himself. Why did I have to pick a fight with a goddamn journalist?

“Do it,” Blaylock dared him. “That’s what you did to the cats and the dogs, didn’t you? You cut out their eyes and watched them stumble around because you liked the feeling of power it gave you. You’re a sick man Fortner. You’re a tumor. And you should have been excised from society long ago.”

“Shut up!” Fortner let her go and threw the scalpel across the room in rage. “Shut up shut up shut the fuck up!

“What’s up doc? Can’t handle the pressure,” she taunted.

Fortner screamed and slammed his fist into the metal wall. His knuckles burned from the impact. His breathing was shaky and heavy.

He was losing control…he hated losing control……

 

In a darkened room down the hallway from where Fortner and Blaylock were having their confrontation, a lone figure sat splayed out on the floor, motionless. But deep inside the shell of flesh, it was anything but still. Tiny, artificial constructs of metal meticulously made their way through the veins of their host. There were hundreds, if not thousands of these tiny, microscopic machines making their way through the body, repairing the damage.

After a long period of stillness, the body began to twitch. Then, a man who was supposed to be dead rose up like a modern-day Lazarus. There was no hesitation in his step, no hint of pain. He got to his feet with stoic purpose and dignity.

A sunny face…golden hair and a white smile…

The man shook his head. There was no need for that. Not anymore.

A moment later, the metal door sealing the room began to slide open…

 

“You’re in over your head Fortner! It’s only a matter of time before they figure out it was you. For such a smart man, you made a lot of dumb decisions.”

“My god, do you ever…stop…talking,” Fortner shrieked.

He knew it wouldn’t do any good to give in to the rage. Unlike the controlled anger he had before with the man, rage was pure fire. It had a mind of its own. But he couldn’t help himself. Every word out of that woman’s mouth was like a prickly needle. It added up with time, and steadily drove him mad.

“Just turn yourself in. Don’t embarrass yourself any further,” Blaylock said.

Fortner moved away from the wall with a noise somewhere between a cry of frustration and a shriek of rage. He snatched up the shotgun he had laid against the door, cocked it, and pointed the business end directly at Blaylock’s face.

“I swear to god…I will blow your fucking brains out right here!”

He was hoping to see fear in her eyes, to see some hint of submission. But there was nothing but green fire.

“Do it,” Blaylock dared. “Do it doc. Shoot me. Paint the walls with my blood.”

Don’t tell me what to do,” he screamed.

Blaylock hobbled forward in her chair, bringing her forehead directly against the gun barrel.

“You think I’m scared of you? My dad raped me when I was a kid, and my mother pretended that it was God’s will. You think you’re the only one in this world with a fucked up childhood? Join the club jackass!

Blaylock paused, staring hard at Fortner.

“You know what the difference between you and me is? I’m stronger than you. So go ahead, pull the trigger. Pull the trigger…and prove you’re a real man.”

He almost did. His finger twitched. He was about to send pieces of her skull flying all over the room.

But the knocking stopped him.

It was so simple…so ordinary…and yet it was so out of place at the same time. Three simple knocks…like those of a neighbor looking to borrow a cup of sugar or a set of jumper cables for their car.

Blaylock’s eyes flicked toward the door in profound confusion. Fortner lowered the gun from her head and slowly turned around.

“What…the hell…” he muttered.

After a moment of silence, the knocks came again. Three short raps…no sense of urgency. It felt like forever before Fortner managed to move his legs. He took slow steps toward the door, laying his hand on the handle. Taking a deep breath, he pulled it aside.

Blue eyes.

Brown hair.

One hand clenched into a fist.

Gray t-shirt riddled with bullet holes like Swiss cheese.

“Who the hell,” Blaylock mumbled.

“No…” Fortner was aghast. He stumbled backward. “It can’t be…that’s impossible!

The man’s inscrutable blue eyes twinkled at him as a faint smile spread across his lips. He opened his closed hand.

Like glittering raindrops, the bloody shotgun pellets fell out of his hand and hit the floor, creating an oddly beautiful tinkling noise.

And then, Fortner had a thought.

That son of a bitch…did he plan this? Was all that pretense about Project Machina just a ruse? Was this his aim all along, to get me to bring him here?

Regardless, Fortner wasn’t going to be taken down so easily. He let out a loud roar, cocking the shotgun and bringing it to bear on the man.

But the man was too fast. He grabbed the barrel and shoved it upward. In his surprise, Fortner accidentally pulled back on the trigger. The blast echoed throughout the room and sparks fell from ceiling. The man ripped the shotgun out of Fortner’s hands and threw it aside. Then, before he could react, the man swung back and drove his fist into the side of Fortner’s face.

Something cracked. His face burned. Fortner was stunned at the force of the punch. He felt like he wasn’t being hit by a man, but rather a speeding freight train. He spun around and fell to the floor, his mouth filling with the stale taste of copper.

He spat, blood staining the cold metal ground. He got back to his feet and roared, charging at the man. He swung at him, fists flailing through the air like a demented boxing match. A few of them actually hit their mark, striking the man across the face. But the man didn’t even seem to flinch. Instead, he drove his fist into Fortner’s chest repeatedly, knocking the wind out of him. There was a vicious cracking that Fortner guessed belonged to his ribs. He howled in pain.

The man stopped for a moment, then kicked Fortner as hard as he could. Fortner went flying into the wall with a loud crash and fell to the ground. The world spun around his head, colors swimming in and out of focus.

His vision cleared up just long enough to see the man approaching him, shotgun in hand.

Fortner’s eyes went wide. He screamed.

A deafening blast sent his world cascading into infinite, dark silence…

 

A shotgun shot rang out through the halls of the warehouse.

Then another.

And another.

Silence fell over everything. A moment later, the faint sound of ripping fabric could be heard.

And then, a man appeared in the open doorway, his face covered in blood and bruises. His shirt was riddled with blood-stained holes. His expression showed no hint of pain. He held a shotgun in one hand, letting it hang close to his side. His blue eyes twitched, like he was remembering something.

Sunny face…bright white smile…

He shook his head.

Then he began walking down the hallway. About halfway down the corridor, he tossed the shotgun into a nearby pile of rubble without even looking. Behind him, a woman in a red blazer rushed to the doorway.

“Wait,” she shouted after him.

The man turned around. He gazed at her with an impassive and robotic expression.

“Who-” She squinted. “Who are you?”

There was a long pause.

“No one important,” he answered, his tone flat and devoid of feeling. Then he turned and walked down another hallway. At the end, he pushed aside the massive double doors that sealed the warehouse. Outside, warm sunlight caressed the man’s young face. But he didn’t pay it any attention. Instead, he pulled out the small, black phone he had taken from the doctor’s pants pocket…

 

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“One-twenty east, first avenue north in the industrial district. Inside the abandoned warehouse, you’ll find the body of a man. His jaw has been fractured…repeated blows to the midsection have resulted in ten out of twenty-four ribs being broken. He suffered three twelve-gauge shotgun blasts to the chest, collapsing his lungs and destroying his stomach, liver, heart, and spleen.”

“Sir…why…how do you know all this?”

“Because I killed him.”

A long pause.

“Why are you-“

“In his front pants pocket you’ll find a wallet which will identify the man as Doctor Cyrus Fortner, a local surgeon. The subsequent investigation will determine that he was the notorious Oedipus Killer, responsible for the disappearance of nearly a dozen women over the past two years.”

“But…why are you telling me this? …Are you there? Sir? Sir?!”

 

Deep in the bowels of a classified government facility, a man rushed through the halls. He moved so fast that he nearly collided with people carrying important papers and equipment. A flurry of “excuse me”s and “pardon”s erupted with his passage. Finally, he made his way to a door and threw it open.

“Sir?!” A man with bright hazel eyes and a white lab coat looked up from his desk. “We found him. What should we do?”

The man at the desk pondered for a moment.

“Should we bring him in?”

“No…no,” the man at the desk said. “Let him go for now. We’ll see how this plays out.”

“Yes sir!” The man at the door left.

The man at the desk looked back down at a manila folder in his hands. The tab at the top right says “D. MEYERS.” He opened it. Clipped onto the front was a picture of a man with short brown hair and deep blue eyes, wearing a desert camouflage uniform.

“Corporal Meyers…still trying to save people huh,” the man mumbled to himself.

He lifted the photo, revealing another underneath. This picture displayed the man and a slightly older woman with golden hair, sunny face, and a pleasant white smile standing in front of a large, white farmhouse.

“Still trying to save people…because you couldn’t save your sister, could you?”

 

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Procedural Gains? The Value of “Case of the Week” Television Shows

A long time ago, television was different.  Shows mainly focused on the weekly adventures of its characters, very rarely (if at all) connecting them in any meaningful way beyond the initial premise (i.e. “Gilligan’s Island”).  But nowadays we have shows like “Breaking Bad” or “The Walking Dead” which have a single, continuous story going on throughout their episodes.  Television has changed quite a bit.  I wrote a bit about serialized storytelling in television shows a while back, where I basically said that it’s becoming more and more the standard for television shows.  But what about those “case of the week” shows?  You know, all those shows like the “Law and Order”s and the “NCIS”s and even that “CSI” show where it’s imperative that David Caruso put his sunglasses on at the end of each episode.

 

We have sunglasses! Repeat. we have sunglasses! ROLL CREDITS!

 

Well, these type of shows are still around.  “But,” you might be asking, “how are these shows surviving if serialized storytelling is becoming the norm?”  Well, some of them aren’t.  “CSI: Miami” has been off the air for about five years now.  But even so, “CSI: Maimi” went on for ten seasons and the original “NCIS” is still going (they’re on season fourteen as of this writing).  So how did they make it?  How are they still drawing an audience in the age of serialized storytelling?

Part of it has to do with the nature of broadcast television itself.  Since each episode airs at a specific time on a specific night, it’s sometimes difficult for viewers to keep up with an overarching story.  You can watch recent episodes of shows on digital streaming services like Hulu, but a lot of those require a monthly fee.  It’s just simpler to watch a show where each episode is its own story that doesn’t connect the other episodes.  And they’re sort of relaxing in a way.  I’ll admit that I watch some of them back to back when I go back to my parent’s house for a weekend, partially because I don’t have television at my apartment (I do have a handful of broadcast channels, but nothing on them interests me).

But even with this simpler nature, the streaming age is still marching on.  As more and more people gain access to these services and as the internet infrastructure in the United States and other countries gets stronger and stronger, these shows will lose that edge.  If you can watch a show anytime you want, that pressure to sit down and watch at a specific time disappears entirely.  And it seems that broadcast television is aware of that in some way.  More procedural shows have started injecting serialized elements into their DNA.  Lots of crime shows will have arcs that take place over multiple episodes.  A good example of this would be a main character suffering an injury in an episode and then the following episodes dealing with the fallout and limitations of that, all while they go about solving the crime of the week.

And this is something that procedural shows are very good at.  In serialized shows, we see characters always under pressure, always struggling against great odds.  But rarely do we get to see how they’d react to what they’d consider a normal situation.  Procedural shows are actually good at giving us glimpses into the normal lives of their characters, rather than using broad strokes like most serialized shows do.  It actually tells you a lot about a person when you see how they respond to a normal, everyday problem rather than an extreme one.

On the flip side, when serialized shows try something like this it often ends up feeling forced or it messes with the pacing.  A good example of this would be in season three of “Breaking Bad”.  There’s a segment that deals almost exclusively with domestic drama between Walter and Skyler.  And it’s just…boring.  There’s a lot of tension, but very little release.  It doesn’t really go anywhere and it just feels as though the writers were looking for a way to eat up time.  I mean the best moment from that section of the show is Walter bringing his family a pizza.

 

Incidentally, this scene was so popular that the show creator had to make a statement asking fans to stop throwing pizza on the roof of the Walter White house.

 

The strength of procedural shows lies in the myriad ways they can examine their characters.  “Star Trek: The Next Generation” did a wonderful job with the episodes focusing on Data, the resident android.  In a way, we got to know Data far better than any of the other characters on the Enterprise. which made him a fan-favorite from the series.  It would be a shame if we lost that power because television is growing more and more serialized.  That being said, it appears broadcast television has a ways to go before they can compete with the likes of “Breaking Bad”.  In particular, ABC seems to go through new shows like a hot knife through better.  Remember “Time After Time”, the show about H.G. Wells chasing Jack the Ripper?  If you don’t, that’s okay.  It was cancelled after five episodes.  And this happens a lot with broadcast.  I mentioned once that I thought broadcast television was too focused on the plot twists instead of the characters.  And the advertising seems indicate that, with commercials focusing on “that twist you’ll never see coming”.

But progress inevitably continues.  And eventually, they’ll have to catch up…sooner or later.

 

Thanks for reading!  Check back next Wednesday for my next short story!

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Weird Implications of the Horror Genre

I think most of us would agree that many horror movies are just made to be dumb fun and aren’t meant to be taken seriously.  There’s a movie called “Wish Upon” that’s coming out at the end of the week that’s about a magic box that grants people’s wishes.  But there’s a catch.  For every wish the box grants, someone close to the wisher dies!

Yeah…it’s pretty dumb.  But that’s usually the point.  These kind of blockbuster horror movies aren’t really about a story…they’re about spooks and scares and things going “BOO”.

Also gore…there’s a lot of gore these days.

But what if we took these movies more seriously?  It is true that some older horror fiction contained moral lessons or at least satirical observations on modern society.  So what would happen if we took these tales at face value?

Well…

 

Sex is bad

If you’ve never seen the show “Robot Chicken”, all you really need to know is that it’s a skit show involving action figures.  And it’s raunchy…oh so raunchy…

There’s a skit on the show that mashes together “Scooby-Doo” and “Friday the 13th”, with the crew of the Mystery Machine getting brutally murdered one by one by the masked killer Jason Voorhees.  At one point during the skit Velma complains that “the virgin lives the longest in these horror movies”.  And it’s true.  The virgin is the last one alive, particularly in slasher movies.

The excellent 2011 movie “The Cabin in the Woods” references this, stating that for things to work out, the virgin has to be the absolute last one to die, if at all.

But why is this exactly?  How did this become a trope?  Well, as it turns out, horror movies have a weird thing with sex.  Which is that sex is bad.  Very bad.  Unless you’re married.  Which is why in slasher flick movies, the promiscuous cheerleader and the football jock she’s dating are pretty much always the first targets.

The movie “It Follows” literally revolves around a monster curse that is passed on by sleeping with people.  It’s weird, but horror movies apparently grabbed on to this cultural fear of teenagers having sex.  The plot of “It Follows” reads like a paper-thin metaphor for sexually transmitted diseases.

 

You darn kids and yer unprotected sex!

 

It’s like horror movies abide by this strange, Victorian era sense of morality when it comes to sex.  Which brings us to our next topic…

 

Warped Moral Messages

The Sam Raimi movie “Drag Me to Hell” features a female loan officer who refuses an extension to an old lady, who subsequently turns out to be a gypsy or something and puts a curse on the main character which will send her to hell.

Seriously?  I mean, refusing a loan extension is a cruel thing to do, but even the IMDb plot summary points out that she only does it out of misplaced fear for her job:

“Christine Brown is a loans officer at a bank but is worried about her lot in life. She’s in competition with a competent colleague for an assistant manager position and isn’t too sure about her status with a boyfriend. Worried that her boss will think less of her if she shows weakness, she refuses a time extension on a loan to an old woman, Mrs. Ganush, who now faces foreclosure and the loss of her house. In retaliation, the old woman place a curse on her which, she subsequently learns, will result in her being taken to hell in a few days time.”

Given that this movie seems to take place in the modern-day, why not go after the people who caused the housing bubble to burst and created the economic turmoil that likely put the old lady in danger of being foreclosed on?  What about the politicians and the rich people who sat by and let everything fall apart?  I mean, if it’s that easy to curse someone, why not curse the people who deserve it?

But that’s horror movies for you.  They attempt to justify all manner of horrible things through the flimsiest lens possible.  Take, for example, the “Saw” franchise.

If you’ve never seen the movies, the basic premise is that a serial killer kidnaps people and forces them to play elaborate games involving deadly traps.  It’s a franchise that spawned seven different movies and is even spawning another movie later this year, seven years after the last movie came out.  But what bothers me isn’t how many sequels there are, but the motivation behind the killer himself.

In the second movie, Jigsaw tells a former police detective that he attempted to commit suicide after he was diagnosed with cancer.  Evidently, when his attempt failed, he was infused with a new appreciation for life.  And apparently, he was compelled to inspire that appreciation for life in others.

Inspiring an appreciation for life…by physically and psychologically torturing people until they have PTSD and nightmares for the rest of their lives.  And that’s if they survive.

Yep…seems legit.

 

Superstitions are not to be mocked

“There’s a logical explanation for all of this” – Guy who is about to be killed in horrific fashion

A great example of this trope can be seen in “Blair Witch”, the 2016 sequel to “The Blair Witch Project”.  It was…not very good.  Near the beginning of the movie, when the crew is first making their way into the woods, one of the characters makes their thoughts on the legend of the Blair Witch heard and mocks it for all it’s worth.  Then, on the second night, he is chased by some unknown entity and presumably killed.

Just goes to show you kids: don’t mock superstitions.  Because they’ll come true and kill you dead.

And this a common character in horror movies, especially ones involving local legends or folklore.  They’re a skeptic by nature, so they loudly proclaim their disbelief in “silly” superstitions and the like, much to the chagrin of others.

“You actually believe in Bigfoot,” they’ll ask with a mocking chuckle.  “Bigfoot isn’t real.  He’s a myth and a hoax, sustained by people who have nothing better to do with their lives.”

And then Bigfoot will promptly stroll out of the woods, rip the person’s spleen out of their chest, and it so far up their rear end that it pops out their mouth.

Actually, that sounds pretty badass.  I’d pay to see that movie.

 

Archaeology is nothing more than grave robbing

This is a weird one.

I’ve gone on record before about how I enjoy point and click adventure games.  Well I have a couple in mind when it comes to this trope: “Barrow Hill” and its sequel “Barrow Hill: The Dark Path”.

In these games, the central plot revolves around an isolated gas station and motel set near an ancient barrow or burial mound.  In the first game, archaeologist Conrad Morse triggers the horrible events that trap you and other characters in the area because he digs up the mound, taking dirt samples and treasures.  The implication is that he disturbed some kind of ancient spirit by doing so.  And in the second game, which features the spirit of an ancient Wicca witch, goes much the same way.  In the game you find the diary of an archaeologist who dug up the grave of the witch and angered her spirit.

Now, “Dark Path” ends with a message from one of the main characters stating that “there’s a difference between archaeology and grave robbing”.  But the game never makes that distinction.  There’s no point in the game where it points out what would be considered good archaeology.  Because for archaeology to work, things have to be dug up.  But according to the “Barrow Hill” series, that’s a bad thing.

You could argue that it’s more a point about having respect for ancient cultures and tradition, but without any clear indication of how you’re supposed to have respect for these things it comes across as a harsh indictment of the profession itself.  Even if it’s just about not forgetting the past, if we leave it alone eventually nature will erase any trace of these things ever existing.  Even if Conrad Morse hadn’t dug up the barrow in the first “Barrow Hill”, nature would have eventually eroded away the rocks or overgrown the area, which means that people would have forgotten about Barrow Hill anyways.  Think about how many ancient cultures or cities we don’t know about, that we may never know about because nature has long since destroyed any evidence of their passing.

Maybe Indiana Jones could get away with it.  Who knows?

 

I hope you enjoyed reading.  Check back next Wednesday for another post, and as always, have a wonderful week.

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