Everything I Tell You is Hearsay

I went to the midnight showing last night to be among the first to see Tron Legacy. A few friends and I went to Cinetopia in Vancouver to enjoy the experience in as much comfort, and with as much access to booze, as possible. I was charmed that they opted to show the original, for free, before the start of the sequel. In fact, if we’d known that we probably would have arrived even earlier to catch the whole thing. The ability to order a glass of wine, beer, or some food isn’t totally new, in that McMenamins has been offering an even more robust set of offerings for some time, but the quality of the theater experience is pretty much superior to anything you will find in the Portland-Metro area.

This movie was very very shiny.

Everything was stylized and beautiful, dark and bright all at once. The CGI was very impressive, so much so it was almost distractingit was so seamless. We all know Jeff Bridges isn’t so young and tart as once he was, but he certainly looks that way for quite a good bit of the film. From an aesthetic standpoint it was a gorgeous pleasure to behold. The battle and gaming sequences were all flawlessly choreographed and unfailingly exciting. Our main players were all quite nice to look at in their skin tight grid-gear, and the soundtrack by Daft Punk was nothing short of glorious.

From the standpoint of a spectacle, this film has everything you might want in a piece of engrossing eyecandy, and I say this even without being able to appreciate the full effect of the digital 3-D in which we saw it.

And that’s about all I can say in its favor.

The original Tron definitely had some elements that seem sort of silly at a thirty year remove, but it remained utterly charming nevertheless. It managed to engage the audience at an emotional and intellectual level in a way this installation really fails to achieve. Here instead, there is too earnest an attempt to create a gripping pseudo-political cum digital genocide plot line that both fails to make rational sense or an emotional connection with the audience. I would have preferred a return to a more technically driven origin of action, and I’m much sappier and less of a computer nerd than most of the fan base this film is aimed toward.

That being said, at least one of my cohorts claimed to have really enjoyed the film, so I may just be a grouch on this one. I do not mean to imply it isn’t enjoyable, because it is, but I would say the vast majority of its appeal is in the visual and aural experience rather than an especially engaging plot.

End of line.

By Laura Veirs

The tiny midnight caravan
Made its way across the black hills
As I watched from a distance
The slow-going glow
Their wandering you know
Made me pine
For the lamplight
Where you lie

If I took you darling
To the caverns of my heart
Would you light the lamp dear?
Would you light the lamp dear?
And see fish without eyes
Bats with their heads
Hanging down towards the ground
Would you still come around
Come around?

I believe in you
In your honesty and your eyes
Even when I’m sloshing
In the muck of my demise
A large part of me
Is always and forever tied
To the lamplight
Of your eyes, of your eyes

I’ve elected not to review this book until I’ve finished the entire Hyperion Cantos. This novel has all of the excellent qualities of the first in the series, and really feels more like a part of the entire rather than it’s own entity. As such, I’ll save the gushing for later.

This movie wasn’t actually in any way good, but I still liked it.

Plot was standard “country girl with loads of talent and a heart of gold goes to the big city and makes good.”

I’m a little surprised Cher consented to be in this film, as she can ACTUALLY act, likewise Stanley Tucci. AND Alan Cumming (who I would have 12 babies for) Honestly, the only reason I went for this (which is not actually a genre I usually enjoy) was because the cast was pretty decent. Take that along with Christina Aguilara’s undeniably breathtaking vocals and throw Kristen Bell in there as the gorgeous bad girl nemesis I felt like it was a fairly worthwhile risk.

As much as I like to sing, I am not a fan of musicals. I didn’t like Chicago or Rent. The last musical I liked was Mary Poppins. The only OTHER musical I like is The Sound Of Music. Apparently if it doesn’t have Julie Andrews in it, I want no part of it.

That being said this movie is a pleasure to look at. Production values are sky high. I love that in the beginning when our Wide-Eyed Ali comes into the burlesque for the first time, he charges her $20 to get in. Of course the club is in financial trouble, with the sets and costumes and lighting and rights to the music the girls are lip-synching to they’d need to charge $150 a head and do three shows a night to break even.

The plot is standard to the point of being beside the point. The music is only remarkable for who is singing it. This movie is about watching Cher and Kristen and Christina prance around in various stages of seductive undress and occasionally sing. And in that way, it accomplishes it’s work very very well.

If you are interested in something shiny and easy and not the least bit challenging, it’s not a terrible option. I do think they could have done a lot more with the cast and budget, but alas, I was not consulted beforehand.

Lyza always manages to take photos of me that I think look the most like I actually look, but good. She captures something that I can never quite manage to, and no one else ever has. I make weird faces, I stand like I am about to wander away at any second. While I perch gape-jawed contemplating the largest fern I have ever seen.

Or I sit in an altogether unladylike position

Or sprawled on the floor like a child.

Or I show the world my armpit.

She got quite a few good ones in Hawaii, but not only those…

Me, in the gutter.

and playing with fire.

There is musical accompaniment to this post. You can listen HERE while you read. It’ll help. I promise.

When I was a senior in high school, our conductor elected to have our choir perform a particularly ambitious piece for our state championship tournament. It was so not only for it’s difficulty, which was acknowledged as generally well beyond the capacities of the average high school choir (which we were decidedly not) but also because the piece was quite new; it had been written within the previous several years and the conductor was still living. This chorale also included a solo of a particularly demanding sort; a soprano had to maintain one constant note throughout the entire piece. This tone had to be sung with great sensitivity to nuance and exacting control. More, the singer had to manage with one voice, through an entire chorus of seventy others not to overpower, but to pierce.

Dr Uphaus told me he had never even considered anyone else for the job.

And so we went to state. And we didn’t win. But, one of our adjudicators was Dr Bruce Brown who was at that time the musical director at Portland State University. He made a point to compliment us on the execution of such a challenging piece of music. He also told us that the composer Arvo Part* was coming to Portland with his choir to perform THE VERY SONG with the Portland State Choir at the Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall, and should we so choose, we were welcome to join them.

So, I and a few of my cohorts decided that would be swell. We toddled on down to PSU for 3 or 4 practice sessions. On the first of these Dr Brown cast around the room and said

“Is the young lady that sang the solo for state here in the group?”

I raised my hand, slightly terrified.

“Oh, grand. None of my singers can quite manage it. You’ll help us practice, yes?”

Of course I would.

Over the next few practice sessions, I just naturally assumed that M. Part would be select one of his own singers to perform the coveted solo. It turned out, rather, that he had wanted to leave that honor to Dr Brown, his host. When he was preparing us the night before the performance, Dr Brown turned to me with complete aplomb and said

“And naturally Autumn will be managing the solo as usual.”

I was completely, utterly, and in every way paralyzed by this pronouncement. I had not prepared myself in any way for this possibility, and I was in a paroxysm of terror in anticipation of it. I sat there in my plastic chair for ten full minutes after the larger group had broken up and wandered away, gripping the sides till my knuckles were white and my breath came back, though in gasps. It had taken all of  my will and every bit of my strength to stand up at state, with my own dear choir at my back, and lift my voice to this purpose. To do so instead, with hundreds of strangers (most older than myself and some professionals at their trade) and no less than the composer of the piece to witness was beyond reckoning. For you see, I had near crippling stage fright. Don’t laugh, It is completely true.

And so. I had to approach Dr. Brown and tell him that though I was deeply honored by his confidence in me, I could not redeem his choice by accepting it. I was too scared, my voice would not rise as it should, and I would fail him. He tried his best to change my mind, but I refused his persistence and cried over my mortification. He let me go, expressing his deep regret, not only for the performance, but for me. He knew then, as I did not, how much I would eventually lament my choice. Someone else sang the solo. The show went on without me entirely. I couldn’t even bring myself to go, I was so ashamed.

And in many ways, I still am.

I am not a person who lives with many regrets. I fuck up, things go wrong, I learn from them and usually see these detours with some equanimity. This too, taught me something tremendously valuable; I am afraid and I might falter, but I forge ahead nevertheless. In truth, this has probably lead to more emotional pain than any other philosophy I subscribe to, but I do not ever find myself dwelling on how things might have gone, should my courage have not failed me.

*There needs to be an umlaut over that a, but I can’t figure it out.

By Dan Simmons

This book is a trap. Don’t start reading it until you have the sequel lined up next to it on your table; madness that way lies.

Hyperion is also the finest piece of science fiction I have read in a good long time. I haven’t had sufficient time to let it sink in and work on me, but I would say it certainly ranks in the top 20 books I have ever read, and given time to travel around my head a few more times, it seems likely to rise yet higher.

This book appeared twice in the last few weeks on the side tables and library shelves of two people the opinions of I respect. It was a funny little coincidence, but I take that seriously, so I picked it up off the library shelf and I took it with me to Hawaii. That in itself was a but of a coincidence too, in that one of the locations of import in the book is a place called Maui-Covenant (true, I wasn’t on Maui, but I’ll call it close enough for Science Fiction). Synchronicity is important to me, and I felt like this book came along at just the right moment. It is about travelling, and the essence of humanity, how we tell each other our stories, and how doing so binds us together.

It is also a very classic post-Earth space epoch. All the standard science fiction structures are there; the seemingly benevolent interstellar empire trying to recreate the best about Old Earth and move past the mistakes seemed to spring from her soil. The fantastic but feasible technology that allows the diaspora of mankind to spread past all human reckoning. The pervasive and piebald mysticism that arises in the face of phenomenon beyond human experience and understanding. Each of these is deftly executed and remarkably robust. In fact that is what makes this novel so extremely satisfying; while it contains each of these standard elements, it treats each as its own critical part not to be neglected in favor of anything else.

Rare indeed is the author who can manage to generate a palpable fear and an equally compelling eroticism. To pair a moving sense of the mystic and a convincing technical vernacular. To give each character a distinct and evocative voice while maintaining a gripping continuity. Not only are these seldom found together in pairs, I have never encountered each and all together in such measure and balance as in this book. Dan Simmon has created nothing less than a masterpiece in this novel by his ability to do so with such grace and artistry.

Hyperion is a planet at the center of a mystery the known universe have been unable to fathom. Phenomenon that defy all of man’s learning and the best of its efforts to unfold persist on this far flung world that has resisted all efforts to bring it into the fold of the Hegemony.  Time works in ways that cannot be explained and a creature known as the Shrike, a four armed creature covered in metal spikes with glowing red eyes roams the outlands leaving death in his wake. Now on the verge on an intergalactic war, seven pilgrims are selected to make a final pilgrimage to the Shrike who, legend says, will grant either a final wish or death.

Each pilgrim seems an unlikely choice in their way, and with no discernible connection either to each other or the Shrike.  As the journey begins and their tales unfold, we begin to see the ways in which a priest, a warrior, a scholar, a ship captain, a poet, a mercenary, and a diplomat are all deeply bound to both Hyperion and each other.  Each character speaks in a distinct and wholly convincing voice. Simmons switches effortlessly between the male and female characters and persuades entirely with both.

To give away more would spoil the pleasure of letting the reader sink into this excellent tale unhampered by expectation. Suffice it to say I found it utterly engrossing and totally satisfying. Funny, moving, horrifying and sexy. It is the best of all that literature has to offer, if you will allow yourself to submit to the Shrike’s dangerous embrace.

Highly Recommended

For those of you who were in the Gresham High School Concert Choir in 1995, you know what I’m talkin’ bout. As this does not (probably) account for an appreciable portion of my readership, I’ll expand…

The Googles tell me this is what a boundary looks like. Good thing they can spot them.

Every year we went on a retreat together to work more effectively as a group, improve group dynamics , and partially disrobe in front of each other. As this event was usually conducted at a church camp, they were always happy to see us coming, but much happier to see us go. In fact, the third portion of the tradition was so throroughly exercised* my senior year, they asked us not to come back. But I digress**

My senior year, I was a section leader. As such, I had certain “responsibilities” which I interpreted as “abusing authority over younger more vulerable people, preferably until they cry. Unless you like them, in which case don’t.” What this meant, in practice, was that when we were preparing for retreat, I was in charge of creating the trust exercises*** and I used this opportunity to think about how best to create an environment of safety, foster the growth of intimacy, and cherry pick the people I wanted to know more about and put them in my own group.

Cut me some slack, I was sixteen for chrissakes.

SO! Boundary breaking that year was like, epic. Everyone said so. It was pretty well acknowledged that there was crying IN EVERY SINGLE GROUP EVEN THE ONES WITH THE FOOTBALL PLAYERS. I took this as a mighty personal triumph to make the majority of a 70 person group of people cry all at once. In a good way, though.

Not that boundary breaking was the only opportunity for tears. Ohhhh no. We also traditionally played what was affectionately called “The Kissing Game” but would have been more accurately called “Rugby + Sexual Angst & Terror” We all LOVED this game, and I took home a semi-serious injury every year I played. Basically the deal was, someone was “it” and sat in the middle of a giant circle of hormone crazed teenagers. That person would call out a number (to indicate a girl) and a letter (assigned to the boys) and those two people would rise. The object was for the opposite gender person to attempt to kiss the person who was “it” BEFORE the same gender person could kiss the attacking opposite gender person. Whoever failed, was then “it” and so it went. Mother of god. It was not unusual to see a adolescent girl clinging to her male counterpart like she wanted to be Queen of the Rodeo. Legs flinging around madly; channelling her inner leech. This game is by its nature pretty gender-biased, but we had some TOUGH BITCHES in that choir, so the girls did usually hold their own with surprising facility.

Then we’d walk outside to the natural amphitheater and sing; The beauty of that moment would quieten the laughter and violence both. Our voices would ring out over the water and return to us augmented by the stones and the trees and we would feel powerful and alive and part of something amazing. In such contrast to our silliness that we were humbled by our own wondrousness.

Wait, what was the point of this post?****

Ah yes, I have been pondering the nature of boundaries lately, and why I don’t seem to have any sense of where they might be in other people. I’m much better at breaking them than I am recognizing or respecting them. I was going to talk about that. And I think I will, but not today. Because this just ended up being funny and making me happy, and causing me to miss a whole bunch of those tough bitches and football players a whole lot. I wouldn’t want to muddy that with my typical maundering. I’ll save that for later.

*Literally. We were  playing shirts vs. skins touch football. This was especially interesting because a) many of the starting line up for Gresham’s football team were in concert choir and b) many of the “skins” were girls. I wasn’t playing, but took my shirt off anyway to provide much needed moral(?) support.

** As is my wont.

***Which were different in that nobody took any of their clothes off. I think.

**** Shit, with the digression again.