The Internet Reminds Me Why I Hate People

There was a story about Pierce Brosnan that broke today, over at TMZ and later picked up by Reuters. It’s nothing major, seems he was accosted by a paparazzi while he was at a mall with his kids, words were exchanged and Brosnan ended up hitting the photographer. A fairly typical Hollywood story these days and I only clicked on the article because I’m a fan of Brosnan’s and I was curious. He doesn’t make headlines very often, especially like this.

I don’t really have an opinion on the story. He probably shouldn’t have hit the guy, but shit happens. It’s not a big deal in the grand scheme of things and it’s a very small blemish on an otherwise spotless career.

What bothers me (what always bothers me) is the reader reaction. Reading through the comment thread at TMZ made me want to take a shower. Insults and hostility pepper the thread, from references to Brosnan being a has-been to insinuations that he used to beat his girlfriend.

Why do people find it necessary to denigrate every celebrity that comes along? What is it inside of us, as a species, that makes us enjoy such an activity? I understand the occasional potshot at a Britney or a Paris, especially when they go out of their way to make themselves targets, but most of this stuff is just mean. Go read through some of the threads at Fark and you’ll see what I’m talking about.

Is it the relative anonymity of the internet that brings out the worst in people?

(On a side note, when did we reach the point in our culture where someone is a has-been if they aren’t actively in a top ten movie? What’s the definition here? Brosnan seems to have a pretty solid career at the moment. He’s moved from big budget affairs like the Bond series to some more offbeat or arty pictures like The Matador and Seraphim Falls, but that appears to be a conscious choice on his part. A look at IMDB shows several projects in the works for the next couple of years. He’s not hurting for work. Likewise, the net is full of discussions that refer to Tom Cruise as a has-been and his last movie made over $200 Million. I seem to be missing something here.)

A decade ago politicians were declaring that the internet would unite diverse people in ways that were previously impossible. Looks like they were right. Mob mentality is taking hold and the citizens of the net have been united in hatred of, well, just about everything.

Except cats.

Strike?!?! WTF?!?!

So, it looks like the writers union in Hollywood is getting ready to strike.

This has happened before. The last time was in 1988 and you can thank that one for the spread of reality TV. But the last time this happened, TV drama was episodic in nature. You could watch an episode of your favorite show without having seen the week before, or the week before that. Stories stood alone.

Now, many (if not most) shows are serial. You need to watch the whole season, week after week. Can you imagine just tuning in for a random episode of 24? or Lost?

So, if the writers strike happens, what happens to those shows? We’ve known the strike was coming for some time. Are those seasons scripted in advance? Or will we all be left hanging off a proverbial cliff?

It’s Coming

“What’s that?” she asked.

“It’s a poster for the new J.J. Abrams’ movie,” I answered.

“Huh. What’s it called?”

“Don’t know. He won’t say.”

“Really? What’s it about?”

“Don’t know. He won’t say.”

“Huh. Is that the Statue of Liberty?”

“Yep.”

“Where’s its head?”

“Don’t know.”

“Do you know anything about it at all?”

“Has something to do with an energy company and another company that makes slushies or something.”

“Huh. When’s it coming out?”

“January. Wanna go?”

“Sure.”

“Sweet.”

Pleasant Suprise

Walked into the grocery store yesterday and found a copy of Alfred Hitchcock Magazine on the shelf there. I haven’t seen a short story magazine on a regular newstand in more years than I can remember.

A nice reminder that I had intended to write a short story to submit there this year. I should work on that….

Musings on Writers, Portrayals and Californication

Most movies or TV shows that involve writers as main characters make me laugh.

They never get it right. The writer is portrayed as just an ordinary guy (Stephen King does this a lot), as some sophisticated font of knowledge (usually older writer, Hemmingway Syndrome), or an amateur sleuth who gets called on by the inept local police force to help them solve a complicated mystery (a la Murder She Wrote).

The dirty little secret here is that, for the most part, writers are a bit on the socially inept side. You see, we spend a lot of time by ourselves, locked in our own heads. Often, even when we’re with people, our thoughts are turned inward.

When we talk to you, we don’t just hear what you say. We hear (or try to hear) why you said it. Because motivation means much more than actual words. Every writer knows that.

So between taking little vacations in our own heads, and hearing a little more than most people hear in a conversation, we don’t tend to respond in the ways that you might expect us to respond. What we say might tend to be inappropriate, sarcastic, sometimes downright insulting. In our minds though, there’s nothing else we could have said. It was the right line for the scene, the perfect piece of dialogue.

It is not our fault that you’re a real person and not a character in a story.

Which brings me, in a roundabout way, to Californication, a new series airing on Showtime. It stars David Duchovny as a (you guessed it) writer, living in L.A. It is not only Duchovny’s best work, but the single best depiction of a writer that I have ever seen on film. The dialogue is a work of art.

You should watch it, unless of course you don’t like writers.

(not so) dominant

The Great (or so he saw himself) Writer leaned back on his stool and exhaled a large cloud of cigarette smoke from his lungs.

He was on a stage in a small Irish pub in a small college town. He was there, of course, to say profound things. Why else would a Great Writer be on a stage?

He surveyed the crowd (not a large crowd, but not so tiny a crowd, either. not really) with careful eyes, absorbing details that lesser minds would miss, his keen intuitive nature picking up on subtle personality traits in his mostly young audience.

His mostly female audience.

A lesser mind make wonder about that, perhaps making an assumption that college males are much less likely to read books than their female counterparts. A lesser mind might even find that thought intriguing and wonder why it would be the case. Perhaps even run through some likely scenarios to explain such a thing.

But that was for a lesser mind.

The Great Writer’s mind couldn’t be bothered with such trivialities. It was too busy dissecting the subtle clues that would indicate which of the rapt young ladies would be the most likely to accompany him back to his hotel room. Which ones would be so awestruck by his brilliance that they would do anything he desired. Even the things they wouldn’t do for their boyfriends.

It was a skill that rarely failed him.

But then, it was a rare night.

The girl he picked, the bookish little blonde with the pigtails and the tight, white sweater, the one who looked so sweet and adoring, who looked at him with those big blue eyes. Her thoughts were so much deeper, so much more profound than his own. She saw so easily through him, his (not so) subtle manipulations.

Tonight, he would do her bidding, she would have the control. He would cry, he would beg, he would be humiliated.

All there in that little college town, in that little Irish pub, for everyone to see.

….and he’d like it. The Great Writer would get a taste for it. Would look for it over and over again, in every town he visited, every stage he stepped upon. He’d always be looking for that bookish little blonde girl, to take control.

And he’d never turn that discerning eye inwards, never wonder why he longed for the humiliation, the loss of control.

And he’d never find such a girl again.

 

Copyright 2007 – K. Patrick Glover.