Twenty six eleven
Permutation City
You know how sometimes you have an experience that is like eh but not really as good as you hoped it would be? Reading Permutation City was like that. I like Greg Egan's writing. I enjoyed the collection of his short stories I read. They didn't all work but they were worth reading. And I've been focusing on scifi recently, particularly thinky or hard stuff.
So this was what I was looking for? Hmmmm.
Well, it was well written. And it had plenty of ideas. And the scifi was at least somewhat hard (although the "dust theory" is not all that plausible as Egan himself has accepted). But it was slightly hard going and I was glad to get through it. It wasn't that it didn't make sense. It was more that it didn't pay off. Two of the storylines didn't seem to add enough to merit their inclusion and the nonlinear framework seemed designed to confuse rather than intrigue.
So it was the definition of a three.
Sliding Doors
One of my sisters pointed out that the musing of one of my characters in something I'm writing is exactly the plot of Sliding Doors, and although I'd argue that I wrote it in a way that slightly obscures that, the truth is that it is, but Sliding Doors was never actually very original to begin with. It's an interesting counterpart to Permutation City though because it's a different view of the parallel universe. And it's a banger. Even though Gwyneth Paltrow and John Hannah have very little chemistry in my view. I was a bit afraid that I wouldn't like it as much as I used to because the sentimentality and corniness of the memes are so dated. But I did! I loved it just as much as I did back in the day. Between you and me -- and yes, I accept that I am a repulsive sexist -- I don't really enjoy romcoms if I'm not hot for the woman, and Gwyneth is no Kate Winslet. I don't like skinny, flat-arse or fragile at all (I think this might be because I don't particularly enjoy features you'd consider "masculine" to be reflected in women even if the same features would be very attractive in men), and I really disliked the Princess Di do as well. (In fact, I much preferred Jeanne Tripplehorn, although her character was yikes.) Still, she was engaging and attractive enough characterwise. And Hannah was Hannah. He's the same in absolutely everything and I don't hate that old school Hollywood thing where an actor just plays the same character regardless, so long as you like the character. I think a lot of us English types think of ourselves as that sort of charming romantic who can quote whole scenes of Monty Python and wish we had a table full of dining companions who screech with laughter when we do it...
Okay so I didn't claim it was realistic! But that's what makes it so good. It's like science fiction in that you don't just suspend disbelief. You leave that bitch at the door. A good old four.
The Running Man
There's been a few films recently that have divided opinion (although in the case of Bugonia that seems to have been everyone else and me), and this is one of them. Personally, I enjoy the reviews of the Critical Drinker -- who is an internet hater/misogynist/queerbaiter/whatever -- and Mark Kermode -- very much the Guardian wokey. They have different perspectives and if I see both of them, I can usually tell whether I want to watch something or not. Drinker has some interesting critique and doesn't enjoy pretentiousness, but also is primed to hate anything by women or for women. Kermode is clever, perceptive and tends to like things that I might yawn my way through. Drinker's good at nerdy, IP-based stuff and Kermode good at contextualising arty filth.
Well, Drinker hated Running Man big style. He thought the tone was off. He seemed really affronted that it was mildly amusing. I thought the tone was pretty good, although the Man himself seemed a bit more prone to rage than anything he encountered really merited, which I put down to poor direction. Kermode thought it was fun. I agreed with that. It was a romp and if it had been twenty minutes shorter or at least had a tighter last act, it would have been absolutely fine. As it was, I was squirming a bit at the end, but it was worth watching.
Derry Girls
So I really like TV that is warmhearted. I don't really mean overly sentimental so much as it portrays people with good hearts being good people -- even if they are sometimes doing not quite good things. I'm a big sucker for copaganda, shows like The Rookie or Chicago PD, which portray cops as decent people willing to do the right thing to keep us all safe. Not because I believe it but because I like the idea. It's fiction after all.
Now, a lot of people like Father Ted and the IT Crowd, and I watched an episode of Father Ted recently and disliked it. I actually find Linehan's comedies underwhelming precisely because they lack that good heart. They are mean. The characters aren't good people. They are there for us to laugh at, not with.
But Derry Girls has heart. It's bursting with it. The characters are just lovely people, presented with warmth, and even when you're laughing at them, there's no bitter taste. They're *silly* rather than venal. Even Colm is a kindly man, even if he's very boring. It's also screamingly funny, anchored by women with exquisite comic timing and a supporting cast full of character actors who are brilliantly written to make the whole a colourful and lively universe.
I think actually why I think this is so much better than Father Ted is that Ted does not have anything good to say. It's not situated in anything. It doesn't talk fondly about the church, about people, about anything. It's as remote from us as Craggy Island itself. You either find Linehan's jokes funny or you don't, and I've never really enjoyed him as a gag writer. I'd give you the IT Crowd, which is at least some of the time funny, but Black Books barely raises a smile. The characters have zero plausibility. I'll just say this about my theory of comedy. Clowns are funny because they touch their pain inside. They're funny because you empathise with them. British comedy often portrays characters that you feel that deep empathy for. Dylan Moran is just a cunt in Black Books. You're supposed to laugh at him because he's a cunt. I've never much liked comedies that rely on that (except for Peep Show, which is just screamingly funny). I loved Only Fools and Horses, where you feel for Del Boy and Rodney -- they are just so real. Maybe that's it. It's that Moran's character is just not real. Just not "feelable".
Lisa McGee is as funny as fuck. Her characters are *so* real. They are occasionally stereotypes but so are we often. Then she deftly paints in a detail and they show just that bit more depth. Michelle's pain over her brother's fate is moving and compelling. You root for these guys, and you can't do that for anyone in anything Linehan writes.
Five stars. I mean it. One of the best TV comedies. Not a single bad episode; not even a bad five minutes. If you haven't seen it, I thoroughly recommend it.
Seven eleven
I had a big task lined up for this afternoon so I went out to get some groceries before I started. When I got back, it had vanished and so had all its sister tasks. I don't know if the project was finished or I had been booted. You don't get told. I don't take it personally because you never know what they actually want, and I've generally been valued. Or maybe I have. A couple of times a project has said I was among the best and that's why I was on it. But this one was so much work potentially. Not fun but I could earn from it.
It was my work for the afternoon. It was all I had. My main gig is dry and I never know why it is: whether they don't have work or are not working themselves. They don't bother to let me know.
And I know, even though I try not to let it overwhelm me, that there is going to be a day when there is no more of this work. They'll stop feeding back to AI. And then I'll have nothing.
I have no margin. That's the worst of it. I need to earn the rent, money to pay back debts, to avoid getting taken to court, and I have nothing I can make up a shortfall with. I had to spend what I had on eye surgery because it was that or go blind. And then when I got a bit more together I had to pay it to a woman who wasn't looking and smashed into my car and a guy who got a dent that probably took an hour to fix but cost ten grand for some reason. My car wasn't even worth ten grand. I managed to scrape together a few grand -- by which I mean I had to borrow from my own kid -- so I have another car. Sometimes the gears seem to catch and sometimes I think I smell petrol. I just have to tell myself nothing is wrong, I am smelling nothing, nothing, nothing is broken, nothing can be broken.
I can't get an actual job. I am trying but I rarely get any reply to an application.
I hurt all the time. Loneliness hurts. Social media makes things worse because you see such horrible people all the time and it makes the world hard to love. But without social media I'd have no interaction with anyone.
I need a break. I need to feel wanted and loved a little bit, a tiny bit, and not snubbed by the entire world. I have tried to do the right thing and my reward for that is this. It doesn't feel right. Sometimes, when you are on the edge, clinging on by your fingertips and you can feel the pain creep up your fingers, up your arms, into your heart, burning all of you into nothing.
Sometimes you just want to let go.
Three eleven
Bugonia
Opinions vary on Bugonia. Mine fwiw is that it was bad in a
way that no other film has been bad in before. It had nothing to say but it
pretended it did and it didn't really have much plot but pretended it did by
adding on stuff that was like growing an extra dick rather than growing an inch
on the one you already have.
Nihilist trash. I do not approve.
Frankenstein
I seem to be almost entirely opposed from the "correct
opinion" because I really liked it. I felt it was note perfect but for one line. The key would be to ignore the book and not try to compare the film to it but to take it on its own terms. It's a banger. Yes, it's not as subtle as Shelley's work but she wasn't writing a filmplay. And it looked so good!
If you're going to do a remake, make it your own. And don't make it dreary rubbish like Nosferatu.
Thirty one ten
I read Counterweight by Djuna.
The premise of the novel was interesting. An unnamed, perhaps unreliable narrator (although nothing hinges on the narrator's reliability) finds out that the deceased head of a multinational that has built a space elevator has planted a copy of (some of) his memories into a working stiff's brain.
The slender book is why and some chasing around. Bish bash bosh. But the worldbuilding is really thin, so you have no good picture of the place the narrator is running around. Or even really why. There's some nonsense about AI but any insight is literally just put right in front of you and it amounted to "it's inevitable, yawn". The characters had no character, the action had no action and the denouement didn't make much if any sense.
It's the kind of book reviewers fawn over because they think cutting-edge Korean sf must be good because everyone says it is. But it isn't. It's supposed to be less is more. But it's just less is less. Didn't enjoy; don't recommend.
Eleven ten
Rereading Story of Your Life by Ted Chiang, I was actually surprised at how different it is from the film (Arrival, if you don't know). The story is a reflection on free will and inevitability, although you may well not see it that way. It's chiefly a statement of existentialist philosophy: you cannot choose what you do but you can choose how you feel about it.
In Chiang's story -- and this isn't a spoiler -- the narrator's child will die. But we will all die. Should we not have children when we know they are doomed? How must you act when you are confronted with the inevitable? For Louise, the choice is maximum joy or maximum sorrow. There is no option to just not do it.
This is the Myth of Sisyphus retold. Louise cannot, and does not, choose for her child to exist. She must have her and lose her and take that as an occasion for joy or for sorrow.
The difference between the story and the film is that the aliens bring enlightenment to Louise in the story, while in the film they are the solution to the problem they themselves present. Which you find better is probably a question of taste, and I liked them both, but I much prefer the story, which made me cry.
Twenty-seven seven
It is late. I probably could sleep. But I don't want to. Sleeping means waking up. And waking up means deciding if I can face another day. They have no end. They simply proceed one after the other.
I do, I did and I will think about ending my life. I know that if you read this, you will likely say, oh, you should not. You should fight for it.
Fight for what? When I wake up, I find out if there's any work for me. If there is, I know I can do it and make maybe enough to pay the rent. I usually can't stand to do much more because it's not fun, it's not good work. It's not boring like your job is boring, or tiring like your job is tiring. It's not even soul destroying. It's crushing because it's the best I can hope for. It's all I am good for.
Doing all you are good for is not soul destroying. It's a way of reminding yourself you do not have a soul; you do not have any beauty; you have nothing that anyone wants.
I don't have friends. There are a couple of people at the dog park I talk to but those are all the friends I have. Why don't I have them? Why don't I make more? I'm not unfriendly. I'm a bit odd maybe but not even really so much that you'd notice. If I can fight down the little professor, I'm at least sometimes interesting.
Or I thought I was. I had a couple of people I talked to regularly. But they grew bored of me. Sufficiently that they just didn't want to be my friend any more. It has left me profoundly empty, bereft.
The cause of not having friends is that I worked from home. I gave up having a life, friends, everything for people I loved. And what does that reward you? One woman I just couldn't love any more; the other, well, she never was the person I loved, and finding that out crushed me. It caused a crisis of confidence that I have not recovered from. It left me unable to find anyone who might care for me.
I know that some people who read this will protest that they do care for me. I don't mean you don't love me. I don't even mean you don't think about me. I'm sure people do. I mean you cannot care for me. Not as a child. As someone who is present. As someone who will share their problems with me and listen to mine. Not even that. I don't want to spend my days bleating. As someone who already knows them and will be a safe place for me.
I do not have anything safe in my life. I just have things that hurt. They hurt all the time. Each thing sits there and says, you deserve it. Because that is how I see the world. Despite all the unfairness, the injustice, the wonky scales that I can see all around me, I am still getting what I deserve.
I just can't get out of it. I can't get a job to give me the money to save to have the backstop that you are supposed to have. I cleared most of my debts and then I got more because I didn't have work and I have to live. I am crushed by rent and I can't afford not to pay it. What a quandary! I am too poor to move out. It haunts me: how easily I could be free of those debts, for what a low price. But it's a price I can't pay. And I had a car crash that left me hurt and broken, and facing even more debt. I can't do anything about it. I dread hearing about how much people think I will give them. I cannot give them anything.
I cannot even be bankrupt. To survive, I had to create a situation that if I reveal it to an insolvency official, I will be in even worse trouble.
I do know what some people will think. Just suck it up. Get an extra job and work hard. But I have had to try to make my life less miserable so that I can bear it. And seriously, what job? What extra job can I have?
***
It gets worse. I can't talk about it here but this is not all that leaves me powerless and bereft. I recently went to England and that made things worse. No one intended that it should but it did. Because I know that being here is what makes me want to die and I can't change it. It's no one's fault but my own. But I know that that's a losing battle, something I can't fix. You cannot reason with something that howls with its own pain that makes no sense, knows no reason. I will talk about it another time. I cannot afford therapy so this is all I have.
So tomorrow I will wake up and hope that it looks a little brighter. But it won't. There will just be a voice following me around the house as I clean it, whispering did you think you could have a dream? Did you think you could have what you wanted? Did you think you could be happy? Did you think you could be loved? And laughing at me, screeching with laughter, while me, I can't laugh along with it. My laughter vanished seven years ago and it's the fear that it won't come back that is making me think about stopping.
Twenty-two seven
When you feel, or maybe are, powerless, it can be hard to sympathise with people who are struggling with the outcomes of their own choices. I think that's probably truer if those choices are more proximate but aren't your own just the same, just more distant?
I think that the obvious conclusion to draw from that is that you should have more sympathy for those people but on the other hand, sometimes because the more proximate outcomes are much easier to see and expect, you feel they deserve it less.Is that right? If you say, I chose to love her and I couldn't know that it would be a mistake or at least that it would turn out badly, are you a more sympathetic figure than someone who is feeling overcommitted but made those commitments last week and didn't have to?
