I made a promise, some time ago, that I would avoid discussing religion overmuch, if at all, on this blog. Yet when Black Death won the poll it was clear that I’d have to sprain that promise. Since it’s in the context of a movie, I won’t consider it entirely broken. There’s also the fact that this film is unflinching, uncompromising and unbiased in its bleak view of religion… and how little it’s changed since the time period in which it’s set.
The time is 1348 AD, and the place is England. The bubonic plague ravages the countryside and small villages are especially susceptible to the pestilence. There is rumor of one, however, where not only is the plague not present, but the dead are coming back thanks to a demon or a witch. While some believe that God sent the plague to punish mankind, others think that demons like this one are the cause, and an envoy of the bishop has come with several hard men to root out the demon. He conscripts a young monk to guide him, but the monk has plans of his own.
True to the fire and brimstone of the period, a good descriptor for this movie is ‘grim’. The heroes are not shining examples of honor or virtue, even when compared to the worst amongst their opposing number. While the men we follow are servants of the church, they’re not paragons of Christianity, nor are the people of the village they finally arrive in kind and generous. Black Death calls into question the intelligence and decency of anyone who takes the world around them on faith alone without preamble or a moment’s thought, and while the setting is in a dark age of human history, the question remains if people today are any different.
At least we have slightly more sanitary infrastructure these days.
Thankfully, this isn’t a movie interested in beating you over the head with its message. It simply presents its perspective and lets you dwell on it. While the writing isn’t necessarily stellar material, the screenwriters have the decency to leave most of the heavier stuff as visuals and action rather than heavy-handed speeches. The direction clearly delights in the heavy mists, dour arms and armor and spattering gore of most medieval epics, and Black Death does a good job of conveying the dark atmosphere of the age. The best part of the film, though, is the extremely strong cast.
Considering Sean Bean dominates most of the cover art you’ll see, you might consider him to be the only actor of note in the piece, and that this flick tries to squeak by on his star power along. You’d be wrong. I was surprised to see David Warner turn up as the abbot in our starting location, while veteran actors like Eddie Redmayne, Tim McInnerny (of Black Adder fame) and a few guys from EastEnders join Sean’s ragtag band. And that striking blonde wearing red working opposite Sean is none other than Carice van Houten of Black Book and Repo Men fame. Watching them together makes me wish they’d share a couple scenes in the Game of Thrones series, considering Miss van Houten landed the role of Melisandre.
Serving R’hllor since 1348.
All in all, I’m glad I watched Black Death. It wasn’t the best movie I’ve ever seen set in this time period or tackling the subject of religion, but it certainly wasn’t as terrible as I was dreading it’d be. The mostly realistic bent of its production, the very solid acting and the way the whole thing slides in situation from bad to worse for the characters is actually somewhat gripping in a way I did not expect. I say, put this one on your Netflix Instant queue. You might be surprised.
Josh Loomis can’t always make it to the local megaplex, and thus must turn to alternative forms of cinematic entertainment. There might not be overpriced soda pop & over-buttered popcorn, and it’s unclear if this week’s film came in the mail or was delivered via the dark & mysterious tubes of the Internet. Only one thing is certain… IT CAME FROM NETFLIX.
Serials can be difficult things. You want to keep the fans you’ve acquired happy, regardless of whether you have five or five thousand or more, and you also want to keep your work from going stale as each old iteration gives rise to a new one. Many movies and games have fallen into the trap of doing ‘more of the same’ or removing the elements of the first title from the second in an effort to broaden the series’ appeal. I hope that the makers of movies and games are paying attention, because George RR Martin is a creative mind who gets serial iteration right, as evidenced in his latest entry in the Song of Ice and Fire series, A Dance With Dragons.
The novel takes readers back to the fictional land of Westeros, where summers last years and winter can last decades. Winter not only promises cold winds, dead crops and snowfalls several feet deep, but horrible creatures beyond count and the dead rising from their graves. Such things seem beyond the concerns of some of the people in Westeros, however, as noble Houses feud to seize control of the Iron Throne. Banners snap in the breeze and swords shine in sunlight as forces clash across the land. The War of Five Kings is all but over, yet conflict continues to rule in Westeros. Meanwhile, across the Narrow Sea, rumors of dragons and the liberation of slaves in the shadow of the ruined freehold of Valyria draws many to the Essos city of Meereen, as well as suitors for the hand of a queen quickly growing in legend as she struggles to maintain control over the change she’s wrought. And in the North of Westeros, on the titanic Wall that sheilds the land from the places where winter never ends, an untested leader remembers the words of the House where he was raised: Winter Is Coming…
There was some concern amongst fans before the release of A Dance With Dragons. It had been six years since the release of the previous book, A Feast For Crows. There’s also the fact that in A Feast For Crows, many of the point of view characters fans had come to love were conspicuously absent. Considering the cliffhanger way in which Martin had ended the third volume, A Storm Of Swords, it’s no wonder that many fans wondered what exactly Martin was up to. As it turns out, A Feast For Crows was merely the first half of a rather bold experiment in long-form storytelling.
One of the titular dragons.
Originally, Martin had intended to relate much of the story in A Feast For Crows and the first half of A Dance With Dragons as flashbacks during “meatier” bits of his saga. However, when he realized how daunting a task that would be to relate so much story without things becoming dull, he opted to tell the stories that needed to be told more or less in real time from the perspective of the involved characters. There was apparently a lot of story to tell, as this transitionary portion of the story as told by more established characters dominates the first half of A Dance With Dragons.
However, this move means that the events that have come before, first published six years ago, now have more depth and resonance. Narrative threads that may have felt as ‘left hanging’ are tied into greater portions of the overall story. In other words, Martin didn’t just publish a new book. He produced a novel that some how makes his previous novel a better one and, rather than letting it remain attached like a vestigial growth, folds it neatly into his ongoing, sprawling epic. This is, in my humble opinion, nothing short of literary genius.
Guess who still knows nothing.
Typically, this is about where I’d go over what I liked and didn’t like about this book itself. However, I’d rather not betray any spoilers. I will, instead, say simply this. Martin continues to demonstrate that he is a superlative storyteller, creating characters that feel very human and deep in the midst of a fantasy world at once familiar and rather strange. His story turns are bold and his plans will keep you guessing.
I have to say that fans new to the series or who got their introduction through the HBO series Game of Thrones should pick up at least a couple of the previous books. However, if you’re already part of those that follow the saga of Westeros and anticipate the coming of winter, there is no reason not to purchase A Dance with Dragons. It’s not only a worthy addition to this sprawling series of books, it’s one of the best.
Okay. I have no idea if this is actually going to work.
I haven’t played StarCraft 2 in weeks, mostly because I’ve been taking it too seriously. It’ s one thing to want to improve one’s performance and quite another when it overshadows having fun in a game or making time for other distractions. I simply don’t have enough free time to devote to both improving StarCraft 2 and being a writer.
What I would like to do, then, is compile The Art of Thor into one place and make it available for public consumption. Maybe a downloadable PDF, maybe a cheap e-book, something.
I’m nowhere near an expert on the game, nor will I ever claim to be. But I’d like to think that the advice I’ve given has been helpful to some, if not entertaining. I could be wrong, of course.
What do you think? Can The Art of Thor work as a standalone guide to the StarCraft 2 newbie, or is it best left in the past?
Please note: All characters, locations and events are copyright George RR Martin and the events that take place during this tale can and will deviate from series canon.
The Story So Far: It is Year 296 since Aegon’s Landing. Two minor Houses have come into contention: House Luxon, sworn to the Starks of Winterfell, and House Mortmund, sworn to the Lannisters of Casterly Rock. A savage turn of events and a tireless pursuit has revealed that Lord Mortmund had employed a Faceless Man, sent the assassin to slay noble heads of Westeros nobility, while thieves and scavengers collected Valyrian heirloom blades to keep for himself. While the Luxon forces stormed and razed the Mortmund keep, a bastard named Cadmon Storm recovered the blades and killed the Faceless Man. Victor Luxon, son of Lord Goddard, went with the bastard and John Nurem, steward of the House, to King’s Landing. At High Court they presented the blades of House Baratheon to Robert, the First of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. Following a decree that named Cadmon the trueborn son of Baelor Hightower of Oldtown, the trio proceeded down the Rose Road to Highgarden, continuing to distribute the stolen blades to their rightful owners…
He hated the South. He hated the heat. He hated the moisture. He hated the way the greens and yellows and reds of the feilds assaulted his eyes. He hated the stinging of pollen in his eyes and the way it left dust on his arms and armor. Most of all he hated the false smiles, the courtesies, the bowing and taking of knees and “m’lord” this and “m’lady” that. He missed the North, the biting vibrant cold breezes, the heft of his weapons and the comforting weight of armor on his shoulders.
He pushed John Nurem aside and set about adjusting his clothing himself. The steward bowed and muttered some sort of apology. Spineless toad. Victor appreciated all the merchant-turned-majordomo had done for House Luxon, but more often than not he just got in the way. He looked down at his sleeves, a dark blue fabric slashed to reveal the cloth-of-gold beneath, then tugged at the fine trousers of gray with their silver piping, tucked into polished black boots. The steward swept the ermine half-cloak around his shoulders, the cloth-of-gold lining catching the light from the hearth as Victor fastened the clasp, a golden acorn. Victor reached for his swordbelt and fastened it around his waist as the knock came at the door.
“They’re ready for us.”
“In a moment, Storm,” Victor snapped. He checked the hang and fit of his clothes, thanked the gods that nobody was around to stick him with any more pins, and threw open the door. Cadmon Storm, now recognized as a Hightower, stood just outside, dressed in his own finery, the hilt of the Veracity visible behind his left hip as he tugged on the white leather gloves he wore.
Royal decree or no, the stripling’s Storm to me. “Which way’s the solar?”
Cadmon gestured with a smile. “This way, my lord.”
“Yes, your lord, and don’t you forget it, bastard.” Victor had starting itching already. It was going to be a long afternoon. Despite the powerful stride he adopted to move through Highgarden to Mace Tyrell’s solar, Cadmon had no trouble keeping up. “My father did you a great boon by taking you in, considering you showed up at our gates with naught but a bastard’s name and some pretty words.”
“I’ve proven everything that I’ve said, have I not?” The bastard didn’t stop smiling. A Southron through and through. “We destroyed a potential enemy of not only your House, but the Lannisters as well, and Luxon’s growing in respect with every stolen blade it returns.”
“Just remember it’s Luxon doing it. Not you.”
“I doubt I could forget, considering how you constantly remind me.”
“And keep your distance. I won’t have you interrupting me this time.”
Cadmon placed a gloved hand over his slashed doublet. “Why, Victor, you wound me. I thought you of all people would appreciate the need to cut to the quick.”
“Not in front of the bloody king!” The insult still burned him. He’d been telling the story of how they’d come across the blades, in detail, leaving nothing out. He wanted no secrets before the king. He learned afterward that one of the small council, the pointy-beared whisp of a man everybody called Littlefinger, had started yawning. Cadmon had interrupted, kneeled before the king and laid out the Baratheon blades taken from the serial killer that had lived under the guise of a Lannister bannerman. The delivery had won them reknown throughout the Seven Kingdoms, and a letter from Tywin Lannister himself had called upon Robert to decree Cadmon the trueborn son of Baelor Hightower, but Victor wasn’t about to let the slight go unremarked.
“Just let me do the talking this time.”
“As long as you don’t do too much of it.”
Victor growled. “You try my patience, bastard.”
Cadmon shrugged, his only reply as their quick pace had brought them to the solar. He opened the door for Victor and gestured grandly for him to enter. Cadmon fell into step behind him. Sitting in a comfortable chair with the remnants of his breakfast in front of him, Lord Mace Tyrell, Defender of the Marches, High Marshal of the Reach, Lord of Highgarden and Warden of the South, wiped his hands on a napkin and gestured for them to approach. His daughter Margaery sat nearby, hands folded in her lap and smiling at Renly Baratheon, who sat nearby speaking with her quietly. Nearby, Mace’s son Loras looked on, the embroidery in his fine cloak and worked into the leather of his scabbard unsurprisngly showing various types of flowers. A slender woman with long silver hair and a dignified look smiled as they entered, walking past Victor to place a hand on Cadmon’s shoulder.
“Oh, my brother will be jealous. I get to see how handsome his son is before he even reaches Oldtown.”
“You must be my aunt Alerie.” Cadmon took her hand in his. “I’m so pleased to meet you.”
I’m going to be sick. “Lord Mace, I have no wish to overstay my welcome. May I present you with these blades of House Tyrell, taken from…”
Mace held up a meaty hand. “I did hear tell of most of this tale from my son Loras, and from Renly, when they arrived. May I see the blades?”
Victor knelt and laid out the bundle they’d made of the blades of Tyrell. Loras walked over to look down upon them as Mace leaned toward the opened canvas. He reached down and picked up the broadsword from the bunch, the central feature of its hilt being a golden rose. A matching dagger was beside it, which Ser Loras picked up.
“These were my father’s blades,” Mace said. “They said he’d fallen from a cliff, looking up and not minding where he was going. There was always something odd about that story.”
Victor nodded. “Regardless of how they came to be parted from him, they are now yours once again, Lord Mace.”
“And well I thank you for that. You do good service for your house, Luxon, and for that of your liege lord. I shall not forget it.”
Victor stood, adjusting the leather belt around his waist. He was eager to wrap this up and get into more comfortable clothes. Lord Mace invited his guests to dine with him that evening, which Victor accepted before he left the solar, leaving the bastard to speak with the woman from Oldtown.
“Victor, if I might have a word?”
He turned, to find the well-groomed Renly Baratheon following him into the corridor.
“I apologize for my brother’s brusque nature in King’s Landing. He’s so unflatteringly impatient during high court. You understand.”
“I do.” Victor shifted on his feet. “I took no offense.”
“It simply seemed unfair to extend the potential for knighthood to one such as Cadmon Hightower, and not do you the same courtesy.”
“What are you saying, my lord?”
“If you wished to squire for me, or perhaps Ser Loras, all you have to do is ask. You fought alongside us in the Greyjoy Rebellions. Your quality as a warrior is known. Why not add the reknown, respect and rewards of knighthood? What say you?”
Victor stared to Renly for a long moment. Then, taking a deep breath, he answered.
“I appreciate the offer, my lord, and I would be interested in squiring for a knight, but not for you, nor for Ser Loras.”
Renly blinked. “I beg your pardon? Why ever not?”
“You know why.”
The king’s brother narrowed his eyes. “I am attempting to extend you a courtey and opportunity, ser. You’re letting prejudice blind you.”
“The truly blind are those who still profess to love you while being ignorant of what you really are.”
“And what, exactly, am I?” Renly hand drifted to the hilt of his sword. It was one of the swords Cadmon had brought back from Mortmund’s ruin. Victor scowled and said no more, backing up a step and turning away.
Victor strode back to his quarters with haste, fueled by hatred. Was Renly simply trying to expand his collection of admirers? Victor didn’t think he was Renly’s type. He was burly where Ser Loras was slight, direct in speech where Ser Loras was circumspect. He was of the North, and Ser Loras of the South. Maybe the queer cock doesn’t discriminate, Victor thought bitterly. He slammed the door of the quarters behind him, which earned him a shriek from the bed chamber.
“Did… did it go well?”
The face of his wife poked out from the other room. Victor glared at her as he pulled the golden acorn open and yanked the ermine cloak from his shoulders.
“Lord Mace has kind things to say about House Luxon, now, giving us one less overt enemy in the South.”
“Oh, that must please you!” She moved to help him undress, her fingers slightly clumsier than those of John the house steward. She might have been on the homely side and not terribly bright, but she as at least a woman, and her hands on him working with his clothes didn’t make him so uncomfortable. “Tell me, was Lord Renly there? Or Ser Loras? Oh, he’s so elegant, with his floral armor and his…”
“Yes,” Victor hissed, exasperated. “He was there.”
Jaine giggled. “Oh, forgive me, my lord, he’s just so…”
“I know what he is. You owe me no apology.”
She responded by giggling more, especially when she was helping him out of his breeches. He sighed. Once again, the ship has left the dock with no one on board.
“Shall I help you relax, before we’re feasted by Lord Mace?”
“We have time, yes.” At least it’ll shut you up. Would that I could silence Renly or Ser Loras or that bloody bastard Storm as easily. He resolved not to think on those men any longer, however, as his wife began. Such thoughts would just be strange in this situation.
I miss pulp adventure stories. I miss uncontrived, straight-forward yarns with two-fisted, dashing heroes working against megalomaniacs to rescue leggy dames. Yes, these stories were simple and could be campy or hammy or just plain boring at times, but their simplicity was a strength, their tales unfettered by an artifice of philosophy or an undercurrent of cynicism. Films like Raiders of the Lost Ark and The Rocketeer understood that broad, epic tales don’t need a lot of inscrutable layers or nuances of postmodern construction to be interesting, exciting and fun. In their tradition comes Captain America: the First Avenger.
The year is 1942. War is rampaging across Europe and, unbeknownst to the Allied powers, a particularly bent Nazi genius has decided he’s been chosen by the gods to conquer the planet. Meanwhile, in Brooklyn, a skinny, asthmatic and somewhat nervous kid named Steve Rogers is trying – and failing – to join the Army. At his fifth attempt, a kindly if somewhat eccentric doctor asks why a kid with his conditions is so eager to kill Nazis. “I don’t want to kill anyone,” Steve replies. “I just don’t like bullies.” That doctor gives him the opportunity to become a super-soldier, and the results of the experiments cause Steve to be reborn as Captain America.
So Steve is a nice guy. He’s a scrawny, smart and brave young man who wants to do his part to take down the biggest bully the world has ever seen but his body isn’t living up to the demands of his spirit. Who he is – the 98-pound weakling – is very different from who he wants to be. And every time he tries to face this disconnect, cross his Shadow as it were, he’s slapped down by either the bureaucracy or the closest bully. And then, he gets his chance. He crosses his Shadow. The question is, does this transformation change him?
Not sure what I like more: wearing fatigues over the costume, or the aw-shucks grin.
It doesn’t, and that’s what makes Captain America at once a failure and a success as a character. In terms of character growth and progression, once the procedure is complete, he’s done. He has to get used to his new proportions, strength and agility of course, but he requires no other growth to be the man he’s always wanted to be and his personality doesn’t change at all. He’s still sweet, still shy around girls, still willing to do his part and still intolerant of blind ignorance and hate. Removing his physical flaws in an artificial way, in lieu of a more gradual and familiar arc, has lead to anything interesting about the character also being removed.
At least, that’s how it should work. He should stand there as a big beefy wish fulfillment fantasy for fat Americans in the audience itching to punch out terrorists, or failing that, the nearest brown person. Yet, Captain America is actually not all that American, when you think about it. Many Americans now are belligerent, loud, violently opinionated and fervently religious folk who are primarily concerned with shouting down anybody who disagrees with the opinions fed to them by talking heads in soapbox programs that masquerade as news, and the world’s perception of the country, for better or worse, has put this greasy face on the country. Captain America, on the other hand, stays soft-spoken, confident without being arrogant, more concerned about the well-being of others than himself and uses the power he’s been given with wisdom and precision. In other words, he is what Americans could have been, and perhaps could still be if they’re willing to look past their own selfishness and strive for something better.
Marvel’s own Band of Brothers.
That is how the character of Captain America succeeds, and Chris Evans does a fantastic job of conveying that to the audience from beginning to end. The best part is he’s not setting out to be a paragon of decency, no more so than he’s setting out to be the guy that punches out Hitler. We get a sense of gentleness about Steve due to Chris’ performance and it’s this feeling that sets him apart from the other Marvel heroes we’ve met. He’s no less heroic, he’s just heroic in a different way. The other characters turn in great performances, from Tommy Lee Jones’ taciturn Army commander to Hugo Weaving’s calculating and cruel turn as the Red Skull. And while Hayley Atwell does a phenomenal job ensuring her character rises above simply being ‘the girl’ in the picture, at least once most audience members (and characters!) will find themselves thinking only “Hommina, hommina, hommina.”
Director Joe Johnston is very much in his element with this sort of film, and the quality of it shows. Granted, these qualities may be considered by some as belonging to throwbacks, to less intellectual fare and stories that don’t have the ‘mature’ sensibilities of the works by, say, Christopher Nolan. However, Captain America: The First Avenger doesn’t seem any less intelligent than any of the other summer flicks out there, and in fact goes about telling its story in a clean and straightforward manner without dressing things up too much with effects or spectacles. It’s not a terribly cerebral picture, sure, but it cares about a good story with good characters, and that’s more than I can say for Green Lantern or Transformers 3.
“Superheroes are the disease… and I… am the cure!”
Stuff I Liked: No modern music, and a fantastic score by Alan Silvestri. All cool gizmos and disposable goons you’d expect from a pulp adventure. Stuff I Didn’t Like: Why are the German characters speaking in English all the time? I also felt Schmidt could have used a bit more in terms of motivation or development other than being the token crazy evil mastermind. Stuff I Loved: Marvel’s subtlety in its tie-ins – a vast improvement over Iron Man 2. The earnest performances of the cast. The tightness of the screenplay. The clean shots of the action, the sweeping sense of scale and the emotion packed into a few key scenes, particularly the ending.
Bottom Line: Definitely worth seeing and for more than just the lead-up to The Avengers. Speaking of which, stay through the credits. I probably don’t have to tell you to do that anymore but I just did. It’s worth it.
