I wrote Curse of the Black Swan years ago. Seven years, to be exact. It has undergone countless rewrites, each time (I think) getting stronger, as my writing matures and what not. However, there was always something bugging me. Violence. It simply wasn’t violent enough. Well, the main character Nathaniel wasn’t violent enough. Read more…
I just finished the first two books in Joe Abercrombie’s Book of Law series. Not only were these fantastic (these were the books that I WISHED I would’ve written) but they got me thinking about something. Swearing. Or I should say…they returned me to thinking about this issue because of my writing. Read more…
Not so much a review, as just my thoughts on this movie (because everyone has already done a review). This movie exists in the crime drama genre, and I’d argue that it actually settles into the film noir sub-genre. Why the sudden fascination with film noir in our society? So many movies, books, comics…all based on Film Noir. Not that I’m complaining. As long as they’re done well, for me, it’s the most compelling, and interesting genre.
Christopher Nolan has created a perfect crime drama. So perfect, you could actually compare it (gasp) to No Country for Old Men. Hear me out. Both movies, have a low-grade tension running throughout. What violence will come next? The Joker, while thankfully blood-free, is a force of chaos, much like Chigurh in No Country. There is no good, only differing shades of grey. The world is going to hell…and the main characters are trying to slow that descent.
Just because this is a ‘comic-book movie’ doesn’t mean that it isn’t well made. Nolan has used symbolism throughout (can’t explain it without giving anything away — mind you, with it already earning $300 mil, everyone has probably already seen it). The Joker joy riding down main street in a cop car, reveling in the chaos that has descended upon Gotham — police cars in pursuit, and we know it is all for naught. He is chaos, and he cannot be captured so easily.
Also notice the discordant music (if music is what it can be called) whenever the Joker is about to appear. While this ‘music’ won’t go down as famously as the psycho music, or the jaws music, it is just as effective, perhaps moreso. Does the audience even notice the off key noise? A bleeding of chaos. The joker isn’t just evil — he is chaos.
Of course, chaos that can predict everything that will happen.
While the Ledger’s Joker dies with him, for the sake of the Joker (and thereby Ledger’s joker) that is a good thing. Once you’d hit Batman 3, Batman 4, he’d become a cheap rip-off of himself…much like Hannibal Lector, Michael Myers, Leatherface…
With Ledger gone, the Joker will now live forever. Crazy. Chaotic. Perfect.
How exciting, I’m in Ottawa on a meeting with Hockey Canada. Unfortunately, I’m on the black list for hookers (an unfortunate experience with an RV and five gallons of milk) so I’m hanging out with just me. Getting to know…me. Yawn.
Still, not a bad experience. I’m at the Westin, and it’s connected with EVERYTHING. Hotel, mall, food, gym. I never have to leave. My pasty-white skin never has to see the sun. Amazing.
Considering my meeting is 1.5 hours long — I don’t have a lot to do except write and read. Nice. My work on Folloman Finn has slowed…and I’m currently bogged down at 65K. It’ll pick back up soon. I’ve finished several books: the Scar (by China Mieville). Honestly, this guy is the best there is at world building. The BEST. But the WORST at telling a story. Ugh. Get on with it man. Do you really need 600 pages to tell a story that should fit in 250? Please don’t waste my time.
While I was in town, I picked up a book by Warren Ellis called Crooked Little Vein. It’s in the whole ‘film noir’ (ironic considering it’s written, not filmed) and already I’m impressed. Now this guy CAN tell a story.
It starts: I opened my eyes to see a rat taking a piss in my coffee cup.
Nice.
Unedited — Opening of Chapter 13 – Secret of Folloman Finn
For once, her mouth didn’t taste like brandy. She was sweet, like little sugar crystals were on her tongue. She bit my bottom lip playfully, pushed me back, mounted me, blond hair cascading around me.
Blond?
“Darla?”
“That’s right, baby. Did you miss me?” Then she came in again, her mouth on mine, her tongue dancing along my teeth. She ground her hips into me and my body responded. My hands cupped her perfect breasts.
We rocked back and forth and I felt myself getting closer to release. She was in complete control of the pace and rhythm. Nothing I could do but go along for the ride. Or her ride.
Then I felt the release boil up, eyes closed, body tensed.
And I woke up.
Eyes wide open, feeling the last twitches of untouched ecstasy, and a mess down below.
Huh. That had never happened. Not even when I was hitting those awkward years when my hormones ragged. Back then I was locked in a cage.
Sure, it had been a while, but not that long for something like this to happen.
“Darla,” I whispered. I imagined her hundreds of miles away, laughing. Except she couldn’t possibly have known that I dreamt about her.
Strange. I dreamt about Darla, and not Jane. Felt guilty over it like somehow I had cheated on her. Cheated on a dead woman.
But why Darla?
Now don’t misunderstand. This wasn’t love. I know a thing or two about love. About how it can lift you up to the highest mountains, then rip out your entrails and shove them down your throat. Yes, I know all about love.
But I felt disappointment that it was only a dream. That Darla wasn’t actually here with me. The way we used to be able to talk without giving anything away, the way we used to try to figure out if the other was lying. If the other was cheating or planning a double-cross.
Did I miss her? Sure. Well, maybe more than I cared to let on. She was a real looker, of course. And the way she did that thing with her hands. And her mouth. And her body.
The mess down below told me that I did miss her. In a purely physical kind of way. Though I did wonder what she was doing. Felt a little surge of jealousy thinking that she could be laying with Bartimus right now. But I attributed that as simply my hatred of Bartimus, not true jealousy.
Did she think of me? Because I didn’t really think about her. Not a lot, anyways. Just sometimes, like now. When I was lonely. Better to be lonely than dead. Because Darla would’ve been the end of me. Just like Jane had been.
Things always did seem a little clearer when Darla was around.
Shyst. I had indeed fallen into some infatuation with her. Not love. Kaazlimăt, no. Those days were gone, I was pretty sure. And besides, not with Darla. She’d rather stick a dagger in my eye than fall in love. I smiled at the thought of how she threatened to cut off my scrotal sac.
Okay, enough of that.
I climbed from the lumpy mattress, cleaned myself up, pulled on some clothes. Had to get my mind onto more important matters. Like staying alive.
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