And what did we get for our patient waiting? Before all else, “A Scandal in Belgravia” is an edifice of cleverness. An edifice made from clever bricks derived from clever straw that was gathered by artificially intelligent harvesters and stored in silos of towering smartassery. The cleverness is nonstop. Now, when the word “nonstop” is used in current entertainment, it usually means that one suspense/chase sequence follows quickly on another, in a routine and expected fashion. In “Scandal,” clever things are flung at you so quickly you barely have time to duck before three more are winging toward your head. Thank god there was such a long hiatus between seasons, and that there are only three episodes in each. Because this couldn’t be written in the week and a half that an American network television schedule tends to allow. Mind you, you could, potentially, write a fascinating script in that time, layered with character and buzzing with electric dialogue — but you can’t plot the Allied invasion in a week and a half, and that’s what this is. (And if someone who knows better tries to tell me that it was written in a week and a half, I’ll put my fingers in my ears and say la la la, because my entire understanding of reality would be up-ended.)

Like Austen’s Emma, you really need to experience “Scandal” two or three times before you can grasp just how obsessively it’s been constructed. Seriously, the construction almost frightens me. It’s couture. There is not a second that is not there in service of the Grand Plan, and that’s not usually something you can say about a show known for its banter. (Nor do shows known for their banter have to justify themselves, by the way. If it’s a funny scene that delights the audience and which they’ll remember ten years from now when the exigencies of plot are forgotten, it doesn’t have to serve a higher structural purpose. Though it’s nice when it does.)

The updates, of course, are charming. Doyle’s Irene Adler was “a well-known adventuress” — possibly a courtesan, definitely an opera singer, a stage performer, and therefore a woman in a scandalous profession; Moffat’s is a dominatrix. Holmes pretends to be a clergyman in each, but only in the latter does Miss Adler virtually straddle him naked, snatch off his false collar, and click it firmly between her strong white teeth. Who can argue with this? I certainly can’t.

And how many clues are we dutifully and slyly given? When John is whisked off by the mysterious woman he thinks is Mycroft’s assistant, he complains about the drama of it all and points out acerbically that “Sherlock doesn’t always follow me, you know.” He barely says the words when our minds have to grapple with the fact that we’ve just learned it’s not Mycroft who’s waiting; but of course, Sherlock did follow him. When Mycroft tells John about Irene’s final fate, he comments that it would take Sherlock Holmes himself to fool him about her death this time. Our minds are busy wondering if she’s really dead, and whether John will give Sherlock the truth or the cover story; but of course, Sherlock did fool Mycroft about her death. And then there’s the “SHER” unlocking code — talk about hiding in plain sight. If that mystery had carried over two episodes, there’s no way fans wouldn’t have figured it out en masse; but because a dozen clever things are being flung at us each minute, there’s no time to think about it.

Because it’s not enough to have Sherlock and Irene meet and cross swords for the first time. It’s not enough for them to do verbal battle and then have Sherlock retrieve the phone from her safe and perhaps lose it to her at a later time and place, which is how it would unwind in most TV shows. No, as their first scene together is playing out, why not have three CIA operatives break in at gunpoint and threaten to shoot John? But wait, that’s not enough either. Let’s have a gun inside the safe that shoots when the door is opened, killing one of the CIA men, just after Sherlock yells “Vatican cameos!” and John prudently ducks.

I grant you that at this point a fight would be standard. Though usually it wouldn’t involve a polite “Would you mind?” to your new dominatrix friend, who obligingly smacks down the remaining intruder. Okay, but post-fight, this is where most shows would take a brief rest, have a smoke, ask if it’s good for you too. Sherlock, told to phone the police, simply steps outside, shoots a gun into the air, and goes back in. Where he’s drugged and literally whipped to the floor by Irene, who really means it when she asks for her phone back.

Well, that was sparkly, but surely we can take a breath now? But why would we, when we can toss the audience into utter confusion by plummeting immediately into what may be a fantasy sequence — or is it? — of Irene playfully analyzing Sherlock’s previous case while they both stand in the meadow where that case happened. As we scramble to figure this out (“He still seems drugged. So maybe he’s hallucinating? Ah, yes, here comes the bed up to meet him… nice touch… but why would they bother to show us a hallucination? So maybe Irene’s really there…”)

It just doesn’t stop. And everything is related to everything else! Even the boomerang that hit the hiker when he was looking the wrong way — a story that reverberates through Sherlock and Irene’s relationship. Even the comedy bits about potential clients being interviewed at the flat. Even tiny snatches of Mycroft’s phone conversations with his underlings. Using the classic (clever) writer’s trick, everything serves two purposes, so the audience accepts clues and pockets them without knowing they’re clues.

Here’s an example of how badly that sort of thing can be done. In the film Malice, every bit of dialogue is grindingly plot related. So when, out of nowhere, the wife gives the husband a letter opener as a gift and says, “No more paper cuts!” — you sigh with the tiresome knowledge that the letter opener will be a plot point. I saw Malice when it came out in 1993, and that bit was so clunkily done it’s the only thing I remember from the entire movie. Don’t let this be your fate, young writers. Clues should only be visible in the rear-view mirror; so that as you’re watching you think, “Ah, Wilson’s angry at House because his work with his patient was disrupted” not “Wilson is disproportionately angry at House and I don’t know why. I wonder if there’s something personal between him and this patient?”

Always give the audience an apparent reason: let them think, the writers are showing me this because it’s funny; or because it illustrates the emotional state of the hero; or because they needed to move this character out of earshot so we could hear John twit Sherlock about the sexually replete sigh Irene has programmed for her text alert (not because the phone call that led Mycroft to the other room will prove significant later). Sherlock speaks hesitantly when Irene is leaning into him, their hands clasped, because he’s turned on, not because he’s trying to count pulse beats and talk at the same time (though I think we can safely infer it’s a bit of both). Misdirection is the high road to mystery writing — but entertaining and perfectly reasonable misdirection, that’s interesting in itself, or it won’t work properly.

Take the morgue scene; we enter suspecting Irene is alive (because there’s too much time left in the episode) — but even here, there’s no carelessness. We’re given another clue — face bashed in — that in this case we know perfectly well is a clue, and how many TV shows have we all seen where a disfigured face means the corpse belongs to someone else? But while no writer can erase the years of television knowledge burned into our brains, we don’t really focus on it, because we’re too busy focusing on the fact Sherlock recognized her from, as Molly says, “not her face.”

And of course, Sherlock leaves the hospital and returns to Baker Street, where (have I mentioned it doesn’t stop?) he sees the front door’s been jimmied and finds Mrs. Hudson held captive. (One of my favorite bits, by the way; Sherlock automatically noting the bruises, the cut on her face, and the blood on CIA Guy’s ring. “You know what I’m asking for, don’t you, Mr. Holmes?” Sherlock quietly notes CIA Guy’s carotid artery, his skull, eyes, lungs; “I believe I do,” he returns evenly.)

And as long as we’re talking about notes on screen… my god, the possibilities. First: the series decision to have actual phone texts appear as words in midair. You know how texts are usually shown in film? Person gets text; shot of person looking at phone; shot of phone itself with the text message visible. As routine and boring as those TV shows from 1972 where they thought they’d better show you Barnaby Jones driving his car so you’d understand how we got from one scene to the next. But words just hanging in midair? I beg your pardon? I can just hear the initial explanation: “No, no, the words will just… be there. Not on a prop! Not on anything. Trust me, it’ll be great.” And it is great, because that’s how texts work — swift communication from one mind to another.

Second: the decision to use the same technique for Sherlock’s thought processes. In any other Holmes-based film or TV show, you only hear the explanation after Holmes has amazed us with his deduction; which, sadly, leaves out the fun of seeing that deduction form lightning-fast from a set of facts. (And by the way, how clever was it for Irene to introduce herself naked and wearing plenty of face make-up, and how convenient to have John standing there fully clothed with circles under his eyes to display how utterly simple it was for Sherlock to read John, and how impenetrable he found Irene?)

Throwing text up over the action is visually efficient as well. When Sherlock’s working out Irene’s string of numbers and letters, we can examine the material he’s thinking about at the same time we see his face. Ordinarily a director will try to give us something like this by showing a computer screen and a face partially reflected in it; but why bother? Just throw his thoughts out there! There’s so much visual information packed into this show, I don’t know how it could be intelligible to a blind viewer. Audio description must be running wild.

This is pure, glittery artifice. At one end of the entertainment spectrum, there’s the naturalistic style; ordinary people who wouldn’t know how to be witty, but who know how to hurt — Ernest Borgnine in Marty, say. At the other end, hammered gold and gold enameling. (I know which side I gravitate towards. Once out of nature I shall never take my bodily form from any natural thing, but such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make — because otherwise, where’s the fun?)

The flight of the dead? Kate Middleton? Three small dogs? The Geek Interpreter? The general visual playfulness? (As Sherlock steps past the three comic book nerds, they vanish, as he dismisses them from his mind; then he hears them say something interesting, and he steps back to show they’ve re-appeared.) This much cleverness in one place is like having the President, Vice-President, and Speaker of the House all in the same room; some sort of law is being violated, natural if not man-made. Certainly a major law of television has been violated, at the very beginning; I can’t imagine an American studio executive allowing a seasonal cliffhanger to be solved by a deus ex machina. You’re telling me the hero of our show doesn’t solve this problem? It’s solved by a phone call that randomly arrives at the right moment? Though I’ve often suspected the public really doesn’t care if main characters don’t show agency all the time. And in this case, Irene’s call to Moriarty connected more things to more things, in an episode built like a piece of crystal.

Tonight, though, it was host to all things House. I kept getting tapped on the shoulder by people I know, dressed, as the invitation said, “to the nines.” My favorite story of the night came from — well, I suppose I shouldn’t tell you, since I don’t have permission, but my informant said that after the final bit of shooting and speeches on set, a phone rang. Thinking quickly, he said, “It’s Doris!” — and got a laugh.

There were exchanges of gossip and intel, and the question always was, “What are you doing now?” This is staffing season for network television, so people are out making the rounds. It’s like musical chairs; when the shows staff up, you either have a place, or you don’t. With all the House folks let loose at once on an innocent city, the conversation runs toward, “Have you met on that show?” and “I hear So-and-So is difficult to work with.” Along, of course, with pictures of dogs and children and delectable gossip about mutual acquaintances shouted in one’s ear above the sound of the band. The television industry’s a community, like any small town.

Most parties with TV folks end by 11:00 or so, for we are a race of puritans who know the work starts early the next day. But this time people lingered. It was 1:30 before I drove home on this cool and misty night along surface streets, through Silver Lake, to the hills. Then, still in my long dress, I took my dogs for a walk.

It’s an interesting book in all the ways you might imagine; the things that people living under a tyranny can do to help each other, or not; the braveries and the turnings-away; the small dignities and the things that must be let go. The ways that human beings are always more than the sum of their society’s rules. The view from the ground when the shelling started.

All that aside, however, I was struck by how much it reminded me of a certain type of science fiction story — and particularly, of “The Screwfly Solution” by James Tiptree. “Screwfly” is the story of a biological instinct gone wrong. Gradually, in a wave starting out in the tropics, the urge to mate is replaced in human males with an urge to kill. Women (and, of course, some men) begin being violently murdered. No one knows what’s happening or why, though all sorts of useless committees meet and the outbreak of “femicide” is deplored. One of the viewpoint characters, a male scientist, returns from an extended stay in the tropics to find a United States that is quietly, eerily different. The hotel he’s in seems normal, but when he goes outside he sees that it’s mostly men on the street. There’s a small group of young women in baggy clothing, subdued and walking quickly; the only lone woman nearby struggles to catch up to them, though she doesn’t seem to know them; and wordlessly, they accept her.

At the end, one of the few remaining women realizes the human race has been “treated” by aliens, as we might treat a colony of pests. A simple biological fix to interfere with our reproductive cycle, and the species will end itself, leaving the world untouched and available.

The concept itself is mechanical; the glory is in the execution. The quotation at the beginning of the story is from Schopenhauer: “All man’s religion and metaphysics is the language of his glands.” The tyranny of instinct (specifically, sexual instinct) and our enslavement to it is one of Tiptree’s themes (“A Momentary Taste of Being,” “Your Haploid Heart,” “Love Is The Plan, The Plan Is Death,” “And I Awoke and Found Me Here On the Cold Hill’s Side”) and she delineates with painful clarity how beautiful, how compelling, instinct seems when we succumb to it. “Painful” clarity because she was clearly not someone who privileged the “natural” or took refuge in the idea that instinct was given us by a merciful God to show us the path. On the contrary, God’s will may just be the pretty embroidery we create around what we’re already drawn to do by our self-interested DNA. She ran a cold-eyed, investigative stare over the whole process, with a logic that leaves you more uncomfortable when you finish one of her stories than when you picked it up.*

In “The Screwfly Solution,” new religions spring up built around misogyny; women are the dirty, wrong, evil part of the human race that God wants gone. When a young soldier has this explained to him — by the person who killed the woman who was with him — he’s deeply moved, and later says, “It’s like he was my father; I can’t explain it better than that.” You have to think it must also feel right and good when the female preying mantis snaps the head off her mate — that if mantises were intelligent, that would probably be a sacred moment. Because if something feels deeply meaningful, it must be deeply meaningful, right? Ha, ha, human race. Not in Tiptreeland.

(By the way, one of Tiptree’s other major themes is the need for kindness. Of course there’s a need for it, in the universe as she presents it. Whenever I re-read her, I’m struck by how the two authors I consider most insightful are so completely different. Surely I can’t think both Tiptree and Austen are right about the world? And yet I do.)

But back to Khair Khana. I wasn’t reminded of “Screwfly” simply from the Taliban’s misogyny. It was the transformation of the familiar world — the same sort of thing that gives, say, zombie movies their power. The idea that you could be walking peacefully down the street in front of your house, and suddenly a group of apparently normal people will rush toward you and try to chomp out your intestines — or rush toward you with nightsticks and begin shouting abuse because you spoke too loudly or your clothes rustled when you walked. (Indeed, this was one of the hallmarks of the Taliban’s religious police– they were unpredictable. It wasn’t enough to wear a chadri or be accompanied by a male relative or refrain from addressing men. There was no moment of safety.)

When Kamila walks the streets of Kabul, she wears baggy clothes under her chadri. She goes carefully. She makes sure to have her younger brother with her when she can, and to have a story ready. To take the back streets. To not engage notice.

It’s a new world. And it happened quickly. Just like in zombie movies.

I remember when “Screwfly Solution” was published, and the author was accused of being a paranoid feminist with an ax to grind. I thought, “You’re missing the point of the story! It’s not a prediction. It’s not about villains, either.” And it’s still not a prediction, but I never thought that a couple of decades later I’d find eerie similarities. That damned Tiptree was just too good in working out details.

So: The Dressmaker of Khair Khana. I’d feel better if it were science fiction.

* And if you find this view of life as disquieting as I do, you may also enjoy this story by Seth Fried.

This site has a mirror at tightropegirl.livejournal.com, and most discussion takes place there.

There’s an old Hitchcock anecdote about the difference between suspense and surprise. If a bus suddenly blows up, that’s a surprise. If you see a man get on a bus with a box, and you know there’s a bomb in that box, and you ride along for a little while watching all the ordinary people sitting on the bus and standing in the aisles, not knowing they’re about to be blown to smithereens… that’s suspense.

Another way to describe it is “open” or “closed.” If you’re playing a storyline open, the audience sees and understands everything that’s happening. If you’re playing it closed, the audience doesn’t know a character is even in danger till you pull back the curtain and they gasp.

There’s a significant plot point that often accompanies both sorts of storytelling: The Moment They Figure It Out. It’s the moment the detective lifts the nicotine-stained cuff of the victim and realizes who the murderer is. The moment the ingénue grasps that the charming gentleman sharing a train compartment with her is a serial killer. That moment.

Beginning scriptwriters are often reluctant to play anything that’s based on a thought process going on in a character’s head; isn’t that going to require an amazing actor? Of course, an amazing actor always helps — but the short answer is, no. The sequence of images cut together in editing will tell the tale.

Let’s say we’re playing this story open; we-the-audience have seen the bomb go into the box. And let’s say our protagonist is innocently riding on this very bus. He notes the man with the box get on, but thinks nothing of it. Other riders crowd on; there’s a little girl with a lunchbox next to him, a tired woman fixing her makeup, a man arguing into his cellphone. Our hero’s eyes wander back to the man with the box: his hands are sweating. Our hero reacts: a bit odd. Maybe he’s stressed about something? Back to the little girl, the arguing man… and next our hero sees, let’s say, a splotch of blue paint on the right shoe of the man with the box. And we know that there’s been a group of old-fashioned anarchist bombers leaving messages in that exact shade of blue paint all over town.

Our hero notices. He looks uncertain, confused; this is quite a coincidence; he’s beginning to suspect, struggling with his thoughts… We think, “Yes! It’s him! Get up, do something!” But it’s just blue paint. And then a woman accidentally steps on the bomber’s foot. She apologizes. And the bomber tells her it’s quite all right… with a speech impediment. And not three scenes ago, our protagonist was at a meeting with an FBI profiler who believed that the head of the anarchist bombers has a speech impediment. Our hero’s eyes grow wide with shock. And we know! The fucking eagle has landed. This is The Moment He Figured It Out. So when he leaps to his feet and tries to grab the box away and yells for the confused passengers around him to get off the bus, we’re thinking, “Yes! Go, hero, go!”

While an editing sequence helps, it’s not always required. Take the moment in Sex, Lies and Videotape when the wife finds her sister’s earring on her own living room floor. That is actor-dependent; Andie MacDowell has to spell out the revelation on her face. Here, she’s supported not by a sequence of images on screen, but the images in the audience’s memory, who’ve seen that her husband and sister are having an affair. They know where her thoughts are going because they already have a map.

Or consider the ending of the original Taking of Pelham One Two Three, starring Walter Matthau. He’s spent the movie trying to negotiate with criminals who’ve taken a subway car hostage. The ringleader has a bad cold. At the very end of the movie, Matthau and his partner go to the ringleader’s apartment to question him; they don’t know he’s one of the baddies — they think he’s just someone who might have information. Mr. Ringleader speaks plausibly, and our two cops start to leave. We think, “No! He’s the one! Stop, you’re missing him!” And just as they’re closing the door, the bad guy gives a hearty sneeze. The door slowly swings open again, wide. On the other side we see Walter Matthau’s big, big grin. And we know: It’s the Moment He Figured It Out. The movie ends right there; no dialogue, no need to spell it out.

In each case I’ve given, the audience is ahead of the character, willing them to Figure It Out, and perfectly capable of filling in the dots when the time comes because they already know the answer. The stories are played open.

So let’s try it the other way. House, of course, is full of both surprises and Moments He Figures It Out. The series follows the procedural/mystery paradigm, and is played closed; you don’t find out what’s killing the patient till the end. But there are also surprises along the way, surprises within scenes, people who aren’t doing what you expect for the reasons you expect. What we think is a comedic runner may become dark and serious, and end with a punch. The aim of every storyline is to lay things out so you can’t predict precisely what’s coming. You get into one meringue shell and find there’s another one inside, and you never know if the inner bite will be raspberries or mascarpone. (I seem to have watched more of Ina Garten cooking than I realized.)

Even the figuring-it-out moment is closed, because most people don’t know enough medical details to leap to which clues House is responding to. So when he goes off and has a conversation with Wilson about reindeer or suspenders, and Wilson says a line of dialogue that encapsulates the central metaphor of what is happening in the patient’s body, and House suddenly becomes distracted and walks out… we know we’ve just had a Moment He Figured It Out. But we don’t know how or why – yet. We need to wait for the laying-it-all-down Hercule Poirot style.

One reason I enjoyed writing for Torchwood this year was the complete one-eighty from House; Torchwood is about suspense, and therefore we see the bomb go into the box. (Metaphorically. No spoilers here.) I never wrote such nonstop action-suspense before, and as a writer, it was like going to an assassin school with ninja teachers. At one point Russell Davies read a scene I’d written and was puzzled by what I was doing… then he realized I was playing a storyline closed in that scene, thinking we’d do a surprise reveal later. No, no! Open! We must crackle with the electricity of knowing we’re on treacherous ground, that the earth could crumble away beneath us at any moment. (Metaphorically. Still no spoilers.)

But whether open or closed, The Moment They Figure It Out is central to most modern genre stories, and understandably so. If your heroes have been struggling in vain to stop the bad guys, you want to know what finally tips them off. A mistake the villain makes that comes back to haunt them? An ironic coincidence from the heroine’s past that gives her insight at just the right second? What did it, you want to know — and could I have done as well in those circumstances? Would I have put it together? Teams of writers sit in despair for hours and days, trying to find just the right tip-off, one that’s satisfying to the audience and has resonance for the character.

But I came across an interesting anomaly recently, while watching the first two episodes of this season’s Dr. Who. (Okay: now, yes, spoilers.) The over-arching mythology (who is River Song, etc.) is played closed; but the story itself is played open – we see that our characters are encountering aliens who make you forget you ever saw them, but our characters don’t yet realize this. So they’re in constant danger, and don’t know it. Within this open story, however, there are scenes that are played closed.

For example, consider the scene where Amy searches the dormitory room. (For the sake of this discussion, I’m going to assume that the alien race is called The Silence, that one alien is a Silent, and that six aliens playing poker would be six Silents.) As soon as our heroes arrived at the orphanage, we had hints that Silents have been there, and may still be nearby. Now Amy opens the door and searches a room. Partway through the search she sees tally marks on her face and realizes she’s witnessed a large number of Silents and marked herself so she would know it happened. Then, in a shocking moment, she spies them all, hanging batlike from the ceiling.

If you were playing that scene open, you might start with a shot of the Silents nesting from the ceiling, and tilt down to see the door open and Amy enter the room, glancing around at the beds. Cut to a crane shot from above the tangle of the Silents– like looking down through a spider’s web* — to see Amy moving further in, having no idea of the danger she’s in. Cut to Amy below, searching the room. The audience is on the edge of their seats: LOOK UP LOOK UP LOOK UP!

There are benefits to playing that scene open. But there are benefits, as we saw, to playing it closed. You think you’re in an empty room… but then you see the tally marks… hear the warning you recorded yourself… there’s danger in this house somewhere but you’re still in an empty room, right? There’s a thin layer of immediate safety, because the room is empty, you’re not face to face with… and then she looks up.

And we all freak the hell out, because we weren’t expecting that.

Playing it closed within scenes is probably a good choice for a story in which our characters keep forgetting what’s just happened to them.** Their own memories are closed, after all. In fact, I think the delightfully disorienting choice to actually skip certain slices of scenes entirely – not even a jump-cut – and fill the characters and audience in afterward, was inspired. How appropriate, to screw with the audience’s mind! It forces us to participate a little in what the characters are going through, as opposed to telling us how it works, showing it in action, and letting us feel superior to them.***

Which leads us to the anomaly. At the end of the first episode, our characters have no idea there are aliens all around them, because their memories are being tampered with; they forget the aliens’ existence as soon as they look away.

The next episode begins three months later, with our heroes marking their skin each time they see an alien – because they expect to see aliens, and know they’ll have no memory afterward.

I can’t imagine, in American television, that you would ever skip past the Moment They Figure It Out. Good lord! Would you have Christmas without a tree? A birthday without presents? What do you mean, you skipped over the central moment of understanding and admiration and cleverness? (And how did they figure it out? Even if they saw the image on Amy’s phone, they wouldn’t remember! Missing time might give you a hint, but they’re only getting glimpses of aliens, not enough to make a difference.)

And here’s the interesting part: the audience doesn’t really care. A quick spin ’round the Internet says so. And here’s a deeper truth: what the audience doesn’t care about, doesn’t have to be shown. But I remain shocked.

Mind you, I could put together a way to clue in the characters. It’s not impossible, so it’s not quite cheating in the way it might be if you’d utterly boxed in your hero and in the next episode showed him alive and well at a casino in Vegas. And I know very well at least part of the reason the audience doesn’t care: the story was not only open, it was super-open. We were well ahead of the characters; we saw the aliens; we saw the memory effects demonstrated more than once. The audience has to think it’s about time the heroes caught up – now let’s get on with the story! (A violation of another treasured tenet of American TV, by the way: “You don’t want the audience to be too far ahead of your hero.” Can’t tell you how often I’ve heard that one.)

And in this case, we’ve skipped more than a moment. We’ve skipped at least half an episode – something far more attention-getting, to any self-respecting audience. What happened when Amy shot at the little girl in the astronaut suit? Aside from the fact she missed. Did the little girl walk away? Did she stay and chat? Or did the Silents take her? What prompted the fake-out at the beginning of the episode and the Doctor’s imprisonment? I can come up with scenarios for all of these, but it’s as if the story were a three-parter and the second part was left in the men’s room of a bar somewhere near the BBC. I like the dizziness this produces.

It’s open. It’s closed. And there’s no Moment They Figure It Out. They may have filmed it in the US, but dammit, it’s un-American.

———————————

*Visually similar to that wonderful moment in Night of the Hunter when we look down through a wet spiderweb and see the two children drift downstream. That was more dreamlike, of course, where this would be played for horror and threat. What a loss to humanity that Charles Laughton only directed one film.

** I’ve always considered the ability to mess with the memories of others to be one of the most ethically suspect and corrupting of super-powers. And one of the most terrifying to have used against you. I actually pitched a villain in the first year of Smallville who could make you forget the last twenty minutes or so of your life. For one obvious example, imagine what an entitled sociopath could do to the pretty girls who’ve been ignoring him. Then give it a few more minutes; they won’t remember why they’re crying and they’ll greet him as a friend. How can you fight someone you can’t remember meeting? But I was told it just wasn’t “visceral” enough. The show was just starting out, and we had to concentrate on villains with physical powers for the first year – super-strength or firestarting or the ability to suck all the fat out of the human body. This is at least partly my fault, as I was unable to convey to anybody why screwing with people’s memories is indeed visceral — and probably never could have without writing the actual script. This, by the way, is endemic to television; you don’t get permission to do something unless you can communicate your vision – which is your responsibility – or unless someone else has already done something similar in a cool way, so you can point to it and say, “Like that.”

*** A technique also used in A Beautiful Mind and the short-story version of Stephen King’s “Apt Pupil” (where the boy is unable to stop turning the pages of Nazi comic books, shocked-disturbed-fascinated that people actually did these things, and the reader is unable to stop turning the pages, riveted at a boy falling into the same madness; it’s hard not to feel tainted, reading that).

(Note: This blog has a mirror at tightropegirl on Live Journal, and most of the discussion is there.)

I’m not sure what excuse the New York Times has, however. For a review whose breathtaking irrelevancy will send blood pressures soaring, let’s chew on the following:

http://tv.nytimes.com/2011/04/15/arts/television/game-of-thrones-begins-sunday-on-hbo-review.html

Where to begin? Let’s pass over the reviewer’s confusion about climates different from our own. She makes her allegiances clear: contemporary gangsters are worthy of writing about. Real-life history, worthy. Fantasy? Genre? Goodness, that made-up stuff? “Cheap.” And those who create it are “cheaters.”

Well, no one has to like every genre of literature. The problem comes when somebody who hates a genre decides to tell you what’s wrong with a single work. C.S. Lewis said this pretty well, and it’s worth quoting:

“It is very dangerous to write about a kind [of literature] you hate. Hatred obscures all distinctions. I don’t like detective stories and therefore all detective stories look much alike to me: if I wrote about them I should therefore infallibly write drivel. Criticism of kinds, as distinct from criticism of works, cannot of course be avoided…but it should not masquerade as criticism of individual works. Many reviews are useless because, while purporting to condemn the book, they only reveal the reviewer’s dislike of the kind of which it belongs.

Let bad tragedies be censured by those who love tragedy, and bad detective stories by those who love the detective story. Then we shall learn their real faults. Otherwise we shall find epics blamed for not being novels, farces for not being high comedies, novels by James for lacking the swift action of Smollett. Who wants to hear a particular claret abused by a fanatical teetotaler, or a particular woman by a confirmed misogynist?”

None of this has stopped Ginia Bellafante from sharing her resentment that HBO has chosen to waste her time by airing this terrible fantasy work, terrible apparently because it is a fantasy. The most bizarre paragraph in the entire review, however, begins here:

“The true perversion, though, is the sense you get that all of this illicitness has been tossed in as a little something for the ladies, out of a justifiable fear, perhaps, that no woman alive would watch otherwise.”

What? What? She’s suggesting that the only reason the characters have sex is to get female viewers? So… men hate sex? There was no sex in the books? What? She goes on to try and cover her bases:

“While I do not doubt that there are women in the world who read books like Mr. Martin’s…”

Yes, somewhere on the Earth, in some neglected and lonely corner, there may be two or three women who read such books. Unlikely though it seems.

“…I can honestly say that I have never met a single woman who has stood up in indignation at her book club and refused to read the latest from Lorrie Moore unless everyone agreed to “The Hobbit” first.”

Someone else will have to untangle this. It’s nice that we’re getting it straight what women read, though, right? In those chick book clubs?

“Game of Thrones is boy fiction patronizingly turned out to reach the population’s other half.”

I’m thinking now of all the female authors who’ve been waiting to get out of the “women’s literature” ghetto and into the simple designation of “literature.” Who are tired of being fenced off and told their work is for certain readers only. Fortunately we’ve got the New York Times here to draw those lines more sharply.

I suspect there’s a lot of indignation out there over this review; the average “reader rating” is 1.5. (Averaged from 48 ratings. I suspect there’d be a lot more, but if you go to the site and click on “Rate It,” a helpful message will tell you “Could not submit your rating. Please try again later.” It’s said this for the past 24 hours at least, and none of the reader comments have been posted at all.)

Game of Thrones airs tomorrow night. Since the Times has not seen fit to post what are no doubt quite a few comments, but are happy to leave this pointless review up for people who may be thinking about watching, I decided to post where I can, in my small way. I suspect Bellafante will assume the negativity to her review comes from those silly fanboys in their parents’ basements – because, let’s stick with the stereotypes – so I want to make it clear that I have no stake in this. I don’t know Mr. Martin and I haven’t read his books, though I’ve heard they’re well-characterized and interesting. What I am is a NY Times paid subscriber who turned to a review hoping to get some idea of whether the series lives up to the hype. I sure didn’t get that information here.