Chapter 7 of Magnum Thrax and the Amusement Park of Doom

Happy Boxing Day! 

Get a hot cup of cocoa, a flaky pastry, and then sit back in your comfiest chair and read some Maximum Magnum-Odd-Awesomeness:

“I’ve analyzed the android,” said Doc Helen Meddep’s disembodied voice over the speaker system. “It’s a modified military model. Probably a GI5 or GI7. Substantial changes to neural network, greater autonomy, deprecated control grams, nanoprocessor enhanced. Formidable military knowledge and capabilities programmed in on the subconscious level.”

“GI5. Thought they were extinct,” rumbled a deep, resonant voice. It echoed in the vast, domed chamber of the Grand Council Room of Pleasurepit Five.

Doctor Helen stepped into the spotlight. “So did everyone, Speaker.”

The ceiling was decorated with a simulation of the night sky, the stars inevitably connected together by delicate erotic images. Below, two comely nurses maneuvered a floating bed bearing the injured android, his body still encased in the glowing stasis cocoon, onto centre stage and into a circle of light. Only his placid face was visible. The Council members sat high above in a semicircle, behind crests of long dead shareholders.

“Hrm,” said the voice again. It belonged to a tall, bearded man named Kendee Cowding. His features wrinkled around kind, weary eyes. “How long?”

Helen shrugged. “A functioning top level military android hasn’t been seen in over nine hundred orbits.”

“That’s not what I’m asking. How long does it have to live?” asked Kendee, drumming spider-like fingers on his info-display.

“A week. At most.”

The councilors murmured to each other with concern.

“The programmers will be pleased,” said Selibe Joy of the Humres, a thin older woman with a nose as sharp as her wit. Her poise gave her a regal air. “But I’m more interested in the android.”

“Forget it. His mind is protected,” said Councilor Job Eyetee, a mousy, slightly built man with wild, unruly shoulder length hair and a baldpate. “High level encryption.” Everyone knew he was eager to return to the virtual realm.

Doc Helen knew fleshtime was slow and boring for his type.

“Is this going to take long?” Job groused. “I’ve got a fabulous new subroutine that will increase the efficiency of resource gathering in Kick-Ass Kingdoms.”

Doc Helen shook her head. Most of the programming staff was addicted to the virtual reality game, crippling real world research efforts. She’d tried to treat the condition to no avail. Reality was always shifting about in meaningless, messy ways, while Kick-Ass Kingdoms was eternal. And it made a lot more sense. Perhaps, thought Helen, they had a point.

“Can it talk?” sniffed Selibe.

Helen shook her head. “He’s in a medically induced coma.”

“Where is Victoria?” demanded Buchanan. “This is her area of expertise.”

“Repairs,” said Selibe.

“Get her down here.”

Selibe shifted uncomfortably. “That... may be a problem.”

“Solve it.”

“You try and push around a Technowitch,” Selibe shot back. “She could crush us all like bugs. She’s been in bit of a mood of late.”

“She’s two hundred and seventy-five, for Chrissake,” exploded Buchanan. “We’ve got a kill switch in her head.”

“Jesus, Frank. She might be listening.”

Buchanan was about to spit something back, but didn’t. He picked some wax out of his ear, looked at it. “Fucking technology,” he muttered, flicking it away.

Doc Helen knew Victoria best; knew her moods, her proclivities. Kept alive in a vat, Victoria, their last and only technowitch, had been dotty of late. Seriously senile, always wanting to engage her in virtual tea parties with that rabbit and mad hatter. Helen cleared her throat. “We have no idea what’s wrong with the android on a genetic level. My care is purely palliative.”

“No choice then. Wake him up,” demanded Buchanan. Doc Helen tapped air. “Done.”

“I don’t know,” Selibe frowned, and picked nervously at a radiation scab on the back of her hand. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

Kendee leaned forward. “Well?” Helen felt serene. “Now... we wait.”

****

Thrax rushed through the round, battleship grey hatch into the main quarters of Klenstaf Clan, heading back to his family’s unit. Mom had signaled. Probably just another plugged pipe. The usual nonsense.

Cooking smells, mixed with human sweat, hung in the air that even the atmo-scrubbers couldn’t pump out. Dozens of kids sat on the floor playing games on plastic datasheets. Some wore glasses, others neural taps. Entertainment from multiple eras. Oblivious to both Thrax and each other. Probably had HappyTime filters on, too, which coated perception with a thick slathering of wishfull thinking sugar. Axe murderer rapists would appear as joyous troubadours, bullets as butterflies, flames as rainbows. Thrax hated that stupid filter. All it did was trick people into accepting shitty circumstances and blind them to real threats.

As he neared his family’s unit, he heard a little girl’s high pitched scream. He recognized it instantly: his little sister, Sally.

He began to run.

****

“Let go of her!” shouted Megan, Thrax’s mom. She beat her fists on the back of Barton, an ugly, burly man wearing a tuxedo. He was hauling her daughter, Sally, out of the domicile.

Sally grabbed desperately at furniture and door frames to no avail. Barton roughly flung her into the hall.

Sally slid, spinning, across the gleaming floor, stopping in front of Assistant Chief Guardian Ghatz. Ghatz was blandly handsome man and had an athletic if unremarkable build of which he was inordinately proud of. He wore a perfectly fit tuxedo. A gleaming necklace of bronze medallions hung round his neck, which is constantly adjusted.

He raised an eyebrow as Megan tried to slip out into the hall, past Barton. The obese bouncer leaned back and gently pinned her to the wall with his bulk.

“Leave Sally alone, Ghatz!” Megan yelled.

Ghatz’s small mouth slipped into its usual offset, smug smile as he contemplated the terrified girl that crouched before him. Shivering and afraid. That’s how Ghatz liked people.

“I know exactly what I’m getting into,” he sniffed airily. “We’re here to enforce the Genetic Quality Laws.” He pointed down at Sally’s deformed face. “This is a clear violation.”

Megan squirmed, struggling to breathe. “Ghatz, please. Don’t do this. Not my baby. Ask Lacus.”

“Oh, I already talked to Senator Lacus,” said Ghatz. He snapped his fingers and two goons stepped forward out of a gloomy alcove. “Gentlemen.”

“Mr. Ghatz,” said Bouncer Don. He smacked an electric cattle prod into his open palm. His face bore the brutal features of an excessive testosterone user. “Want me hit?”

“No, Don,” said Ghatz calmly. “Not yet. All in good time. Just hold her, for now.”

“Okay, Mr. Ghatz.” The thugs grabbed Sally by the arms. She bit their fingers and arms to no effect.

Megan began to cry. “Ghatz, please! I’ll do anything!”

Ghatz ignored her pleas and stared down at Sally. “This creature should have been killed at birth. Just basic best practices. Truly, Megan, I don’t understand how you managed to avoid that. Or kept her hidden for so long. Fortunately, you have vigilant neighbours, who have the greater good in mind.”

A look of realization flooded over Megan’s soft, Asian features. She glared at the sealed door across the hall. Elven B. “Trill? Trill you sellout!” she shouted. “I’ll get you for this!”

Ghatz held up a finger. “Tut tut. Trill is a patriot, and will be rewarded as such. This entire matter saddens me, truly it does, but we have rules. Think of the big picture. The food supply is limited. So is space. There’s no room for such dross. Take ownership of your sins, Megan.”

“Bastard!” spat Megan. “You’re doing this because of Thrax. You’re jealous. You’re sick!”

Incensed, Ghatz lunged forward, thrusting his face within an inch of hers.

“I’m sick? I’m sick? Your so-called ‘son’ is a crime!” seethed Ghatz. “An abomination, an abuse of every law we have. A sick and selfish ‘dream child’ made manifest. You robbed from the resources of this too loving colony. And I’m going to prove it. And when I do, your family will be thrown out onto the plains for the raptors to feast on, your existence erased. Damnatio memoriae!”

Barton’s ears perked up at that. “That a spell, boss?” Ghatz groaned. “No, you blithering idiot. It’s Latin.”

“Oh. Cause it sounded like... hey, look,” Barton gestured down the hall as Thrax rounded the corner. “Trouble.”

Ghatz swore. “He’s supposed to be in the medical bay!... Damn degenerate doctor.” Ghatz tapped Don and Hammer on their washboard stomachs. “Let him strike first. For the cameras. Barton!” He waved a hand at Barton, the well dressed mountain. “Lock Megan in her domicile. Hang back.”

Ghatz theatrically stepped out into the middle of the hall, folding his arms behind his back, tilting his chin up, and turning to face Thrax. “Citizen! I order you to stop where you are.”

Thrax ignored him and kept coming.

“Ah” said Darwin inside Thrax’s head, “Ghatz filed a warrant to search your family unit two minutes after you were confined to the med bay for observation.”

“That bastard,” muttered Thrax. “Sally! You alright?”

Sally shook her head. “They want to take me away, Thrax!”

Thrax’s eyes locked on Ghatz. “Over my dead body!” And he charged.

The bouncers stepped protectively in front of Ghatz, clacking their prods together. Their flexed muscles rippled, their bodies shaking with roid rage.

Thrax jumped the last half dozen feet, grabbing the two bouncer’s heads as he soared, smacking them together like overripe coconuts. They flopped to the floor. Thrax landed in front of Ghatz, and propelled an open palmed fist at Ghatz’s pretty pink nose, only to have it deftly batted aside.

Ghatz had reflexes only a Guardian could buy. Undeterred, Thrax unleashed a ferocious blizzard of blows, any one of which would have been deadly had it connected.

Ghatz looked down at his own fast moving arms as if they were alien, independent of his will, defending him while his brain was paralyzed with fear.

On the floor, Don and Jack Hammer’s medbots pushed out their caved in skull’s blood soaked shells. It sounded like milk hitting a breakfast cereal, popping and snapping.

Their eyes focused. Together they grabbed Thrax from behind, pinning his arms.

Ghatz belted Thrax in head over and over again, breaking Thrax’s jaw and stunning him. Satisfied, Ghatz relaxed and carefully adjusted his medallion. Cleaned off a spot of blood. “Attacking a Guardian is a capital offence, citizen.” He leaned in close to Thrax’s ear. “No way out this time, Thrax. Mommie can’t save you. Big brother’s long gone. But you caused his death anyway, didn’t you? Who the fuck even knows who your dad was. This is it. End of the day. Game, as they say, over.”

He and his goons were all focused on Thrax. Sally, ignored by everyone in the confusion, picked up the abandoned cattle prods and slowly walked over behind the bouncers.

Ghatz continued to pontificate. “You know, I don’t think we’ll bother with a trial,” Ghatz mused. “Straight to the recycling tank instead. The grinders are not a quick way to die. Ever seen it? They scream until the very end. Their skulls and jaws are crushed into little bloody chunks. But don’t fret. Your organs will contribute to the colony. None of you will go to waste.”

Sally listened to Ghatz’s speech, her scarred face impassive. She looked down at the cattle prods, hefted them, testing their weight.

“Hey,” said Sally softly.

Jack Hammer looked over his shoulder. Saw no one. Then glanced down. “Eh?”

Sally rammed the cattle prod into the crook of his back and hit the power stud. A second later she pressed the other into Don’s spine and did the same. The bouncers screamed, writhing in agony as thousands of volts of electricity coursed through them. They collapsed, quivering and sizzling, to the floor.

Thrax slumped to his knees, half-conscious. Sally pressed an elbow up against his back to keep him from falling backward.

Ghatz gaped at his flunkies, twitching on the floor, then focused on Sally, his expression a mixture of horror, revulsion, and grudging respect. “You little fucking monster.”

Her ice cold blue eyes met his. “My big brother’s been teaching me how to fight.” She stepped in front of Thrax and settled into a combat stance, left leg bent, right extended forward, prods angled at Ghatz. “Let’s go.”

Megan, still pinned behind Barton, grinned from ear to ear. “Kick his ass, baby, kick his ass!” She patted her hands against Barton’s suit.

Thrax started to get up.

Ghatz took a step back and licked his lips.

“Whatcha gonna do, Ghatz?” taunted Megan. “Not so brave without your thugs, are you? Didn’t you bring a gun?”

Ghatz shot Megan a venomous look. He snapped his fingers at Barton, then turned and fled down the hallway. Barton released Megan and waddled over to Don and Jack. He grabbed them by their hair and dragged them away, after Ghatz.

Megan rushed out and embraced Sally.

“Mom!” Sally protested, trying to maintain her balance.

“Oh God, you okay, baby?” Megan checked Sally for injuries.

“Mom! I’m fine. Don’t crimp my style.” She maintained her limber, martial pose, prods leveled, one held above her head, the other out in front. Her eyes were fixed on Ghatz and Barton.

Ghatz stopped inside the lift at the end of the hall. He stuck out a hand as the doors began to shut, and pointed at Sally, his eyes dark pools. “This isn’t over, freak. I’ll be back with death warrants for the whole family.”

Barton chucked the bodies into the lift and stood beside his master. The doors slid shut.

Sally relaxed. “Yeah. You run, you putz.”

Quest for an Audience: On editing...

I'm starting to edit a piece, and I've been procrastinating. At least I'm wasting time online researching the topic of editing, so I can claim I'm doing tangential work.

Kind of.

Does anyone else do this?

Anyway.

Found an old Guardian article on editing, and how the role of editor is changing in the book industry:

"For some years now – almost as long as people have been predicting the death of the book – there have been murmurs throughout publishing that books are simply not edited in the way they once were, either on the kind of grand scale that might see the reworking of plot, character or tone, or at the more detailed level that ensures the accuracy of, for example, minute historical or geographical facts. The time and effort afforded to books, it is suggested, has been squeezed by budgetary and staffing constraints, by the shift in contemporary publishing towards the large conglomerates, and by a greater emphasis on sales and marketing campaigns and on the efficient supply of products to a retail environment geared towards selling fewer books in larger quantities. 

"Many speak of the trimming of budgets, the increasingly regimented nature of book production and of the pressure on their time, which means they have to undertake detailed and labour-intensive editing work in the margins of their daily schedule rather than at its centre. One freelance editor I talked to remarked that "big companies used to have whole copy-editing and proof-reading departments. Now you'll get one publisher and one editor running a whole imprint." She'd noticed that some editors tended to acquire books that arrived in a more or less complete state."

That jibs with what I've heard. Publishers have less resources, so the closer your work is to being shelf-ready, the better. "In 2005, Blake Morrison wrote a long essay on the subject in which he noted that, despite the inherent fuzziness of the line between facilitating a writer's work, with the occasional firmness and wing-clipping that entails, and the kind of over-editing that can result in a loss of authenticity and spontaneity, editing was vital to the business of writing and publishing. "When a book appears," he concluded, "the author must take the credit. But if editing disappears, as it seems to be doing, there'll be no books worth taking the credit for."

I think that goes too far, but for many of us (such as myself) it would be the case. There are even some very prominent authors, incredibly successful ones, who could do with a more assertive editor. Readers will put up with their superfluous prose because the rest is so good, but that doesn't mean they don't need an editor.

Dean Wesley Smith, who has an awesome website and talks openly about his craft, is a three draft writer, and claims most pros are.

Could be.

Editor Carmen Callil:

"The old-fashioned editor has to a great extent disappeared, but I'm not too sure that's a great loss; and the improvement in sales, marketing and design effort, in my opinion, more than makes up for it. Editorial work is often farmed out to freelance copy-editors, and not done in-house as it used to be. Have freelance editors got worse? I don't imagine so. Also, was "old-fashioned" editing as great as it is often claimed to be? Moaning about the good old days is as much a part of writing life as drinking too much and a partiality for parties and too much smoking."

Jeanette Winterson, whose work I quite like, chimes as well:

"Editors have become linear and timid. They worry about how things follow and Emma Bovary's eyes both change colour unexpectedly, and no one minds. As Virginia Woolf wrote, "all my facts about lighthouses are wrong". So there is wrong that is right, and that is better than rigid rightness that is wrong. I find, too, that many younger editors simply don't have the cultural resources to recognise a reference or playfulness therein." 

Read the whole thing.

A good editor you're simpatico with is worth their weight in gold.

And they'd probably want to edit that sentence.

I wonder what's on TV...

Interested in Classic Doctor Who? Here's what to watch, and what to avoid…

Pull my plunger! Pull! PULL! That never gets old.

Doctor Who is one of the oddest programs out there. Seriously: it's about an eccentric, two-hearted alien who travels around time and space in a blue police box, generally accompanied by a foxy young lady, fighting monsters and saving the universe with a sonic screwdriver that can do almost anything.

Did I mention he's over 900 years old and dates teenagers?

It's the BBC.

Anyway.

The concept has been flexible enough to keep the program going for over fifty years, albeit with a dead zone in the nineties, when books and fanfic kept it alive.

Doctor Who has always varied wildly in quality. It's like a manic depressive TV show, and to be perfectly honest, of the original series, there's really only four seasons that are superb. The rest? Mostly unwatchable. But that's part of the program's genius, because there are people out there who feel the exact opposite I do: they laud the dreadful seasons and hate the really good ones.

Go figure.

I put it down to the slow collapse of human civilization into barbarism and poor taste.

Deadly jelly-babies

The program lives by the maxim 'get them when they're young' and I'm a case in point. I have vague memories of watching Jon Pertwee episodes, but not understanding what was going on. I was too little. I just knew that it was crazy scary stuff unlike anything else.

If you're thinking of getting into the show, however, you have to ask yourself a question: Do you have trouble accepting lame special effects? Not-so-special effects, that is, often done live, at time of broadcast?

If so, your trip through Classic Who will be a short one. Of the core set of episodes, you'd best stick with just four (and even these have dodgy bits):

The Time Warrior
Genesis of the Daleks
Terror of the Zygons (look away when the Loch Ness Monster shows up or your eyeballs will burn)
The Caves of Androzani

Because there are no good effects in Classic Doctor Who, just absent ones.

But if you like lots of cardboard in your sci-fi, well then, you've hit the jackpot, my friend!

Much of the show was filmed in a BBC closet using janitorial gear. That's an advantage: you get to watch serious, Shakespearean-trained actors emote to a bucket. Or bubble wrap. And they make it work.

Is that not the most awesome display of dedication to craft imaginable?

So for the curious and the eccentric, here's my nostalgia-heavy, second-childhood guide to enjoying Classic Doctor Who:

 

Level One: Bystander

Short and sweet. The initial list covers just a (baker's) dozen stories, almost all of them from the gothic-horror era (as much as a children's show can do gothic-horror… you'll be surprised):

Third Doctor:

Humpty Dumpty meets modern woman.

The Time Warrior
Story: The Doctor, with the help of a feisty young female reporter, must stop a time traveling alien from abducting human scientists into the past. Rather clever really.
 
Dodgy SFX: Time travel effects.

Why watch it?: Humpty Dumpty as an alien. The villainous tag team of Irongron and Lynx is like an evil odd-couple. Seriously, they could have had their own TV sitcom. Also, Sarah Jane Smith's debut on the program. Everywhere she goes, she foments revolution within the first couple of episodes. Just how she rolls. Jon Pertwee's more of an action-Jackson Doctor, and puts his Venusian karate to good use. You'll never see another kung-fu action Doctor after his tenure…

Fourth Doctor:

It wouldn't be Who without dodgy SFX. Use your imagination!

Robot
Story: King Kong, basically, only with a robot and a bunch of Fascist robotocists. Over this backdrop, The Doctor regenerates into Tom Baker.

Dodgy SFX: The robot.  Especially when he grows to giant size.

Why watch it?: Tom Baker's performance. You can't take your eyes off him. He imbues his performance with electric eccentricity, and flips from comedy to deadly seriousness in the blink of an eye. And you'll be introduced to recurring characters such as The Brigadier, Harry Sullivan and the original UNIT crew. The program at its most grounded.

It's a paper-mache based life form. Ew!

I'm being consumed by bubble-wrap!

The Ark in Space
Story: Cryogenically frozen humans of a long destroyed earth find themselves being used as incubators for an invasive alien species aboard a space station. Sounds familiar, no?

Dodgy SFX: The aliens can hardly move.

Why watch it?: The bubble wrap. And the space station. It's what passes for hard-core seventies sci-fi. The first episode is mysterious and quiet in a way most programs wouldn't dare even try today. The sets are superb though, as far as this show usually goes. Doctor Who has the props, effects, and sets of a stage play, generally speaking.

Should I destroy this species that will eventually exterminate all life, or does that make me a bad person?

Genesis of the Daleks
Story: The Doctor is sent back in time to stop the development of the Daleks, his deadliest plunger-armed enemy.

Dodgy SFX: The killer clams. 

Why watch it?: Davros. Michael Wisher's performance is one of the best in the entire series, and he's every bit a match for Tom Baker. They have a relatively sophisticated debate about ethics, too. Parallels to the Nazis are pretty on the nose (Nyder even wears a Knight's Cross), but it's well done, and incredibly bleak to boot. The Daleks themselves… they're one note. Great design, but they never change, never evolve. That's why they need a Davros. Someone or thing with more dimension.

Giant fetus-octopi people! Look at the size of their brain casing! What's their encephalization quotient?

Terror of the Zygons
Story: Something horrific is stalking oil rigs and dragging them down into the sea…

Dodgy SFX: The Loch Ness Monster is a hand puppet.

Why watch it?: For everything else. The Zygon alien design is a wonderful cross between a fetus and an octopus. The episode has a wonderfully creepy atmosphere and great Scottish bit players.

I have a bad feeling about this place filled with sarcophagi...

Pyramids of Mars
Story: Sutekh the Destroyer, Egyptian god, is about to escape his prison on Mars and destroy the universe, and the only thing in his way is… oh, you know who: The Doctor. Hmm. Egyptian gods as aliens? Sounds familiar in a decade or two…

Dodgy SFX: The mummies.

Why watch it?: Sutekh is supreme! Pre-Stargate Doctor Who does Hammer Films. The fellow who plays Set, or Sutekh, is superb, despite being immobile for much of the story; he imbues his character with nuanced menace using only his superbly modulated voice.

King Vegetable attacks! I've always said brussel sprouts are evil.

The Seeds of Doom
Story: The Thing meets The Doctor. Only I mean the vegetable-carrot Thing, not the shape shifting one. And this vegetable grows much, MUCH bigger. I'm talking King Kong big. Best of all, people get fed into a plant-mulcher, Fargo style. Did I mention this was a kids show?

Dodgy SFX: The snow.

Why watch it?: The plant creature. And Harrison Chase, the eccentric millionaire, who's an equally fun, if completely insane, creation.

The deadly assassin… Well, I should certainly hope so. Otherwise he's not very good at his job.

The Deadly Assassin
Story: The Doctor returns to Gallifrey, his home world, to deal with a plot to assassinate the president. Of course, he gets framed for it and has to prove his innocence by going in to The Matrix, an artificial reality where memories of Time Lords are stored… which sounds strangely familiar. How odd.

Dodgy SFX: The tiny train… of dooooom. 

Why watch it?: The Matrix, twenty years early. And you see a lot of Gallifrey, the home planet of the Time Lords. Basically, they're a bunch of pompous. upper-crust, bureaucracy loving Brits. Figures they'd run the universe.

Nothing like a foxy savage warrior woman to spice up a show.

The Face of Evil
Story: The Doctor must fight a rogue AI that has divided the people it rules into two tribes: one savage, the other psychic. It's all easy-breezy until The Doctor realizes he's been here before…

Dodgy SFX: The sets.

Why watch it?: Leela, the sexy savage companion who's always wanting to kill people. It's her first answer to every problem: 'Shall I kill him, Doctor?'

That's her catchphrase.

I love Leela; she's such a perfect contrast to our sophisticated pacifist doctor.

She's the doctor's most unique and different companion, the only one with a polar opposite view point. These days he flies with interchangeable young ladies, with the notable exception of Donna, who, honestly, would give Leela a run for her money. The show has never tried something as daring (or an outfit quite as risque) since.

And Leela would kick Seven of Nine's latex clad butt.

Also in this episode, the Doctor threaten to kill a man with a jelly-baby.

What's not to like?

Is that not a cool design for a  robot, or what? Don't answer. I don't care what you think.

The Robots of Death
Story: The Doctor and Leela arrive aboard a sandminer and must find a killer who's using robots as his weapon of choice.

Dodgy SFX: Exterior shots of the sandminer.

Why watch it?: It's sci-fi Agatha Christie, and the actors don't seem to realize they're on a kid's show. Still part of the gothic-horror meets 'hard' sci-fi mash-up that typified the Hinchecliffe era.

The design of the robots is really inspired, like Chinese Terracotta Warrior robots.

Bodies begin to pile up in the lighthouse. Hitchhikers this is not.

The Horror of Fang Rock
Story: The Doctor and Leela arrive at a Victorian age light house which is being preyed upon by a monster.

Dodgy SFX: The glowing killer cabbage.

Why watch it?: The Masterpiece Theatre atmosphere. More freaky-scary Hammer Films style stuff. The supporting cast are great.

Of course Leela wants to kill them.

Oh, Leela…!

Captain Cosmos costumes for everyone!

The Invasion of Time
Story: The Doctor must return to Gallifrey to assume the Presidency and make way for an alien invasion. Wait, what?

Dodgy SFX: Crackling tinfoil aliens.

Why watch it?: Baker's mad performance. The plot meanders and the story's overly long, but still lots of fun. Baker's last episode with any dramatic tension. Leela departs at the end. It is sad. No more Janis thorns. But rather a perfunctory departure.

The best companion exit was that of Jo Grant in the story with the giant maggots. They gave me nightmares.

Fifth Doctor:

Kinky leather outfit, dude.

The Caves of Androzani 
Story: Drugs, caves and androids.

Dodgy SFX: The dragon beast creature thing. Whatever it is supposed to be.

Why watch it?: The villains, the pacing, the androids. The visceral hatred and revenge theme mixed with deceit and Machiavellian maneuvering. It's dark and hazard filled, which is how I like my Who. Peter Davison goes out on a high. The episode that follows is one of the worst in the history of the program, so stop with this one. You've been warned.

And that’s it.

Just over a dozen stories, all but one from between the start of season 11 (1973-74) and the end of season 15 (1977-78). All you need to see of the original to get a grip on the program's conceits: he regenerates, he has a time traveling box, and there are monsters everywhere.

What's that, you say?

Not enough?

If, like Oliver, you want more, proceed on to… Level Two.

I should note that the program reinvents itself, particularly in tone, from time to time. Douglas Adams wrote for the show late in Tom Baker's era, and while I love Hitchhikers, I don't like hitchhikers in my Who. Two different tones, two different franchises. Without dramatic tension (and Adams denuded the show of it), there's just no point to Who. It ain't scary.

The next level of stories… next week.

This highly impractical outfit is a sign of my status, you peon. Speak BBC english!

Anne R. Allen: Why being a writer is like being Santa Claus.

"1. Most people don't believe in you. You're not even sure if you believe in yourself."

Ha!

Check it the whole thing.

Chapter 6 of Magnum Thrax and the Amusement Park of Doom

David Manning is an imaginary reviewer dreamed up by a film studio.
Now he works for me. Because if they can lie, so can I.

PREFACE: 

Magnum Thrax has gotten a few reviews on Amazon, and this one by Frederick A. Squier is by far the most interesting:

"Got this one so I could trash it but someting strange happened instead: Now this is one strange and awesome book. This book reminded me of "Go-Go Girls of the Apocalypse" by Victor Gishler. It is unabashedly over the top and as weird as you can get. If it was made into a movie it would probably be Directed by Mel Brooks, in the vein of "Space Balls", "Flesh Gordan" "Barbarella" and "Ice Pirates" Beneath it all is a very sound plot that plays out well right up to the end. I got this book prepared to rip it to pieces but instead must praise it as a nice bit of fun satire! Is this book for everyone??? No but for the ones who get it, YES."

Magnum Thrax is a self-indulgent geek-fest, so I get that people would want to attack the book: it's asking for it. The premise is over-the-top and a lot of people will say it represents everything wrong with indie books and fanfic in general.  

And yet, I'd like to think that the book is smarter than that; I'm grateful and happy the reviewer thought so as well. 

But it does ask a lot of the reader, and Magnum Thrax was never going to have a large audience. 

So if you're enjoying it, congratulations! 

You may be as crazy as I am.

And now… NSFW Chapter 6!

Thrax took the lift to the residence level; along the way he helped himself to the elevator’s wet bar. Armed with a White Russian, he stepped out of the plushly appointed elevator into Liberty Lounge Hall. He strode past erotic marble statues in various states of sexual congress, set beneath Roman murals depicting a plethora of indescribably obscene acts.

Sucked back more vodka.

Darwin’s head popped up in the air, drifting disconcertingly looking at the murals. “Rome...humanity at its most primal: greed, lust, wrath, sloth, gluttony, and envy on an incredible scale, interrupted only by brief moments of nobility. Your species is bored by wisdom. Naturally it destroyed itself.”

“Naturally,” agreed Thrax with a sly grin.

At the far end of the hall were monumental bronze doors, complete with phallic handles, that led to the android barracks. Before them, reclining on the last of a dozen glowing red couches, sprawled Jez. The red tinted lights made her appear demonic.

“Oh, not this one. Give her a wide berth, my boy,” advised Darwin, his voice distant, his image absent. He didn’t like the animal side of humans much.

Out of vodka. Thrax chucked the glass aside with a nonchalant flick. It smacked into an indignant animated painting of a rutting couple, who flipped him the bird.

“Screw it,” snapped Thrax subvocally. “No more same old, same old. Let’s fuck!” He strode up to Jez with an exaggerated, manly swagger.

Jez glanced up, took in instantly his intent, and rubbed her swelling thighs together provocatively.

“Little man,” she cooed, leaning back and titling her cannon like breasts upward. “All better wetter now?”

Thrax planted his legs wide apart, assuming as dominant a stance his five foot nine frame was capable of. “Yeah, just caught me a little off guard, that’s all.”

She was looking her usual nasty self. The DNA jockeys had tried to scrub some of the Domin-X model’s more sadistic urges, but their efforts were always tentative.

Couldn’t ruin their combat edge. The model dug fighting, reveled in conflict of any kind, and killed with relish. Beating the shit out of you was their finest form of foreplay. They forced captured enemies to clean floors while wearing tutu’s.

Thrax’d wondered about her: flame for moths?

Jez raised an eyebrow, looked down at a gloved hand, and rubbed some imaginary dirt between her fingers. “You know, I thought you were going to cry.”

“Dominance play,” Darwin said into Thrax’s head.

“Nah,” replied Thrax to her, dismissively. He waved a hand in the air and brushed Darwin’s virtual image away. “Just don’t like things I can’t shoot.”

She narrowed her cat like eyes into sultry slits. “Oh? That why you’re down here, officer? Shoot out a little comething?”

Time to play it cool. “Maybe. Sure, let’s go.”

Jez gazed down the hall at nothing in particular. Pretended it was more interesting than him. “Not in the mood.”

Thrax put his hands on his hips in indignation. “What the hell? You’re a sexbot! I’m human! Let’s do this.”

Jez turned her face back to him, slowly, coolly, like a cannon zeroing in on its prey. She rose to her feet and stepped into his personal space, towering over him. Her enormous breasts level with his reddening face. Her sexuality overwhelmed his senses, her flush scent filling his flaring nostrils and his mind with maddening desire and erotic thoughts beyond reason.

He was hard. Unbelievably hard. Painfully so.

“It’s against regulations. And you’re a worm,” she said, leaning close, her body quivering. “You want me? Prove it. Get down on your hands and knees, and kiss... my... foot.”

“Say what?” replied Thrax, flustered; the spell broke for a moment. Reason tried to be heard. “That’s... bullshit.”

She reached out and ran a finger across his taut loins. Sensational signals spread out through his body. He straightened up on to his tippy toes.

“Not yet, it isn’t,” she breathed in his ear. “No?” he gasped.
He felt paralyzed.

“No,” she repeated, pressing her great breasts against his face. “Pledge yourself to me. Pledge your soul, your life. Pledge undying, eternal devotion. And maybe...” She looked down at his bulging crotch. “Maybe I’ll help you with... that little problem you have down there. When you lick my asshole clean.”

Thrax grimaced. Ew. “That’s just fucked up. Lady, you’re—whoa!”

Darwin’s hologram materialized around Jez’s head, engulfing it. He ramped up his opacity to max, making Jez look like ZZ Top in drag. “Come, come, my boy. She’s doing what her model is programmed for. This is what her clientele wanted. The clumsy, blundering, low, and horribly cruel machinations of desire.”

It broke the mood.

Thrax rushed away, bursting through the great bronze doors and into the soft, mood lighting of the barracks, a converted brothel. While its purpose had evolved, the decorations had not changed.

“Where the hell are you going?” demanded Jez, annoyed. She began to shout. “Nobody walks away from me! You hear? You’ll regret this!”

Thrax showed her his palm as he walked away. What the hell had he been thinking? Jez was a debauched beast in a human wrapper.

He couldn’t get Darwin’s face, merged with Jez’s admittedly magnificent body, out of his head. He gave a very different kind of shudder and stopped.

****

Jez sputtered with rage, but was too stunned to do more. The nerve of the little twerp! Thrax was actually walking away. From her! Impossible, yet it was happening. Turning his back. Dismissing her with his open palm. And was that a look of contempt on his face? Disgust? How dare he judge! And over such a mild suggestion, too. He had no right: she was only being true to her programming. Perversion wasn’t a flaw but a feature. It made her furious.

Even worse, it turned her on. She felt a flood of desire. Rejection was new. Novel. Intense. An affront, but also a challenge. A target. She'd conquer him, she thought with relish. Then make him pay.

The doors swung shut.

****

What now, thought Thrax glumly. An entire barracks of Nexdoor model sexbots at his beck and call. But he’d had those.

“Are you well, sir?” said a strong female voice. Andromeda stood at the door of her quarters, resplendent in her form fitting armour, right down to sculpted breastplates.

Darwin noted his gaze. “Completely impractical, you know. If she were to be struck, the indentation between her breasts would crack her rib cage. At least her vital organs are protected. Can’t say that for the outrageous outfits of your other squad members.”

Andromeda, unable to see or hear Darwin, gave Thrax a quizzical look. “You seem troubled.”

“Let’s fuck,” Thrax blurted out.
Andromeda was momentarily taken aback. Then she smiled. “I accept your challenge.” Thrax frowned. “Wait, what?”

“Prove your worth!” grinned Andromeda, unbuckling her scabbard and placing it on a shelf inside the door. “I have admired your prowess on the field of battle. Now, prove yourself to me, and we shall glory in the passionate congress of true warriors!”

“Oh, shit. Now, hold on,” he stammered. “Just a second...”

She punched him in the face and he flew backwards, falling on his rear.

“Ah,” declared Darwin, amused. “Female hypergamy.”

“What the fugh?” Thrax grabbed his nose with both hands. Blood gushed from smushed nostrils. “You brogh my dose.”

“Don’t panic,” corrected Darwin. “I’m dispatching medbots to your nasal passages. I’ll have the blood flow staunched momentarily.”

“First blood,” exulted Andromeda. She cracked her knuckles and dropped into a combat stance, bobbing up and down on spring like knees. Anticipation on her regal face. “On your feet!”

“Waid,” he replied. Hand to hand combat was not his strongest area, and he knew it. He was out of practice, too. As the fastest gun in the Pleasurepit, and the best shot, he generally dispatched opponents before fisticuffs were required. “Anotheh dime.”

Her face fell. “We are already in battle’s embrace.”

He struggled to his feet, his woody fading fast. “Yes, well, I’ve changed my min—” She aimed a swift kick at his face with a steel tipped boot. He dodged it, rolling to the left, and catching her supporting leg between his. Yanked hard, throwing her off her feet. Her powerful arms caught her before she reached the floor, and she slammed atop him. She rained blows down.

He tried to block to no avail. Desperate, he grabbed her hair and gave a sharp, vicious tug, then snapped a clenched fist into her jaw. Her neck cracked. With a shove he toppled her off and rose unsteadily to his feet.

“Excellent!” she exclaimed, breathing hard. “You adapt quickly.” His neck vice didn’t seem to bother her. He squeezed harder. She laughed and punched him in the gut so hard it knocked the wind out of him.

He let go and staggered about, bewildered with pain.

“Is this not glorious?” she asked, approaching swiftly.

“Uh... n-not really—” he started to reply.

She grabbed his head with both hands and delivered a knee to his face that sent him reeling, then followed up with a blizzard of kicks.

“Hiyah!” she cried, her thick, powerful thigh propelling a boot into his gut. Carried away with the excitement, her artificial blood flowing, she finished with a round house of punches that left Thrax’s face a bloody mess.

He sunk to the floor, semi-conscious. She waited a moment, smiling.

He didn’t move.

She paused.

“Magnum Thrax of Klenstaf, are you well?” she asked, growing concerned. “Peachy,” he blurted, blood and teeth popping out his mouth.

Darwin looked at them with concern. “I’ll have those regrown straight away. But it will hurt.”

“I already hurt,” replied Thrax. “I won’t even notice.” Andromeda cocked her head to the side. “Do you concede?” He nodded as vigorously as he could.

“Very well.” Disappointed, she straightened up and gave him the Amazon salute, slapping her clenched fist against her chest and then flinging her arm out. “May you fare better next time, for both our sakes.”

Thrax grunted. His jaw tingled.

Andromeda started back to her quarters. Stopped. Turned back. “Do you require medical assistance?”

He waved her concern away. “Nah, I’m good. Just gonna sit here for a bit.” She nodded and vanished into her quarters. The door swished shut behind her. Thank Hef, thought Thrax. That’s just too much woman.

“So much human interaction is based on establishing hierarchy and dominance,” said Darwin contemplatively. “A competitive mating system that slowly improves the species, it has little regard for your feelings on an individual level...”

A few minutes later, Candy walked in, followed by Blossom.

“Sable gave me some ideo-gum; chapter each. Crime and Punishment. Oh. My. Gawd. Best book bon bon ever, you should totally...” Blossom’s jaw dropped when she saw Thrax. “What the grok?”

“Oh, baby!” Candy exclaimed, rushing over. “You alright?”
 
He opened a bloated black eye. “Course. Why?”

Blossom frowned. “You do so look like shit. No duh.”

“What happened?” asked Candy. She touched the edge of his black eye gently. Thrax shrugged. Pointed at the great bronze doors. “Walked into those suckers.” Blossom was unconvinced. “Those are like, totally doors.”

“Oh, you poor baby. Help me get him up,” said Candy. The two struggled to get Thrax on his feet. “We’ll take him to my unit. Just up there. On the right.” Thrax stumbled his way between them, into a chamber with walls of pink fun fur. The bed was pink. The furniture was pink. Even her little designer dog, Max, was pink.

The canine barked indignantly at Thrax; then ran around his ankles yapping. Max didn’t like strange males in his home. The competition was unwelcome. Thanks to the FOXP2 gene, his yips had an eerily human sound.

“Like the colour scheme,” Thrax mumbled, half out of his mind. They plopped him down on the bed.
“Do you?” Candy beamed with pride. “I decorated it myself.” “Really.”

“Yeah, you know, I don’t think that was hard to guess,” said Blossom, unimpressed. Candy glanced at Blossom, then the door.

“Oh, fer...” said Blossom, taking the hint. “Fine. Gawd. Throw me way over. I have to... yeah, whatever. Feed my pet rock. See you, sugar tassel.” Blosoom stepped out into the hall.

****

“Let me get out my medkit,” blurted Candy, brightening. Better than having a new Barbie to dress, she thought. She opened a wall cabinet at the far end of the room. Partially obscured by a gaint pink rabbit, Thrax noted the inside contained a dark, bubbling tank, lit from below and surrounded by tubes pumping fluid. Inside, something loathsome and unspeakable shifted within the glowing lime green fluid. Push up bras, stockings, and panties were jammed in around it. One had fallen into the tank and was now encrusted with little white eggs. Atop the clothes rested a glossy white medkit with a pink pony badge on the front. She pulled it out and shut the cabinet. “You’ve multiple abrasions on your face. And I think your jaw may be dislocated.”

“No, it’s good.”

“Quiet, please. I am going to have to give you a thorough examination.” Candy began to fuss over him. She injected pain suppressants. Placed medpatches over the bruises, accelerating the healing process of his own internal medbots.

She took a look at his bloody mess of a mouth, gently suctioned out the blood and poured in a packet of Healit, a mixture of chemicals the nanites could use in their repair efforts. Her moves were precise, professional, economical. Inhuman.

She gave him a delicate kiss on the forehead.

“There. That should do it.”

He leaned back in bliss as the drugs kicked in. “Thank you, Candy.” Her face hovered before his.

“Give it a few minutes, you’ll feel like brand new.”

He smiled.

“Turn around now, lie down.”

The bed altered its shape to fit his body. She began to give him the most incredible massage.

“I’ve been studying erotic massage,” she said, her expert hands pressing against his back, just between pleasure and pain. “I’ve been practicing on Blossom, and she says I’m getting really good. The others now want massages, too. How does that feel?”

“Good,” replied Thrax, thoroughly doped up. She massaged him for what felt like a blissful eternity. “Better than good.”

“I’m glad,” she replied.

“I want to do great deeds, Candy,” he confided drowsily. “All I’ve ever wanted is to be in an epic adventure. Real Lord of the Rings type stuff. I want to save the world. Like the great heroes of old. Beowulf. King Arthur. Indiana Jones. Clint Eastwood. Abraham Lincoln. Especially Lincoln.”

“Who’s that?”

“Lincoln? He was President of the United States, eons ago, running the country and orating with big words and shit, but at night he was a kick ass vampire slayer. How do you even find time for that? Superhuman. You know? Run a country and then go out at night and stake vampires. That’s what I call a hero. Someone worthy of song.”

“Like My Little Pony? They sing. Went on adventures, too.” He nodded. “Yes. But more macho. Less pink.”

She giggled. “Good. Pink is my colour.”

“Mark my words. One day, I’m going to be worthy.”

“You already are in my books, Thrax.”

Ten wonderful, soothing minutes later, she turned him over.

“Saliva has healing properties, you know,” she said, her face hovering over his. Her big, wide eyes shifted focus between his left and right, searching, he thought, for his very soul.

Or some kind of deep shit like that.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

And she was.

“You’re an angel. The Theory of Forms made all pink and fleshy. Hyper-real.”

She giggled and gave him a long passionate kiss, her tongue gliding lightly about his now unfrozen mouth. “It’s nice.”

“The world’s in danger,” he muttered.

The non-sequitor took her by surprise. “Huh?”

“That’s what he said. The android. The world is in danger.”

“Again? I remember it being in danger before. But you’ll save it,” she replied confidently. “You’re a really good shot. I have faith in you, Magnum.”

Thrax managed a laugh. “Glad someone does.”

“Can I tell you something?” she asked, a sly smile appearing on her chubby, cherubic face.

“Sure.”

She pressed her lips to his ear and breathed, “I want to have a baby.”

He chuckled.

Candy drew back, frowned. “That’s not nice. I thought you were nice.”

He shook his head. “No, look. I’m sorry. It’s just not possible. You’re an android. You don’t even have a womb.”

“I’m a living being. ‘Be humble for you are made of earth, be noble, for you are made of stars.’ That applies to me as much as you,” she said with more than a little defiance.

“Yeah, no. Not what I mean. You were designed. Manufactured for a specific, limited purpose. Child birth not being one of them.”

Candy threw up her hands in frustration. Thrax didn’t get it: “The Ancients changed everything, all the time. The code exists.” She straightened up and added with reverence: “The Great Net of Knowledge said so.”

That gave Thrax pause. “No shit?”

A grin. “No shit. I even found some.”

“Didn’t think you were a rocket science type.” Thrax wrapped his arms around her svelte waist and unzipped her slippery white plastic dress, releasing tension from soft, pert pink flesh.

That got Max yapping in a hyperventilating fury; he ran about in circles, always coming back to focus on Thrax, bellowing indignation in high falsetto.

Candy pushed Thrax’s arms away. “It’s biology, not rocket science.” Candy turned to the dog. “Shush Maxy.” She picked up the jealous dog up and putting him in the wall unit. The wall sealed up behind him, a semi-permeable membrane allowing the flow of air but not sound. “I don’t think he’ll take long.”

With an open palm motion, she made the door slide shut.

Coddled within a world of pink, they fucked like rabid, sex starved bunnies.

The Force Awakens: fun but no classic (SPOILERS).

The Force Awakens is like the popcorn, pop, and candy I had during the film (I skipped lunch): Tasted great at the time, but afterward, I didn't feel so hot.

Faux-food.

Empty calories.

That's The Force Awakens: instantly forgettable fun.

And considering how insanely fast the film was put together, we're lucky it's as good as it is.

So go see it, enjoy, and don't think about it again.

The first third of the film is great, and the new characters are even better: Rey, Fynn, BB-8 and Kylo Ren are fun, fresh, and interesting. Poe's a little flat (the script doesn't give him as much to work with), but all the actors deliver a level of craft and energy that hasn't been seen in a Star Wars film for awhile (Sadly the prequels had a cast of cardboard).

We open with a massacre and then segue into quiet mood setting that's the best part of the film. It feels like Star Wars. It builds up your faith. Then BAM: it's onto the action-sequence roller coaster. I got flashbacks of Star Trek: Into Darkness. It doesn't let up, and it's draining. JJ Abrams loves breathless pacing, but sometimes you get the impression the story's being told by a phenomenally gifted, ADD eight-year old. On the positive side, you're invested. You care about Rey and Fynn and lil' BB pretty real quick; they're very appealing and charismatic portrayals. That gives the action meaning.

Which is brilliant.

The lightsaber battle at the end of Phantom is technically impressive and visually spectacular, for example, but it's empty, meaningless calories because you don't give a spit about Qi-Gong Bargain Bin, or whatever his name was. And Ewan McGregor was untouchable; there was never any fear his character was going to come to harm, and so no suspense.

No emotional investment.

Here, there is.

The film gets faster and faster paced as it goes on, which is generally how it goes, but here it's on turbo. It's about going so blindingly fast you don't notice the flaws. Think about the scene in Star Wars where they're planning the attack on the Death Star. It feels real. Grounded. They based it on how bomber crews in the Second World War were briefed. Best of all? You knew the pilots were afraid by their questions. They were tense, which is what you'd expect them to be if they were real people instead of extras. In The Force Awakens, the planning session more resembles a bunch of ten-year olds at play. No one acts like they're about to put their lives on the line.

That was one of the brilliant things about Star Wars' lived-in universe: Little touches of the ordinary to keep the fantasy grounded and relatable. Star Wars had power converters and a whiny teenager who wanted to escape his small town. The second film had Luke at summer swamp camp and Han and Leia on the road trip from hell. The beginning of Awaken tries to ground us, too, but gravity gives way by the end for the sake of fast pacing.

Kasdan and JJ could have gone anywhere with the story. The possibilities of our galaxy far, far away are almost endless. It's a wildly imaginative storytelling playground.

Or it should be.

The biggest disappointment of the film is that it recycles large chunks of Star Wars and Empire Strikes Back.

Disney executives invested four billion in the Star Wars franchise and they want to make that money back.

Remember that Hollywood execs took 'Mars' out of the title of John Carter because other films with that unmentionable M-word in the title had bombed? They concluded that people didn't like movies with the word 'Mars' in the title.

That's how they think.

It's a bit voodoo.

Like trickle-down economics theories.

That's going to inform how they approach the Star Wars: was the first film a success due to excellent story telling, or… because it had a desert planet? Probably story, but when there's this much money involved, why not hedge your bet?

The first film starts with the bad guys hunting down missing plans. That means… so does this one. The first film has a desert planet, which means this one does, too. The plans are put on a droid in the original, so they do the same here. The droid in the first film got picked up by a scrap dealer, so the droid here is… also picked up by a scrap dealer.

The first film had a planet destroying battle station, which means this one does, too. The first film had a bit about turning off the tractor beam, so this one has a bit about turning off the force fields. Star Wars climaxed with an attack by X-wings on a battlestation. So this one has the very same thing.

And when they had a big emotional punch moment in Cloud City ("Luke! I am…"), it happened over a great void. So this time, the emotional moment also happens over a great void.

And blaster fire erupts after the big moment and people scream, 'nooooo!'

It's like they took the first two films, put them in a blender, and poured out a milkshake script.

This kind of thinking results in three Death Stars blowing up over the course of four films. Honestly, when I saw Starkiller base, the first thought wasn't 'wow', or 'that's impressive'. No, my first thought was: 'Oh sh*t, not another f*cking Death Star!'

Those pesky things are more ubiquitous than cathedrals on a tour of Europe.

A whole galaxy of wonderful inventiveness, and all they can do is blow up Death Stars, over and over and over again.

The reason why Empire is so good is because it didn't just scale up the ending of Star Wars; instead of zigging, it zagged and went for a powerful emotional punch at the end. To allow the emo-twist to hit harder, they pushed the big battle sequence up to the beginning of the film, letting both sequences breathe.

Here, they don't trust their storytelling enough to allow that. Instead, they mash the ending of Star Wars together with the ending of Empire. Spectacular battle scene is intercut with powerful emotional twist. The hope is that this will have double the impact, but it doesn't. They just cancel each other out. There's too much.

But the execs want to cover all the bases, and not leave anything to chance.

So they shoved in both: scaled stunts and emotional punch.

Which leads inevitably to a dead end.

Think about it.

The first Death Star was big. The second was five or six times bigger. The third is larger than the second by an even greater order of magnitude. What will be the fourth? The size of a sun? What comes after that?

Then what?

Spielberg once said that in any sequel to Raiders of the Lost Arc, the stunts would have to be even bigger. But if the stunts in the first already push the limits of credulity, stretch the bubble of disbelief to breaking point, where are you going?

Where does it end?

I'll tell you where: farce and inadvertent self-parody.

It ends with blowing up ever-bigger Death Stars, over and over, ad infinitum.

It ends with John Wick being a redressed Equalizer. It ends with the audience not being able to tell which movie they're watching anymore: White House Down or… the other one. It's Die Hard in the White House. It's Die Hard in an Airport. It's Die Hard in an Ocean Liner. It's Die Hard in an office tower.

Otherwise, identical.

It's Avengers I being the same blazingly quick-cut action-blur as Avengers II.

It ends with sequel after sequel that is almost indistinguishable from its predecessor. Just bigger.

It's the cinematic equivalent of changing the packaging, or letting out a suit, and calling it all-new.

That's why Empire is so good: it builds on Star Wars. It doesn't recycle. The characters grow and go new places, rather than just repeating the same journey they took the first time.

Empire is how you build a lasting franchise. Not Jedi.

And not The Force Awakens. 

The hollow core of the new film bodes ill for the future. The characters are enormously appealing, but the story's messy and sloppy and full of coincidences to the point of absurdity. It's only there to provide a segue into the next action sequence.

And yet, Empire, our critically beloved darling, is the lowest earning of the whole set, adjusted for inflation. The Phantom Menace the highest.

Did JJ achieve what he needed to? You bet. He's made an entertaining film that's far better than any of the prequels. The film will make a ton of money. That's the bottom line.

Did he create a modern classic? A story that will stand the test of time? Given the constraints the film was made under, that probably was never in the cards.

In ten years, people will still be looking back to the original trilogy as the best.

Some random thoughts:

• During the film I strongly felt that Rey (Ray of light!) was Luke's daughter. But there's another possibility: she's the twin sister of Kylo Ren, spirited away by Luke or Maz without Han or Leia's knowledge, or even knowing she existed (they seem to have no knowledge of a daughter, missing or otherwise). Which doesn't make much, or any, sense, because she was just dumped on Tatooine (Jakku, whatever) without a protector. Yet if Rey was Luke's daughter, surely they'd have mentioned the mother in the setup… wouldn't they? Maybe not because…

• I don't understand what the First Order even was, how it related to The Republic, if there was a Republic (they mention Senators in a throw away line), or how The Resistance fits into the mix. I don't know what was going on, other than that the First Order was bad, and the Resistance good.

• Rey picked up her knowledge of the force, and lightsaber fighting, from Kylo Ren when he tried to probe her mind. She probed right back and gleaned knowledge of The Force. That's my guess.

• Captain Phasma was beyond lame.

•  The Starkiller Base super weapon was ridiculous.

• Why was nobody working for the First Order over thirty? Don't they trust them?

Machiavelli on the pleasures of reading

“When evening comes, I return home and go into my study. 

On the threshold I strip off my muddy, sweaty, workday clothes, and put on the robes of court and palace, and in this graver dress I enter the antique courts of the ancients and am welcomed by them, and there I taste the food that alone is mine, and for which I was born.

And there I make bold to speak to them and ask the motives of their actions, and they, in their humanity, reply to me. 

And for the space of four hours I forget the world, remember no vexation, fear poverty no more, tremble no more at death: I pass indeed into their world.”

Niccolò Machiavelli