There are many faults with J.J. Abrams' Star Trek (2009), but Karl Urban as Dr. McCoy isn't one of them. He succeeds much better at catching the spirit of Bones than do any of the other actors at capturing the essence of their characters from the old series. Here are a few of his too-few lines that I particularly liked:

"Space is disease and danger, after darkness and silence."

"I'm a doctor, not a physicist."

"Are you out of your Vulcan mind?"

"Green-blooded hobgoblin."

I can practically hear De Kelley's voice when Urban delivers those lines. And that's all I got to say about that. 

***

Smoke has been available for pre-order for over a week. It goes live for your reading pleasure tomorrow. Don't dawdle. Get your copy while supplies last!

In my own reading this week, I started two new books. They were both books that I got for free for being a member of Prime. I had only intended to start one book, but things just didn't work out between us. It wasn't the book; it was me--by which I mean, of course, that it was the book. The author has a style that strikes me like an errant dental drill. The story started in that fashion, seemed to improve for a while, before falling back into that style. The style gave me the feeling that I was reading something written by a rather talented middle school student. I managed to make it over a third of the way through the book before I decided that I had taken too many drill hits to a sensitive nerve, and had to put the book down permanently. 

The second book has held my attention well enough that while reading it between scenes at the theatrical production this week, I became so engrossed in the story that I missed my entrance cue. I heard the stage doorbell ring; the door opened. A confused silence reigned briefly on stage; it got my attention. I looked up, wondering who was missing their cue. I hate when people miss their entrances. Such imbecility has a tendency to rattle the actors who are on stage at the time. I've been there; it's not fun. When the doorbell rang a second time, I realized that I knew precisely which idiot had missed his cue. So velocius quam asparagi conquantur,* I made my entrance. But I  wasn't quick enough to placate the lady whose boyfriend I portray in the play. She gave me the same look the alligator gives the antelope at the waterhole just before dragging it beneath the flood. Later, after she heard my mea culpa, she forbade me from reading between scenes. As far as she knows, I adhered to her directive.

*translation available here

Naturally, my wife was curious to know how things went when I returned home after spending part of the evening in the arms of another woman. She (my wife) didn't get too excited about it when I told her that everything went fine with the play. We just finished the first week of this production. We have one more week to go. I haven't broken a tooth yet. Still, that wasn't the highlight of my day. I'll get to the highlight shortly. Here's a hint.

While putting on my shoes this morning, I found myself whistling Gordon Lightfoot's "Ribbon of Darkness." I can't remember the last time I heard that song, but it's still lodged in that tape deck in my head. Apparently an auto run program was tripped. It must have been something like, "Mind idle. Search the musical memory banks; play random selection. Repeat until manual override is initiated." So it looped for a while. 

I had to pull the vent covers from around the exterior foundation, and mow the prolific jungle that my yard has become. If the grass, weeds, dandelions, and baobabs were allowed to go another week, I would probably have to have an environmental study completed before I could even lift a machete against it. 

Problem: The mower stared me dead in the eye and told me it was going on strike until something changed in our relationship. My wife, fortunately, is much easier to get along with than the mower--that has nothing to do with the mower story, but my wife is great. I entered into negotiations with the mower. For more than an hour, I engaged in some tough techniques that had brought victory in the past: intense questioning, verbal threats, pleading, live electrodes applied to sensitive areas,  but the machine had me over a barrel between a rock and a hard place--if it's permitted to combine those metaphors--and I finally had to concede. I caved to the demand and made the change--of battery. $36 later I was maneuvering the machine like a skilled mahout with a hard working tusker. 

Following the clearing of the wilderness, I turned to a task that I had been excited to complete, but for which I hadn't found the time. Smoke is now available for pre-order. The picture above is the cover. Youngest daughter chose the title font from some options that I presented; it had the most smoke-like character while retaining that most important quality: legibility. The background picture isn't what I had originally anticipated. Although it includes some important elements from the novel; it lacks a seductive female, and the coils of smoke rising from the cigarette. My photography skills and resources are sorely limited.

Get your pre-order in today for Smoke. Or not. You know you want to. It will be very satisfying. Just do it.

Let me know what you think of the cover.

Lost in Space (2018 episode 1) No Spoilers
(But with completely unnecessary quotes from Shakespeare's Richard II -- in italics)

After viewing the first episode, I have mixed thoughts about the show, but "To be a make-peace shall become my age." I was thrilled to see Toby Stephens in the role of John Robinson. I remember him from one of the James Bond movies, and from Vexed in which he played the charming and hilariously politically incorrect male chauvinist DI Armstrong. Naturally, I was disappointed to see, in this first episode at least, that he was relegated to fulfilling the role of the ineffective father who is only allowed to think and act for himself when his wife (some kind of scientist/engineer/astrophysicist/geologist/etc is unconscious); even then, it's the whining son who proves more useful than the father. It's as though John Robinson is forced to say, "I am disgraced, impeach'd and baffled here, Pierced to the soul with slander's venom'd spear."

But before I go off on that thought, let me say that I liked the show. I will watch episode 2. Although the science is more fiction than science, and the script/story has holes through which you could fly a Constitution class starship, and even though I had to say to my disbelief, "Therefore, we banish you our territories," I found the episode imbued with a certain enchantment. The special effects were great but not overpowering; it never felt like those superhero movies that are currently popular where the effects rule and the actors are mere props.

Molly Parker plays Maureen Robinson. "Men are but gilded loam or painted clay," but Mrs. Robinson is some kind of wonder woman; although I didn't see a golden lasso. She apparently made everything happen while Mr. Robinson was away doing soldier stuff. June Lockhart (and Linda Carter) would be jealous. 

As for the Robinson children in this episode, we mostly saw Will and Judy. Penny was present, but she didn't really get to shine in the episode. Taylor Russell plays Judy Robinson. There may be some explanation about the obvious difference between her and the other children, but it wasn't given in this episode. I almost hope no explanation is ever given. Mina Sundwall has the role of Penny. I didn't see that she had the charm that Angela Cartwright brought to the role,

but it was only the first episode. I'm sure that future episodes will feature her talents more prominently. 

That leaves the boy whose name is associated with danger. Maxwell Jenkins has taken the roll formerly played by Bill Mumy (who has a cameo in the episode that took me by surprise). 

He was fine. He possesses that expressively childish face (he does have the advantage of being a child--but he really sells it with the eyes). On an unrelated note, that reminds me of what I really liked about the episode: no Fanning child screaming incessantly. Sure, it's a small thing, but it's something that I always appreciate.

If the show doesn't get to taking itself too seriously, I'll keep watching--but I won't be offended if there are no giant carrots or green women with salad bowls on their heads. 

***

And now on to the rant, but "Our fair eyes do hate the dire aspect of civil wounds plough'd up with neighbours' sword," so I'll keep it short and vitriol free. Let me speculate upon the demise of the American male (as portrayed on television)--without saying anything that hasn't been said more eloquently elsewhere. And I'm shooting from the hip here, painting with a broad brush and with half my brain tied behind my back. 

At one time father knew best--at least often. Ward and June, and Marcus Welby and Spock's mom, and Gomez and Morticia, and many others, typically worked together to solve weekly crises. Sometimes father knew best; sometimes Donna Reed had all the answers. Each parent had talents that helped the family. With the possible exception of Herman Munster, no parent was always the idiot. 

Then came one of my favorite childhood shows: Bewitched. Darin, no matter which Dick played him, was almost always an unreasonable idiot; only his beautiful wife's witchcraft could save him--although, it was usually the witchcraft that had originally caused to the problem. It was mostly downhill from there. Ben Cartwright may have been the last of the fathers who was always right--of course, we can't say as much for his sons. However, Pa Ingalls did a highly admirable job.

The effective father as portrayed in television series fell from grace. Eventually, he fell out of the show entirely. "For thee remains a heavier doom, which I with some unwillingness pronounce: The sly slow hours shall not determinate the dateless limit of thy dear exile." Single mom's ruled. They did it all; they didn't need men (and not just the men who prefer the alternate spelling of potato--which reminds me of two good rules: 1. Never bet against a Sicilian when death is on the line, and 2. Never argue with sitcom characters). 

So what does this have to do with Lost in Space 2018? Probably nothing. However, we might consider whether the relative ineffectiveness of the soldier-father (who doesn't do as the super-successful-scientist-wife commands) and the fortunate attainments of the whining, helpless boy-child embody the idea of the old school vision of masculinity being driven from the field, and the rise of that modern, childish, effeminate man who succeeds through obedience to the directives and teachings of the super woman.

***

I've got these leftover quotes from Richard II rattling around in my pocket. Because I like them and don't want to see them go to waste, I'm just going to toss them on the table for your enjoyment.


How long a time lies in one little word!
Four lagging winters and four wanton springs
End in a word: such is the breath of kings.


O, who can hold a fire in his hand
By thinking on the frosty Caucasus?
Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite
By bare imagination of a feast?
Or wallow naked in December snow
By thinking on fantastic summer's heat?
O, no! the apprehension of the good
Gives but the greater feeling to the worse:
Fell sorrow's tooth doth never rankle more
Than when he bites, but lanceth not the sore.

She walked in hotter and sweeter than a peppermint candy cane covered in white phosphorus. She had my attention and held it like a pup in a steel trap. I had never enjoyed a trap more. There was just one problem. She wanted me to find her husband.

She was the first woman to complicate my life that day. She wouldn’t be the last. The investigation soon took a sudden turn, just like the quarry road where her husband’s car didn’t. He challenged gravity and came in second. Was it murder or suicide? Was it a business rival? The mob? Were they after the secret Nazi diamonds her husband had lifted at Berchtesgaden at the end of the war? Either way, I had to walk carefully to avoid joining him on the wrong side of the grass.

The police detective formed his own conclusions. It didn’t look good for the dame who had stolen my heart. I didn’t let the second murder alter my judgment; I refused to believe that my doll was the killer. I had to prove her innocence. The last thing I needed was another woman with magnetic qualities to tangle up the investigation, but that’s what I got. I was in trouble.

That's my first draft for the cover summary of Smoke. It may be too long for the Amazon requirements. I don't remember what the word limit is. 

Let me know if it sparks your interest. 

Here are some recent comments from a proofreader:

"Taking place in the late ’40’s, this captivating story of love, lust, lies, rare books and jewels, stabbing in the back—and front!—All facets of a detective story is reminiscent of Mike Hammer or Sam Spade."

"Stopping midway through this riveting book is not an option!"

"Well-drawn characters, absorbing plot, and flavor of the 40’s make this a must-read!"

"Couldn’t put the darn thing down. It’s a cover-to-cover read in one sitting."

So I took up sewing this week. I did a so-so sew-sew job--I sewed two pairs of denim pants--both of the same famous brand. They come in styles designated by three digit numbers; the numeric designations for both of these began with "5." One had a hole in the crotch, the other in the seat. They were my most comfortable jeans that didn't already have the knees worn out. I wanted to wear one of them in an upcoming theatrical production in which I have a small role. 

I know that denim isn't easy to sew. I remember breaking the needle on my mom's sewing machine when I tried to hem a pair of jeans. I remember repeating the process on my wife's sewing machine, and achieving the same result. Neither of the machine owners commented favorably upon my attempts. Wisely, I must say, this time I opted to go with genuine hand stitching. 

There are websites that give simple directions for patching jeans. There are also sites that give more detailed directions. Naturally, I didn't do it like that. First, I cut the shin out of a pair of jeans that had already lost the knees. Next, I cut two pieces from that shin piece to overlap the two holes that I wanted to cover. That was the easy part. I started with the crotch patch (which sounds like some kind of knitting or crochet term--or a synonym for codpiece). I only had to restart the patch task twice. The first time, I discovered that I had not adequately separated the two pant legs, and I was sewing the patch to the crotch, and to one of the legs. I could see that not only would that look unsightly, it might cause me difficulties in walking, and would likely tear out. Cut the threads. Restart. The second time, I found that I had failed to pull the thread completely tight on one side, leaving a tangle of loops. It was again unsightly, and likely to cause problems. Cut the threads. Restart.

The patching of the second pair went more smoothly. I didn't have to cut the stitches and restart. I didn't even jab the needle into my finger...until I was nearly finished with the task. 

My wife informed me that I could not wear my patched pants. I wore them anyway; after all, I wear the pants around here, at least the patched ones. Nobody seemed to notice the patch on the pair that I wore to rehearsal--probably because they were distracted by the wig that made me look like a deranged Beatle, or Pavel Chekov.

My wife came home with three new pairs of jeans for me today. 

That's a good thing. It's possible that the patches I put on could be poorly sewn, and may not last more than two trips through the wash. 

Note: After the review is a Vidangel Versus -- this time it's Cowboys and Indians.

When I was in college, I read a poorly written science fiction novel which, I believe, was call Khyber Pass - but I can't find any reference to a sci fi book by that name; perhaps I've forgotten the actual name. I do remember that the Khyber Pass (which is between Kabul and Peshawar) played a prominent role in the book. I remember nothing else about that book--except the cover was bluish with a guy in a white coat holding some kind of firearm. The book did get me interested in the actual history of the Khyber Pass. I looked for and found a book--I believe it was called The Northwest Passage -- which was confusing, because I thought the northwest passage referred to the waterway through North America connecting the Pacific and Atlantic Oceans (and which didn't exist, notwithstanding the great confidence in its existence)--about the history and significance of the pass. That book was excellent. The fun thing I remember from that book was the story of a British officer named Nicholson; some of the natives actually worshipped him; he did not encourage the worship.  One (or more) time(s) when he was ill, and confined to his bed in his tent, he could hear the natives engaged in worshipping him without the tent. He was able to reach his pistol, and fired it at them blindly through the canvas wall until all of the cartridges had been expended. People complain about a long church service, but at least the object of the adoration isn't actively engaged in trying to kill them during the service--of course, your mileage may vary; I can't speak for all denominations.

It was sometimes referred to as the Northwest Passage, because the attacks on India usually came from the Northwest through the Khyber Pass.

Anyway, I remembered reading Talbot Mundy's story called King of The Khyber Rifles. In some commentary, somewhere, someone had also recommended the movie. So, I recently watched the movie.

KING OF THE KHYBER RIFLES (1953, directed by Henry King)

According to the poster, you not allowed to wear glasses to watch it. That's strange.

The similarities between this movie and the Talbot Mundy story upon which the movie is based are quite simply uncanny. I mean that in the sense that uncanny may be inferred to mean nonexistent. The old Dragnet shows used to claim that the stories were true but that the names had been changed. In this movie, only the names are the same; the story has been altered beyond recognition.

So how is the movie?

It’s India—1857—100^th year of the British rule.

There’s an ambush set for some British wagons. The British are warned in time to keep their losses minimal. They arrive at the garrison. The one-eyed native who had warned them wants to take the British salt, i.e., join up, because the bad guy, Karram Khan, tortured and killed his brother.

At the garrison, our hero, King shows pictures of his parents to a couple officers with whom he shares quarters; one of these is Jeffrey Heath. It appears that King’s mother is a native. King goes looking for someone called Hamid Bahri. He is told that Bahri has become a holy man; he may be found at the mosque.

A native is preaching insurrection in the public square; the British have ruled for a 100 years and the rule is about to come to a quick and bloody end, according to the insurrectionist. King warns a white woman to get back to her residence, and to stay there. 

Back at the barracks, Heath has left. The other officer shares liquor with King, telling him, “We half-castes have to stick together. My father was Irish.”

When the white woman (Susan Maitland) tells Heath about what happened in the marketplace with Captain King, he says that he shouldn’t wonder, “He’s one of them.” General Maitland is the white woman’s father. 

Heath tells him he had to change quarters because of King’s parentage. The General doesn’t take it well. He informs Heath that whites, half-castes, and natives are all British soldiers and are to be treated as such.

King gets the coveted seat next to Susan at dinner—at her request. The General tells King about the Khyber Rifles. They’re made up of Afridi, natives. Ahmed, the native who warned of the ambush, called them cousins. The General puts King in command of the Khyber Rifles; they are so stubborn that they won’t salute, and they take-off whenever they feel the need for it.

Karram Khan is the native leader in opposition to the British. He was King’s childhood friend.

King isn’t invited to the Queen’s Birthday Ball, because the British have rules about that sort of thing. So Susan seeks him out elsewhere and dances with him outside. She follows him out of the garrison the next day. They get caught in a kind of sand storm the natives call “The Hammer of God,” and have to take shelter in some convenient ruins. (I was wondering if they might run into a couple Hobbits with a cursed ring in there).

They’re attacked by natives. King drops one with a pistol shot. The others enter the ruins. They shout something to him that he doesn’t translate. King escapes the attackers by…running into the storm with Susan?? He abandons two horses, and takes the general's daughter into a killer storm; it doesn't seem like the best of all possible choices.

The next day, the general sends out two patrols to look for them. One patrol finds them nearly dying of thirst in the sand. Funny how the patrol could find them, but the bad guys who nearby when they ran away could not.

Part of the second patrol never returned to the garrison. King tells the general that the hostiles wanted his daughter as a hostage—that’s what they were shouting. Maitland decides to send Susan back to England. She doesn’t want to go. She wants to marry King. Maitland doesn’t want his daughter marrying a half-caste. He’s all for equal treatment, but still…

Turbaned bad guys send a horse into the garrison with one of the missing patrolmen tied to its back. The rest of the missing men have been taken hostage. Karram Khan wants rifles—the Enfield rifle shipment the garrison is expecting—or he will send in another dead hostage each day.

King thinks it would be a good idea to eliminate Karram Khan; and he’s the man to do it. That night, Susan sneaks to King’s quarters, to make him listen to her. That, of course, leads to osculation, and that close talking that leaves one with a hot, damp ear (sultry ear? see, Throw Mama from the Train). She will go away, but she will be with him always, she will come to him when he wants her. (She must think she’s Obi-Wan Kenobi, or something).

The general decides to send King to eliminate Khan. King rides into the enemy camp. He tells Khan that he has deserted. Khan is skeptical. He accepts King into his service, but instructs one of his minions to watch King. The best bad guys always have a spare minion or two for such tasks.

A messenger arrives with bad news. Khan throws a tantrum, and confronts King. While wielding a toad sticker of prodigious proportions, 

he calls King a liar. King admits he was sent to kill Khan but says he came for different reasons. Khan has a British officer brought in. The soldier pleads to King. King throws his drink in the officer’s face. Khan begins to believe him…or so he says.

That night, King does a carpet-crawl-sneak to the sleeping Khan. When King hesitates in killing Khan, the latter counters King’s knife with a pistol. In the morning King is tied to a stake like the rest of the British prisoners. Under Khan’s direction, Afridi on horseback begin a game of “Find the Vital Organ.” (Milton Bradley would later come up with a variant of this game; they called it "Operation.") They’re very successful; they’ve obviously played this game before. One by one, the British soldiers demonstrate the difficulty (futility, even) of dodging while tied to a stake. When King is the last target in play, Khan takes up a spear. He makes the charge, but pulls up before King gets the point. In repayment for the hesitation that spared Khan’s life, he releases King to go back to Peshawar.

In return for his story about the deaths of the British soldiers, and his report on what he learned of Karram Khan, General Maitland has King confined to his quarters under arrest. King learns that all of the women left that morning. Mr. Heath informs him that Susan said she would write to King, and that she still feels the same way. That’s when a rider gallops in with a message for Maitland about uprisings across the frontier. He needs everyone, even King. Apparently things are almost as out of control as the fans at a European soccer match.

King is to lead his Rifles to attack Khan. Plot complication: a rumor has spread among the Rifles that the paper cartridges have been greased with pig fat; it would be a violation of their religion to bite the paper cartridges to load them into the Enfield rifles. (Besides, they were promised hot and spicy flavored cartridges). King addresses the Rifles. He appears to have convinced them. They follow him out for the attack under cover of darkness.

When it comes time to ditch the horses and to climb the mountains, the Khyber Rifles refuse to load the Enfields. But they still want to follow King. They’ll fight with steel. They climb the mountains to come to the rear of Khan’s camp.

They leap into the camp with their Kukri’s ready.  They have literally brought knives to a gunfight. King has landed in Khan’s tent. They strive against each other in a fairly inept display of hand-to-hand combat. They struggle for the pistol. They struggle for the knife. Khan puts his right hand in; King pulls that right hand out. They do the hokey pokey and shake themselves about. Khan comes up with the Kukri (which sounds like some fun party game--or the conclusion of Kukri, Kukri, Whose Got The Kukri).

Things look bad for King…until Khan discovers that a second Kukri has entered the game. The one-eyed Ahmed has noticed the itch the Khan can’t scratch, and scratches it for him by flinging a knife into Khan’s back. King and the Khyber Rifles are victorious.

The weary and wounded victors return to the garrison. Later, the Rifles, and King, look sharp under the eyes of Susan and the general. That’s it. It's over. Does the general let his daughter marry King? Does anyone care? Not really.

There just isn’t much Tyrone Power can do to save this movie. Michael Rennie as the general is impressive, but his part isn’t significant enough to lift the fun factor for this show out of the basement. The script eliminates the mystical quality of Talbot Mundy’s work, and replaces it with a story not only devoid of charm, romance, suspense, and intrigue, but also lacking interesting characters, well-staged action, or memorable imagery—and those are the redeeming characteristics. It’s also dull—or is it all so dull? Both are correct. Why did I keep watching? I was familiar with the Talbot Mundy story, having read it last year; I kept hoping that it would get better. I hoped to see the mysterious “She,” and to see King go completely Afridi, and more, much, much more.

***

As promised above it's Vidangel Versus: Two shows that I wouldn't normally watch except for the magic of Vidangel in letting me filter out all the junk that I don't want to see or hear. This week it's:

3:10 to Yuma (cowboys) vs. Wind River (Indians)

If you enjoyed the 1957 3:10 to Yuma with Glenn Ford and Van Heflin, you'll probably be disappointed in this Russel Crow and Christian Bale remake. I know that I was. If you get the chance to watch it...don't. That's really all I have to say about it.

Wind River, on the other hand, is a terrific movie (at least the filtered version). First, the complaint: not enough Julia Jones, or most of the other Native American characters. The main characters are actually the Fish and Wildlife predator exterminator (Julia Jones character's ex-husband), and the FBI girl (she looks like she might be 17 years old) sent to do the preliminary investigation on the death of a young girl on the reservation. The film is both emotionally and intellectually stimulating. Of the 2017 movies that I've seen, this was definitely the best. It was good enough that I had to watch it twice.

Wind River easily wins this contest.