Spectacular Villains

 Before I get to the discussion of great villains, let me shout out that I've completed Book 6 in the Tomahawks and Dragon Fire Series. By "completed" I mean that I finished the first draft--it only took me six months longer than it should have. I still have editing and proofing to do. I've sent the last five chapters out to my Skirmish Team for their comments, corrections, and suggestions. That reminds me that a gentleman caught me today to report that he is reading Book 4, Promise of Carnage and Flame, and enjoying the unexpected twists and turns of the story.

One thing that reminded me of great villains was the fact that PinUp Noir 2, which features my short story "Monica on My Mind," is available in ebook and paperback. The stories feature knockout blonde bombshells in a variety of settings. Many of those dames in the stories are bad--very bad. You know who else was a blonde bombshell villain? Milady de Winter from Dumas' The Three Musketeers (one of my favorite books). Anyway, I'll have a short discussion about her in my newsletter. 

The villain I want to ramble about here is Richard III from Shakespeare's play of that name. I recently read the play and am watching the second part of The Hollow Crown series in bits and pieces in which Benedict Cumberbatch plays "the lump of foul deformity."

"Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York;"

The play opens with Richard giving us the facts, and telling us right away what to expect from him. He's completely candid about his plans and his character. He means to be king and has no qualms about using messy means to get there. Anyone who stands in his way is expendable.

His first plot is to set his brothers at odds. Clarence stands between him and the throne, which is occupied by his other brother King Edward IV. They'll both have to go so that he can take the coveted chair and crown.

"And therefore,—since I cannot prove a lover, To entertain these fair well-spoken days,— I am determined to prove a villain, And hate the idle pleasures of these days. Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous, By drunken prophecies, libels, and dreams, To set my brother Clarence and the king In deadly hate the one against the other:"

With Clarence dead (or soon to be) by the King's command--and Richard delaying the countermanding order until the deed of death is done by his hired assassins--he needs a marriage that will solidify his position. He woos Lady Anne, the daughter-in-law of King Henry VI--killed by Richard. He also killed her husband.

"For then I'll marry Warwick's youngest daughter: What though I kill'd her husband and her father? The readiest way to make the wench amends Is to become her husband and her father:"

He approaches her at the funeral process for Henry VI--and let's us know it won't be a match of lasting duration.

"Was ever woman in this humour woo'd? Was ever woman in this humour won? I'll have her; but I will not keep her long"

He replies to her insults: "Teach not thy lip such scorn; for it was made For kissing, lady, not for such contempt." 

Claims that it was her beauty and his desire to espouse her that caused his part in the death of her family.

The woman falls for his fake charm and espouses him.

King Edward falls ill and dies, and Richard becomes Lord Protector to govern for the young Edward V. His two minions in evil are Hastings and Buckingham who get the people Mayor of London and the people to proclaim Richard king. Richard has the young princes, his nephews, confined in the tower. When Hastings balks at killing the princes, Richard orders Hasting's execution, and arranges the murder of the princes.

"I do the wrong, and first begin to brawl. The secret mischiefs that I set abroach I lay unto the grievous charge of others."

"And thus I clothe my naked villany With odd old ends stol'n forth of holy writ; And seem a saint when most I play the devil."

Play the devil he does. When Buckingham raises questions about the death of princes, Richard denies him a promised earldom. Buckingham flees to raise an army against Richard but is eventually captured and executed.

With Edward IV dead, Richard needs that brother's daughter Elizabeth for his wife to cement his position as king. Richard, being the problem solver that he is, doesn't let the fact that he already has a wife keep him from realizing his dreams. He has Anne killed and woos Elizabeth--who willingly marries him, even though she has been warned against him.

Does Richard have any kind of conscience? He answers that question with honesty:

"I'll not meddle with it,—it makes a man coward; a man cannot steal, but it accuseth him; a man cannot swear, but it checks him; a man cannot lie with his neighbour's wife, but it detects him: 'tis a blushing shame-faced spirit that mutinies in a man's bosom; it fills a man full of obstacles: it made me once restore a purse of gold that by chance I found; it beggars any man that keeps it: it is turned out of towns and cities for a dangerous thing; and every man that means to live well endeavours to trust to himself and live without it."

I've probably missed some of his murders and may have put some of them out of order, but you get the idea. Richard is a villain and a charmer. He plays the saint while being the devil. He kills husbands and fathers and then marries the widowed wives and daughters. He even executes his henchmen for cringing at the depth of his evil. He means to do evil and plainly tells the audience so. A more honest villain would be hard to find. Like all good villains, he never repents and goes down fighting, possessed by his evil nature.

 

Hamlet - A Study in Poison

 First, if you want some Memorial Day thoughts, you might enjoy this post about my visit to the American Memorial in Normandy.

 

 I recently did a re-watch of the 4 hour opus that is Branagh's interpretation of Shakespeare's Hamlet. Kenneth Branagh stars as the titular character. I believe there was some discussion about his wanting to be or not to be the lead but he finally elected to suffer the slings and arrows of the outrageous role. Brian Blessed plays Hamlet's dad. Julie Christie plays his mum, and Derek Jacobi is the murdering uncle/stepfather. Kate Winslet plays my least favorite character: Ophelia. Richard Briers takes the role of Polonius. Billy Crystal, Robin Williams, Judi Dench, Gerard Depardieu, Jack Lemon, and the magnificent Charlton Heston also appear. 

You would think that a film with such a fantastic cast would be absolutely fabulous. You would be right. It is. I would rather watch even an hour of this masterpiece than any other adaptation I've seen--except maybe Strange Brew. I doubt there will ever be a sillier yet entertaining version than Strange Brew.

I'm no edumacated critic or expert on all things Shakespeare, but I did notice a few things about Hamlet this time as I watched it over four or five sessions of thirty minutes to an hour each--over a period of a few weeks. I was struck by the poison theme in the play.

Hamlet's father is slain by poison poured into his ear--sort of like what the news media has been doing to the country for the last several years. (That was uncalled for. This isn't a political piece, but when I see a connection, sometimes it just slips out). The entire kingdom is poisoned. The king's ghost tells Hamlet of his murder--thus infecting the youth's mind against his mother and stepfather with the toxin of revenge. Hamlet goes on to poison Ophelia's well-being by mistakenly killing her father, sending her mixed messages about his love for her, and finally rejecting her. 

 As you might expect, she takes it all rather badly and eventually drowns her sorrows along with herself. 

As a result of two family members meeting their demise, and Prince Hamlet being the obvious common denominator, her brother Laertes has his heart poisoned against Hamlet. 

Claudius seizes the opportunity to continue poisoning Laertes against Hamlet and encourages him to slay Hamlet with--you guessed it--poison. Claudius arranges a fencing match between Laertes and Claudius. During the course of the match, Laertes has his sword tipped with poison. Not one to leave a good murder to chance, Claudius also prepares a poison pellet in the chalice from the palace (or maybe it's the flagon with the dragon--it wasn't stated, but I know it wasn't the vessel with the pestle) which he proposes as a congratulatory refreshment for Hamlet after scoring a touch against Laertes. Hamlet succeeds in scoring on Laertes, but puts off his quaff from the toxic tankard. Instead, his mother Queen Gertrude guzzles from the brew that is cruel. The fencing match goes full Outback (i.e., no rules) and Hamlet takes a wound from Laertes' poisoned blade. He disarms Laertes and, in returning the blade to Laertes, switches swords with his enemy. Shortly thereafter, Hamlet, being a gifted artist, draws blood on Laertes. Gertrude dies, Laertes dies, confessing his treachery and Claudius' subterfuge before he expires. Hamlet

 hurls the poisoned blade through Claudius' back and pours the last of the poisoned wine into Claudius's mouth, inserting curses and invective into Claudius' ears all the while. The murderous uncle thus receives all he gave, reaping that which he sowed. Hamlet finally stops talking and succumbs to the poison wound.

Unfortunately for the kingdom, one who has not been poisoned, Fortinbras, 

 completes his sneak attack invasion of the nation and the palace as the remnants of the royal family enjoy their final repose on the palace parquet.

I must say, it was a terrific conclusion with the sword fight and folks dropping dead of poison. I highly recommend it; five stars given, but I suggest you refrain from any offered refreshments.

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury
Signifying nothing.

Those words are Shakespeare's coming from the mouth of MacBeth. I purloined a few of those words to create something upon the same sad subject but slathered with hope rather than steeped in MacBeth's bitter despair. The occasion in my case was the passing of a close cousin.

Here's my version:

We watched in pain as all his tomorrows slowly faded into yesterdays.
The petty pace of day to day pressed him ever down the wandering path from the womb toward the clay.
His candle now burns elsewhere for his hour has played out upon this stage.
His syllables of sound and fury, reason, lecture, and love come no more to our listening ear.
Yet there is significance in his tale for each of us to discern for the shadows of his candle continue to flicker here.
No man remains an island when family and friends gather round him.
We bid him adieu at that bridge betwixt here and wide eternity, promising to meet there once again.
There the hosts are gathered of family and friends gone on to welcome him home across the bridge.

***

I think it's fitting to move on to the book I've been promising to review. My cousin would approve.

I first remember reading this book in high school. I think I had read it during junior high but didn't really remember it--perhaps I hadn't finished it. I know that I had read Tom Sawyer, but Huckleberry Finn is a much deeper, more substantial work than Tom Sawyer. When I read HF again in college, the professor referred to TS as "a boy's book," a basic adventure story for boys. HF is not only a boy's adventure, its a fascinating look at the life and culture along the Mississippi. It is an indictment of slavery, racism, and prejudice of several kinds. Twain's frequent stabs at religion are also very entertaining.

Huck Finn may be among the most interesting characters ever created in American literature. He has common sense but is burdened--even crippled--by superstition, as well as a conscience so tangled in the culture of slavery and the petty, prickly points of misunderstood religious teachings that he constantly struggles with what he feels is right versus what the culture has told him he must believe is right. The clear winner as the best, kindest, most sympathetic person depicted in the book is Jim.

It has been a few weeks since I finished the book so I don't remember all of my observations. I'm certain there are many learned dissertations upon the symbolism, meaning, and significance of the various characters and events. I'll steer my raft clear of that treacherous current. 

Two interesting, funny, and ultimately repugnant characters are the Duke and the Dauphin. Below is Huck's recounting of Hamlet's soliloquy as given by the Duke:

He told us to give attention. Then he strikes a most noble attitude, with one leg shoved forwards, and his arms stretched away up, and his head tilted back, looking up at the sky; and then he begins to rip and rave and grit his teeth; and after that, all through his speech, he howled, and spread around, and swelled up his chest, and just knocked the spots out of any acting ever I see before. This is the speech — I learned it, easy enough, while he was learning it to the king:

"To be, or not to be; that is the bare bodkin That makes calamity of so long life; For who would fardels bear, till Birnam Wood do come to Dunsinane, But that the fear of something after death Murders the innocent sleep, Great nature’s second course, And makes us rather sling the arrows of outrageous fortune Than fly to others that we know not of. There’s the respect must give us pause: Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou couldst; For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely, The law’s delay, and the quietus which his pangs might take, In the dead waste and middle of the night, when churchyards yawn In customary suits of solemn black, But that the undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveler returns, Breathes forth contagion on the world, And thus the native hue of resolution, like the poor cat i’ the adage, Is sicklied o’er with care, And all the clouds that lowered o’er our housetops, With this regard their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action. ’Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished. But soft you, the fair Ophelia: Ope not thy ponderous and marble jaws, But get thee to a nunnery — go!"

Well, the old man he liked that speech, and he mighty soon got it so he could do it first-rate. It seemed like he was just born for it; and when he had his hand in and was excited, it was perfectly lovely the way he would rip and tear and rair up behind when he was getting it off.

It is certainly some entertaining Shakespearean goulash. HF is one of the few books that has actually made me laugh out loud. There is a change of tone in the novel once Jim has been sold out by the pair mentioned above and Tom Sawyer arrives. Huck's recounting of Tom and Huck's rescue of Jim from slavery may be some of the funniest chapters ever written in the English language. That part almost goes on too long, but is so hilarious that I must forgive Twain for his indulgence. 

It was during the production of the recent play that I was finishing my reading of the book, reading between acts of the play. Much to the consternation of a couple of my fellow actors, I burst out laughing. Tom and Huck are attempting to free Jim who has been confined in a shed and chained to the bed. A metal ring attaches Jim's chain to the bed leg. The bed can easily be lifted and the ring removed from the bed leg, but Tom has to make a grand production of the rescue to match the difficulties depicted in novels. Naturally, Huck doesn't see the sense in complicating the matter. I had to laugh aloud when I read this:

"...I wish there was a moat to this cabin. If we get time, the night of the escape, we’ll dig one.” 
I says: 
“What do we want of a moat when we’re going to snake him out from under the cabin?” 
But he never heard me. He had forgot me and everything else. He had his chin in his hand, thinking. Pretty soon he sighs and shakes his head; then sighs again, and says: 
“No, it wouldn’t do — there ain’t necessity enough for it.” 
“For what?” I says. 
“Why, to saw Jim’s leg off,” he says. 
“Good land!” I says; “why, there ain’t NO necessity for it. And what would you want to saw his leg off for, anyway?”
“Well, some of the best authorities has done it. They couldn’t get the chain off, so they just cut their hand off and shoved. And a leg would be better still. But we got to let that go. There ain’t necessity enough in this case; and, besides, Jim’s a nigger, and wouldn’t understand the reasons for it, and how it’s the custom in Europe; so we’ll let it go. But there’s one thing — he can have a rope ladder; we can tear up our sheets and make him a rope ladder easy enough. And we can send it to him in a pie; it’s mostly done that way. And I’ve et worse pies.”


 The sawing Jim's leg off bit made me laugh aloud; "I've et worse pies" nearly made me pass out.

The part about "lettin' on" to be doing something one way for dramatic effect while actually doing it an easier way was the icing on the comedy cake. 

I rate this book as The Great American Novel. Everyone should read this book several times during their lifetime. Anyone who wants to ban this book utterly misses the meaning of the work.

***
In my own writing, chapter 3 of Book 3 is coming along nicely. I think more dragon (as opposed to cowbell) may be the answer to one of my plotting dilemmas. Book 3 will be dedicated to the cousin mentioned above.

These are the first two books in the series. Get them now by clicking the links at the upper left of the blog.

The trickling began this week.

Words. Those malleable bricks composed of variations of 26 unique elements representing sounds manifested in the English language which itself is spoken with such extraordinary differences around the globe that it's not one language but several. But I digress. And I will do it again, if I please. I do. The digression continues. We place various combinations of letters into words--and then we don't even pronounce some of the letters; or we pronounce them differently even though they are arranged in precisely the same way. What a language! What a rich history! Back to my point, if I had one. I did. I shall begin again taking up after the trickling thought.

Words. Those malleable bricks composed of variations of 26 unique elements representing sounds in the English language began a procession into my newest book this week. Like camels, horses, pilgrims, slaves, and taskmasters with tents and rugs and provisions all bound in colorful rugs and cloths with bright silken ends slithering fluttering upon the breeze, the caravan began its march across the dry, barren expanse of empty pages. I should actually describe this caravan as one consisting of soldiers adorned in bright uniforms; natives with colorful accents upon bronze skin, dark hair, and leather clothing; sailing ships with broad sails stretched above the blue, frost-capped waves; gryphons (or griffins, if you prefer) banking against the azure sky; and feather-winged dragons painting the night sky and landscape with the intense red-orange flame of agony and destruction. Such is the caravan that is trickling its way onto my screen, leaving footprints, tail-drags, hoof-marks, feathery traces, bayonet stabs, tomahawk chops, bloodstains, and ashes in the shapes of those 26 little elements that will unite into tiny word squads, equip themselves with punctuation and rally into regimental sentences, divisional paragraphs, and chapter corps in conquest of the empty space. En avant!

So what I mean to say with this surplusage of verbiage is that book three in the Tomahawks and Dragon Fire series has begun. I'm not holding myself to the thousand words per day standard until I've resolved a few things about how this part of the story is going to get to the end that I've planned. The first book started in short spurts, written five minutes at a time before the full mustering of the might of the keyboard. This one may do so as well.

Just now the muse looks at me like this:

...uncertain whether to give me the secret of the pages balanced upon her knee, to first use the sharp blade in her hand to take an eye as the price of her gift, or merely to open one of my veins so that I'll have ink to match her gown. We shall see how it goes. Maybe it will be a choice between Odin and Van Gogh.

The most pressing matter for you, Dear Reader, is to obtain post haste and to read the prior two books in the series (as well as all of my other books) so that you will be prepared to receive the turbulence, wrath, and promise to be delivered in book 3.

Having started with a ramble upon some minor points of the English language, it's only fitting that I should end with something from Shakespeare. These are both from King Henry VI First Part Act I:

"What! Shall we curse the planets of mishap that plotted thus our glory's overthrow?

Or shall we think the subtle-witted French conjurers and sorcerers, that, afraid of him, By magic verses have contriv'd his end?"

"Hark, countrymen! Either renew the fight or tear the lions out of England's coat; renounce your soil, give sheep in lion's stead."

I was looking at these to snip some words to use as the title of book 3. Can you guess which words I consider from each quote?

In preparation for a future viewing of The Forbidden Planet, I decided to re-read Shakespeare's play upon which the film was loosely based.

"Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren ground..."

"Good wombs have born bad sons."

The two quotes above come from The Tempest; they illustrate a part of my view of the play. They also underscore one of the problems with magic in literature.

The Tempest, according to Wikipedia and others, was the bard's final play that he wrote on his own. The play relies heavily on magic and fantastical elements. Prospero has been exiled to a small island by his brother Antonio who has usurped his station as Duke of Milan. During his twelve years on the island, Prospero has mastered the art of sorcery which allows him to control Ariel and other spirits. By magical means he conjures a storm which casts his brother; Alonso, the King of Naples; and Alonso's son Ferdinand, along with some others upon the island. Through his sorcery, Prospero separates the group so that Prospero and his daughter Miranda can find Ferdinand. Romance between Miranda and Ferdinand blooms rapidly and without any interesting hindrance.

Meanwhile the rest of the castaways are gathered. Caliban, a wicked and savage monster whom Prospero has mastered, plots with some of the castaways to kill Prospero; he desires Miranda for himself to populate the island with his offspring. There is also plotting among some of them to slay Alonso the king. Ariel tells Prospero of these plans. Prospero puts Miranda and Ferdinand through a sort of betrothal ceremony which emphasizes the requirement for chastity before the marriage lest it be cursed: "Look thou be true: do not give dalliance too much the rein; the strongest oaths are straw to the fire i' the blood."

Prospero has Ariel thwart the plots against him and Alonso. Alonso consents to the marriage of Ferdinand and Miranda. The plotters run away. The ship has not been wrecked and the castaways may leave the island. The play closes with Prospero putting away magic, promising to throw his sorcerer's books into the sea.

After reading the digital version of the play, I had to check it against my paper copy in my large volume of Shakespeare's works. I couldn't believe that there wasn't more to the story--there wasn't. This may have been the bard's swansong, his final bow with Prospero representing him as he retired from the stage (that idea make more sense to me than the ridiculous theories that the play is meant as a commentary on European colonialism), but the play is not his best work.

The fatal flaw in The Tempest is the lack of conflict that cannot be solved with magic. The magic does everything; it brings the boat and passengers ashore and conveniently separates them for Prospero's purposes; it even informs Prospero of the conspiracies and ruins those plans. Prospero has merely to look on and direct Ariel to do his bidding. The romance between Miranda and Ferdinand could have been beyond the control of the sorcery but it proceeded without obstacle. Shakespeare pitched himself a big fat fast ball. He could have concocted a thrilling tale of a near triple play or a breathless run and slide for home plate by means of some romantic complications, which he wrote so well in so many other works, but instead simply had the batter hit a home run with the bases loaded and never allowed the other team to score. The magic in this play destroyed the magic of the mystery and conflict which should have been present in the story.

"There be some sports are painful, and their labour delight in them sets off: some kinds of baseness are nobly undergone and most poor matters point to rich ends."

Regardless of how rich the end was in this play, what might have been a treasure of delight for me was as that thousand furlongs of sea. I would have traded it for some small grounds, some conflict, some excitement. Although it did spring from a good womb, it was a bad son. Such is the weakness of magic in literature--whether that literature be as venerated as Shakespeare or something more contemporary. I've seen a video in which Brandon Sanderson says something like, "The weaknesses in the magic system are more interesting that its strengths." (I think this is the video). If I understand him correctly, the problems that the magic cannot solve are what makes a story interesting; how characters get around those weaknesses to solve the problems and overcome the opposition deliver the delight we seek; the rest is mere setting and build up.

***

Now that I've presumed to criticize Shakespeare and to explain what Brandon Sanderson means in one of his own lectures (color me unabashed), I can say that I had a nice week in writing. Power to Hurt has passed the 65K word mark. The more I write, the more I realize that my 80K word target is probably a good ten thousand words short of what it will actually take to get the story to end that I have planned for the book. It will be a little longer than Threading the Rude Eye, the first book in the series, but it will also be more exciting in my opinion. If it takes me an additional ten or twenty thousand words to make that happen, I accept the challenge and savor the taste to the very end. Indeed, I might say as Prospero, "Now does my project gather to a head; my charms crack not; my spirits obey; and time goes upright with his carriage." Seriously, some of these scenes have been in my head since the start; it's a pleasure to finally write them.

***

Here are a few left over quotes from The Tempest:

"And all the more it seeks to hide itself, the bigger bulk it shows."

"He that dies pays all debts."

"...the rarer action is in virtue than in vengeance..."

"How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world, that has such people in't!"

"Let us not burthen our remembrance with a heaviness that's gone."

"The youth gets together his materials to build a bridge to the moon, or perchance a palace or temple on the earth, and at length the middle-aged man concludes to build a wood-shed with them."
--Thoreau

I'm still dreaming of passageways to the moon and neglecting the wood-shed--and other things. I blame my parents, or my wife, or my kids; someone or something somewhere has had a bad influence on me. I would hate to think that I'm responsible for my own lack of success. Most people rant about wanting what they deserve. That's the last thing I want; I'd rather have something good.

***

Fishing this week--not with the musketeer, but with a couple of the musketeers. The fishing wasn't great--I only caught one good-sized bass--but it beat a day at the office.

***

On the other hand (as if that fishing thing only took one hand), the fishing and other matters, including but not limited to the weekly tour of duty on the Craftsman warmachine, a day spent in waging chemical warfare against a number of undesirables lurking within and without the curtilage of the demesne, and the actual job that provides sustenance for the family, all combined to distract me from writing on Power to Hurt. Oh, I did write; the sum total of the words written fell short of my goal. The current word count is at 22K and change--so still in the 25% complete region.

**

During my workouts on the M5 (or Daystrom's Delight as I think I shall call it from now on), I usually watch something on vidangel to beguile away the passage of those sweaty minutes. Over the course of a week or so, I watched The Hateful Eight. The film is a western. The high points of the movie are Kurt Russell and Bruce Dern. That's it. There's nothing else to say. Of course I will say more. If not for vidangel, the movie would have been unwatchable in my opinion. There is one other good thing that I could say about it: It reminded me of two better stories. I did see shadows of Ambrose Bierce's Stephen Crane's short story, The Blue Hotel, in the setup. One of Shakespeare's darker plays also came to mind: Titus Andronicus.

The smoldering resentment between those who fought on opposite sides in the Civil War has long seasoned American westerns with a strong, smooth flavor like that of smoked chili peppers. Bounty hunters and badmen upon not so distant points of the spectrum of justice have often provided the meat for the western meal. H8ful 8 uses that meat and seasons it heavily, unpalatably so. If you're not familiar with Titus Andronicus, you should read it--at least find the summary online and read that. I think it's Shakespeare's most violent, bloodiest, and gruesome play. H8ful 8 falls into the same category but lacks the charm (and the survivors) of either of the two works that it brought to mind.

Here are a couple quotes from Titus Andronicus from goodreads that give an idea of its general bent -- and yet fail to capture the awful, horrrible, acts of the play.

“Vengeance is in my heart, death in my hand, Blood and revenge are hammering in my head” 


“LUCIUS. Art thou not sorry for these heinous deeds?

AARON. Ay, that I had not done a thousand more.
Even now I curse the day- and yet, I think,
Few come within the compass of my curse-
Wherein I did not some notorious ill;
As kill a man, or else devise his death;
Ravish a maid, or plot the way to do it;
Accuse some innocent, and forswear myself;
Set deadly enmity between two friends;
Make poor men's cattle break their necks;
Set fire on barns and hay-stacks in the night,
And bid the owners quench them with their tears.
Oft have I digg'd up dead men from their graves,
And set them upright at their dear friends' door
Even when their sorrows almost was forgot,
And on their skins, as on the bark of trees,
Have with my knife carved in Roman letters
'Let not your sorrow die, though I am dead.'
Tut, I have done a thousand dreadful things
As willingly as one would kill a fly;
And nothing grieves me heartily indeed
But that I cannot do ten thousand more.”

Before I get to Solo: A Star Wars Story

Speaking of enterprises of great pith and moment (and that's not meant to be a Star Trek reference), I've hit the 60K word mark on the novel in progress. I still haven't decided upon a title that I like for it. Please feel free to send suggestions for the title of a best selling flintlock fantasy novel to be published this year. I could tell you something about it but that would inhibit your imaginative title suggestions.

I've found that writing dialogue is how I discover my characters. The characters ask questions that I had not previously considered. Answering those questions helps develop depth and motivation. Action scenes are fun to write, but conversation is the fertile soil in which the seed of character is best sown.

***

Aside from the writing, which went extremely well, the week included a game with these figures from Bronze Age Miniatures and the musketeer figures that I've posted earlier. It was Barsoom meets the musketeers. Once again using the ...And All for One rules mentioned before for a simple game that several boys could quickly learn for a fun evening.

They never got tired of trying to kill each other and take off with the loot.

I alluded to a review of Solo: A Star Wars Story. I'll be brief--or not; I'm just rambling here.

 Color me simply disappointed. I thought it not a bad show, better than Last Jedi. When I see a Star Wars film I'm thinking about rewatchability. I'm always asking myself if I'll want to watch this film again. Of the new films, only The Force Awakens has a measurable rewatchability factor for me. As for Solo, I thought Firefly did the train robbery better. Apart from the characters there were elements that recalled scenes from the original New Hope, Empire, and Jedi trilogy that I appreciated. I was glad that Ron Howard paid homage to the three great movies onto which the rest of the mediocre films of the franchise have been scabbed.

For both people who have not seen this film yet: Beware, spoilers follow.

As for the acting, I found the new actors playing the roles of the old heroes entirely believable; I liked them. The special effects obviously soaked up a lot of the budget. The music only reached memorable heights when it went back to the original theme. The story seemed sloppy and unlikely. If I remember correctly, bad guy Dryden never had a pistol. I think the bad guy should have more than a glorified knife for self defense. I was pleased to see Clint Howard with a cameo. Lando's lover-like remorse at the loss of L-3 struck me as a rather ridiculous, but I hate cat videos and space octupi as well so maybe I'm wrong--but I'm not. The security on Kessel, a planet with mines producing extremely valuable fuel mined by slave labor, reached a nadir even lower than that on Endor for the protection of the death star in Jedi. At least there were no Ewoks. Finally, who was surprised when the big bad Cloud Rider took off the helmet to reveal a woman? No one.

I am enjoying viewing via Vidangel The Last Kingdom series. I finished the last episode of season one this week. There were many annoying points in getting to this season finale, including, but not limited to, Uhtred losing his head and doing stupid things in anger so that Alfred can react by imposing a ridiculous punishment--such as having the only two competent commanders in his army fight to the death. Fortunately, an attack by the Danes upon Winchester prevented the completion of the punishment and both Uhtred and Leofric survived to become key players in Alfred''s defeat of the armies of Skorpa and Guthrum.

I read Bernard Cornwell's book of the same title upon which the series is based several years ago. It's a whole series of books but I only remember reading the first book. I was reading it at the public library during my lunch break. We moved away, and I can't remember if I got to finish it or not. I would like to read the series, albeit more cheaply than what I see for the book or ebook prices. Others have already written at length about the series--and I haven't checked to see what they say. I'm only addressing the final episode of the first season because it struck the perfect chord.

The picture below is from the culminating battle. It represents that perfect chord, the most satisfying moment of the first season when Alfred and his Saxons triumph after his return from the marshes. I note the second most satisfying moment of the season was earlier in the same episode when that sack of rancid gall known as Odda the Younger finally found peace through steel; his own father had to let the air out of him with a fatal thrust to shut the traitorous coward's mouth.

The journey to the season finale was frustrating and laborious, but Alfred's triumph with Uhtred's crucial assistance cleared away all those frustrations. The previous long struggle, the loss of the capital, the disappearance of Alfred to the marshes, and his quiet return to call the English (or the men of Wessex) to arms at Egbert's Stones proved to be very inspirational, blending all the strands into the perfect concluding chord. I wondered if Tolkien had based Aragorn's rallying of the Army of the Dead upon Alfred's gathering. The triumph of Alfred and the army provides the emotional payoff for the season--superbly rendered. It was a bit of a Henry V moment: "If we are marked to die, we are enow to do our country loss; and if to live, the greater share of honor."

In other news, my primary proofreader has returned the draft of Justice Resurgent with her notes and corrections. She is always very helpful. She had good things to say, and admitted that she cried when--well, obviously I can't tell you or it will ruin impact. So the sequel to my first book is nearing publication.

The new novel has moved along rather well this week. A lengthy third chapter brings together the strands from the first two chapters and sets up the course of the adventure. I think a reader should have some idea of where the story plans to go by the end of the third chapter. I found that having outlined the novel in general, I can now outline each chapter in more detail before writing it and the writing then goes much more quickly. Chapter four is outlined and underway. The direction is to Boston Harbor--hence the picture above. The main characters is this story are unlikely to say a line from Henry V that amuses me: "...but I will sell my dukedom to buy a slobbery and dirty farm in that nook-shotten isle of Albion."

Before the irregularly scheduled episode of Combat!, a few words from a book I'm reading. Just because I may not agree with the statement, doesn't mean that I don't find it humorous.

L'âge, incapable d'embellir, efface du moins les différences excessives qui séparent la beauté de la laideur. À cinquante ans, ce qui reste d'une femme laide est bien près de ressembler à ce qui reste d'une jolie femme. – Le Loup Blanc. Paul Feval.

Combat!

Season 1 Episode 10: ”I Swear by Apollo”

The wind is blowing fiercely. The squad is headed into some trees. They come (like children through a wardrobe) past the shaggy limbs of a coniferous tree. They escort a Frenchman who is carrying a roll of papers. He’s obviously NPC number one. Saunders tells them that they’ll go in single file, staying in his footsteps, as the area may be mined. They spot some cloister nuns from a nearby convent working in a cemetery. Is it an omen? Saunders says their job is to get the Frenchman back. They move out. Meanwhile, a wagon comes to pick up the working nuns. The Frenchman drops his papers. The wind takes them. He and another soldier, Temple, begin gathering the papers which are being carried along the ground by the wind. A mine explodes about 6 feet from the Frenchman doing d6+2 damage to everyone within a ten foot radius. Everyone goes down. The nuns look over before turning back to their business. Roll the opening credits.

Gunnar Hellstrom is the guest star. The episode is written by Gene Levitt, and directed by Robert Altman.

The report is that the Frenchman is still alive, but the soldier is down and the medic shakes his head. I guess we don’t expect him to survive. 

There’s a nice title shot superimposed over the nuns and a cross in the cemetery. Doc tells Saunders that the Frenchman has shrapnel in his back. The soldier, on the other hand, needs a miracle. I think we’re going to the convent for a miracle and a splash of the religious imagery we see much of in Altman’s episodes. Sure enough, Saunders says they’ll follow the nuns to the convent.

There it is.

And it looks like they’ve caught the nuns getting ready for a game of marbles, or craps…or they could be praying or something.

Saunders and Caje in succession attempt to interrupt the nuns with pleas for aid. Both fail their diplomacy rolls. The nuns refuse to be interrupted in the middle of their craps game duties. Saunders wants to leave Temple with Doc at the convent and leave with the Frenchman. Doc says the Frenchman can’t be moved; he needs a surgeon. Saunders gets Hanley on the radio. Hanley says it’ll be an hour before he can get there with a surgeon.

The Mother Superior agrees to allow them to stay at the convent to wait for help.

Hanley gets a surgeon. We learn that the Frenchman was a surveyor for over 30 years. They leave to begin the rescue. Cut to this shot (which may be my new profile pic):

A nun (all of the nun faces remain in shadow from the dark cowls of their habits—like the Law Givers in Return of the Archons) picks up the skull and candle. She mentions neither Yorick nor her enemies and a drink. Kirby wonders if she’s taking a walk with an old friend. Caje says the nuns meditate over the skull. (Those nuns really know how to have a good time). Saunders has the Frenchman’s papers, but they’re of no use unless the Frenchman remains alive to decipher them.

Meanwhile, Hanley and the surgical crew are on their way. However, the surgeon (NPC number 2) seems winded and slow; he’s dragging his medical bag. Is it going to catch a mine? Apparently he makes his saving throw; he moves the bag to his shoulder, refusing to stop and rest.

Sister Mary Sebastien is presented to the squad. She was a nurse, and understands English. She will be allowed to help with the patients. They can’t see her face, and she won’t speak because of her vow of silence. Doc says there’s nothing for her to do until the surgeon arrives. She leaves. Kirby finds it all “spooky”—I agree.

Back with Hanley and the much awaited surgeon, they find Germans. After the German vehicles pass, Hanley calls to Littlejohn to send the doc across the road. He barely gets across before a German tank barrels past. Hanley tells the doc that’s why they need the surveyor; he can tell them every route capable of carrying tanks. Hanley sends the doc ahead, warning him about the open area that might be mined. The doc refuses to take Hanley’s carbine; he already has enough to carry. Hanley and the men stay to count the passing tanks.

Plot complication! When Hanley and friends have counted the tanks and go to catch up to the doc, they don’t have far to go. They find him sitting against a tree, dead from an apparent heart attack--he must not have been the guest star. What kind of DM sends an NPC whose only purpose is to expire without even soaking up some hps of damage? The players are going to be complaining about that move.

When Hanley arrives at the convent, Saunders wonders where the surgeon is. At first Hanley doesn’t answer. When Saunders persists, Hanley, in his best matter-of-fact tone, tells him the surgeon is waiting at the edge of a clearing waiting for a burial detail, dead. Hanley wants battalion on the radio. He wants some direction and needs to report about the tanks he counted. The Frenchman says he has important info and needs to speak with an intelligence officer.

Saunders suggests getting a French doctor. Unfortunately, the nearby town is lousy with Germans. Littlejohn reports that battalion says that they’re on their own. It will be a couple days before battalion can get a doctor to them. The Mother Superior tells them that there used to be a doctor in the town. Come nightfall, Saunders and Hanley will go try to find a doc in town.

The two heroes sneak into town. From amidst the German tanks they seize a local on a bicycle. With the sort of diplomacy that falls beyond the margins of the Geneva Convention, he has Caje tell the man to inform them where the doctor might be found, if he would be so kind, and that if the man screams, Saunders will break his neck. Weighing his limited options, the local answers the questions put to him. Tiring of Saunders’ embrace, he agrees to lead them to the destination.

Saunders and Caje follow the Frenchman. Once at the destination, Saunders, being all out of roses and carnations, has Caje give the Frenchmen their thanks by telling him that if he says anything, “We’ll hunt him down and kill him.” The Frenchman leaves without insisting on flowers or chocolates. They look through the hospital window and see a man in pale coat. They enter and take the doctor by surprise.

But he is the one who surprises them, removing his coat to reveal a German uniform.

Perhaps he’s the guest star. He must be. He exudes that haughty arrogance that I’ve come to expect of the guest stars playing German officers.

Saunders, nevertheless, still sees the answer to his problem in this guy, who is in fact a doctor—not Doctor Who, but a doctor nonetheless—sans the Time Lord certification. They take him. Back at the convent, the wounded Frenchman babbles again about important information for someone in intelligence. The German doc asks what he has said. Saunders is suspicious; he wants to test the German doc’s French comprehension. Caje asks him in French if it’s serious. The doc replies in French, and realizes that he has been discovered.

The German doc tries to stall, even doing a blood transfusion on Temple. He has excuses why he cannot operate on the Frenchman, but Hanley counters them all. He must operate. Getting enough light by which to operate gives Altman an opportunity to go all out on the candles and cross motif that he often uses.

Just to make sure that the German doc understands the gravity of the operation, Saunders pulls a page from his personal copy of The Fine Art of Diplomacy for Sergeants—based rather loosely on Dale Carnegie’s book; he tells the German, “If this man dies, I’ll kill you.”

The doc, who now has his mind right,

operates, assisted by the nun nurse. He enlists Saunders to take the blood pressure. We get several shots of candles and concerned faces. The Frenchman’s blood pressure drops to 0. It eventually goes back up. He’ll be okay.

Temple expires.

The German doc asks Saunders if he would have gone to such lengths to save the Frenchman if he had not had such valuable information. Saunders replies, “There’s a war going on. I don’t like it, but I do what I have to do.” He then counters with, “If I hadn’t put a gun up to your head, would you have operated, Doctor?” The doc doesn’t answer.

Temple checks into his reserved room at the cemetery; Saunders and company are off. What happened to the German doctor?

He lived to the age of 72.

What do I think of this episode? Writing this conclusion several days after having watched the episode, I can't remember any gun fire--no combat in Combat!--unacceptable. I found the guest star convincingly played. However, the script seemed a little weak to me. Most of the time is spent milling around with silent nuns while Temple expires in slow motion. I think it could be plausible argued that the counting of German tanks and the coercion of a French peasant tie for the most exciting bits of the episode. Saunders and Hanley had some meat to their parts, but not much. I would have liked to have seen a little more difficulty in getting the German doc to the convent. Even better, if somewhat incomprehensible, would have been to have the nuns as a special German unit in disguise; as it was, the nuns were really just that: none, nothing, zilch--they added nothing significant to the story. This will definitely not make my top ten list.

There is a story to tell about the Craftsman war machine. The vast expanse of herbage remains unmowed; the story, therefore, remains untold. Instead, I might discuss the discussion that I led today after the regular instructor called to ask if I would take his class. The text message came while I was laboring with the latest mechanical manifestation of the war machine's taciturnity. I agreed. I enjoyed preparing for the discussion. It concerned a great story, a story of love and loyalty, jealousy and pride, friendship and fidelity, treachery and terrible carnage--I styled it as what we would've got if William Shakespeare had written Star Wars; it was just that good--meaning the story, not my discussion of it. I did have a terrific time leading the discussion; I can only hope the participants found it worth their valuable time. 

That's not what I'm going to write about. I promised a review of Pride of the Samurai by Kenneth Jorgensen. Let me do it now. I see that I can also loan that ebook to someone. I would be happy to do that if I knew how; and who would like to read it.

But first, here's a picture of a local building--I'm going to work this into the second book in the Finding Jack series. There are elements in it that I think will fit well in the story.

I should preface my review of PoftS with a brief synopsis of my expertise on all things Japanese. I've known several people who spent some time in Japan. I can locate Japan on a map or globe. I once had a Japanese roommate--mostly what I can say about him is that he bought a lot of rice--he bought it by the bag, the 100 pound bag. The primary source of my expertise is James Clavell's Shogun; I saw the miniseries, and I read the book--so I got that going for me. So, as you can see, my qualifications and expertise concerning all things Japanese, and particularly feudal Japan, are beyond question. I even remember several a couple phrases in Japanese that I learned from watching Shogun. If that doesn't convince you, then wakarimasen as to what will.

Fiction featuring fantasy in feudal Japan has never been something that I've pursued for pleasurable reading--until now. PotS begins an epic fantasy: The Kusunoki Chronicles, of which there are 4 books (so far). I've only read this first one; I can't say what the others contain. PotS begins the adventure of twin brothers, Akashi and Kanto. Akashi learns that he has the power to work the tama, a magical power that seems to emanate from the Japanese homeland--some might think of it like "the force" from another popular series which has some roots in a similar culture. The use of the tama is forbidden; it's not forbidden in the sense that a sincere apology and some meaningful probation time are demanded; it's forbidden in a way that a stirring of the innards with a short sword, or a permanent separation of the skull from the shoulders is mandated--and that also goes for the people who knew about it and didn't tattle. 

Anyway, in addition to the usual discovery of the forbidden power and the sort of apprenticeship that goes along with it, the story tells of the Kunusoki family and some of the politics of the time. The characters are almost all interesting and constantly developing. The dark side of the force in this epic comes from the foreign invaders. These viking-like enemies have a great magical power; they seem to go through the armies of the homeland like a shotgun blast through a screen door. Akashi, and other shinobi (users of the tama) may be the only power that can resist the invaders.

As I said in a previous post, PotS is the best book of fiction that I've read so far this year. I give it five stars. I am now committed to reading the next book in the series. 

On a different topic, I am also pleased to say that I got to sign a couple paperback copies of Smoke this week--I hope to sign more in the near future. 

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.