There are certain things that hold more meaning when David Attenborough narrates the message. I can’t imagine Oprah Winfrey or Sigourney Weaver lending as much of an air of respect and humility to Louis Armstrong’s What A Wonderful World.
Long live Sir David Attenborough.
Happy Friday the 13th, everybody!
Yet another indicator that the entertainment industry has run out of ideas; Napoleon Dynamite is set to become an animated television show on Fox.
With a large number of talented artists and writers available who would be more than capable of producing an animated show of worth (Jhonen Vaszuez, Roman Dirge, Elmore Leonard, Fred Venturini, Chuck Palahniuk, Neal Stephenson, etc…), it’s a wonder why Fox is trying to beat a dead horse with Napoleon Dynamite.
If Fox isn’t even going to give deserving talent a shot at creating something unique, may I suggest that they rethink their choice of source material? Do something with a bit of an edge to it. Something with a bit of bite. Something that will not only give the artists something entertaining to work on, but also give the viewer a television show that’s worth thirty minutes of their time.
If they’re going to dig into the round bin of history and rehash existing material for conversion to animation, may I suggest that they consider the following movies?:
Eraserhead
Schindler’s List
Ichi The Killer
Leaving Las Vegas
Blue Velvet
The Road
The Killing Fields
Midnight Cowboy
Million Dollar Baby
The Elephant Man
Se7en
The Pianist
The Wrestler
The Human Centipede
Just once I’d like to wake up on Saturday morning, pour myself a heapin’ bowl of Apple Jacks, plop down on the couch and zone out to the escapes of an animated Joseph Merrick as he limps heavy-bone about town (while uttering his catchphrase, “So sue me for forgetting!”), comically proportioned Detective Mills and Somerset as they agonize over what’s in the box, and a celebrity-voiced Henry Spencer as he daydreams about the singing lady in his radiator.
Maybe it’s just me, but if you’re going to throw in the towel and try to cash in the passe past, count me out. Let me know when you’re willing to gamble on something interesting. Only then will I subject myself to a television show whose sole goal is to get me to watch advertisements.
I just finished reading Stephen King’s latest novel 11/22/63, and was once again reminded why reading a King book is much like spending time with an old friend.
in 11/22/63, high school teacher Jake Epping is shown a gateway to the past, and is asked by a dying acquaintance to correct a tragic wrong; prevent the assassination of President Kennedy. The only caveat: What you change in the past can be undone (or “reset” as Al best describes) by once again stepping back in time.
At first a non-believing Jake Epping derides any such notion as time travel, but soon becomes a believer and begins the task of changing history, unaware of the inherent dangers of changing events from the “Land of Ago”. The past, it seems, does not want to change (the book often chimes with the motto “the past is obdurate”), and the more you try to change it the more it puts up a fight.
Even though 11/23/63 clocks in at 849 pages (a typically sized King novel as of late), this novel goes by way too fast. And unlike the abrupt ending to The Dome (which was very unsatisfying, but man the bad guys in that were bad), King nicely closes out this novel in a way that seems natural, human, and very touching.
Whether you’re a hard core King fan, or simply enjoy reading the odd King book, you can’t go wrong with 11/22/63. King is back to old form with a tale about love, morality, and paradoxes that “Einstein could love”. Just make sure you have a fifty cent piece for the Yellow Card Man before stepping down through the portal…
Next book up: I, Sniper by Stephen Hunter
Five Minute Fiction is an ongoing experiment. The goal: To write as much as I can in five minutes. Don’t think. Let the fingers do the work. Once done walk away then come back later to clean it up.
Enjoy!
Our Highlight Reel
I’m not what you call an emotional man.
I posses what the wife called a “heart of stone” that not even the death of my parents could soften. But today is our anniversary, and I found myself watching a recording I took of our Maui honeymoon on the television.
Lily looked beautiful in her blue bikini, sitting on the railing of the anchored Sea Shanty as it languidly bobbed up and down just off the shore from Molokini island. With a dive mask perched on top of her head, she reaches out to me and says, “Will you stop it already with the camera and come in with me?”
“I will, hon,” I say, panning back for a wider shot, “But I want to film you jumping in.”
“You perv. You just want a shot of my ass,” she says, scrunching her cute freckled nose.
I absentmindedly toy with the remote control and think about the first time I saw Lily, and how long it took me to work up the courage to speak to her. About our first date. Our first fumbling kiss. The dimples below the small of her back. How perfectly her hand fit in mine as we walked together to wherever it was we were going.
On the screen Lily pulls the dive mask over her eyes, smiles, blows me a kiss, then tumbles backwards into the warm ocean with a splash only to surface a few seconds later. “Come on in,” she says, brushing aside her snorkel, “The water feels great!”
And that’s when the logo for “Shark Week” appears superimposed over what should have been an idyllic scene from the life of a happy couple just starting their journey down that path of marital bliss.
I turned off the television and did my best to choke down the lump in my throat and wipe the tears from my cheeks. I couldn’t bear to watch her die again.
