Monthly Archives: August 2019
Pencil Sketch: Hans Bellmer
This Old Guy Reviews: Mortal Engines
This Old Guy enjoys film and TV that runs the gamut from avant-garde and acclaimed (Truffaut’s “The 400 Blows”, Werner Herzog’s documentaries, HBO’s recent “Chernobyl” series) to the profoundly unserious (Syfy’s “Happy” series, ABC’s “The Good Place,” Cartoon Network’s “The Amazing World of Gumball”)
Watching bad films can be a source of great joy for me; not only do I get a boost to my self-confidence as a writer (“Wait, if studios financed this script, then there’s no way my stuff doesn’t get made!”) but also by sharpening my analytical skills, as I try to figure what, exactly, went wrong. Syd Field’s gift to all screenwriters is insanely useful in that regard; my enthusiasm for his thinking is tempered by an appreciation for films that follow none of his prescriptive advice and succeed anyway. And there are many!
Mortal Engines is not a successful movie, but layers of half-baked movie concepts smashed together into a confection that is less New Zealand’s Best and more Nailed It! Kiwi-style. There is a visually stunning and silly short featuring mobile, carnivorous cities (“municipial Darwinism”!) There is a shiny romance between two characters who start with nothing in common but their hearts of gold. There is a scheming scientist with a nefarious plot and a daughter innocent to his wicked ways. A character from a James Cameron film is air-dropped into the proceedings, roughly at the same time as a gender-fluid remix of a character from a George Lucas film.
I would suggest there’s about one-third of a very good film hidden inside Mortal Engines, a narrative centered around the complicated relationship between an unlikely father and an adopted child. It’s a pity you have to sit through the other two thirds of the film, which – even with the assistance of as much legal cannabis as I cared to ingest – was not a source of joy.
What color is humility?
Crush II (Crumpled)
Billy Sonic didn’t (couldn’t, wouldn’t) entertain the possibility he sabotaged possible relationships with like-minded younger men because he didn’t want to meet a human after all. At the age of 42, with thick white hairs sprouting from his balls, Billy hadn’t ever had a relationship last more than four months. He said he wanted an LTR. He said he was open to dating black guys, too. Humans wanted Billy to be emotionally vulnerable. They wanted to hear stories that hurt to tell, and then disappeared after he summoned the courage to tell some stumbling, incomplete version of the truth.
An older couple, friends, tried telling Billy he needed to focus on something other than looks. They wanted Billy to identify what he really wanted in a guy, by which they meant some abstract quality; loyalty, kindness, generosity or good company. Billy always nodded along with what they said (one of the couple smoked top-notch cannabis that he was willing to share with Billy.) Billy went home and (before the buzz from the weed wore off) searched for and found pornography of a quality that in previous generations could only be found in the Vatican’s private collection. He didn’t search on loyalty, kindness, generosity or good company.
Billy Sonic told himself that someday, he’d make it work. He just needed to meet the right boy (21+). Until then, he was happy, enough. That was what Billy Sonic told himself, as he hurried into the bathroom, hunting for a towel that could clean the whole mess up.
Detail, Portrait of Dorian Gray, by Ivan Albright
Crush (h/t MP)
Crushes hit Billy Sonic hard, even in his forties, when he felt his sexual drive waning, and white hairs began appearing in places on his body other than his scalp. Billy Sonic was partial to twenty-something men, but not muscled, athletic types, or beefy dudes. Billy liked skinny guys. While Billy was open to sex with Asian and Latino men, he generally preferred white men for his flings. Online and with friends, Billy pretended to be open to dating black men; his cock was secretly racist. Bad news for Billy! For every tic on his list (white, skinny, 21+) Billy’s prospect pool shrank. Focusing on twenty somethings took three quarters of the population out of play. Boston was not a large city, though the yearly influx of college students (and outflow of graduates) meant the queer population turned over at a rapid rate. This was good for Billy’s purposes; the inexorable march of time was bad. Every year that rolled up on his odometer (did the numbers in odometers still roll, Billy wondered, or were those computer generated like everything else?) meant another line, more distance, between Billy Sonic and one of the beautiful twenty something men who held his eyes as they walked, unaware, laughing, in afternoon sunlight. The number of boys who remained susceptible to Billy’s fast talk dwindled every year, with notable declines after he took the turns past thirty and forty. Still, every once in a while, a young guy came along who seemed interested in the whats and wheres Billy had on offer. Billy made a list of things not to do when young men like this appeared:
1. Do not profess your love during the first date or, alternately, after the object of your crush agrees to a first date.
2. Do not text the object of your crush multiple times to be sure he saw your original text.
3. Do not send the object of your crush checklists of preferred sexual positions and practices.
3a. Do not send follow-up email reminders if the checklist of preferred sexual positions and practices isn’t completed within twelve hours
4. Do not hand over a USB drive during your first date and casually request all the sexually explicit material the object of your crush has ever created
Naturally, Billy Sonic repeated each of these mistakes with every boy (21+) who expressed interest. When a crush was on him, Billy acted with the calculating rationality of a starving man confronted with a table piled high with flake, puff and choux pastries.
When the crush ebbed, temporarily, like a fever mitigated by a folded corner of a towel soaked in cold water, Billy Sonic wondered: what was in him, that wanted to bring these young men into his home and treat them with previously unknown pleasures? Some fragment of Billy’s own youth, a shadow, that ached for the company of young men with rude silhouettes? Fatherhood denied, transmuted via queer alchemy into solicitude for a subset of gangly young men not yet hardened and made hopeless by the atrocity exhibition of twenty-first century living?
More urgent (for Billy): why did he keep screwing up relationships with young men who seemed interested?