In Books, as in Movies, Relationships Matter

 

Like many people with access to streaming services, I’ve been delving into old movies that I haven’t seen in years (decades?) as well as those I never got around or were unavailable to me. More than just entertainment, many of those films are great study for writers. Especially when writing the hard to nail dynamics in character relationships.

 

You may think that movies have an advantage. Actors do most of the heavy lifting. Screenplay writers, directors, and music composers provide vital assistance. Books rely exclusively on a staff of one—the writer—who sells the romantic, familial, or friendship bonds with nothing more than subject/verb agreement and turn of phrase.

 

However, movies have their blind spots. Misfire casting can sink an otherwise sure-hit production. Likewise, a director’s decisions can wreck chemistry. Rarer still, there is the movie that shouldn’t work that succeeds against all odds—and studio meddling.

 

It’s not always apparent why…

 

The Wachowski sisters’ 1999 film, The Matrix, had an embarrassment of riches. Lawrence Fishburn, (seriously the man personifies charisma) played Morpheus, the mentor. Enigmatic Carrie Anne Moss opened the movie as Trinity, the (kick-ass) love-interest. A solid supporting cast, including Joe Pantoliano, Hugo Weaving, and Gloria Foster, (an epiphany as the Oracle) supported puppy-dog warm Keanu Reeves’ Neo, the hero.

 

And none of them clicked

 

It would be easy to blame this all on Reeves, (and some critics have). Truly, Neo’s interaction with his mentor feels like a routine OS update running in the background. But that’s not all on Reeves’ shoulders. 

 

Morpheus scarcely acknowledges his crew, all supposedly brought out of the Matrix by the good captain. Trinity is supposed to be a long-watching-long-waiting lovelorn for Neo. The movie opens with her stalking our hero. Yet every scene they’re in is flat as wood paneling and their “romance” feels forced. 

Even what is supposed to be a sexy hug-up for the elevator scene—both dressed in their fetishy-best—is yawn-inducing. You almost feel sorry for them. Then you remember that you paid to see this. 

It’s like they’re all making a different movie

 

Morpheus has better chemistry with Agent Smith (the baddie) than with Neo (Morpheus’ mentee). All three actors do perfectly acceptable acting work. But the writing allows little for the characters to work with and clearly, the directors had an agenda without an inch to spare for a wistful glance, an approving nod, or an affectionate gesture.

 

By contrast, Francis Ford Coppola’s brilliant failure, The Cotton Club, should not work. Okay, it tanked at the box-office, so it didn’t work as business but as film it soars. And it shouldn’t. Richard Gere can’t act has limited range. Diane Lane, while almost as cute as Gere, isn’t much better. Don’t get me started on Nicolas Cage.

 

The good news is there’s another movie going on around the headliners

You see the love between brothers, Sandman and Clay Williams, (brothers Gregory and Maurice Hines) through their joy at “making it” as dancers at the Cotton Club and in their bickering over choreography. Mostly you FEEL it in their resentment-fueled breakup and then their reunification embrace.

Romance? We fall in love with Lonette McKee’s Lila Rose Oliver almost from her introduction—and not just because it’s Lonette McKee. Before we fall in love with Lila, Sandman falls in love with her. Before Sandman falls in love with her, though, the director fell in love with her. Coppola’s love is evident through generously languid shots of McKee in both theatrical and mundane acts.

 

The great lesson of The Cotton Club is that the real act (relationships) is behind the curtain

 

The interplay between club owner, Owney Madden (Bob Hoskins) and his right hand, Frenchy DeMange, (Fred Gwen) is worth viewing all by itself. Both mature men with a long history, their friendship is borne out in their dialogue, all soft jabs and easy repartee. It’s also shown in the way they anticipate each other.

 

In a rare moment of anger toward his friend, Frenchy smashes Owney’s pocket watch. Just as quickly, Owney mends their rift, (the set up of the scene is too good for me to spoil here). Frenchy immediately hands him a gift-wrapped box. 

 

“What’s this?” Owney asks.

 

“A new watch,” Frenchy replies.

It's relationship gold in less than five minutes.

 

“I’m proud of everything I’ve done…except Dune.”

 

David Lynch’s 1984 film, Dune, based on the Frank Herbert novel, is another brilliant failure. The sets, the costumes, the spectacular cinematography—it is beautiful to look at, mostly. The cast is top-notch with some of the best actors of their day doing good work. Mostly.

 

Perfect, it was not. The chemistry between romantic leads Paul (Kyle MacLachlan) and Chani (Sean Young) produced more light than heat. Their acting is perfectly functional if not inspired. It’s the director who failed them. Lynch’s other work points to an inability to comprehend what what makes for a romance. 

Mobsters or Space Jesus, Arrakis or Harlem, love is love and romance is new every time.

Hit and miss, the mentor/hero relationships between Paul and Gurney, (Patrick Stewart) or Jessica (Francesca Annis) and Reverend Mother Mohiam (Sian Phillips) or Paul and Thufir,(Freddie Jones) are promises that the movie never delivers on. Instead, the audience suffers a one-two punch of “over,”—overacting/over directing and voiceover.

 

Lynch could’ve established those relationships with a castoff phrase or three. Instead he burns time with multiple sequences dedicated to grossing out the audience. Sadly, “weird” advances neither plot nor character. What should’ve been brilliance was, instead 2-hours-17-minutes of missed opportunities. 

 

Sometimes less is more, really

In 2018 Denis Villeneuve announced his intention to bring Dune back to the big screen. Fans were guardedly optimistic. Lynch’s Dune is ~ahem~ polarizing. The Syfy (Science Fiction Channel, not ‘Syphilic Fuck Yodels’) mini-series has its admirers. I swear, twenty-minutes in and it was the best nap I’ve ever had. 

Once again, with feeling

With Sicario, Villeneuve had established himself as a director capable of compelling suspense. His breakthrough film, Incendies, dealt with family secrets and sibling dynamics. Both Arrival and Bladerunner 2049 proved Villeneuve could convey complex ideas in heart-rending relatable terms. So, yeah, guardedly optimistic. 

“The first step in avoiding a trap is knowing of its existence.” -Thufir Hawat, mentat Master of Assassins for House Atreides.

The rule of thumb is each page equals a minute of film-time. So, Dune is 400-odd pages, a “true-to-book” movie would run nearly seven hours. Been there, done that, really enjoyed the nap. Villeneuve ran counter to Peter Jackson’s model. Instead of adding, Villeneuve cut. The result is a taut, tense, frightening world. Mostly, he cut the sentiment.

Gurney Halleck, the troubadour-swordsman, as played by Josh Brolin, is battle-scarred and haunted. His affection for Paul is borne out in harsh training and mean truth. Gurney’s declaration, “You’ve never met Harkonnen…I have and they’re BRUTAL…” rattles Paul. It is also the first toe over the ragged edge the Atreides must trod. 

Stephen McKinley Henderson infuses warmth and depth to Thufir. He also depicts a man at the end of his rope. Tired, war-weary, and scared, Thufir wears a uniform from another time—and the guilt of failing a previous Duke. He is out of step and he knows it. 

The brief moment of unguarded affection between Paul and his teacher feels forced—as it should. Thufir carries the weight of the entire Atreides house on his back as they march into the jaws of death. He knows that, too.

Only Jason Momoa’s Duncan flies unfettered, unrestrained affection for Paul, like a flag. As stated in the book, Duncan, though much older, is the closest to Paul in age and the closest thing to a playmate Paul has ever known. It makes the inevitable so much more painful.

Villeneuve’s editing knife is just as sharp when it comes to the ladies. Mohiam is ruthlessly short in her criticism of her former student, Jessica. For her part, Jessica bears the weight of her love for Duke Leto, (played with ice-water in his veins by Oscar Issac) and juggles it with her terror of what her decision may cost them all. Far from the smitten ingenue, Chani, (Zendaya) wears her distrust (disdain?) for Paul on her face even when she offers him a knife as a “great honor to die holding it.”

However, among all the relationship dynamics that Villeneuve jettisons the best may be the infatuation that Duncan has with Jessica. Likewise, the obsession Pietr carries for her—which the Baron leads him around by—is dropped. Both subplots—one is mawkish, the other a base objectification—are clumsy. Like weaponization of the Baron’s sexuality, (Herbert’s Freudian slip on full display) in the book, it’s past time to let go of old prejudices and stupid tropes.

Balance is key

Every interaction within your book—friend/foe, parent/child, partner/spouse—is rooted in relationships. You can do a lot with a little and nuance will trigger the readers’ imagination to fill-in the details. Big shows of affection are unnecessary. Think Wesley’s “As you wish,” from The Princess Bride. 

Be deliberate

Every scene should have a goal in your mind. Every character should have a goal on your page. Every relationship should be defined with name, status, and demonstration. 

Example: 

James sighed in relief for Josh’s success. His son had escaped so many of pitfalls, he himself stumbled into. He clapped the now-grown man on the back. “Let’s see if you learned anything about fishing on your travels.”

Now you try.

The image at the top does not belong to me. It is used for instructional/educational purposes, as covered by the Fair Use Doctrine.

Does Your Genre Still Matter?

 

A few weeks ago, a dusty-old interview with Alan Moore resurfaced with an out-of-context title to suggest that Mr. Moore was lambasting comic books in general and the Marvel Cinematic Universe specifically. It makes sense. We are in the midst of a golden age of comic book adaptations so Moore semi-incendiary statements, (more on that in a minute) seemed primed for controversy. Never mind that the interview is six-years old. 

I know what you’re thinking: what?

For the uninitiated comic books date back to the 19th century and The Yellow Kid. But the medium really came into its own in the 1930s, first with Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster’s Superman, built upon by Bob Kane’s street-level Batman, and rounded out by William Moulton Marston’s Wonder Woman. You might have heard of them.

Who?

Alan Moore began, like so many others, as a fan. Inspired, he started his own comic book title while still in grade school. Smart, edgy, and irreverent, Moore’s writing style perfectly fit the counterculture movement in England. Before long the big boys from the US, (Marvel and DC) came calling. Seriously, his Killing Joke is considered THE Joker origin by many. 

But Moore really made his reputation through independent titles like The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, V for Vendetta, and his magnum opus, Watchmen. In fact the only thing Mr. Moore is better known for is curmudgeonly criticism of the comic book industry. 

“The industry is shady, it need to be taken over…” Jay-Z, HOVA

Mostly, Moore’s criticism has been on the nose. Marvel and DC both have ripped off creators for decades. Fandom can indeed be toxic. But as a constant creator, himself working in the industry, (all the while complaining of the slings and arrows of publishing) Moore appears the lady who doth protest too much. 

So, what did he say?

In short, Moore said that he’s done with comics and questions their artistic merit. Moore cites the aging comic-book reader and fan service diluting the art—specifically, the Marvel Cinematic Universe, (Iron Man, The Avengers, et al). Moore contends that what was once a perfectly good means of getting adolescents into reading has become little more than comfort food for Gen-X and Millennials, especially white-male geezers.

Yeah, Alan is a "hoot" at parties.

Moore has always been a polarizing figure in the comic community. So, of course, the (geek) press has resurrected Moore’s comments to gin-up clicks from both fans and haters.

What does this have to do with my genre?

Aspiring and published authors have one thing in common: self-doubt. Ironically, comic-book publishers and mainstream publishers have one thing in common: profitability. Publishers pursue profitability with a ruthless, if myopic, pathologic drive. So, an author is only as good as their last sales numbers. Likewise, publishers are only as good as their last quarterly revenue report.

Which often leads authors, (published and aspiring) to feel a little uncertain of their work. As stated in other posts, the author who doesn’t meet sales goals seldom gets another chance at bat. Same for the buying editor/publishing agent who signs the underperforming scribe. 

This business model has been in place longer than comic books have been in circulation. But the model is broken and it is breaking the industry. This is borneout in the glut of freelance development editors, writing coaches, and agents on social media—all with multiple years working for the big publishing houses. Oh, and myriad independently published authors. 

But if that isn't you, prospects are daunting. Add-in genre criticism and it is really easy to doubt the merit of your story. Which is a shame because as goes the old saw, “if you want to read it, so does someone else.” That brings us to Moore’s assessment.

Sure, comic books have become a medium of aging readers. Mostly because most kids have more immediate entertainment readily available: video games, streaming services, and old-fashioned cable TV. 

All of that is even before you factor in online communities and all the entertainment options there.

But all is not lost. There is that one young woman who works 2nd shift at the call center or the guy who works the drive-thru at Taco Bell or at the non-binary cat who covers the hospital lab and they LIVE for Old Guard, or America’s Sweetheart, or Sandman. 

And, yes, it is comfort food for the world-weary after a week of punching the clock/paying the bills. See, there’s no disputing Moore’s contention. The MCU, Marvel comics, DC comics—all of them are performing fan service. 

Delivering on customer expectations (if not exceeding them) is HOW YOU SELL A PRODUCT. But the movies are to comic books what comic books are to fishing stories. The comic book is enough spectacle to convey a story more complex than you'll hear at the neighborhood bar. While the MCU has to worry about offending the foreign movie market, comic books can create more space for complexity and a bit of commentary. Comic books don't have to make three-times-their production cost to be considered profitable, either.

It's still about story, "genre" is just where Amazon categorizes it

When that young office worker/fast-food worker/lab flunky buys a comic book they're looking for a good story. So is the 50-ish accountant who CANNOT WAIT for Wakanda Forever. Or, you know, so I’ve been told. The only difference is the medium and film does not negate print.

Simply the best SciFi you haven't read.

Ten years ago (possibly longer as I’m the 50-ish accountant who’s iffy on time-spans) space opera was considered passé. Everyone wanted BIG concepts, DENSE/DEEP worldbuilding, and HARD science. 

And then James S.A. Corey published Leviathan Wakes and everyone remembered what they loved about science fiction. To hear it from critics, the western genre has been dead and buried. But Jacob Tracey, Joanna Brady, and Joe Pickett didn’t get the memo and their horse-operas are KILLING IT. 

Long story short, Regency Romance to Horror, Noir to middle-grade, your genre still has hungry readers looking for a new entertainment. We all want familiar stories told in new ways. The genres we gravitate to, the tropes and norms we know, are comforting to us after a long day or a long week. That is the greatest service a writer can provide: a relaxing, comforting story at the end of the day. 

Maybe he's just cranky because he needs a nap?

When he did the interview, Alan Moore was 62 years old. He had, by that point, been working in comic books for over 35 years. Very few stay in the game half as long. Godmother of modern crime and queer fiction, Patricia Highsmith wrote comics for six years and decided she would chance it as a novelist even at the risk of starvation. It is thankless work for horrible wages and zero equity. 

And you thought Moore was salty...

Ultimately, I believe that the genre still has merit and serves a special medium for special stories. I also think Moore is done. He is right that the comic books are still skewed—white and male. I also believe there are independent titles that are change as the readership changes. Part of that change requires grumpy old men to step aside and take a seat. Upside: there will be something good for them to read. 

I own none of the images above. All are used here for instructional/educational purposes as covered under the Fair Use Doctrine.