24 August 2012

Not Even Pretending


Yesterday, I had a conversation with a colleague that I found amusing and instructive:

He kicks off, “We’ve got a delay with delivery”.

“Yeah, how come?”

“We’ve got to change some of the coding for the Chinese.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The Chinese Government has told us that we’re not allowed to use 128 bit encryption, they find it too hard to crack. We’ve gotta drop the Chinese version of the software to 64 bit.”

20 August 2012

Time Wounds All Heels


Tragedy + Time = Comedy

Therefore:

Comedy – Tragedy = Time

Therefore:

Act serious about something that's actually silly, and you can bend time. That's how Dr Who does it.

15 August 2012

Prometheus


Imagine a futuristic flying machine constructed by humans landing on an alien world.

The immediate landscape is a large, desolate depression surrounded by geological features that are ill-defined because of their distance although obviously massive. In the middle of the vast depression is a dome. It could be the result of natural processes but it is more likely built and is evidently very old. It is also forbidding.

The occupants of the craft exit and approach the dome. They are nervous and excited. At the end of their epic journey they wonder whether they will meet proto-humans or perhaps sit at the knees of their makers and learn cosmic truths.

As it turns out, a little from column A, a little from column B. But enough of In the Night Garden (ABC2 for Kids) with the naughty Igglepiggle and the sleepy Tombliboos and on to my review of Prometheus.

One of the reasons it has taken me so long to write this review is that I wanted to include spoilers to make my point and you all should have seen it by now.

The other reason is that I only got around to seeing it myself the other night and I’m now going to try and make a habit of only reviewing films I’ve actually watched.

In the classic sense the story of Prometheus is a sad one. He taught little cave peoples lots of nifty tricks, not least of which was fire. He was not lauded by some of his colleagues for his efforts and wound up in really sub-par accommodation chained to a rock with his innards regularly used as a bird-feeder. Unlike the protagonists in the Ridley Scott movie, he meant no harm. These half-baked clowns (who somehow manage to snag a trillion dollars to go chasing an intergalactic pipe-dream) are the equivalent of graffitists in the Louvre.

The film has some serious problems. To borrow from the inimitable Micallef, the plot has more holes than a machine-gunned piece of Swiss cheese with stigmata. I spent a lot of the time thinking, “Why would you do that?” So, let’s get into some of these occurrences. Bitching is fun.

In any film, when the scary music starts and the woman is alone in the house, we are always mystified by her next action which is to go and check the basement with a busted torch. It’s the same with Sci-Fi thrillers. Why, in the name of all that is creepy and crawly, do highly-trained astronauts and scientists feel the need to take their fucking helmets off at the first opportunity? No sooner is the needle on the dial pointing to “Breathable”, than some bone-head is sighing loudly and unclipping the protective covering on his noggin, intimating that it was as comfortable as a sandpaper g-string. It’s the year 2094, people. The helmets are comfortable, lightweight, have all your comms gear in them, are tougher than an end-of-term assignment and, oh, what is it again? Oh yeah - HELP YOU BREATH.  I’d be showering with that sucker on.

As for the really dangerous looking bit of fauna, here’s a tip from Alien Husbandry 101. Don’t tickle it under the chin. This bit of egregious fauna mishandling in the film is particularly galling. Let me set the scene. One of the scientists, a biologist qualified enough to crack a spot on a trillion dollar interstellar voyage, sees a giant penis dentata type thingy and moves towards it for a better look. The earthworm-alien cross-breed reacts by, now pay close attention here, reacts by spreading the cowl behind its head. The highly qualified biologist has never seen a cobra and thinks that bearing your teeth and rearing up to look bigger is the interstellar language for ‘give us a hug’. He gets a hug, alright.

There are many other utterly nonsensical bits in the film. The music is pretty dire at times, too. But it’s still a good flick. There are dramatic and horrible deaths. The tech is gorgeous. The look is wonderful. The 3D doesn’t feel like a waste and Fassbinder is magnificent as the android who wants to shout “no prisoners”.

There are some lovely tie-ins to other Alien films that I found satisfying and the casting of Noomi Rapace was bang on. She actually looks a little Ripley-esque in some scenes and that provides a nice visual continuity to the Alien series.

The biggest mistake the movie makes is that it tries to insert more meaning into its content than it deserves. I don’t need the big questions and answers in an Alien film. I need people yelling, “Oh, well that’s just great, that is,” and, “Get away from her, you bitch!” and of course, “They mostly come out at night. Mostly.”

I need my pants scared off. I need shootin’ and runnin’ and tongues with teeth. I do not need pseudo-philosophy and matters of faith. I’m going to show my hand as an amateur futurologist (a polite term for someone who makes shit up).

The whole premise is flawed. If we have the tech in 2089 to get that far into space, we sure as hell are not going to need to explore the dangerous dome in the middle of nowhere in person. We will send in our robots and tele-presence devices and do it all remotely. As they suggest in Aliens we could just do it all from the safety of orbit, including nuking it. But, I suppose that’s not really going to make an exciting Sci-Fi romp and that’s really what we were all there for in the first place.

I give it 7.5 eggs that you should never look into, out of 10.

07 August 2012

The Fourth Law Of Robotics. (We're happy to help little robots that help themselves)


Curiosity landed on Mars yesterday. I guess he’s on the run after that nasty “cat” incident.

I love a Mars robot rover. I love a little thing beetling about on a distant planet, chirping to itself, picking up rocks, looking at them and then chucking them over their shoulder like Wall-e did with the diamond ring because the box it came in was more interesting.

I also feel for them a little. Don’t you wonder if they might get a little cold and lonely, out there, all by themselves?

Sojourner, who landed in the late 90s, has officially had his case closed with “communications lost” stamped on the last page of his personnel file. It’s more likely he went a little crazy and switched his own radio off, preferring to be a hermit rather than continually hearing orders from the voices in his little mechanical head.

Spirit got bogged*. He landed on Mars in 2004 and like the brave trooper that he is, he trundled around looking for Sojourner for nearly six years before he came to a dead stop in a sand pit. He is going to present a puzzle to the aliens who explore our solar system when they see a little robot that had somehow managed to cross interplanetary space, only to become baffled by some sand.

So Spirit and Sojourner are out there somewhere, having been reclassified as stationary communications beacons or just plain MIA and I see that Curiosity is as large as a decent sized car. That got me thinking.

I am particularly good at remaining stationary inside a vehicle for long periods. All I’d need is a nappy (well, maybe two) some sandwiches and one of those Bladder Buster cups with the straw. The straw is not idle whimsy, it’s a safety device. I’d need to keep both hands on the wheel during re-entry. I’ll go out into the desert in a small vehicle and round up your escaped robots and I won’t even bitch and whine and then go and become Darth Vader afterward.

*(Now something is missing. All the people round here are too bony for kissing. Sing it like the Mentals. It’s more fun that way.) 

03 August 2012

We've Come to Kill The Rooster


I’ve often wondered why a lot of children’s books cover the subjects that they do. Why do most kids need to know what sound a cow makes? Why does the modern, urban kid need to know that lions are kings of the jungles? (Which they’re not. They’re more the Snorers of the Serengeti.)

It would be more useful to know how to spot the parking-pay-machine in a multi-story car park or know the sound of an urban hipster when ordering a chai latte and half-caff soy flat-white, so they can go to another coffee shop without having to stand behind the tosser.

Well, for the most bizarre of reasons, now I know.

A neighbour of ours just got a rooster.

Let me be utterly clear about this: We live in the Inner-West of Sydney. Not traditionally considered farming territory. The neighbours have bought a rooster with a busted timer and he goes off from about 4.30 am to midday.

So now I have a reason to point at those bucolic baby books and say, “Look baby-boy, a rooster! They make a cock-a-doodle-doo sound at any time of the day and if you see one, run it over.”