More serious thoughts on SOPA

This is not a comment on SOPA itself, but a comment on other comments about it:

What has emerged on the Internet is this system in which people who want to help piracy, or who are at least indifferent to it, start websites which allow anonymous users to upload and share data. If that data is copyrighted, making the data exchange illegal, the owner of the website can say: “Well, it’s not my fault!” Well, yes it is; you’re the one allowing people to anonymously share data on your site. You don’t have to do that. I can understand the argument that you shouldn’t be swiftly punished for an infraction you weren’t even aware of, but I don’t accept the notion that all website owners out there are truly doing what they should to stop piracy, or that there’s not much we should do about it. If drug dealers are ridiculously easy to find, shouldn’t they be ridiculously easy to arrest? Yes, and they are. Hence their usual discretion. If piracy sites are ridiculously easy to find (which they are, just Google around), why aren’t they easy to stop? I don’t know. I’m tempted to say it’s because a lot of people just enjoy pirating stuff and eating up my bandwidth.

I think people get easily paranoid. Even now, people can leave drugs in your car and get you arrested. Or they could just go ahead and stab you if they wanted to hurt you. If we’re thinking worse case scenarious, the physical world already provides plenty of them. That’s what makes many of Hitchcock’s movies so compelling. But we’re used to living with those risks; if it’s a new digital risk, the worst case scenario suddenly seems more palpable, more threatening.

“The new Facebook is being created in a garage somewhere, and nobody will want to invest in it because they’ll be too scared that it will be shut down too easily! The Internet will die!” That’s ridiculous. Investors would have no choice. That’s like claiming employers would stop hiring people if our nation’s stupid degree system was retired, and the end of the world would follow. No. Employers are still going to need workers, and retiring the degree system would force them to change. If investors have to work within the confines of new anti-piracy laws, they will. They may upset about it, especially if they were hoping to go into the piracy business, but they won’t all suddenly just stop investing altogether.

Or: “My blog will be shut down because someone will post copyrighted content!” Yes, you’re little blog there is so important.

Then there’s the other argument that those who fully admit to being pirates often make: “If content providers would just give me access to their offerings at a reasonable price, I wouldn’t have to steal!” What they fail to realize is that if they all collectively just stopped consuming the content altogether, the content providers would have no choice but to change their distribution business. But that requires too much organization and discipline, which most people don’t have, which is why unions exist in the labor force — people can’t make intelligent collective decisions otherwise. (Not that unions always make intelligent decisions, but that’s beside the point.) And this digital content is not like food. You don’t need it to live. Maybe you should just do something more useful with your time? I just can’t sympathize much with your plight, and the legal leniency of piracy sites is not worth defending for your sake.

All that said, I don’t know enough about SOPA to comment on it specifically. The arguments, however, should’ve been centered around its details in enforcement and how to make sure it’s not easily abused, not its principle of making website owners responsible for content, or making shut downs easier to enforce. If you disagree with our need for such a bill, you’re either a pirate or an idiot.

I get to interview Sam Neill!

After watching the new show Alcatraz on Fox earlier this week, I was a bit disappointed. It wasn’t as good as I thought it would be. But then I thought… what does Sam Neill think? So I decided to call him up and ask him through my shady underground Hollywood connections (which as of now can only help me contact three people: Sam Neill, Andy Griffith, and Sean Connery, all of whom are supposedly part of a secret club that meet annually to play cards, exchange stories of the old days, compare accents, and watch cartoons).

So here’s my interview! Thanks to Sammy old pal!

Me: So. I didn’t think Alcatraz was all that great. But what did you think?

Sam: Oh, I don’t watch the things I’m in. But I assume it was very good. Maybe you missed something.

Me: Not possible. But let’s move on to the next question. What is it like working with all those other actors and actresses?

Sam: It’s great. They are nice people. In fact, one day one of them told a joke and we all laughed. It was really funny.

Me: What was the joke?

Sam: You wouldn’t get it. It’s an actor joke.

Me: Please?

Sam: No.

Me: OK. Let’s move on. Your character in Alcatraz seems like a good guy with a dark side. Do you think that deep down he’s evil? Or nice?

Sam: I think deep down he has a lot of issues. I wouldn’t call those issues good or bad. It’s all about what side you’re viewing them from, kind of like how a leaf is a lighter shade of green underneath it, or how some west-African frogs can change their sex from female to male in an all female environment.

Me: So what you’re saying is: life finds a way.

Sam: What? No.

Me: Oh. Now, how did you come to play this character in Alcatraz?

Sam: Well, it was actually Abrams himself who asked me. He came by helicopter and just waltzed into my trailer one day and opened a bottle of wine without even asking! I told him I was saving it, and he said: “For today!” And then, after promising to fund me for a further three years, I took the job.

Me: That seems very unorthodox.

Sam: You’d be surprised.

Me: When you ran into your trailer, did you knock any pants off your clothes line?

Sam: Yes, I actually did.

Me: Interesting indeed. Let’s move on. How many seasons do you think Alcatraz will last?

Sam: Well, Abrams, as a producer, is always thinking about the big picture. Maybe not all the answers and a sense of closure; that’s up to the hack writers, I mean, the writers. Abrams is a questions guy, because that’s the easy, I mean, that’s the Abrams part. So he already has about 796 questions that will come up in the first season alone. That will generate so much interest and excitement that I think this show will go on for at least 25 years just to answer those questions, or at least explore possible answers while introducing new questions.

Me: But — wait. Is the show inserting questions before the writers even know the answers?

Sam: Oh, I don’t know. As an actor, I just have to evolve.

Me: Interesting. So how does your character in Alcatraz compare to characters you’ve played in the past?

Sam: In some ways, he’s very similar. In other ways, he’s very different.

Me: Can you be more specific?

Sam: Well, just think about it.

Me: OK, now I see what you’re saying. Let’s go on. How does it feel to be working on TV instead of the movies? Do you feel less important?

Sam: No. I’m still the main character.

Me: I don’t think you are.

Sam: Well, what’s to be scared about? Just a little hiccup in the writing.

Me: I didn’t say I was scared.

Sam: I didn’t say you were scared.

Me: I know. Anyway, speaking of being scared, those criminals aren’t really that scary, are they? They’re more like a six-foot turkeys.

Sam: Turkeys, huh? Imagine you’re in Alcatraz and you spot a prisoner, and you keep still because you think his vision is based on movement.

Me: Why would I think that?!

Sam: And that’s when the attack comes! Not from the front, but from the sides! Whewsh! From the other two prisoners you didn’t even know were there. And you are alive with they start to eat, I mean, kill you. So, you know, try to show a little respect!

Me: OK! I’m sorry! Geez! One more question: if a certain trilogy is continued with a certain fourth film, would you be interested in reprising your role?

Sam: Ah, yes, of course! I have been dying to reprise that role! I dream about it all the time! It will be the best movie ever! Unfortunately I don’t think there’s enough interest, so I don’t think The Omen 4 will ever happen.

Me: Argh! Oh well. Thanks for your time!

Sam: After careful consideration, I’ve decided not to endorse this interview.

Me: So have I! *Do DO, do DO, do do DOOO do DOOO do DOOO*

Thanks for reading this interview.

On giving too much credit to literary fiction…

This struck me as a strange blog post. You might have to read the whole thing to understand my response. It says:

In my worlds, metaphors have to be consistent with the worldview of a character.

Then I wrote a story (out on submission now) where a metaphor got a little out of hand – in a cool way.

I suppose you could think about it like a piece of art that has the same color in multiple places across the composition. It’s almost like hiding a beautiful pattern in the story for the reader to find if they’d like – not letting it be the whole point, or letting it take away from the main conflict, but picking something that will play into the main conflict and allow the different parts of the story to link together. Even if a reader isn’t consciously aware of it, their subconscious probably will be on some level, allowing it to contribute to the “feel” of the story.

Um … yeah … um … how is that “literary” as opposed to “science fiction and fantasy”? (I don’t understand why the word “literary” is used to describe a separate genre of writing, as if all writing wasn’t “literary” but that’s a different issue. I don’t cringe at the word “literary” but I do cringe at it’s sometimes strange use.) All metaphors should add to the mood and tone of the story and the worldview of the characters. That’s the point of metaphors! That’s not a device borrowed from “literary fiction.” Similarly, using “extended metaphors” or motifs or recurring themes or irony or any other literary device does not mean that these devices come from “literary fiction” just because some writer doesn’t see them often in his pile of pulp sci-fi stories. The notion that use of this “literary stuff” should be surprising, or would be considered to be mainly from the realm of “literary fiction” just strikes me as rather silly.

In films, there are quite a few storytelling choices that can (and should) be utilized to help tell the story: for example, there’s the music (use of silence, use of rhythm, use of harmony and melodic themes), there’s the sound (what we hear and how loudly we hear it), there’s the cinematography (how characters and settings are positioned in a frame, how much space they take up, where they’re looking in relation to the camera, how the camera moves), there’s the editing (how and when cuts are made), there’s the color, lighting, costumes, acting choices, etc. It all adds to the clarity of the emotion the director is trying to communicate.

A writer doesn’t have so many elements to worry about, but it’s still all about (at least on its most basic level) communicating emotion. A good writer of any genre will use every element he knows to effectively communicate the emotions he’s after. (Though that effectiveness will still be subjective, of course.)

Secondly, the blogger writes:

And I’m realizing that while we may not intend to give things extra meaning, a lot of times those meanings sneak in anyway.

In a sense, yes. I think all artists naturally tend to work at least hints of their life philosophies and interests into all their artwork. But I’m not sure I’d go so far as to say that “meaning” can be added without intent. If you didn’t intend it, then it’s not meaning, at least not on your part. It might be a pattern, but it’s not meaning. That doesn’t mean that the audience can’t get meaning out of it. Just because I find meaning in a piece of art doesn’t mean that the artist put it there, consciously or subconsciously. This is because meaning doesn’t come from artwork. Meaning is inferred by the pattern-finding mind of an audience member. If we wish to communicate ideas to each other, such as directions to the nearest gas station, we must use a language we both have already established patterns for in our brains (that is, we both speak the language). You do not inject meaning into sentences; rather you order the words in a feedback loop, so that the meaning you intend to communicate is reflected in the words and order you choose. The listener can not know your intent; he has to guess it based on the words and order you chose using the pattern-knowledge he already has.

It’s really not that difficult of a concept, but most people don’t seem to think like that. Most people seem to think meaning is injected into artwork and then extracted by smart-enough audience members. But then what if people disagree on the meanings they extract? Either one of them is wrong (or both are), or the artist can be said to magically inject beauty and meaning without intending to. I don’t understand how anyone can honestly accept this notion.

Anyway, that’s a complete digression…

Let’s see, new novel, new novel. What’s it about? A guy who loses everything, but finds his soul in Canada. Alright, cooking now. And the whole book is an e-mail to his daughter who’s dead. And his name will be Norm Hull, ’cause he’s just a normal guy. But not everybody will get that. That’s just for the scholars a hundred years from now.” ~Brian on Family Guy

Novel progress

My YA fantasy novel finally passed the 50K word mark yesterday. Not much of an accomplishment for professional writers, but this is only the third time I’ve ever gotten this far, and the first time I’ve gotten this far while sticking very close to my original outline.

One of my previous stories to get this far was The Game of Gynwig, in which I veered way way way off my outline and the story turned into a complete mess. It was also horribly written, but looking back on it provides a good laugh. It was about a young boy who gets wrapped up with a group of wizards and witches who fight to oppose an evil wizard’s plot to take over the kingdom. I still like the characters and original story I meant to tell, so I might revisit someday. But no time soon. It has to be completely replotted.

My next attempt that passed 50K words was The Book of Harbringer, my 2008 NaNoWriMo novel. It was about a banished prince who returns to his kingdom to oust an evil king. Very Lion King-esque, but much darker. It was completely outlined and I stuck to the outline. Unfortunately it was just too long and complex. After 50K words, the story had still barely started. I had something like nine characters, and I was spending a lot of time introducing them all. It might still work with all its complexity, but it was just too much for me to tackle as a first novel. I still really like the characters and the story I meant to tell, so I’d love to revisit this someday. But I think I’ll need more experience first.

Third time’s a charm, I hope. This time I kept my outline much simpler and have made it a point to stick to it. My current attempt is called Moonrise Ink, and it’s about a boy who learns that he is the last wizard in the world and must use his powers to defeat a group of mysterious invaders. It actually takes place in the same world as those of the last two attempts, though I’ve edited the magic system a bit. There are references to names and places and magical items in those stories.

I’m not sure how much longer it will take to write this draft. My current guess is that 20K more words will do it, but it may be more. But I think I’m definitely more than half way there.

On complete non-objectivity in art

While most people will agree that art is subjective and that it’s OK for tastes to be somewhat different, there’s often also this underlying belief that there are certain objective standards that make certain works of art objectively greater than others. For example, an English teacher might understand how his students might have different opinions on Shakespeare’s best work. But if a student considered a Batman comic to be of greater artistic value than Hamlet, the English teacher, along with his colleagues, may consider the student to be objectively wrong in his opinion, and blame his opinion on lack of education.

I would claim, however, that the teacher in the above example is wrong, as are all who judge the student’s opinions to be inferior. I think the problem stems from how people mix their honest emotional responses to pieces of artwork with what they think about a piece’s influence and apparent complexity. That is, if something is clearly popular, acclaimed by academics and critics, or seemingly more complex, people will hold their emotional responses in less regard and form opinions based on these alternative standards.

Influence is perhaps the most obvious factor in determining an artwork’s level of “objective greatness.” If a piece of art has influenced many, clearly there must be something objectively good about it. How else could it have such influence? And the more influential a piece is considered, the more influential it seems to become, as new audiences are introduced to and become influenced by the work by the mere virtue of its being considered influential.

Complexity may also be taken into account when determining the artistic value of a work of art. There may be a natural bias towards the complex. I have not thought about this strange bias enough to have any good guess as to why it may exist. My current guess is that people assume that more complex works are the results of a greater care and thought on the creator’s part, and are therefore more naturally valuable. It’s a completely illogical bias, as audiences can never truly know how much thought went into something, and what seems complex to one person may not seem so complex to another.

I don’t mean to claim that works of art can’t or shouldn’t be judged by these standards. While I don’t think there’s any objective way to do it, I’m not sure there’s any reason or method to stop ourselves from doing it naturally. What I argue against is the natural but illogical tendency of supposing that these qualities determine (or should determine) emotional responses and the validity of the emotional responses of others.

An emotional response is a natural emotional reaction to an experience of art. To simplify, an audience member will, after experiencing the artwork, love it, like it, be indifferent to it, dislike it, or hate it. It is a bit more complicated than that, of course, because we don’t judge our experiences as a whole; we judge them in pieces and sometimes in separate factors. For example, we can enjoy the music and acting of a film, but hate its storyline. We can love a singer’s voice, but hate the song they sing. Our emotions are also biased by factors outside of our experience of art, such as: our emotional state before experiencing art, peer pressure, tastes and preferences, background knowledge of the art’s production, and even our sense of self and social status. No emotional response can be evoked only by a piece of art; no emotional response bursts into existence out of a vacuum.

My argument is that, because these emotional responses are natural, they can never be invalid. There is no such thing as fake joy or sadness. Influence and complexity do not necessarily infer more pleasing emotional responses, and they certainly don’t create them. If a Batman comic fills one with more interest and inspiration than a Shakespearean play, that interest and inspiration is not somehow lower or worse. If a pop song fills one with more joy than Beethoven’s Ninth, that joy is not somehow less valid or less real because more professors hate the pop song.

“Oh, sure,” you may say. “Of course art is subjective! But the people who love Beethoven’s Ninth are of course more educated people.” If that is your response, you have clearly not understood my points at all, and I’m not sure how better to explain them.

By this line of logic, there is also no such thing as “high art” (as I’ve argued before). There is certainly “popular art” (whether that popularity is academic, professional, commercial, etc.), but to claim such art is therefore objectively better or higher than other art, or should evoke more greater or more valid emotions, is terribly pretentious and completely illogical.

It’s natural for us to not understand what it’s like to be other people or experience the same emotions that other people claim to be experiencing. But that does not mean that they’re lying or that the emotions you know you’re feeling are more real or justified than theirs. Your opinions can never be better or more justified than anyone else’s.

“I really wanted to like it, but…”

Sometimes when I read reviews, the reviewer will say something like: “I really wanted to like this, but… blah, blah, blah.”

This phrase really annoys me. Taken at face value, it seems like an attempt of the reviewer to place the ultimate blame for his disliking on the creators. After all, how can it be the reviewer’s fault if he wanted or tried to like it? What more could be asked of an audience member?

I would ask audience members to be not so self-conscious of whether or not they like something; just let the artwork affect you in whatever way it will, and you’ll find whether or not you like it by the end without even having to think about it.

You don’t get any credit for wanting to like something. Of course you wanted to like it; finding some kind of pleasure in the experience of art is the reason we put ourselves in the position to experience it in the first place. But one should always realize that the possibility of disliking something is there and beyond one’s control. You can’t predict how certain pieces of art will affect you; that’s one of the really fun things about experiencing it.

Ideally, one shouldn’t go in expecting to like something. That way, one won’t be disappointed with the occassional but inevitable disliking. Of course, this is easier said than done; there’s always some reason we’re interested in a particular piece of art; there’s always some quality about it we think we have a good possibility of liking. But we can and should still manage our expectations realistically, realizing that they won’t always be fulfilled exactly as we naturally daydream them to be. (Mentioning this reminds me of my older post about goals.)

When you dislike something, the fault is yours and the creator’s. That’s OK. You don’t have to be ashamed of that. You don’t have to make excuses about how you “tried” to like it. Everyone has different tastes and backgrounds they bring to the experiences they have, and while some would like to think of their tastes as being better or more sophisticated or more real than someone else’s, there really is no basis for thinking such things. We can claim another person’s tastes are immoral if there’s something someone else likes that we think they shouldn’t on moral grounds, but this has nothing to do with sophistication or intellect (as we tend to assume it does because of observed behavorial correlations, but that’s another matter). There’s also the possibility that you won’t like something because you’re not experienced enough with the piece’s background, or what material it references, or what historical influence it had. Some academic snobs might look down on your opinions for your “misunderstandings” of such great works of genius and claim that your low opinions of the piece are invalid because you are dumb, but they’re wrong. Yes, your ignorance (and your past experiences) will affect how you respond to a piece, but how does that make your natural emotional reaction any less valid? The validity of your liking or disliking does not get to be decided by a show of hands or a scholar’s analysis. How much your liking or disliking might predict someone else’s future emotional reaction can certainly be debated (such as: “Oh, I disagree with Roger Ebert 70% of the time, so I’m not worried that he didn’t like this film I want to see…”), but not your opinion’s validity. It’s not as if your emotional reaction is somehow faked by your ignorance.

Finally, how do you actively “try” or “want” to like something while experiencing it anyway? Do you consciously ignore stuff you don’t like in hopes you won’t notice them anymore? Do you think of pretty ponies prancing through the praries in your head? Do you eat loads of candy hoping to trick yourself into thinking that the joy of devouring sugar is actually from the art you wish to like?

My main point is this: you can’t control your emotional reactions to works of art, and should therefore not be ashamed of liking or disliking something. It may be informative for you to think about what specifically you didn’t like and what you think would’ve made something better. But you never need to try to justify your response. Such justifications will be invalid anyway; nothing justifies your response other than the fact that it was truly your response. Your desire to like something is irrelevant, and it’s silly (if not just plain stupid) to mention it.

Thanks for reading this post; I hope you liked it, or at least tried to…

Hanna review

Before the ball dropped in New York City to give light to this year of 2012, I watched the film Hanna on DVD.  My comments contain spoilers, so read no further if you plan to watch Hanna and hate spoilers.

hanna

On the filmmaking side, I thought it was great.  (Of course, after sitting through the disaster that was The Adventures of Tintin, almost any movie feels like a relief to watch.)  The cinematography and editing were continuously engaging, helping us understand Hanna’s state of mind throughout.  It even had an excellent long shot of a man being surrounded by attackers and then fighting them off.  I love long shots.  The pacing was fantastic; we go from moments of exciting fights, whether they’re with fists, knives, or guns, to calm quiet meditative moments.  The use of music was quite fun.

On the story side, I thought it was a bit weaker.  Strands of the story were drawn out so much that they became thin and boring; the progression was just too slow.  Even so, it wasn’t so bad that didn’t work at all.  But it made one really fatal flaw.

The fatal flaw of the movie was, I think (and here’s the spoiler), when Eric, who we thought was Hanna’s father, reveals that Hanna was born in a research facility.  Hanna is actually the result of genetic manipulation, genetically engineered to be a skilled and ruthless killer.  Woah!  Suddenly this is a sci-fi movie?  Suddenly we must accept the possibility of such successful biotech?  It’s just too unexpected to have any emotional value.  And since the revelation was made at the climax of the movie, our acceptance of anything at that moment is pretty vital for the rest of the movie to work.  The revelation ruins it.

How would I fix it?  (It’s a question any wannabe storyteller should ask themselves when critiquing other works of fiction.)  I would start the film with Hanna already knowing everything revealed in Eric’s revelation.  That way, we (the audience) would have to accept the farfetched sci-fi genetic engineering right from the get go; we’d know that this is the sort of story where that kind of science is possible.  The rest of the story, then, would be about Hanna coming to terms with the nature of outside world with what she knows about her own nature.  Can she mix in?  Can she be “normal”?  What is “normal” anyway?  Would she really want it?  Is Hanna’s assassination plan worth the trouble?  Was the genetic engineering morally OK?  You’d have to pick a certain theme about the conflict of her nature and a normal person’s nature and stick with it, but I think it would’ve made for a much more engaging story from start to finish.  Leaving the genetic engineering to be a “surprise” just doesn’t work.