smoothingsand said: Could I have a link to the beginning of your prose series or are these new posts the edited versions you mentioned?
The new posts are from what I would call Ellie & Pieces The Second, with small connections here and there to Ellie & Pieces The First. You can understand it easily without having to read that other one, I guarantee.
Yea I deleted all the posts of The First on here after I finished editing it a few days ago, it’s now on my laptop. Well I thought you all had read it during the few months I left it on here and went on hiatus so… sorry.
Anonymous said: welcome back! will you continue Ellie & Pieces?
Thanks lad. ye I will.
"Let’s not get TOO excited, perhaps? And, Frank Hoetz? That doesn’t help me much, sir, there are a lot of Frank Hoetzs too. And can’t you tell him to drop that bloody cigarrette off from his mouth?" Cris was still holding a half smile, when the line was being delivered it was as if he was spewing vocalized air, or comic bubbles.
"I go by that name."
"Isn’t that too… typical?"
"Yes," Frank was slightly clenching his teeth, purposely showing slices after slices of them to Cris, shined by the crown. "What’s it to you?"
"Settle down, silent, boys! I’m a higher rank, so either you start obeying my words or you get thrown off. Is that clear?"
No one answered.
"I repeat: Is that clear?"
Still no one answered, or even reacted by the waving of palms. The man, most likely embarrassed, started to walk off back again into the second maze. The supposed juniors followed him gradually, until coming out at the other end, facing another elevator.
"Where are other guys? They told me to activate ‘stand-by mode’ at the pillows room, didn’t they?" Cris asked the man who was not yet named.
"Please do remember that they’re very, very competitive, my good man. They want to be there as soon as possible," he stopped to cough out a line of white liquid. "I-I am basically the only good guy, I always hang around and give instructions to newcomers."
"So where are we going now?"
"We are going down."
"What, first up and now down again?"
"Didn’t the messenger tell you about it? Did he deliver a written print about it?"
Upon hearing that, the man who was not yet named let out short and continuously stopped sighs. That didn’t stop him from speaking again, Frank knew that, everyone knew that including Cris who had barely even known him.
"Boy, this is gonna be a long one. But I will try my best to summarize it. You see, our clandestine entity right here is a non-profit one, consisting of volunteers, and each member has to be or has to have the potential to be qualified first, to statistically fit our requirements. In that, I and my colleagues saw great things in you, Cris. We’ve been following your growths, Cris, before you were even born, before we were even born. You remember when you rid that kid Brian Clough of his toys at the age of six, then poked his eyes with it? Or when you raped Stefanie Heigh at the age of twenty five and threw her to a midnight street for expected crashes? Yes, we have records of those of your ‘unfortunate’ crimes in place, but we’re not doing jobs of the fuzz, we’re not putting you in the useless, overcrowded mangers called prisons. This is an entity of ours, ours alone, neither an organization nor an enterprise, and absolutely not a mere collection, an apparatus of separated individuals who thinks it can freely do what it wants, just as long as it presents nearly or slightly more than fifty percentages of what it’s required to. On the other hand, we as a whole stand collectively as a perpeptual, immortal entity, joining hands together, presenting two prolonging ideas: Humans Will Never Be Forgotten and Humans Must Never Die. See, if you think about it, here we have a building that presents—"
"Nice essay." Frank chimed in. "But it’s open."
"Oh… Alright, nice find! Let’s go to wonderland!"
New elevator music busted out to ear holes. This time not so classical, but more electronical kind of thing. Frank could guess it, but he didn’t want to speak of the presumed title in front of the two. After having settled inside, the man who was not yet named put his right thumb into the right plug just below the first floor button, then the elevator’s door shut and it started to sink down. One could really feel weightlessness sucking them in.
"This, Cris, is the alternative elevator." he explained. "It will go through many of the secret passages that lead to the convention a few hundred meters below the surface of the Earth, where all insiders and chosen outsiders will meet, the insiders being the voted owners for this place, also are considered leaders of us, and a few other selected few ranked outsiders, a fair number of executives of financially private companies out there in the public. The building presents two sides of the idea, though each does not oppose of the other, in stead, it’s the opposite, one can’t not exist without the other: the upper grounds present Humans Will Never Be Forgotten, perpeptuating our visible and tangible existences upon the Earth, while the under grounds present Humans Must Never Die, maintaining our manifestation as parts of this planet itself, down with the stuffs of the great Universe. We can’t be remembered forever if we always die, we won’t ever die if we are forever remembered."
"Who originally built this?"
"The entity. It was rather long ago, some hundred years before the Romans dissolved themself, way before all three of us were born. It survives events, that’s all. We intend for it to survive upcoming apocalypses, no matter natural or artificial ones." he explained. "And it’s actually not that big really, hence why you don’t see it as such when looking from the outside. No magical, hypnotizing works there, just a bit of camouflages and there you go, an old, abandoned house mask for a small fortress. We have seven floors up with average ceilling, and six floors down with one additional lowest floor for storages of humans and carcasses of many kinds, and necessary equipments for assignments, and you will get to experience each floor in no time."
The song was in its climax as of now, with twists and turns of alienated noises crammed up together in such ways that endurable melodies were crafted nicely. Frank thought that he’d heard it somewhere else, when he was in a faraway land, when he was normally creeping through a crowded black market in the middle of a desert at its highest temparature of the day. He was on some kind of African drug that day, so the memorialization wasn’t totally ensured. He was searching for something lost, a souvenir for his own self, one he would have stolen if needed to. Something he couldn’t quite remember, even when his ego was reaching through the midst of another middle Eastern war protest just situated nearby. He was trailing through the space distancing blocks of people cuddled up in their slogans and flags written and colored by natural blood, with shredded pieces of yellowed chambray around their private parts, skin all sticked up with handkerchiefs of brown sand and dirty, hot winds that were floating around, all portraiting mortal dances to the eyes of the godly Sun. And then came the uncultured chump, who jumped out of nowhere, a half-naked, tanned young lad with an unfittingly large stereo speaker sitting on his shoulders, held by a tigh grasp of hands. There was a wire connecting it with his phone placed deep in the right pocket of his shorts. He was sporting on his bald head a New York Yankees hat, and he was loud, not only with his supporting devices, but also with his unusual cries for needless help, which were impossible to make out linguistically. It was quite an odd happening for Frank, when the memory just swiftly ended at the point by a fading of scenes, leaving no answers, as if a virtual record of it had been pulled out by accident from the projector that was anamnesis. It might have also very well been just the stuff of creativity, product of a stoned mind. His consciousness came back to the current times, putting sights in places, just as soon as the other two was taking steps out of the door, with Cris following the man who was not yet named.
"Quickly, Frank good lad! You know you alone can’t get out of that elevator, don’t you?"
For a few fleeting moments, he gibbered and jabbered some random stuffs in return, an act that would be seen fitted insubordinations in army camps for new recruits, though technically it was only himself who heard them and was able to translate into meaning. Frank was sorting out his thoughts, trying real hard to make out a name, a title, as he’d always done. His up-turned nose was looking more hideously tally with the square corners of his revealed tooth crown.
"The Appointed Lights."
"Not correct!" the womenly voice was shouted out from the top of the elevator.
It was still getting heavier. Frank leaned his body upwards a bit, tried letting loose a few kilograms, had them sparse, but the act came useless. The banner was dragging his whole body down, his palms were forced to plunge into the closings of automatic elevator doors, but it was only effective for so long. One could hear wooden cracks coming pervasively from it, ones slowly replaced by hardened echoes, as if a transformation to metal materials of another kind. He breathed hard, in bits, calling forth in his mind retrospective trainings from childhood, so blurry yet memorized so dear. He was at the age of ten now, and he was being daily frozen to near-death experiences. This child’s hands were looking reddish, but scarcely stiffened white, and he dared not cross arms in fear of rupturing them, transporting Death faster and to nearer destinations. A morning routine that lasted for two or three months, Frank could hardly recall. The temparature of the Earth was raising higher with each week, the dad needed to keep his job and an important research going, and the animals had been endorsed to be slowly dying through amalgamations of continuous colds, hunger and electric experiments for survivals and the external findings of botanic entities. He was now holding a bucket of mineral water by the neck, it couldn’t be put away through the lack of hands, nor could it be drank, used to wash up. It couldn’t be simply put down, for fear of being blown away by the knee-low strong winds that were invading and erroring the scientifically coded bulwarks, neither on the ground nor anything under supervision of gravity for fear of a uniquely doubtful pervasion of presumed ‘living things’. Those were the last bucket containing the then newly discovered autotrophs of many kinds, and it had to be kept outside, not inside the camp. Ten years old Frank, one who had been longing for that first adventure with his dad.
[to be continued]
But it was still getting heavier and heavier, a sort of painted magnet, made wooden, drawn up to his solidified heart. He seemed consumed by the acts with each fair frownings, but his mouth remained closed. The sour taste was dying out momentarily. His blue eyes saw the house, he spinned his rough white shoes to the right and began to walk towards it. Kid A’d been stopped for a while now.
It was a house of memories, a house of the olds. He’d been there many times beforehand, and the owners were always welcoming towards him, but he never liked them, coupled with the inhabitants and participants. He deemed them all as ghastly. There was a wooden rooster on top of the wind vane, it was swaying stupidly in accordance with nature’s vigorousness, as mad as one that was just losing its head. Frank’s headphone almost dropped off, as it hung on the back of his ears, covered and cornered by packs of feeble black hair that seemed too weak to stand for it. He pulled out another cigarette and held it in the inbetween of his lips, with the knowledge that the lighter couldn’t possibly, effectively set it on. Reus, the gray-haired doorman, in his uncomfortable and impertinent black suit with a red-striped tie, with his sailor hat, started cupping both his hands near his mouth and shout:
"Looking Deanish out there, b-buddy!"
Frank didn’t answer, but he sniggered a bit, in such a way the cigarrete might just be falling in instead of falling out. As if sneers. Someone faraway was calling for him, triggering soundtracks of The Fountain, but he left his mobile phone there willingly for the doorman to play games of Insomnia, then walked forth with an unplugged headphone. Sounds of the banner touching the slowed metal door were on their ways to escape out of this world, blending and making a miniature mixture of cracks, vibrations and repercussions. One could see goosebumps being created at the back of his neck, like a teenage boy who was reaching his first orgasm.
"Wear gloves," he turned back and said, before the sparks of flawed and natural lights were shut from him. "It’s mine."
"Of course it’s yours, b-buddy!" Reus answered excitedly. "Have fun!"
Just as soon as the fading darkness, the quietness also settled in. The shut of the door still traveled around, through ceilings and floors, awakening rightful owners. Kaleidoscopical windows seemed troubled by the winds outside, as if trying hard to break out from the sorrowful fate of meaningless beauty. A cockroach was having a trip hanging upside down, swirling time and time again to the curvaceous shape of the stairs. As soon as Frank was reminded by by his clearest possible reflection on the floor, he quickly removed his shoes and put it in the designated corner, along with others. He figured that either he was mistaken, that his mind was a mess at the moment, or that there was a new acquisition in town. Red, black, yellow, green, white and no pink, it usually was the way it had always been before. No pink.
The elevator and its music were still the same, however. That checked the surroundings for Frank, he smiled briefly with such realisations and quiet contents. One of Debussy’s, recognizable through lots of hearing, he knew it as he was told, but he never bothered to check which one it was. He would not, this Frank Hoetz, he would not like to join into the mainstreams, but typically, he didn’t listen to classical music very often. He knew the names, the famous names and numerous founders of the genres, but he never really cared for the contents themself. Supposedly, in an elevator like this, without “his” own chosen music and headphones, he would have liked to tap a few steps, nod a few heads to the transgressing flows and rhythms, to appreciate more, but in reality he wouldn’t care less. He was still wearing his unplugged headphone right now, standing with his head facing the button going up and up, like a time travelling hippie half-assedly intervening kids in the middle of a Canadian snow fight, all things unrelated yet in their right and suitable places to express. Just an unplugged headphone, but in actuality, he was well-protected against the notes, against the rare moody temptations of going extremely low to extremely high in a course of a few seconds. He took amusement in sorrows of outsiders, one errored push of a key couldn’t possibly trouble him or enlightening his artistic ego. He would prefer it to the awful pop songs.
"Afternoon of a Faun." he mumbled.
"So you do know it then, Frank?" a womenly voice spinned out from the top of the elevator. He was almost there, the highest floor, to then be taken to the opposite way again. His thoughts flied past his borders of consciousness and never to be seen again. He was a butterfly, flying along with his sister’s waving and curly hair at the beach, naked scenes. Though usually black, in sunshine, it was gorgeously dressed in an unusual light brown, faring wonders from the Sun. He would sit at her right shoulder for a while after that, by an old oak tree nearby, and spy the curves. The unholy rounds, the fresh, moving cleavages, visions of predominated sins. He wanted to fly lower and lower along the milky ways of pink flesh, to be drowned in awe of the perpetual youth of his sister. Frank’s mainmast always yielded, even at the sight of a clothed her, even at the imaginated sight of one. He didn’t answer.
"W-Well okay." the voice talked awkwardly, as if breaking up. "Where’s your phone anyway?"
"Reus wants to play some games."
"Oh, is that right? That explains why I can’t connect with you."
"What’s the problem?"
"Oh, I just wanted to warn you," it halted for a moment. "We have a new member."
Frank remained silent, but secretly satisfied because he was right. Not too satisfied, perhaps, as with the confirmation, his annoyed face was finally let out.
"So don’t start any trouble, he’s new."
"He?" Frank asked.
"But his shoes—?" his blue eyes widened to the flashy gray. "His shoes are pink, aren’t they?"
"No he’s a barefooting fan. Anyway, I will leave you alone now, just wanted to warn you that’s all. Have a nice day, and don’t start troubles!"
He wanted to ask more, he wanted to smash the transmission with his fists until the womenly voice started talking again, but his sister quickly drew him back. He wanted to save his sister. He wanted to make the best out of her, he wanted to give her the real dosage, the right dosage. He wanted to be inside her, saving her from all the douchebags, all the rebelling dumbasses, all the guns-shooting bastards of the world. He wanted to dive into her sexual chaoses of dreams, and right what was wrong. The automatic clicking sound of the elevator went off suddenly, just as he almost spurted. The floor Highest was reached, all that were left in him were regrets and repressions that couldn’t be told to other outsiders. Welcome electronic signs, as per usual, showed him ways. He’d been there many times before, but he couldn’t ever figure out how to remember the way in. It was like a maze, in which builders died out slowly one by one in the course of the construction. A few more lefts and rights, he reached a room full of piles of pillows. There was a man lying comfortably with a little gaping smile on one pile, staring straight as Frank came in.
"Who are you?" both contemporaneously asked.
After a suitable period for a childish pause, the man, who was looking about in his forties or fifties, said:
"I’m the new member. Who are you?"
"I’m Hoetz." Frank couldn’t hide his pocket of spit in his neck. "Why are you the new member?"
"Hoetz? Not that I don’t believe you, but sir, there are many Hoetzs in this town, more than I could count or bother to. I wouldn’t know which branch you are from to contact."
"Aren’t we supposed to contact each other?"
"No you aren’t!" Someone came from the second maze behind the man, shouted out. "Also, you two are getting on quickly, it seems!"
As he was beginning to present himself fully, with his casual black hair, the speech continued from where it left off:
"You oughta introduce your name first, what did I tell you? Cris, you are meeting the legend himself, Mr. Frank Hoetz. He’s our youngest outsider."
Cris was rubbing his pinched nose with both of his index fingers. Frank was cringing. He couln’t possibly care less. He would rather hang out with Reus, the doorman, than with this buch of lame turds. The sister would agree with this thought of his, her horny brother’s. His lust was dying out, seeing the man freckles slowly revealed through the blinds of darkness. Welcome signs couldn’t help, it kept blinking, which made an already unpleasant sight much, much worse. Arguably, the guy was just slightly more as ugly as Frank, but he couldn’t stand the sight of the creature. He was, to Frank, the least likeable character in the group, not just physically. But then again, the group as a whole wasn’t supposed to be likeable.
With a big grin, showing a lone, crooked pack of teeth which wasn’t taken care of in the right method, he shouted excitedly:
"Alright let’s get going! The convention is beginning in merely ten minutes!"
The mantra of character development can also be a double-edged sword. In stories spanning a short time frame, how much characters CAN be reasonably expected to actually change is often ignored; in those situations, the former is more important.
Yes that’s also right too. You really couldn’t expect Holden to start loving school again if he were to be delivered a great speech about it just hours after having quit school, and Salinger used Antonili to stress that, the characterized Holden, ever bored since the start of the novel. For another example, you hardly see any change from my cocky main char in Ellie & pieces :)
Excellent counter. How would you have extrapolated the characters beyond the scope of the narrative, in order to make the readers actually care for them?
What makes readers care for characters? Well, I can’t say much as a writer since I hardly have enough experience and talent to judge or say about it, but as an average reader or a long-time movie fan I guess I can say something about it. First, you gotta differentiate between characterisations and character developments, and how each one fit situations. When you see movies like Jurassic Park or say, the fairly recent Pacific Rim, the main focuses of them are not on and of the characters but the dinosaurs and the robots, so you don’t have much time for character developments. But we still somewhat care for the characters (well most of us anyway, though I can’t say as much for Pacific Rim), because the characters were built through ways of characterisations. Rarely developments were made in the films yes, they the characters were simply born with their permanent personalities and characteristics that their acts were also just reactions to what was happening, rather than from some unexpected changes of hearts. And it fits because we only need so much, for we will have more time to focus our attention on the reasons we go to see the things in the first place, dinosaurs and robots. It also fits because the characters already have a set of favourable, likeable personalities, so we don’t bother much (arguably for Pacific Rim, yes) A final example for this is Han Solo. We rarely see him do any real character development, he just roll with it and in the end become a hero as he always is. We the fans have always (mostly) liked him so its easy to like hime as long as he stay the way he is.
So it’s characterisations, you build cool characters and the people like it. But it depends at times, a bad script can reveal things. A bad script can lead cool characters with little developments to become really annoying, or somehow reveal their ugliness and shallowness. An example is the awful Brolin’s Jonah Hex, he seemed cool, killing and shit throughout the movie, but the movie was one so shitty that without hardly any developments done for his character whatsoever, that coolness inevitably became shadowed. So it’s not enough, cool, favourable or likeable is not enough, at least for action-driven movies anyway. Gotta have a good script also. But generally, my point is that characterisations are the methods that fit the most when your characters are not main characters of your movies, or novels. 1984’s main focuses are on political and social messages as I have said, not the characters, but the characters themself are not interesting enough either, at least they don’t have a set of personalities built through characterisations at first (purposely done in the novel, yes) And this leads us to character development.
In my opinion, character developments are much more important than characterisations, because it’s always very enjoying to go along with the movie and realise that your character has changed in the way you see fits and find interesting. A famous example of characterisation is the movie James Bond. Yes he’s cool, has been a lady killer for more than fifty years, a simplified awesome spy. Handsome Brit with whatever the cool thing he’s holding in his hand. However, coming into these recent decades we get a taste of Casino Royale and Skyfall, I won’t count Quantum of Solace because it doesn’t happen. Basically, we see a new Bond in these movies, not just physically but also the way the character was built. Through his actions in the movies and the brilliant script we get the chance to see his changes, little by little, easily spotted too, and this rarely ever happen in older ones. It gives the chance for the viewers to see the real Bond, get to know to him and decide if they really want to be like him. Bond had been cool, always had been cool, everybody wanted to be like him, but how about now? When he is not really the same anymore? The developments trigger questions, demands questions from viewers, and they have to solve those for themself, ultimately the characters get mentioned for more times in their heads, messing up their minds and in turns become more relatable. Like Selma in Dancer in the Dark. When she smashed that guy’s head, people wasn’t hating her for doing that, instead they pitied her and understood her actions. She wasn’t born to be so cruel and so willing to do such a horrible act, but the circumstances forced her to make changes of her own self. And we understood because we cared for her, we noticed changes of her acts as well as personalities throughout the movie. In Inception, we might have a smile, a chuckle or two with Eames’ characterized mocks, one-liners, or Arthur’s willing and spontaneous steal of a kiss, but we care most for Cobb, who have problems and intend to fix it or be fixed with developments later on as the movie goes further. The guy’s not even likeable, but it was his past and the questions, mysteries that surround him make him an interesting character, worth our while to care and follow. I know Inception might be hated around here by a few and Cobb might be the dumbest and most annoying character to some fellows, but I gotta have an example through generalisations, you know.
And in the case of comparing the two, very well done, but let’s circle back to 1984, using your examples of each.
In the argument for characterization, yes—Winston is nothing but a vessel to provide seemingly endless examples of the individual in contrast to the police state. In many ways, it makes both his speech and his narrative droll. I mean, he’s always whining about his varicose ulcer, the urge to shout obscenities at the telescreen and, most importantly, why he writes his journal. But in that way, there is also a classical touch to it—hearkening back to Aristotle and his plot-driven narrative and the weight of plot over character. as outlined in his Poetics. Also, consider the absolute genius of Welles’ weaving in and out of direct and indirect characterization of W. Smith. Yes, there are interminable passages detailing what he does and thinks; equally, there are interminable passages detailing his actions that give the reader pause to wonder what kind of man he is in such a world (not to mention how we ourselves might react to situations in said universe). It’s only upon the last few sentences the readers fully realize Winston’s transformation as a full circle, not only of the individual but of its sacrifice to love and, ultimately, to a government that would crush it to dust.
In the argument for character development, Winston is the only one who goes through any change, but only because Welles designed it that way. Julia only serves as a catalyst in Winston’s transformation. As outlined above, it is ultimately Winston who we see go through his awful change, brought about by a mixture of examples ranging from his illicit trysts with Julia to reawakened memories from foodstuffs pilfered from the inner party (a major plot device, by the way), and ultimately the failure in his trust of O’Brien that leads to his downfall. Again, there are long passages that go on forever about the horrible conditions, the proles and the destruction of individual thought—but it is a brilliant effort to interweave political intrigue and subtle character development in as few words as the length of that book. Consider the fact that Winston doesn’t just have “a change of heart” by the end of the book, that what he experiences ultimately makes him a hero (a minority of one) and, when it is used to break him, he becomes something of an anti-hero, if only for a fleeting moment. Some of it is long-winded, but is written so deftly as to be nearly poetic.
I can’t stress enough that this was written back in the late forties, when the Cold War was in full swing, and that Winston’s was a common fear. To wake up in a world bathed in Communist Red was an unimaginable bastard of a nightmare, and so how to tell Winston’s story without the backdrop of detailing the fear of what might have been? Suppose the book had never been written, and only now we were getting to this point. In our current mode of telling stories, how many pages, how many words do you think it could take to get such a point across? True, more might have been written about Winston or Julia (who served more as a counterpoint to Winston’s perspective), but the little that delves into their personal lives ultimately shapes the fear of losing identity, and how a person might betray it at whatever cost.
I agree wholeheartedly, very good analysis, but that’s also why 1984 seems a bit odd to me, not really a novel but more an essay. Much has been said of Winston, but in the end we don’t really know him, and it’s done so as to fit the theme of 1984 itself. In turns, I see him more as a tool, a device that is to be put in a metal box along with others that a skillful technician carry with him around places, to help him fix things up. It has details about it, stats written on a sticker, and it’s already described and acknowledged how it will be suitable to the job the technician do, but ultimately it’s just a tool. It doesn’t have any moral depth, you can replace it when it becomes broken by buying another one from the nearest market. Now Winston is used as a counter, a resistance to the world of 1984, but he’s also an obsolette object, winded by the government, too fragile and too flawed to begin with just like the rest. Again, that characterisation is done purposely, but that makes the characters and the story surrounding them very bland in ways. Even when the characters are breaking the rules, which should be exciting and invigorating, they still seem bland. Purposely, Orwell did little to get the main story going, instead he left more space for focusing on themed details and expositions.
When I read a book or see a movie, I notice there are two main types of those: plot-driven and character-driven. 1984 is neither. While it presents very little on the characters, there are very few movements added to the story as well, all made as suitable contributions for the idea of 1984, what it offers us, a look at a potential world possessing political, social ideas of a current time.
Excellent counter. How would you have extrapolated the characters beyond the scope of the narrative, in order to make the readers actually care for them?
What makes readers care for characters? Well, I can’t say much as a writer since I hardly have enough experience and talent to judge or say about it, but as an average reader or a long-time movie fan I guess I can say something about it. First, you gotta differentiate between characterisations and character developments, and how each one fit situations. When you see movies like Jurassic Park or say, the fairly recent Pacific Rim, the main focuses of them are not on and of the characters but the dinosaurs and the robots, so you don’t have much time for character developments. But we still somewhat care for the characters (well most of us anyway, though I can’t say as much for Pacific Rim), because the characters were built through ways of characterisations. Rarely developments were made in the films yes, they the characters were simply born with their permanent personalities and characteristics that their acts were also just reactions to what was happening, rather than from some unexpected changes of hearts. And it fits because we only need so much, for we will have more time to focus our attention on the reasons we go to see the things in the first place, dinosaurs and robots. It also fits because the characters already have a set of favourable, likeable personalities, so we won’t be bothered much (arguably for Pacific Rim, yes) A final example for this is Han Solo. We rarely see him do any real character development, he just roll with it and in the end become a hero as he always is. We the fans have always (mostly) liked him so its easy to like him as long as he stay the way he is.
So it’s characterisations, you build cool characters and the people like it. But it depends at times, a bad script can reveal things. A bad script can lead cool characters with little developments to become really annoying, or somehow reveal their ugliness and shallowness. An example is the awful Brolin’s Jonah Hex, he seemed cool, killing and shit throughout the movie, but the movie was one so shitty that without hardly any developments done for his character whatsoever, that coolness inevitably became shadowed. So it’s not enough, cool, favourable or likeable is not enough, at least for action-driven movies anyway. Gotta have a good script also. But generally, my point is that characterisations are the methods that fit the most when your characters are not main characters of your movies, or novels. 1984’s main focuses or say, real characters, are the political and social ideas, messages as I have said, not the human characters, but the characters themself are not interesting enough either, at least they don’t have a set of personalities built through characterisations at first (purposely done in the novel, yes) And this leads us to character development.
In my opinion, character developments are much more important than characterisations, because it’s always very enjoying to go along with the movie and realise that your character has changed in the way you see fits and find interesting. A famous example of characterisation is the movie James Bond. Yes he’s cool, has been a lady killer for more than fifty years, a simplified awesome spy. Handsome Brit with whatever the cool thing he’s holding in his hand. However, coming into these recent decades we get a taste of Casino Royale and Skyfall, I won’t count Quantum of Solace because it doesn’t happen. Basically, we see a new Bond in these movies, not just physically but also the way the character was built. Through his actions in the movies and the brilliant scripts we get the chance to see his changes, little by little, easily spotted ones too, and this rarely ever happened in older ones. It gives the chance for the viewers to see the real Bond, get to know to him and decide if they really want to be like him. Bond had been cool, always had been cool, everybody wanted to be like him, but how about now? When he is not really the same anymore? The developments trigger questions, demands questions from viewers, and they have to solve those for themself, ultimately the characters get mentioned for more times in their heads, messing up their minds and in turns become more relatable. Like Selma in Dancer in the Dark. When she smashed that guy’s head, people wasn’t hating her for doing that, instead they pitied her and understood her actions. She wasn’t born to be so cruel and so willing to do such a horrible act, but the circumstances forced her to make changes of her own self. And we understood because we cared for her, we noticed changes of her acts as well as personalities throughout the movie. In Inception, we might have a smile, a chuckle or two with Eames’ characterized mocks, one-liners, or Arthur’s willing and spontaneous steal of a kiss, but we care most for Cobb, who have problems and intend to fix it or be fixed with developments later on as the movie goes further. The guy’s not even likeable, but it was his past and the questions, mysteries that surround him make him an interesting character, worth our while to care and follow. I know Inception might be hated around here by a few and Cobb might be the dumbest and most annoying character to some fellows, but I gotta have an example through generalisations, you know.
While I can’t disagree with your assessment, you must understand 1984 was written back in the late 40’s, and there is much story told in relatively few words, which is the real genius behind the story. An economy of words, to say the least.
Its main messages were delivered through heaps of paragraphs, also meticulously written ones with very effective usages of words, but the root of the main story as a novel in itself was only stretched as much, mostly simplified and cut. It’s done purposely at parts yes, like how it presents Winston’s and other characters’ past backgrounds to the readers so as to fit with one of the themes 1984 possess which is the elimination of personalities, but thus that also makes it not so much a novel. What I want to say is that there is hardly any progression and any depth built for the main story involving the main characters at all. With a bad script, a great director can do good things, but with a good script, then he can do amazing things. 1984, it’s driven mainly through flashbacks and series of political, social essays, and takes its time to describe how horrid that world is, so that when Winston and the characters are to be captured later on we might feel pitiful towards them for what they will have to inevitably go though. Not because we care for them.
Finally started reading Kafka on the Shore. Diving into chapter 13 right now. So far so good, this one can become one of my faves in no time. One of the unique things this book have for me is the ability to trigger some senses of nostalgia. I don’t know if anyone feel like so.
Also finished 1984 a while back. It’s very good as an essay, but not so much as a novel. The characters are bland and the storytelling isn’t too compacted, and the further you go the more humdrum is the style it’s written in. On the other hand, its political and social messages were delivered well and clear, very well-written and meticulous.
Time is lost with him, this Frank Hoetz. He used to have an air like that of an antique dealer, so authentic and truthful, yet his tongue and mouth filled with careless bubbles, speeches. He loved Hitler insults, even when no one with rectangular mustaches around. His blue eyes widened every time he saw a new item, then he would observe it, look at it so proudly, as if it was a potential talisman for whatever he would be doing next. Pity money had to be the issue.
His mother and his father were in the kitchen currently, letting strong fragrances of sour milk slide down from throats to stomachs, fat ones, one was of another case of pregnancy and one was of the excess of beer bottles in the fridge. The louder they were the faster the process, however, their ignorant, senseless rants about something of which their involvements weren’t part couldn’t break through the barrier of sounds one of Frank’s headphones was making, a metaphorical blanket for ears. He strolled through life with them, or at least so far as he could remember. He remembered himself walking through a civil right demonstration, the third one in the whole month of June some years ago, with all the fireworks and what not surrounding him. He remembered the cigarette he was smoking and its brand, a French type, as it let out shapes of air so exquisite, so gray that made it distinguishable among the competing products of guns bargains and tussles of dusty rocks. He sat himself down above a gutter for a while, his pants facing the dirt of a sidewalk, when a gentleman in suit and tie with a bludgeon in his right hand approached him from the main street.
"Can you give me fire, good man?"
"Give you what?"
"Fire! Fire, you know, for smoking, dude!", sighed. "What are you doing here anyway, shouldn’t you be celebratory?"
"I was bored."
"Does this look like a game to you?"
The man paused for a bit. He started rubbing his beardless chin for a few seconds while looking at Frank, then pointed his thumb backwards, towards the actions.
"I haven’t got a bludgeon in any of my hands. Besides, why join when you could watch?"
"Well, excuse me, but I thought people like you adore the actions rather than consequences and results?"
"Is that a question?"
"Yes," he breathed sarcastic breaths. "Sorry, I will be back soon. My dudes are in some grave danger!"
Blood was spilt all over the ground once more, V-shaped masks were taken off and trampled upon, after faces having been shrank inwards with powerful indirect blows of metal pieces and down on feet and backs. Those were once possessions of the man’s partners, Frank thought, seeing he was standing on the same line as the poor lads. Soon he got surrounded by governmental armors, and beaten with more bludgeons. Frank stood up from it and started walking forth again, all the while he drew out from his left and right pockets another cigarette that had been fittingly placed among its three other fellows in his uncle’s gifted case, and a new-ish lighter, gift from his neighbor, both accompanied with “Smoke kills.” texts in different fonts. A few blocks more were passed and the scenes around him changed a bit. There were lines of white limousines drifting through people dead and alive accustomed by a bunch more of the throwings of rocks, all possibly customizedly reinforced, as there wasn’t even a scratch on them no matter what. He was listening to something chilling with his favourite headphone covering both his ears as his eyes were witnessing a girl trying hard to crawl up on one of the expensive thingies’ roofs and started treading on it with her cheap boots, carrying a slightly frightful manner and an almost angry facial. All things considered, for Frank it was another amusing scene. She pulled out from her long-sleeved shirt, one of those hipsters’, ‘s left pocket, what seemed like a big, black fish hook, then dropped down and began to rake the roof with it, or at least attempted to with all the hand gestures shown. After a few more moments of useless extremes with no lucks, up and down, pushing feminine muscles to the limits while retaining the balance, she stepped off having realized her own impotence. Her slim blue skirt was mixed up with something extraordinarily red, as if she were “at it”. Frank shook his head with a swift smile and took a right turn, ignoring a steady stoplight.
The wooden banner was getting heavier on his neck as he walked on. The rope seemed to be getting tighter and tighter, confidently enhancing traces of twists just under his pointed chin. He couldn’t change it, he’d always wished to change it, not just his chin but his face as a whole. He liked his hair blond instead of the casual black like most of the ones inhabitting the god-forsaken country. He loved his nose higher and straighter, pinched instead of up-turned. He would be in the greatest joy if he could remove his tooth crown casually without hurting his eating habit. At the age of six, Frank already started looking at mirrors looking at himself corruptedly, ones just as blurry as the financial and mental condition of his family and its house then. Didn’t matter much, as he looked a bit below average when exposed no matter the circumstances. He was promptly used to being misguided by childish thoughts that led ways to his exaggerated dreams at nights, even when he got older, notably always containing a straight vision of him being chased by an intangible and crooked, ugly ego, also wearing a wooden banner. Sometimes it happened right in the highlights of a shagging, conductors of wet deliriums. He would poke a hole through his favourite pillows, go to sleep hugging them and wake up with mixtures of semen and tears and sometimes piss. He had a minimal surmise that his parents knew about his nocturnal, halfly conscious activities all along, but he just couldn’t help and be helped. He wanted to try his best and his worst until it was enough and demands were outspoken, he wanted his sister to at least take a notice of him, but he just had not yet ever felt it. Frank’s sister, who was always in deeper levels of sexual chaoses.
It was heavy, but he walked on, took more turns. The intersecting streets were getting oddly darker.
The creaky beats of wood kept on spawning over and from the many fair collisions with his chest, but he simply ignored the physical happenings. It was “How to Disappear Completely” by Radiohead now on, one of his utmost favourite songs. In his views, and his many analyses typed out for the internet, the song was mostly optimistic, hence followed later on by “Optimistic”, with bits here and there of touches of pessimistic sensations. Strobe lights and blown speakers, fireworks and hurricanes, which was assumed to represent mosh pits, always were the favourable likes at a music concert, a big one. Though an argument could be made that he loved his headphones more than his music, and that he would cry over them when something bad happens to the things even while all music in the world were quickly vanishing into the abyss, but its alternative purpose would not be to dismiss his love for the latter. Admittedly, apart from some of the songs which caught his ears immensely, in his own ways, he was not a big fan of Radiohead, he’d never gone to their concerts, not one, even when they were set up just at the border of his hometown, sometimes the Kafka desert. Instead, he’d seen Röyksopp live several times. He sometimes would close his eyes, but he’d always imagine chaotic wrestles and hassles done around him as they were, fantastico pleasures of collective musical orgasms felt among the rest, and he sometimes would be so godly untouched by it, protected from it completely. Just as well, in the rare ocassions, the heated moments of wild temptations and intrinsic willingness, he would be gradually joining in after a few moments of carelessness, when the fourth walls collapsed, and still coming out of it alive and fine, unknowing of the external world and internal identities. He would feel as if he were the virile statue in Cole’s “Destruction”, senseless and meaningless, bastard of a great fallen.
Anonymous said: Do you like writing Ellie? How is the process?
Of course I love writing it, heck I would be lying if I said I wasn’t proud of it. It’s challenging to write of course, but after my prolonged experiments some time ago with ekphrases and the likes I got used to it, the process of writing lengthy things in general I mean. Of course the process is different with different people, who has different styles of their own, but I think there’s one thing we can agree on: Don’t take any fucking long breaks, write continuously instead! It will keep you on your feet and invariably inspired, attached with your own stories’ flows, while immersing yourself in the opposite act can possibly do some bad things to your current ideas as well as your urges of actually wanting to write anything for that matter, shortened as the interventions of laziness. Maybe it’s just me, but damn, I struggle with it from time to time ever since I started writing, I take breaks like a motherfucker… Getting back to the series after each part was finished has always been a difficult thing to do for me.