Noiseless Chatter

Fiction into Film: The Raven (1845 / 1990)

Fiction into Film is a series devoted to page-to-screen adaptations. The process of translating prose to the visual medium is a tricky and only intermittently successful one, but even the fumbles provide a great platform for understanding stories, and why they affect us the way they do.

Am I breaking the rules by covering a TV show? In a word: no, because I make the rules. But in a few slightly more respectful words: maybe, but I think it raises an interesting discussion.

The mere fact that I’ve chosen to spotlight a segment of The Simpsons‘ first Halloween special should tell you that I think it’s as worthy of consideration as anything else I’ve covered here. Then again, the mere fact that I feel the need to open with an explanation says something about the comparatively smaller merit we assign to television.

Had The Raven — this version, this length, this exact cut — aired as a short film in theaters, there’d be no question. But instead it’s a segment of an episode of a long-running television show. A revered television show, but, hey, it’s still just TV.

And I find that interesting. To this day a made-for-TV movie gets less attention and respect than anything released to theaters, and while it’s easy to find examples of TV movies that are downright terrible (hello, Lifetime!), it’s really no less difficult to find terrible theatrical releases.

Yet theatrical films (tellingly, what everyone thinks of when they hear the word “movie”) get some baseline level of consideration that TV isn’t afforded.

Every so often you’ll hear Breaking Bad or Mad Men or some other piece of prestige TV get spoken of in reverent tones — often being openly compared to film, as though that is an inherent compliment — but they’re the exceptions. Bad films don’t tarnish the reputation of theatrical releases, but whenever a great TV show comes around its praise is couched in apology for all of the crap that surrounds it.

The Simpsons is probably the first example of a show that I remember being spoken of in those reverent tones. Perhaps if I were older that show would be M*A*S*H, but, as it stands, it was The Simpsons that I first saw reach out of the television and make the world pay attention.

Those who praised the show still did it apologetically — it was on FOX, after all, which was already known for carrying disreputable programming — but there was a level of seductive danger to it that made us see clearly that it wasn’t just “good for TV,” and wasn’t even just “good.” It was great, and however long it lasted (surely it couldn’t last long…) we’d be talking about it in 10 years, 20 years, 50 years, wondering how we were lucky enough to witness something of such undeniable cultural significance.

Those last two words there can’t be over-emphasized. Even if you dislike the show, its cultural significance is not up for debate. The Simpsons, even by the time of this episode, early in its second season, was everywhere.

Bart especially was on magazine covers, t-shirts, and shaved into the back of people’s haircuts. The show was a phenomenon of such significance that people felt the need to fight it. I remember the priest at my church warning families about it. I remember teachers hearing us talking about the show and saying that we were too young to watch things like that. Even President Bush (the much less horrible one) spoke out about how the show was rotting American minds.

The Simpsons wasn’t just some thing on TV that you either watched or you didn’t. It was a show that had power, which is why those in positions of authority were so keen to condemn it. Time deals with fads and fancies quickly enough…but power needs to be defeated.

“Treehouse of Horror” — which contains The Raven — was only the show’s 16th episode, but it was already event television. That’s why Marge, the show’s ethical center, needs to introduce it, and to warn us. She’s not quite out of character, but she’s definitely out of her element. She stands before a red curtain and implores us with seeming sincerity, before the opening credits even roll, not to let the children watch. This wasn’t part of the show…at least, not as far as I could tell. I knew Marge wasn’t real, but it also felt like she meant this.

I was a child watching. And I distinctly remember glancing around the room to see if my parents were going to switch the TV off. Or — horror of horrors! — make me go to bed while they kept watching. I recognize in Marge’s monologue now some dryly funny moments, but to a child this feels serious. It’s a cartoon mom, but it’s still a mom. And she’s warning you. If you go forward you’ll have no-one to blame but yourself.

This is scary, dangerous territory you’re about to enter, and you’re being warned not to do it. Clearly, that only made me want to do it more. And my parents stayed where they were. I wonder still if they were silently figuring out how quickly they could hustle me out of the room if things actually did get too scary or gory.

She ends her monologue with a defensive comment about angry letters — something the show had clearly received a lot of, and something which it would lampoon thoroughly a few episodes later with “Itchy & Scratchy & Marge” — and that’s it. You’ve been warned. You made your own decision.

You’re on your own, kids.

For those who feared the power of The Simpsons, this must have been a true Halloween nightmare spilling into the real world. This show that was already so dangerous — so (for the time) violent, profane, distrusting, and disrespectful — was telling you outright that you’re about to watch the most dangerous fucking thing that could ever possibly be aired on television.

If The Simpsons itself was warning you…what in the world was it going to show kids? What godless stretch of carnage and brutality could ever be in store? What in hell are teachers going to have to put up with the next day in school?

Well, if they were good teachers, they’d be delighted, because their students were about to be exposed to an unforgettable blast of classic American literature.

The Simpsons version of The Raven is a true adaptation. It’s not a parody, though there are jokes in it, and it’s far too comprehensive to be an homage. It’s an adaptation, and that’s why it belongs here. For its trueness to its subject, and also for its sheer novelty. After all, how many shows do you know of that actually did straight adaptations?

Typically when a TV show would mine literature for ideas it would result in something like the endless versions of A Christmas Carol that sitcom characters have endured over the years. The central conceit is there, a few necessarily plot beats are struck, and that’s it. It’s not an adaptation so much as it is the borrowing of a framework. Characters from one universe live out — temporarily — the barest sketch of events from another, and the next week we forget it completely.

Other times you’ll have a more general genre pastiche, such as the war fiction sendup that is Spaced‘s paintball episode, or the noir tinge of The Venture Bros.‘ “Everybody Comes to Hank’s.”

In none of these cases are we dealing with true adaptation. Instead we’re borrowing (or winking toward) recognizable elements.

And that makes sense; airtime is valuable. 30 minutes of somebody’s attention had better be worth it, or they’ll change the channel. That’s why shows undercut or play loose with the material they do borrow. You can tune in to Gilligan’s Island and see the castaways staging a musical version of Hamlet, but you won’t ever see the cast do a straight recreation of The Tempest from Shakespeare’s original script. (However appropriate that might have been.)

And yet The Simpsons does a straight adaptation here, and though they’ve done a new “Treehouse of Horror” special every year since, and have regularly mined the works of others in order to do so, this is the only time they haven’t undercut the original. It’s the only time they presented — rather than parodied — the actual substance of the source material.

And it’s still one of the best things the show’s ever done.

The oddness of getting a straight literary adaptation embedded in The Simpsons is definitely noteworthy. Looney Tunes beat this show well to the literary parody punch with its own animated takes on classic stories (Robinson Crusoe, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and Of Mice and Men all spring instantly to mind), but, again, those weren’t adaptations. Aside from anthology series like The Twilight Zone or Masterpiece Theater, in which every episode was a one-off case, straight adaptation simply didn’t happen.

But here was a show that wasn’t afraid of turning its runtime — and its audience’s attention — over to a work of poetry that had been written a century and a half earlier. What did The Simpsons do when it held the youth of America rapt? It did what Lisa does here: it pulled out a schoolbook, and it read to them.

And that’s why The Simpsons was so dangerous: it wanted its audience to think.

It was unconventional TV, but not in the way it was accused of being. It’s not that it contained adult content so much as the fact that it wanted viewers to think for themselves. Its most dangerous idea wasn’t “there is no God” or “don’t trust your leaders.” It was this: we trust you to think for yourself.

It wasn’t an assault on Christian values; it was an assault on intellectual laziness.

That’s what made the show so many powerful enemies.

I’m probably doing the segment a disservice by calling it a straight adaptation. It is, but it’s more than that. It’s thoroughly Edgar Allan Poe’s work, but it’s just as thoroughly The Simpsons.

The latter’s stamp, necessarily, is all over it. The Simpsons had a clear visual style and The Raven must, of course, be filtered through that. Additionally, the voice cast are too recognizable to overlook, with Dan Castellaneta getting a well-earned and well-handled spotlight. (His dual delivery of “Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!” — first in theatrical anger and then in seething frustration — is particularly brilliant.)

But aside from a few cameos and background gags (Forgotten Lore, Vol. II is my easy favorite), the universe we occupy isn’t that of The Simpsons, or even some fantasy variant of The Simpsons. It’s the universe of Poe…the confined, claustrophobic, oppressive, inescapable universe of Poe. No, the Simpsons‘ stamp isn’t the bleeding-through of the show’s comic sensibilities, but of its artistic ones.

David Silverman, who is probably more responsible for the visual direction of the show than anyone else (he honed its style way back when it was a series of skits on The Tracey Ullman Show), had the unenviable task of entertaining children who tuned in to watch their favorite cartoon and found themselves sitting through a poetry recital. It was a no-win proposition that he easily, unquestionably won.

Silverman directed The Raven, and the fact that he could focus on only his five-or-so minute segment meant he could devote more of his attention to making it visually and artistically inventive…an opportunity he clearly took to heart.

The Raven represents the most impressive animation the show had seen yet, and it’s clear that a great deal of time was spent arranging the scene, blocking the shots, and finding interesting angles from which to watch the story unfold.

Poe’s original poem — yes, poem, but I’d argue it’s just as much fiction as any prose I’ve read — takes place in a single environment. One room. A door is opened, a window is opened, but our protagonist never leaves. There are strong thematic reasons for that, but it’s the kind of thing you can more easily make interesting on the page, where you can spend time in your protagonist’s mind, than you can on screen, where viewers (especially those tuning in to watch a 90s cartoon show) expect visual variety.

Silverman’s environment is a drab and sad room. Deliberately so. Volumes of books line the wall. Atmosphere is thick but decoration is sparse. There’s a fireplace, a chair, and a bust of Pallas. Visually, it’s hard to imagine anything less exciting, and that’s by design. Poe’s source material isn’t the story of external adventure; it’s a dark meditation on inner emptiness. Our unnamed protagonist spends a lonely, torturous night with his memories of “this lost Lenore.” His solitude turns to madness, and that madness ravages him further. He is his own victim in an endless, unbreakable cycle of abusive despair.

So empty is his life that when he hears a tapping, a rapping at his chamber door, he ignores it. “’Tis some visitor,” he mutters, “tapping at my chamber door. Only this and nothing more.” He waits, quietly, for the visitor to leave.

Who is it? He doesn’t care. He’s not interested in company. He waits it out, or attempts to, and only gives in to answering the door when it’s clear that the visitor won’t go away. And so our protagonist spins a limp apology about having been asleep, while we know he was instead hoping that he wouldn’t have to face another human being.

That much of his wish is granted, because, when he opens the door, there is nobody waiting. If he’s relieved he won’t be for long; he’ll receive another kind of visitor soon enough.

And that’s the visual premise of the story. A man is in a room and doesn’t wish to speak with anyone. Making that compelling television seems difficult at best, but Silverman was up to the challenge, all while staying true to Poe’s dreary, lonesome setting, and at no point betraying it.

As we see with the very loose interpretation of The Twilight Zone‘s “To Serve Man” that precedes The Raven — and as we’ll see in every “Treehouse of Horror” to follow — the show is willing to be pliant with its source material. It can take a small, simple story and expand upon it to create something larger, with a more universal impact, for the sake of including more characters or visual and comic variety. A perfect example of this is the “Monkey’s Paw” send-up that they’d do the following year; the original story took place between two characters in their home, whereas The Simpsons ignored those limitations and expanded the premise immensely.

The show’s adherence to the original’s confined setting is a self-imposed challenge. The Raven could have been anything; it’s an adaptation, after all. The only rules are the ones set by those adapting it.

Instead, Silverman and writer Sam Simon (credited alongside Poe) lock themselves in the same room that drove our protagonist insane. Why? Because they believed they could do something incredible with that limitation.

And they did.

In art, limitation is often conducive to inventiveness. If you can create anything and do anything, you often end up at a loss. Infinite possibility is too much possibility. There’s little to cling to. Nowhere to start. No definitive end. That’s why so many stories adhere to so few basic structures (star-crossed lovers, fish out of water, the quest, whodunit, coming of age, and so on). An artist can do anything, but “doing anything” is often ill-advised.

Within a structure, with confines, with rules and restrictions, an artist can narrow his or her focus. When boundaries are set, artists know where they must focus their attention. And when their attentions are focused, they can find unexpected treasures.

That’s why Silverman is all exaggerated angles, all aggressive framing. He’s finding a new melody in somebody else’s tune. He’s using his voice to recite somebody else’s work. He’s finding that treasure.

Silverman’s camera haunts Homer as much as the memories of Lenore haunt him. It seeks him out when he cowers. It stares into his face when he wishes to hide. It looms overhead, out of reach and refusing to blink. It hems him in as effectively as the walls of his chamber, and it casts judgment on him as well. It observes him. It refuses to let him out of sight, where he can actually be alone.

Its behavior is very much in line with that of the raven itself…it’s visual foreshadowing — and enhancing — of the hopelessness and frustration that the titular bird comes to represent.

Reading Poe’s original on its own can feel daunting. While it’s not a difficult poem, exactly, it’s still a complex one. The rhymes are shifty. The repetition is potentially confusing. The dialogue is especially left open to interpretive intonation.

In short, it’s not the kind of thing a child — or even many adults in 1990 — would have understood on their own, even if they had cared to dig it out. It’s a masterful piece of unnerving and insightful writing, but what good is insight that an audience doesn’t experience?

By bringing this poem to life, The Simpsons granted it not only a renewed cultural relevance, but it provided its own frame of reference. These words written 145 years prior suddenly meant something to an entire generation that didn’t know they existed.

And I’m not exaggerating. I ran a quick poll on Facebook to see if I was being unfairly generous to the legacy of this adaptation, but a good number of people indeed said that The Simpsons‘ version of The Raven was their first experience of the poem.

That is to say, I wasn’t alone.

There were kids out there like me who sat down to watch their favorite show and ended up discovering a masterful work of literature that nobody had shown them before.

What’s more, it was no passing lesson. This version of The Raven resonates, probably because it was made easier to understand for an audience that might not have otherwise sat through it.

In addition to the simple fact that it’s being acted out as opposed to being read as static text on a page, The Simpsons provides the cross-generational tones of James Earl Jones as our narrator. Jones’s voice is familiar from contexts as varied as Star Wars and the CNN bumpers, and the length of breadth of his career means that we recognize his voice as both comforting and chilling, soothing and serious, profound and deadly. His was — and is — a voice that doesn’t so much command attention as surround it. Your favorite cartoon may be playing out safely before you, but his is a voice you can’t escape.

Jones’s reading is respectful to the source material. He appears in this episode’s other two segments to tell jokes, but for The Raven he’s all business. He’s reading a great poem, and you’re going to listen while he does so.

Which is good, because Poe’s original can be difficult to parse. The sneaky rhymes are easy to trip over…at least they are when you don’t know how to read them. When it’s being recited for you, by somebody who understands the poem’s meter, it’s a very different experience…a winding, binding, inescapable spiral of madness in the mundane.

Jones gives it breath and helps us to work around the language no child would have understood. He’s not dumbing it down, and at no point does his narration stray from the original text; he’s showing us instead that we can understand the poem even if we don’t understand every word of it. And that’s a valuable lesson: literature is more about how it makes you feel and what it does to you than it is about what it says.

It doesn’t matter if a child knows who Pallas was, or what Poe meant by “the Night’s Plutonian shore,” or what obeisance is. Jones treats every stanza with equal gravity, leveling the field. Word choice is undeniably important, but not as important as a poem’s (or a story’s, or a novel’s) impact. Jones reads on, too dauntless to let anyone in the audience realize that they just heard something they don’t fully understand. And the reason is this: by the end of the vignette, they will understand.

But Jones can’t take full credit for making the poem easier to parse. No, Silverman deserves kudos for that as well. For starters, I believe fully that a non-English speaker could watch this segment and come away feeling exactly what they should feel, in spite of understanding nothing that they’ve heard. This is due to the atmosphere masterfully conjured and sustained by the direction. The darkened colors…the careful shadow-work…the alternately distant and aggressive blocking. Silverman tells the same tale Jones is telling, and he tells it with a different kind of language: the language of visual cinema.

With his language, he chooses to emphasize certain aspects of Poe’s original. Most significant is the presence of Lenore.

Lenore serves the same purpose in both the original text and on The Simpsons: she’s an urgent, painful absence. But in the text, that’s all you get. Granted, even a careless reader would register her name simply by virtue of the fact that it’s the only character’s name we learn, but beyond that it’s up to us to interpret our protagonist’s feelings for her.

We don’t learn her fate. (She’s “lost,” but that can mean — especially in horror — several things.) We know only that she isn’t present, and that our protagonist does not expect to see her again. Does he feel sorrow, or is it actually something closer to guilt? Was he helpless to save her, or was she never his in the first place? Poe’s work does a great job of leaving these questions — and many others — open, which helps it to resonate among so many. (My Lenore, I am sure, is distinct from yours, dear reader.)

But The Simpsons gives us an answer, and it does it in two major ways. One of them is entirely down to Silverman: whereas the name Lenore appears only a handful of times throughout Poe’s poem, the animated Lenore is a constant presence…a reminder upon the wall, often glimpsed, sometimes dwelt upon, during our protagonist’s lonesome, eternal nightmare. She’s always a presence for him in both versions, but in the animated version she’s a presence for us as well…framed on the wall, an image from a time when she was yet reachable. A reminder not of what once was, but of what will never be again.

The other way Lenore’s role is defined comes not from Silverman, but from the show itself: it’s Marge.

By this early stage in its life, The Simpsons already had strong character development behind it. Lisa’s character was heartbreakingly defined by “Moaning Lisa.” Bart’s struggle for identity and acceptance was solidified by “The Telltale Head.” (Another Poe reference, coincidentally.) And Homer and Marge’s marriage had been explored and tested by “Life on the Fast Lane.”

While characterization certainly fluctuated, we quickly saw these characters become the ones we’d always remember them being. By the time season two came along, we knew and understood them. They were established. They were people. That’s why Lisa has a textbook with her in the treehouse. That’s why Homer goes trick-or-treating and relishes his haul. That’s while Bart restlessly goofs around while Lisa reads her poem, and adds a bratty twist at her expense to the end of his alien story.

And all of this is why Marge is the perfect Lenore; she, like the others, is an established character. We know her, and we know how others feel about her. That is to say, we know exactly how painful her absence would be to Homer.

The Raven might exist outside of the day-to-day Simpsons universe, but its central emotion sure doesn’t. Should Marge ever be “lost,” you can rest assured this would be Homer. Broken. Tormented. Frightened.

A single glimpse of Lenore is all we need to get the picture, but instead we see her frequently. We see her on the wall as the woman Homer loves, the woman Homer doesn’t always quite deserve, the woman who holds his heart and his place in the world. When she’s gone — immediately, unexpectedly — so is his mind.

The arrival of the raven is the final blow to the man’s sanity. He begins amused by the arrival of this silly little bird, but becomes increasingly frustrated by its singular, callous message.

“Nevermore.”

The helplessness of our protagonist is thus externalized. The Raven isn’t a story about a man having to process the consequence of his actions. It’s the opposite; it’s a man who’s done nothing but process that consequence, and now has to face it externally, outside of his own mind.

The bird isn’t here to mess around. Its “flirt and flutter” through the window is no mere quirk of circumstance. Its arrival is purposeful, judgmental, and damning.

Silverman’s direction respects this; as comical as it is to see a bird with Bart’s haircut, it’s behaving in a very serious way. (Its ascension by steps to the bust of Pallas is especially well animated.) It’s here for a reason. It has something to say. And it’s the worst thing our protagonist could ever hope to hear: “Your worst fears?” the raven indirectly articulates. “They’re correct. You’re right to feel as awful as you do.”

The realization is a stubborn one. Our protagonist in both media fails to shake the bird. He fails to elicit any other response. He fails to alter, even slightly, the judgment upon him reflecting the one he’s already visited upon himself.

The original builds to the same ending, in which the raven still is sitting — still is sitting! — on the pallid bust of Pallas just above the chamber door. But immediately before that we get the biggest difference between the two versions: whereas the protagonist of the poem pleads relentlessly, and unsuccessfully, with the bird to leave him in peace, Homer resorts to violence.

This is obviously in keeping with the Simpsons aspect of the telling; we know Homer’s feelings for Marge, and we know just as well (perhaps even better at this point) his feelings toward Bart. The mounting frustration is no less natural here than it ever is when he deals with his (typically not avian) son, and the attack is even preceded by his pre-strangulation catch phrase, “Why you little…!”

But there’s more to the violence than the echo of the main show. Poe’s poem, after all, is simply too long to fit the confines of the act. With commercial breaks and time-slots to be respected, almost half of the poem goes missing. It’s a testament to the quality and the power of the final segment that it still feels so full, but a short burst of violence replaces the long, repetitious, rolling climax of the poem.

Homer might not be the kind of character who will have the patience for a long argument, but his show doesn’t have the time for one, either. As a result, eight of Poe’s 18 stanzas are gone. Another, oddly, survives with only half of its lines intact…presumably a last-minute edit for time.

The children watching at home won’t notice any of the verse missing, but they will notice something they understand: lashing out.

While Poe’s original hinges upon the lengthy, circular nature of a maddened man’s argument with a bird, The Simpsons gave its audience something more tactile. It was a more efficient use of screentime, for sure, but it also made the poem that much easier to understand.

Had Homer — as in the original — simply pleaded with the bird until time ran out (…so to speak…), there would have been a lot of children scratching their heads as a result. That’s not something they understand this character doing.

But they do understand his anger. They’re used to seeing it. They know the effect Bart has on him, and whether or not they comprehend the poem’s ideas of lost love and insanity, they know that the raven — whatever he is, whatever he represents — is this character’s antagonist. And the brief flurry of violence, which leaves Homer broken on the floor, shall be forgotten nevermore.

So what would school teachers have to deal with the next day?

Well, I remember what my teacher had to deal with: her own excitement.

The Simpsons — this social nightmare of a show — had just exposed every one of her students to a masterpiece of American literature. I remember her telling us about Poe as a result. I remember her reading us “The Pit and the Pendulum” soon afterward, probably due to an enthusiastically revised lesson plan.

She took advantage of this opportunity; how many times could you tap into your students’ love of something, and leverage it to develop a love of something else? (I recall a similar thing happening a few years earlier, when A Claymation Christmas Celebration featured “Carol of the Bells,” and my music teacher was able to — for the first and only time — teach a song to a thoroughly engaged classroom.)

I’m a literary nerd now. (Did you already know that?) Not everybody who experienced The Raven that night became one, but does that matter?

For children like me, who would grow to develop a passion for writing of all kinds, it was an early seed planted…one that couldn’t bloom on its own power alone, but which would grow ultimately into a defining aspect of my life, my personality, and my ambitions. For others, who still have no interest in reading, it was an indelible experience of something they might never have otherwise encountered.

In either case, the viewer is enriched. There’s a kind of education at work…a swell of knowledge and cultural experience that may have been larger in some than in others, but which was important to all of them.

Lisa reading that textbook during a seemingly inappropriate time is part of what normalized things like that for me. Sure, you were a bit of a dork if you enjoyed reading, but there’s a place for dorks. There’s a reward for study, and self-betterment.

Bart had fun, but Lisa had a brain. And in The Simpsons, as in the real world, there’s a need for both. Each requires the other to exist. Together, you end up in something like a family.

And I have to admit I love the small touch that Bart — with whom so many young viewers identified — is seen at the end of the segment, sitting and listening to a dusty old poem…just as the kids in the audience were.

He might have said it was dull and wasn’t frightening, but he gave it a chance.

He heard it.

And he’s enriched in some small way because of it.

I miss this. The “Treehouse of Horror” episodes are ones folks tend to enjoy. Personally, I like them less than standard episodes, but I’ve always looked back fondly at The Raven.

It was from a time when The Simpsons was so brave it was willing to sub out its standard fare to introduce a generation to some forgotten lore, choosing to spark interest in the works of Edgar Allan Poe rather than focusing on itself. It was an odd move, and one The Simpsons never repeated, but it’s also one of my fondest memories of the show.

And it’s a reminder of the fact that The Simpsons wasn’t just brainy…it was educational. I learned things from watching that show. Sometimes useful things, other times trivial, but the fact is that I was learning, and learning was fun.

I know I wasn’t alone. Just as many discovered The Raven that night, I’m sure The Simpsons is the way many of us learned about Grover Cleveland’s non-consecutive terms. And the meaning of schadenfreude. And which amendment introduced prohibition.

The Simpsons was dangerous television, alright. It was dangerous because it encouraged people to learn…to want to learn. It was a smart show that always seemed slightly more intelligent than its audience, and made you want to catch up with it. “You think these jokes are funny?” it asked. “Just imagine all the ones you don’t get.”

And, sure enough, as I grew up and watched the same old episodes again, I spotted some of those jokes. I understood them. I laughed for the first time at something that flew over my head a dozen times. Why? Because in the years that passed, I continued to learn.

That was the real horror story…the reason so many people were afraid of The Simpsons.

It wasn’t a fad. It wasn’t temporary. It was the kind of thing people would be thinking about and talking about for a lifetime. And, worst of all, it would continuously reward them for doing so. It provided encouragement and a reason for them to educate themselves, to find their own answers, and to forge ahead in unexpected directions with knowledge not that they were given, but which they found on their own.

A nation of TV-watchers who would grow up to think for themselves.

What could be more scary to those in power?

The Raven
(1845, Edgar Allan Poe; 1990, David Silverman)

Book or film? Book. An easy win that speaks far more to the power of the original than any shortcomings in the adaptation.
Worth reading the poem? Yes. It’s The Raven.
Is it the best possible adaptation? If not for the missing stanzas, I’d say yes. Even with the missing stanzas I’ll say yes.
Is it of merit in its own right? It did a great job of positioning The Simpsons as one of the smartest, most cultured shows on television, and it did so at the perfect point in the life of the series: just as concerns arose about its content, and just as more people were tuning in to see what all the fuss was about. 25 years later it remains one of the show’s most accomplished sequences.

Trilogy of Terror: Shaun of the Dead (2004)

So! Trilogy of Terror, a new series that I’ll do each October, in which I take an in-depth look at three related horror films in the run-up to Halloween. They could be films in the same series, films by the same director, films with a common theme, or any relationship, really.

I’m kicking it off this year with Edgar Wright’s Blood and Ice Cream Trilogy. (The Three Flavours Cornetto Trilogy, for non-Americans.)

While only Shaun of the Dead is rooted in outright horror, both Hot Fuzz and The World’s End have horror-specific elements among their defining traits, so I’d argue that they qualify as well. Especially since all three films can be easily linked together to form one grander (if not necessarily cohesive) statement…but that’s probably a discussion for later.

I was surprised the first time I watched Shaun of the Dead. I remember seeing advertisements for it and…not being interested, really. I was a big fan of British comedy, but I hadn’t yet seen Spaced (which laid the groundwork for this film) so I missed out on the excitement that I would have otherwise felt.

To me, it just looked silly. There’s nothing wrong with silly, but there’s nothing rare about it either. Dumb comedies were — and continue to be — in ready supply, especially here in America. Importing another felt unnecessary. Seeking it out specifically felt absurd.

But then friends started to recommend it, particularly once it arrived on DVD. I figured that meant it was decently funny. Later on another friend — an independent film-maker that I respect greatly — recommended it, and I realized that it might also be good.

That’s what I wasn’t prepared for…a genuinely good film underneath the gore and the silliness. Indeed, I’m sure that that’s what most viewers weren’t prepared for.

Great jokes are always welcome, but you expect to find those in a film that bills itself as a comedy. That’s where they belong. They’re why people turn to comedies in the first place.

But great acting, great directing, great film-making…those are less common. Shaun of the Dead gave us all of that instead of what could have been — and what I expected to be — some disposable bit of gory pap.

Watching it for the first time, I was impressed. 11 years later, I’m even more impressed. Shaun of the Dead is a nearly perfect movie in my estimation. It’s funny, it’s insightful, it’s well-made, and it’s confident. There are new layers and details that reveal themselves every time I watch it, and I’ve seen it at least a couple dozen times by now. Every element works, and they work so well that I’m still finding new intricacies a decade down the line.

But what is it? Is it a horror film? A romantic comedy? A parody? Yes, it is. And it’s a lot of other things, too.

Shaun of the Dead shouldn’t succeed the way it does. It really shouldn’t. It has too many things happening at once. It’s tonally all over the map. It mixes high social commentary with low slapstick and expects them both to land. It should be a mess.

But it knows that.

And that’s kind of the point.

The film, ostensibly, centers on an ill-equipped man attempting to lead a group of survivors through the zombie apocalypse. The film also happens to be about that man getting his relationships in order, sorting his life out, and finding his place in the world. They’re two plotlines that aren’t necessarily mutually exclusive, but for a comedy that’s a pretty daring blend, especially since neither plot seems especially tailored to humor.

Which is probably why Shaun of the Dead works so well. It’s a comedy, but not mindlessly so. It thinks its way through — and deeper into — its complications, because it has to. It sets itself an unenviable goal of spanning genres and delivering its impact on multiple fronts, so it had no choice but to be brainy about it. These things don’t just work together on their own; if they work, it’s because some group of artists worked together to make it work.

The film focuses on character and thematic resonance as though it were a drama. And while it has a slew of unforgettably funny moments, it’s also always — unfailingly — sincere. It’s a work of love, filled with respect and admiration for its source material, and an impressive ability to outdo itself, to keep layering, to dream up a great scene and then present it in some way that makes it better.

Which is what struck me the first time: the construction of the film. The way Shaun’s morning routine is urgently edited into a series of quick cuts, like an action montage. The way the sun rises on our passed-out hero like a floodlight snapping on. The way the aftermath of a fatal car wreck plays out in the background, behind an otherwise quiet scene of two friends reconnecting.

Wright doesn’t shoot the movie like a comedy. He shoots it like a horror film, a drama, an action movie, and like almost anything but a comedy. Which, obviously, makes it funnier.

There’s great humor to be found in someone who takes himself seriously while saying and doing ridiculous things. In Shaun of the Dead, that’s a role knowingly filled by the director himself.

What’s great about that, and why this movie has staying power, is the fact that it allows you, in the audience, to do things other than laugh.

Even great comedies sometimes suffer from the fact that there needs to be space between the jokes, but the ones that take themselves seriously — and allow themselves to be serious not in spite of but in addition to the jokes — have an opportunity to fill that space creatively.

That’s where characters explore their own dynamics. That’s where themes emerge and the echoing of lines and scene composition pays off. That’s where, to put it flatly, we’re allowed to care about what is happening.

And that’s the ace up Shaun of the Dead‘s sleeve: it makes its audience care.

It’s a great trick, and by no means an easy one to pull off. Reel them in with the promise of hilarious knockabout zombie gore, and break their hearts as two men find their friendship threatened by the responsibilities of adulthood.

It shouldn’t work, but it does…and it works because Wright and Pegg are in full command of their material. They know how they want the audience to react, and when, and they know exactly how to trigger it.

That’s why Spaced is a necessary part of this film’s pedigree. It goes deeper than seeing familiar faces and names plastered all over the film; it shares that show’s artistic DNA.

Wright directed Spaced in his own inimitable, inventive way, elevating a sitcom about two flatmates to levels of genuine visual art. And Pegg — who co-wrote and starred in both that show and this film — took a set of caricatures and allowed them to evolve into a group of rich human beings with a web of complex relationships between them.

Shaun of the Dead may have been born of one episode’s fantasy sequence (in which Pegg’s character fights back a group of zombies), but the show’s real echoes are felt throughout the presentation of the film, and the script behind it. It informs the film’s entire creative process, and its agenda.

It’s no surprise that the cast is padded out (in both major and minor parts) with Spaced alums; these are people who already knew what Wright and Pegg would need from them, and would have some idea of how the film would ultimately work. Which is good, because it would be pretty easy for an unfamiliar actor to read the scene in which the group bludgeons a zombie to death to the beat of Queen’s “Don’t Stop Me Now” and get the wrong idea about how to pitch his performance.

Wright and Pegg’s masterful character work flows throughout the Trilogy, with an emphasis less on change than on the process of discovering who you already are. There’s still a kind of growth — and an important kind of growth — at play in each of the three films, but these are mainly voyages of self-discovery.

When taken as a whole, the Trilogy doesn’t present a definitive “right” kind of person to be. That’s a convenient topic to discuss here, in the first film, as Shaun’s housemates foreshadow Pegg’s later roles, and provide a basic template for understanding them.

When we meet him, Shaun is caught in the middle between Ed and Pete, played by Nick Frost and Peter Serafinowicz respectively…both of whom are Spaced actors as well. Ed is slovenly, crude, and unapologetically aimless. He lacks all ambition and refuses to grow up. On the other hand, he’s there for Shaun when Liz breaks his heart, and does everything he can to hold his friend together. He’s loyal.

Pete, by contrast, is responsible and driven, interested in living a stable and secure life. He takes his career seriously and cares about the way he’s perceived. He’s also, however, humorless, and puts his own needs above other people’s feelings.

Pegg plays Shaun as being directly in the middle, frustrated with both of them, but envious of them as well. He tries to rise to his managerial duties at work and keep the survivors together later like Pete would, but he’s perfectly content to spend his life playing video games and hitting the pub with Ed.

Each of his housemates represents a possible direction for Shaun to take, but direction means commitment. And, as exemplified by his failing relationship with Liz, commitment is not one of Shaun’s strong points.

Instead of becoming more like either of them, he keeps to the middle path. He veers closer to neither Pete nor Ed; he remains Shaun. And while it seems a bit odd from a character-arc perspective that a man who opened the film in the undefined middle ground remains in the middle ground at the end, there’s still growth that has occurred: the middle ground is now defined. Shaun knows it, and understands it, and — most importantly — is comfortable with it.

He didn’t pull himself together and solve everything, but neither did he fall apart and lose everything. He’s not the kind of person who will — or can — do either. He’s the kind of person that can make it through an ordeal, but he’ll do so in neither triumph nor defeat.

There’s a reason he replies three times to Yvonne (Jessica Stevenson, another familiar Spaced face and that show’s co-writer) that he’s “surviving.” It’s a contextual joke within the film, but also a reminder of where Shaun is, and always will be: the middle. He’ll neither succeed nor fail; he’ll survive.

He exists in the band between the two extremes. When the film opens, it upsets and disappoints him that he can’t commit to either direction. By the end he still can’t commit, but he realizes that that’s okay. That’s who he is. And he’s comfortable with that.

We don’t see a different version of Shaun at the end of the film; we just see one that’s come to terms with who he already is.

Pegg plays the other two extremes in the films to follow. Nicholas Angel of Hot Fuzz is a humorless professional in the vein of Pete, and Gary King of The World’s End is an aimless eternal youth in Ed’s tradition.

Shaun of the Dead might see our hero staying just where he is, but the rest of the Trilogy explores the other possibilities. We get no definitive answer and all definitive answers, which is part of why the films function so well together.

Shaun of the Dead arrived at the front end of a resurgence of interest in zombies. While the image of the shambling corpse has been around for centuries, and was standardized back in 1968 by George Romero’s Night of the Living Dead, zombies by and large had lost their cultural cachet.

Shaun of the Dead helped to usher in an undead renaissance that continues to this day. It arrived on the scene in essentially the same wave that brought us 28 Days Later (2002), Max Brooks’ The Zombie Survival Guide (2003), and the first issues of the Walking Dead comic series (2003). These and Shaun all constitute legitimate cultural juggernauts that, in their own ways, each helped bring the monster back to life.

Horror icons and monster types throughout history have reflected the fears of the time that birthed them. Werewolves are easy to see as fears of pubescence, of males growing up too quickly to have control over their basest impulses. Dracula was a wealthy, powerful foreigner who seduced and sullied our women. And Frankenstein’s monster was reflective of a fear of advances in modern science…a “where will it end?” hysteria that later recurred in the mad scientist / giant monster movies of the 1950s, when nuclear paranoia was not coincidentally at the forefront of public consciousness.

So what is it about zombies that made them so appealing to audiences of the early 2000s? What is it that makes them so appealing still? What social fears of uniformity, of unstoppable viruses, of mob mentality are we articulating through these mindless hordes?

It’s a question that I find fascinating.

I find it even more fascinating that the real danger in zombie media — almost always, going right back to Romero’s original film — comes from other survivors.

Are zombies actually what we fear? Or do we fear how the danger will change us? Do we fear how quickly and easily we will become the villains? How simply our best laid plans — dealing with Philip, picking up mom and Liz, holing up and waiting for all of this to blow over — will turn, in an instant, to a blueprint of our own destruction?

If we really are the danger — if we as people are the horror movie icon of our own generation — then that explains why there’s never been much interest in crafting a definitive, canonical origin story for zombies. Unlike the Wolfman, Dracula, or Frankenstein’s monster, there’s no one answer as to where they came from, how they behave, or how to deal with them.

Each of those three examples have seen variants through the years, but that’s just what they are: variants. In zombie media there’s nothing but variants.

They could be the result of voodoo, viruses, or radiation. They could be slow and lumbering or fast and ruthless. They could overwhelm you or outlast you. They could be mindless, or they could be corrupted shades of the people you loved.

Shaun of the Dead, wisely I think, doesn’t give us a definitive origin for its threat, which is a clue that zombies are not the important thing here; the story — no matter how big or dangerous or relentless the horde — comes from the characters…how they interact, what they decide to do, how their relationships grow and change.

This is a vagueness that both Hot Fuzz and The World’s End abandoned, opting instead for definite answers, and in those cases I think that it distracts from the power of each film…but we’ll talk about that in the coming weeks.

One thing Wright and Pegg introduce here that does carry through the entire trilogy (together and separately, as it occurs in both the direction and the dialogue) is the concept of echo.

There’s an often-mocked film clip of George Lucas describing the prequel trilogy as being “like poetry.” It rhymes, he says. (And we all know what it rhymes with.) But that’s actually a good way of describing the films that constitute The Blood and Ice Cream Trilogy.

These do rhyme, both in ways that have overt payoffs (Ed’s “cock it” exclamation later becoming firearm advice) and in ways that simply connect disparate moments in artful ways (“What do you mean, do something?”).

At its best this repetition enhances the comedy, but even at its “worst” (a usage of the word that definitely requires quotation marks) it instills in the viewer a feeling of artistic purpose.

Sometimes there’s not much more to the echo than cleverness for the sake of cleverness, but that’s an important reassurance when your film relies on cleverness. It’s a way of cluing your audience in to the fact that it’s worth paying attention. That this is a film that will try to give you a little more. That if you treat what you’re watching with respect, you’ll it in return.

The echoes help to define Shaun as the confident piece that it is. It doesn’t seek to dazzle and distract so much as it does try to suck you into its universe, and erect boundaries between itself and any other horror comedy you’ve seen. While it slips into and out of outright parody territory (see Shaun and Ed singing “White Lines” with a howling silhouette), its foundation is laid firmly upon the complex workings and frustrations of adult friendship. Of group dynamics. Of basic humanity, and how it falters when social convention is violated.

In short, it’s always real. That’s why the death of Shaun’s mother hits the way it does. That’s why Shaun and Liz leaving Ed feels genuinely sad. That’s why David being torn apart by zombies feels unfair, no matter how much of a shit he was.

These things hurt because they are the result of one genre encroaching on another…the horror triumphing over the comedy…the zombies forcing their way into our stronghold.

Which is evidence, if we need it at this point, that the zombies aren’t the important part of this film. They’re an obstacle. A problem unfolding in the background. A periodic danger that must be dealt with, unquestionably at inopportune times.

Like the later Her, Shaun of the Dead crafts a world in which something astounding and impossible happens, and then focuses all of our attention on how a small handful of characters deal with ancillary issues.

The zombies are just a method of advancing the plot…a way of forcing Shaun into action.

They’re symbolic of the world closing in on him, forcing him to do something…and that’s necessary, because Shaun is the kind of person who will choose inaction every time that inaction remains an option.

It might take zombies invading his house to get him off his ass. And once he is off his ass he might realize that he enjoys sitting on his ass and slide right back into that.

But that’s okay. Because at least now he knows. He knows who he is. He had to lose a lot along the way to arrive at that conclusion, and it might be a conclusion he expected from the start, but that was still his journey.

A human journey.

A journey that ends in neither tragedy nor triumph, but with a man understanding, for the first time, that he’s okay with who he already is.

It’s horror, it’s comedy, it’s romance, it’s action, it’s drama, it’s social commentary, and it’s none of these.

It’s Shaun of the Dead, and for most of the world it was a promising and exciting glimpse of a strong, witty, intelligent new film maker.

If we classify Shaun of the Dead as a horror film — and I would, without question — I think it’s one of the best. I’d place it alongside The Shining and Psycho in terms of raw quality. The fact that it’s a comedy doesn’t diminish is impact; if anything, it allows it to resonate in unexpected ways in these savvier and less sincere times. It’s a horror film that appeals with good reason to the audiences of today, and one that has clearly learned from yesterday’s best.

We only had to wait three years for Wright and Pegg’s followup, but the moment it arrived people were already arguing about which film was better. The lack of a clear consensus speaks volumes about how great both films were.

Which do I prefer? You’ll find out next week, when we talk about Hot Fuzz.

ALF Reviews: “Lies” (season 4, episode 2)

So this week marks two full years that I’ve spent writing about ALF. I’d reflect on that fact but then I’d have to commit suicide so fuck it. What I will say though is thanks for wasting two years of your life right along with me!

Also, in case you haven’t noticed, the Arts in Entertainment Kickstarter went live yesterday. Click that link to check it out, and please pledge if you’re interested in seeing any of these books come to life. If you feel inclined to do so, you can show your appreciation for this series and this site by kicking a few dollars into the campaign. It’s nowhere near obligatory, but I’d appreciate it greatly, and you’d be showing your support in an extremely productive way. So thank you in advance!

Anyway, ALF. And I’ll be damned. I didn’t expect to enjoy an episode so soon into season four. What’s more, I didn’t expect to enjoy an episode without qualification so soon into season four.

“Lies” is a hell of a lot of fun, and while it might not have been a highlight of better shows — God knows there were better shows — it’s one of those ALF episodes that suggests so frustratingly an alternate universe in which the writers gave a shit. When they put forth the effort, we end up with something good. Sometimes we even end up with something great.

This episode…isn’t great. But that’s okay. It doesn’t try to dazzle or impress; it takes a simple story, tells it well, and explores it for comedy along the way. Is that too much to ask? Is that really such a difficult thing to do on a regular basis?

For this show, yeah, it definitely is. But look on the bright side: that comparatively shitty hit-rate makes “Lies” and episodes like it stand out all the more.

We open pretty damned strongly, and the quality keeps up right through to the end credits. I am definitely not complaining this week.

It begins with Willie calling for Brian. He says that the game is starting soon, and I thought the idea was that they were going to watch some sporting event on television. But no! He’s taking Brian to Little League.

So, there’s a surprise already. That little detail that was sketched in last week? Surprising millions, it actually carried forward. We’re getting dangerously close to giving Brian a characteristic, ALF. Be careful!

Maybe ALF is interested in introducing a little continuity after all. (Another detail — which we’ll get to shortly — suggests this even more strongly.) Why they waited four seasons to do it is beyond me, but it’s a great impulse. I’m particularly happy that this particular hobby went to Brian, because he is by far the character who most needs some kind of development.

Might the writers have recognized that and taken conscious steps to address it? It’s possible. If they didn’t know at this point that the Tanners would be gone in the hypothetical fifth season, fixing holes in their characters would make sense. And if they did know, humanizing Brian this late in the game was still a good move. After all, shouldn’t he and ALF parting ways register with us in some way? It’ll never be E.T. leaving Elliott, but with a little work it’ll mean more than a ball of yard rolling away from a sheet of cardboard.

Also, last week I wasn’t sure if Brian’s sport was Little League or Tee Ball, but the mention of a pitcher here means it’s the former. We hear about the pitcher because Kate wonders aloud why they call him The Head Hunter. She asks Willie, after a context-appropriate stammer, says, “It means Brian will probably get on base tonight.”

The delivery is incredible, considering Max Wright’s usual baseline of careless mumbling. Like…it’s actually good. It can’t play as well in print as it does on screen, so you’ll have to take my word for the fact that his demeanor, for once, is spot on. His impulse to spin this into some kind of defeated optimism is both funny and human; he’s behaving like a father who is worried, but doesn’t want to worry his family.

And you know what? It’s not the only great Max Wright delivery tonight. Oh, no. We are in for a treat.

Brian comes in saying he feels lucky, and Willie beams with momentary pride before shifting into, “Don’t forget to wear your batting helmet.”

ALF comes in, upset that a funny scene was happening without him. He bitches about some misinformation he discovered in The National Inquisitor. And, yes, I looked it up to be sure: that’s the same tabloid magazine from “Alone Again, Naturally.” See? More continuity! I’m…gobsmacked. Like, really. It’s almost like somebody who writes this show also finally started watching it.

Kate reveals that she tries to throw that magazine out before ALF gets it…which is an understandable response to the wild goose chase it triggered in its previous appearance. Of course, that episode also claimed that Kate bought it at the supermarket for him — the family didn’t subscribe — but, as ever, tiny details like that don’t bother me when I’m enjoying the episode.

ALF gives it back to her, but he says he can’t give her back the melon rinds he dug out of the garbage with it. “That ship has sailed.” And, for the first time ever, I enjoyed a joke about ALF shitting everywhere.

“Lies,” I’m yours to lose.

After the credits Lynn comes in with the mail. Brian asks if there’s anything for him, and she laughs. Which is a bit bitchier than we usually get from Lynn, but by now the show must be aware that Brian’s a total non-entity. Like, there’s no way they aren’t aware of that.

I’m willing (and eager!) to see this as a shot at his worthlessness as a character. Of course you didn’t get any mail, kid. You were miscarried and nobody’s had the heart to tell you.

I do have to say that there’s an odd, crumbly, buzzing noise in this episode. Like the low visual quality last week, something seems to be wrong with the audio here. And, like last week, I can’t blame the episode, but it’s kind of a shame. It’s a really annoying sound, and it never lets up. More annoying is the fact that “Lies” is actually pretty good, and I really wish I could enjoy it without a hornet farting in my ear.

Anyway, ALF gets something from The National Inquisitor. Evidently he wrote them an angry letter about the inaccuracies in their article about Amazon women on Alpha Centauri. He says that that’s bullshit; they live on Xerxes IV. He pronounces it “Zirk-sis, which I’m pretty sure is wrong, but he pronounces it differently later on so maybe Paul Fusco just tripped over the line.

The National Inquisitor offers ALF $250 to turn his corrections into a full article, and that is the right way to do what happened in “A Little Bit of Soap.”

See, way back in that episode, ALF just suddenly began writing for a national soap opera. Like, out of literally nowhere, with no justification for any of it. He just said, “I write soaps now,” and because this is his show and the laws of the universe revolve around him, it was so. You’re lucky he doesn’t decide to sleep with your wife, because there will be no stopping it.

Here, the situation operates with something we can recognize as sense. The Inquisitor is not a respected publication; it prints made-up crap, and makes no secret of it. So some guy writes to them with more made-up crap, and I fully believe they’d offer to buy it. They probably thought it was amusing, but at the very least they looked at ALF’s truthful letter and thought they were seeing the scribblings of a kook that will help them sell magazines. Buying his article makes complete sense, especially since he pretty much mailed them a pitch.

It’s also nice that they’re not hiring him on as Editor in Chief or something, what with One World to Hope For seemingly bringing him on immediately as a never-seen showrunner that only communicated with them through the US Mail.

This is much, much better, folks.

In the next scene Lynn is on the phone talking to Joanie, whoever she is. (This fame thing…I don’t get it.) She’s doing that thing all teenage girl characters do when they’re on the phone: lying in bed with her feet up behind her and twiddling her toes.

I don’t know how this became the standard, but, yeah, just about any imagery in any medium of a teenage girl on the phone will look like this. Actually, maybe things have changed now with cell phones; characters no longer have to be in one specific spot (a couch, a bed) to make a phone call, so maybe this isn’t as common anymore. I can’t say for sure, though. I’ve yet to watch anything produced after 1991.

There’s a funny enough line here. Evidently Joanie broke up with her boyfriend, and Lynn advises, “You’ll feel better once the bitterness sets in.” I like that! (And bitterness!)

ALF knocks on the door and wants her to read his article again. Evidently he’s been showing her revised versions all night. And…man. This whole bit is exaggerated, but it hits home.

As a writer who was once a younger, even worse writer, I understand this impulse fully, deeply, and painfully.

ALF has been sitting at a table writing and rewriting endlessly. He’s worrying word choices to death. He’s driving himself nuts over 500 words for some disreputable magazine nobody cares about anyway. And then keeps bringing every change to Lynn (which I love and is completely true to everything I’d like to believe about their relationship) to read it over.

What must have started as her humoring him has by now become a chore, because she exhales loudly and tries to shoo him away. He’s worn out his welcome…but he wants his writing to be just perfect so he has no choice but to keep bothering her. I like it. I recognize entirely where both characters are coming from. It’s…well done, actually.

She tries to get out of it by telling him that she needs to do her homework and she doesn’t have time. “Then I’ll stare at you until you do,” he says. They both call each other’s bluff, and a nice little scene gets even better.

Lynn does her homework and ALF stares, each of them making good on their threat but also not getting anything out of it. It’s funny, and it’s an all-too-rare kind of moment in which Paul Fusco isn’t sidelining the characters while he performs some interminable Jay Leno monologue. Instead he’s just letting the situation be funny.

What a welcome change.

Finally Lynn gives in. She looks over it briefly and says something’s good, which throws ALF into a panic, because in the last four drafts she called that thing great.

She tells him that “it’s only eight paragraphs in a sleazy magazine.” And, yeah.

Yeah.

Just…god. Yeah.

I know exactly how you labor over the tiniest damn things, even when you know nobody will read it anyway. I don’t even know why; it’s just the way your mind works when you care about something you’re doing. It doesn’t matter that it’s only The National Inquisitor; you’re going to stay up all night for as many nights as it takes to get it just right…and you’ll never, ever, in your entire life get it to the point that you feel it’s just perfect.

It’s an endless spiral of second guesses and revisions, and eventually you just run out of time and have to send it in anyway. For a specific example, my last Fiction into Film had 96 drafts.

Nintey-fucking-six.

And if I’d had another week or two to work on it, it would have had more. Why? Because I’m a writer. And writers are fucking insane.

She finally just tells him it’s perfect. “I’d send it in just like it is!” she exclaims.

ALF, defeated, replies, “You hate it, don’t you?”

Someone on this writing staff must have been a serious author. It sure doesn’t show in most episodes, but nobody else would know how to write a scene like this. Nobody.

Then we get one hell of an unexpected, but welcome, scene. Willie and Kate are sitting with Brian on the couch, gently chastising the kid for getting a D on his history test.

So…Brian has a presence in this episode. Even moreso than he had in episodes that were ostensibly about him. Have the writers been reading these reviews, or something?

Also nice and unexpected: both Willie and Kate are acting like parents.

They’re clearly disappointed, but they’re being gentle about it. There’s the right note of soft discipline struck here. Even better, an earlier joke pays off here again: when going through the mail, Brian was studying. He asked ALF who started World War II, and ALF replied that it must have been Colonel Klink. I didn’t mention it there, because there were better things to talk about than a normal ALF joke in which he mentions a thing we recognize and that’s apparently enough.

But now we see that it wasn’t just a normal ALF joke; it was a quick laugh that built toward something that would happen later. Brian put Colonel Klink on his test, and here we are. By this show’s standards, getting both a setup and payoff is impressive.

Willie tells Brian that from now on he has to study alone — a punishment and a constructive response to the problem — and walks over to ALF to lecture him about the difference between television shows and reality. Another constructive response, even if we know this is fucking ALF and not understanding the difference between anything and anything else is kind of his thing.

Lynn comes in with a stack of National Inquisitors, and Willie and Kate don’t understand her excitement. Lynn says, “You mean you still haven’t told them, ALF?”

Willie takes a breath and says, “Oh, I hate hearing those words.”

Lynn rushes to assure him that it’s nothing to worry about. She explains that the magazine asked ALF to write an article about Amazon women in space.

Willie replies, “The blood is draining from my head.”

This is easily the best episode Max Wright has had in ages. What happened? Maybe he was just excited that his tenure on this show was almost over. Maybe it’s because he gets a lot of scenes without ALF later on — and a lot of jokes as well — and figured he’d put in some effort in the hopes that he’d get more scenes like that moving forward. Maybe they shot this during Lent the year he gave up crack.

I have no idea, but whatever the reason, he’s funny. The weary frustration absolutely comes through, and human hank of dried up Silly Putty that he is, I give him credit for exercising restraint, doing all of his acting in the eyes and face.

Kate then does something so few people on this show ever do: she remembers the premise of ALF.

She reminds our naked alien chum that they are trying very hard to protect him from the outside world, and writing articles for magazines kind of jeopardizes that. For those keeping score, that’s 2 out of 2 episodes this season that remind us of the danger ALF is in should he ever leave the house…and we know the season ends with him leaving the house and facing that danger.

Coincidence or actual foreshadowing?

I’m still betting the former, but the latter is getting admittedly more likely. I’ll be curious to see how the rest of the season pans out. Or I would be, if I didn’t already know it involves Jim J. Bullock.

Anyway, ALF reads the article and gets upset; the Inquisitor changed his story and added a bunch of sensationalist nonsense of their own. Funny how a major soap opera never thought to rewrite his shit and just slapped it on the air, word for word, even though it had nothing to do with the roster of characters or plotlines they’d built up over the past however many seasons, but FUCK I HATE THAT EPISODE CAN YOU TELL

ALF fumes for a bit and considers taking some kind of revenge on them, but Willie tells him to eat shit. He got his dumbass article about Amazon space women in a magazine, and he’s not allowed to tempt fate like this anymore.

“Okay,” ALF says, “but you’d better hope those big-boned babes don’t come after you. They’d snap you in half at the pelvis!”

…um, did ALF just inspire a Futurama plot?

Later that day ALF calls the Inquisitor and speaks to the editor about the problems with his article. And…yeah, this is another scene that I can definitely identify with. Granted, I’ve never had any substantial editorial changes to anything I’ve published — at least not without them being discussed first — but I can easily imagine why this bothers ALF so much.

In fact, my first published story was in a Canadian fiction magazine. Great. They added a U to my spelling of color and flavor and that was about it…

…except that my line spacing was changed. My precious line spacing!

See, in my mind, I used it to break up the story into smaller sections. Like chapters, basically. But the editor got rid of them! The whole thing was ruined! Readers would see this and think I was some kind of idiot!

Then I actually read it that way, and it read just fine. Sure, I preferred the section breaks — obviously I did; I put them there — but the story didn’t lose anything without them.

But the mere fact that I reacted that way — my writing career was over!! — gives me an idea of how I’d respond to a situation like this, in which I submitted a piece of writing that I worked so carefully to construct…only to see that some bozo in the office reworked a bunch of crap and printed their own version.

I don’t know who got the the idea to turn ALF into a shlubby little naked author all of a sudden, but I’m pretty angry that they’re stealing my life story this way.

He nearly lets slip to the editor that he’s an alien, but stops just short of saying so. The editor can tell that something’s off, though, and she offers him $500 for an interview. He reluctantly accepts, and she says that someone will be right over to conduct it. Then she hangs up, and ALF realizes he’s fucked.

I know I give this show guff for its shitty act breaks, but that’s a good one. For the first time in a long time, I’m actually interested in seeing what happens next.

After the commercials, ALF ambles over to Willie, defeated, knowing he’s in deep shit. He says that he called The National Inquisitor, and they’re on their way over. Then the doorbell rings and he says, “They’ll fill you in on the rest.”

Max’s acting isn’t quite as good in this scene — maybe because he’s working only with his Most Hated Puppet and not the other actos — but it’s still funny, and I like that the episode is coming to a head this way. Okay, it does seem to imply that the Inquisitor has an office that’s a couple of blocks away from the Tanners at the most, but, again, details. The rest of the episode relies on Willie being caught off guard by someone demanding answers, and it works well, so I’m all for it. Especially since this whole thing was set into motion by ALF writing about space Amazons; if I can accept that those exist in this reality, I can accept that the Inquisitor people drive fuckin’ fast.

The whole “Willie caught off guard by someone demanding answers” bit should sound familiar, too. That’s what happened in “Weird Science,” when Consumer Ed and Marcia Wallace turned up…only they forgot to make it feel natural. Or funny. Or logical in any way at all. (Again, why was Consumer Ed filming Willie talk to his son’s principal about a science fair?)

Way back then, longtime commenter Jeff said, “the zany intersection of Consumer Ed’s visit and Marcia Wallace’s visit has the potential to be a very good fount of comedy. Of course, it would have to be intelligently set up and executed, and here it sure wasn’t…but still, someone had the idea.”

Fortunately, someone had almost the same idea again…and made it funny this time around.

“Weird Science” and “A Little Bit of Soap” both have their biggest problems reprised and corrected here. “Lies,” you are really spoiling us.

At the door the editor tries to get Willie to share his story with the paper — thinking he’s ALF — but he tells her he’s not interested. Undeterred she probes (no pun intended…) and her photographer snaps Willie’s picture over and over again until he threatens to call the police.

They leave, which is fine, but the episode’s not over so ALF comes out and tells Willie he needs to call the reporters back. See, ALF was peeping through the plot window, and is worried the guy might have taken his picture without realizing it.

And this is a good way to keep the plot rolling. ALF always peeps through the plot window, and nobody catches him. Like, ever. Even when he’s throwing biscuits at people or making noise or whatever the fuck. For once there might be some outside chance of someone in this universe of braindead cretins catching a glimpse…and that’s interesting. Sure, the photographer has no idea of what he captured on film — if he did capture anything — but now, rarity of rarities, something is actually at stake in this show, and something needs to be taken care of immediately.

It’s a development (okay, pun intended…) that can play out any number of ways, but no matter how it plays out it forces our heroes to take action. This is still good! The fact that our interlopers have no idea of any of this is even better.

Willie runs out and flags them down as they’re leaving. The interviewer comes in, excited to interview Willie about his experience with aliens.

She turns on the tape recorder and asks, “How did the so-called aliens first make contact with you?”

Willie replies, “Whoa. I didn’t see that one coming. You are good.”

And that’s actually a great little exchange. I like this!

Willie didn’t have time to come up with a story — and indeed doesn’t even fully comprehend what was happening. He had to run immediately after the crew, but now that they’re here…he has no idea what to say. And it works.

I wonder if Max Wright just ups his game when he realizes he has material that deserves it. Yeah, I realize I give this guy a lot of shit, but by now it should be clear that the biggest problems with this show come from the writing. I think Wright does, by and large, a fucking terrible job on this show, but it’s not as though the material deserves much more. Again, I can’t really blame the guy for half-assing what’s already been half-assed.

As “Night Train” and “Funeral for a Friend” demonstrated, he’s willing to rise to the quality of the script. When it’s worth his time, he puts in the effort. I wish he thought it was worth his time more often, but, really, how invested can you get in shit like “Movin’ Out” or “Some Enchanted Evening”?

The photographer comes back in, but he’s reloading his camera; the other roll is full, he says…which means that the photographic evidence of ALF is still in the van. In the kitchen ALF, Lynn, and Brian decide to find and expose it, while Willie continues to stall for time in the living room. So that’s pretty much what will carry us through the rest of the episode, and both of the things that are happening have the potential to be both interesting and funny. I’m impressed.

Fencing Willie into coming up with lies works pretty well. In fact, it was one of the few ways he got to be funny way back in season one. I remember a scene in “Come Fly With Me” in which Brian and ALF were hiding in the bathroom. Mr. Ochmonek heard the razor going, and Willie grabbed for an explanation: “I won’t allow him to have a mustache.”

Max Wright was probably a pretty awkward guy in real life, so when he’s asked to be awkward on camera, he pulls it off just fine. It’s funny and it comes naturally to him, but the show, oddly, almost never tapped into it. It’s nice to see that happening again, because like Lynn’s friendship in season two it’s some character development that was just handed to them…and they shrugged and let it drop. I’m glad they decided to pick it up again, even if it’s just for one episode.

Also the photographer is named Phil, and I admit I’m more than a little relieved that when I finally share my name with an ALF character, he’s in an episode I don’t absolutely hate. I have enough self-loathing as it is.

Brian and ALF head out to the van while Lynn fills Willie in on what’s happening. Willie expresses concern about Brian (three times in one episode!) but Lynn convinces him they have no other choice. And I like that. Willie’s worried…but it’s also their only way out of the situation, short of binding ALF’s hands and feet and handing him to the magazine to do with as they please. Don’t get me wrong, I wish they’d do that, but we still have most of the season left to go so we’re stuck with him for the time being.

Normally Kate would be able to either search the van or distract the reporters, but she’s…somewhere else. It’s a bit of a cheat (where is she?) but, once again, the episode is funny, so it’s not worth picking nits.

Willie reveals to Lynn that he’s just plying the reporters with what little details he can remember from episodes of Star Trek. I doubt any (or many) of them are actually from Star Trek, but I definitely believe Willie spend his college days watching Star Trek alone on the floor of his dorm more than I believe he’s ever watched a football game in his life.

We cut to the van where ALF is snooping around. He finds a naked picture of Roseanne Barr and makes the face in the screencap above because she’s not conventionally attractive. Get ‘er, ALF!!

This is the second joke in as many episode about Roseanne’s appearance. I wonder why. Does ALF feel threatened that her show’s legacy will eclipse his? Ha! What are the odds of that?

Back in the living room Willie is making up some bullshit about finding himself floating in a fog…which was unlike any fog he’d ever floated in before.

The photographer says, “Wow.” Willie says, “Darn right wow.” Then he looks toward the camera with something like smug pride, and it’s beautiful.

This whole episode is turning out to be a lot of fun. I’m reminded of “Can I Get a Witness?” back in season two. I liked a lot of that one, but ended up being fairly dismissive of it. At the time, commenter Mark Moore asked me why, since it seemed like a decent, fun episode.

Well, the more I think about it, the more I realize I was pretty harsh. There’s nothing wrong with an episode that’s good. It might not be great…but so what? I was probably harder on “Can I Get a Witness?” than I should have been; that’s more clear to me now that I’ve sat through so many truly fucking terrible episodes. Sometimes it’s okay to just have a filler episode that has some fun along the way. At least it’s not fucking “Baby, Come Back.”

Speaking of “Baby, Come Back,” where the fuck is Eric? No, I’m not going to complain about the baby being suddenly absent from the family. If anything it’s a reason to like “Lies” more. I just wonder why he doesn’t seem to exist this week.

Actually, that does get addressed right now when Kate comes home. Willie rises immediately to hug her. I love that this guy only touches his wife when he’s putting on a show for strange visitors. He stops short of an actual hug, though, which I’m convinced is down to the actors’ complete and total aversion to anything resembling chemistry.

He explains that they’re from the Inquisitor, here to talk about ALF’s story. This causes her to panic briefly, but he says, “It’s okay, honey. They know.”

She replies, “They know about…?”

And he finishes, “About my travels to other solar systems, yes!”

Not revelatory stuff, and Kate assuming that Willie told some strangers about ALF is pretty dumb, but the timing on the exchange is good, and it’s funny.

The whole sequence has been pretty good, I admit, but my favorite part comes when Kate excuses herself to go check on the baby. It’s true that you should check on your newborn at least once a day, so no complaints there. But is this actually how they deal with having a baby in the cast, now? Every so often someone just alludes to it being in another room? Come on.

Anyway, as she’s leaving to check on her imaginary baby, the reporter asks Willie what it was like to be the main course at an Amazon love feast.

“Or I could sit in,” Kate says, staying right where she is. That got an actual laugh out of me, and, besides, Eric’s been dead for hours. What’s another minute or two to listen to your stammering, impotent husband spin cosmic erotic yarns?

Willie begins, “It was very hot…” in a disinterested, monotone flounder.

I kind of love it.

In the van ALF is eating all of the film for some reason.

It’s weird because they said the plan was to expose all of the film, so I’m not sure why he’s chowing down on it instead. Yeah, you could say it’s quicker, and that would be true if he were swallowing film canisters whole, but he’s exposing the film first and then eating it, so who the fuck knows.

He burps because of course he does.

Back in the house Lynn gives Willie the signal that the film is destroyed. Immediately Willie stands up, and lectures the magazine on printing dumbass nonsense like this, and rewarding people with money for making it up.

It’s…actually not half bad. Of all the real-world lectures we’ve gotten in this show (“Weird Science,” “Take a Look at Me Now,” “Fight Back”) this is definitely the best. It’s a fair point, concisely made, but the best thing about it is that it builds to a punchline; after Willie kicks them out of the house, the family panics that ALF is still in the van.

…so he has to chase them down again after telling them off. It’s really not bad at all!

Then ALF waddles over, wondering what the fuck Willie is doing running down the street.

Brilliant? No. A fair ending to a good episode? Absolutely.

Well done, ALF. You stuck the landing. And I can’t even say that about many of the episodes that I like.

In the short scene before the credits, ALF re-enacts the “calling Orson” sequences from Mork & Mindy.

In that show, Mork would report back about whatever lesson he learned this week on Earth. Here, ALF reports on freedom of the press…but don’t worry, it’s brief, and the big joke is that the Orson analog (whom ALF calls “The Fat Man”) asks if ALF is wearing a new outfit. “Yeah,” ALF says. “I had to change it for legal reasons.”

I like it…and it’s one of those strangely rare instances of the show having fun with familiar “alien” touchpoints. Usually it’s just ALF masturbating on the couch to Little House on the Prairie. Having him actually do something that’s recognizably alien — riffing on a formula familiar to viewers — is not only welcome, but it makes you realize how rarely the show does it at all. I remember the pilot making a few references to E.T. for instance, but since then he might as well have been a gremlin, or a teddy bear that’s come to life. So little of this show about an alien — which indirectly has “alien” in the title — has anything to do with fucking aliens that every time it does do something alien I fall out of my chair.

The vignette really just exists as a sight gag with a bit of dialogue thrown in, but it works fine. It resolves itself with ALF waking up in bed, promising himself he’d never eat film before falling asleep again.

I’d love to see that as a reference to the final episode of Newhart, in which the entire series is revealed to be the dream of Bob’s character from The Bob Newhart Show…who was then chastised by his wife for eating Japanese food before bed. It’s one of television’s most famous endings, and with ALF‘s frequent references to the works of Bob Newhart, I thought for sure this was a loving little nod.

But, nope. Despite the seeming similarity of the line (and, to some extent, the context), “Lies” aired about a year before Newhart‘s famous fakeout. So it’s just coincidental, but considering the many, deliberate Newhart connections, it’s an interesting one.

So, yeah. A nice, solid, baseline episode. Nothing I’ll look back on and say I loved, but it had a nice idea and it took the time to tell it entertainingly. Good acting all around, some insightful jabs about the writing process, and a storyline that didn’t revolve around cheats and idiocy.

That’s a good episode of ALF. Here’s hoping it wasn’t the last one.

Countdown to Jim J. Bullock existing: 5 episodes
Countdown to ALF being eviscerated in front of the Tanners: 22 episodes

MELMAC FACTS: Melmac and Xerxes IV were both in “the tri-planet area.”

Arts in Entertainment Kickstarter: It’s Live!

The Arts in Entertainment Kickstarter is live! Right now!

Take a look: https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/464236232/arts-in-entertainment-a-series-about-art-impacting

You can read all about this great new approach to art criticism there, as well as check out the awesome backers’ perks. Pledge as early as you can in order to help this happen. The longer backers wait the less likely we’ll reach our humble goal, so if you are interested, please contribute and bring this project to life!

By backing with $10 or more, you’ll earn yourself a copy of a book about Synecdoche, New York, I’m Still Here, This is Hardcore, Titus Andronicus, Mystery Science Theater 3000, or Hatsune Miku (the latter providing we hit our stretch goal).

No cards will be charged until after the Kickstarter closes (30 days from about one hour ago!), and no cards will be charged if the funding goal is not met. In other words, you’ve got nothing to lose!

Many of the tiers allow you to choose one or two titles as a reward; you’ll have a chance to specify them after the campaign closes, so don’t worry that you’re not asked for your answer up front.

In the coming weeks we’ll have Author Spotlights and other features to share with you, as well as more concept cover art and other goodies.

But please help to make this great series a reality. Some very talented and passionate authors are standing by to change the way you think about art.

Thank you, sincerely, in advance.

Arts in Entertainment: Pitch Video and Book Descriptions

The Kickstarter for our Arts in Entertainment book project will be launching Wednesday, October 14. That’s the big news. Please help me to share and circulate it that day…and pitch in to get one or more of the great books we’re producing.

In the meantime, I wanted to share with you some more information on the specific titles we’re publishing…and the pitch video I put together.

No animals were harmed in the making of this video, but penmanship was pretty badly beaten.

I think it came out pretty great and you should donate several thousand dollars based on that fact alone, but I understand you’ll each have to make up your own minds.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy. Credit for the music goes to Benjamin Briggs; it’s the song “Love the Game,” used with permission from Twitch Jams.

All of the art was done by me. You can tell because it’s awful and nobody looks anything like they should. Except maybe me. I’m pretty easy to draw.

As far as the six titles we’re launching…I’d tell you about them, but I’d prefer to let the authors do that themselves. In the coming weeks, they’ll tell you even more, so stick around. This is a very exciting project, and I look forward to making this a huge success. I hope you’ll help me with that; it’ll be worth it!

For now, brief overviews of what to expect in each book, from the authors themselves. This will give you a great idea of the angles we are taking to our topics…and why every one of these is going to be worth reading. Enjoy.

1) Nathan Rabin: I’m Still Here

It is now apparent that I’m Still Here is a whole lot more than just a movie. I watched it during the meat of a two-week trip I spent following Phish via Greyhound buses across the East Coast and Gothic Midwest. When I watched it in one of a series of interchangeable hotel and motel rooms that had become a weirdly ubiquitous staple of my life, I was in the process of losing my goddamned mind. My brain was a curious and malfunctioning beast wired weird with way too much Molly, pot and LSD and way too little sleep, relaxation or stability.

I recognized all of my debilitating flaws in myself—toxic narcissism, self-obsession, a dependence on alcohol and marijuana that made me feel both vulnerable and powerless, arrogance and an inability to forge genuine, substantive connections with other people due to an almost pathological inability to get out of my own head and my own crippling self-consciousness—in hugely exaggerated, distorted and parodic form.

For all the words that were spilled about I’m Still Here, mostly before it came out, there is so much more left to be said about it. It’s one of the most important and essential artworks of our time, a film that has provocative and insightful things to say about hip hop, cultural appropriation, ego, narcissism, celebrity, reality, the blurry lines between reality and fiction, documentary, method acting, drug addiction and mental illness.

My deep-seated self-hatred and my equally deep-seated self-aggrandizement both processed the movie the same way: they softly but persistently whispered, “This is a movie about you.”

2) Catie Osborn: Titus Andronicus

See, the thing is, everyone shits all over Titus Andronicus. Most “real” theatre people and directors and scholars talk about Titus like it’s this cute little failure of a play, sort of a violent novelty that you have to do every 12 years when you’re working your way through the canon, or, conversely, sort of a Shakespearean answer to the Quentin Tarantino generation, a grand-guignol style freakshow that will sell tickets to the young and alternative.

But most importantly, to me, it is the story of a father and his daughter. My dad died, unexpectedly and really shittily, when I was 20. Titus, somehow, came along at the moment I needed to let go. And I got to. I got to say goodbye to my father for 6 months, in rehearsals and live, 15 times on stage.

And it was hard. But it became, somehow, part of me. Titus, this stupid, shitty show written, most likely, on a pun about pie crusts, is that single constant in my life. I have often lied (most recently on my application letter to grad school), that “Shakespeare” is the constant. But it’s not true. Shakespeare is the author. Titus is the constant.

And I would really, really like to tell that story.

3) David Black: This is Hardcore, Pulp

Twelve songs about loss, disappointment, sex, revolution, lack of sex, pornography and washing up. Released in 1998, it ought to be a seminal work, but instead it is one that often goes overlooked, due mostly to the popularity of its predecessor, the decade defining Different Class. The Britpop phenomenon of the mid-nineties was dominated by the “Blur versus Oasis” debate. The jury is still out, but Pulp were arguably the eventual winner. In the three years between albums, the Britpop phenomenon came to an end with a whimper and a Spice Girl miming whilst wearing a Union Jack. At a time when we needed them most, Pulp were notable by their absence.

This is Hardcore arrived to a very different welcome. It was darker, it was anthem-less and it was not what people expected. It was what they needed. They didn’t know it. They probably still don’t.

I listened to it again and again, waiting for the rest of you to see sense. You didn’t. I began to despair. I despaired that a work of such quality was being largely ignored. I despaired that even the positive reviews were tinged with a sense of doubt. I despaired at the graffiti sprayed across posters featuring the cover art. I despaired of the entire cover art debate that seemed to me to be almost entirely literally judging a book by its cover. I despaired of the media — why weren’t the band on TV more? I despaired of the band themselves — why were they making the wrong choices of which tracks should be released as singles? I despaired of you — why didn’t you like it? Eventually I despaired of myself — was I wrong?

4) Zachary Kaplan: Synecdoche, New York

Synecdoche, New York is a film about life, time, memory, and our struggle to find meaning in our stories and stories in our lives. These ideas always resonated with my worldview, but after my mother took her own life, they began to take on a much greater significance to me.

They began to help me understand her suicide, my grief and my purpose. As I explore the film, I will use it as a compass to guide me through the grieving process as I plumb the emotional depths of the movie and of myself; to do anything less is to not heal fully. My mother is the fourth member of our family to take her own life, after her father, her mother and her brother.

I will intimately discuss ideas in this film as well as my family’s sad past, one story illuminating the other. In doing so, I will put myself through an emotional hell — and, hopefully, come out stronger in the end.

Writing this book is my dealing with it, my therapy. Writing this book is my grief process. Writing this book is my moving on. Writing this book is my ending the cycle.

5) Philip J Reed: Mystery Science Theater 3000

I’ve returned to Mystery Science Theater 3000 many times over the years. It’s seen me through some of the darkest stretches of my life, and it’s bolstered me through some of my most creative. It’s a deceptively rich, ahead-of-its-time experience that, if you really think about it, never should have existed.

But it’s more than just the funniest show I’ve ever seen; it’s shaped me as a human being, and helped me to understand, on some level that no other person ever could, that it’s okay to be what I am: an introvert.

Mystery Science Theater 3000 is a show that comes with a built-in sense of camaraderie. Nobody watching is ever alone. There was always a sense of community, even if it was (and is) a community of isolates. And, hey, so what? Isolates got me. Isolates get you.

The show won’t, and can’t, last forever. It was an all-too-brief spark that flitted between networks and timeslots, ensuring that an enormous amount of potential fans never saw it. But for those that did, it was a defining experience.

Mystery Science Theater 3000 took the dreck of world entertainment and created around it a safe and welcoming environment. Sure, the main character had to invent his own friends…but that was okay. Sometimes you find your place in the world, and other times you build it yourself.

It looked like the stupidest damned show on television, but was secretly the most insightful.

6) Matt Sainsbury: Hatsune Miku

Hatsune Miku is a vocaloid; a digital instrument that you plug into music creation software to make noises. What is different about Hatsune Miku is that instead of being a digital piano, violin, drum set or guitar, “she” is a voice that sings lyrics for you.

She has become popular. Very popular. Over 100,000 songs with Miku’s voice being produced to date, at least one million images drawn by fans, and dozens of music videos have only furthered her celebrity. Crypton has even developed screen technology that allows Miku to perform live on stage; she has opened concerts for Lady Gaga, performed with some of Japan’s most popular music artists, and even performed on Letterman.

And that’s just the start. There’s much to say about the artistic and economic impact, but even more to say about the cultural implications of Hatsune Miku. In fact, because she blurs the boundaries between the unreal and real so much, Miku may well be part of the cultural trend that explains why Japanese men and women aren’t having relationships with one another and producing children.

With this book you will get a first-hand account of why Miku is so popular and why her fans personalise her by referring to her in human terms, rather than as an object (i.e, to fans, Miku is a “she” and not the far more accurate “it”). The implications of this choice of pronoun run deeper than you can possibly imagine.

More to come. Very, very soon…