Geekademia has been swallowed by the evil empire of Non-Productive, and as such, we are being transported to the home office:
non-productive.com/geekademia
So long, Blogspot! It's been fun, but we're packing up and selling out like good corporate drones!
Jesse and Dave
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Saturday, December 10, 2011
show update
Good news everyone!
We've recorded yet another episode. This time out, Jesse and Dave spoke to famed author A. Lee Martinez about the modern image on vampires, the influence Don "The Dragon" Wilson has had on that image, and more. Assuming Dave lives to the end of the week; and with his luck that is debatable, there should be a few more shows left before 2011 rings the final bell.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Show Update
Good news everyone!
We've recorded another episode. Sadly Jesse was unable to make it, so this particular version is going to be a one on one with none other than Bobby Nash and David. Things should be hopping relatively soon, so keep your speakers tuned in.
Geek Theories: V's Identity
by: Jesse Baruffi
This series will focus on theories I have about loose ends, unanswered questions, and points of mysterious interest in various forms of pop culture. I won't be focusing on any ongoing series, because guessing about things which may yet be answered isn't of interest to me. For the most part, these answers are my own, and I don't think they're canonically true, but they usually have enough textual support to be plausible. I invite readers to bounce their own theories about these works around. Be aware that spoilers probably lurk within.
Anyone who has read V for Vendetta knows it's one of those seminal Alan Moore books that was written at the top of his game, and indeed, there's much to like. Considering the darkness and brutality of both the world and its protagonist, it's rather optimistic, as opposed to his even-higher-regarded brethren Watchmen (though neither of them have anything on From Hell in terms of being dark and depressing). Indeed, I have at least one friend who considers V the superior book, but that's a debate for another day. Nevertheless, it is a classic work, and one that has actually become inspirational in these crazy times.
The entire book, we are left to wonder just who V is behind his Guy Fawkes mask. Is he an important figure in the story? Is he a relative of Evey? In the end, of course, we never find out. It's okay that we don't, though. This isn't a mystery that is crucial to the reading of the book, and, as Evey says, finding out who he is would probably diminish him, take away from the power of what he made himself into. V himself says that people can die, but ideas are bulletproof, and even though The Man From Cell V dies, the V persona lives on in his acolyte with almost no one the wiser. In the movie, it's stated that V is all of us. He's everyone who was ever oppressed and decided that they would no longer take it. Given all this, it's almost certainly better that the story doesn't reveal V's identity, and if it were as simple as V never having had an identity at all, I could live with that just fine.
But funny enough, Alan Moore talks a little about this in the epilogue of the book. Despite his reputation these days as a grumpy old sorceror, it's clear that Moore has quite a sense of humor. He teases that V does in fact have an identity, and it's not Evey's father. Then, in a work of classic villainy, he tells the readers he's run out of space, so he can't tell them.
Let it be known that I'm not one of those obsessive fans who simply has to know every detail of a work, down to the smallest minutiae or insult creators over every tiny plot hole or contrivance. If a story is enjoyable, or generally works, I am content to be along for the ride, forgive little mistakes, and not dwell overmuch on ambiguity. I'm even aware of Neil Gaiman's mantra from Sandman, that it's the mystery which lingers in our minds and the solution is always less satisfying. Despite all that, knowing Moore had someone in mind made me start to wonder who it might be. Alan Moore is one of those writers who doesn't half-ass anything he does, which means that even if we readers were never going to find them, there must be clues.
I have in the past heard some fascinating theories on who V might be. Some have suggested that despite Moore's claim to the opposite, V might be connected to Evey, and in fact be her father. Though there is some circumstantial evidence to suggest it, Moore's denial as well as the fact that it's about as trite an answer as possible lead me to be sure this is not the case. Others suggest that V might be Ruth, the girlfriend of V's original cell neighbor, Valerie, out to avenge her lost love. I think this is an interesting theory, except that those few people who did know V's identity addressed him as a him, so unless they were being particularly insulting towards her, I doubt it. V's motivations are also far more idealistic and less personal. V never seems out for revenge (a mistake I thought the movie made). I even know one person who suggests that V is The Second Coming, put through the horrors and trials of Norsefire and driven mad, but still able to lead the people to salvation. I can't really find any evidence that suggests this to me, other than the fact that V has nigh-superhuman abilities. It is kind of a cool idea to imagine a messiah tainted by evil but still out to do good, but I still don't think that is the answer for me.
No, my theory is this: V is Alan Moore himself.
Am I implying that Alan Moore, arguably the greatest comic book writer of his time, wrote what people would today call a self-insert fanfic? I am not. I will get to what I believe his motivations were in a moment, but for now, I'll focus on the evidence. Moore, like V, is brilliant, knowledgeable in many subject areas, and perhaps just a touch mad (I assume the drugs and tortures they subjected him to in the camp would have made him much crazier). Moore is also capable of extremely intricate wordplay even while just speaking, as anyone who's ever heard an interview with him will attest, much like V, who gives entire monologues using alliteration or metaphors. He's certainly the sort of person a fascist government would have thrown in prison, what with being a writer, a political anarchist, and known for his unconventional lifestyle (polyamorous marriage, bisexual, did lots of drugs). His anarchism certainly supports the direction V decided to take his revolution. Also, I will admit that I have not been to Alan Moore's home (yet!), my guess is that it resembles V's Shadow Gallery:
Naturally I can't prove this part, but I strongly suspect it. If anyone who knows Alan out there can tell me, I would greatly appreciate it.
So, if my theory has any weight at all, why would Moore do this? Well, as anyone who knows anything about the book will tell you, Moore wrote the book as a response to Thatcherian England and the hardline conservative policies of the time. I can't say if Moore truly believed his country was going to be overrun by fascism, but I suspect at least that he wondered about it, and what he would do in that event. So I believe that V for Vendetta is Moore's countermeasure in case the blackshirts ever started marching into Northampton, a "break in case of Nazis" glass, if you will. And while it was his plan, turning it into a book meant that he could share it with everyone, and incite others to do the same. The moral of V, after all, is that tyranny and oppression and strike anywhere, even in our supposedly safe, rich countries, if we let them, but the only thing it would take to stop them is everyone being brave enough to say no. So I think, in a way, it's a guide, with the author effectively living out the plan, that happens to double as a really cool story.
This series will focus on theories I have about loose ends, unanswered questions, and points of mysterious interest in various forms of pop culture. I won't be focusing on any ongoing series, because guessing about things which may yet be answered isn't of interest to me. For the most part, these answers are my own, and I don't think they're canonically true, but they usually have enough textual support to be plausible. I invite readers to bounce their own theories about these works around. Be aware that spoilers probably lurk within.
Anyone who has read V for Vendetta knows it's one of those seminal Alan Moore books that was written at the top of his game, and indeed, there's much to like. Considering the darkness and brutality of both the world and its protagonist, it's rather optimistic, as opposed to his even-higher-regarded brethren Watchmen (though neither of them have anything on From Hell in terms of being dark and depressing). Indeed, I have at least one friend who considers V the superior book, but that's a debate for another day. Nevertheless, it is a classic work, and one that has actually become inspirational in these crazy times.
The entire book, we are left to wonder just who V is behind his Guy Fawkes mask. Is he an important figure in the story? Is he a relative of Evey? In the end, of course, we never find out. It's okay that we don't, though. This isn't a mystery that is crucial to the reading of the book, and, as Evey says, finding out who he is would probably diminish him, take away from the power of what he made himself into. V himself says that people can die, but ideas are bulletproof, and even though The Man From Cell V dies, the V persona lives on in his acolyte with almost no one the wiser. In the movie, it's stated that V is all of us. He's everyone who was ever oppressed and decided that they would no longer take it. Given all this, it's almost certainly better that the story doesn't reveal V's identity, and if it were as simple as V never having had an identity at all, I could live with that just fine.
But funny enough, Alan Moore talks a little about this in the epilogue of the book. Despite his reputation these days as a grumpy old sorceror, it's clear that Moore has quite a sense of humor. He teases that V does in fact have an identity, and it's not Evey's father. Then, in a work of classic villainy, he tells the readers he's run out of space, so he can't tell them.
Let it be known that I'm not one of those obsessive fans who simply has to know every detail of a work, down to the smallest minutiae or insult creators over every tiny plot hole or contrivance. If a story is enjoyable, or generally works, I am content to be along for the ride, forgive little mistakes, and not dwell overmuch on ambiguity. I'm even aware of Neil Gaiman's mantra from Sandman, that it's the mystery which lingers in our minds and the solution is always less satisfying. Despite all that, knowing Moore had someone in mind made me start to wonder who it might be. Alan Moore is one of those writers who doesn't half-ass anything he does, which means that even if we readers were never going to find them, there must be clues.
I have in the past heard some fascinating theories on who V might be. Some have suggested that despite Moore's claim to the opposite, V might be connected to Evey, and in fact be her father. Though there is some circumstantial evidence to suggest it, Moore's denial as well as the fact that it's about as trite an answer as possible lead me to be sure this is not the case. Others suggest that V might be Ruth, the girlfriend of V's original cell neighbor, Valerie, out to avenge her lost love. I think this is an interesting theory, except that those few people who did know V's identity addressed him as a him, so unless they were being particularly insulting towards her, I doubt it. V's motivations are also far more idealistic and less personal. V never seems out for revenge (a mistake I thought the movie made). I even know one person who suggests that V is The Second Coming, put through the horrors and trials of Norsefire and driven mad, but still able to lead the people to salvation. I can't really find any evidence that suggests this to me, other than the fact that V has nigh-superhuman abilities. It is kind of a cool idea to imagine a messiah tainted by evil but still out to do good, but I still don't think that is the answer for me.
No, my theory is this: V is Alan Moore himself.
Am I implying that Alan Moore, arguably the greatest comic book writer of his time, wrote what people would today call a self-insert fanfic? I am not. I will get to what I believe his motivations were in a moment, but for now, I'll focus on the evidence. Moore, like V, is brilliant, knowledgeable in many subject areas, and perhaps just a touch mad (I assume the drugs and tortures they subjected him to in the camp would have made him much crazier). Moore is also capable of extremely intricate wordplay even while just speaking, as anyone who's ever heard an interview with him will attest, much like V, who gives entire monologues using alliteration or metaphors. He's certainly the sort of person a fascist government would have thrown in prison, what with being a writer, a political anarchist, and known for his unconventional lifestyle (polyamorous marriage, bisexual, did lots of drugs). His anarchism certainly supports the direction V decided to take his revolution. Also, I will admit that I have not been to Alan Moore's home (yet!), my guess is that it resembles V's Shadow Gallery:
Naturally I can't prove this part, but I strongly suspect it. If anyone who knows Alan out there can tell me, I would greatly appreciate it.
So, if my theory has any weight at all, why would Moore do this? Well, as anyone who knows anything about the book will tell you, Moore wrote the book as a response to Thatcherian England and the hardline conservative policies of the time. I can't say if Moore truly believed his country was going to be overrun by fascism, but I suspect at least that he wondered about it, and what he would do in that event. So I believe that V for Vendetta is Moore's countermeasure in case the blackshirts ever started marching into Northampton, a "break in case of Nazis" glass, if you will. And while it was his plan, turning it into a book meant that he could share it with everyone, and incite others to do the same. The moral of V, after all, is that tyranny and oppression and strike anywhere, even in our supposedly safe, rich countries, if we let them, but the only thing it would take to stop them is everyone being brave enough to say no. So I think, in a way, it's a guide, with the author effectively living out the plan, that happens to double as a really cool story.
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Things That Need to Go Away: Killing Characters as Drama
by: Jesse Baruffi
This blog post--someone dies! Is it Jesse? Is it Dave? You'll have to read on to find out!
Now before I get a call from Dave's lawyer for making threats or something, I'm simply making a point. Threatening to kill characters is a pretty big grab for attention in media. In most types of stories, we expect characters to go through the wringer in one way or another, but on the whole, characters can overcome or recover from their misfortunes. Death, however, is the big one. In just about all settings that are not Dragonball Z, death is rarely if ever conquerable. Once a character is dead, they're not coming back, which means that the story dynamic is changed irrevocably. Also, most major and important characters tend to die in memorable ways, so it tends to force us to ask not only who is going to die and how that will alter the story, but how they're going to die. It's all very compelling, and it draws us in. In and of itself, character death isn't a bad thing. People die in real life all the time, and in the hyper-realized world of fiction even moreso. The problem arises when death is used not as a culmination of character arc or theme, but as a cheap stunt to simply draw in readers or viewers. Character death as a source of drama is, you guessed it, something that Needs To Go Away.
Certainly the amount and severity of death in a story will vary based on the kind of story it is. A story where kids explore a magical world and learn about it will probably have a much smaller body count than a slasher movie or a war story, and this is fine. As I said above, death in a story should relate first to the story's plot and characters. Does a character death serve as a capstone to their personal development, or force those around them to perceive the world differently, to grow more mature perhaps, or fall into despair? Does it serve to remind the readers that life is short and precious, that some things are worth dying for, or that nature is cruel and merciless? These are only a few possible ways to make death work, but it must be organic, and frankly, the death of a major character should always have some sort of weight to it. Whether one character in a story dies or all of them do, it should mean something other than "Another Shocking Twist!" (I have a whole rant about shocking twists and sexy results, but that's for another day)
Some people make the argument that they enjoy stories where no one is safe, because it prevents them from being able to guess where the story goes, and to a certain extent I can understand this, but I disagree. I don't want characters in stories to be immortal, mind you, or feel no risk of failure, and I don't think every story should end with a perfect happy ending all around. I like many tragedies, and I enjoy unpredictable stories as well. But every character in a story should serve a purpose, and if that purpose goes unfulfilled or we're forced to question what the purpose was after they died and we have no answer or indication that there was indeed an answer at all, then their inclusion feels hollow and frustrating. Good examples of stories where characters seem to die at random include Lost and 100 Bullets. It's often endemic of stories that promise greater meaning than they deliver. Even if a death is unpredictable, it should still make sense.
Sometimes death is used to show how powerful or evil a villain is, and while I wouldn't write this off completely, it's very easy to overdo. We often expect our badguys to kill people, and we want to care about at least some of the people in question. Still, if every new villain who comes along has to provide at least one death (I'm looking at YOU, superhero comics!), then pretty soon, the impact is reduced and before long people groan and sigh in frustration at yet another dead character at the hands of yet another new big bad. It's easy to forget, but there are plenty of ways a villain can prove they're a serious threat besides a random murder. Just off the top of my head, capturing loved ones, being able to get inside the hero's head with pinpoint accuracy, winning over the populace to their side, taking away some advantage the hero assumes they have, corrupting an ally, or forcing the hero to break his or her moral code are all ways a villain can be scary without another ratings stunt death. That way, when the villain does commit a murder, it counts for something rather than just creating a law of diminishing returns. Good examples of this are The Joker from The Dark Knight, who prefers assassinating symbols of public trust and hope to just gassing kindergartens, and Sephiroth from Final Fantasy 7, whose shocking murder of Aeris makes perfect sense in retrospect because she could have stopped him on her own.
I shall brace myself thusly for the counterargument that random death is realistic: truth is stranger than fiction, they say, because fiction has to make sense. Sure, in real life, death is pointless and unfair, striking without warning or meaning as often as not. In real life, Alexander the Great died at 32 of a fever instead of in battle or by treachery or old age. But fiction is not real life and should not attempt to approximate it exactly. Fiction should not strive for realism. This sounds like a bad argument on my part, but consider. Real life is vast; absurdly, obscenely, unknowably so. It is also full of false starts, anticlimaxes, contradictions of logic and motivation, failure, complexity to the point of convolution, and inner workings to which absolutely no one is privy. Humans have learned a lot about the universe, but there's plenty we don't know, and more than that, there's probably plenty that we don't even know we don't know. To strive as a writer for true realism in our fiction is madness, not only because it tends to make for a lousy story, but because we will invariably fail. So does that mean we should toss out any concept of believability from our work, making it entirely absurd or glaringly full of artifice? Of course not. Instead of realism, however, what we should strive for is verisimilitude. For those who didn't pay as much attention in English class as I did, verisimilitude is the art of making the unreal seem real. How does one do this? Well, that's the question, of course, but the best answer I can give is that we must grab onto some aspect of reality, because while we humans can't always see the big picture, we can grasp facets rather well. This isn't to imply we're dumb; it's just that trying to show everything usually means that we'll ultimately show nothing. Picking one thing, however, or even a few, means we will be able to highlight some piece of the grand truth, and perhaps even get it right.
It's for this reason that I don't believe death in fiction should be random, unless the story calls for randomness. We as authors have to accept the notion that we are the ones in control of the world. Oh, sure, authors often say that stories take on a life of their own, and I can say that there is something to that. Sometimes, it is possible to create a world and its characters well enough that their actions surprise us, even if they make perfect sense. For this reason, a story can pull away from where the author initially intended it to go, but I don't buy the idea that creativity is just some magical force we have absolutely no control over. No matter what, the author is always at the wheel and shapes the world accordingly, and as such, must take responsibility for the events of their fictional worlds, including death. Much like fictional characters, authors should have a sense of agency, the idea that we are not merely puppets of fate, but that our actions lead us to our fates, both fair and foul.
I think what it comes to is that death in stories should parallel death in life only in that it matters. When confronted with death, most of us are affected by it. If our loved ones die, that loss has significance to us. If an acquaintance dies suddenly, it can force us to think about the fragility of life. If someone we think is evil or we hate dies, we may be forced to ask if it makes us happy, and what it says about us if we do. We may even feel sympathy for such a person, because though we may often wish unpleasant things on others, having them come true is another matter. For all that, I don't think it is right to use death to wring out cheap drama and pathos. That devalues death, and with it, life itself. Not to say I think people who write stories where characters die unsatisfyingly are the equivalent of murderers or the like, but as someone who believes stories matter, and are not just lies, we should try to tell those in as honest and sincere a way as possible to help us understand reality better and be better human beings.
This blog post--someone dies! Is it Jesse? Is it Dave? You'll have to read on to find out!
Now before I get a call from Dave's lawyer for making threats or something, I'm simply making a point. Threatening to kill characters is a pretty big grab for attention in media. In most types of stories, we expect characters to go through the wringer in one way or another, but on the whole, characters can overcome or recover from their misfortunes. Death, however, is the big one. In just about all settings that are not Dragonball Z, death is rarely if ever conquerable. Once a character is dead, they're not coming back, which means that the story dynamic is changed irrevocably. Also, most major and important characters tend to die in memorable ways, so it tends to force us to ask not only who is going to die and how that will alter the story, but how they're going to die. It's all very compelling, and it draws us in. In and of itself, character death isn't a bad thing. People die in real life all the time, and in the hyper-realized world of fiction even moreso. The problem arises when death is used not as a culmination of character arc or theme, but as a cheap stunt to simply draw in readers or viewers. Character death as a source of drama is, you guessed it, something that Needs To Go Away.
Certainly the amount and severity of death in a story will vary based on the kind of story it is. A story where kids explore a magical world and learn about it will probably have a much smaller body count than a slasher movie or a war story, and this is fine. As I said above, death in a story should relate first to the story's plot and characters. Does a character death serve as a capstone to their personal development, or force those around them to perceive the world differently, to grow more mature perhaps, or fall into despair? Does it serve to remind the readers that life is short and precious, that some things are worth dying for, or that nature is cruel and merciless? These are only a few possible ways to make death work, but it must be organic, and frankly, the death of a major character should always have some sort of weight to it. Whether one character in a story dies or all of them do, it should mean something other than "Another Shocking Twist!" (I have a whole rant about shocking twists and sexy results, but that's for another day)
Some people make the argument that they enjoy stories where no one is safe, because it prevents them from being able to guess where the story goes, and to a certain extent I can understand this, but I disagree. I don't want characters in stories to be immortal, mind you, or feel no risk of failure, and I don't think every story should end with a perfect happy ending all around. I like many tragedies, and I enjoy unpredictable stories as well. But every character in a story should serve a purpose, and if that purpose goes unfulfilled or we're forced to question what the purpose was after they died and we have no answer or indication that there was indeed an answer at all, then their inclusion feels hollow and frustrating. Good examples of stories where characters seem to die at random include Lost and 100 Bullets. It's often endemic of stories that promise greater meaning than they deliver. Even if a death is unpredictable, it should still make sense.
Sometimes death is used to show how powerful or evil a villain is, and while I wouldn't write this off completely, it's very easy to overdo. We often expect our badguys to kill people, and we want to care about at least some of the people in question. Still, if every new villain who comes along has to provide at least one death (I'm looking at YOU, superhero comics!), then pretty soon, the impact is reduced and before long people groan and sigh in frustration at yet another dead character at the hands of yet another new big bad. It's easy to forget, but there are plenty of ways a villain can prove they're a serious threat besides a random murder. Just off the top of my head, capturing loved ones, being able to get inside the hero's head with pinpoint accuracy, winning over the populace to their side, taking away some advantage the hero assumes they have, corrupting an ally, or forcing the hero to break his or her moral code are all ways a villain can be scary without another ratings stunt death. That way, when the villain does commit a murder, it counts for something rather than just creating a law of diminishing returns. Good examples of this are The Joker from The Dark Knight, who prefers assassinating symbols of public trust and hope to just gassing kindergartens, and Sephiroth from Final Fantasy 7, whose shocking murder of Aeris makes perfect sense in retrospect because she could have stopped him on her own.
I shall brace myself thusly for the counterargument that random death is realistic: truth is stranger than fiction, they say, because fiction has to make sense. Sure, in real life, death is pointless and unfair, striking without warning or meaning as often as not. In real life, Alexander the Great died at 32 of a fever instead of in battle or by treachery or old age. But fiction is not real life and should not attempt to approximate it exactly. Fiction should not strive for realism. This sounds like a bad argument on my part, but consider. Real life is vast; absurdly, obscenely, unknowably so. It is also full of false starts, anticlimaxes, contradictions of logic and motivation, failure, complexity to the point of convolution, and inner workings to which absolutely no one is privy. Humans have learned a lot about the universe, but there's plenty we don't know, and more than that, there's probably plenty that we don't even know we don't know. To strive as a writer for true realism in our fiction is madness, not only because it tends to make for a lousy story, but because we will invariably fail. So does that mean we should toss out any concept of believability from our work, making it entirely absurd or glaringly full of artifice? Of course not. Instead of realism, however, what we should strive for is verisimilitude. For those who didn't pay as much attention in English class as I did, verisimilitude is the art of making the unreal seem real. How does one do this? Well, that's the question, of course, but the best answer I can give is that we must grab onto some aspect of reality, because while we humans can't always see the big picture, we can grasp facets rather well. This isn't to imply we're dumb; it's just that trying to show everything usually means that we'll ultimately show nothing. Picking one thing, however, or even a few, means we will be able to highlight some piece of the grand truth, and perhaps even get it right.
It's for this reason that I don't believe death in fiction should be random, unless the story calls for randomness. We as authors have to accept the notion that we are the ones in control of the world. Oh, sure, authors often say that stories take on a life of their own, and I can say that there is something to that. Sometimes, it is possible to create a world and its characters well enough that their actions surprise us, even if they make perfect sense. For this reason, a story can pull away from where the author initially intended it to go, but I don't buy the idea that creativity is just some magical force we have absolutely no control over. No matter what, the author is always at the wheel and shapes the world accordingly, and as such, must take responsibility for the events of their fictional worlds, including death. Much like fictional characters, authors should have a sense of agency, the idea that we are not merely puppets of fate, but that our actions lead us to our fates, both fair and foul.
I think what it comes to is that death in stories should parallel death in life only in that it matters. When confronted with death, most of us are affected by it. If our loved ones die, that loss has significance to us. If an acquaintance dies suddenly, it can force us to think about the fragility of life. If someone we think is evil or we hate dies, we may be forced to ask if it makes us happy, and what it says about us if we do. We may even feel sympathy for such a person, because though we may often wish unpleasant things on others, having them come true is another matter. For all that, I don't think it is right to use death to wring out cheap drama and pathos. That devalues death, and with it, life itself. Not to say I think people who write stories where characters die unsatisfyingly are the equivalent of murderers or the like, but as someone who believes stories matter, and are not just lies, we should try to tell those in as honest and sincere a way as possible to help us understand reality better and be better human beings.
Monday, December 5, 2011
Dark Shadows Episode Six
“Episode 6.” Dark Shadows. ABC. Various stations. 4 July 1966.
Victoria’s monologue lets us know she is going to stay, even though by this point she knows full well she should run. She’s in the basement, looking for David. She fails to find David, but she does find a creepy old man lurking in the shadows.
The old man takes Victoria to be a snooper, and makes it clear he’s going to do something drastic with the poker he’s carrying. The intervention of Elizabeth saves Victoria, who introduces her to Matthew (the old man). The point is reached relatively quickly, as proper introductions are made all around. Matthew is the handyman of the Collins family, and he doesn’t like snoopers. Elizabeth doesn’t seem to believe Victoria about her reasons for being in the basement, and seems quick to point out that a certain door down there is always locked.
Dismissing Victoria, Elizabeth hurries to the locked door and unlocks it. Behind the door is a storage room, and after searching the place, she finds David nestled inside a box. She scolds David for his actions, politely ignoring his insistence that his father would in fact beat him then says nothing as David scolds her for bringing Victoria to the house. David swears Victoria is a spy and plans to hurt him. Elizabeth tries to comfort the boy.
Upstairs, Victoria runs into Matthew again. He introduces himself as Matthew Morgan. When Victoria asks why the basement is forbidden, Matthew doesn’t give an answer. Victoria tries to bring up another topic, namely the subject of Mr. Stoddard. Matthew makes it clear he knows nothing about Mrs. Stoddard’s husband.
Matthew explains his loyalty to the family. Eighteen years prior, Matthew labored in the canary when Elizabeth hired him to work at the Collins house, as well as giving him a cottage. He was hired by her the day after her husband vanished (and right after she fired all the other servants). Matthew’s advice to Victoria: keep your nose out of other people’s business and you’ll do alright.
Back in the basement, Elizabeth finds an old paperback of the Rover Boys, a boy’s adventure series. She gives the book to David (and fumbles with Matthew’s name a bit), who seems appreciative…at least until she mentions how much his father liked the books when he was David’s age. That turns David right off.
David speaks for a bit about his mother. It seems he’s convinced that as long as Victoria is there, his mother won’t come back. Elizabeth scolds him for that, and says Victoria would never want to keep a child from its mother. She seems to projecting a bit, isn’t she?
In the drawing room, Carolyn and Victoria have a talk. Carolyn demands Victoria talk to her mother about the money the orphanage received when her mother comes in. A phone call from Joe takes Carolyn's attention away as Elizabeth confronts Victoria.
She informs Victoria about David’s concerns and fears. She doesn’t come out and explain why, naturally, but Victoria has questions too. She points out the money to care for her came about the same time as Mr. Stoddard’s vanishing act. Elizabeth makes it clear the two are not related.
Victoria tries to find out why she of all people would be hired to care for one child several states away. Elizabeth grows hostile. Victoria backs off, but Elizabeth makes it clear that her previous answer regarding Victoria’s hiring was the truth and will no go any further. Victoria leaves to phone the orphanage, but will have to drive herself; as that phone call from Joe? It seems he’s going to come to the house and needs to talk to both Carolyn and Elizabeth.
We see more of David, and while some sympathy is raised, he manages to kill it almost at once. Elizabeth proves to be a master at bringing up a subject then refusing to elaborate. Also, Carolyn should stop saying ‘make out’ in conjunction with her relatives
Questions raised: What does Joe want to talk about? What is the issue with David’s mother? Who is Victoria going to talk to?
Saturday, December 3, 2011
I Feel Dirty
by: Jesse Baruffi
So, because this is the 21st century and apparently if you aren't hopelessly addicted to Facebook, you don't exist, Geekademia now has a Facebook page. Go there if you want to learn stuff you'd already know by going here.
Also, in news less likely to make me regret living, we have a new person joining the Geekademia family. Cat Bieter, artist and costume designer, has been on one of the podcasts and will now be writing articles from time to time.
Today, Dave and I interviewed author Adrian Tchaikovsky, and recorded a second podcast discussing the fantasy genre. All good stuff, I suspect. Stick around and you may actually hear it sometime this month.
So, because this is the 21st century and apparently if you aren't hopelessly addicted to Facebook, you don't exist, Geekademia now has a Facebook page. Go there if you want to learn stuff you'd already know by going here.
Also, in news less likely to make me regret living, we have a new person joining the Geekademia family. Cat Bieter, artist and costume designer, has been on one of the podcasts and will now be writing articles from time to time.
Today, Dave and I interviewed author Adrian Tchaikovsky, and recorded a second podcast discussing the fantasy genre. All good stuff, I suspect. Stick around and you may actually hear it sometime this month.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Strange visions
By David Lawrence
Having just experienced the most vivid dream, I feel compelled to inform the Internet about it.
A man is on a beach. Around him are scores of revelers. A celestial being comes down to take the partying group away. The man walks away. When asked, the man looks at the being. "I want nothing you have, and you've made it clear you want nothing of mine."
Then I woke up, most annoyed at having missed the rest of the scene.
Having just experienced the most vivid dream, I feel compelled to inform the Internet about it.
A man is on a beach. Around him are scores of revelers. A celestial being comes down to take the partying group away. The man walks away. When asked, the man looks at the being. "I want nothing you have, and you've made it clear you want nothing of mine."
Then I woke up, most annoyed at having missed the rest of the scene.
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