Alternative Character Interpretation: Part 1

So this is part 1 of 4 of a series of thoughts I've been having based around characters, specifically those from Lord of the Rings and Fallout 3.

I've always been one to over-analyse. It's an interest I fostered in high school which then went into overdrive in University & beyond. As Simon Pegg put in in his autobiography "Nerd Do Well" (which I highly recommend):

(read the whole paragraph, you, not just the highlighted bit)

Many people's reaction to over-analysis of film or television is "God, you're wanking on a bit. Can't you just enjoy it? Well, yes. Though this stuff mostly comes out in things like Lord of the Rings, which I have seen in its 11-hour-extended-edition-entirety upwards of 30 times. It's a trilogy I love. I love it so much, in fact, that I've become slightly numb to the obvious moments of greatness. And it's that numbness that allows you to notice smaller things that are going on. Which is what we come to today.

Part 1: Wormtongue

Azula: I can see your whole history in your eyes. You were born with nothing, so you've had to struggle, connive, and claw your way to power. But true power, the divine right to rule, is something you're born with. The fact is, they don't know which one of us is going to be sitting on that throne, and which one is going to be bowing down. But I know, and you know. (sits on the throne)Well?

Long Feng:....(kneels before Azula) You've beaten me at my own game.

Azula: Don't flatter yourself. You were never even a player.

— Avatar: The Last Airbender

(I know, I know, different universe, but it illustrates what I'm talking about so well!)

(also, let's be clear, I'm discussing the film version, as portrayed by Brad Dourif)

So there's this kid, right? He's shorter than all the other kids. He can't run as fast. He's no good on a horse. He is a terrible sword-fighter. In fact, he's terrible at pretty much anything physical. But he's always thinking. He quickly realises that this can be something important and useful, so he develops his mind. He studies medicine, political intrigue, relationships between those in power. He organises things, and through this, becomes quite valuable. He trades favours and offers advice, gaining position through flattery, bribes, blackmail, threats, and in some cases, poison (which his medical studies made him an expert in). Eventually, though, he finds that in this kingdom, you can only go so far without might or skill with a sword. So he looks elsewhere, makes a powerful and dangerous allegiance, weakens the king, and takes his place as the Bismarck to the King's Wilhelm. He essentially infects the entire court with Munchausen-by-proxy: You need me here, to help the King. Once this is established, he is King in all but name, despite only being the conduit for another power.

This is how we meet Wormtongue. He is "advisor" to king Theoden, while being used by Saruman to control Rohan. He keeps the King weak and confused (implied to be through "witchcraft", but possibly through drugs as well) and whispers his & Saruman's wonts into the King's ear. He is still a weak figure, but he is able to command power, changing rules, and banishing those who oppose him. In return, he is promised more power, and especially the "hand" (....yeah) of Eowyn, the King's niece.

Of course, in ride Gandalf and our heroes, and we all know what happens: they awaken the King, who literally throws Grima from the hall. Grima would have been slaughtered, had not Aragorn stepped in.

Grima runs to Saruman, looking for a new place to set up shop. He brings information with him, still his only currency, and trades it to Saruman for shelter. He explains who cast him out (right down to what jewelry they were wearing) as well as the weaknesses of the Helm's Deep fortress wall. At this point, Grima has given up all the information he has, selling out his court, his King, and his people, out of desperation, and of slim hope of his expected reward (regime change, get the girl, all those people I hate go away).

Saruman takes this information and reveals some of his plan: he has gunpowder, all the better to exploit the weakness in the fortress. Oh, and he also has 10,000 magically-frenzied Uruk Hai outside the window, fully armoured and ready to attack. Grima's information was mildly useful, but not essential. He has played his entire hand and lost.

Here's where it gets interesting and I had my little revalation. What I noticed is in the visual composition of the scenes between him and Saruman. Initially, Grima is seated on a throne-like chair, nursing his wounds while Saruman paces. Grima's position implies power, almost as if he is recovering his strength. Once the gunpowder is revealed, Saruman takes centre stage, with Grima crouched behind him, both literally and figuratively in his shadow. Specifically, Grima is holding a candlestick in his right hand. The candlestick is about 40 cm long and has a tiny stub of white candle on top, which is lit. This candlestick is a miniature version of Saruman's wizard staff (a tall black rod, topped by a white ball). This again demonstrates the power difference between them at a glance. Saruman even, in a comical moment, holds Grima back to stop his candle from coming too close to the gunpowder. Apart from the obvious ("Don't blow us up, idiot"), this is Saruman asserting dominance ("What little power you hold, I can control at will"). They cross to the window, and we (and Grima) see the army. The air from their roars snuffs out his candle. For a moment, He and Saruman stand side-by-side, Saruman with his staff in his right hand, Grima with his (now useless) candlestick. The visual comparison is clear. Grima was never more than a pretender, a wannabe Big Bad.

Grima, up until this point, has been a power-player. He has played both sides off the middle for so long that it is second nature to him. He gives the information to Saruman, thinking that while it might allow Saruman an advantage, the Big S was biting off a bit more than he can chew by attacking Helm's Deep. Then he sees the army.

Then he realises that Saruman does not want a regime change. He does not want to win a battle. He wants genocide. He wants all men gone. Grima might have been trying to push other people out of the boat, but he wasn't drilling holes in the bottom. He realises that he's been played, that he had no real power, and that there is now absolutely nothing he can do about it.

So he holds very still, and weeps.

Forced typesetting

I spent most of today (well, the parts not spent having brunch and walking back from brunch) locked in the spare bedroom, writing an assignment.

"But Lucas!" I hear you posit. "You aren't taking an courses or classes! What gives with the assignmenting?"

That's true. I'm actually finishing assignments for a course put on by work that I began in early 2008. It's a course whose last assignment was due in May of 2009.

Now, when it came to assignments in school, or university, or the various tertiary courses I've taken (be it work-based, or my advertising stuff at TAFE), I alays try to be my best. One memorable work-based-course-presentation was supposed to be 10 minutes. I overprepared and went for 25, although if they hadn't had a stopwatch, I don't know if they would have noticed (no bragging, that was my feedback). I like being able to pit my brain against something and put a project together.

But I don't know. Something happened with this course. I liked the presenters, the subject matter was relevant to my work, but somewhere along the line it stopped being important to me to do the assignments. I got the knowledge, I participate in class, I took notes, but once I was home, I had no motivation or drive to complete things, let alone complete them well. The last assignment I turned in late, incomplete and didn't think about it again.

That is, until the presenter showed up at work in June with a paper full of notes and corrections with a big legend across the top saying "Not Competent". I took it, saying I'd try again (I couldn't even lie and say I had tried. We both knew I had half-assed it).

I put the assignment on my desk at home and there it sat for 8 long months. I didn't think of it again. I'd occasionally look at it, but the only emotion I could raise was a sort of impotent anger towards "fake assignments about fake meetings" that even I know what bogus and childish.

Eventually, as they were wrapping up the course (they're revamping it next month), the presenter got around to marking some of my old assignments and emailing me the results, full of glowing praise about my written composition, the structure of my arguments, and my in-class participation. I do not pretend that ego did not play a part in what followed. Guilt was also there. It had snuck without paying while the show was starting and snuck in a bag out outside peanuts to throw at the screen.

I responded to the email, thanking the presenter for his marking my paper, and complimenting him on his new beard that I had seen him sporting.

Should have seen it coming.

He responded with thanks, then... "Oh, by the way, I'm still waiting on Module 8, as well as parts of Modules 4 & 6. It's been months If you don't turn them in by the end of this week (it was Monday), we'll be forced to mark you not competent and you'll need to start the course over again."

Well, shit. Part of my new slacker personality wanted me to just go "Fuck it, let 'em fail you." but there was enough of the old overachiever in me to respond in the affirmative, asking for a list of what I was missing from each assignment, so I could sort them out by the end of the week. Yes, by Friday.

The presenter responded by explaining that I'd missed out on small-to-medium bits of 4 & 6, but all of 8 needed to be redone, preferably using his notes.

"No problem", says I. "I still have the copy you gave me in June." He took the opportunity to tell me that he was rather disappointed in me, since I was clearly good enough to do this, and I was the first to hand the assignment in, and now the last to finish. Thanks, Dad.

So Tuesday night, I sit down and I clear off assignment 4. Then I prep assignment 6 to do later at work (since that assignment is about meetings and one-on-ones and I had based my prepartion and reflection on imaginary meetings, the part I was missing was, you know, the meetings).

I also noticed that I couldn't find the copy that the presented had returned to me with his notes. I also couldn't find the book of data from that lesson that was necessary to do the report. Non-plussed, I emailed the presenter, saying that if he could, could he bring me a copy with his notes and another booklet, or I could go pick it up before work.

Felt good about myself.

So good, that when I came home from work Wednesday night, I sat down with Tanja after dinner and watched a bunch of Madmen. I remarked on the way to bed that I hadn't done any assignment work, but it's okay, I'd do the hard yards Thursday night, and hand it in to the presented on Friday, right on time. I put the stuff I'd finished into my bag to bring to the presenter at the other office in my lunch break sometime this week. He hadn't emailed me about the booklet/notes, so I sent him (and another presenter, for good measure) another email saying that if he wanted the assignment done by Friday, I was willing, but I needed him to help me out.

Oh yeah, and did I mention? On Wednesday I got a flu shot.

Thursday I was sick. Really sick. Like wake up at 4 am to throw up kind of sick. II didn't go to work, I didn't think about the assignment, I just laid in bed and literally (with no hyperbole, superlatives, or exaggeration) cried, and willed myself to stop hurting and not die.

Friday arrives. I've shaken the flu. My immune system for the freaking win. I go to work and find an email from the presenter saying "Hi Lucas, yes, you can come get the booklet and my notes whenever you like." Also, the second presenter that I'd emailed, whom I've known for longer, stopped by the office to needle me about the assignment, um, I mean, to say hi. Actually, I'm making it sound callous, he was actually really nice and cool as he always is, and just gave a gentle reminder that these assignments should be a snap for me (again, ego). I called the first presenter and said I'd be over in my lunch break to get the booklet & notes. I head over there (about a 20-minute walk, in the rain. He calls when I'm just outside his office to say "Don't worry, I'll be over at your office, I'll bring it."). So I get the details from him, and give him assignment 4, completed. I make an offhand comment about how it's really quite tough filling in the blanks on an assignment I did in June of '08, and frankly, didn't give my best effort to then. I found it hard matching the more-complete answers with some of the sketchier stuff I'd put in earlier."

Should have known that was laying it on a bit thick.

"Well, you know, Lucas, I'd prefer if you you didn't write stuff out of context. I mean, if you need a few more days to rewrite it all and make it good, then that's fine."

*deep breath*

A FEW MORE DAYS??!

It's okay, I'm calm. He put the guilt boot in a few more times, and I left.

I wrote up his comments in Lucas-speak on Saturday, so I'd know where to start. I would have done more work, but Tanja had decided she felt like cleaning and was doing this thing where she talks to what she's cleaning. "Oh, well, that's no good, is it. It's so dusty!" It makes it hard to concentrate.

Also, I was distracted by internet.

Anyway, wrapping up, I sat down today and did it. The whole thing. And it was fine. Actually, now that I knew I was writing for content, I expounded a bit more than I usually would on a business-report-style format. The questions that had frustrated me previously were much easier, thanks to the practice I have now with handling metrics and strike rates at work. Frankly, as I said to the presenter, I'm a different team leader now than I was then. Admittedly, the math I used was different to what they wanted, but I got there in the end.

So now I'm in a frenetic writing mood. I left two loooong and one longish comment on blogs, and now I've written one of my own. It's not too long, though.

...


...


What?!?

"Oh, don't take a photo!"

I’m finally taking a stand.

 

I hate, hate, HATE people who:

 

1.   A) flinch away, or try to block their face with their hand when you try to take a photo

 

-or-

 

2.   B) people who, upon seeing a perfectly fine-looking photo of themselves that you just took, will exclaim “Oh, God! I look ugly/fat/stupid! Delete that!”

 

Seriously, I’m over it.

 

As someone who takes a lot of pictures (nearly 4000 this year alone), nothing frustrates me more. This is especially bad when I’m trying to take a candid photo to actually capture a funny or interesting moment that I feel would make a good and well-composed picture. That candid photo is ruined when the person becomes a cringing blur as they exhibit behaviour A. Yes, I know that everyone’s image is their own business and that I shouldn’t be taking photos without permission, but come ON. Behaviour B seemed to be more of the ingrained body-conscious insecurity that’s drilled into people (of which I myself am an occasional victim) in which we must automatically downplay ourselves as ugly for fear of being considered arrogant and conceited (or worse, actually believe that we are unattractive and dismiss ourselves out of hand).

 

In any case, it comes down to this:

 

1.   I am a photographer and therefore (for better or worse) am an artist (of some sort).

2.   The pictures I compose and attempt to compose (for better or worse), are art (of some sort).

3.   Therefore, the people and objects in the picture (for better or worse), are part of that art (of some sort) and are worthy/interesting.

4.   Therefore, shut your face about it. I think you look good/interesting in this photos and that’s that.

 

These thoughts were kicked into action by a farewell I was at last night, and two friends of whom I took a candid photo of two people I know sitting by a wall and laughing at what a person standing nearby had said. The candid photo was natural and looked great. They then noticed I was taking photos and got quite embarrassed saying “Oh, delete that, I’m sure it looked terrible.” Despite having not seen the photo. I tried to downplay the situation by saying “Well, if you don’t want me to take a bad photo, let me take a good one.” (my mantra of sorts), and they posed. Then viewed the picture. “I look terrible in that one,” one said. “Take another.” They posed again. Repeat times 5. In the end, I just walked away. When I looked at the results, the two best-focused and best-looking photos were the first two I’d taken. Also, after putting the photos on Facebook, I got a narky comment about the candid one, stating “When did you take this, how dare you, I’m going to kill you when I see you next OMG.”

 

I can’t win. Frankly, I miss my old camera-phone, where you could take a picture without making a shutter sound, so people wouldn’t know (though, the camera was no good, and I know they auto-enabled the noise to stop locker-room shots and such).

 

So yes, if you’re one of the people like Craig and Stevie and Ted, of whom I can take many many photos and just love the attention, then I salute you.

 

 

Lucas Brown | Proxy Champignon
Master of Brainthinking

 

Inflatable

Well, as an antidote to the generally negative tone of my last few posts, and in response to some lovely things Dooga said on his blog, here's somethig more positive.

Thanks to the generosity of people I work with, I ended up with a free ticket to Adam Hills' stand-up show at the Enmore theatre. I jumped at the chance, as I ove his work of Spicks & Specks and his DVDs. Well, apart from making me laugh so hard I nearly passed out (literally. I couldn't breathe), he had this classic Dad-Joke to share:
"There was an inflatable boy, who went to an inflatable school, with inflatable freinds and an inflatable principle. One day, he brought a pin to school as a joke. He got into trouble, though, and was brought to the principle's office. The principle said 'You're in big trouble. You've let your school down, you've let your friends down, you've let yourself down and you've let me down!'"

Heh.

Adam used this as a jumping-off point into a discussion with his imaginary son (he was positing what sort of wisdom he could pass on, were he to have a child apart from the definition of optimism being "sitting in a Nissan Micra, where the speedometer goes to 240"). I'll try to remember it as best as I can:

"Well, son, maybe... maybe we're all inflatable. And we have the power to inflate and deflate each other. And if you say something nice to someone, they inflate, like this *stands up straight*, and if you're not nice, they deflate, like this *slouches down*. And if at te end of your life you can figure that if you've inflated more people then you've deflated, then I guess you've had a pretty good life."

He then went on to speak about a friend of his who had died in the past year and how she was a real inflator, and how as her trademark, she always wore bunny ears to the Edinborough Fringe festival. She had died at 31 and the next year, all of her friend had gathered at the Festival to mourn and to celebrate her life, and without arranging it beforehand, they had all brought bunny ears. He said that talking about her was sad, but it was happy too. In the early hours of the morning, weary and heavy hearted, he had walked back to his hotel, head down, feeling very deflated. Then he started noticing that people passing him were smiling, large and openly, and it was only after the fifth person that he realised that he was still wearing the bunny ears from the party. He sat down, and he laughed, and he realised that even 9 months after she had left the earth, she still had the power to inflate him and the people around him.

I thought that was lovely.

Computer names

As we are now a household with 5 computers, I’ve been reflecting on computer names. The PC, which we keep in the spare room, I originally named Hex. The iPod Mini I got around the same time was christened Hex Jr (and when its battery died, its replacement was Hex III, on to my current iPod Video, which is Hex IV). Despite this moniker, the PC is constantly referred to as “The big computer” since the introduction of laptops to the house, even thought it’s not that big. It’s predecessor, Tanja’s original huge clunky silver NEC laptop (which both of us used as the primary PC until the CD drive died, the spacebar stopped working and we got very mad at it) was nameless, except for “the laptop” or, “the old clunker”. After Dad visited, he left me the largish laptop that work had given him, which, though problematic-to-downright-useless with anything internet-based, was great for playing Command and Conquer or Age of Mythology. This one, even 9 months on, is still referred to as “Dad’s laptop”. Tanja has her sexy little Vaio laptop (which is currently being fixed for a battery fault, and she’s suffering from the lack), which she’ll refer to as her “little one” or her “Vaio”. My eeePC’s name, assigned when I booted it up for the first time is “The Guide” (inspired by a custom designed eeePC I found a picture of, which had been laser-etched with “Don’t Panic” on top and rigged to open and work like a book). I thought it fitting, considering I take the bloody thing everywhere and most often use it for reading comics.

 

So. To tally up, we have

 

• The Big Computer/Hex
• The Clunker
• Dad’s Laptop
• Tanja’s Little One/Vaio
• The Guide

 

And to think, I used to think a house with two TVs was extravagant.

 

Lucas Brown | Team Senior - 42

Using the Force in one to one communication

 

Sardines

Maybe it's the fact that in the few weeks I've watched Land of the Dead, The Mist, Cloverfield, 28 Weeks Later and other such Zombie/monster flicks, but yesterday I was in a train car on the top part of the car at the top of the stairs, waiting to get out at Central station and there were literally 30 people jammed in like sardines between me and the door, plus more outside on the platform jamming to get in. I felt a small shimmer of panic in thinking that, if in an emergency, I'd have to get through all those people to get out.

Brrr. I'm not claustrophobic, but still. Brrr.

Musings on the final Seinfeld.

Having picked up the last series of Seinfeld recently, I had a chance to view the finale for the first time since it originally aired. Upon this re-viewing, I noticed two points which had escaped me when I first saw it. I call them "It's all been done" and "What were we doing?"

Point the first: It's All Been Done.
In the opening scene, George and Jerry are in the coffee shop, and George is complaining that the waitress is inattentive. He would like more ketchup. "They seat you, and then they're gone. Adios!" he explains "It's like seeing someone and having them never call again." Jerry then suggests he ask the people behind him for their ketchup. George does so. The couple behind him have a very George-and-Jerry-like conversation about how they dislike passing condiments and how "they'll use it sporadically, so they'd rather not." George is angry, but Jerry distracts him by asking if he wants to see a movie. George then begins to rant about how it's always the same, and that he's seen it before. While Jerry protests that he hasn't seen this movie before, George rants on saying it's always the same: you go in, sit down, eat your popcorn, and then it's over. The couple behind him then get up to leave, and offer George the ketchup bottle. George accepts it, but when he goes to use it, it's empty.

I realised that this scene is a microcosm for why Jerry, and co. didn't want to continue working on the series. Observe. In the scene, the waitress is the viewing public. When the show was new and fresh, they were there. Now that it's a staple, people have accepted it and moved on. The ketchup is key: it symbolises the laughter and attention from the viewing public. The couple, who have the ketchup, represent the dozens of other shows using the Seinfeld formula (unrepentant singles, sitting around talking about themselves), even if they use it sporadically (like Friends) or constantly (Mad About You). By doing so, however, they get the attention of the public as the new It Show. Jerry asking George to go to a movie (a common plot thread throughout the series as a way of getting the characters out) is Jerry (in his guise as the writers/cast stuck in a rut, and the network wanting the same old thing) asking to rehash the same thing yet again, and George rejects it, becoming both the public wanting fresh ideas and the writers not wanting to write stock. Then as the couple/new shows leave/are cancelled, they offer the ketchup/viewership back to Seinfeld, and it's empty. People are tired of the rehash, so they get sick of the original. Once the new couple/show leaves, the regulars are still there, eating the same sandwiches in the same booth.

(I think that makes sense. It made sense in my head.)

Point the second (and the shorter): What Were We Doing?
The whole point of the trial in the second act was the writers and cast turning a mirror into exactly what has become this nationwide sensation and template for damn near all future sitcoms. People will discuss the show amongst themselves, say how great it was when Jerry was callous to a new girlfriend, or George tried to cut a corner, or Elaine talked herself into a corner, or Kramer did something without considering the consequences. The things being held up as hilarious and amazing are things that, had they happened to us in life, we'd be appalled by. Think of it as Passion of the Christ-lite: This Is What You've Been Worshipping.

(That being said, I still love the show, and felt this was a strong season, and look forward to seeing more on DVD.)