Hart to Heart

I always wanted to be a rebel when I was a kid.

You know, that guy that flipped off the system?

The tough, cool guy who always looked so bad-ass; who got all the chicks and smoked and had wicked tatts and took no shit from anyone.

Only thing was, I could never shut off that voice of reason in my head -- or silence it long enough to reeeeally let myself make the serious life-changing mistakes that old chums with nicknames like 'Ozzy' and 'Vedder' did.

Sure, I did me some dumbasser-y when I was young, no doubt, but yeah... I always had that gut check firmly in place. I could always see the ramifications of my actions down the line. Thus, my fist-fights were always honest, I never jumped nobody and never joined a gang; I never got expelled, went to juvie or got myself locked up.

But damn if I didn't romanticize the hell out of it.

Even now I just can't help but be drawn to different kinds of shows, those that tend to have a darker bent to them: Dexter, Durham County, Sons Of Anarchy, The Wire.

I like it when my heroes are flawed, when they make mistakes -- sometimes catastrophic ones.

I like it when actions have ramifications that don't just go away 'cause the credits roll.

I like shades of gray and double-crosses and bad guys who win because they'll do what men of conscience won't.

In short, I like seeing 'reality' reflected back to me in my stories.

What I've been realizing over the last while is that that puts me distinctly in the minority amongst TV viewers.

Not TV viewers that I know and associate with... but TV viewers on the whole.

I'm sure most of you've read the fantastic transcript from Hart Hanson's Keynote at the "Future Of Story" conference (thanks to todoom for transcribing it!)... a great deal of it was rather eye-opening for me, but this part really hit home:

"... if you cleave to, if you support – as an entertainer – the basic values of your culture and society, you have a much better chance of reaching a mass audience than if you challenge the mores and morals of a society. I hope a huge number of you are going, “Well, that’s what artists do. Artists challenge what we think.” And I would say, that’s right. So I’m not an artist."

Now, long ago I realized that TV is a business and that writing for TV is far more Craft than Art. But somehow this quote just really cemented home a different sort of perspective.

You want a hit show? Give people what they want to see. Reflect their ethics and morals and mores back to them. Tweak it where you can but, essentially, tell them what they want to hear as many different ways as possible.

Sell them the Dream, not the Reality.

'Cause, as the numbers seem to bear, very few watch TV to see the darkest aspects -- let alone the painfully true aspects -- of their life reflected back at them.

Which is... weird to me.

I've never known the happily-married sitcom life: Mom, Dad, Sparky, picket fence and the kids. But I've never known the dark, hard, criminal life of the streets either.

Certainly nothing like anything in The Wire.

And yet it's still this sort of odd dichotomy where writing about either side of the line feels fake -- with the 'shiny, happy people' side feeling moreso than the other.

At least I know people who've done hard time.

Then again, maybe I've been looking at it all wrong. Taking it in from the wrong angle. 'Looking down' on it (as Mr. Hanson says) without really giving it fair thought.

Maybe that's what the Dream is all about: The last stand.

That shining refuge and hope that at the end of the day Good will triumph over Evil; that hard working people will be rewarded and the assholes in life will always get their comeuppance.

I mean, is it wrong to want to come home after a hard day of dealing with jerks and just escape to a simpler world? To turn off the brain and enjoy a story... maybe even surrounded by people you love?

Truth be told, when you put it that way... I can kind of get it.

One of the very few times we'd all sit down and watch TV as a family was when my mom would grab us kids by the collar and sit us down to watch Little House On The Prairie.

At the time I thought it was stupid... but even now, as I look back on it, I can't help but have fond memories of the times we shared there.

Is there a way to serve the dream but keep it real? I'm sure there is.

There's gotta be some way to play it straight and fair but swing for the high note.

There's just gotta.

Can you do that for 20-ish episodes a season for 100 episodes or more?

That... yeah, that'd be the trick.

Cheers,
Brandon

Monday Music Selection

My brain's too slow to think of interesting things to write about today. Been trying all day but no dice.

So I share with you the healing power of music:



Cheers!
Brandon

Once More, With Feeling

The always-insightful Jim Henshaw has a great post on his blog where he brings up Mel Gibson's recent antics and essentially asks the question:

When do we let people go back to being 'normal' after they screw up?

The answer, sadly, is when we let ourselves forget; More so: when we stop caring.

This is problematic when you're a star.

Doubly so when you're prone to fits of furious, drunken, anti-Semitic tirades.

Here's what I've gleaned from the US star-system:

When you're someone famous, you're only as good as your last headline. And the media, dumb and predictable as it is, is at least consistent in this regard. Whatever bad crap you did before is going to get thrown in your face the moment you sit back in that junket chair.

You don't think Winona Ryder got the rundown of shoplifting questions the moment she stepped into the press room? Or Eddie Murphy and his dalliance with a transsexual? Or Hugh Grant with his hooker?

Maybe Mel was right to be pissed off. To him, 4 years have passed. He's lived four years of his life since that moment. He did all the 'necessary' things -- in his mind -- to make it right.

What he may be forgetting is that those 4 years for Mel are as fresh as a Google search for those lazy journalists needing something 'edgy' to push past their editors.

Were they valid questions? Technically, sure.

Were they designed to elicit a response? Absolutely.

Here's my question: Is Mel Gibson a hot head? Does he have a temper? Or is he just sick of hearing the same question lobbed at him through different milquetoast filters?

I don't know if you've ever seen a press junket for a film, let alone one featuring a major star, but the lineup of reporters and cameramen can stretch around the block. It can take hours, all broken down into 10 min (or less) chunks of reporters coming in to get as many usable soundbites from you as they can.

If you're someone who feels like they've paid their dues, there's only so many times you can answer the proscribed PR answer before it starts to grate on you.

That's just Human nature.

That said, he's an ACTOR; his entire career is based on pretending he's someone else. And this is not exactly his first press junket or his first scandal...

Maybe Mel just wasn't playing along anymore.

Maybe he, at whatever point, just decided to say 'fuck it' to the game that they're all playing.

The 'game' -- which is really no secret at this point thanks to our Perezes and TMZs -- is that we love to see our celebrities humbled. Once they've had a taste of being 'us' again, they're free to go.

Just ask Hugh Grant -- the current reigning champ of the public apology -- who, after his dew-eyed mea culpa on the Tonight show, was quickly huggled back into the fold by the waiting masses. His trick -- if you want to call it a trick -- was that he went before the masses and publicly LOOKED apologetic. He seemed genuinely contrite.

Was he acting? Was he hiding a secret Tiger-esque cache of hooker-hook-ups? We'll never know and, more importantly, we don't care. He kissed the ring, threw in a bit of tongue for the ladies and strolled off the lot looking like crisp dollar bill.

Mel Gibson not only failed the ritualistic 'trial by douche' that all returning actors go through, he flipped them the bird and showed -- to the public that had 'forgiven and forgot' -- that he really didn't mean it.

Even though he kneeled and kissed the ring, in his heart, he was still looking down on the plain-clothes folk; cursing them for making him kneel.

And so the outrage begins anew.

Do I agree with it? Do I think it's right?

Personally, I don't care.

Ask me about a penal system that locks away instead of rehabilitates. Ask me about regular folk who've paid their debt to society and only wish they could have that kind of podium with which to earn their forgiveness; to be granted their proper re-entrance to the world.

To not live the rest of their lives marked by past mistakes.

Though...

Hey! Maybe we can kill two birds with one stone?

Send our 'contrite' stars to work with inmates who're legitimately trying to get back on the straight and narrow.

Some sort of 'one of us, one of them' approach.

First up, our Wynonas and our Hughs followed by our Bubba's and Lloyd's -- give'm all a few minutes to make their case and their apologies. Then release'em back to the wild.

Hey, it might even make for some good TV.

Just a thought.



Cheers,
Brandon

Side Project: Letters From Imaginary Characters - Henry

I've got voices in my head. A lot of them.

Sometimes they tell me to burn things.

It's okay tho'... I'm writer.

Apparently in my profession it's entirely encouraged to have imaginary people speak to you or, better yet, through you.

So the concept of my side project is -- whenever they're yelling loud enough -- to give them a bit of space to breathe.

They'll get about a page or so to write an entry and get whatever it is off their minds and out there into the world.

So, first up -- as, well, he's the loudest -- is Henry.

---

I lie in bed, watching the shapes drift above me.

It’s been dark now for hours, the clock says 3am but I’ve trained myself to not notice. Every ounce of my being focused on the sliver of space between my eyelids; Keeping that perfect balance that allows me to see them.

My Ophthalmologist told me they’re 'just floaters’; Specks of protein ‘floating’ in the vitreous humour of my eye. He was rational and straight forward. He was certain. He knew.

Yet here I lie, in the dark, eyes straining against the abyss, watching translucent horrors dance above me; swimming in the ink like pond water beneath my microscope.

And yes, for the record, I’ve considered the fact that I'm losing my mind.

Annie hadn’t been buried more than a few weeks when I first noticed them -- the night terrors had left me cocooned in our quilt, sweating and whimpering in the silence of our condo.

Through my tears I stared into the darkness above, begging 'God' or 'Allah' or Quantum Physics to make it right. To take me to Heaven or Nirvana or wherever Muslims go.

To be back with her. To go where she went.

But my soul, like my body, remained inert.

Off in the corner of my eye a flicker of movement grabbed my attention. Staring, focusing, my eyes beheld one form and then another; Soon, like a starfield of evil, a host of diaphanous creatures overtook the sky above me.

Some with tendrils and savage spikes, or eyes on stalks or mouths with lancets, I watched them glide above me, silent as a ghost’s whisper – each one different and yet somehow the same; co-existing inside this… ecosystem… above my bed.

Silence overwhelmed me then as lay there mesmerized by their dance.

Oh, I tried to rationalize it. My consciousness clawed inside me, bringing up every mote of pseudo-psychotherapy I'd ever ingested; I was dreaming; I was projecting.

Somehow this was all a product of my unconscious desire… some internal need for a break from reality.

But dreams they were not. And even if they were... it would be a blessing. For my dreams were not dreams. Not anymore. Now twisted and gnarled into the most pitiable and vengeful of sights; Visions that seared me to my core, revealing a pain unlike any I'd ever felt.

Yes, the problem was that my dreams had become all too real.

In them I’d see her: Healthy. Svelte. Long, dark hair full and shimmering, draped over mocha shoulders, warm skin pressed against my own. My heart would pound, struggling, trapped. Her perfume -- long before it would be used to hide the stench of her sores -- threatened to bind me, to hold me down, to drown me.

Every night it was more torture than I could bear, each glance or kiss a jagged shard through my very being.

Yet there was no escape, night after night I discovered that ticklish spot on her thigh or made love on my father's floating dock. Or shared our first chicken curry and remembered the way it –-

No. Awake. Here.

Eyes open.

This... is better.

These things, these ethereal monstrosities -- whatever they are -- instill in me a sense of solace. Of purpose.

I watch them in peace.

Like a fishbowl of nightmares above me, their existence is a reminder that there is more out there than what I know.

And somehow that gives me hope.

I will find you, Annie.

Out there.

Ugh... Sick

The last couple days have been a hazy blur of 'ew' and 'gross'.

My body's finally remembered how to rebel.

And not in that whole cool James Dean 'Rebel Without A Cause' sort of thing.

No folks. We're talking white-cell-vs-viral-payload-bloody-freaking-warfare.

Incidentally, the brief moments of lucidity have been rather... engrossing.

My dreams (day or otherwise) haven't been this vivid in years.

I've also had a bit of a revelation:

I have a need to write something where the first question out of my head isn't 'but is this a show'?

I hadn't realized it but I've been throwing ideas on the pyre like cordwood - things that seemed great in my head but weren't 'TV' so I'd scavenge them for parts and toss the rest to the blaze.

Most are for little short stories... which I like. I never seem to be able to drag a story out to fill a novel... I tend to like to get to the point.

But some are for comic ideas -- which I can't entirely take credit for as I've just fallen madly in love with Joe Hill's 'Locke and Key'. Over the last couple days I've devoured the two trades and I crave more.

So yeah, there's that.

My TV pilot is great and the second draft is coming along fine but I've been feeling this need to write something fantastical -- maybe sci-fi, maybe fantasy, maybe horror... maybe all of the above. Not sure. But I can feel it banging away on the side of my cerebellum.

'Let me out'.

Because, as my most recent dreams will attest, there is just some whacked out shit going on in my head that -- no matter how hard I try to spin it -- just screams 'not for TV'.

And no matter how much I try, it will not be burned.

So... yeah, I think I might take it up as a side project -- something that I can shift gears into from time to time. Probably something short. Probably.

I'm not entirely sure just yet -- it's still sort of fuzzy... like your teeth after a hard night of drinking.

Whatever it is, it's gonna be wild.

Cheers,
Brandon

Crushing It

Jill Golick must not sleep much.

Especially not today as her latest online adventure, 'Crushing It', goes live.

That's right, 'latest'.

Jill's been hard at work creating new and interesting web content for a while now, in fact you might remember her earlier web-series Hailey Hacks, an online show that teaches kids cool tips and tricks on the web; or boymeetsgrrl, a digital drama/love story told over vlogs and blogs and Facebook.

Now we have 'Crushing It' -- an ambitious project that brings Jill, producer-extraordinaire Cathleen MacDonald, and an international team of writers together to pull off a week-long story across half a dozen social media services.

Billed as a Social Media Week Story Project that's "A comedy about relationships and the social web told entirely in the social web in honour of Social Media Week 2010." Crushing It is already underway and it looks like it's going to be a fun ride.

You can follow the story a number of different ways including the following hash-tags on Twitter: #cistory and #smw

The next 'episode' starts at 3pm today.

So hop on and follow along, it's going to be a great week.

Cheers!
Brandon

Save Better Off Ted

I'm not usually one to shill for a show. But shows that I actively enjoy are a rare kettle of fish these days.

So here I am.

Shilling.

Let's just get it right out there: I love Better Off Ted.

It's a show that somehow manages to make me belly laugh at least once an episode. It's subversive and fresh and the living embodiment of all those other buzzwords that people in the biz tend to throw around.




But, like so many other shows, being funny just don't count for as much as you'd think.

Especially when your network can't seem to get rid of you fast enough.

Word on the street is that this show is dying... and fast. ABC's been burning off episodes like jet fuel at a pyro convention and a whole lot of people are missing out on what I will handily declare 'One of The 5 BEST Shows On Television right now'.



So, please, before this show disappears into the void, take a look at these videos. Set your PVRs, or head to iTunes and donate 30 mins of your time to watch this show.

You won't be disappointed.



Cheers!
Brandon

PS:

This is a video of outtakes from one of the more recent episodes. The language was... neutered for TV. Not so much for the Web. Warning!!! This video has (a lot of) swears and vulgar/disturbing language in it!