The success of Avatar brings out familiar stereotypes

After Monday night's take, Avatar has officially passed The Titanic as the biggest money earner is history.  Ignore the talk of ticket price inflation and the benefits of 3-D showings.  The number that matters is two billion--which is the low-end of the estimates for how much the film is going to bring in during its run.  I have little to say on the quality of Avatar.  I enjoyed the film, but haven't felt compelled to write about it until now.  It certainly was a technological marvel, but the script, much like that of The Titanic, was on the cheesy side and the film wears its trite messages on pretty broad sleeves leaving the whole experience feeling a bit hokey.  Still, the film has some great moments and is highly entertaining.  And, it is a science fiction. We hear it called Dances with Aliens (or, my favorite, Dances With Thundercats) and see it compared to Pochahontas and The Last Samurai regularly because of the common themes, but it is still definitely science fiction and it contains many of the elements that science fiction fans want in the genre—advanced technology, existential philosophy, speculation about alien society and biology among them.

Given the film's enormous financial success, we were bound to see lots of backlash. For fans of the genre, the worst part is the backlash not against the film but against Science Fiction and its fans. As I read the anti-Avatar articles across the Internet, I'm struck by how many of them decide to take jabs at men and women who enjoy Sci-fi and perpetuate the stereotype that Science Fiction fans are anti-social hermits who are afraid of the opposite sex and live in a fantasy world.

The most egregious, or at least the most visible, example comes from Michael Atkinson. His article “Why I won't see Avatar” details why he has no interest in seeing the film. Despite the fact that needing to tell people why you aren't going to see a popular film seems trivial, I have no problem with his main thesis. While the film is amazingly successful as a money maker, I'm not sure it has the depth of theme to allow it to be a topic of discussion among film enthusiasts after its box office run. What I do have problems with is Atkison's characterization of fans of the film and the genre. Here is the section in question:

I’ve seen Avatar already, frankly, because I spent my youth looking at Roger Dean album covers and sci-fi/fantasy paperback covers and the art of Frank Frazetta, Chris Foss, the Brothers Hildebrandt, etc. — and that was a good 30 years ago. But since then, something happened: I grew short hairs and read Hemingway and had sex. There’s no going back.

Granted, Atkinson's point is that now that he is older, he is no longer fascinated with pretty pictures. The problem is the last sentence. It echoes the stereotypes that all Science-Fiction fans are familiar with. If Avatar wasn't a Science-Fiction film, would he have tacked on the “grew short hairs...and had sex” line? I seriously doubt it. What we have here is another critic that thinks disliking something that other people like makes him superior. That position isn't uncommon (nor is thinking that liking something that is unpopular with the masses makes one superior) and we all are likely guilty of it at some point. If Atkinson hadn't felt the need to take a jab at genre fans, his argument would have just been petty elitism. With that jab, it joins a slew of similar opinions that are at least partially responsible for holding the genre back.

The issue isn't that Atkinson's depiction of fans of Sci-Fi/Fantasy is offensive (though it is). The issue is that that depiction is so commonly held. Producers hear this. Studios hear this. If we allow critics to perpetuate the idea that Avatar's success is due to sexless fanboys who go to the theater to look at pretty colors and escape their lonely existence, we are going to get more and more films that cater to the stereotype and not to the elements that really appeal to fans of the genre.

A letter from a nerd in need...

At Nerdbloggers, we offer many services to the nerd community.  One of our most popular and most needed is our Nerd Therapy service which we use to address the many, many psychological problems seen throughout the nerd community.  If you have a problem you would like out help with, please don't hesitate to write.

Dear Nerdbloggers, How can I recover from having my childhood memories raped by an out-of-control film director?  --John in Burbank

     John, as a nerd therapist, this is one of the most common issues brought before me.  Since your letter doesn’t go into specifics, I’ll have to make some assumptions based on past experience.  Common sources of Childhood Memory Rape Related Anxiety (CMRRA) include the Star Wars prequels, Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull (George Lucas, serial childhood-memory rapist), and The Transformers movies.  I'll assume that you aren’t one of the men and women who grew to adulthood between the release of The Matrix and The Matrix Revolutions as those poor bastards never even had a childhood to speak of. 

     The temptation in cases of CMRRA is to go with GOI (or “Get Over It”) Therapy.  This is where the therapist screams “Get Over It!” at the patient as loudly as possible while hitting them repeatedly with a plastic lightsaber. (A variation for those traumatized by the J.J. Abrahms re-launch of Star Trek is to poke the patient with a plastic Bat'leth while screaming  "tlhap Dung 'oH!" at them in Klingon).  Though satisfying and fun for the therapist, I've seen little evidence that GOI actually works.  Instead, I'd like to suggest a therapy I've had good luck with in the past. 

     The problem with recent sequels, re-makes, and re-launches isn't necessarily that they are bad films.  The problem is you are not seeing them with the same naive and wide-open eyes that you watched the original films with.  When we are young, everything seems new and fresh.  We don't realize that this awesome new film is a regurgitation of centuries old archetypes, themes and motifs.  We are so willing to suspend our disbelief that we ignore glaring plot holes, sub-par acting, and unrealistic dialog in exchange for neat gadgets, cool special effects, and daring adventurers--especially if some of the adventurers are chicks in metal bikinis.  Heck, I remember coming back from seeing Star Crash as a child and telling my parents it was the best movie ever made.  It wasn't.  Wasn't even close, but to my young eyes it was fresh, exciting and funny, and Caroline Munro was the hottest woman in the world  (not sure that last part wasn't true--see photo evidence below)

.  

    So, try re-visiting whatever film(s) that caused your trauma with a young, innocent person by your side (a brother, sister, cousin, etc.  I'm not recommending kidnapping a small child and making them sit through G.I. Joe). You just may find that the experience allows you to see the movie in a different light.  That you can begin to appreciate that it isn't bad, just different and that, just maybe, you are no longer the audience the film was intended for.  If that happens, move on.  Avoid re-makes and sequels and seek out fresh, new franchises not built on the brittle skeletons of past successes.  Or, just maybe, you will still think the film sucks and it will drive you deeper into your depression.  If that happens, write us back, maybe we can write you a prescription for some Soma.

Sailing the Aether with Abney Park

I’m biased. I love music with a science fiction and fantasy slant. To be honest, that’s what first drew me to Abney Park. I saw them at DragonCon in 2008 where the program described them as a steampunk band. (Steampunk is a subgenre of science fiction that hearkens back to the works of Jules Verne and H.G. Wells in terms of setting, technology, and tone.) I became a fan the moment I listened to Lost Horizons.

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Con (A Tale of DragonCon Past)

I didn’t exactly lie.  I just let them believe what they wanted to believe. 

So, according to my esteemed colleagues, I missed work that Thursday and Friday (years and years ago) to drive all the way to Atlanta, GA, to meet the great American writer Ray Bradbury.

Sure Bradbury wrote science fiction, sure he wrote fantasy, sure he wrote horror – but that didn’t matter.  You see, Bradbury had reached that iconic status where he was actually taught in classrooms.  Pick up sophomore or junior high school textbook, and you will more than likely find a Bradbury story.  In the mainstream American mind, he had made it.  Never mind that he was good.  He was important.  He was a success.

So off I went.

Maybe I should have explained it more thoroughly.  Maybe.  I just couldn’t quite imagine something called Dragon*Con to be the ivory tower affair they did.    Don’t get me wrong – I have enjoyed and admired Bradbury’s work since, well, high school I guess, but I had made arrangements to attend the con well before he was announced as one of the guests of honor.  When folks asked why I was driving approximately eight hundred miles there and back, however, Bradbury’s name seemed to satisfy their curiosity.  I suppose he made the trip legitimate in their eyes, especially for a high school English teacher.

Dragon*Con is a what you would call a science fiction convention – a con in fanboy lingo –  but it is so much more.  It is annual gathering of the best and the brightest among the science fiction, fantasy, and horror community.  The guest list spans across every form of media: print, film, music, internet, games.  If it’s genre related, chances are it’s there somewhere.  Me and Craig, a friend and fellow fanboy since high school, went every year and have rubbed elbows with the likes of David Prowse (who was the man inside Darth Vader’s suit in Star Wars), Brinke Stevens (who screamed mightily in films like Nightmare Sisters and Slave Girls from Beyond Infinity), Stan “the Man” Lee (who created Marvel Comics, along with the Fantastic Four, Spider-Man, and such), and Jefferson Starship (yeah, the rock band, who were actually nominated for a science fiction award for their first album, Blows Against the Empire). 

Don’t get me wrong, I was thrilled Bradbury was coming this year.  Giddy as a fanboy could be.  He was scheduled to head a special seminar that Saturday, which was to be followed by a special autograph session, so I carefully packed away my copy of The Martian Chronicles.  The smooth, worn cover flaked slightly around the edges, and the well-read pages had browned somewhat.  I could have gotten a better copy, sure, but we had a history together.  I can fondly remember sneaking it into English classes when we were supposed to be reading whatever it was we were supposed to be reading.  I’m pretty sure the teacher knew, too, but she never confiscated it.  I think she was just happy to see somebody actually reading.

Saturday arrived.  To kill time, Craig and I wandered around the dealer’s room, amazed by some of the things we saw.  It was just like out of the pages of a monster magazine or comic book.  We counted ten brooding vampires, nine different anime characters, eight barbarians, seven “dark” fairies, six flocks of Goths, five demonic beings, four aliens, three musketeers, two mad scientists, and one thing that we couldn’t quite classify.  The fans that didn’t dress up usually wore dark colors and/or t-shirts advertising their favorite TV show or movie or displaying some saying that they, at least, found amusing.

Overall, it was a festive occasion.

The dealer’s room was quite nice.  It was like being in a maze of memories you could buy, sell, or trade.  Every book, toy, and game I had ever owned or had ever wanted to own was right there.  I laughed, I cringed, I spent much cash.

Overall, it was a festive occasion.

For me anyway.

Unfortunately, Craig’s fanboyness was not up to par.  He started to crack under the pressure of all the fandom and general weirdness surrounding us.

“Freaks,” he shouted from the balcony overlooking the dealer’s room where we had perched to patiently await the coming of Bradbury.  “Freaks.  You’re all freaks!”

I guess the proper analogy to fully illustrate the irony of Craig’s sudden declaration lies in the 1956 Vincent Price film The Last Man on Earth.  In that film (based on the even better Richard Matheson novel I am Legend), a plague transforms the human race into vampires.  The Price character stakes vampires during the day and struggles to survive by night.  Among the vampire community, however, Price has become the monster, and in the final agonizing scene, he dies shouting, “Freaks!  You’re all freaks!” oblivious to the obvious irony.  I, therefore, did not point out that our pocket-tees and blue jeans were as subtle as the first gross and gooey mutating appearance of the Thing in Carpenter’s classic remake.

Anyway, that’s when I saw him down in the dealer’s room.

The orange Hawaiian shirt flashing from beneath his striped polyester jacket was the first thing I noticed.  Then the bright, white pants.  How odd, I thought, odd being a relative term, of course.  Then I saw the man wearing it: sixtyish, balding, thick glasses, ear-to-ear grin.  It was him!  The one and the only.  That’s right, I was staring down upon the grandeur and greatness that was Forrest J Ackerman.

Forrey was, is, and will be the archetypal fanboy.  He has the largest science fiction, fantasy, and horror collection in the world.  People travel from all over the world to visit and tour his home.  Filmmakers have asked him to do cameos in their works, he has edited and published some of the biggest genre names, Bradbury included, and he created and published one of the most famous and influential genre magazines ever:  Famous Monsters of Filmland.

I had read Famous Monsters as a teenager in my insulated hometown to find out all kinds of neat stuff about sf, fantasy, and horror films.  My friends and I loved it, couldn’t get enough of it, but most importantly, most adults hated.  I remember my ENG III teacher peering over her winged-tipped glasses while confiscating copies and chastising us for being “rude, crude, and socially unrefined.”

I don’t know how conscious I was of the connections ticking off in my mind at the moment, but I did realize I was standing in a hall full of people staring at a strangely dressed old man like a teenage girl gawking over a rock star.  But I didn’t care – it was Forrest J Ackerman!  Craig and I even followed him for a while.  I think we tried every way possible to convince ourselves it wasn’t him, but the truth could not be denied.  Here, indeed, was the man, the myth, the legend.

We finally managed to calm down enough to introduce ourselves.  I honestly couldn’t tell you what I had imagined talking to the Ackerman would be like back in high school, but I’m sure it met every expectation then went way beyond them.  Basically, he was a lot like any fan.  The three of us spent the entire afternoon wandering around the dealer’s room looking around and talking fan stuff.  And he could come up with some of the greatest – worst? – puns I’d ever heard.  

He had a story to tell about any old toy he touched.  Just by watching him, you knew he was seeing everything he told you; it was almost like out of a story, like he had the power to actually look back in time to when science fiction had just begun to flourish.  He told us how it was more vibrant back then, more alive.  Yeah, the stories weren’t scientifically accurate and the films didn’t have the best special effects, but the stories were – well, there’s no better way to say it – good.  Writers didn’t need brooding heroes that weren’t heroic, and filmmakers didn’t need CGI to create gianormous explosions.  The stories were good.  They made fans want to know what happened next; they had genuine emotion.  I had gotten a glimpse of it by watching the old movies and reading the classics, but here was a man – THE man – who had lived it, even helped shape it.  Fandom would not be what it is today without him.  Science fiction and fantasy would not be what it is today without him.

I missed Bradbury that con, so in honor of Mr. Ackerman, I guess I should say that’s my con-fession.

I heard Bradbury’s panel was great.  He delighted and dazzled the audience.  I watched highlights on the souvenir video I got.  I didn’t get my copy of The Martian Chronicles signed either.  Much to the astonishment of my colleagues, I wasn’t disappointed.  And they didn’t seem to care too much about Forrest Ackerman either.  The kids in my junior English class got a big kick out of it, though.   

Of course, they were all rude, crude, and socially unrefined. 

My Belated DragonCon Blog; or The Unexamined DragonCon is Not Worth Visiting

I had good intentions. 

I was at DragonCon.  I had my laptop.  I had wireless (after I paid the $10.00 for twenty-four hours at the Sheraton).  I had my schedule highlighted and color coded.  I was going to do lots and blog the heck out of it.

Of course, none of that happened.

Day 1 . . . well, I don’t really remember everything I did.  There was that Babylon 5 panel I had planned on going to, but it got booted because of the Shatner/Nimoy thing.  From there, things sort of just took on their own strange existence.  All the color coding blended into one  . . . blended color.  There was so much to do and so little time to do it.  Should I try to do it all in one big miserable, marathon of a time?  I could have, and in years past I would have.  But that was then.  So, that’s when the revelation arrived.  Echoed in my mind was that famous line you always hear somewhere during your educational experience: “the unexamined life is not worth living.”  DragonCon 2009 proved to be, for me, the kind of situation one needs to jog the flotsam and jetsam of the mind.

So, I did some reflecting.

This was my umpteenth time at DragonCon.  This year, however, I was carrying around forty plus years and a five year old.  Things were different.  Not worse.  Different.

During previous years, I did the dashes from panel to panel, wandered the walk of fame, fought through the dealers’ room, danced around the exhibiters’ hall, and strolled throughout the art room.  I used to do it all in those four days.  I was a fan of action.

Well, I’m still a fan.  I’m still active.  I’m just more careful with my time.  This year, I learned that the time I was willing to devote to my fannish activities was not the same as in days of yore.  I remember hitting the walk of fame with a fist-full-o-cash and stopping by the table of anyone I recognized from a TV show or film from my youth.  Not this year.  Sure, there were found memories as I walked around, but there was only one I stopped to get: Bruce Boxleitner.  Why?  Babylon 5 entertained me, it moved me, it made me think.  I was willing to invest the time and money because of everything Mr. Boxleitner had given me with his contribution to my favorite TV show of all time.  Oh, don’t fret, I know Peter, Claudia, Tracy, and Stephen were there – I got them several DC’s ago.  This was Boxleitner’s first visit.  Maybe his last.  I couldn’t pass it up.

The same went for Mr. Patrick Stewart.  I stood in line a good hour and a half.  Willingly.  Five or six years ago, I would have done the same thing for Shatner and Nimoy, even though I really don’t care for the original Trek.  They are icons, and their contribution to science fiction is immeasurable.  But now, I had something else to do.  I almost went into hypothermia jumping into the pool with my little girl.  I quickly climbed out, but sat and watched her have a good time.  At that moment in all of history, that was what was important to me.

When Mr. Stewart spoke, my cousin Steph waited two or three hours to get in the hall.  I passed.  I would have liked to have been there, but I new I could watch it on closed circuit TV.  Anyway, I wanted to get in line for Gene Wolfe.  His signing began just as Stewart was finishing.  Mr. Wolfe is one of the greats.  I expected a huge line and was willing to wait.  I got there an hour early and was probably the tenth one there.  Steph stopped by to check on me after Mr. Stewart’s panel, by the way.  When I looked at the line there was maybe forty people, so yeah, I could have gone.  No, I don’t have any regrets. 

I also struggled to stay awake to check out Abney Park Friday night (Saturday morning actually).  Fantastic!  They are such an awesome live band.  Better, I think, live than recorded – which to me, is the sign of a great band.  Anyway, the next morning, there was something I had colored in on the grid, but when I woke up snuggled up to the misses and the little one, well, it doesn’t get much better than that.  We had breakfast and back to the pool we went. 

So, what’s the point, you ask? 

Well, it came down to an either or for me: I could have either done it all (and blogged) or I could have just enjoyed the moment.  I enjoyed the moment. 

You know what?  I can’t wait to go back.  I’m sure it will be different still, but watching my daughter discover the wonders of fandom is worth lots more than any autograph or panel.  Besides, the whole idea of conventions was to bring the like-minded together.  You still get that at a lot of the little cons, and I’m sure it’s true to some extent at DragonCon, but anymore DC, to me, feels more like a commercial event.  I’m not saying I don’t like it.  I will go back, but when I go back, I will be enjoying it in my on way, on my own terms, and on my own time.