Science Fiction. It's the genre that people love to poke fun at - myself included. Almost anyone can safely recite the normal stereotypes about sci-fi shows and their fanatics. Fans of anything that contains the United Federation of Planets and the USS Enterprise are generally the target.
Recently, however, there has been a reemergence of the genre. Earlier this year, Star Trek was reinvented for a new generation of fans; and was done so rather successfully, I might add.
For the first time since forever, there was a Star Trek film that kicked major ass, and didn't go into needless 45-minute scenes where there was a debate between a Captain and his Number One about how the Prime Directive would be not breached while visiting a pre-warp planet in order to formulate a report on the telepathic abilities of the Vespaccian Vorknuckle flower and its ability to prevent mass hunger of the dancing Monkeydolphin Birds of Yawndoze Prime.
Having said that, it still provided many lowest common denominator scenes in the form of spatial anomalies, black holes, time travel, imploding planets and spaceship laser battles.
You see, sci-fi is often a victim of its own success. Pioneering space opera franchises like Star Trek often create the pop-culture benchmarks and set fictional references for subsequent sci-fi shows; doomed to become overused parodies of themselves.
How often have we heard of matter transporters, laser guns and hyperspace in things other than the show in which they originated?
This is often why all science fiction is lumped together in the one category. And it is here that Battlestar Galactia provides salvation for the genre.
Battlestar Galactica lived through several different incarnations in the late seventies and early eighties. It never really became hugely successful in mainstream society and only gained a small legion of cult followers.
In 2003, however, it was remade into a re-imagined made-for-tv miniseries, which blasted new life into it as one of the most popular science fiction shows of all time, having only just now in 2009 had its series finale after four and a half seasons (Season 4 came in two parts due to the writers' strike) countless webisodes, one made-for-DVD feature-length movie, the announcement of a spin-off series and even the plans for a feature film by Bryan Singer, the director of the first two X-Men movies.
The first thing you notice when you slap on the DVD is how very real it all feels. Aside from having one of the highest special effects and computer graphics budgets of all time for something made specifically for television, there are no aliens with two heads walking around the place. While there are robots, they are the creation of humans and not some ancient race of space-faring lizard people. On the space-going vessels, "Engine Room" is about as technical as the jargon gets. The guns shoot bullets, not plasma bolts while back on planet the modern society depicted thrives on a heavy mix of greedy neo-liberalism which extolls the virtue of wealth, owning a petrol-guzzling all-terrain vehicle and a house with sweeping water views.
This is perhaps when the cataclysm that nearly wipes out the human race hits home so strongly. It is not done with a Death Star, but with a nuclear holocaust by people who may indeed resemble a neighbour, a friend, a lover.
The show makes many startling yet cautionary points about how we should take responsibility for previous mistakes: technology comes at a price; wars don't end once an armistice is signed; and, possibly the most shocking parallel to the real world post September 11; the role of religious fundamentalism and political extremism.
Battlestar Galactica departs from the traditional space opera in that instead of having an entertaining or trivial role, the clash of political ideologies and mutual hatred of oppising religious faiths take a front seat throughout the entire series. The polytheistic humans have an official religion; and even more interestingly, their machine creations (and brutal enemies), the Cylons, have an agenda given to them by what they say is divine will.
The parallels don't end there, as throughout the series - as the galaxy is traversed - the brutality of terrorism and moral crusades, evangelical devotion, sectarian politics and even suicide bombings are portrayed graphically and realistically in a contemporary critique of current events being played in the real-world arena. Not bad for a so called "sci-fi" show in which the characters are literally 100 000 light years from Earth.
Battlestar Galactica is more than just a piece of science fiction. It is a parallel of the modern world located in the depths of empty space. Its purpose isn't intentionally to boldly go where noone has gone before; yet in terms of cinematography and social commentary that is exactly what it does. It challenges us to see past cultural and racial stereotypes and to sympathise with the suicide bomber even though he kills more of his mates than he does the enemy.
I previously made the mistake of thinking that all science fiction was the same. Battlestar Galactica is not. It is the show that may indeed be the salvation of the prime time TV space opera genre. Even though it's over, its influence will hopefully be felt for years to come.
So say we all.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Face it! You can't name that face!
As I'm slightly drunk, tired, and due in to work in about six hours, I thought it was about time I added a little bit of comedy to the scene.
The inspiration for the bundle of laughs that I'm certain you are about to have when you read this blog comes in the form of a trivial little incident that everyone takes for granted...often talked about, rather awkward and very much a problem in modern society.
I have, of course, just returned from my 5-Year Reunion. Don't get me wrong - and by no means misinterpret me either = The Reunion itself was not the awkward part. But as many unfortunate people were well aware earlier, "Hey, mate!" is a frightfully unsubtle way of covering up for the fact that you know the guy's face but are completely at a loss for what his name is.
Having spent a significant portion of my life with many of these blokes, it still came somewhat as a surprise to even me that I did not seem to have forgotten anyone's names as I drew deeper into the social depths of The Reunion. I did slip a couple of times where I wasn't quite fast enough to get an entire congo-line of handshakes totally synchronised with names, but I can honestly say that out of all the handshakes I received in the form of "Hey, mate" I gave a lot more back with the correct name to the correct face.
Which is why the following event disturbed me so profoundly I may never actually recover.
Halfway through the night at The Light Brigade (the second pub of the night after we were pre-emptively and unjustifiably evicted from the first) I briefly stepped outside to meet a friend who had just trekked in a taxi to be there.
Knowing he would have a hard time getting past the bouncers, I courteously informed the bouncer that I would be walking back in a minute, and that someone I knew (well, I really knew everyone) would be arriving in a minute or two. Within no time, he was arriving at the door.
That's when it happened! In the process of preparing the rock-solid argument in anticipation of the upcoming minefield of not-so-diplomatic bouncer negotiations trying to get my friend into the pub my eyes fell on a totally unknown-yet-somehow-familiar face.
BUGGER! 100% naming accuracy ruined! Who is this artful dodger that has managed to have a familiar face yet evade my face-naming detectors and stand next to me without even saying a word?
This is what must have been happening to all those poor souls who could remember I was "that guy" or possibly even "that guy with the funny twitch" (on account of my mild tourette syndrome) but not my name. My sympathies go out to all of you, now, for I can now see how horrendously embarrassing this situation truly is.
But my story does not end there, for the awkwardness continued. This cunning fellow who I could not put a name to...get this...smiled at me! NO! NOT THAT SORT OF SMILE! Just a polite "hey, mate" sort of smile. (You all have dirty minds and should be ashamed of yourselves to whoever thought there could be a sexual innuendo in those last few sentences!)
This guy was with a few others who I didn't recognise at all, including one or two members of the fairer sex.
ALARM BELLS! As far as I know, this Reunion is not a Wives and Girlfriends zone. But I'm sure I know him!
So meanwhile this guy is smiling at me out of some sort of mutual recognition of our mutual lack of recognition.
SHIT SHIT SHIT! He's a teacher! I know he is! (At least I think I know he is) however; he's too buff to be Mr Kelliher (Geography teacher, Year 10); he's not quoting A. A. Gill and Oscar Wilde like Mr Morrow (Senior English teacher); and if I got the previous two wrong, at least I know he definitely isn't my HSC French teacher (Madame Giovannetti - the sparrow with the roar of a lion, the ferocity of a bear and the gymnastics abilities of the finest acrobats from Cirque du Soleil.)
Of course all this is happening as I'm trying to prevent what must be North Korea lobbing a few missiles over to the U.S. just by trying to get my mate through the door if the bouncer is anything to go by. And of course, because my usually elephantine memory is failing, I forget to smile back, so I can only assume that I'm giving this mystery chap one hell of a death stare.
Meanwhile, this politely smiling bloke begins to look mightily uncomfortable, with awkwardness increasing exponentially as a fucntion of the death stare that I don't yet realise I'm giving him.
The bouncer yields. We are let in to the bar (finally) and everyone feels happy. Everyone except for me. This is not like me to remember a bloke's face and not his name. At least not with people from school.
Time wears on and people gradually head for other places - because I have work in several hours, I go home.
My computer is on so I decide I'll quickly do the midnight facebook check. I click "open" on internet explorer. The website for The Sydney Morning Herald (my homepage) loads, and...
GODDAMMIT! Sitting on the main page, blazing in full glory to the right of the headlines is the "All Men Are Liars" blog by Sam de Brito. No wonder his face looked so familiar...
What did I learn from this? Well to be fair, I had had a beer or three, so to be honest, I doubt Mr de Brito will think much of it, or even remember when he wakes up some time on Monday next week - he is such a party animal if his blogs are anything to go by.
But if you don't leave here with any moral-of-the-story message or valuable life lesson (odds are you probably won't as I am still slightly drunk and am only writing this because I can't fall asleep despite my torturous weariness), try never to use "hey, mate" ever again.
Just grin, ask their name, and bear it...
And if anyone disagrees with anything I've said, just submit this entire blog in handwriting to Mr Morrow and get him to do a masterclass on it.
As for Mr de Brito, check out his blog at http://blogs.smh.com.au/executive-style/allmenareliars/ It's always entertaining, painfully honest and just so much fun to read.
And I'm sorry I gave you the mother of all death stares.
The inspiration for the bundle of laughs that I'm certain you are about to have when you read this blog comes in the form of a trivial little incident that everyone takes for granted...often talked about, rather awkward and very much a problem in modern society.
I have, of course, just returned from my 5-Year Reunion. Don't get me wrong - and by no means misinterpret me either = The Reunion itself was not the awkward part. But as many unfortunate people were well aware earlier, "Hey, mate!" is a frightfully unsubtle way of covering up for the fact that you know the guy's face but are completely at a loss for what his name is.
Having spent a significant portion of my life with many of these blokes, it still came somewhat as a surprise to even me that I did not seem to have forgotten anyone's names as I drew deeper into the social depths of The Reunion. I did slip a couple of times where I wasn't quite fast enough to get an entire congo-line of handshakes totally synchronised with names, but I can honestly say that out of all the handshakes I received in the form of "Hey, mate" I gave a lot more back with the correct name to the correct face.
Which is why the following event disturbed me so profoundly I may never actually recover.
Halfway through the night at The Light Brigade (the second pub of the night after we were pre-emptively and unjustifiably evicted from the first) I briefly stepped outside to meet a friend who had just trekked in a taxi to be there.
Knowing he would have a hard time getting past the bouncers, I courteously informed the bouncer that I would be walking back in a minute, and that someone I knew (well, I really knew everyone) would be arriving in a minute or two. Within no time, he was arriving at the door.
That's when it happened! In the process of preparing the rock-solid argument in anticipation of the upcoming minefield of not-so-diplomatic bouncer negotiations trying to get my friend into the pub my eyes fell on a totally unknown-yet-somehow-familiar face.
BUGGER! 100% naming accuracy ruined! Who is this artful dodger that has managed to have a familiar face yet evade my face-naming detectors and stand next to me without even saying a word?
This is what must have been happening to all those poor souls who could remember I was "that guy" or possibly even "that guy with the funny twitch" (on account of my mild tourette syndrome) but not my name. My sympathies go out to all of you, now, for I can now see how horrendously embarrassing this situation truly is.
But my story does not end there, for the awkwardness continued. This cunning fellow who I could not put a name to...get this...smiled at me! NO! NOT THAT SORT OF SMILE! Just a polite "hey, mate" sort of smile. (You all have dirty minds and should be ashamed of yourselves to whoever thought there could be a sexual innuendo in those last few sentences!)
This guy was with a few others who I didn't recognise at all, including one or two members of the fairer sex.
ALARM BELLS! As far as I know, this Reunion is not a Wives and Girlfriends zone. But I'm sure I know him!
So meanwhile this guy is smiling at me out of some sort of mutual recognition of our mutual lack of recognition.
SHIT SHIT SHIT! He's a teacher! I know he is! (At least I think I know he is) however; he's too buff to be Mr Kelliher (Geography teacher, Year 10); he's not quoting A. A. Gill and Oscar Wilde like Mr Morrow (Senior English teacher); and if I got the previous two wrong, at least I know he definitely isn't my HSC French teacher (Madame Giovannetti - the sparrow with the roar of a lion, the ferocity of a bear and the gymnastics abilities of the finest acrobats from Cirque du Soleil.)
Of course all this is happening as I'm trying to prevent what must be North Korea lobbing a few missiles over to the U.S. just by trying to get my mate through the door if the bouncer is anything to go by. And of course, because my usually elephantine memory is failing, I forget to smile back, so I can only assume that I'm giving this mystery chap one hell of a death stare.
Meanwhile, this politely smiling bloke begins to look mightily uncomfortable, with awkwardness increasing exponentially as a fucntion of the death stare that I don't yet realise I'm giving him.
The bouncer yields. We are let in to the bar (finally) and everyone feels happy. Everyone except for me. This is not like me to remember a bloke's face and not his name. At least not with people from school.
Time wears on and people gradually head for other places - because I have work in several hours, I go home.
My computer is on so I decide I'll quickly do the midnight facebook check. I click "open" on internet explorer. The website for The Sydney Morning Herald (my homepage) loads, and...
GODDAMMIT! Sitting on the main page, blazing in full glory to the right of the headlines is the "All Men Are Liars" blog by Sam de Brito. No wonder his face looked so familiar...
What did I learn from this? Well to be fair, I had had a beer or three, so to be honest, I doubt Mr de Brito will think much of it, or even remember when he wakes up some time on Monday next week - he is such a party animal if his blogs are anything to go by.
But if you don't leave here with any moral-of-the-story message or valuable life lesson (odds are you probably won't as I am still slightly drunk and am only writing this because I can't fall asleep despite my torturous weariness), try never to use "hey, mate" ever again.
Just grin, ask their name, and bear it...
And if anyone disagrees with anything I've said, just submit this entire blog in handwriting to Mr Morrow and get him to do a masterclass on it.
As for Mr de Brito, check out his blog at http://blogs.smh.com.au/executive-style/allmenareliars/ It's always entertaining, painfully honest and just so much fun to read.
And I'm sorry I gave you the mother of all death stares.
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