World War Z again

Again? you grumble. Hey, be grateful. I am going to end the debate that has divided business relationships, families, communities (by being that insignificant thing that hides what you're all really pissed about). Well, no, but I'm going to give it a shot, and according to various motivational memes, trying is the same thing as success even if you fail, because even if you fail you succeeded at trying, which is further than everyone else got, even though judging by the prodigiousness of these memes a lot of people are trying.

Movie or book?

That's the debate. The English Patient, Cloudatlas, Jane Eyre - I happily take up position on my chosen side of the trenches and you know exactly where this is, methinks. Or you can anticipate my unpredictability and know I am going to take up, not the opposing position, but a whole new one!

A play and a script are unhappily married, because they are just like each other, but different. Every performance of a play by every theatre company is alike but different. The way I see it, fundamentally, the stage and print are different media with different conventions and so each exists outside of their relationship too. More marriages should recognise this.

Although, Cloudatlas the movie is Ike Turner to the book's Tina.

But this isn't why you grumbled. You grumbled because I have posted about World War Z book and movie before. Such a memory, dear reader, it makes me blush. Oh, you only remember because of the poster of Brad Pitt falling from some curved horizon? Oh, that's better, it is my clever puns you remember?

Based on the scanty evidence of the poster and Wikipaedia, I declared the movie a dud. I made that tragic error that has gotten many a rich partner killed off - I forgot that the two have separate identities. Last night, I craved the catharsis of watching special FX creatures being blown up (this description has been censored for sensitive viewers) and imagining they are alive and well people - creatures. Yes. If I try to think nice thoughts about people, but the above is all that comes to me, I have still succeeded. Because they are still alive.

Nope, it is still a dud. I suspect they don't even share the same last name, because they don't share the same characters, style, themes and ending. I hesitate to say 'plot' and 'setting', because the character in the movie visits three of the same places and both Jerusalems have a wall. This actually helps to view them as having separate identities. Still a dud.

I hope they didn't pay Max Brooks much, because they used so little of his IP.

Brad Pitt neither, because they used so little of his acting talent. Ok, I can't say that for definite - I was distracted by his hair cut. It is cut in this highlighted bob that keeps waving around his cheekbones but that he never has to push out of his face. I had time to notice because of the amount of time he spent staring at the hordes of zombies instead of running, literally, for his life. Luckily because if he hadn't, humankind would never have found... a way to hide from the zombies and think soppy thoughts about trying and succeeding.

I checked and this is definitely not how the book ends.

The book is a set of interviews conducted by the Pitt character after the zombies have been contained. He works for the UN, which as we know prefers to take notes than prevent genocide. Anyway, we learn very little about the narrator, so Pitt had a blank slate there. The interviews range from military to political to personal and even spiritual. The interviews combine to create a multifaceted report that only proves there are more facets. Yet each interview is gripping in its own right - strategies, characters, perspectives.

To capture this, the movie would have been a documentary. I can't imagine Brad Pitt in a documentary any more than I understand why his hair stays so still. Nor can I imagine him taking a backseat to the story. Unless he were producing it. Then again, I would not have predicted he would act in a zombie movie.

While Pitt stared at oncoming floods of the undead, groups of multiracial and -ethnic men and women milled around talking loudly enough for us to hear their accents. The South African was genuine, so I guess the rest were too. Kudos on acknowledging that the rest of the world would suffer in an apocalypse too, which the book does nicely albeit with more range.

But by bringing the 'hero' from behind his pen, notepad and dictaphone, the movie places the burden of surviving every attack by the skin of his teeth and solving the global crisis on the poor man. What I really enjoyed about the book were the political ramifications and strategies - the ones that worked and those that didn't. This seems like an obvious hit, but I haven't seen much that forces such uncomfortable decisions on the reader without denying that they may be ethically unsound but that they worked. Luckily for this man, he has no such decisions to make, except the one that saves his skin.

The only thing the book and movie have in common is that the zombies are terrifying. In the book, they overwhelm every force that faces them, mostly by sheer mass. In the movie, the actors' actions are fast-forwarded, so that they seem even less human. They are similar to those in 28 Days Later, where the zombies are victims of their own rage rather than undead. Pitt comes face to face with one that alternately makes the sound of an eagle hunting and an alien in Alien, which is more scary than it sounds.

This feels like a light post - stop sighing with relief - because the movie is so superficial. It takes a good book and wraps it around Brad Pitt and his hair (which actually happens in the movie, now that I think of it). Then they pasted a layer of 'virus' horror/action movie in places where he still showed. As in the movie poster, the setting is contorted, while the book is realistic in so far as it is a historical record; the character is staring at the chaos, while... ok, so the protagonist of the book is also kind of staring, fixated, but through him we explore how people react to genocide. He doesn't pretend trying is succeeding.

The romantic Mr Hitchcock

Where the Wild Things Are is one of my favourite movies. Which is surprising because David Eggers is one of my least favourite writers (and one of the writers of the screenplay. He also wrote a book based on the movie. Not the book the movie is based on). It is adapted from the children's book by Maurice Sendak. One of my favourite quotes (yes, I'm committing the great sin of any blogger; beginning with a quote. But, folks, this really is just the beginning) from that mean old man is that fear "is truth".

He also says that parents who think the movie is too scary should "go to hell" and the children should "go home. Or wet your pants."

Alfred Hitchcock, apparently, was just as mean an old man. His ideas on fear resonate with those of Sendak, for example: "Fear isn't so difficult to understand. After all, weren't we all frightened as children?" Then again, there are few ways to understand fear, its meaning being in the name, and any person with a memory of their childhood will admit to being afraid of cupboards and curtains. (My particular fear was of the foot of my bed. I thought a witch (closely related to the fairies on my duvet and matching curtains) waited there to snack on my toes (as if I could reach the bottom of the bed).

I have watched four Hitchcock movies this week - including those classic horrors Birds and Psycho. The other two were the thrillers Vertigo and Rear Window. I admit I hid behind my hands more than once during the first two. And maybe I pulled my feet up onto the couch and cringed a little. Maybe. But the emotion that affected me most wasn't fear and suspense; it was love. (No no, that's not when I pulled my feet up. Cringed maybe, but not in the foetal position.)

Hear me out! I am the first one in line at the Cynicism Convention scoffing at poems about roses and summer's days. (There's a guy here who's gifted in parodies.) Love is a chemical, and when it wears itself out, you have to still be best friends with that person and come to terms with the facts that said other person's hygiene habits and eating noises and how they spend money, annoy the heck out of you. The poems should be about socks on the floor and replacing toilet paper rolls and hot water in the morning.

Yes, I'm a romantic. Seriously, hear me out!

My favourite ending of the four was Birds'. (I shall try not to drop spoilers, if you try not to step in them.) The movie begins with a montage to the heroine's flippant but endearing approach to life. (What first endeared me was her wardrobe.) She pranks the leading man by pretending she is an attendant in the bird section of the pet shop. And he's pranking her by going along with it because he knows who she is: he's a lawyer and she recently went to court regarding some prank involving a smashed window (I imagine there's a car involved).

MITCH (talking about preserving bird species)
I imagine that's very important. Especially in moulting season.
MELANIE
Yes, that's a particularly dangerous time.
MITCH
Are they moulting now?
MELANIE
Oh, some of them are.
MITCH
How can you tell?
MELANIE
Well, they get a sort of hangdog expression.

'Melanie Daniels'

Melanie Daniel's (the heroine's) pleasure in a good joke (a woman after my own heart - I learnt a thing or two, so be warned, you in egg-throwing distance. No worries, I have a poor throwing arm) isn't portrayed as a heartbroken young woman's attempt to distract herself from her loneliness. If it is, I may have missed the point entirely. (A hadedah bird just cawed above me. Oh dear. Now there's a bird that would strike terror into my bleeding heart if a flock swarmed into my living room. One tried to carry my cat off once.)

Long story short, she arrives at Mitch Brenner's (the hero's) family home carrying two lovebirds, a graze to the head and the jealousy of the local schoolteacher. (She also steers a boat, in a suit and heels.) Mitch's mother hates her and doesn't bother to disguise it any more than Mitch tries to disguise his lust. (Interestingly, Mitch is a stereotypical playboy, as are most of Hitchcock's heroes (stereotypical, I mean).) Melanie is intrigued rather than perturbed (she rarely seems perturbed. Even when she's falling into a coma).

Turns out there's some weird Oedipal thing going on, from the mother's side, and Melanie seems confuzzled but still unperturbed. The birds attack (really, so many options: crop dust their asses, stay inside until they go away, army tanks, cut down all the trees (then they can't see you approach)), first Mother gets jealous, then she has a breakdown and leans on Melanie for support, then Melanie saves her child. Saves both of them, you could argue.

Here it is, despite the deceptive introduction, the relationship being explored is between a mother and her daughter-in-law. The look between the two in the very last scene (second last frame I think) is genuinely heartwarming - not schmaltzy or in need of words or unnecessary. That one look tells a whole new story, where it took an hour and a half to tell its prequel. (And where most movies today would need a script that fills every moment of that hour and a half. And be schmaltzy. And be reviewed as 'feminism revived'. And end with all of the characters on the floor covered in dirt or flour, laughing. Or something.)

Where the Wild Things Are offers something slightly different. While the undercurrent of Birds is a relationship, Where the Wild Things Are is about a child's psychology. Which is what makes it deeply frightening. It is about a boy's impulses and emotions as he grows up (not quite into a man) - how unpredictable they can be, as if they were a host of irrational creatures in our brains. We pretend we 'own them' (apply ghetto accent). But really, we're just scared they'll turn on us.

The heartwarming bit is where the boy reaches an unspoken agreement with these creatures and swiftly rows off to the safety of his mother's arms. (Hello again, Oedipus. I thought your name was Mitch?)

I lied. I lied, but not intentionally.Self-preservation I argue, Judge. Fear is not a self-explanatory emotion. We can be afraid of different things in different ways. I could be afraid of birds pecking my eyes out, but that's different from being afraid of a daughter-in-law (luckily I'm not afraid of either). Hidden behind these could be a hundred different sources or manifestations or triggers just waiting like landmines to be stepped on (have I mentioned the suit and heels?). And then there are fears not hidden behind anything, just careening through a highway of abandoned cars.

Now take this all with a pinch of salt and throw it over your left shoulder (or your right if you're left-handed): I have not read up on Mr Hitchcock. I do not know whether he was married and how many times, whether he really was mean or just honest, or whether I am reading too much into what are just thrillers and horrors. (Although I don't think I am.) I found that quote by Gurgling "alfred hitchcock quotes' (search engines don't care about caps).

If I am afraid of anything, it is my sub- and unconscious in a way that beats the snowriders in furry white 80's suits in Inception. Because I don't have two seconds to live faced with that twisted mess of perception, without my more empathic conscious to intervene. I have evidence. This mess is the star of Where the Wild Things Are and that is what guides my reading into Hitchcock's pure works of art. Don't tell anyone; they won't let me into the Cynic Convention next year.