Category: Film (Page 1 of 3)

The World Without “Star Wars”

May 8, 2023 / Kyle A. Massa

Four days ago, in a galaxy super close…

…It was May the 4th. As the nerdiest holiday on the calendar, it’s a celebration of all things Star Wars. So today, we’ll be discussing this glorious franchise, and how different our world might be without it.

I’ve got a bad feeling about this. But, in a world without Star Wars…

…We’d Be Missing All the Memes

Youngling memes, Darth Plagueis the Wise memes, “Hello there” memes. So many memes! Granted, most come from the prequels, since they’ve got such hammy dialogue. But the point still stands. Like the execution of Order 66, Star Wars memes are works of art. As such, they must be celebrated.

…Scrolling Credits Would Never Be an Acceptable Form of Exposition

Not that I’ve ever seen goldenrod paragraphs floating through space in any other movies. But Star Wars set the precedent, meaning the next time you need to explain the rise of a totalitarian military regime in your galaxy, here’s your method.

…The Mid-Budget Adult Drama Would Still Exist

Along with Steven Spielberg’s Jaws, Star Wars pioneered the Hollywood summer blockbuster. It popularized big-budget, effects-laden film franchising, which evolved into cinematic universes several decades later, most notably the Marvel Cinematic Universe. And, because of Marvel, what movies rarely get financed anymore? Mid-budget adult dramas. Thanks, George Lucas.

…George Lucas Would Have a Rough IMDB

Speaking of George, if you extract Star Wars from his credits, he’s leaning on Willow, Labyrinth, and Indiana Jones. All good stuff, though he tarnished Indy with the whole ancient aliens thing. Here’s hoping Dial of Destiny is better; the title keeps reminding me of Tenacious D in The Pick of Destiny.

There’s another blemish on George’s resume, and its name is Howard the Duck. I’ve never seen this film, but I’ve heard podcasts about it, and let me tell you, it sounds horrendous. I mean, here’s the opening sentence of the Wikipedia synopsis:

“Howard the Duck is 27 years old and lives on Duckworld, a planet similar to Earth, but inhabited by anthropomorphic ducks and orbited by twin moons.”

No wonder it won four Razzies.

…Some of Our Greatest Nerd Debates Would Never Be

Did Solo shoot first? Was Jar-Jar Binks a secret Sith Lord? Should Midi-chlorian count be an official stat at the NFL combine? I’ve had many similar debates with my friends, and they often get heated.

For example, as soon as we left the theater for Episode IX: The Rise of Skywalker, we were arguing. Jeremy and Robby maintained the prequels were better than what we’d just witnessed, while I countered with the mere existence of Jar-Jar Binks. I still don’t know who won that argument—but at least we could have it.

…No More Jar-Jar Binks

While we’re on the subject of Jar-Jar, he gets more hate than Howard the Duck—which is really saying something. In fact, I’ve only ever met one person in my entire life who doesn’t despise him, and that’s my wife, Sara.

“What?” she said. “I think he’s funny.”

This statement proves Sara is the kindest person on the planet, and perhaps in the entire galaxy.

…I’d Lose My Hottest Take

Even with JJB, I honestly believe Star Wars: The Phantom Menace is a magnificent film.

This isn’t a bit. I really mean it. If I could dial up any Star Wars film on Disney+ (not that I can, because I’m too cheap to buy a subscription), this would be it. It’s got incredible production design and imagination, not to mention the greatest lightsaber duel in the franchise’s history. Where’s my DVD player?

…We’d Have Far Fewer Culturally Relevant Weird Sounds

It’s rare that a film’s sound effects become as recognizable as the dialogue. The hum of the Lightsaber, the respirator of Darth Vader, the beep-boop of R2-D2—all great. Even the silly, ululating call of that lizard thing Obi-Wan rides in Revenge of the Sith caught on with my friends. To this day, we’ll shout it at each other across rooms, usually in public, making people wonder what’s wrong with us.

…Phish Wouldn’t be Phish

My brother- and sister-in-law are big fans of the jam band Phish, so they tell me all about the group’s special lingo. For example, if you spot a shirtless, hairy, sweaty, and high man at a Phish show, you’ve just spotted a Wook. Though the origin of the term is difficult to identify, I’m thinking it must be from Star Wars’s Wookies, as in Chewbacca, as in space Bigfoot.

Wooks are a mainstay of the jam band scene, as I understand it, and are therefore essential to Phish’s economy. Without Wooks, could Phish even afford to be the band they are today? I think not.

…Walmart’s Shelves Would Be Barren

I’m being a little facetious. I know Walmart carries far more than just Star Wars collectibles. But have you seen how much Star Wars stuff they have? Whether it’s action figures, video games, t-shirts, replica lightsabers, or Lego crossovers, I’d venture a good 25.75% of their inventory is from a galaxy far, far away.

What would they do with all that extra shelving? Probably stock more Minions merch.

…I’d Need New Dad Jokes

When you become a dad, you make dad jokes. You can’t stop it or control it. It just happens.

So it went for me when my daughter Sasha was born. During the winter, for example, she often wore oversized hoods, which made her look like Emperor Palpatine. From that day on, I dubbed her “Baby Sith.” Fortunately, Baby Sith hasn’t yet exhibited any Sith-like tendencies, i.e. killing the person who named her, i.e. me.

Now that she’s a year-and-a-half old, she makes lots of weird sounds, many of which are gurgles, and sometimes she sounds a lot like Chewy. Hence, “Baby Chewbacca.” If she ever starts complaining about the coarseness of sand, I suppose I’ll have to call her “Baby Ani.”

Of course, the most obvious dad joke in Star Wars is the Vader classic “I am your father” line. I’m being careful with that one, though, because I don’t want Sasha reacting the way Luke did: “No, no, that’s not true. That’s impossible!” Even if you’re the enforcer of the Galactic Empire, that one’s gotta hurt.

…The World Would Be Far Less Interesting

May the force be with us. Always.

Kyle A. Massa is a comic fantasy author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their daughter, and three wild animals. His published works include three books and several short stories. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading, running, and drinking coffee.

You can read more from the “World Without” blog series here. And if you want to see a specific topic, email kyle@kyleamassa.com.

My Most Embarrassing Writing Fails

January 26, 2022 / Kyle A. Massa

Bad Writing

My grandparents on my dad’s side were famous for never wasting anything. This is not a statement of hyperbole.

For instance, instead of killing dandelions in her yard, my grandmother served them as salad toppers. Also, my grandfather once removed every rusty nail from every board of a dismantled shed, then stored the nails in buckets in the basement for future use.

See? Nothing wasted.

I take after them in this respect, though my waste refusal has nothing to do with dandelions or rusty nails. Mine is all about writing.

I can’t discard my writing. No matter how bad it is, no matter how unreadable, I can’t write anything without using it somehow. So, this blog post is all about my lousiest work. I could (probably should) throw it out, but instead I’m sharing it with you. Hope you get a kick out of it—and maybe a few helpful tips along the way.

Pages of the Mirror

This pretentiously artsy script was my senior thesis project at Ithaca College in 2014. This was back when I feared nobody would take me seriously if I wrote comedy, so the resulting piece is emo, dull, and ultimately lousy.

Pages of the Mirror is about some dude named Danny who lives in a small town and is beloved by everyone, for some reason. When his equally beloved Uncle Jack (car mechanic with tattoos who listens to Metallica, of course) gets murdered, Danny becomes the prime suspect.

Plus, there’s an intertwined story of a mysterious fellow mysteriously named “The Writer” who’s working on a mysterious book and who continues to be generally mysterious, because I decided all this mystery would be intriguing. We soon discover this is a story within a story; the Writer is writing about Danny.

At the time, I thought this was clever. Looking back, the connection between the two stories was probably immediately obvious. Plus, it’s a classically egomaniacal story for a writer to write. (What if my writing became so good it came to life!?) I recall pulling an all-nighter the night before it was due, which is probably why I only got a B. But look at me now—I got blog content out of it.

My takeaway from this project: When you’re developing your voice, you might strike a few sour notes. Just clear your throat and keep singing.

“Apocalypse Now…or Never”

It’s hard to believe, but I’ve been writing on this here blog now for 10 years. If you explore my archives, you’ll find some bad writing. Perhaps the worst was my first ever blog post, entitled “Apocalypse Now…or Never.”

The title isn’t terrible; it’s the rest that’s ugly. Just check out this leadoff sentence:

“I’m having a hard time buying this ‘2012: World is Going to End’ crap.”

I wrote this sentence when I was 19, yet it makes me sound like I’m 60. Also, I’m pretty sure the punctuation is incorrect.

Things don’t improve from there. My intro paragraph is a block of text, and I somehow venture into a rant about Ozzy Osbourne possibly being a zombie. I don’t even address my anti-apocalypse stance until paragraph eight, and when I finally get to it, I use a funfetti cake as a metaphor.

If you want to read just how bad this blog post was, you can find it here. My takeaway: Writing gets better with age. I’m not some premier blogger, but this blog is certainly better than it was a decade ago. Second takeaway: I was right about the world not ending in 2012. Yay me.

Pleasant Street

This is another college project, though Pleasant Street was a short story, not a script. It’s so bad that I’ve actually written about it before. Not sure this is something I should brag about, but here goes…

This story has it all: A doofus protagonist, heavy-handed symbolism, clumsy language, geriatric cannibals. What more could you ask for?

Well, if you’re asking for competent plotting, compelling characters, or an interesting setting, look elsewhere. Pleasant Street is about a first-time cop named Officer Green (I warned you about the heavy-handedness) who’s assigned to walk the beat in a neighborhood called Pleasant Street. See? Because it’s called Pleasant Street, you’d never expect anything bad might happen. Brilliant misdirection.

As it happens, the residents of Pleasant Street have achieved eternal life via cannibalism. (I partially lifted this idea from an episode of The X-Files, so my apologies to Mulder and Scully.) Rather predictably, the story concludes with the main character being cooked and eaten. I would’ve offered a spoiler warning, but no one will ever read this story again—I’ve made sure of it.

As for the grade on this assignment, I don’t recall it. Perhaps my mind is repressing it to defend me. But here’s what I do remember: I never collected feedback on this piece. If I did, maybe someone might’ve told me it needed work. So that’s our takeaway for this story. Get feedback from people you trust, then use it if it works.

“10 Bold Predictions for the Future of Magic: The Gathering”

Yes, I know most readers will not care about Magic, let alone understand it. If you were to browse this article, you’d find such esoteric phrases as “enemy fetch lands,” “two-block paradigm,” and “Kaseto comes along in the new Commander product.”

However, I’m including this article because of my low success rate on these so-called bold predictions. To be clear, the writing is actually passable; I had some decent wisecracks, including a dig at Jar-Jar Binks (timeless). The issue is, I only got five of my 10 predictions right!

I won’t bore you with the details. I’ll just say this: We must deliver on our promises to our readers—especially when the promise is right in the title.

“Someday”

I’ve saved the worst for last. You think my poetry is bad now? Just check out this poem from May 5th, 2011, for a creative writing class at Ithaca College.

“Someday soon,
We’ll touch the moon.
Ride the stars to the sun.
Someday soon,
We will commune.
And then we shall be one.”

This is weird pseudo-hippy crap that sounds like something you’d cringe at if you heard someone singing it with an acoustic on the campus quad. And it’s only an excerpt! I feel like I should apologize to you for forcing you to read it. I’m sorry.

The lesson learned here is clear: Don’t F with poetry. Bad poetry is more offensive than bad prose. My poetry is still pretty bad, but at least I’m reading and studying the craft before I write more. And I’m definitely not trying to rhyme.

Summing It All Up

I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again here: I think it’s healthy to review your old work, no matter how nauseated it makes you feel. I may not be a great writer, but at least I’m better than I used to be. And sometimes, that reminder is all we need.

(P.S. I hope I made my grandparents proud. Waste not, want not!)

Kyle A. Massa is a comic fantasy author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their daughter, and three wild animals. His published works include two books and several short stories. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading, running, and drinking coffee.

The Real Reason Frodo Didn’t Ride an Eagle into Mordor

August 19, 2021 / Kyle A. Massa

“Bilbo and the Eagles” by Ted Nasmith

There’s a common question posed by readers of The Lord of the Rings trilogy: Is Tom Bombadil robotripping?

Also: Why didn’t the eagles help Frodo?

No, I’m not talking about the NFL’s Philadelphia Eagles (thank god). Nor am I talking about the band (though now that you mention it, I’m down for a little “Hotel California.”) I’m talking about the Great Eagles of Middle-Earth, also known as the Eagles of Manwë, also known as something else, I’m sure, because everybody has like 10 names in Middle-Earth (i.e. Gandalf).

According to this Screen Rant article, cartographer Karen Wynn Fonstad calculated Frodo and Sam’s journey was 1,779 miles long, all on foot (hobbit feet, as it were). They rowed down rivers, stumbled through bogs, and wandered into giant spider lairs, all while they could’ve hopped on an eagle and dropped the ring into Mt. Doom.

There are many explanations, the most likely of which being that J.R.R. Tolkien wanted some actual conflict. In this post, I’d like to give you my explanation. It all started at RIA, better known as Rivendell International Airport…

“Sam,” said Frodo. “We’re late.”

If Gandalf (their travel agent) had been present, he’d have some quick rejoinder prepared. A frequent flyer is never late, Frodo Baggins… But Gandalf wasn’t present. If he was, they wouldn’t be late.

Frodo and Sam found themselves in the lobby of Rivendell International Airport. The drop-off zone outside had been a madhouse, packed with horses and ponies and passengers. It was no less chaotic inside: men, elves, and dwarves jostled and bustled like soldiers preparing for battle. All of them stood between the hobbits and their flight.

“Come on, Sam. Hurry!” Frodo, unencumbered by any bags, plunged into the fray. Sam, weighed down by all their luggage, chugged along behind.

“Do you think we can fit this all in carry-on, Mr. Frodo?” Sam asked as they ran. “Should we check a bag or two?”

“No,” Frodo answered gravely. “We’d never see them again.” He swept his gaze over the crowd, noting a dwarf slurping a pint at the airport bar, an elf enjoying a kingsfoil salad, and a hooded man reading a mystery novel. “We must hasten, Sam. The Dark Lord has eyes everywhere.”

“Even in the bathrooms?”

“Especially in the bathrooms.”

“Aye, he’s evil enough for it. Hey, did you pack the…you know?”

Frodo touched his chest, feeling the solid metal between skin and shirt. It was such a small thing, such a little thing, yet it heaved on the chain about his neck like a lead weight. It was the One Ring, the ultimate weapon of the Dark Lord Sauron, the bane of Isildur, forged in the fires of Mt. Doom, retailing for $999.99 at Jared, the Galleria of Jewelry.

“I have it,” Frodo confirmed. “But let us not speak of it. Too many ears in this airport.”

“Unfriendly eyes, unfriendly ears.” Sam shook his head. “What’ll be next? Unfriendly toes?”

As if on cue, an elf sped past and crushed Sam’s toes with a roller bag. He yelped, but Frodo didn’t notice—he was pointing ahead. “Look. The security checkpoint.” He hurried onward, leaving Sam to hobble behind.

Though Rivendell was a haven of beauty and enlightenment, its airport security was staffed by the TSA. They were a brusque people, a grouchy people, and it was said that folk who displeased them were plucked from line and cavity searched, just for the hell of it.

One such TSA agent awaited behind a kiosk, an old crone with faded blonde highlights and fingernails the size of pairing knives. Each nail was painted a vivid purple, and they clacked like the bones of a skeleton as she rapped them upon her kiosk.

“Have your passport and boarding parchment out and visible,” she growled at them.

Sam gulped. “I’m scared, Mr. Frodo.”

“Be brave, Sam. Our flight is due to board any minute.” Frodo approached the woman at the kiosk, bowed his head, and presented his documents.

The woman’s hand descended like a bird’s talon. “Name?”

“Underhill,” said Frodo, keeping his eyes down. “Mr. Underhill.” Gandalf, their travel agent, had insisted on secret names.

The woman clacked her purple fingernails, then shifted her gaze to Sam. “And you?”

Sam offered his documents. “I’m Mr., umm…Gardner?”

The woman narrowed her eyes. “That a name or a question?”

“N-neither,” Sam sputtered. “I mean, both?”

Her gaze drifted to the luggage. The woman still had yet to blink, and Frodo was beginning to wonder if she had eyelids at all. “You don’t have any razors in those bags, do you?”

“No, ma’am.”

“What about aerosol cans? Firearms? Fireworks? Lithium batteries?”

They’d never heard of such things in the Shire (except the fireworks), so it was easy to shake their heads no.

“Good enough,” she said, stamping their boarding parchments. “Now get outta my sight.”

Ahead awaited more security. “Arms and armament in separate bins,” barked one of the surlier TSA agents. “Empty your pockets, and remove all metal.”

All metal. That meant…

Frodo stopped short. “Sam. The Ring. They’ll make me take it off.”

Sam frowned. “They’ll give it back, though, won’t they?”

“They might. But what if they’re servants of the Dark Lord?”

“Oh.” Sam scratched his head. “Hadn’t considered that.”

“You two!” the surly TSA agent screamed. “You’re holding up the line. Move move move!”

They moved. Sam hauled the luggage into bins, then stacked them onto the conveyer belt. They hustled ahead.

The Ring still hung around Frodo’s neck. He tried to look as innocent as possible as he stepped through the metal detector.

Beep.

“Honestly, squirt, are your ears clogged by the fur of the Cats of Queen Berúthiel?” The TSA agent beyond the metal detector jabbed a finger at him. “Back through. And make sure your pockets are empty.”

Frodo turned around, wiping sweat from his brow. He knew it would beep again, but if he removed the Ring, they’d claim it for their own. He stepped through again, and—

Beep.

“That’s it. Time for a cavity search.” With a little too much satisfaction, the TSA agent snapped on a rubber glove.

Frodo’s eyes went wide. “They’re going to take it. Then the quest will be for naught, the Dark Lord will win, and the Shire will be ruined. And we’ll have to apply for flight vouchers.”

“No, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said, striking a determined expression. “Let us be rid of the TSA, once and for all.” Suddenly, the musical score swelled, and Sam stepped forward heroically. “He has…a pacemaker!”

The TSA agent blinked. “A what?”

“A pacemaker.”

“Oh.” The agent shrugged. “Why should I care?”

“Because that’s what’s setting off the metal detector. Just a pacemaker. No need to harass us further.”

“Hah. Good one. Now bend over, little man. Let’s make sure nobody’s smuggling any Longbottom Leaf…”

Sam looked stricken—but Frodo had an idea.

“Fine,” said Frodo, unbuckling his belt. “We’ll just be late to our trial.”

“Trial?”

“Yes, trial. My associate and I are lawyers.”

The TSA agent’s eyes went wide. “Lawyers?”

“Aye,” said Sam, nodding and smiling. It seemed he’d caught on to the charade. “We love suing people. We sue them all the time.”

“In fact,” added Frodo, warming to the role, “we’ve got a class-action suit pending against the Witch King of Angmar for stabbing people with his Morgul Blade. We’re suing him for all he’s worth—which isn’t much these days, but still. Care to join him?”

The TSA agent glowered at the hobbits. His eyes flicked from one to the other, as if sizing them up. “A pacemaker. Aye.” He snarled at them, like a rabid dog, then waved them through.

Sam gathered their belongings and hoisted them onto his back. He was still hobbling from the damage to his toes, but he did his best to keep up with Frodo. They raced through the terminal.

“We’re at Gate whatever-that-is,” Frodo huffed, pointing at the swirly Elvish runes. “Hurry, Sam!”

They hurried. They hurried through dwarves families, elvish business professionals, human tourists, and finally, they arrived at their gate…

Just in time to see their flight take off.

They were meant to fly on the back of a great eagle, a hulking golden bird with a wing span wide enough to blot out the sun. It sped down the runway, cawed, and with three beats of its massive wings (both stamped with the words “Southwest Airlines”), it lifted off and soared into the distance.

Frodo slumped against the glass. Sam collapsed beside him.

“Cheer up, Mr. Frodo. We can always book a new flight to Mordor.”

“But Sam. We’d have to go through customer service.”

They glanced at the customer service desk. Thousands of people stood before it. Most were dead on their feet, their corpses rotting and stinking, while the living were blanketed by cobwebs and dust.

Frodo shook his head. “No, that way lies doom and despair. We have no choice but to walk, or take an Uber. And I left my phone at home.”

“Dropped mine in the toilet,” sighed Sam. “Suppose we’re walking, then. Think anyone will join us?”

“I’m sure Gandalf can book us some companions.” Frodo slapped his friend on the shoulder, then stood. “Fuck it, Sam. Let’s form a fellowship.”

Kyle A. Massa is a speculative fiction author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their cats, and their dog. He has written two books and numerous short stories, both published and yet-to-be published. He enjoys unusual narrative structures, multiple POVs, and stories that make readers laugh.

My 5 Favorite Bad Movies

June 9, 2020 / Kyle A. Massa

A video version of this post is available here.

Film is just about the only medium where a failure can fail so hard it becomes a success. Take, for example, the films in this post.

Today, I’d like to share my five favorite bad movies with you. They’re bad for several reasons, but good for one: hilarity. I hope you enjoy them as much as I do.

Number 5: Plan 9 from Outer Space

It’s never a good sign when a movie is directed, written, produced, and edited by the same person. That’s what we have with Plan 9 from Outer Space, widely considered one of the worst movies of all time.

The name behind the credits: Ed Wood, a now-notorious B-movie master with a fantastic Wikipedia blurb, which I’ll quote now.

“[Wood’s films were] notable for their campy aesthetics, technical errors, unsophisticated special effects, ill-fitting stock footage, eccentric casts, idiosyncratic stories, and non sequitur dialogue.”

That’s Plan 9 in a nutshell. Aliens arrive on Earth and, in an attempt to stop humans from destroying the planet, they enact the titular Plan 9, which involves summoning zombies from beyond the grave. Why the zombies? To get people’s attention, of course. (You’d think that aliens landing would be enough, but not in this movie.)

In addition to the aforementioned aliens and zombies, Plan 9 also boasts such discordant elements as 50s working-class drama, film noir detectives, and vampires, in the form of both Vampira and the original Dracula, Bela Lugosi.

Lugosi’s presence is perhaps the strangest element of the film, not least of all because he died three years prior to its production. Here’s the deal: Ed Wood filmed several miscellaneous scenes of Lugosi in 1956, many of which involved him sporting his Dracula cape and stalking around a graveyard. When Lugosi died shortly after, Wood shelved the footage. Until 1959, that is, when he decided to cram it into Plan 9.

The result is magnificent. The same handful of scenes with Lugosi are replayed several times throughout the film. Furthermore, he never appears in a scene with any other member of the cast (since, you know, he was dead). To fill narrative gaps, Wood hired his wife’s chiropractor to act as Lugosi’s stand-in. Unfortunately, the two looked nothing alike, so the chiropractor covers his face with the Dracula cape whenever he’s on screen.

It gets better. The film features the kind of special effects you probably used in home videos when you were a kid, such as flying saucers that are clearly hubcaps suspended from fishing wire. Also, the alien spaceship looks like a submarine with lots of curtains. And I can’t forget to mention some of the best dialogue, such as:

“Inspector Clay is dead, murdered, and somebody’s responsible.”

“Future events such as these will affect you, in the future.”

“Then they attacked a town, a small town I’ll admit, but nevertheless a town of people, people who died.”

A foundational pillar of so-bad-it’s-good cinema. Highly recommended.

Number 4: Ghost Lake

This obscure gem was first introduced to me by my wife Sara, who lists it as possibly her favorite movie, ever. Her mom bought it for her and a friend to watch on their way to an ice-skating competition, and it’s been entrenched in Sara’s pantheon of bad movies ever since. In fact, she owns a DVD copy of the film, which we’ve watched several times. (By the way, the shipping cost more than the product itself.)

Ghost Lake is a film about loss. Er, well, it tries to be. It’s actually more of a rip-roaring comedy featuring bizarre direction and goofy dialogue. Here’s a great example of the latter:

“What did you think stars were as a kid?”

“I don’t know. Stars, planets, galaxies.”

Or this line, which almost feels like a direct plea to the viewers re the movie itself:

“Understanding it doesn’t matter. Surviving it does.”

Or how about this searing one-liner that was no doubt meant for the trailer:

“Don’t die…yet.”

But that’s not all there is to love. There’s also the aforementioned bizarre direction, exemplified by the gratuitous use of split screens. Characters go for jogs and have their upper torso pictured in one screen and their feet in the other, all for no discernable reason. And let’s not forget the movie’s earliest use of split screen, in which the main character is out clubbing on the left frame while her parents die of carbon monoxide inhalation on the right.

Are the split screens necessary? No. Am I glad they’re there? Absolutely.

There are plenty more baffling shots, such as a long take of the main character’s eyeball peering through a dollhouse window. My personal favorite is a scene in which a little girl bounces a ball, and the camera jerks up and down with every bounce. And then there’s the film’s final scene, in which we slowly zoom on the neighbor’s lawn, then fade to credits. Not sure why our parting image is grass, but I like it.

Ghost Lake is a B-movie of the highest order. Recommended especially for those who like lines enunciated so poorly you’ll need subtitles to understand them. For years we thought the ghosts were saying, “We. Are. People.” Turns out they were saying, “We. Are. All. Here.” Who knew?

Number 3: The Happening

If you were duped into paying full ticket price for this one, you might not find it as funny as I do. The Happening dropped in 2008, back when people still respected M. Night Shyamalan. Not so much after this one.

The Happening stars Mark Wahlberg and Zooey Deschanel as a weird couple struggling to survive while the world suffers a series of mysterious mass suicides. Wahlberg plays a high school science teacher (nice sweater vest), and Deschanel plays…I’m not really sure what she’s supposed to be. She spends most of the film bugging her eyes out and asking Wahlberg why humans suck so much.

Speaking of Marky Mark, he delivers some of the best lines in this movie. Like this one:

“I need a second, okay, why can’t anybody give me a goddamn second!?”

Or this exchange, which is outstanding:

That stuff’s great, but the Shyamalan twist is the best. Spoiler alert, but here’s the twist of The Happening: the plants did it. How did they do it? By urging people to kill themselves via the wind.

The. Wind.

This leads to arguably the funniest chase scene in movie history, in which the characters try to, yes, outrun the wind. Most confounding of all, they somehow succeed.

At least Shyamalan knew it was bad. Just before the reviews rolled in, he stated, “We’re making an excellent B-movie, that’s our goal.” Wahlberg took two years to admit it, but in a 2010 Entertainment Weekly interview, he said, “It was a really bad movie. Fuck it. It is what it is. You can’t blame me for not wanting to try to play a science teacher.”

If you dig usually good actors delivering terrible performances, this is the one for you.

Number 2: The Wicker Man

If there’s a GOAT of unintentional humor, it’s Nicolas Cage. I don’t care if he’s in a movie about witches, vampires, or homicidal parents—he always makes me laugh.

Nic’s Wicker Man is a remake of a 1973 British film of the same name. The original is apparently quite good; Film magazine Cinefantastique went so far as to call it, “The Citizen Kane of horror movies.”

Nic’s version? Probably better described as The Room of horror movies.

Cage plays a bummed out cop who’s summoned to a secluded island by his ex-girlfriend because their daughter has gone missing. Nic spends the rest of the film moping around, doing some shoddy investigative work, and later threatening a bicycle-rider at gunpoint.

First off, this film has very confusing gender politics. The island is ruled by murderous women, and it’s unclear if they’re supposed to be evil, or if Nic is just a misogynist douchebag. Probably some of both, though the question remains unanswered and mostly unconsidered, even at the film’s conclusion, when Nic’s own daughter lights the fire that burns him to death.

A guy burning to death doesn’t sound funny, but Nic is such a master at unintentional comedy that he manages to pull it off. Imagine him shoving his face through a gap in a wooden cage and bellowing incoherently for a collective 22 seconds of screen time (I counted).

But the hilarity doesn’t stop there. In the scene prior to the burning, the gals dump a swarm of bees on Nic’s head. This might’ve been horrifying with better supervision, but that’s the magic of B-movies (no pun intended); their earnest attempts at affecting moviemaking invariably turn to comedy. In this case, we get the now-classic line, “Oh no, not the bees! There in my eyes, my eyes! Ahhhhhh!”

The Wicker Man boasts some wonderful slapstick moments as well. For example, Sara’s favorite scene is one in which Nic lumbers downstairs in disarray, after having been nearly killed the night before. The innkeeper smirks at him and remarks, “You’re looking a bit worse for wear.” Without saying anything, Nic trudges up to the counter, glares at her, and punches her out. This sets off a slew of random ninja kicks and sucker punches, the best of which comes while Nic is dressed in a bear suit.

The Wicker Man is one of Cage’s all-time best. And you can trust me on that, because I’ve seen way too many of his movies.

Number 1: Troll 2

Troll 2 is everything a bad movie should be. Atrocious dialogue, horrendous acting, cheesy special effects, a ludicrous premise, even a bug settling on an actor’s forehead during a dramatic(?) scene. Troll 2 has it all, and more.

Our main character is Joshua, a little shit (his sister’s words, not mine) who sees visions of his inexplicably omnipotent Grandpa Seth. He and his family vacation in a small town called Nilbog, which they eventually discover is populated by vegetarian goblins who turn people into—in the words of Grandpa Seth—”half man, half plant. The goblins’ favorite food.”

You may have noticed there were no trolls in that description. That’s because there’s not a single troll in Troll 2. Allow me to explain.

In 1986, Empire Pictures released a semi-successful cult film entitled Troll (which randomly featured the likes of Julia Louis-Dreyfus and Sonny Bono). It was a standalone film.

Four years later, Filmirage produced a film under the working title Goblins. An appropriate title, considering it was a film about, well, goblins. However, the producers felt the finished product was so terrible that no one would watch it unless they were fooled into doing so. They therefore renamed the film Troll 2, hoping filmgoers would mistake it for a sequel to Troll. The films, for the record, are completely unrelated.

It gets better. Since budgets were so low, many of the actors were not actually professional actors. The Nilbog shopkeeper, for example, was just a guy who’d smoked tons of weed before filming. Or take Joshua’s father, who’s actually a dentist from Alabama and had never acted before. Despite the lack of experience, he delivers one of the most iconic performances of the film.

There’s so much more, but words don’t do it justice. The local sheriff, whose name is Gene Freak. The music, which might be composed of Garageband sound loops. The corn cob makeout scene, which concludes with popcorn being tossed onto the actors from offscreen. It’s brilliant. It’s one of a kind. And it’s uniquely Troll 2.

All Highly Recommended

Hope you enjoyed this post. I recommend watching all these films, especially with friends. Just make sure you turn on the subtitles—might be hard to hear over the laughter.

Pulp Fiction and the Art of Non-Linear Storytelling

May 20, 2019 / Kyle A. Massa

Movie script

Pulp Fiction is a great film. I don’t think I’m alone in thinking this.

One reason I dig this movie is its non-linear narrative style. Rather than employ a traditional cause-and-effect plot, writer/director Quentin Tarantino sequences Pulp Fiction out of order, on purpose. If each scene is a card, it’s safe to say Tarantino shuffled his deck. Or, more accurately, he stacked it.

Non-linear storytelling is challenging. Nonetheless, the payoffs are quite strong when it’s done well. Here are three benefits to using non-linear narratives.

Satisfying Complexity

While conventional storytelling is often made better by trimming complexity, non-linear stories work in a different way. Deciphering them is half the fun.

For example, you’ll remember a scene in Pulp Fiction in which Marsellus Wallace (Ving Rhames) pays Butch (Bruce Willis) to lose his next fight. In that same scene, Vincent Vega (John Travolta) and Jules Winfield (Samuel L. Jackson) enter the scene wearing faded t-shirts and boxers. It’s a little odd, especially considering the previous scene in which they wore sharp suits. We don’t discover what happened until later in the film: Vincent accidentally shot a guy in the back seat of his car, making a bit of a mess. Those nice business suits had to go.

This is one advantage of non-linear storytelling. You can present an intriguing element in your timeline, then explain how it happened later.

Intersecting Characters

In non-linear stories, the main plot can often be divided into smaller subplots. This presents myriad opportunities for character arcs to intersect.

Take, for example, Honey Bunny (Amanda Plummer) and Ringo (Tim Roth). They’re the first characters we encounter in the film, and by the end, we’ve almost forgotten they appeared at all. Yet when Vincent and Jules enter the diner in the film’s final scene, we realize that all four characters were in the same place all along. We just didn’t know it yet.

It’s these intersections of plot that I just love. They’re super interesting, and they create a puzzle-like wonder for the writer. Where do these plots intersect? How do the paths of these characters cross?

Time Distortion

I think one of the coolest and weirdest parts of Pulp Fiction is the scene in which Butch kills Vincent. Whoops, spoiler. Anyway, I love that scene.

It’s cool and weird because Vincent is kind of the star of the movie. So there’s a big “What just happened?” moment when he’s killed in such an inglorious way. And yet, as mentioned earlier, Vincent’s death doesn’t preclude him from appearing once again in the film’s final act.

This departure from the linear plays two parts. For one, you get a jolt of confusion, especially if it’s your first time watching the film. When Vincent reappears after his death, you might ask yourself, “Wait a second…didn’t he get shot?” Then, as the scene plays out, we realize we’ve actually jumped back in time. And we finally find out where the t-shirts came from.

Also, the time shuffle adds a hint of sadness to that final diner scene. Because even though the film ends with Vincent and Jules walking off into the sunset, so to speak, we know that Vincent will later be killed. Sure, he’s a hitman. But he’s a likable hitman.

Non-linear storytelling is endlessly fascinating, and Pulp Fiction proves it. If you’re looking for a master class in the form, I highly recommend it.

Kyle A. Massa is a speculative fiction author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife and their two cats. His stories have appeared in numerous online magazines, including Allegory, Chantwood, and Dark Fire Fiction. His debut novel, Gerald Barkley Rocks, is available now on Amazon Kindle.

Zombies, Storytelling, and Why Dead Ideas Don’t Die

April 29, 2019 / Kyle A. Massa

Zombie

If someone tells you a genre, subgenre, or story trope is dead, they’re probably wrong. Like a good old rancid zombie, stories never die.

Speaking of zombies, consider zombie stories. They’ve made regular appearances in American cinema (both big screens and small) for decades. Some zombie stories work, some don’t, but one thing remains the same: they just keep on coming back. Kind of like, well, zombies.

Take, for example, the latest star-studded zombie movie. It’s called The Dead Don’t Die. It’s written and directed by Jim Jarmusch and it stars Adam Driver, Bill Murray, Chloë Sevigny, Selena Gomez, and Steve Buscemi. (Also, for some reason Tilda Swinton plays what appears to be an albino mortician wielding a samurai sword.)

You’d think stories about local law enforcement battling zombies with makeshift weapons would’ve fallen out of favor. I’d guess if you wrote this screenplay, some might say something to the effect of, “The world doesn’t need another zombie movie.” And yet here it is. Another one.

No matter how many times a story’s been told, it can always be told again. In today’s blog post, I’ll do my best to convince you.

Consider Station Eleven

In 2014, you’d probably guess readers had had their fill of post-apocalyptic fiction. Within ten years of its release, we had The Road (and a film adaptation), World War Z (with a film adaptation), The Left Behind series (plus many adaptations), The Host (adapted), The Passage (adapted), and The Water Knife (no adaptation yet). And if we expand this list to include original films, consider After Earth, WALL-E, The Book of Eli, This Is the End, and my personal favorite of the bunch, The Happening. Oh, and let’s not forget one of the most popular shows of all time: The Walking Dead.

So, as you can see, there was no shortage of post-apocalyptic fiction around the time the book was published. Some, in fact, complained there was too much of it. Yet that year Emily St. John Mandel released a novel called Station Eleven. It received all kinds of acclaim, such as nominations for the PEN/Faulkner Award, the Baileys Women’s Prize for Fiction, and the National Book Award. In 2015, the novel won the Arthur C. Clarke Award.

(By the way, if you haven’t read Station Eleven, you really should. It’s an amazing novel with an unusual narrative style, interesting characters, and a rich story.)

So why did this work? Why did Station Eleven succeed when it seemed we’d hit a saturation point on post-apocalyptic fiction?

Nobody Cares About Subgenre as Long as It’s Good

Station Eleven works because it’s an excellent book. It’s that simple.

Of course, for writers, it’s not really that simple. Writing greats stories takes years, even decades of dedication and practice. And even books of great quality aren’t always commercially successful.

Yet I feel many writers (and for that matter, publishers) get too concerned about what’s been overdone. The truth is, you really can’t overdo any subject. We saw this with Station Eleven, and who knows? We may see it with The Dead Don’t Die, too.

Look to vampire fiction for another example. I’ve submitted my short fiction to many online publications, and there’s one guideline I notice over and over: they don’t want vampire fiction! We all know who’s to blame for that. But I think it’s a mistake to proclaim vampire fiction off limits. After all, vampires are cool (so long as they don’t sparkle). They’re embedded in folklore across centuries and cultures, so clearly we have a fascination with them. All we need is a great vampire book or movie, sort of like the Station Eleven of vampires, to reignite our interest in the subgenre.

What Does This Mean for Writers?

I’m a writer, so I like writing about whatever I want. I’m also a reader, so I like reading good books. It would sadden me if I or anyone else abandoned a book they were passionate about simply because they thought their subject matter was “dead” to audiences.

Well guess what, friends. The dead don’t die. No genre, subgenre, or subject is dead. As long as we write good stories that mean something to us and our readers, our work will have a pulse.

So go read Station Eleven. If you see The Dead Don’t Die, let me know what you think of it. And, if you have a story you want to write, write it. I can’t wait to read it.

I Am Your Father: Making Similarities Work in Fiction

January 7, 2019 / Kyle A. Massa

From Wikipedia

When Darth Vader revealed he was Luke Skywalker’s father in Star Wars Episode V: The Empire Strikes Back, people lost it. It’s widely considered one of the best plot twists in film history, and for good reason. Who would’ve guessed that the protagonist was the antagonist’s son all along?

Of course, George Lucas isn’t the only person ever to use this twist. In fact, Neil Gaiman (my favorite author) uses it in his 2001 novel American Gods (my favorite book). If you haven’t read it or don’t want to be spoiled for the show, turn back now.

Still here? Okay, cool. The book’s bad guy, Mr. Wednesday, is the father of Shadow, the book’s good guy. Boom!

Now here’s my question. How does Neil Gaiman repeat such a classic plot element without having readers roll their eyes? How does he take the “I am your father” moment and make it his own? Let’s investigate.

The Buildup

In Star Wars and American Gods, the identities of Luke and Shadow’s fathers carry differing importance. In Star Wars, for instance, when Obi Wan Kenobi tells Luke that his father was a jedi, it’s a huge contributing factor toward him leaving home. He takes his father’s lightsaber, he joins his father’s order, and it’s implied that he wants to avenge his father’s death. That’s because at this point in the story, he believes Darth Vader killed his father.

In American Gods, Shadow couldn’t care less about the identity of his father. We just know that he never met his dad. That’s it. No hints at who dad was, what he did, or where he went. The man’s identity is so vague that I found myself forgetting his existence entirely. Only near the end does it become relevant.

Here we see how this differing importance sets these plot elements apart from one another. If Shadow revered his dad and accepted his quest to follow in his footsteps, these elements might feel too similar. Since he doesn’t, the respective “I am your father” moments feel distinct.

The Reveal

In Star Wars, the reveal of Darth Vader’s true identity is intensely dramatic. It’s enough to make Luke sob and then hurl himself down a space shaft. And for audiences everywhere, it’s a shock that’s still remembered today. Just check out the memes that are still being created:

In American Gods, the revelation of the antagonist being the protagonist’s father is far more understated. When he has a vision of his mother dancing with his father, his reaction to dad’s true identity isn’t nearly so dramatic as Luke’s. Here’s the passage:

“Shadow found that he was completely unsurprised when he recognized the man who dances with [his mother]. He had not changed that much in thirty-three years.”

To a certain extent, this is just Shadow. Due to his time in prison, he’s learned to suppress his emotion. Yet this muted response also differentiates the revelation from that of Star Wars. Shadow doesn’t deny the truth. Instead, he accepts it. In fact, he already suspected it.

The Payoff

Once we know who these characters’ fathers really are, the ramifications on the subsequent story are much different. At the end of Empire Strikes Back, for instance, Luke is in disbelief over what he’s learned. Then, in the following film, his goal is no longer to defeat Vader. Instead, he seeks to redeem him.

In American Gods, Shadow’s father’s identity is more thematic than anything else. Shadow finds out who Mr. Wednesday is roughly around the same time he discovers Wednesday’s plot to sacrifice a bunch of gods to himself, thereby resurrecting himself. (Simple plan, right?) There’s no moment of, “Gee, I’d better redeem my dad.” In fact, Wednesday’s true identity doesn’t change Shadow’s plan in any way. He still stops the other gods from going to war, which thwarts dear dad’s plan. So unlike Luke Skywalker, Shadow wants to defeat his father even after discovering his true identity.

In Conclusion

Writers tend to avoid using twists they’ve seen in other works. Sometimes we fear that unless our plots are unique, we won’t be taken seriously as artists. That’s not the case! Rather, it’s perfectly fine to reuse a plot element, so long as we make it our own. I think the above example illustrates that point perfectly.

Now get out there and write!

Promises, Promises: The Assurances We Make to Our Readers

August 21, 2017 / Kyle A. Massa

As writers, we make constant promises to our readers. When we describe a gun on the mantlepiece, we promise someone will fire it. When we describe a sputtering engine, we promise the car will break down. When we describe an annoying alien named Jar Jar Binks, we promise he will have some future significance on the plot. Maybe not that last one.

The film Nocturnal Animals is an interesting study in keeping promises. Starring Amy Adams, Jake Gyllenhaal, and Michael Shannon, Animals is a thriller about an L.A. artist whose ex-husband sends her a disturbing manuscript. The film follows two parallel stories: the story of the manuscript, an the story of Amy Adams moping around.

This film has excellent performances, solid direction, good writing. But after my fiancee, our friends, and I watched it the other night, we all agreed that there was still something missing. This film did not keep the promises it had made.

For example, Jake Gyllenhaal has two roles in the film: He plays Edward Sheffield, Amy Adams’s ex-husband, and Tony Hastings, a father and husband within the novel. One actor playing two roles felt like a promise that something more was going on. Was the novel based on Edward Sheffield’s real life experiences? Did Amy Adams have something to do with the events of the novel? Everyone watching the film expected the main story and the plot of the novel to connect in a concrete way.

But they didn’t. When the credits rolled, we looked at each other and said, “Huh?”

Or the scene where Gyllenhaal drives with his wife and daughter. They get into an incident with another motorist, a real nasty dude by the name of Ray (played by Aaron-Taylor Johnson). After being forced off the road, Gyllenhaal’s daughter India (played by Ellie Bamber) marks Ray’s license plate on her phone.

Seems like this would’ve been helpful information during the subsequent investigation. Yet this moment is never referenced again. So far as we know, the cops never checked India’s phone.

Everything we set up in the first twenty minutes of a film or the first third of a book, all of it is a promise. We promise our audience that we’ll knock over the dominos we’ve arranged. If we don’t, the audience feels unsatisfied. And we don’t want that.

I’d encourage you to watch Nocturnal Animals. Despite its flaws, the film demands your attention, beginning to end. Also, I think it teaches an important lesson to writers: keep your promises!

“It Wasn’t Like the Book”

July 31, 2017 / Kyle A. Massa

From The Wild Hunt

Trending now: screen adaptations of popular speculative fiction novels. It started with HBO’s Game of Thrones, continued with SyFy’s The Expanse and Hulu’s The Handmaid’s Tale. It will continue to continue with the upcoming film adaptation of The Dark Tower.

Notice a glaring omission from that list? Me too. I haven’t mentioned Starz’s adaptation of the greatest novel in the English language, American Gods.

Okay, that might be an overstatement. But American Gods really is my favorite book, and as such, I was really excited about the series.

When adaptations are based on popular properties, expectations certainly run high. One thing I’ve noticed: In book to screen adaptations, people use one particular piece of criticism over and over: “It wasn’t like the book.”

I’ve always found that fascinating. The clear implication is that adaptations are best when they’re identical to the book—or pretty darn close. Just ask Harry Potter fans.

However, I’d like to offer a friendly counterpoint to the “it’s not like the book” argument. Sometimes, adaptations are best when they aren’t like the book.

Let’s start with Starz’s American Gods. This series has numerous obvious differences between it and its source material. But I think these differences make the show able to stand on its own.

For one, I love how the show expands upon side characters from the novel. Salim, for example, is a young Muslim man who appears in just one scene of the novel and has no influence on the main plot. In the show, however, he becomes a main character who drives the story forward (literally). Or Mad Sweeney, the gruff leprechaun who appears in just a hand full of scenes in the book. The series Sweeney becomes a main character and one of my absolute favorites. Or Laura Moon, resurrected corpse and former wife of Shadow, the story’s main character. The show devotes an entire episode to her backstory, showing how she and Shadow met. The series Laura has depth that even Laura from the novel did not have.

When I watch a series, I want a new experience. I would’ve been bored if everything played out exactly how it did in the book. I want to see characters I recognize, but I want to see them expanded upon. I want to see a story I recognize, only with different twists. After all, I’m watching American Gods the show, not reading American Gods the novel. If I wanted the same experience as the book, I’d just read the book!

On the other hand, adaptations must tread carefully when deviating from their source material. While the series version of American Gods alters and expands upon some events from the book, they all feel true to Neil Gaiman’s story—due in no small part to his involvement with the series. The challenge for the adapter is to produce a product that feels new while retaining the tastiest ingredients of the original.

When I watch a screen adaptation, I’m looking for a new experience. In that regard, American Gods has been a huge success. The series builds upon the foundation of the novel without simply reproducing the original. It isn’t like the book. And that’s a good thing.

Pulp Fiction and the Advantages of Being Ambiguous

July 10, 2017 / Kyle A. Massa

“The greater the ambiguity, the greater the pleasure.” – Milan Kundera

My fiancee and I just watched Pulp Fiction the other day, her for the first time and me for the hundredth, approximately.

If you haven’t seen it yet, go see it! And if you’ve seen it already, watch it again. Don’t worry, I’ll wait for you.

… You good? Good.

I’ve got a question for you: what did you think of the briefcase? You know, the one Jules (Samuel L. Jackson) and Vincent (John Travolta) recover from those guys in that apartment. The one that shines golden light upon the face of everyone who opens it. The one that we never discover the contents of.

For me, that briefcase is the best part of the movie. It’s pretty much the center of Jules and Vincent’s storyline, yet we don’t even know exactly what’s so great about it.

Isn’t that brilliant? I mean, let’s imagine for a second what could’ve been inside. Money, maybe? Sure. But isn’t that exactly what you’d expect to see? In a mobster movie, there’s probably nothing used more than a suitcase full of neatly-stacked hundred dollar bills. Imagine how disappointing that would be.

Okay, then maybe it’s something a little less cliche. Writer/director Quentin Tarantino stated that in an earlier draft, the briefcase contained a whole lot of diamonds. Which works a little better than money, but pretty much means the same thing.

The more I think about it, the more I like this idea: no matter what they might’ve shown us, nothing would’ve been as effective as showing us nothing at all. Instead of being given an answer, we’re presented with a question. We as the audience are asked by the filmmaker to provide our own explanations. We can’t help but wonder what would leave Vince Vega momentarily speechless, or leave Tim Roth’s character so awed.

As a result, the briefcase has become one of the most hotly debated topics among fans of the film. There are all sorts of great theories on what might be inside, ranging from a nuclear warhead to Marsellus Wallace’s soul to the physical manifestation of violence itself. No matter how unlikely the theory, no one can really prove or disprove anything. That’s the power of ambiguity: it allows us to fill in the blanks with whatever we like best.

Of course, the challenge with ambiguity is using the proper amount. The briefcase only works because we know enough about it to speculate. It’s obviously something very important, something that people are positively enchanted by. There’s an eerie golden light emanating from within. And the lock combination is, famously, the number 666.

Come on. I know you have some theories of your own, here. When ambiguity works, it works because the question is more interesting than any possible answers. That’s definitely the case with the briefcase in Pulp Fiction.