Indelible Freckles

Dear Mr Sorkin

I’ve been a big fan, Mr Sorkin, for a looong time.

I first noticed your work when Jack and Tom chewed the scenery (and each other) in A Few Good Men. Even though Det. Steve Keller Michael Douglas played The American President, I still enjoyed how you mixed in the love and politics.

And then there was Sports Night. A comedy with no laugh track? A drama that played for just half-an-hour? A show which wasn’t really about sports but about relationships? That used sports as a metaphor for what it meant to be a decent human being in this world? You sly dog, you: I was hooked. You showed me that not only was it possible to be funny and enlightening, you made me a believer in intelligent television - sometimes less was more.

The West Wing did not disappoint. Only you could create a drama about politics without regularly resorting to situations in which the world was saved at the last second. I only got to Season Three unfortunately - life had plans for me and I drifted away. I hear that around Season Four, life had its own plans for you, too.

I’m not afraid to say that I had a flutter when I heard you were returning with Studio 60 on Sunset Strip. So what if Teevee quickly tired of the numerous rants soliloquoys. And you have to admit Ken Levine was pretty funny with his if Aaron Sorkin wrote a show about baseball. I knew without question that I was going to tune in whenever it reached our shores.

The first half-dozen eps were classic Sorkin. I lapped it up. Whatever industry japes and spikes were there went straight over my head. So you wanted to vent - I was cool with that. And maybe your signature back-and-forth dialogue wasn’t so fresh a third time around - I didn’t mind; it was nice to have you back on the box. But then there was the The Harriet Dinner two-parter. Then the 4am Miracle ep. Then The Disaster Show.

Mr Sorkin - all due respect but… WTF?

I’m sorry, Mr Sorkin, but I just… I can’t take any more. I’ve stopped watching. I may never know how Danny and Jordan go with the baby, or if Matt and Harriett’s rollercoaster love will straighten up and fly right, or even if the New Black Guy will get his first sketch aired. I don’t care. I feel insulted. If I wanted will-they-or-won’t-they relationship arcs or idiot-plots-A through to -Z, I’d be watching CSI or Medium. I wanted to enjoy your last outing but it didn’t work out. It wasn’t me, it was you.

Please don’t take this to be a beatdown. I’m a big fan of your work - even if Studio 60 plumbed some depths, it was still superior television. Whatever your next show is, you can count me in, no questions asked.

Yours sincerely


d f mamea

Last Friday night we watched a psychological horror unfold and then, somehow, fold back in on itself like some Moebius strip. And despite having seen the rough- and fine-cuts of the film, I found myself pulled into it. It moved. It flowed. It made sense.

Of course it makes sense, I hear you cry. You wrote it, silly! Well… yes, but the film that was on the big screen was a very different creature from what I’d originally envisaged. I’d found the process of watching the earlier cuts much, much harder than I’d expected, making mewling noises about it at the time. It was time to confront the finished film as an independent entity, rather than some excuse to whine, Well, if I’d done it…. I hadn’t ‘done’ it. I’d merely provided a blueprint.

By the time the credits rolled, I was experiencing not so much relief but… - bloody hell - pride that I had been part of the Five production. I was buzzing. There were back-slaps and hugs. There were drinks and debriefs. It was cathartic.

Big thankeroonies to the cast and crew (they know who they are), in particular Mr Amit Tripuraneni for making it possible real.

A gentle reminder that FIVE is screening at the Academy Cinemas later this week:

Cast and crew shall be in attendance at the premiere on Friday night so if you’re in that part of town at that time, c’mon in, siddown, and enjoy.

So many things to post about. So few braincells to spare. Meantime, I give you these wonderful links to enjoy:

• Alan Moore is interviewed about his career and latest work, Lost Girls.

• Jeremy Slater has same cry-out-loud posts (here and here) about Heroes creator Tim Kring. Mm… maybe not for Heroes fans.

• Phill Barron is writing a feature screenplay in one week. The man is insane. Virtual rubber-neckers can follow his progress so far: Day One and Day Two.

• It’s that wonderful time of year when the Vidiots hold their annual Dead Pool competition. They may only be in it to see which newbie show karks it first, but for me it’s a good indicator of what to look forward to in the near future. Pushing Daisies and Dirty Sexy Money seemed to pass muster; here’s hoping The Bionic Woman and the long-silent Josh Friedman’s The Sarah Connor Chronicles do the same.

• Stephen Fry - yes, that Stephen Fry - has a blog. Nuff said, mm?

FIVE has industry screenings at the Academy Cinemas on:

Mark your dance cards accordingly.

After my last spleen-lancing post, I’ve had some imaginary emails and non-existent comments with valid questions like Who the [hell] do you think you are? and Why make do with the length you have?

To answer the first, I get paid to write, thank you. And although the polite and understated New Zealand way of explaining such a position would be to shuffle my shoes and bashfully say that I must be doing something right, the reality is that I’m good at what I do. I’m a professional. I deliver.

So there.

As for the second question, that was actually from some email or comment spam, so no response required.

I may have been a bit harsh with my accusations of lazy storytelling and a fear of audience confusion in my last post. It’s one thing to blame everything on the writer - and very easy: just trawl through a random sample of dissatisfied film reviews - but it’s another to ignore the fact of how fragile a feature film is. Anyone who’s made a film will tell you that everyone involved - every-bloody-one - has a hand in how it turns out. It’s a miracle they get made at all.

But back to the hapless writer and those ever-reliable chestnuts:

• the child/sidekick/damsel who don’t do as they’re told;

• the unnecessary lie; and

• egregiously dumb acts by characters.

I’ll be lazy and hereby categorise them as dumb things. Such dumb things can be avoided by providing a compelling reason so that the dumb thing becomes at least understandable.

Remember how the DAUGHTER got her MOTHER killed? What the hell was the kid doing outside the house? Well, what if…

The same principle can be applied to the other situations. In the boy-meets-girl situation, what if…

And finally, what if…

So:

• Knowing why the kid leaves the house won’t save her mother from being beheaded by some plant hybrid but at least no-one’s thinking of throttling the ill-disciplined sprog.

• Having a realistic response to patently stupid advice may have generated some work down the line but at least viewers aren’t planning death-threats against the writer.

• And replacing blind machismo with some droll humour doesn’t really work here, but at least police-procedural aficionados aren’t up in arms about blatant disregard of common-sensical law enforcement practice.

See? Provide a compelling reason for action - or inaction - and you make that moment yours.