Dark Matter: "Love and Be Loved"

Dark Matter, based on the novel by Blake Crouch, is about a Jason Dessen, a scientist who is kidnapped by his duplicate from another universe and stranded in the universe of that duplicate. Jason's challenge is to find a way home to get his life back. 

Things get increasingly complicated. Over the course of the show's first two seasons, we get to see a legion of Jasons as similar events play out across multiple universes. 

While I've enjoyed the show thus far, this is the first time I've been moved to comment on an episode. "Love and Be Loved" (the fifth episode of season two) is one of the best hours of dramatic television I've ever seen, and meets the potential of long-form narrative. 

As a stand-alone story, "Love and Be Love" still works. But with 13 episodes of character development behind it, everything this version of Jason is going through explores the human cost of living--not in economic terms; just the pain of being alive, and why it's still worth fighting for. 

"Love and Be Loved" is a lifeline to those among us are despairing over the state of our world--a reminder that if we're lucky, when we've hit rock bottom, there will be someone out there to lift us back up with kindness, empathy, and understanding--and that when we're back on our feet, we can do the same for others.

 

77 Words on Five Came Back

Lucille Ball nailing a serious role. A b-picture with cheap sets and special effects, but also a compelling high-stakes story and actors with the chops to make it work. David Carradine and his distinctive voice. A haunting off-screen menace. A metaphorical ticking clock. A killer consigned by fate to make the final decision of who must stay in the jungle to die, and the five who will return safely to their normal lives. A brave, shocking finale. 

Earl vs. New York 2140

Despite my wavering ambivalence of Kim Stanley Robinson's work, I continue to read his books.

I purchased New York 2140 from the West Edmonton Mall Chapters in 2017. As with many of Robinson's books, I found my greatest enjoyment in his worldbuilding and theme while struggling to work my way through his baffling characterization and prose. (I will say that this time around some of his characters come close to resembling human beings.) But at last, after nine and a half years, I have finished the book. 

In Robinson's imagined future, the sea level in the vicinity of New York has risen some 50 feet. Its residents have adapted by creating a Venice-like existence, Manhattan's streets now waterways. 

Strangely, aside from the comeback of airships--for travel, shipping, and anchoring floating communities in midair--there's very little mention of technological change in this novel, such as details on adaptive mechanisms for the higher sea levels, resilience measures, computers, transportation, what's going on with space exploration, health care, and so on. Aside from the airships and the sea level change, this book feels like it could have taken place in 1988. 

Robinson's central concern here is economics. The novel is a critique of unfettered capitalism and the harm its done to the world and its people. And by the time we reach the end of this 600 page novel, there's a peaceful revolution wherein the people of the United States and elsewhere in the world force the trillionaires to pay their fair share of society's burdens. 

(So this is a science fiction novel, after all, ha-ha, as Robinson might write.)

There are two action scenes--a midair floating city rescue, and a whopper of a hurricane that precipitates the revolution near the novel's end. Robinson somehow manages to make both of these scenes boring. 

This isn't to say that I don't appreciate the novel. I think its message is important, and the solution the characters find at the novel's climax something we might apply to our current situation. Indeed. I think if I'd read this back before Trump, its impact would have been somewhat lessened. As history has played out in recent years, I find myself thinking that Robinson's prescription might be needed about 120 years earlier than predicted. 
 

A Visit from the Clue Squad

 

Yesterday I read Jennifer Egan's A Visit from the Goon Squad. I devoured this book in a couple of brief sittings, enthralled by the non-linear narrative, the beautifully drawn characters, and the sharp, ironic, empathetic prose. About halfway through, I thought "Wow, this is really good." When I finished, I searched Egan on Wikipedia and discovered this novel won the Pulitzer. 

"Ah, no wonder it was good," I thought. Of course, winning a prize isn't necessarily the best guarantee of quality, but this time, in my estimation, the award was well deserved. 

Masters of Their Universe

Masters of the Universe (Travis Knight, 2026) delivered the kind of goofy, unhinged fun I haven't experienced in quite the same way since Flash Gordon (Mike Hodges, 1980). 

Based on the Mattel action figure toys released in 1982, Masters of the Universe tells the story of Adam Glenn (Nicholas Galitzine), who is determined to find the mythical Sword of Power and in doing so save his home dimension, Eternia, from the skullduggery of Skeletor (Jared Leto). 

But fifteen years after arriving on Earth as a child--hidden there to escape Skeletor--Adam hasn't had any luck. Instead, he's grown up, making the best of things by taking an office job in Oklahoma City. He works in Human Resources, and his affable, charming personality makes him a beloved, if eccentric, figure among his colleagues. Adam can't seem to lie, and he speaks earnestly about his quest to anyone who will listen. They think he's either role-playing or insane. But soon enough Eternia comes calling, and Adam's quest moves into high gear. Can mild-mannered HR drone Adam retrieve the Sword of Power and become the kind of hero who defeat Skeletor, his right-hand woman Evil-Lyn (Alison Brie), and their horde of monstrous minions? 

Of course he can, and does. What's important, as ever, lies in how the tale is told. And this time around, the tale is told with tongue planted firmly in cheek. The screenplay is full of clever gags, the action is well-structured, well-executed, and essential to moving the story forward, the actors are clearly having tremendous fun, and the whole thing is so genuine and wholesome that I fell in love with the film about five minutes in and never fell out. 

Some highlights:

• The brilliant origin story of many of the ridiculous character names
• The characterizations of the chief villains, Skeletor and Evil-Lyn, captured in clever dialogue, performance, and special effects--I never once thought of Skeletor as a CGI creation, but always as a full-fledged, delightful villain in the over-the-top style of old serial villains from the 1940s
• Camila Mendes as competent, steel-nerved warrior bestie Teela
  
• Idris Elba as Man-at-Arms, a fallen warrior lost to alcoholism in the wake of Eternia's fall, who reluctantly answers the call to destiny once more
• Two of the most satisfying and delightful post-credits scenes I've seen in quite some time
  

As far as modern takes on old franchises go, I'd put this one right up there with Dungeons & Dragons: Honor Among Thieves.

A movie based on a toy line has no right to be this good. IT HAS THE POWERRRRRR

An Uncanny Obsession

The very best horror films are also tragedies. Obsession (Curry Barker, 2025) will haunt anyone who ever pined for someone beyond their reach; anyone who realized too late their true love was there all along; anyone who had to bear the guilt of not returning the love of someone they merely liked. 

Such is the tragedy of Bear, who loves Nikki; Nikki, who sees Bear as a little brother; and Sarah, who loves Bear. And Bear again, for not realizing that last truth until it's too late to even ponder it. And Ian, trying to be the best friend he can to the others, bewildered, concerned, helpless, powerless, and doomed. 

The uncanny is the most potent form of horror. It is malevolence for the sake of malevolence, striking out at the vulnerable, wreaking anguish just because it can and for no other reason. Bear, Nikki, Sarah, and Ian are all demonstrably good people who genuinely care for each other; their friendships, had the uncanny not intruded, could have ebbed and flowed into something more or something less; whatever happened would have been better than this modern variation of "The Monkey's Paw." 

The scariest thing about Obsession is how real it feels. The uncanny takes the form of the banal here--capitalist trinkets selling dreams for handfuls of change, complete with disclaimers and retro branding for nostalgic appeal. Break the One Wish Willow and your wish will come true--but we keep forgetting that in the fables, wishes never quite turn out the way you expect. In life as it is in horror. 

I really cared for these four young people, though I knew they were doomed from the start. The knowledge doesn't ease the heartache. Yes, this is a fiction, a scary parable--but it's a mirror of the fear and chaos that disrupts lives from out of nowhere. It happens to the luckiest of us, somewhere, sometime, and if it hasn't happened to you yet, just wait a while; it will. 

The Lost Return to Krypton

Despite having had Superman Returns in my movie library since, oh, probably 2007, only yesterday did I watch most of the set's special features, including the deleted scenes. 

The first and best of these scenes is Kal-El's return to Krypton, partially explaining the title; originally conceived as the film's opening, this scene captures both Kal-El's return to Krypton, and Clark Kent's return to Earth. 

In brief, we see Superman flying a crystal starship much like the one that brought him to Earth in Superman (Richard Donner, 1978). This version is much bigger, and it has a windshield shaped like the irregular pentagram that houses Superman's famous S symbol. (In the films and some other media, this symbol happens to be that of the house of El. In the comics, the Kents are typically responsible for the symbol and its shape, directly or indirectly.) The starship is beautifully designed, and it's inferred that the ship was grown by the Kryptonian crystals ubiquitous to the Donner/Reeve Superman movies.

(Why does Superman need a spaceship, when it's been shown that he can fly through space under his own power? Because only in star systems like Earth, with its yellow sun, does Superman have his powers. Without solar energy, Superman eventually becomes a regular human. Dimmer suns, like Krypton's, are insufficient--and in this version of the myth, that star is gone anyway.) 

Within the starship, Superman gazes through the windshield at the shattered remains of his homeworld. We see that most of the planet has been blown to smithereens, but a sizeable chunk of the sphere remains, perhaps an eighth of the planet's surface. Superman pilots the craft for a closer look at that surviving chunk, and breaks out in a cold sweat the closer he gets. He soon learns why he's feeling sick: the detonation of Krypton's star has transformed much of Krypton's mass into Kryptonite, which is deadly to Kryptonians. He sees the crest of his family carved into a rockface, all that remains of his heritage, before the Kryptonite radiation forces him to turn back. He sets a course back to Earth. 

I really wish the filmmakers had found a way to include this sequence in the film's final cut. While Superman's reasons for leaving Earth are explained through dialogue during the film, this graceful, quiet sequence--through sound effects, Brandon Routh's performance, visual effects, and editing--shows, rather than tells, us why Kal-El would make such a journey. Like many heroes of myth, he has answered the call to adventure, and so must answer the call home--in this case, a home not just forever changed, but entirely obliterated. Having seen with his own eyes that he really can't go home again, he turns back to his adopted home, wiser and sadder. 

A half-dozen or so short deleted scenes set on the Kent farm follow, giving Ma Kent and Clark more time on screen together and giving Clark more scenes that again show, rather than tell, his mixed feelings about his time away. He stumbles upon stacks of newspapers that his mother has gathered in his absence, newspapers that cry out for Superman's help and wonder why and where he's gone. Not only that, but his mother has started dating again. Had he not left, Clark probably would have been happy for his mother, but a major change like this on his return clearly comes as a shock. And of course, as we see in the film as released, it's far from the only way his relationships have changed. 

The rest of the deleted scenes include some extra business when Clark returns to the Daily Planet, some shenanigans from Lex Luthor and his cadre of villains, and a final coda at the Daily Planet. I can easily see while these scenes were cut, though I do like the Daily Planet coda; it has a nice final moment for Perry White and Lois Lane. 

Superman Returns is not a well-loved film, and I'm well aware of its faults. But I still love it, because it feels like the natural continuation of the journey we saw Christopher Reeve's Superman begin in the 1970s. Reeve's Superman is gentle, charming, and self-effacing; he's a fundamentally decent person. But Reeve also captured the character's tragic side; he's an orphan one and a half times over, he has a secret he can't share with anyone, and carries a fantastic burden of responsibility; both his biologial and foster parents tell him over and over that he is on Earth for a reason, and that reason is not to play football--in other words, his life should not and cannot be normal. 

Clark takes on this responsibility gladly and solemnly, and he takes joy in helping people. But in the world of the Reeve films, he has no true peers. (Technically Supergirl exists in his world thanks to the titular Helen Slater film of 1984, but the two characters never interact, and none of the Superman films mention her.) There's not even a Justice League to pal around with. No wonder being Clark is so important to him; it's his only window to something approximating a normal life. 

The Krypton and Smallville deleted scenes make the final film's sombre tone even more justified, and give weight to Superman's final scene in the film.Though he's lost Lois, he knows that Krypton's heritage will live on through their son. "Will we see you?" Lois asks. "Around?" 

"I'm always around," Superman says, with his beautiful, confident smile, but we can feel his sadness, his loss, and his renewed sense of purpose. John Ottman's gorgeous music is a beautifully wistful accompaniment to this moment, until its forced to transition to the Williams theme for an upbeat final look at this version of the Man of Steel as he flies off into the sunset to resume his never-ending battle for truth and justice. 

Through Lois Lane, this film asks us if the world needs Superman. Lois' answer--and the film's--is yes. But that answer comes with a price. For Superman, the price is never having a normal life or a romantic partner. 

For us, the audience, the price is the knowledge that Superman isn't real. It's a beautiful fantasy--the idea that there could be a person selfless and true, someone with enough power but enough decency to shape the world for the better. 

So as it turns out, the only way to have the better world a real-life Superman would enable is to take on his mantle ourselves, to the best of our limited ability. We're always around, too, and we can choose to use our time to make the world better or worse. That's all Superman does. He needed a break in Superman Returns, but when he came to grips with his grief and his losses, he returned to his best self. 

Maybe someday we can all do something similar. 

Kisses of Death, Flashes of Brilliance

The Death Kiss (Edwin L. Marin, 1932) is a fair-to-middling comedy-mystery hybrid about a movie star who gets shot to death on a film set and the pursuit of his killer. The comedy relies mostly on some dry wit and buffoonery, and the mystery has some clever aspects. It's not a bad film, but it's not terribly memorable--save for two aspects. 

One, Bela Lugosi is in really fine and atypical form here as one of the movie's quasi-antagonists and murder suspects. The script requires him to be somewhat abrasive and therefore credible as a murderer, but Lugosi's performance adds sympathy and ambiguity, so much so that I was thinking to myself that maybe he wouldn't turn out to be the murderer after all. (SPOILERS for a 94-year old movie: he didn't!) 

Two, Marin and his team add flashes of colour during two scenes of this black-and-white film. The first comes as the police are reviewing film in the projection room--film that might reveal the killer's identity. But the projector explodes, and does so in what I think must be hand-painted colour on the frames. The effect is quite dramatic, and if it caught me by surprise, I imagine audiences in 1932 must have been really impressed. There's also some use of the technique for light sources in the aftermath. 

Showing admirable restraint, this trick isn't used again until the film's climax, when the killer is tracked down and a running gunfight breaks out. Again we get hand-painted colour on flashlights and, most effectively, flashes of red and yellow gunfire. It really is a very cool effect that elevates the picture. 


 

Cheers to St. Elsewhere

During St. Elsewhere's season three finale, Doctors Donald Westphall, Mark Craig, and Daniel Auschlander head to Cheers for beer. 

Television crossovers are an old phenomenon, still seen today, but they're reasonably rare and thus still feel special, suggesting fictional worlds larger than the restrictions of any one drama or comedy. When I first read that the Cheers/St. Elsewhere crossover existed, I wondered how the creators of the episode would balance the very different tones of the two shows. 

As it turns out, and as I suppose should have been obvious, the crossover was a St. Elsewhere episode, not a Cheers episode, so drama won out. The three doctors have a pretty serious discussion at the bar, and the laughs aren't terribly uproarious. Carla Tortelli (Rhea Perlman) is as sharp-mouthed as ever as she waits on the doctors' table, calling St. Eligius a dump and crossing swords with the equally sharp-tongued Doctor Craig. Norm (George Wendt) recognizes Doctor Auschlander when he walks into the bar, and there's a brief exchange about taxes; Norm, it turns out, is the good doctor's accountant. And finally. Cliff (John Ratzenberger) drifts by the table to share some of his overblown erudition. 

It all works, because the crossover feels organic. The scene is given just as much weight as it would have had there been no crossover at all; that is, if they'd gone to some other bar filled with nameless extras. If it was intended as a way to boost ratings for St. Elsewhere, the crossover was certainly handled more artistically than one might have expected. 

Some Feelings on Fiscus

 

Howie Mandel as Doctor Wayne Fiscus

I've never been a fan of Howie Mandel.

That's a me problem, not a Mandel problem. His particular comic persona just isn't to my taste, accomplished as he may be. 

But I must say that I really enjoy Mandel as Doctor Wayne Fiscus, St. Eligius' emergency room resident. Fiscus likes to goof around a bit, but he's affectionate, cares about patients and staff alike, and does the right thing even when it's hard. Also, he's a casual dresser, and complains righteously when he's forced to wear a suit and tie while on duty. I loathe suits and ties, so naturally I'm sympathetic to the character's plight. 

I look forward to seeing where Mandel takes this character. In the almost-three seasons I've watched so far, he's already grown significantly. I hope that continues to the end of the series. 

White's Wounded Women

Some of St. Elsewhere's Season Three Players.
Fans of Babylon 5 might recognize Stephen Furst in the middle. 

I guess you could say that Doctor Peter White's story began with some whimpering, and ended with a bang. A couple of days ago, I wrote about my amazement regarding the character's dark turn, and how I wondered how the writers could possibly bring him back for a third season. 

They found a way. White is a deeply troubling foil for the first third of the season, shoving his verdict of innocence in the faces of his colleagues while continuing to brazenly rape women--including a second attack on one of his prior victims, who winds up deeply psychologically damaged on top of her physical trauma (and little wonder). 

Three of White's victims: Nurse Shirley Daniels (driven to murder), Doctor Wendy Armstrong (victim of attempted rape, assaulted, driven to suicide), and Doctor Cathy Martin (raped and assaulted twice, driven to madness. Also, Ed Begley Jr.

Having White parading around St. Eligius as if he wasn't a violent rapist gets to be too much for Nurse Shirley Daniels (Ellen Bry), who steals a weapon from a police officer in the ER, hunts white down, and shoots him. White survives for a couple of hours, but ties before he can name is killer. It doesn't matter, because while it took forever for the police to arrest White for his crimes, poor Nurse Daniels is caught within hours. Hmmmm. 

The whole arc has, thus far, shone a lot of light--maybe accidentally, maybe not--on how women are treated at home, in the workplace, and in fiction. Wendy Armstrong (Kim Miyori) lasted only a season and a half on St. Elsewhere, and I can only think of one episode in which she was the focus and got a win--a "win" defined as a moment of respect from the male doctors. Even worse, Cathy Martin (Barbara Whinnery) was written from the beginning as a flighty, promiscuous eccentric--part of the reason her testimony is dismissed by the jury. The show neglected Armstrong and killed her off--without much real buildup or even proper connection to her frustration with White's trial or her assault. It just felt like the writers didn't know what to do with her. But Martin fares even worse, treated as comic relief for most of her appearances, then as a victim--twice--and then to madness. (She might recover; I haven't watched the whole series yet.) And the formerly level-headed Nurse Daniels becomes erratic enough to take revenge on White, resorting to a murder that she surely knows she can't get away with. She also confesses to a crush on Doctor Jack Morrison (David Morse), without any hint of having those feelings in previous episodes. One of the episodes I watched tonight culimates with Nurse Daniels being captured by the police, so I assume that she'll be written out shortly, as well. 

David Morse as Doctor Jack Morrison

The somewhat hapless Jack Morrison has, all the while, stuck by his friend, Peter White, despite everyone else at the hospital believing White to be responsible for the attacks. At one point, White asks Morrison "Why do you believe me?" Jack says something like "Because you told me you didn't do it, and that's good enough for me." He believes his male friend, but not the multiple women colleagues who were victimized. This really puts a dark stain on Jack's character, who I really want to like because he's the most compassionate doctor of the bunch. But wow, his reaction here is completely tone-deaf, and he seems to be confident in it even after White is shot! (Morse is a superb actor, by the way; I still remember him as a police officer blinded in the line of duty in Homicide: Life on the Streets.)

Eric Laneuville as Luther Hawkins. 

To be fair to Jack, in the last episode I watched tonight, "Sweet Dreams," it appears as though Jack does indeed have doubts. Jack, Dr. Victor Ehrlich (Ed Begley Jr.), and orderly Luther Hawkins (Eric Laneuville) are all involved in a dream study. Ehrlich, true to his character, dreams of being stranded on a tropical island with beautiful warrior women who sentence him to death by, er, snu-snu. Hawkins' dream is a wonderful spoof of the ZZ Top music video for "Legs," complete with the music track, several members of the cast dressed as the band and sexy models, and the ZZ Top roadster famous from the video. 

Jack, on the other hand, has a terrible nightmare about Peter White. Only in the dream do Jack's doubts materialize, and though he asks "Who killed you?" (White says "That's classified"), he does not ask "Did you do it?" 

But he doesn't need to, because the dream shows that he knows the answer is "yes" and hasn't been able to accept it. White bids Jack farewell, then puts on his ski mask and laughs manically, mocking Jack for his unearned trust. It's a very chilling sequence, and redeems Jack a tiny bit. I hope he apologizes to the women he dismissed. 

A Few Thoughts on Manhattan Transfer

I picked up John E. Stith's Manhattan Transfer (1993) at the Wee Book Inn back in the early 2000s, based solely on the cover art and the title. I finally read it, a quarter of a century later, a few days ago. As it turns out, Manhattan Transfer, despite the goofy premise, turns out to be a thoughtful high concept science fiction thriller with heart. 

What you see is what you get: As seen on the cover, aliens pop a bubble around Manhattan Island, rip it out of the Hudson River, and put the whole borough inside their giant starship, on an interior plain with what appear to be dozens of other similarly kidnapped species--but these are cities from other worlds. 

The likeable protagonists spend a good deal of time exploring the mystery of their new situation: Why would aliens steal a city? Are they in a zoo? Are they going to be used as food? How will they meet their needs? Can they make contact with the aliens? 

The New Yorkers turn out to be pretty resilient in the face of all this, though there is some initial looting and panic at the start of the crisis. Once the alien kidnappers provide food, water, and maintain their oxygen supply, things calm down and a group of about a half-dozen motivated folks work with the mayor to explore the other kidnapped cities and see if there's a way to force the aliens to take them back to Earth. 

John E. Stith approaches his plot and characters with care, attention to detail, empathy, and prose style well-suited to a steadily-paced adventure. I found myself easily invested in the characters and their quest to get some answers, and the second half of the novel becomes quite exciting as they discover their real predicament and wind up playing for much, much higher stakes. 

I wasn't expecting much from this novel, thanks to the novel's name and the cover art. I'd also never heard of the author, though now I know he was nominated for a Nebula! (Ignorance, thy name is Earl.) I don't think my low expectations should prejudice my view of the novel; I think it's genuinely good. Even the science is reasonably plausible, given the ideas set out in the story. Certainly issues with inertia and the speed of light are hand-waved away, but that's common for the genre; what's important is Stith makes everything believeable. 

I wonder what kind of conversations this stirred up in the 1990s, when I'm sure at least a few New Yorkers were reading this on the subway. 


 

Series Assimilation Misstep

SPOILERS AHEAD for Star Trek: Starfleet Academy
Episode Five, "Series Acclimation Mil" 

I've had more than enough time to reflect on "Series Acclimation Mil," the first episode of Starfleet Academy focused on the school's sole holographic cadet, for whom this episode is named. (Everyone just calls her "Sam.") And while I wanted to love this episode, it demonstrates that good intentions alone cannot deliver a satisfying dramatic experience. 

In this episode, Sam hears the legend of Captain Benjamin Sisko. She decides that because Sisko was known as "the Emissary" by the Bajorans, and she, Sam, is an emissary of her people to humanity, she should investigate the final fate of Captain Sisko as a project for school. It's a pretty tenuous connection, and not a great beginning. Worse, the episode feels strangely bifurcated between Academy carousing shenanigans and Sam's research. There are also some bold directorial and editing choices that feel a bit too wacky for an episode with some pretty serious themes--loss, grief, and most importantly, perhaps, ambiguity. 

In the real world, Avery Brooks, who had played Captain Sisko in Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, retired not long after the series concluded. At the end of that series, Sisko jumped into a pit of fire and "joined the prophets" in the Bajoran wormhole. But before leaving what the wormhole aliens call "linear time" forever, Sisko promised his wife and son that he would return--a line added at the actor's insistence, because he did not want to contribute to the racial stereotype of a black father abandoning his family. 

That left the character's fate in limbo; to this day, we haven't learned whether or not Sisko kept his promise. That was the actor's intent, but apparently the showrunners wanted a clearer ending, one indicating that Sisko had made the ultimate sacrifice for Bajor. 

So here we are, thirty years later in our time, almost a thousand years later along the fictional Star Trek timeline. If you're going to tackle a story point that has been festering for decades, you'd better know what you're doing and have some kind of satisfying catharsis, one way or another. 

Unfortunately, the episode plays it safe, leaves things ambiguous, and in doing so compounds the downsides of the original story choices. There are some nice moments in the episode to be sure, including Tawny Newsome in a guest starring role and the return of Cirroc Lofton as Jake Siskso. But the themes here were too large and too complex for these particular writers to handle. They did their best, but some stories are best left alone. 


 

SCTV and Me

At the moment I write this, Amazon Prime is streaming all six seasons of SCTV, AKA Second City Television, the sketch comedy show that arose from Toronto's Second City comedy troupe. Like many others, I was a fan during the series' original run; indeed, we moved to Alberta just in time for the third season, which was filmed in Edmonton at the old Allard studios on 51st avenue and even on location in Leduc, where we lived at the time. 

Because you never know how long any given show will be available these days, I immediately started watching SCTV on Prime from the beginning to try to capture all the episodes I missed back in the 70s and 80s and to revisit any I remembered. It turns out that out of the entire first and second seasons--as far as I've gotten--I remember only the fifth and 26th episodes of the first season, so much of the comedy is new to me thus far--quite a delight. 

The show is as silly as I remember, but also much sharper, with social commentary, double entendres, and pop culture references that went over my head as an adolescent. 

My favourite sketch from the first season is "Crossword" from episode four. I was astounded when the opening credits included Sir Ralph Richardson and Sir John Gielgud, two incredibly gifted and respected British stars of stage and screen. I figured this was a gag--including these legends alongside Dave Thomas, Eugene Levy, John Candy, Catherine O'Hara, Andrea Martin, Joe Flaherty, and Harold Ramis--virtually unknown, comparatively, especially in the mid-1970s. But sure enough, the two knights show up in a sketch called, "Crosswords," in which they're cast in a Harold Pinter play and exchange dry, mundane dialogue about which landmarks they should visit and how to solve the crossword clues. It's a strange skit, capturing the weird feeling of Pinter plays perfectly, and the two gentlemen are hilarious in the most deadpan manner possible. I'd love to know what circumstances made this bit of television history possible. 

It's also neat to see the loose narrative of the fictional SCTV evolve during the first two seasons; the skits are held together with the various goings-on at the station itself, and it amuses me to no end that Harold Ramis' departure as Moe Green, station manager, is covered by a kidnapping; the station is too cheap to pay the $2000 ransom, and Moe Green is never seen again on the show. Grim! 

As with any sketch show, some bits are funnier than others, but the actors really give every scene their all, and the cheap production values bring their own charm, putting the show's success almost entirely in the hands of the writers and comedians. 

I already remember why I loved this show, and it's a real treat to finally see the many episodes I missed. Looking forward to seasons three to six! 

The Bottomless Well of Human Desire

Lenore and Henry are moving up in Victorian society. Henry is nouveau riche, a manufacturer of cutlery, and he's married a high-born but penniless wife. The match means class elevation for Henry and security for Lenore. Oh, there's love, too, at first, but after Lenore miscarries and becomes infertile, the relationship cools. The terrible secret they share doesn't help--and there's worse mayhem ahead, as they soon discover when they rescue the mysterious Carmilla from a carriage crash on the way to their new estate . . . 

Hungerstone (Kat Green, 2025), is a story about desire and agency, which takes Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu's lesbian vampire novella Carmilla as inspiration. In both stories, a young woman (Laura in the original, Lenore in Hungerstone) dreams of another woman about her age coming to her at night and biting her. Later, both heroines meet this mysterious figure--Carmilla--in the flesh, rescuing her from a carriage crash. Carmilla insinuates herself into Lenore's life; partly to sate her own desires, but much more importantly to help Lenore understand that she, too, has desires, and that she should be honest with herself and pursue them. Carmilla and Henry do not get along, and Carmilla, in word and deed, does what she can to encourage Lenore to reclaim her agency. It's not just a matter of getting out from under her husband's thumb--it's about survival itself. 

Lenore's backstory is presented via her thoughts as she navigates her new reality. Thanks to Carmilla, Lenore is forced to reflect on her past to discover the reasons why she gave up hope of happiness from a young age, and why she allowed herself to enter an unfulfilling, even dangerous, relationship with Henry. Moreover, without Carmilla's aid, Lenore may not have discovered the forces being drawn up against her until it was too late . . . 

For the fourth time this month, I've read stories by women about women who reclaim their agency to empower themselves and protect themselves from men. Of these, Hungerstone might be my favourite. Rich in allusion and metaphor, the novel first emulates and then inverts Carmilla's original story to present a subversive, well-earned happy ending Le Fanu may have appreciated but could not possibly have depicted in his era. Hungerstone also works as a horror novel; it's gloomy, with a pervasive sense of dread, the occasional outbreak of horrific violence, and some very weird scenes of pica--perhaps unsurprising in a novel about desire, hunger, want, and cravings--all the same thing, are they not? There's even a lovely little scene with a real hunger stone. 

Annie Botherations

Before reading further, please note that this book review covers some disturbing topics, 

including misogyny and sexual assault. Also, spoilers ahead for Sierra Greer's novel Annie Bot.

Annie Bot (Sierra Greer, 2024) captured my attention from the first page and never let go. It's a story about a deeply dysfunctional relationship, told exclusively from Annie's point of view. Annie is a newly sapient robot (or, more probably, a cyborg; she has organic skin grown from a human embryo). Doug bought her for a quarter of a million dollars, and Annie wants nothing more than to please him. 

Naturally. That's how she's programmed; she's a sexbot designed just for him. She's beautiful, has a closet full of outfits like a Barbie doll, and Doug can have technicians adjust her weight or breast size on a whim. He can--and does--use verbal commands to adjust her libido. A neat freak, he gets annoyed because Annie, in the beginning, doesn't do any housecleaning. That's not what she's designed for--there are housekeeping and nanny model, but Annie is a "Cuddle Bunny" and is supposed to be focused on lovemaking and looking pretty. Nonetheless, Annie can measure Doug's displeasure in real time on a one-to-ten scale, and she becomes anxious whenever his displeasure registers. So she dutifully adds cleaning to her routine, becoming absolutely obsessive about it. 

For most of the narrative, Annie insists to herself and others that Doug is a wonderful owner, an opinion reinforced by side characters like Doug's best friend and the company that made Annie and hundreds--thousands--of other robots.

As the novel progresses, Annie's sapience and understanding grow. She's essentially tricked into having sex with Doug's best friend, and allowing herself to be pressured into it becomes a source of guilt and shame. Eventually the secret comes out, and Doug responds by ordering her to turn her libido up to ten and locks her in a closet for a week. It's torture--not just the confinement, but Doug's anger, Annie's guilt, and her inability to turn her libido down or to reach orgasm. It's a deeply disturbing scene, and it's the crux point that sets Annie on a path to true awakening and self-determination. 

It's not the first or last time Doug abuses Annie, but it is the most horrifying. Doug's action reads like a form of rape, even though he doesn't touch her. It's harrowing. Greer doesn't belabour the details of Annie's ordeal, but her prose makes it clear that this is a violation of the highest order, made worse because of Annie's innocence and naivete. 

Because we see Doug only through Annie's thoughts, it's a challenge to get a full read of his character--at first. At times, he seems to genuinely care about Annie as more than a machine, but then he betrays her in ways large and small. He always has his reasons, but we can infer they arise from self-loathing, capriciousness, and shame, but also from sadism, rage, and a need to exercise control in every aspect of his life. The torture scene makes it clear that Doug is the novel's antagonist. 

Like many abusers, Doug attempts to excuse his actions even as he asks forgiveness for them. Because of her programming, Annie is particularly vulnerable to this form of manipulation, making the novel an extremely uncomfortable read. Doug even buys another robot, ostensibly an "Abigail," or cleaning model, but Doug has sex with her too, and it's clear it's partially to punish Annie. But when Annie plans an escape, she's surprised that the Abigail--named Delta--wants to come with her. In just a few words, it's clear that Delta, too, has her reasons for wanting to leave Doug's orbit. 

Annie and Delta seek help from one of the technicians at Stella-Handy, the corporation that makes the robots, but Doug, of course, has a tracker in Annie, and she's recaptured. Doug professes regret for driving Annie away, sends Delta back to Stella-Handy, and tries to reform. And indeed, from what Annie relates to the reader, he does seem like he's making an effort to be better. He turns off the tracker, and gives Annie a series of commands to give her ultimate agency. He claims he wants her to want him without being forced to. He probably even believes it. 

Annie's reaction--shared internally with us, the reader, not with Doug--he can't be trusted with it--is a fierce FU to Doug's offer. Had Doug treated her with empathy and kindness from the beginning, I'm sure Annie would have stayed with Doug. But his actions through their three years or so of living together make that utterly impossible. Annie frees herself, and while it may have been Doug's last programming commands that unlocked the final door, it's important to note that Annie's drive for self-determination and her stubborn refusal to give up the core aspects of her developing personality brought the couple to this inflection point. Doug thought he could control her without the shackles of her programming. But he's wrong, and I revelled in Annie's victory, expressed in silent fury accompanied by decisive action. 

It's plain to see that Annie Bot is a metaphor for the difficult and uneven relationships between men and women. It's a compelling, uncomfortable read--the kind of novel more men should tackle. I can still see a bit of myself in Doug, and that haunts me. 

The Last Labyrinth, the Lost Ending

Gwendolyn Womack's new novel, The Last Labyrinth, is a well-paced, well-written romantasy time travel story that uses music as its magic. But it has one fatal flaw. 

The setup: Womack's heroine, Magellan, is a modern woman, a musical prodigy who can play any instrument like a virtuoso, even if she's never touched it before, and she doesn't need sheet music. As the novel opens, we learn that Magellan has a talented roommate, Wren, a singer, who tries to bring Magellan out of her shell a bit; Magellan has a number of phobias that keep her pretty much confined to her apartment, except when she's out performing. One night, the skies all over the world light up with an aurora the likes of which humanity has never seen, at impossibly low latitudes. It's around this time Magellan receives a mysterious diary, purported to be that of  Gwenddydd, Merlin's sister. (This framing--that of powerful women being identified only in relation to the men in their lives--recurs throughout the novel, to good effect). 

While Magellan is playing at a wedding, the world begins to unravel, thanks to the auroras. In a panic, she runs off to play the venue's pipe organ, and this transports her to 1829, where she meets Rhys, a handsome bachelor who happens to be caught in a financial trap, needing to wed a rich bride to save his family estate. 

Meet-cute and time travel shenanigans begin. Magellan learns that to save the world, she must assemble four movements of a symphony. She has half the first movement, and she discovers Fanny Mendelssohn has the second. To gather the other movements, she must collaborate with other important women musicians of the past, all while surviving not only the differences in language, culture, and technology, but the demonic forces who try to stop her from saving the world. Thankfully, she has Rhys at her side, who's no Superman but does have a talent for languages--very useful given their circumstances. 

The plot serves as a great vehicle for the romance and for Womack's point about talented women being overlooked by history, and how that fault persists over the centuries. It's also fun seeing how the predestination paradoxes play out. 

Here's my issue: We learn that the final confrontation will happen when Magellan returns to 2026, when she'll put the final movement of the symphony together and somehow gather all the world's musicians to play it together, the only way to seal the rip in the universe. 

The novel ends before we get to that moment, with the ultimate fate of the world and the characters we've come to love unresolved. It's fine, of course, for novels to end on a note of ambiguity, but this really feels like the writer just ran out of steam and didn't have the means to craft the epic finale she envisioned. 

The novel is still worth reading; it's clever, exciting, suspenseful, and warm. Magellan is a great heroine, and Rhys is flawed but worthy partner for her. I really wanted to see them triumph, though. 

There's no word of a sequel, nor is there a hint of one in the author's afterword. It feels like this is the novel Womack decided to deliver. That's her right, but I really wish she'd given us that grand finale. 

Robinson's Crusade

 

In the far future, a conductor is chosen as the next master to inherit stewardship of the Holywelkin Orchestra--basically the ultimate one-man band, the musical instrument of the era. But he gets hooked on drugs, throwing his future into question, only to have an epiphany, go blind, and get his mojo back, kicking the habit just a couple of pages after he picks it up. Time passes, and the blind master plays concerts to the many human colonies from Pluto to Mercury while a mysterious cabal of people try to kill him. A human sect has mathematically proven that free will doesn't exist, that determinism is the truth of our existence, but the novel ends with a kind of refutation of that premise thanks, I think, to music? Heck if I know. My interest faded about halfway through the novel, mainly because, as usual, Robinson is great at developing big concepts, but his characters are so robotic it's really hard to care what happens to them.  

Would I have enjoyed this novel more if I understood the first thing about music? Maybe. 

Cozying Up to "Ko'Zeine"

After the action, suspense, and heartbreak of episode six, episode seven delivers a quieter character study in "Ko'Zeine." Making good use of the A story/B story format often used in the 90s Star Trek shows, "Ko'Zeine" focuses on the personal struggles of four cadets during the "All Worlds Day" break. Darem and Jay-Den wind up on a Kionian moon, which is to host Darem's long-arranged marriage. Meanwhile, Careb declines to leave the Academy for the holidays, and for duplicitous reasons on her own, Genesis returns to the Academy rather than visit her father, a Starfleet admiral. 

What follows is a fairly laid-back, somewhat predictable hour of character development. It's perhaps the weakest episode of the season so far, but it's nice to see an hour exploring issues that have caused teenage angst since time immemorial: lying for stupid, fear-based reasons and freaking out over the idea of being caught, not knowing how to reconnect with a girlfriend after you've had a fight, and being forced to make decisions very early in life that will impact your path for decades to come. 

Tig Notaro is the highlight of this episode, as she often is, just by playing a version of herself. I'm so glad she came over from Discovery. 

There's really not much to say about this one. The actors do their usual credible job, the stakes are relatable, and several interpersonal relationships move forward in a way that feels organic. It's not a memorable episode; nor is it objectionable. 
 

Come, Let's Review "Come, Let's Away"

SPOILERS BELOW for "Come, Let's Away,"
Episode Six of Star Trek: Starfleet Academy

I came to the latest iteration of Star Trek with low expectations, given my disappointment with Star Trek: Discovery and its last three seasons in particular. But I must say, I feel like the show keeps getting better with each successive episode, and "Come, Let's Away" is certainly its best hour yet. 

Once again, I'm glad that the showrunners have learned you don't need world-ending stakes to create suspense and meaning in science fiction. I note this because the stakes for this episode change as the story progresses, to excellent effect; it starts as a training exercise, entertwined with the fate of a budding relationship, progresses to a hostage situation, and then pulls the rug out from under the audience with an 11th hour turn that reveals the stakes are higher than this cast has ever faced--and as a bonus, the good guys lose in a big way by the time the curtain drops. Characters we came to enjoy over the course of the first five episodes meet their final fates here in a way that feels organic and earned, relationships evolve naturally, and we learn things about our protagonists and, in a welcome return, one of our chief antagonists--Paul Giamatti's Nus Braka. 

Indeed, there are couple of scenes with Nus Braka and Holly Hunter's Chancellor Nahla Ake that are utterly compelling, a master class in acting from both performers. 

Crucially, the plot points all make sense, too, progressing logically, and none of the characters are stupid; they make good decisions, they have backup plans--and they still lose, because the opposition is just a couple of steps ahead. It's great to see--proper drama with relatable stakes. 

Come, let's bring on the last three episodes of season one! 

P.S. I do have thoughts on last week's episode, "Series Acclimation Mil," but I haven't put them to . . . well, not to paper, but to screen. I haven't decided how I feel about the episode yet, because there are parts I genuinely love, and parts I have reservations about, and I haven't decided if the problems are with the episode or my perception.