FSF, January-February 2010

by Spilogale Authors

  While waiting for the coffee, I go down the hall to the bathroom and push the door open, and then on to his bedroom, where the door is already open, the way he left it in the middle of the night. In a panic, I run to Mom's room, but it is as empty as the rest of the house. A piece of paper on her pillow stirs in the draft from the open door. A handwritten note, dated and signed, from her to me, the letters spidery and uneven.

  “My dearest Christy, I love you. I'm taking him out to catch the late night train.”

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  * * *

  Department: FILMS: A PAIR OF NINES

  by Lucius Shepard

  Invariably, when I find flaws with a film that the majority of people approve of, I'll receive an email or three that begins something like this:

  * * * *

  Dear (your favorite epithet),

  You must be a miserable person to hate on a film as beautiful and deeply spiritual as Alien Super-Puma. Do you drink the spinal fluid of a (your favorite cuddly life form) each morning in order to generate your vitriol, or are you just naturally an (your second favorite epithet)?

  * * * *

  People take these matters personally, I've found, though why they would presume I'm more miserable than the average run of humanity eludes me, unless the inspiration for emails such as these springs from an excess of joie de vivre.

  At any rate, I thought I might avoid such happy-go-lucky fan mail after seeing District 9, until a friend of mine said he understood why I liked the film, remarking that when one sees as many “retarded science fiction films” as I do, it's only natural that I react with enthusiasm on having seen a film that's merely “mildly retarded.”

  This has caused me to reconsider my opinion and have a second look.

  Movies act upon me like opiates and that is what enables me to endure the often brain-damaging assaults of modern cinema and sit there for two hours chomping on a Twizzler and sucking down Diet Coke. With most movies, it's only as I exit the theater that my critical faculties kick in and I begin to realize what I've seen. In the case of District 9, it took a while longer.

  A good bit of District 9 is shot in a faux-documentary style, enabling South African director Neil Blomkamp to cover a lot of backstory in relatively little screen time. The situation is this: more than twenty years ago, a massive alien ship ran out of fuel and came to hover above Johannesburg, South Africa (à la Alien Nation), with a million or so malnourished insect-like aliens (derisively called “prawns” by the South Africans) on board. Off-loaded into a huge refugee camp that comes to be known as District 9, most of the aliens appear to belong to a worker class and are incapable of other than a squalid, subsistence level existence, mainly funded by selling their weapons (superior to ours, but inoperable by humans) to Nigerian gangsters in return for cat food, which has a narcotic effect upon them. When the South Africans no longer wish to be bothered with the “prawns,” they seek to move them to another camp far from Joburg. To do this, one of the most unsympathetic protagonists in science fiction film history, Wikus Van De Merwe (Sharlto Copely), an employee of a multinational, MNU, is enlisted to serve eviction notices on the aliens.

  Wikus, essentially a low-level corporate goodfella who has achieved his position due to nepotism, is something of a dork with a blond Afrikaans wife and no conscience to speak of, and he goes about his work with excessive zeal and good humor, going so far as to chortle over the sounds of alien eggs burning, commenting that they sound like popcorn popping. While doing his duty, he gets spattered with rocket fuel manufactured by a “prawn” named Christopher, who obviously is of higher status and intellect than the majority of his fellows, and inhabits an alien ship that somehow managed to bury itself in District 9 during the disembarkation. As a result of the accident, Wikus is infected with alien DNA (alien technology, it seems, is DNA-based), and begins to transform into a “prawn,” first growing a claw-arm that enables him to operate alien weapons. This makes him a target for the wheelchair-bound human monster who masterminds a Nigerian gang—he wants to eat Wikus's arm in order to acquire his power—and for MNU, who want to dissect him. Desperate and increasingly motivated by panic, Wikus joins forces with Christopher in an attempt to reverse the transformation, something that Christopher claims he can do.

  Reviewing a movie like District 9 presents a challenge, for it will mean to American audiences (the majority of whom think of South Africa as it was during the euphoric dawn of Mandela's presidency) something different from what it means to audiences cognizant of the fact that the nation has undergone a decline under the leadership of President Zuma. To quote one South African with whom I spoke:

  * * * *

  “Most SA whites hold black Africans in contempt—the degree varies, but even the more idealistic whites have become ever more jaundiced as premature affirmative action and politically motivated public service deployments undermine any hope of creating a better life for the poor, and unemployment and crime soar. President Zuma is viewed by many whites as our version of Dubya—stupid, indulgent and cronyistic in the extreme. At the same time, black dislike of whites is on the rise as a result of such attitudes and as scapegoats for government failures are sought. Things are really ugly here these days.”

  However one feels about the sentiments expressed above, they appear to be a fairly accurate representation of the state of South Africa at the moment, one that is reflected to a large degree by Blomkamp's movie.

  Another point: Most Americans perceive the film as an unstated dialog about apartheid, and it does remark upon the subject; but more to the point, the basic circumstance of the movie paints a picture of South Africa's xenophobic reaction to the massive influx of refugees in recent years from Zimbabwe, Somalia, and other African nations. When, say, Somali shopkeepers in Cape Town begin to undersell the indigent shopkeepers, an adverse response is guaranteed. Without a knowledge of these and other social realities, District 9 becomes, as I've said, quite a different film, a shallower film almost incomprehensible in its excesses. For instance, the characterization of the Nigerian gangsters in the movie as bad animals may be no less palatable if one is armed with this knowledge, yet is somewhat more understandable. And the characterization of corporations.... Well, some may differ, but having witnessed first-hand the operations of Dole and Chiquita in Central America, I have not the slightest problem with the portrayal of corporations as evil entities capable of murder and dissection and much, much more, so the suggestion implicit in District 9 that MNU takes advantage of and even foments nationalism of the sort depicted for its own gain strikes me as a sharp and timely and something that cannot be overemphasized.

  This is not to say that District 9 is a preachy political film. Far from it. Its politics are not talked about but revealed, and it is first and foremost an action picture, a mingling of Cronenbergian ick with Aliens-style shoot ‘em up, yet differs from most such movies in that it has a brain and (as is made clear when Wikus begins to come to grips with his fate and evolves as a human being even as he grows more alien in aspect) a heart.

  There are a number of what may seem plot holes to audiences accustomed to having things explained and explained again, as if they were mentally challenged, but the lion's share can be covered by extending the logic of the film—that only those with alien DNA can operate alien technology. As for those that are legitimate flaws or omissions, I tell my writing students that if they were to fix every plot hole pointed out to them in a workshop, instead of a short story, they would wind up with a novel—they need to be selective in making their repairs. Even a masterpiece can be picked apart by a sufficiently determined critic and much of the art of writing has to do with writing strongly enough to carry the reader past one's plot holes; the same can be said, roughly speaking, for cinema. For me, District 9 has enough originality and narrative vigor to overcome its failings and, if one is aware of the politics that informs the movie, it becomes a very strong and interesting movie, indeed.

  Looks like I w
on't be getting that fan mail, after all...unless I've ticked off some psychotic District 9 haters.

  Shane Acker's animated film, 9, shares not only a numeral with District 9, it also began life as a short film that can be seen on YouTube (Blokamp's Alive in Joburg, too, can be viewed on YouTube). Acker's film is ten minutes long and presents a smoky, vaguely European post-apocalyptic world empty of human life, populated by small sock puppet-like robots and the huge, nightmarish mechs that prey upon them. The film is dialog-free and has an allusiveness that is utterly charming and compelling, qualities mainly absent from the feature film, which adds sixty-five minutes, piping cartoon voices that serve to dispel the drear, moribund mood of the visuals, and an excess of explanation that removes every last vestige of mystery from its wafer-thin, Lord of the Rings-ish plot (the titular character is voiced by the head hobbit himself, Elijah Wood). The youthful Acker (twenty-nine) is a vastly talented animator who shows his influences (Svankmajer, the Quay brothers) yet goes beyond them, and his short film is so good, one suspects that producer Tim Burton, whose work has become increasingly predictable and uninspired, may have had an undue influence. If you like pretty pictures, this 9's for you, but if you're expecting more, stick with the short film, because in this instance less is definitely more.

  Where are the Diabolo Codys of yesteryear? Hailed as the second coming of the Great Scriptwriter, you can almost hear the hiss of evaporating hype as her second picture, Jennifer's Body, hits the screens. JB is a tired, done-to-death stab at feminist horror comedy that doesn't have even half the bite of predecessors such as Mitchell Lichtenstein's transgessive Teeth (a movie that will seriously challenge one's manhood) and is about as scary as a flip-book presentation of a spider crawling across a blank page.

  Directed by Karyn Kusama (AEon Flux), who here generates flashbacks to her depressingly cliched female boxing picture, Girlfight, and starring the mega-untalented Megan Fox, JB offers the story of a demonically possessed cheerleader who seeks to liberate her hometown from the oppression of teenage boys by eating them. When she seeks to snack on childhood friend Needy's boyfriend, her GFF sets out to put an end to her evil ways, though not before the pair engage in a make-out scene that has no function in the script and comes out of the blue. Gratuitous is too kind a pejorative.

  Cody's too-cool-for-school, Oh-look-I-made-a-funny dialog falls flat and lifeless as an armadillo squashed by a semi, and is, in fact, the main reason for the film's failure, though Kusama and Fox provide her with ample assistance. Frankly, I was fed up with Cody's dialog style by the time the second act of her previous film, Juno (for which she mysteriously won an Oscar), rolled around. Here, perhaps feeling her oats after the Oscar triumph, she jams, crams, and squeezes every piece of slangy shorthand available into each scene, until the movie begins to feel like an overstuffed suitcase, a vehicle for her cleverness to which all else—story, character, the important ideas of the movie—are subservient, neglected, and buried beneath the concerns of ego. For all her labored attempts at humor, JB's just not that funny. I'm reminded of David Mamet, of movies in which he's not on his game and his dialog signatures (repetitions, incomplete sentences, et al) become over-formalized and stale and devoid of meaning; but after sitting through Jennifer's Body I'm starting to believe that, unlike Mamet, Cody is the scriptwriting analog of a singer who can only perform one shallow, silly song.

  And while I'm rounding up the recent movies, I suppose I should mention Pandorum, a film that echoes deep space horror flicks like Event Horizon, wherein two astronauts awake to find that their cargo—60,000 men and women—has been transformed into what appears to be messed-up versions of little person Peter Dinklage.

  Looks like I'll be getting those disapproving emails after all.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  * * *

  Novelet: NANOSFERATU

  by Dean Whitlock

  Dean Whitlock's last F&SF story was “Changeling” in our Jan. 2009 issue. He returns now with a very different sort of tale—a broadly comic story that has its tongue in its cheek (right beside its oversized canines).

  Proctor was whining again. Hugh Graeber squeezed his cell phone, envisioned crushing it in his fist. Like Proctor's small skull. It would be such a nice way to end the call.

  “Busloads, Hugh,” Proctor whined, “they're chartering busloads of gimpy geezers for day trips north of the border. Why? To go visit pharmacies. To Hell with museums—they're visiting pharmacies! We're talking major market share here! Dammit, Hugh, we own those gomers! They're U.S. citizens!”

  Graeber forced his hand to relax. He was already on his third cell phone this month. “You're frothing, Proctor,” he said. “I'm going to have to blow-dry my phone.”

  “But it's outrageous, Hugh! It's...it's...it's all-out war!”

  “You want war with Canada?” Graeber said. “Okay. You've got the list of our senators right there on your computer. Start calling in favors.”

  “You know what I mean, Hugh. They're killing our profits. It's economic terrorism, that's what it is! We need a fence, a wall. Mexico's got one, why not Canada?”

  The limo made a sudden swerve that bounced Graeber against the padded armrests.

  “Whoa! Watch where you're going, Carlos!” Graeber snapped.

  “Sorry, señor,” his driver replied.

  Graeber sighed. Hired help were all the same. Proctor included. “We're not dealing with young, agile, broccoli-plucking migrants, Proctor. These are old farts. They're too stiff and blind to sneak through the woods at night through two feet of snow. That's why they need the drugs.”

  “They don't have to sneak! They're taking buses!”

  “For God's sake, relax,” Graeber said. “The new project is going to make Canada completely superfluous. Along with Pfizer and Lilly and all the rest.”

  “That's what you said about Vaunturplex.”

  Graeber squeezed his cell phone again. The memory of losing that race still made his palms itch for revenge. “A case of bad timing, Proctor, and you know it. If Pfizer hadn't come out two weeks ahead of us with Viagra we'd have been in like Flynn.” What a difference two weeks could make. Particularly when you were planning the same pitch: Vaunturplex equals sexual prowess. But Viagra came first, and it sounded better. By the time they were ready to reposition as a couple's drug, Cialis had come out. And first out, first in. They were making pennies off Vaunturplex compared to Viagra and Cialis. Cialis! What a ridiculous name. Well, it wasn't going to happen again. “Make no mistake, Proctor, we are way in the lead with nanomeds. No one else even has a clue. When we go public, Pfizer will go limp. And the gomers will drop Canada faster than a call girl with cold sores.”

  “We're taking a big risk, Hugh.”

  “It's always a gamble in this business, Proctor. You know that.”

  “When, Hugh? When?”

  “Animal trials wrap up today. Two weeks of analysis, then human trials. Six months at most and we can go public.”

  “Six months? And then six more for the FDA! Every day we're bleeding profit share!”

  “I know, I know! Look, the preliminary reports are good, I'm on my way to the lab now. You stick to your spreadsheets and I'll handle the F—” The limo lurched through a pothole deep enough to leave Graeber's stomach smeared on the velveteen carpet. “Kee-rist, Carlos! Look, Proctor, I've gotta hang up before I get carsick.” He gave Proctor the Off thumb and tossed the cell phone onto the other seat. “What a friggin’ wimp. What a friggin’ country. Carlos, you don't know how lucky you are. All you have to do is drive. Just do it better, all right? I don't pay you to rip out the underbody.”

  Carlos—whose name was actually Arturo Realizo de Camino—nodded at the rearview. “Yes, señor. Sir. The roadway is very bad here.” Arturo hated driving on the parkway. Too many cars, too many bumps, too many—

  “Ay, mierda!” He hit the brake and swerved to avoid a careening taxi driven by a pinch-faced madman in a turban. The Chrysler limo responded like the barge
it was, yawing into the breakdown lane and back into traffic as Arturo fought to feel the road through the overstuffed suspension.

  “Idiota!” Arturo muttered. “Coche estúpido!”

  He glanced in the rearview again. Mr. Graeber gave him a disappointed shake of the head.

  He looked back at the road just in time to see a pothole the size of a large burro rush from beneath the truck ahead of him and dive under his wheels. The Chrysler wallowed through it with a pair of thuds that left the mushy suspension gasping for the next hundred yards.

  “Kee-rist, Carlos!”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” He hated the highway, hated the big rich-man car.

  But it was a job, and far better than roaming the country to pick blueberries and apples and spinach and broccoli and oranges and whatever else needed picking in all the seasons of the year. Particularly now that Esperanza was pregnant. Arturo was lucky, and he knew it. Both he and Esperanza had jobs in the same city in the same country. With an employer who didn't care about Green Cards. A rich man, too important to be bothered by the immigration police. To a point: citizens could go to Canada to buy medicines cheap; Arturo didn't dare go near either border.

  Arturo eased off the throttle to put a little more room between them and the truck ahead, but another cabbie took it as a sign of weakness and cut through the narrow gap to claim the breakdown lane as his own private parkway. Arturo gripped the wheel and resisted the urge to chase down the cabrón pingüe and rear-end his carro grasa. That would get him deported for sure. For just a moment, Arturo wished he was back home in Chiapas, driving the tractor on Señor Agarrar's farm. Until he remembered the pleasures of running water, flush toilets, and a regular paycheck that was more each month than he could earn in a year in Mexico. At least he'd learned to drive there, even it had been only a tractor. Luckily, the limo wasn't all that different. Once you got used to the power steering and the shock absorbers. And the dark windows. And the deep seats. And the speed. And the other drivers. Particularly the ones in turbans.