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Getting Lost in Babylon

This is where our story starts, in a book review published circa November 2005 in CS Weekly, the online companion to the bimonthly print periodical, Creative Screenwriting:

PAY ATTENTION TO THE MAN BEHIND THE CURTAIN
A Review of BABYLON 5: The Scripts of J. Michael Straczynski, Volume 1

Once described as holographic storytelling, where later episodes retroactively inform the understanding of earlier installments, Babylon 5 told the story of a diplomatic space station where four alien governments—hosted by the Earth Alliance—sought to maintain peace in the galaxy. Conceived as a five-year novel for television, the show used the space station for a microcosm presenting the rise and fall of empires through the fortunes and follies of Babylon 5’s ambassadors and crew. Now, a dozen years after the commencement of the show’s five-year run, creator J. Michael Straczynski unveils the documents that formed the foundation of his saga in a fifteen-part series publishing his 92 scripts alongside a few surprises.

Long an advocate of demystifying the production of television, Straczynski—a veteran of Murder, She Wrote and The Twilight Zone (1985–9)—maintained an open dialogue with his audience throughout the creation and broadcast of his sf opus. That spirit of education is readily apparent in the first volume of his scripts which presents an unfilmed, early draft of the pilot film, The Gathering, alongside five episodes from the first season.

Undoubtedly the centerpiece of the collection, the 1989 version of the pilot offers up a vision at once in sympathy and in conflict with the story’s eventual execution. All the characters and situations are akin to what would be filmed in 1992 for broadcast early in the next year, but alterations illustrate both Straczynski’s personal learning curve as a writer and the application of external interests upon the project. As with the other included episodes, an introductory essay explains the circumstances of each story’s origin with emphasis on the process of narrative development and the execution of the finished teleplay. As Straczynski explains in his introduction, certain elements, such as the shape-shifting assassin were lost in the interest of distancing the show from the Star Trek franchise’s latest entry, Deep Space Nine. Others, like the removal of the character Velana, illustrate a streamlining of the script by bequeathing the excised character’s narrative role to the then-underdeveloped commercial telepath, Lyta Alexander.

After the exotic allure of the alternate pilot, the remaining scripts take the reader into more familiar territory. Aside from a few deleted sequences and slight character course corrections, the season one episodes exhibit a close relation to their final broadcast incarnations. Along the way, Straczynski confesses the occasional misstep like the sf tv stand-by of man-in-a-suit-rampage seen in “Infection” or the lost version of “Soul Hunter” that was recalled the day after publication due to auctorial misgivings that its execution seemed too much like a Star Trek episode.

While the volume clearly presents a writer finding his way in a new world of his own creation, its difficult to appreciate fully outside the context of the entire series. Here, Stracyznski sets the stage for what is to come, not only within the story, but also in the style in which the story will be presented. As a chronicle of television creation, the book—replete with production memos and photographs from the author’s collection—continues his devotion to bringing the audience a better understanding of the process by which his art reaches them. Perhaps the volume’s only failing is in not presenting the alternate drafts of The Gathering and “Soul Hunter” side by side for easy comparison, but that is a minor quibble that will be addressed when both scripts appear in the fifteenth volume of the script-publishing project.

That review was how I first met Jaclyn Easton, the publisher of the book under consideration. She thanked me for the review, included my piece in her press packet, and that was that. End of story.

Over the next year, the script books continued to come out, I continued to buy them, and thought no more on the matter. I should note that the last few script books broke from their steady one-a-month release schedule due to an unexpected development in J. Michael Straczynski’s writing career—the sale of his spec screenplay, Changeling to producer Ron Howard—recounted by yours truly in the November/December 2006 issue of Creative Screenwriting.

A followup cover-story on Changeling ran in the September/October 2008 issue of Creative Screenwriting, and  that’s where Jaclyn Easton and I intersected once more.

Universal pictures had supplied a photo of J. Michael Straczynski to run in the piece and the subject of the photo wanted to track down the image’s source with the intent of using it as his standard headshot when such things were required. Jaclyn, having remembered that I worked for Creative Screenwriting (but unaware that I’d written the article), called me and I relayed the necessary information.

In the course of the conversation, Jaclyn asked if I knew anyone who’d be up for writing a Babylon 5 encyclopedia. I happily volunteered for what was—at that time—imagined as a two-month gig.

Then, Jaclyn began having ideas; very dangerous things, ideas…

These ideas evolved into  something like 28 other books.

Answers Are a Prison

Slightly early for its 40th anniversary, the enigmatic British TV series, The Prisoner, makes its second DVD encore, raising more questions than it offers answers and extolling the virtues of the medium as a societal critic while delivering a thoroughly entertaining and mind-altering viewing experience.

Upon resigning from a top secret post in Her Majesty’s government, a British agent (Patrick McGoohan) is abducted from his London flat to awaken in a surreal holiday camp known as the Village. An introduction to the chief administrator, designated “Number Two” (Guy Doleman), reveals that the prisoner has been incarcerated because the confidential information in his head is too dangerous to leave at liberty. Designated “Number Six,” the Prisoner immediately sets about undermining the seemingly endless succession of Number Twos’ (George Baker, Eric Portman, Mary Morris, et al.) attempts to break his will while simultaneously seeking any escape from his picturesque coastal (or island?) prison. The brainchild of actor Patrick McGoohan—then famous for his portrayal of NATO/M9 spy John Drake in Danger Man (1960–62, 1964–66, known in the U.S. as Secret Agent)—and writer George Markstein, The Prisoner was as much a struggle between the two men’s personal æsthetics as it was McGoohan’s philosophical assault on 1960s British society.

At the heart of the concept resides McGoohan’s desire to create an avant-garde exploration of society that criticizes everything from rote learning in schools (in “The General”) to free democratic elections (in “Free for All”) while script editor George Markstein aimed to tell riveting adventure stories in the espionage/sf milieu. The constant tug of war between the two creative forces ensured that the series could be appreciated as straightforward television fare while offering hidden depths for viewers keen to look below the surface.

The honeymoon of the first 13 episodes ended with Markstein’s resignation—an irony, as he portrayed the official to whom the Prisoner submitted his resignation during the title sequence every week—and the final four episodes exhibit unbalanced excess on McGoohan’s part, with the underlying allegory of the earlier episodes rampaging over any semblance of narrative realism. The anarchic finale “Fall Out,” for example, is rich with symbolism, but lacking in substance, and the audience is forced to take their metaphorical medicine without any storytelling sugar.

Nothing is sacred as far as the series and McGoohan are concerned. The tropes dividing one genre from another were trampled with abandon. “Living in Harmony” re-stages the series as a Western with Prisoner as a retired sheriff unwilling to take up arms on behalf of the Village while “The Girl Who Was Death” spoofs the very style of spy earlier series in which McGoohan made his name. Sf elements like virtual reality and thought transference play key roles and an undercurrent of mystery informs every moment that the Prisoner remains in the Village, unsure of the true reasons behind his imprisonment. In keeping with the mystery element, the show dispenses an unending array of questions about the nature of the Prisoner, the Village, and indeed the world in which the story is set. Unlike traditional mysteries, the questions are rarely answered, and only with ambiguity when they are. It’s up to the viewer to fill in the blanks and establish the meaning of what they’re watching. In that way, The Prisoner is a Rorschach test with the audience interpreting the show in light of their own psychological baggage, rather than offering a concise interpretation dictated by the anti-authoritarian McGoohan.

The only disappointment with this otherwise-fine DVD release is the dearth of new supplemental materials. Though the informative interview with production manager Bernie Williams sheds some light on the show’s tumultuous origins and the ubiquitous early, alternate edit of “The Chimes of Big Ben” offers a different take on the familiar material, the rest of the extras are trivial ephemera and the same tired facts and figures available in any worthwhile book on the series (as is the case with The Prisoner Video Companion). The absence of any documentaries on the series and the inexcusable omission of the alternate version of “Arrival” (available on the UK collection The Prisoner – 35th Anniversary Collection) is a serious oversight for a series so often reissued by the same label.

More potent in today’s computerized, politically correct, and socially conscious world than it was even at the height of the ’60s, The Prisoner’s exaltation of the individual over society stands as a monument of relevant television written for a purpose. Style imbued with substance, and occasionally overrun by its own ambition, the series serves two masters seeking to both enlighten and entertain.

[For the record, this reviewer presently recommends two separate Region B Blu-ray releases of The Prisoner available in the UK: Network’s 2009 reissue (briefly available in Region A from A&E, but tragically out of print) was absolutely brilliant with a superb supplemental package including the documentary Don’t Knock Yourself Out, the aforementioned early edit of “Arrival,” and stunning transfers of the episodes accompanied by restrained-but-effective new 5.1 sound mixes (and the original mono, for purists). The other contender is Network’s 2017 50th Anniversary Limited Edition, which features the same transfers as seen on the 2009 release (sans 5.1 mixes), dumps most of the earlier supplements and adds informative text production commentaries, film historian Chris Rodley’s enigmatic exposé of Patrick McGoohan—In My Mind—six CDs containing all the specially composed and library music used in the series, and a hardbound book by television historian Andrew Pixley.]

Review © 2006 by Jason Davis. All rights reserved. Images courtesy of Incorporated Television Companies Ltd.

Irredeemable

 DVD REVIEW: Star Wars – Episode III: Revenge of the Sith

The culmination (or rather, the missing link) in a 28-year cinematic saga, Revenge of the Sith aspires to tell a tragic tale, but instead succeeds in dismantling the classic mythology it seeks to complete. As writer-director George Lucas continually reiterates in his DVD commentary, the six films are of a piece, and this component undermines the whole.

As the clone soldiers of the Galactic Republic fight a devastating battle with the droid armies of the rebelling Separatist faction, Jedi Knights Obi-Wan Kenobi (Ewan McGregor) and Anakin Skywalker (Hayden Christensen) race to rescue the Republic’s Supreme Chancellor Palpatine (Ian McDiarmid) from the Separatist leader, Count Dooku (Christopher Lee), and his cybernetic henchman, General Greivous (voiced by Matthew Wood). Anakin falls increasingly under the charismatic politician’s influence despite the warnings of his pregnant wife, Senator Padmé Amidala (Natalie Portman), and soon Palpatine—secretly the puppetmaster behind the Separatists—initiates his endgame against the Republic.

The key events of Revenge of the Sith are known before the 20th Century Fox logo opens the film: the Jedi will fall, the Empire will rise; Anakin Skywalker will become Darth Vader, Luke and Leia will be born. The broad strokes are expertly realized with the unfettered visual style that George Lucas has developed across the prequel trilogy, but the details reveal philosophical gaps that paint a troubling picture of the saga’s central conceits. From the casual (and casually easy) extermination of the order Kenobi (Alec Guiness) called “the guardians of peace and justice in the Old Republic” in Star Wars (1977), to the questionable metaphysics of the Force and Anakin’s redemption in Star Wars: Episode VI – Return of the Jedi (1983), Sith dismantles the magic of the Star Wars universe.

The Jedi, described with reverence by the elder Ben Kenobi in the quote above, are somewhat less impressive than audiences were led to believe in 1977. In a matter of minutes, they are systematically exterminated by their clone soldiers, offering virtually no resistance as they are gunned down from close range seemingly oblivious to their betrayal. Few of them even seem to see the attacks coming, and those that do barely react. Only Kenobi, by chance, and Yoda, by evincing minimal awareness of his surroundings, manage to escape. Were these two warriors the only lions in an order of lambs? If the Jedi instincts for survival are questionable, their capacity for mercy is of even greater concern. Kenobi’s abandonment of his apprentice at a moment of incomparable suffering is unforgiveable. Surely, a noble Jedi Knight would ease that pain with a merciful slash of his saber, but the great Kenobi manages only a sneer of disgust as he leaves his best friend to burn alive. Given the temper he exhibited in other installments of the franchise, Vader showed remarkable restraint when he dueled Kenobi 20 years later.

Sith’s greatest betrayal rests with the undermining of Anakin Skywalker’s “redemption” in Jedi, rendering the sextet’s climax laughable 23 years after the fact. As Yoda explains, in a speech that seems like an afterthought, he and Kenobi will learn the secrets of becoming one with the Force from the departed Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn (Liam Neeson). Apparently, no less a acquired skill than summoning one’s lightsaber from a distance, this ability to return from the dead has long been the spiritual coda of Anakin Skywalker’s story—he appears alongside Kenobi and Yoda in Jedi’s final scene—which Lucas revised for the 2004 DVD release, replacing the elder Anakin Skywalker (Sebastian Shaw) with Christensen’s youthful incarnation…forgiven with a complimentary facelift, no less.

In Jedi, we see Vader kill the emperor and reconcile with Luke before expiring aboard the Death Star. Lucas has made it clear that the Sith is a religion of two—a master and an apprentice—and that ascendancy is based on betrayal, as Vader suggests in Star Wars: Episode V – The Empire Strikes Back (1980) when he implores Luke to join him in overthrowing Palpatine. Why then does the killing of Palpatine in Jedi indicate a change of heart? Vader is well within the parameters of Lucas’s Sith philosophy, and only his own death preempts him repeating his solicitation for Luke to become his apprentice. Vader is a man whose violent temper belied every assertion that he voiced about his motives for delving into darkness; a man who, having grievously wounded a fellow Jedi in a misguided rage, decided to finish him off simply because he may as well finish what he started; a man who slaughtered an entire community Tusken Raiders on Tatooine in Star Wars: Episode II – Attack of the Clones (2002), murdering children in cold blood. Are we to accept that a final act—completely consistent with Vader’s adherence to Sith philosophy—undoes decades of sin that he doesn’t bother to apologize for upon his death? Apparently so, the Force having restored his youth in death, a boon not granted to either Kenobi or Yoda who stand beside him, all quarrels forgotten.

In completing his story, Lucas has pulled a bait and switch. The audience, via the original trilogy, is offered a tragic tale ending in redemption. The prequels offer something far more cynical, the idea that one debatably noble act can redeem a lifetime of atrocities. This isn’t how things used to be done in a galaxy far, far away.

Though philosophically flawed, Revenge of the Sith ends on just the right note—one of optimism and hope. Recalling Luke’s longing glance into the setting suns of Tatooine, the final shot reminds us what we love about Star Wars, and though the later installments of the saga no longer speak with the strength of the original trilogy, they still stir an element of wonder in the imagination. That can’t be all bad—after all, Anakin wasn’t, was he?

Originally published in the 4 November 2005 issue of CS Weekly. Copyright ©2005 by Jason Davis. All rights reserved.