Saturday, September 11, 2010

How to Create Drama -- Part I


Here’s some writerly advice for ya — nothing ratchets up the tension in a scene like dropping a big ass snake right in the middle of it.

Hoo boy! Characters babble. They scream. They go for guns you didn’t know they carried. Forget that old advice about bringing a man waving a gun into the room — let a fifteen-foot reticulated python plop onto somebody’s shoulders, and things get interesting FAST.

I auditioned a line-up of menacing serpents for this walk-on role in my novel — boa constrictors and several breeds of python, including the rock and the Burmese pythons (that’s a caramel Burmese python in the photo by the way). However, I decided on the retic (as reticulated pythons are sometimes called), the big daddy of the snake world. Here’s a few snaky tidbits I’ve picked up in my research:

1. You don‘t tackle this much snake alone. One rule of thumb for snake handling is one person for every three feet of snake. For an average python —about fifteen feet long — you’ll need four really brave friends. For the largest python on record — 33 feet long and 300+ pounds — you‘ll need a NASCAR pit crew.

2. Captive-bred specimens are remarkably even-tempered, if somewhat unpredictable. Wild caught pythons, however, are extremely nervous and will bite. Unfortunately, wild-caught pythons don’t carry ID announcing them as such. The only way you’ll know is after it’s clamped down on your calf and banged you around a bit. It may not be venomous, but it’s got teeth that point backwards, the better to hold onto you as you squirm, my dear.

3. As a rule of thumb, these snakes seem able to swallow prey up to ¼ their own length, and up to their own weight.

4. A python doesn’t kill by strangling—it constricts its victim’s rib cage slowly and inexorably with every exhale, leaving each subsequent inhale shallower and shallower . . . until there’s no more room to breathe in. Cause of death—suffocation.

5. Like all snakes, pythons aren’t slimy—they’re dry and cool and silky. They’re also dense with hard-packed spongy muscle, like a scale-covered gummy bear.

6. Pythons are ambush predators; they lunge from the shrubbery, zip up on you in the water and — in the case of the green tree python — tumble from the branches right on top of you.

7. Pythons normally snack on small mammals, though they occasionally snag deer and gazelle. Swallowing such large prey makes a python slow and clunky and very vulnerable to predators. If necessary, however, it can instantly upchuck the whole business right back in its attacker’s face and make a speedy getaway. Take that, crocodile!

8. Pythons use their supersensitive tongues to “taste” where you are . . . and find out which end is your head, for easier swallowing. Which means they can find you in that dark like THAT.

9. They’re extremely valuable creatures, selling anywhere from $500 to $5000. A lavender albino ball python was once listed as the most expensive pet in the world— $40,000. Before you decide to adopt a python reticulatus, however, know it’s a long-term arrangement; they live 20-30 years in captivity.

10. Best estimates are that anywhere from 30,000 to 100,000 Burmese pythons now call the Florida Everglades home. The first one was found in 1979, and since pythons have no natural predators down there in that moist steamy ecosystem, they multiplied exponentially. Right now the only way to deal with the problem is to hunt them down one at a time and drag them out by hand, which the State of Florida hires people to do (check out the story here). New career, anyone?

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

Penguin Love

Today at church, the visiting minister read the children's story.  All the little ones gathered at his feet, and he passed out stuffed penguins for them to fondle and moon over.  "This," he said, "is a story about penguins.  And love.  And families."

It was a sweet story, much better than <em>March of the Penguins</em>, which a friend claims should have been called <em>The Sad Life of Penguins</em>.  No frozen corpses, no ravenous sea lions.  This book was set in the Central Park Zoo.

"Now," the minister read, "It was that time of year when all the boy penguins started to notice the girl penguins.  And all the girl penguins started to notice the boy penguins."  And my first thought was, how sweet.  A coming of age story, with feathers.  And my second thought -- and this is a fine testament to just how much of a proud knee-jerk liberal I really am -- was all about the heterosexism of that statement.  Surely there were some gay penguins, I thought.

And there were.  Their names were Roy and Silo.  And this was a book about them and the chick they raised that the zookeeper named Tango, because, as we all know, "it takes two to make a tango."

It ends with the sun going down on sleeping families all through the city.  No snow. no ice.  Warm all around.  Just the kind of ending I needed today.

Monday, February 4, 2008

Why I Hate Happy Endings -- A Mild Existential Rant

We’re making an attempt at church to laugh more.  Hence, Friday Movie Night.  For our debut, we screened <em>Something’s Gotta Give</em>.  Diane Keaton, Jack Nicholson, Keanu Reeves.  Love triangle.  Clever dialogue.  Mild inoffensive symbolism and metaphorical subtext.  Some partial nudity with energetic overacting.

Funny, yes.  Which surprised me.  My sense of humor is usually skewed toward biting and vulgar, sweet and vulgar, cerebral and vulgar.  I mean, I’m the girl who confessed that my sacred moment this Christmas was watching a Santa suit-clad Billy Bob Thornton -- drunken and half-dressed -- crawl up a driveway in a hail of gunfire to deliver a blood-splattered stuffed elephant to this kid he’d been trying to rob for most of the movie.

So surprised, yes, that I laughed.  Until I got pissed off.  And what pissed me off was the Hollywood ending.  See, Diane falls in love with Jack against her better judgment -- against her will even -- and even though he’s in love with her too, he can’t admit it, articulate it, express it.  They separate.  She gets involved with Keanu (smart, funny, adoring) Jack has an anxiety attack/faux heart attack and changes himself into a man worthy of her. Tracks her down to Paris, finds her with Keanu.  The three share dinner -- lots of flirtatious bonding and emotional poignancy between Jack and Diane -- and then, THEN, Diane kisses him goodbye -- awkward and tender -- and she gets in a cab and he stands on a bridge as the snow falls in the Paris night and says to himself, “Now who’s the girl, huh?”

The end.

I wish.

No.  Of course not.  Diane screeches back in her cab and says I never really stopped being in love with you and he says you have just made my life.  Big embrace.  Cut to warm-hearted montage six months in the future -- family dinner, granddaughter on knee, laughter and Italian food.  Tasteful rich furnishings.  Paul Simon playing.

The end.

Phooey.  The whole point of the movie was that pain makes you.  It beats open your heart, beats it bloody, and in that empty broken space -- tilled now, fertile -- something grows.  And that something is you.  And you are finally true then.  That’s the gift of pain, that cracking open.  And to suggest that that’s not enough -- that somehow there must be a happy ending -- is a violation of the principle.  It cheapens the experience, makes it about the feel-good and not the feeling.

I remember disagreeing with a friend once about the movie <em>Garden State</em>.  He wanted it to end with the girl sobbing in the airport phone booth, the love of her life on a plane back to California.  I liked the real ending better -- the guy rushing back down the escalator, saying no, I’m not going, that was a stupid idea and I’m not doing it.  I told my friend it had grown on me, that ending.

It think it was because THAT ending was about the rejection of big ideas that sound really Wise and Profound but are, nonetheless, stupid.  There is no template for life, no script.  Stay or go.  Win the girl, lose her forever.  It’s a moment, not a scene.  It may not make sense or be fair or foreshadow a significant epiphany.  It may not be part of something bigger.  It may just be, but that’s the most important thing of all.

So maybe I've changed my mind about <em>Garden State</em> too.  Maybe I want him on that plane, tears behind and tears before.

I’ve grown disillusioned with stories as ways of making meaning.  Life has no arc.  Its symbols are accidental and haphazard.  The character development isn't clear, isn’t progressive, isn't always satisfying.  Our brains crave stories, have evolved to process patterns and linear narratives and make meaning from them.  We get confused and lost without our stories.

But sometimes life refuses to make a story.

I wanted that movie to end with beautiful black night and new snow and all alone with nowhere to go.  I wanted that to be enough, I really did.