REVIEW: There Is No Comparison: Remembering Star Trek The Motion Picture

Star Trek The Motion Picture ranks quite highly on my personal hierarchy of Trek films (Just behind The Wrath of Khan and First Contact respectively).

In Australia, the extended 1983 TV version of the film often found its home on local TV stations, ably filling the slot assigned to the “midday movie”.  Its protracted run time would easily consume a sizeable portion of the afternoon - perfect for lazy, rainy days stuck indoors.  During Coronavirus lockdown, it’s in a similar context that I’ve had cause to revisit the film - its soothing tone a balm for isolation and boredom.

As a younger fan, I often overlooked the merits of The Motion Picture, preferring instead the glorious motion control starship warfare of its sequel.  It seems the most common criticism of the film is its slow pace.  Stylistically, the film shares an obvious kinship with 2001: A Space Odyssey as opposed to the broad accessibility of Star Wars.  Caught in the shadow of that pop culture juggernaut, it’s easy to imagine how fans in 1979 would have been deeply disappointed in the film.  Its slow, ponderous pace is decidedly at odds with the kinetic, brightly coloured tones of the series upon which it is based. 

However, there is something to be said for exercising patience with a story that refuses to rush and unfolds at its own pace.  This idea is immediately exemplified in the overture before the opening credits.  Already a fading tradition of cinema in 1979, it has been preserved on the home media releases.  Unhurried and deliberate, The Motion Picture is an outlier in the film series.  If you approach it in the right mood, the film is almost hypnotic, calming even.

Depending upon your personal taste, the oft derided reveal of the newly refitted Enterprise is a prime example of the film’s measured pace – five minutes and forty seconds of pupil dilating starship pornography.  Despite the length of the sequence, it reinforces an idea that Trek rarely serves well – the Enterprise itself as a character.

The story itself is a surprisingly hard slice of science fiction.  An old NASA probe – having gained sentience wandering the galaxy – returns to Earth seeking its human creators, erroneously contextualising them as “God”.  The premise is quite similar to the original series episode The Changeling and finds Trek wading through metaphysical subject matter far more successfully than Star Trek V would a decade later.  It’s a cerebral story – typically Rodenberry in tone – and featuring many of his favourite storytelling motifs.

Pretending the ten years between the series and this film is, in actuality, a mere two requires extraordinary suspension of disbelief, but the cast revisit their characters effortlessly.  It’s a story in which Kirk and Spock bear complex motivations.  Kirk is ambitious to the point of forcing Decker out of his job, while Spock is cold and distant after his unconscious mind is touched by the arrival of V’Ger. 

Shatner – svelte and resplendent in dark hair – is immediately engaging, tempering Kirk’s zeal with an explorer’s curiosity.  Regretting the acceptance of a promotion to Admiral, the character is a man reinvigorated by being in command of a starship once more.

New crewmembers Decker and Illia provide viewers with an insight into the defunct Phase II series (themselves both characters from the aborted show).  Persis Khambatta (a former Miss India) delivers a suitably bizarre performance, cementing her as one of the standout guest performers of the film series.

As ever, it’s not a perfect film.  In the 2016 documentary For the Love of Spock, actor Leonard Nimoy describes the making of The Motion Picture as “a painful experience”.  He openly criticises what he deems “a bad script” and laments the loss of character development at the expense of visual effects.

As can be said with most of the original series films, Takei, Koenig and Nicholls are present and accounted for, but have minimal screen time.  The seventies aesthetic that permeates the film can be both a virtue and a hindrance.  McCoy’s bushy beard, gold medallion and white leisure suit are a pleasure to behold.  Not quite so pleasing are the pajama-like Starfleet uniforms.  Allegedly chosen by director Robert Wise who felt the brightly coloured uniforms of the TV series were not appropriate for the silver screen, these sartorial nightmares come in depressing shades of brown, beige and white.

Despite these flaws, I look at the film with a fans affectionate gaze, anticipating my many personal highlights with each re-watch.  The wormhole malfunction, Spock’s psychedelic spacewalk and poor Commander Sonak’s grisly death at the hands of a malfunctioning transporter (“What we got back…didn’t live long…fortunately”).

Accompanied by a sumptuous score (and a thunderous main title sequence) by the iconic Jerry Goldsmith, The Motion Picture is, in my opinion, the only entry in the film series that feels truly cinematic.  I can still recall the old VHS copy of the film I had as a child.  On the back of the box, the film was aptly described as a “special effects bonanza” – and that it is – delivering big screen spectacle in a way that no Trek has ever approximated.

Its difficult to believe that it is 42 years old, but it seems there may still be life left in it yet.  As recently as last year there were rumblings of a potential 4K release – we can only wait patiently for such plans to materialise.  It is my hope that the 2001 Director’s Cut of the film (still trapped in standard definition) will be included in any high definition re-release.

I, like many fans, have grown to appreciate The Motion Picture – not for its deficiencies, but rather for its virtues, the audacity of its ambition and its legacy as the film that ignited the film franchise. 

ARTICLE: Gumby and the Flying Saucer: Dealing with Imposter Syndrome

(This article was originally published in The Footy Almanac in March 2020.  You can read the original article here: https://www.footyalmanac.com.au/gumby-and-the-flying-saucer-dealing-with-imposter-syndrome)

“What am I doing here?” I wonder as I slink into the University library just after noon.  It’s a Tuesday, and the designated quiet zone is sparsely populated by students.  I move past a girl’s laptop and catch a glimpse of her screen: a diagram of the respiratory system.

“At least she’s doing something productive with her time”, I chide myself as I sit down nearby and open up the TV script that I’ve been working on for the last six months.  “Other people have jobs. They do things that matter” I internally berate myself as I summon my focus.  You see, I’ve been trying to act like a writer.  A proper writer I mean – one who writes every day and sets achievable goals.  My theory is that by acting like one, I’ll one day actually be one.  If only it were that simple.  No matter how much I accomplish – self-doubt is never far away.

Imposter Syndrome is my constant companion.  If you’re unfamiliar with the term, it’s the psychological condition of thinking oneself a fraud.  It means I’m convinced that it’s only a matter of time before I (and the more talented writers I hang around with) realise I haven’t the faintest idea what I’m doing.  I’m just “winging it”, having lied my way into the company of people of good character and considerable ability.  Annoyingly, all this angst and self-doubt occurs in the face of objective evidence that I can (at the very least) string a few words together coherently.

I’ve never really aspired to any specific vocation – let alone writing, but strangely, I’ve always written.  Nervously.  Secretively and out of sight.  Ever since that day in second grade when my teacher tore up a story I had written, sending the pieces of shredded paper cascading over my seven-year old head.

Why would a primary school teacher do such a thing?  I had dared defy her, ignoring the mind-numbing brief of composing an account of ‘what I had done on the weekend’.  Instead, I elected to regale the class with a tale concerning a flying saucer I’d seen.  The craft landed in my back yard.  I watched, slack jawed, as a figure emerged from one side of its hull.  Tall and green with a lopsided head, the mysterious traveler bore a joyful countenance.  Upon closer inspection, I realised that the green man was someone I had seen before – on television.  It was Gumby – plasticine adventurer of choice for children (and adults) of a certain age!

“That wasn’t the assigned task” said Mrs. Merchant, after I read it aloud to the class (who, incidentally, responded with rapturous applause).  A dinosaur from a bygone era (and a stickler for the rules) Mrs. Merchant tore up my story to punish me for disobeying her, forever consigning it to one of the forgotten rooms in my mind.

I’ve always tried to ignore the opinions of people who try and chip away at my confidence, and so, even as a child, I was angry that she’d destroyed something precious.  Statistically speaking, she has to be long gone.  But Mrs. Merchant is still very much alive and well in my subconscious – always ready to cast a shadow over my modest accomplishments and extinguishing any glowing embers of self-belief I may still be nurturing.

It so happens I’m in good company.  Imposter Syndrome is the same condition that afflicted Maya Angelou – one of the pre-eminent writers of the last century.  An author whose distinctive voice was so celebrated that someday, humans living in space will read her most famous work  I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. Alas, apparently, no amount of adulation or professional success could ever quell the fire of her own self-doubt.

As I sip my coffee – still trying to summon inspiration – I wonder the very same thing.  What level of achievement will finally enable me to believe in myself as a writer?  Will it ever happen?  What if my nascent screenplay comes to life one day – breathed into existence by actors and producers?  Will I finally be able to call myself a writer and believe it?

Probably not.

Be that as it may, I’ve come to recognise self-doubt as a barrier to inspiration and an enemy of imagination.  It comes to me in the form of a ghost of a teacher who simply didn’t care for Gumby.  Some days I’m able to overcome her specter, other days not so much.  It’s a constant battle, and one that I imagine all sorts of creative types wrestle with daily.

Of course, to offer an amusing anecdote, I’ve focused on a teacher from my past who valued conformity over creativity.  Thankfully, they weren’t all like that.  One in particular, a man named Joe Herran.  In high school, he taught me the eloquence of the English language, he nurtured my talents by pushing me to be better and to reach for more creative, original ideas.

It takes bravery to extend a middle finger to your detractors and, dare I say it, write from the heart.  So, if you happen to see my name appear in the opening credits to a TV sitcom at some point over the next few years – know that it means I’ve conquered my self-doubt long enough to produce some half decent work.  And know that I wrote it because of – and in spite of – my teachers at school.

ARTICLE: Separation Anxiety

(This article was originally published in Wordly Magazine in May 2020.  You can read the original article here: https://wordlymagazine.com/2020/10/19/separation-anxiety-a-love-letter-to-deakin/)

In the middle of a once in a lifetime global pandemic, I find myself wondering how history will remember the events of the last ten months. From the first cases of Coronavirus detected to full-scale lockdowns implemented in cities all around the world. I try to imagine myself as an old man, telling someone younger about my lived experience of an event they’ll most likely read about in Wikipedia (or some future analogue).  As my thoughts coalesce, one idea rises to the surface—the notion of separation. This year has been characterised by separations, both personal and professional. But the one I wish to discuss here is perhaps more mundane—separation from Deakin itself.

It’s difficult to believe it’s been six months since I last set foot on the Deakin campus at Burwood as a student. On my last day, after being told that classes were cancelled, I walked to my car and drove off the premises carrying a queasy premonition about the future. I had no idea when I would be returning.

Looking not unlike a miniature city in the eastern suburbs of Melbourne, the Deakin campus is comprised of a discordant mixture of modern architectural shapes, each one unique yet stylistically cohesive. Surrounded by an ample creek (replete with walkers who generously allow me to pet their dogs)—it’s my university.

I never realised what a sizeable portion of my personal identity being a university student constituted. It was how I expended the bulk of my time and symbolised learning and progress. I was a ‘university student’, and proudly announced it to anyone who would listen (and sometimes to those who didn’t!). I relished the day to day routine—driving or catching the tram to campus and diving into the throng of students, all rushing to and from classes, moving like the tiny components of a vast machine. It may sound trite, but I found it exhilarating.

A few semesters ago, when the Gods of scheduling saw fit to give me an 8 am lecture with no other classes till 3 pm, I spent the entire day on campus, availing myself of my friends who weren’t busy or unashamedly napping in our luxuriant library. Sometimes I’d read, or write, or simply perch upon any number of pieces of plush furniture while watching Netflix on my laptop (fully aware that I should be using my free time to study!).

In short, I loved being there. Every moment. I never doubted how fortunate I had been to earn a place there. If our society does contain privileges, then being educated is surely one of them. For me, the old axiom of  ‘not knowing what you have until it’s gone’ was never true. I was determined to be a university student for as long as possible (the life of an academic seems particularly appealing to me).

Fast forward six months, and riding my bike through the empty campus is a surreal experience.  Walkways once bursting with students are now empty, and the entire place is blanketed in eerie silence, punctuated only by the sound of birds. 

Quite different from the emotional fallout of being separated from Deakin are the real-world, economic consequences of the pandemic. Staff cuts and redundancies at Deakin have been openly reported in the media. These job losses represent an incalculable loss of talent and experience—virtues which I, as a student, would have reaped the benefits of. Additionally, I also can’t help but be concerned about the sustainability of the handful of small businesses embedded within the campus, whose steady supply of student customers has been abruptly severed.

Of course, the basic function of Deakin can continue unimpeded in the form of online classes.  While I’m unenthusiastic about online learning, I sometimes chastise myself for taking its existence for granted. It’s a technological innovation that my parents’ generation would never know. But online classes simply aren’t the same. They can’t compare to the kinetic, participatory ritual of sitting in a class with other students, many who have complained about the online resources themselves! While some of these grievances are no doubt valid, I feel they unfairly ignore the truest resource Deakin has to offer its students—its teaching staff.

I can readily attest to being the grateful beneficiary of lecturers and tutors who generously (and willingly) gave their time after class. I’m indebted to the teaching staff who cared enough to help me—the stupidest of students—understand difficult concepts (Mervyn, if you’re reading this, I passed my Statistics exam thanks to your help!).

While I’ve taken lengths to extol the virtues of the Deakin campus itself, I would humbly offer that Deakin is more than a series of buildings—more than an institution. Deakin is the people, students, teachers, and staff from whom this unfortunate circumstance has kept us so painfully apart. I still hold out hope for next year, playfully imagining myself power walking across the crossbridge from the HE building. I’m probably late for class but have still managed to find time to purchase a takeaway coffee.

I miss being at Deakin, and I know I’m not the only one. Surprisingly, as a child who didn’t always enjoy formal education, not a day goes by now when I don’t think to myself, ‘I can’t wait to get back to school.’

 

ARTICLE: Reflections On Star Trek Picard

(This article was originally published on the website Some Kind of Star Trek in July 2020.  You can read the original article here: https://trekclivos79.blogspot.com/2020/07/guest-starring-reflections-on-picard.htm)

Like so many fans, I came to Star Trek as a child in the mid-90s. Unbeknownst to me, the franchise was in the middle of a renaissance with overlapping series and movies being released at the same time. It truly was the best of times. Trek fans were spoiled, and we didn’t even know it.

At the heart of this new resurgence, of course, lay Gene Roddenberry and his philosophy. After his death in 1991, the onus fell upon Rick Berman who tried his best to create television that Gene would have approved of. It was an approach that Berman himself has, at times, been critical of. Should he have permitted more serialised storytelling on The Next Generation and Voyager? Would darker themes have yielded higher ratings and therefore greater commercial success? Time certainly has been good to Deep Space Nine – once the ugly duckling of the franchise it is now experiencing a long overdue critical re-appraisal.

So, when Star Trek returned to television after more than a decade away, it was clear that many of the tropes of contemporary storytelling would be employed to bring the ageing franchise into the 21st century. The result was 2017’s Star Trek: Discovery.

I’ll admit it – I’ve never warmed to Discovery. It's certainly not for lack of trying (having watched every episode of the two seasons presently available). Sure, I could point to the unlikeable characters or the dour wartime storyline, but the cause of my discomfort lies deeper – it doesn’t feel like Star Trek.

When it was announced that Patrick Stewart would be returning to his iconic role as Jean-Luc Picard, I was elated. Not only was I excited to see one of the most beloved characters in all of science fiction return, but it symbolised a return to the 24th century (the first since 2002’s Star Trek: Nemesis) and a re-engagement with established canon. As the first season of Star Trek: Picard unfolded, I began to sense a growing unease – not only in myself – but in certain segments of the fandom as well. This wasn’t the show we had hoped for, and it sure as hell didn’t feel like Star Trek. 

What follows is my personal laundry list of why Star Trek: Picard fell short of my expectations:

Patrick Stewart himself:

Patrick Stewart’s very name is synonymous with thespian excellence. His rich timbre and dedication to his craft have allowed him to create some unforgettable characters both on stage and screen. I’m saddened to say that I was less than impressed with his performance in Star Trek: Picard. His voice – one of his more formidable acting tools – is shot. No one is immune to the passage of time, and, without wanting to appear ageist, I believe he has simply aged out of the role.

Gore:

Episode five featured the now infamous eye gauging scene – it was the one and only time I have turned my head away from the screen during an episode of Star Trek. It wasn’t just the scene itself that I found distressing, rather the context. The audience watches as a familiar character has his eyeball forcibly extracted as he is restrained on a bloody bed, screaming in agony.

Some in the online fanbase were quick to respond: “Star Trek has always been violent; they were just hindered by network TV censorship standards”. Others cited Harry Kim’s spaghetti-like wound in Scorpion, Part I as precedent, or, better yet, Remmick’s exploding head from Conspiracy. It’s true, Picard is not beholden to the censorship standards of the 90s, but just because they can show gory content, it does not mean they should.  At this point, I feel the need to qualify my critique by identifying myself as an ardent horror fan. I’m not “against” gore on television, but that kind of imagery is not what I want from Star Trek. 

Swearing & Contemporary dialogue:

Many reviewers have taken umbrage with some of the language used in the show (one foul mouthed Admiral in particular). I personally didn’t care for it, mainly because I feel it was it was used clumsily. Swearing for swearing’s sake. 

It reminded me of the scene between Kirk and Spock on the bus in Star Trek IV. Spock notices that contemporary speech is peppered with profanity. Kirk waves it away as a vernacular artefact of centuries past. In the Star Trek universe, this is the way humans on earth used to speak to each other. Swearing in dialogue and the use of contemporary phrases (like “dude” and “hell yeah”) shatters the illusion that we are in a future time. Which brings me to…

It breaks the reality of Star Trek:

What happened to the post scarcity utopia of the 24th century? It appears to have been supplanted by a much more cynical and nihilistic zeitgeist, almost completely embodied in the character of Raffi. Her entire motivation is driven by the trauma of her losing her “job” and her slow descent into poverty. She even compares her home to Picard’s – making reference to his “heirloom” furniture. The ugly image of a drug addicted black woman living in a trailer seems especially miscalculated given the current wave of social change that minorities around the world are attempting to initiate.

It’s depressing as hell:

Who would have thought that Seven of Nine, upon her return to the alpha quadrant, would  become a cynical, hard drinking murderer? Or that poor, gentle Icheb would be so brutally butchered that he would beg for euthanasia? The world of Star Trek: Picard is a frightening place populated by damaged characters. As the credits rolled on each episode, I was filled with a sinking feeling, disturbed by images of murder, poisonings, suicide, panic attacks, vomiting, insanity and vivisections.

On social media, many of my criticisms of the show were shouted down or dismissed derisively as “you just want old Star Trek” and “OK Boomer”. Fair enough. The show is different, radically so in places. I accept that. I often try to remember what a shock it must have been like for viewers in 1987 tuning in to see Encounter at Farpoint for the first time. But this iteration of Trek doesn’t feel right.

So, what does Star Trek feel like to me?

It feels like a slice of media that challenges me with bold science fiction ideas. It feels intellectual, and at times, a little high minded. But mostly, it makes me think about the future – a time when all of the resources our planet currently devotes to war and interpersonal division will be funnelled into the exploration of space.

At least, that’s what Star Trek means to me. Here’s hoping season two can offer a less depressing vision of the 24th century.

  

ARTICLE: Lonely Deakin: The Silent Epidemic

(This article was originally published in Wordly Magazine in May 2020.  You can read the original article here: https://wordlymagazine.com/2020/05/27/lonely-deakin-the-silent-epidemic/)

Loneliness seems to be an epidemic in our society and, at university, it’s an insidious problem that often appears invisible. Portrayals of campus life in TV and film soon give way to the sobering reality that, for some of us, attending university can be a painfully solitary experience.

As a student of Psychology, these ideas began to percolate as I perused the Deakin Love Letters Facebook page. Like a KFC dinner, it’s a guilty pleasure. It often succinctly and effectively captures the zeitgeist of all campuses on any given day. Before too long, I began to notice an emerging trend in some of the comments and posts: lonely students, crying out for simple companionship and human contact. Sound familiar?  Examples of students in second, third, and even fourth year who had ‘no one to talk to’ became commonplace. I was shocked. How could this be possible?

It was sheer dumb luck that I made some friends in my first week at Deakin. It was affection and a considerable amount of effort that helped keep us together. Two years later, we’re a surrogate family, even welcoming a new member into our fold. Typically, we see each other multiple times a week, simply hanging around, conversing on subjects both profound and trivial. Common interests certainly helped cement our friendship. A shared passion for science fiction, anime, and junk food continues to be the glue that binds us so profoundly.

Speaking solely for myself, my friends have been an emotional bulletproof vest—a flak jacket protecting me from self-doubt, stress, depressive episodes, and the ever-present urge to quit university and get a job at Kmart.

Cheesy as it may be to admit, what we have is unique. Special. Why don’t others have it?  What’s stopping people from making friends? Why are they so lonely? To answer these questions, I decided a frank conversation with my own group was in order. They, too, have had little luck forging new connections outside our circle.

Unsurprisingly, the blame was quickly laid at the feet of social media, and by extension, increased internet use. This perspective is hardly novel, but hearing it articulated by my peers was surprising. 

One friend offered, ‘People don’t have the social skills they used to because of social media.  Fear of other people is heightened once the safety net of the phone is removed.’

‘It’s nature versus nurture. Some people have grown up online. It’s a place where they can behave differently. In the real world, they have to deal with facial expressions and concepts like sarcasm. Conversation can be difficult if you don’t know how to read social cues.’

While laziness surrounding social obligations seemed to add to the problem, my friends were quick to point out that anxiety, a fear of judgment, and good old-fashioned garden-variety shyness were also contributors.

‘People are standoffish and unwilling to make the first move. But then again, so was I. Is that shyness?  It seems like people are very guarded, emotionally.’

One can’t blame a new student from being apprehensive. Commencing study at university is—for most people—a life-altering experience. I can relate. Fuelled by palm-sweating anxiety, I spent my first full week of classes frantically talking to everyone I could in an attempt to forge a connection. Needless to say, I wasn’t always successful. Over-excited (and wearing far too much aftershave), I probably scared some people away!

During O’Week, I decided to enquire about some of the more structured social activities offered by Deakin. A friend who lived on campus for a year offered his perspective:

‘These types of events are fine, but they often cater to the most extroverted types of people. To those who are more introverted, they are off-putting. It doesn’t work for everyone.’

Indeed, it seems like those at the more introverted end of the spectrum constitute a kind of ‘silent majority’ at Deakin. In my own group, activities are often low key: writing, creative endeavours, movie nights, and pointless trips to Chadstone. None of us really enjoy drinking, and our time together is often relaxed and laid back.

‘We introverted people are everywhere—hiding in plain sight,’ offers another friend who would rather spend his evenings watching films than going out.

So, what’s the solution? To anyone new to university, I would humbly offer the following advice: find your people. They’re out there. People like you—no matter how obscure you think your interests are, someone on campus will share them.  Be brave and invest in the search.

Use your fear and know for certain that you are not the only one feeling it. If you’re unsure, simply ‘fake it till you make it’. Act with confidence and, sure enough, real confidence will eventually find you.

Don’t rely on class time to make friends. Sure, they can be a good place to meet people, but classes are tightly structured, leaving little space for conversations to breathe. Try and take that budding rapport to the next level by asking someone to join you for coffee, getting together to study for an upcoming exam, or even walking to and from class. 

Lastly—don’t give up. For those with genuine social anxiety, this may be easier said than done.  University can sometimes seem like a large, scary machine filled with thousands of people. That just means you have an even greater chance of success—greater odds that you will find someone who enjoys the same things as you. University life doesn’t have to feel scary, and you need not walk the path by yourself. Finding yourself a friend could be one of the greatest things you could do for your mental health.