Between Writing and Speaking

Why do I write?

I don’t really know.  I do so, sporadically, secretly and typically in solitude.  My output alternately artful and amateurish, but never without ardour for the form itself.  After all, words are such a versatile ingredient, and in the kitchen of my imagination I relish experimenting with the most outlandish combinations possible.  A tasty mystery, their infinite variations of colour, style and complexity allure me with their ability to anger, inspire and arouse.

However, writing and speaking, while superficially, may seem like common bedfellows but the differences are numerous. 

First and foremost is the element of choice – most of us choose to read, either reflexively or not.  Nestled within this ability is another – that of being able to understand written language itself.  Words make themselves apparent to us a million ways every day, often in the most pedestrian of situations.  Warning signs, food labels, street names and instructions.  These utilitarian words simply “are” and exist only for the conveyance of information.  In tone and delivery, they care not for our feelings or whether or not we subscribe to the ideas they espouse.  Medical reports, exam results, witness statements – all such genres present themselves to us plainly.

Then there are the words we chose to read for pleasure.  Correspondence, love letters and works of fiction both short and long.  These words - arranged in the proper order by a suitably qualified individual - have the ability to transport us from the awful mundanity of our lives to some other more preferable destination.  Such expert wielders of words have held many titles throughout history – a contemporary novelist no different in function to a witch with an incantation.

Of course, the written word can be just as potent when the element of choice is removed.  It’s at this critical juncture that words transform themselves into labels and insults - able to be lobbed vengefully at another person like a clump of wet dirt.  Most people can easily conjure a handful of such words fairly effortlessly.  With their serrated edges, such terms can inflict significant damage to the recipient, and are thusly, rightly expunged from the lexicon.

Written words also carry connotation – an emotional component attached to the use of said word, either good or bad.  This linguistic baggage implores us to use our words considerately, to take heed of how they might be absorbed by those around us.  Lover.  Disabled.  Invited.  How do you feel when you hear these words?

I bring to mind the writer’s process of composing, re-reading and editing – like a recipe being adjusted after each attempt.  Wracked with self-doubt and an honest desire to creatively self-express he or she will tentatively share the fruits of their labour with friends in the hope of garnering praise and adulation - or at the very least - modulated opinion.

So, I ask myself again, why do I write?  Not because I am inherently creative or objectively skilled, but because I am confused.  I write to find purpose.  I write to find therapy and relief from my infuriating, vomit inducing anxiety.  In black and white, my words sit stately on my computer screen composed of trillions of tiny pixels.  As they and their brethren reach forward through time, I have less and less control over how they will be interpreted by any future person who might intercept them.  Their terrifying potential for immortality is an even greater motivation to execute my expression exactly.

Why do I speak?

To ask for what I want, to convey my feelings and ideas and to make an audible sound.  Why then in this particular realm of human communication do I find myself so ill equipped?  So often saying the wrong thing?  When compared to the writer, the speaker is a wild oaf – a clumsy house-guest possessing neither grace or decorum.  If the written word is indeed a finely calibrated tool, then its audible analogue is a bludgeon.  It is as scalpel is to sledgehammer.

Unlike the writer, the speaker need not wait for feedback, as it is often immediate.  The effects of his or her words written plainly upon the faces of their recipients.  Words are short order cooking, conjured spontaneously in the moment with only the paper-thin pretences of decency to prevent us from uttering something catastrophically stupid.

The element of choice plays a role here too, as we can either be talked “to”, or talked “at”.  Who cannot relate to the experience of a harsh word drifting ominously toward our general direction? There it sits at our feet – uninvited – yet able to expertly corrode our self-esteem. 

Equally universal is the scenario of the discourteous dinner guest, spewing words so inappropriate that they are unbelievable.  “I can’t believe he said that!” we gasp through breathless offence, or some other similar idiom connoting disbelief at a poorly timed or acidic remark.  This is one of the truest pitfalls of words – they cannot be taken back, be undone, recovered, deleted or retrieved.  They are sound waves, traversing space and time.  When it becomes apparent that our words have caused some damage, our solution is to issue forth even more words – a socially sanctioned ritual called an apology.

Spoken words also mean the quality of the sound itself – a person’s voice.  Whether rich in timbre, tone, tinny, loud, smoky or of irritating pitch our voices are the unique noise each of us is capable of producing.  Like a sonic fingerprint, each voice is special and capable of evoking colourful emotions.

But it is not merely enough to be able to make noise – most animals have that ability.  Speaking with another person is a transactional exchange, a dance requiring a willing partner of requisite skill.

Our voices change during puberty, prompting us to reconsider our sonic signature, to use our voices more carefully.  Others take a less considered approach, preferring to speak profusely rather than precisely.  Motivated by vanity (or perhaps a fear they will suddenly wink out of existence), they speak only to fill silence and say nothing of any substance at all.

To hear a conversation from the outside is to hear musicians plying their trade, each one exhibiting their relative skill (or lack thereof).  Symphonic or cacophonic, the orchestra of conversation is only as pleasant as the skill of its greatest musician.

Whether written or spoken aloud, words become the threads that knit together the fabric of our lives.  I wonder whether spoken words are merely the three-dimensional renderings of the things I write, or something more – something ephemeral and still outside the bounds of human perception.  At the intersection between writing and speaking lies a third thing – invisible but nonetheless essential.

Thoughts.

Thoughts which build our reality, and in their infinite quality allow me to write about my words and speak about my writing.

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.

REVIEW: Doctor Who 2008-2010 Specials

For the last two years my friends and I have been on a mission to re-watch the new series of Doctor Who.  The terms of our endeavour are simple – every episode (and minisode) of the revived 2005 series until we are caught up with the current instalments.  Predictably, it’s been a divisive experience – everyone has their favourite characters, storylines and moments and, in a room full of self-confessed nerds - passions run high.

Well into coronavirus lockdown, we rounded the corner to series 4.  It was the first time we’d reached something approximating group consensus.  We each fondly recalled the initial broadcast of the season in 2008 and the esteem in which the popular zeitgeist regarded the show.  Series 4 appeared to be Doctor Who at the height of its critical acclaim with David Tennant reaching near Tom Baker levels of popularity.  Comedienne Catherine Tate joined the cast full time providing the Doctor with a companion who was unafraid to point out his foibles.

The episode themselves were a winning bunch, and in my opinion, represent the most consistently excellent streak of the series.  “The Unicorn and the Wasp” was a unanimous favourite, as was the superlative “Turn Left” with only “Midnight” generating significant debate and splitting opinion.  But it was the series’ two concluding episodes that engendered the most favour.  Sure, they’re a little self-referential and heavy on “fan service”, but the “The Stolen Earth/Journey’s End” two parter feels like a reward for ardent fans who’d been there since “Rose”.

Roping in characters from contemporaneous spin offs Torchwood and the Sarah Jane Adventures (while plugging into those show’s own internal continuity seamlessly), “The Stolen Earth” and “Journey’s End” feel more like a series finale rather than simply the end of a season.  Make no mistake, these episodes are top shelf science fiction television.  Cinematic in execution and expansive with their scope (and cast), they are the best exemplars of the broad theatrics and global stakes that became a pleasing trademark of Russel T Davies’ writing.  As well as delivering emotional catharsis for Tennant’s 10th Doctor (and his unresolved feelings for former companion Rose Tyler), it finds room for Daleks and even Davros – not seen since 1988 – played with manic malevolence by Julian Bleach. 

Crisis averted, and Davros dispatched (for now, at least), companions and friends each make their exits in a bittersweet coda which leaves the 10th Doctor alone once more.  Roll credits.  But wait…

It’s in viewing these episodes out of context in a marathon that the problems with the specials make themselves most obviously apparent.  They feel like a deal driven mistake or a contractual obligation of sorts.  A transparent attempt to gain more mileage out of Tennant’s popularity by a production team nervous about the future of the franchise. 

I suppose It’s understandable.  It’s been widely reported that the BBC considered cancelling the show at the time, unsure that any actor would be capable of filling David Tennant’s now battered pair of converse shoes.  So, the “Specials Year” proceeds unevenly, beginning with “The Next Doctor” (an irritatingly manipulative title).  Despite the appearance of the excellent Cyber Shades and the simmering rage of Dervla Kirwan as Miss Hartigan, this is a story that smacks of disappointment.  Once Jackson Lake is revealed to be a poor unfortunate amnesiac, the dramatic tension of the episode dissipates, culminating in a lacklustre finale.

“Planet of the Dead” certainly delivers on sheer spectacle.  With a foreign filming location (Dubai) and finally upgraded to high definition, Doctor Who has never looked or sounded better.  In many ways this episode is quite the visual feast – the metallic Sting Rays of San Helios providing a terrifying addition to the franchise’s pantheon of monsters.  Its agreeable to see Erisa Magambo back in action and the hysterical Malcolm provides a dose of comic relief (and possibly meta-commentary on fandom), but it’s all in service of a story that feels far too trite.  The image of a flying double decker bus is seared in my memory as a creative low point of the year.

Its “Waters of Mars” that finally ups the ante, delivering a handsome slice of grown up science fiction encased within the “base under siege” trope which Doctor Who practically invented.  Lindsay Duncan’s formidable Adelaide Brooke stands toe to toe with the 10TH Doctor – questioning his now dubious morality.  Indeed, it’s an episode whose themes of determinism versus free stand in stark contrast to the cartoonish imagery of its immediate predecessor.  Fan consensus seems to favour this episode as the best of the specials and I’m inclined to concur - especially with its low key (yet jaw dropping) denouement.

Somewhere within the bloated two episode run time of “The End of Time” is contained a decent story.  Unfortunately, David Tennant’s run stumbles to a close with two episodes that often feel directionless and vary wildly in tone.  The morose 10th Doctor - now fully conscious of his impending regeneration - attempts to stop the Master (a revived John Simm) from replacing the planet’s population with clones of himself.  Add to that, an extended 20-minute epilogue in which the Doctor revisits all of his old companions – and I mean all of them.

This sequence feels emotionally redundant – we had already bid most of these characters a proper farewell in “Journey’s End” – do we really need to check in with Mickey Smith one last time?  Most egregious of all is the 10th Doctor’s final scene – his regeneration.  While the notion of sacrificing one’s life for someone else is a noble one, the 10th Doctor seems to do so begrudgingly, making time for an indignant rant about how he could have been “so much more”.  It’s an awful moment.  Instead of meeting his end with bravery or dignity, the character goes out a sobbing mess, petulant and fearful of oblivion.

Still, these five episodes show flashes of brilliance, even if they do interrupt the momentum of a binge watch.  I’ve always personally felt that “Waters of Mars” would have been a perfect regeneration episode for the 10th Doctor – his hubris finally exacting a cost in the form of regeneration.

Like most television, Doctor Who is art and should be applauded or critiqued within the context it was created.  The specials aired months apart at a time when taking a year off was an unknown concept to fans who were still relatively gun-shy following the original series’ cancellation in 1989.  Out of context, watching the episodes one after another felt like a difficult slog – no more than a protracted wait for a new Doctor in the form of Matt Smith.  Despite my criticisms, I feel that the ability to voice them in itself is a luxury.  Gone are the days of Doctor Who being broadcast one season after another, with intermittent breaks now a regular occurrence (and a fact of life where modern television is concerned).  As fans, we can at least be grateful that the creative team at the time – including the inimitable Russel T Davies – saw fit to at least provide fans with some content to sate our appetites.  With the production currently on pause due to the unfortunate state of the world at the moment, we should only be so lucky now.

 

REVIEW: Star Trek Nemesis: An 18th Birthday Retrospective

Nemesis.  In the eighteen years since its release, its very name has become an epitaph to a bygone era of Star Trek.  

Hammering the final nail into the “Prime” universe’s coffin, its critical and commercial failure signaled the end of the Berman/Braga paradigm and the start of a long period of hibernation for the franchise.

While painfully aware of its terrible reputation among fandom, I am firmly in the minority who appreciate this flawed Trek installment.  Released at a time when interest in the franchise was at an all-time low, Nemesis exists as a curious beast when compared with the rest of the film franchise.

Produced four years after the previous film, Nemesis gathers all the familiar faces for what Paramount’s marketing department was quick to bill as a ‘generation’s final journey’.  But right away, things don’t look right.  After such a lengthy break, the characters look noticeably older, and sadly, appear to be operating on autopilot.  Having Stewart and Spiner involved in the production ensures the movie rapidly degenerates into the Picard and Data Show perhaps giving only Frakes as Riker an opportunity to spread his action wings.  Much like Insurrection before it, the growing influence of its stars during production only served to dilute the original story and satisfy ego.  Its an unfortunate aspect to the film’s production, one which no doubt accelerated the unraveling of the once lucrative Star Trek franchise as it hobbled into the twenty-first century.

Indeed, it is in the film’s story that the most significant problems can be found.  An ardent Trekkie, John Logan (an otherwise superlative writer) proves that fanboys aren’t always the right people for the job.  Culling elements from The Wrath of Khan, Logan’s theme of mirror images is an intriguing one, rife with storytelling potential.  Tom Hardy delivers an able performance as Shinzon, but alas, never really feels like Picard.  Much like Nero after him, his motivations remain unclear, robbing the film of its narrative spine. For Data, the discovery of yet another Soong-type android in the form of B-4 feels contrived and tired. Almost as bad is the egregious dune buggy sequence in which he’s discovered (supplanting the gimmicky ‘manual steering column’ of the previous film).

It has often been said that Star Trek’s main draw-card is its characters.  Nemesis is a film that finds these characters out of focus, lost to action sequences and scenes of tedious exposition.  The film’s deleted scenes reveal the mindset of the film-makers in the kinds of edits that were made.  For those who own the Blu-ray or special edition DVD, you can see a proper scene with Wesley, a final farewell for Beverly, the arrival of Riker’s replacement and a poignant reflection on the passage of time between Picard and Data. But the cuts also reveal an even darker edge to the film which would have seen Troi encounter Shinzon a second time in a terrifying turbolift assault.

The blame for these unkind cuts is often laid at the feet of director Stuart Baird.  While clearly able to put together a cracking action sequence, Baird shows little regard for the beloved The Next Generation crew, excising the more character driven scenes in favour of action, action, action!  While he has never commented on the film in the years since, numerous cast members have publicly criticised his direction, citing on set conflicts (referring to LeVar Burton as “Laverne”) and a fundamental misunderstanding of what Star Trek was about.  The end result is a story that feels emotionally bankrupt.  Compared to Spock’s funeral service, Data’s wake (and Sirtis’ crocodile tears) lacks emotional punch.

Lacking any sort of legitimate narrative payoff, the film simply sputters to an end. Tragically the closing moments have Picard and B-4 engaging in little more than a sing-along which, while it reveals Data is still around - somewhere – its trite nature belies the significance of the moment and the supreme sacrifice made by the once lovable android. 

For a film that makes so many mistakes, it does get quite a few things right.  Tonally, the film is refreshingly dark – enhanced by a foreboding score from Star Trek stalwart Jerry Goldsmith who deftly weaves electronic elements into an otherwise traditional orchestral film score. 

The climactic battle in the Bassen Rift is undoubtedly one of the most exciting sequences in all of Star Trek.  Featuring the final on-screen appearance of the Enterprise-E, Nemesis makes good use of much improved CGI technology, delivering a battle unlike anything seen in Star Trek before.  For the first time, viewers saw redshirts dispatched into the vacuum of space as the main bridge was blown apart, not to mention the Enterprise ramming the Scimitar in a sequence that is both kinetic and terrifying.

It is in this way that Nemesis points the way forward, offering Trekkies a sign of things to come; more action, faster pacing and huge set pieces (and ships).  After examining these high octane elements, one might speculate that at this point Berman had become aware of the shifting tastes of modern cinema audiences.  Was it too little, too late? Potentially but by the time he might have realised it was time to move on the final nail was in the coffin and the drastically diminished box office takings revealed how bad things actually were.

Alas, all speculation is moot. Upon release the film was a critical and commercial failure (though made it to #1 in Australia!).  Nemesis now stands as the final installment in the “Prime” movie franchise, replaced in 2009 by JJ Abrams Nu-Trek.  Though the three films released thus far have been resounding financial successes, they continue to polarise the fan base in a way Nemesis never did.

Set in the year 2379, Nemesis represents the farthest point in future history depicted on screen.  With series Star Trek Enterprise scrapped in 2005, and the Nu-Trek films continuing, Star Trek has effectively been trapped in prequel-land ever since.

I’ve always felt that The Next Generation crew deserved better - a fonder, more definitive farewell. Before the film’s 2002 release, Patrick Stewart claimed that there were plans for a sequel; however those appear to have been consigned to the dustbin. With the third rebooted Star Trek film being released next year, and a number of dormant media properties being reborn (The X-Files, Heroes, Full House) there may still a slim chance that Picard and co will be seen on screen one final time.

(An edited version of this piece was originally published on the website "Some Kind Of Star Trek".  You can see the original article at: http://trekclivos79.blogspot.com/2015/08/a-final-insult-nemesis.html)