One

There is only one soul, and it lives the life of every person, one at a time, forgetting itself at the end of each, so to return and do it all over again, only through different eyes. You will be the richest of us, and the poorest, you will be the happiest and the saddest, you will love yourself, torture and kill yourself, but never ever remember.

Transjovian Airsphere

Welcome to the Transjovian Airsphere, your soap bubble among the stars, your exotic exile, your home away from home, friends, family, pets, the whole shebang really. 

Head forward please while we insert the subdermal MTE chip. 

We’re five billion clicks from Earth so there’s not a lot to see or do, but not to worry, the chip gives you immediate retinal access to centuries of shows and movies. 

There we are.

Here’s your Motivator. Yes, it looks like a knife. The Airsphere orbits slowly but the walls are too thin to keep you in, so you’ve got to keep in constant motion or you float off into nothingness. Just give yourself a jab from time to time, stop yourself from getting too comfortable.

Right? All set then. Away you go.

The Point of It

The Grave Digger dug by the moon’s bony light, and the Bounty Hunter kept watch from his shadowy seat atop the next grave stone, thumbs hooked around his six-shooter belt. 

The Grave Digger’s spade bit deeper and deeper into the endless black earth, and the Bounty Hunter’s fingers drummed a brittle and skeletal tune on his thighs. 

“Just a little bit more,” said the Digger, leaning against the handle of his shovel and wiping cold sweat from his brow. 

“Ain’ goin’ nowhere,” the Hunter replied with the ghost of a shrug.

“No,” the Digger squinted at the Hunter. “I reckon you ain’t.”

The graveyard was silent but for the bell toll of the metal spade on unforgiving earth.

“Such a waste, dyin’ so young,” the Digger muttered. “Makes you wonder, what’s the point?”

“Too late to worry about that now. Either there’s no point, or the whole thing is the point. The length of the livin’ don’ enner into it.” 

When he was done, the Digger threw aside the shovel, and hauled himself out, back out of the hungering hole, dusted the dirt from his palms and took off his hat. Held it nervously in both hands. “Anything to say before we do the necessaries?”

“Naw, no sense in gettin’ all loquacious now. Best say what you need to say when you’re still among the quick. Why waste words on the dead?”

The Digger shrugged. “Like what you said: Either words are their own point, or there ain’t none.”

The Hunter chuckled, and took off his own hat. Giving the Digger a good view of the shot that had killed the Hunter, a neat, round and brown hole just above the right eye. “Maybe put that on my tombstone,” he said, and stuck out his hand. “My thanks.”

“Safe travels,” said the Digger as they shook, and then watched as the Hunter lay down in the hole he’d prepared for him. Sighing, the Digger began to fill it again.

Outlaw King

Title: Outlaw King
Directed by: David Mackenzie
Written by: David Mackenzie, Bathsheba Doran, James MacInnes, Mark Bomback, David Harrower

In this latest straight-to-Netflix installment in Hollywood’s love affair with Scottish rebels against the one people Hollywood hates more than Republicans or Nazis—the English—we follow the future “King of Scots” Robert the Bruce (Star Trek and Wonder Woman leading man Chris Pine) as he fights for independence.

Overall, it has a lot going for it, including a great cast and suitably gritty visuals, but the whole thing is kind of let down by the rushed and unengaging story. 

Chris Pine plays against type here as the dour and melancholy Brucey, in a role that largely requires him to look mournful and stare just slightly past the camera with those blue, blue eyes of his. I like that he reigned in his charisma and challenged himself with a more brooding, thoughtful role, but I think he was let down a bit by the script that never shows a hint that there’s anything deeper going on inside his head—he just looks Eeyore glum most of the time, and that’s it. 

On the other hand, the supporting cast is generally excellent. This is the movie for anyone suffering from Game of Thrones withdrawal. Not only is the tone similar—including everything from the evisceration of supposed good guys to a mud-soaked Battle of the Bastards-esque finale—but it also has a lot of familiar faces.

There’s James Cosmo (Jeor Mormont in GoT) as Robert’s father, Clive Russell (Brynden Tully) as Scottish Lord MacKinnon, and best of all, Stephen Dillane (Stannis) finally claiming his mantle as our true and rightful king, Edward I. However, his son, the Prince of Wales and future Edward II (Billy Howle) is a right turnip, so he’s still not winning any awards in the parenting department.

The camera is restless and dynamic, swooping and twirling around, into and through the scenes, most notably an opening one-take whirlwind as Edward I brings the Scottish lords to heel with a demonstration of his power before the last pocket of resistance, Stirling Castle. 

The action is suitably frenetic, particularly in the smaller-scale scenes like an ambush on Robert’s small band of followers or a sneak raid on a castle. Battles don’t stint on the mud and gore, though they do fall into the common pitfall of having the main characters act like board game Hero Units, dispatching hordes of faceless adversaries with one stroke. I don’t claim to be an expert on medieval warfare, but I rather think the point of wearing all that chainmail would be to make it ever so slightly difficult for the other fella to gut you with their sword—just once I’d like to see a medieval movie that tried to show how hard it would actually be to kill an armored opponent with nothing but a big fancy knife. 

Still, that’s a minor quibble.

The main trouble with the movie is that the whole spectacle is far too sterile.

Action movies have to be more about yelling and screaming and blood and gore and bashing each other with bits of metal. All that has to mean something, otherwise it’s all just empty spectacle. 

Interesting, gripping, edge-of-your-seat drama and action depends on engaging the viewer. And being engaged depends on—excuse me if I get technical here for a second—understanding what the hell is happening on the screen, both physically and emotionally. What are these people trying to do? Why? Does that make sense? Is there a chance of failure? Do I—as the viewer—hope they will succeed or fail (and why)? 

Outlaw King is brilliant at showing me What is going on, but completely duff at showing me Why. It charges through plot points like a knight in chainmail, without bothering to slow down and show you the motivations or reasons for any of the action.

We open, as mentioned above, with Robert the Bruce and the other Scottish lords surrendering to Edward I after a failed rebellion, led in part by William Wallace of “Braveheart” fame. Soon after the English execute Mel Gibson and hang up bits of his body around the kingdom, driving the Bruciest of all Roberts to rebel once more.

And I have no idea why.

He informs his family of his decision to fight, and they all agree, including his new wife, the product of an arranged marriage to a powerful English nobleman’s daughter. His wife, Elizabeth de Burgh (Florence Pugh) defiantly declares “I choose you!”

And I have no idea why.

These aren’t minor details, these are the pillars on which the whole movie rests—the A story about Robert’s rebellion, and the B love story between Robbie and his English queen—and the key players’ motivations in both are a complete blank. 

With a movie so tightly focused on one man, the titular Outlaw King, especially one so withdrawn and thoughtful, his reasons for fighting and going through all the shit he does are not incidental to the movie, THEY ARE THE BLOODY MOVIE. Without that you’ve just got a bunch of Billy Connolly impersonators going Arrgrrrghgyrrhghwharrr and smashing each over the head with maces. 

The problem I think is that the scriptwriters were too focused on hitting all the necessary plot points charting Robert’s fall and rise, not enough on ensuring we actually care about them. It’s just kind of assumed that you’re on board with Rob and the gang and know the English are baddies worth fighting against. 

That’s why we blast through the opening, including the decision to go to war, without bothering much with motivations, and why later plot points, like the guerilla war against the English, are done in a scene or two before we move on. 

It’s also strangely lacking in tension, as the action tends to be all one thing or all the other—either Robert and Co are getting mercilessly clobbered and slaughtered, or they’re downing the English like pints at the pub. There’s never any hint the former will be less than an utter disaster, nor any challenge to their success in the latter, so again you’re left just kind of watching numbly. Huh. Well, I guess that happened. 

And that’s almost painful, because in almost every other respect, this is solid, first-class filmmaking. It’s well shot, well-acted, well-designed, all the other thousand elements that go into making a movie are all fine and good and nice, but it’s just so hard to give a damn about it when the characters are automatons going through the motions and the outcome of any scene is never in any doubt.

The Doors Stood Open

They sailed west, beyond the failing light of a faded world, and so came at last to the shores of Asgard. The doors to Valhalla stood open, and they threw themselves inside, eyes bright and wet with hope, love and relief.

The hearth was as black as Odin’s missing eye, the benches as empty as their orphaned hearts. Only cold and dead frost claimed Odin’s throne.

They clustered in the center of the echoing nothing, and looked at one another with eyes that said: How do we live now?

The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire

The barbarians were in the valley, burning as they went.

“How could this happen?” moaned the patrician, as he loaded another trunk upon his donkey’s back. “Where are the legions?”

The ungrateful slaves had all fled, leaving the villa echoing and empty, and with only the mule for company. It flicked an ear and the look it gave him was unsympathetic. The trunk unbalanced, fell to the ground and broke open in an artery of gold and rubies. 

The patrician wept, but it was too late to save his wealth. Already fires were dotting the horizon. He mounted the donkey and dug in his heels. “This is all the plebs’ fault.”

The Heroism of Ordinary Men at a Pinch

Volundr was the village blacksmith, when the Jotünn came. Volundr hoped the earl would send someone to deal with it, or he’d never get any rest.

The first week, the Jotünn carried off a goat. The earl sent a thane, with eyes as splendid as his mail coat. “Smith, make me a pike,” he commanded. “I’ll spit it like a pig.” 

“More work,” Volundr sighed, and hammered a pike, long and keen.

The thane rode out and never came back, crushed like a bug by the Jotünn’s club.

The second week, the Jotunn carried off two sheep. The earl sent a skald, with knees as white as his cloak. “Smith, make me a horn,” he commanded. “I’ll scare it like a crow.”

“More work,” Volundr sighed, and hammered a horn, heavy and iron-banded.

The skald rode out and never came back, crushed like a bug by the Jotünn’s club.

The third week, the Jotünn carried off three cows. The earl sent a seithmathr, with a feet as twisted as his staff. “Smith, make me cage,” he commanded. “I’ll catch it like a fish.”

“More work,” Volundr sighed, and hammered a cage, tall and unforgiving. 

The seithmathr rode out and never came back, crushed like a bug by the Jotünn’s club.

The fourth week, the Jotünn carried off a child. The earl sent no one. All his men were too afraid. 

“More work,” Volundr sighed, and shouldered his hammer. 

He did not ride out of the village but walked, with slow and determined steps. When he found the Jotünn he said nothing, merely strode up to it and smote it three times with his hammer. Once in the foot, once in the knee, once right between the eyes.

Volundr nodded once, satisfied. His work was done. At last, he could get some rest.

Always the Same Question

The sails of Yaroslav’s boat were as yellow as his hair, and he sailed it to every land beneath the yellow sun. From the sheltered ports of the great cities to rocky shores by peasant villages, he spoke with fisherwives and merchant princes in signs, in gestures, in half a hundred different tongues. 

Through the years he learned that though the words were different, everyone, from peasant to priest, pauper to prince, always asked him the same question: What can you do for me?

Yaroslav’s ship held amber and silver, ivory and gold, but he knew what they really wanted. With a sunny smile he always said: I will remember you.

Life is a Subscription Service

Mark made sure to eat his Del Bunte banana and drink his Snow Brand milk in front of the camera, to earn enough to pay for the subway ride to work. Mentioned his Sungsam Universe phone by name twice, between mouthfuls. 

On the way, he set his smartphone on his knee to stream himself reading a TORE book and listening to the latest Imaginary Dragons. Otherwise, he’d go hungry for lunch. The videos of the entrance to the IP and Patent Consultancy and of himself smiling at his desk just about paid for his subscription to his job there, with enough left over for rent. 

At night he positioned the sheet and pillow tags before he fell asleep. Had to. It was part of the bedding lease agreement.

Round and Round

There were seven survivors in a lifeboat built for 10, but Captain Kanemochi had ordered them to leave the others and so they had. “Our survival is all that matters,” he’d said.

They drifted for weeks without food until hunger drove them to the horrible yet commonplace conclusion. 

“Draw lots and leave it to God,” said Father Damasare. Captain Kanemochi prepared six long straws, one short, and Father Damasare drew the short one. First Mate Kuroshio got his knife. 

Passengers Shimin and Tetsuo were next, before the rest noticed Captain Kanemochi had secretly marked the short straw so that he never drew it. 

They would have killed him then, but the Captain promised First Mate Kuroshio his money, a medal, his daughter in marriage, if he’d kill the other two. Kuroshio used his knife. 

When even that food was gone, the two men sat facing each other in the bobbing boat. The knife was on Kuroshio’s lap. “No hard feelings,” he said to the Captain. “But I need the strength to sail home. Can’t be far now.”

Captain Kanemochi just smiled. “You should have studied navigation,” he replied. “Haven’t you noticed? We’re trapped in the ocean gyre, the current’s been pulling us round and round in circles. We’re a thousand miles from anywhere. There’s no getting off or sailing home.”

In despair Kuroshio used his knife one last time, and when he lay dead Captain Kanemochi drifted on. Round and round. Round and round and round.