Friday, March 5, 2010

Caprica, six episodes in: a review

One of the more interesting shows to hit television this season has been 'Caprica'. Technically, it's a spin-off of Battlestar Galactica, but save for the name, and the foreshadowing of where the show dovetails into BSG's universe fifty years from now, that's where the similarities end. You can have NEVER watched battlestar and still get quite a ride out of Caprica. and I recommend you give it a go.


Part of what I like about this show is what to me makes GOOD science fiction: the fictional, gadget/fantasy aspect is backseat to the story. It's really just about a small group of people struggling with their circumstances and trying to find their purpose in life.

Now, for those anti-SciFi, i will acknowledge this doesn't outweigh the Science Fiction aspects to some degree, but I stand by my claim; if you give good Sci-Fi a chance it's actually quite a fun ride. Part of what makes two of my favorites what they are is exactly that- "Firefly" and "Battlestar" are about a pile of people struggling with the cards life's dealt them. Being in space, stuck on a ship while they try and relate to each other or get through the personal drama between them, well that feels like an afterthought most of the time.

And 'Caprica' is a prime example of this. Most of the reviews I've come across have had fair opinions on the matter; and mostly, the dissonance comes from the same point. Those who pan it don't like it because it doesn't fit their model of "science fiction" because there's no laser fights, there's no spaceships, there's no grand epic battles, there's no clear heroes. Those who like the show enjoy it for the EXACT SAME REASON. Caprica is about power struggles. It's about a man who lost his family, seeking revenge or some form of justice. About a businessman coping with tragedy and trying to use all the resources in his vast knowledge and wealth to gain back what he lost. About a child who has been reborn, and sees the world with a new set of eyes. About a daughter, trapped between worlds, trying to find her way.

I'm writing this after watching last week's episode because it finally hit upon one character I was dying to see more of. But we'll get to that. First, a quick summation of the story so far:

Caprica is the pinnacle of civilization, a New York / America of sorts, in a world where the Twelve Planets rule- one for each sign of the zodiac. Those who haven't been in BSG's world, it's like the 12 Signs represent a different ethnicity, each having its own quirks and traditions. A central part of this is that the world is polytheistic, and the idea of a sole god or sole power who created all is the outcast, the heretic. This leads to the terrorist-like group known as the Soldiers of the One, who firmly believe that the moral-but-loose ways of the gods is not only wrong, but will be the downfall of society.

The jumping point of the pilot is that these soldiers have struck a blow to Caprica's bustling world by bombing a subway train in broad daylight, killing thousands. The plot focuses on two families in the wake of this tragedy, the Adams and the Greystones.

the Adams are the more familiar of the two, to returning fans; We learn early on that Adams is an immigrant-adjusted Adama, much like Ellis island used to do, in order to begin life anew. (the Adama family is a key player in Battlestar Galactica, and to see old man Adama as a thirteen year old boy gives us our tie to the future.) Joseph Adams is a high-placed lawyer who comes from essentially the latin mafia, or Taurons in Caprica-verse. He's broken the mold and rarely connects with his brother, a hitman for the Taurons, trying to lead a clean life and make a name for himself. As the bombing took his wife and daughter, leaving him to raise Billy Adams without any way of knowing how. And as the emotional turbulence from this settles, he finds himself drawn back into that darker side of his past, and slipping into a path of revenge trying to find vengeance for his tragedy.

Daniel Graystone has had it all; he's a genius inventor, the Steve Jobs of his time. He's a technological genius, and his response to the bombing is to use the holoband, a virtual reality he created, to try and re-create his daughter, who died in the tragedy. The holoband has, like all technologies, become perverted with widespread popularity- teens and young adults have managed to create a section of the Virtual World that is full of sex, drugs, death, you name it the taboo is there. There are no consequences because dying in the virtual world simply deactivates your headset, leaving you back in reality, and yet the obvious pull is there. At this point in the series, Daniel has sacrificed much of his public credibility in order to try and make advances, save his daughter, and find a solution to the part of him that's empty inside now.

Zoe, his daughter, has come back to life thanks to Daniel's efforts- but he's not aware of how alive she is. He reconstructed her basic self digitally, but because she was something of a tech genius herself, a part of her brain she'd locked away in the Holoband gave that spark Daniel recreated a REAL part of Zoe. I see this as an aspect of the show questioning the existence/purpose of a soul in manmade technology.

the Soldiers of the One, that 'terror' group promoting the heretical One God, is an enigma still but has continued to develop as the show goes on.

but one of the more interesting recent developments of the show has been Tamara Adams; We saw her briefly after she died, when Joseph Adams came to Greystone and asked if he could bring his daugther back, too; But after Joe got to see Tamara, she seemed to disappear in that moment, because Greystone had no "active" part of her like Zoe had left behind. And yet, Tamara has continued to exist in some way (I'd explain but as it is I've gotten too long-winded so I won't bore you further. just watch!) on the Holoband, and now we see that because she has no body to transfer into, she's apparently immortalized in the virtual world. The spirit of a teenage girl discovering there's less pure about the holoband than she'd thought makes this particular character arc really enjoyable, and this week finally satiated me a little bit by returning to Tamara's quest to find a way home (not knowing she'd died because she was created from pre-Tragedy snippets of herself existing online).

I know this has been wordy, but that aside, I really recommend you give the show a try. It's a great focus on character drama, and the acting while not perfect is certainly moving as the Esai Morales and Eric Stoltz give solid performances as two fathers trying to come to grips with the tragedies they face.

~P

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

stumbling back into practice...

a little story that found its way out of my mind and onto the screen tonight. all thoughts/comments welcome.



Kevin stepped out into the street and let out a sigh as the icy cold slush seeped in through his sock and soaked his left foot. He’d misjudged the depth of the puddle by quite the margin, apparently, but grimaced and continued to cross the street. Soft, crisp crunches echoed his footsteps as he continued across to the curb; the snow was still coming down, but now, in the late hours of this stormy Wednesday in February, there was nothing going on to drown out the sound. In any other circumstance, he might have found the quiet disconcerting, but after working a double shift, he was very glad for the silence that settled on him as gently as the flakes.

The sidewalk was cleared almost to perfection just in front of his apartment as he neared, a sign that Clarence had been hard at work today. Kevin paused for a second to muse over this thought, and couldn’t help but laugh to himself. The old man’s name probably wasn’t Clarence, but he certainly looked like one. Whether he was senile or just crotchety, the neighbor never spoke to Kevin and he likewise returned the respect of privacy. But regardless of animosity, Clarence would sweep the stoop of his apartment and the adjacent walkways. Dirt, trash from the teenagers who regularly left their litter and cigarette butts as some sort of misguided tribute to the neighborhood, or snow, such as today- he would sweep it into the crevice between curb and street without saying a word to anyone, as if it was his sole duty left in life. A life that probably was past his expiration date, but that didn’t stop the silent sweeper , now did it?

The keys in his hand jingled sharply in this silence, and the door opened without its usual stubbornness. Up the creaky steps and another turn of another key, Kevin set his over-packed messenger bag down on the couch, running a hand over Danielle’s back. The cat made no attempt to reject the brush, nor did she respond much at all; merely the bored stare she often had in her eyes when she was tired. She remained rooted to her spot just left of center atop the back of the couch, looking in the direction Kevin had just headed.

He flicked on the light in the kitchen as he entered, and blinked as his eyes adjusted to the fluorescent sunburst that hit him. It didn’t slow him down, but it was a reminding irritant of how much he wanted to just close his eyes and let sleep take him for a stint. The kitchen counter was cold to the touch, and the emptiness of it almost seemed to beg for the sandwich fixings to fill that void.

As he prepared his meal, he thought about what might be worth writing about today. Nothing had particularly excited him during the long shift, and normally even the asshole patrons of the lower East Side diner he worked at would provide some sort of fodder for his evening mental-exercise bout. The clinking of ice in a glass drew Danielle into the kitchen, her tail betraying her curiosity as she watched him pour the whiskey into it. Three fingers’ worth seemed plenty for a day like today, and Kevin took his traditional spot on the couch, sinking comfortably into the indentations in the black leather that were so familiar. With a few quick clicks of the mouse, soft jazz began to pour from his laptop. He stared at the blank screen, fingers poised over the keyboard, waiting for the words to find their way through his nerves and channel themselves out through his hands.

A quick snatch of a phrase came to him, and as quickly as the idea formed, keystrokes were being entered as smoothly as a concert pianist, and Kevin set about letting his day exit through his own sonata.

Monday, November 23, 2009

'Stone and Soil'

There's beauty in your facade.
you've trimmed yourself so well
and while below me you're far from
beneath; An open hand is met with solid resistance,
yet when I prod with just a finger
I find you're not as stable as you appear.
Treading gently seems the best advice.
So easy on the eyes I can barely take mine away,
though the dusting of red distracts occasionally.
Small pools of blue, crystal clear but icy-hard
offer no answers, despite the ripples
which show you're not as solid as the stony expressions
that dart across your landscape.
Too late I find I've brushed up against ivy,
and the itch is growing.
I grit my teeth, perhaps stop scratching. I pretend it's nothing
and really I suppose it is. You're nature-formed, so my catching this rash is certainly little more than a game to you -- you've
no more attention for me than a passing stormcloud.
Even a lush glade needs a little sting of rain to keep growing.
but that doesn't alter how real a small oasis of nature looks
after seeing nothing but the bland concrete jungle for so long.

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Amber

sweet, with a kick
my kind of evening guest!
and a pitch neither too high
or too low, selective about
being heard. Smooth as ice
but pleasantly rough; to have your back
in the presence of newfound company
is a welcome quality- always helping
to find just the right words
for any situation, given some time.
The source of courage when I've
nothing to lose; the silent consoling
for every emotional or physical death.
I suffer otherwise alone. the liquid kiss
I've yet to find an equal to, holding my hand
when the only light is the glow of my laptop
and the streetlamp coming in the window.

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

Bella voce (older poem, found scrawled in a notebook)

I think the thing that hooked me
was the sound of your voice; a pitch
quite perfect and sweet, I could not help
but pick my jaw up off the ground
upon first hearing you sing.
You'll never know it but voice is
something I looked forward to hearing each night,
somewhere in a place I wouldn't admit.
I mean, sure. you've snagged plenty of sailors
with your siren's-song quality
but I won't let myself be dashed
on those rocks for hearing it.
I think I'll just tuck it away,
smile at the memory,
like a music box relic for a time when I'm old and greying.

Face

Take a deep breath
and step onstage
Deliver your lines command their focus!
But all the while
you can't help but
Look to the crowd gauging their eyes
as one falls asleep
two watch raptly
mouths set in stone seeking the end
an end for which
you've deja vu'd
a thousand nights before
make each night
their treat, not yours.
and when all's said
all bows taken
Peel your soul - for tomorrow night
it's a new dawn
And the post-show exit yields once more
a thousand strangers' faces.

nightfall

Silence is a stranger;
nothing sleeps around me. the floor
creaks, the cat darts about;
A lyric passes through my head,
the ghost of a chord whispers in my ear,
begging to be played aloud.
across the hall, the high whine of a television
pervades the wooden barriers,
the occasional blare of gunfire
emanating from a western film.
on the street, bottles break and
horns honk and garbage trucks grumble,
people plod along, voices come and go at all decibel levels,
people seem to be going somewhere, no matter the blindness of the inky darkness around them,
and ever so softly,
at the end of the street comes the rumble of the rails,
as the subway line rattles on,
just as restless and constant
as I feel right now.