Grievous Are the Sins of the Empire

Upcoming Changes

Hiya!

I'm back home and finally able to resume my life. Most of September was spent on the island of Susak with Mom, who was recuperating splendidly from her leg injury, and this weekend we finally got back to Zagreb, in preparation for her trip to the States. Actually, I still haven't gotten confirmation that she got there -- what with her bad English and a metal implant in her leg that just might trigger off alarm systems, I hope something hasn't gone badly. But my brother will be there, and he'll surely be able to help if something untoward does indeed happen.

Meanwhile, things are beginning to go back to normal. I had limited internet access on Susak, but frankly, I thought it best to spare you the woes of my inner turmoils at the time. Having decided to lay off active involvement in the movie business and film criticism for a while, I had to do a lot of soul-searching on the ways in which to readjust my -- well, my whole life to the circumstances. Frankly, I didn't come up with any magic answers: all I did was apply myself to my translating chores, and tried to lead a balanced life. It helped, to a point; and after a month of thinking, I also figured out what to do with my online presence.

This journal will undergo a bit of a facelift (I'm not too tech-savvy, so don't expect a beautiful page!), a change of name, and a change of purpose. Once a week, no more, I'll post a short essay on a topic that tickles my fancy. And that'll be basically it -- until I'm comfortable going anywhere within a proverbial ten-foot pole of my personal life. The upshot is that the essays will be the only essays I write: I won't be doing any sneaky Croatian-language film-reviewing and essay-writing on the side, designed for publication in media that noone reads. I'll tackle things from movies and literature to the blogging/forum culture and the more general issues of the world we live in -- a wider scope than the reviewing of your usual blockbuster du jour gives you, and even if noone reads these short pieces (why would you, if I'm so notorious with replying to your replies?), it will provide an outlet for my various ruminations.

Anyway, this is coming as soon as I redesign the page. Meanwhile, Mom just called from Dr. Brother's car -- she's safe and sound in New Jersey, her flight was just slightly delayed. Sunny and I are tremendously happy and relieved to hear the news. And so is Granny, who just celebrated her 84th birthday today, hale, healthy and happy as ever, with the few family members who are still here.

Cheers, all!

Sick as a dog. First it was just general malaise, now I can barely go through my daily translating quote without feeling completely dizzy.

It's not nice being ill on your own, but I'm managing somehow. Have ordered the new/old R2 DVD of Empire Strikes Back to cheer me up, so that's something to look forward to. Of course, only later did I find out that I would've gotten slightly better quality at a slightly lower price if I ordered the NTSC R1 copy, as this new version is sourced from an NTSC transfer. Still, apparently they did a very good job, and the movie looks good even though it's non-anamorphic.

See? I can only spout geekicisms while I'm this woozy. Any more meaningful human contact is just out of the question. I think I might be depressed, although I don't see why. I mean, I kept my job, the White Jazz thing blew over nicely, and I've had some rather happy news and experiences this week. Still, I hope my usual bouncy self reasserts itself in the days to come. It'll make the daily routine of translating/cleaning/shopping/swimming a tad more interesting. And I could probably write -- there's all this pent-up writing inside me and it's bursting to get out. Not that it would ever find an audience here, or be good enough internationally, but it's just something I've been shirking for far too long. I hope it gets released.

Oh, and little Mia actually passed her entrance exam for the acting academy here in Zagreb, in severe competition. Bless her heart, now she's going to become one of those people, and within a year I won't even recognise her. Still, it made her happy, and she deserves a bit of that this year.

Thank you!

Guys, I had no idea about the kind of response I'd get to my last post. trailer_spot did send me a couple of incredibly supportive e-mails, but I figured he'd be the only person reading this blog after so much time. I mean, I was away doing other things, neglecting this community, and then I come back and say it was all quite shitty and... yeah, I didn't expect anyone to understand.

But people DO understand. I actually checked my e-mail!

Massimo from Venice: "We're not cross with you, Vlad, we just hope you can stay at our place next year."

Christine from the Wiesbaden festival: "I want you to come next year. We'll cover the airfare and accomodation."

And a few personal things. What, I'm not universally reviled? I think I would react like George Bailey if I had any emotional resources left. No, seriously, guys, I love everything that you wrote, even if I was too messed up to actually open this page and read your comments until tonight.

It's kind of about what happened this week, when I came back to my publishing house, Algoritam, to talk about my next assignments. (I've finished The Golem's Eye, the second book of the Bartimaeus Trilogy, during the latest leg of my vacation.)

The visit turned out into a battle to preserve the integrity of my "White Jazz" translation. It took me three months to finish it, and I handed it in in early 2005. Then the redactor sat on it for FIFTEEN months doing nothing, just waiting to meet me face to face. And she did that this week -- she happened to be there when I walked in, and before I had the time to get introduced, she told me I didn't know English, I shouldn't be allowed to translate books, and I should probably just jump out the window and die.

All this in front of my boss.

Of course, when we sat down and talked about the specific issues she had with my translation, it turned out that she preferred different renditions of US institutional terminology, to make them more consistent with their Croatian counterparts (not that that's a very wise thing to do), and that she wanted the 1950's terminology I employed bumped up to the current slang terms (something I vehemently disagree with). But I kept my cool, and she ended up looking like a total ass. And then I left the office, and she, in a huff, printed out three pages of my translation and doodled all kinds of idiotic changes onto them.

I'm actually taking a sample of her "improvements", along with my originals and the Ellroy original text, to my publisher tomorrow. And we'll see if he really wants to have such a completely falsified lingo in his translation.

Oh, I wish you guys knew Croatian. You have to take my word for the kinds of things that would be totally obvious to someone who speaks the language.

But that's one battle I think I'm gonna win, because I have reasonable arguments on my side. What worries me is that the people like this person have hoarded so much power in this country, infiltrating unis and institutions and even private publishing companies, that people like me are soon going to get completely pushed out. It's the Pula story all over again -- bullying, shouting, bullshiting in the name of bringing everyone under the sway of a humorless, talentless, obstinately Procrustean agenda.

But I'm not letting this floor get out from under me. I need my translating job to make ends meet, and to finance that postgrad study that I've postponed so long.

I'm picking myself up, slowly, and I WILL MAKE THIS GJ WORTH READING FOR MORE THAN MY SELF-PITYING RANTS in the near future. Lylassandra, Isthisthingon, Mardybum, Kaja, Platinum-Cobra, Wumbawoman, all of you -- thank you for the bottom of my heart for your patience, well-wishing, and encouragement. You are better people than I am, but at least you're there to inspire me.

I need to make a "hugging you all" icon soon, or something.

Where was I?

Well, the past month or so (with interruptions) I was on the island of Susak, a total exotic backwater place far out in the Adriatic, with no cars, no internet, no nothing, just Mom (with healing leg), Kitty Sunny (with healed leg and completely traumatised personality), and sundry inhabitants. I was recuperating from my Pula experience, and translating like a madman, just to catch up on my REAL working obligations.

Still, Sunny refused to be cuddled, petted, or held by me. She hissed and scratched a lot whenever I'd show up. But with Mom? Oh, she's her lapdog -- goes on limpy walks with her, obeys her every word. I suppose my mom has a way with cats, just like Aragorn with horses. And I happen to not have inherited the gift.

(BTW, Mom refers to Sunny as my sister. So if my sister is traumatised, two can play this game.)

Pula? Wasn't good. Outwardly, it was, though. Kinda. Best attendance in years, highest ratings in a decade, yadda whatever. Inwardly, hugely criminal behavior in the top decisionmaking echelon, bullying instead of teamwork, nervous breakdowns galore, incompetence shielded by surliness. Three months of that. And you wonder why I haven't posted anything all this time. To top it all off, I never got paid.

Yeah, I lost around four thousand Euros altogether, and it seems that my Cannes trip will end up being funded out of my own pocket. I said I would give my utmost to dive into Croatian cinema this year, and all I got was a cautionary tale that I'm too old to heed. So right now I'm taking a sabbatical from Croatian cinema, that blighted, godforsaken phenomenon with very few redeeming features.

Also, I think I've been developing a fullblown stress disorder. It took me a while to figure out just how much I was hurt by Cleo's decision to stop talking to me last year; it's just not the same thing when your soulmate is not there for you anymore. And these few days that I've been back, I've shirked the internet completely -- I haven't checked out her LJ, and I even haven't checked out MY OWN EMAIL OMG, just because it's bound to be chock full of angry messages from my Venice roommates.

Dammit. I just totally wasn't able to fund my own trip to Venice this year, even though I had a cheap shared room there, and the movies promised to be excellent. Not with the kind of losses I had to face.

So now my roommates are probably pissed off at me royally. I did try to find someone else to stay in my bed, but failed, and now they'll have to collectively share my expense. (It's the apartment we used to rent at a flat rate, so any new roommate would be welcome, as the cost would be spread among more people.)

I know I'm bad to shirk my own email. It's just that the blows and disappointments have been multiplying to the point where I have a hard time adjusting.

Am probably vastly overreacting. Still, I'm posting here for the first time in umpteen months, so hopefully I'll come back to being my old self soon.

Hugs to all who read this, it will mean a lot.

I know that this journal has been running dreadfully behind, but now it's either going to completely collapse under the weight of real life, or blossom into something richer and stranger. (It'll all depend on my wireless connection, really.)

The thing is, I've just been named the Executive Director of the 53rd Pulafilmfestival, the main Croatian feature fest, held in one of the best-preserved Roman arenas in the world. And now... well, the job is as hectic as it sounds.

Plus, I'm keeping my regular translating employment, plus the film reviewing gigs. And I'll be shuttling between my home city of Zagreb and Pula on an almost daily basis -- the festival is in just over two months' time, and there's just so much work to do! Thankfully I'll have a hotel room at my disposal there until the end of July, plus a free cellphone, and my new laptop will prove extremely handy. I mean, I burned the promo CD of the previous years' photos while waiting for the local equivalent of AAA to come to the rescue of the car which drove me on one of my shuttling trips today. On the shoulder of a highway. How did I ever manage to live without my Vaio?

The promo CD is for the Croatian promo desk at Cannes. Yeah, I didn't know I was going to Cannes. Until today. And now I'll be the official representative of the Croatian cinema.

This is all SO SO SO surreal. All I ever wanted was to be able to make a small, decent film. But, seemingly, I'll be forced to do every other film-related job in this country before the powers-that-be decide to have mercy on little me and my foolish aspirations.

P.S. Cleo, if you ever read this, girl, I'll organise a live reading of the Gladiator m15m in the Arena. Just give me a shout. I miss your RAAAAAs, anyway.

P.P.S. June, if you ever read this, girl, we still need to film the ending of the docu. On Brijuni. Ditto about shouting. Just do it via e-mail.

Among other things, I saw Mission: Impossible III yesterday.

And yes, it's everything that I expected it to be. I, who have bought every single season boxset of Alias and Lost out there, who download every single episode of Lost up to and including S.O.S. (yes, I know it was Lostnesday yesterday, I'm working on it), I, who have tooted the horn of J.J. Abrams to my fellow critics and filmmakers who never even heard of the man, after the press screening. I have some mighty high standards to hold J.J. up to, based on his own work and on De Palma's work on the first M:I movie, and yeah, he delivers.

Suffice to say this: noone, not even Greengrass and Liman in their Bourne films, and certainly not any of the Bond directors, have played with the whole spy game genre with such a deft hand and such a profound combination of geeky adoration for source material and intelligent ways to circumvent its trappings since... well, since James Cameron in True Lies, or, more to the point, Alfred Hitchcock in North by Northwest. Of course, the latter film was the original inspiration for this whole genre, but J.J. and his good old Alias writers, Kurtzman and Orci, basically give us a state-of-the-art update of the entire concept for the 21st century. This is the new yardstick movie by which the likes of Casino Royale will be measured: and those guys had better have their shit together if they want to make a difference. J.J. has made the movie Hollywood can only thank whatever pantheon it believes in for, and a movie that kept me on the edge of my seat, my nerves, and my emotional involvement, for the best part of its two hours.

And yes! It has Lawrence Fishburne who Doesn't. Talk. Like. This. And. Actually. Pokes. Fun. At. Himself, and it has Phil Hoffman doing the baddest badass since Lecter (toughhh words here, but I stand by them), and Maggie Q being your best buddy and the gorgeousest thing on the planet in just a few moves... J.J. doesn't have the luxury of building a mythology here, unlike in Alias, but he builds on whatever the first two movies have left him with and just flies with it. He IS the most talented person in Hollywood at the moment, and M:I III is the most assured big-screen debut since... well, I dunno. Star Wars, Jaws and The Terminator were second features. And they weren't sequels to a troubled franchise. J.J. is rescuing Star Trek now, and I can't stress how grateful the Trekkies and the Trekkers must be for that.

J.J. is not a genius, btw: he's just so incredibly good at what he does. Why can't everyone raised and trained in Hollywood be as good as he is?

Okay, enough spoiler-free reviews of the current blockbusters. How about me? Yes! I survived England, even though my ex fiancé turned out to be my worst nightmare of who she could be at this point in my life. I finally met Susanne and Andrew and Chi in person, lovely, adorable people all, and much ale was had, and V for Vendetta was seen at the largest screen in Europe with a view of the Big Ben right outside the exit (even though, yes, Susanne, thank you, the Big Ben is the bell, and the tower is called something or other inane), and William Blake and Henry Fuseli originals were seen, ditto the Sutton Hoo mask, and London in itself was a marvellous, marvellous experience, and, heck, even Devon was nice, I can't help it if Teresa traded me in for a lesser guy, can I.

And why haven't I updated since then? Well, I had to dive headlong into the National Short Film Festival, where I ran the press service and the daily bulletin. Suffice to say that my press conferences were held in a café where I had to literally beg the barman not to grind his espresso beans during the proceedings, and that my bulletin was achieved without a phone line, a printer, an internet connection, Microsoft Word, Adobe InDesign or Quark Express, namely, without any hardware or software actually needed for it. My new laptop, the Sony Vaio VGN-FE11M did a lion's share of the work, but the young crew was indispensable. I met a few 20-year-olds who I'll be proud to know from now on, and they more than made up for any and all of the Festival's failings. And, besides, the short subjects were good -- and my friends won the top awards. Gigo Vitez, the director of the sitcom I assisted with last year, won Best Screenplay for his short film about the lynching of a paedophile priest, and Ivona Juka, an old, old friend, won both the Grand Prix and the Critics' Prize for her docu about a troupe of prison inmates -- filthy thieves and murderers all -- performing the Midsummer Night's Dream, and being their intolerable selves. I still am trying to fathom where Ivona got the strength to actually spend so much time with people of that sort, and how she got them to become so real, ugly and heartbreaking as they are, for her camera. But I've spent a lot of time with her since her win, and she's quite amazing in very many ways.

So much for this fortnight's update. I'm tired as hell and expectant as the seventh heaven, mind you.

Devon Sightings and Other Horror Stories

Okay, so I'm back in London after spending two days in Devon with my ex, Teresa. It was an educational experience. This is what I learned:

-- A 50-minute bus ride in London can actually take 100 minutes, causing you to miss a train;

-- Do not despair, another train will be there shortly. Hopefully run by the same company;

-- Once you arrive in Devon, at the English Riviera, sleeting rain and buffeting winds are to be expected. However, if you're with someone dear to you, you'll gladly walk three miles uphill in that weather, laughing the whole time;

-- Then again, once you get dry, you might realise that in her case "moving on" might mean "has completely forgotten everything of importance that ever happened between you two, including the one moment that you remembered as the most romantic in your entire life";

-- And you will spend time like you would on a holiday, going on walks around the counryside and being relaxed, but you'll also feel quite empty at the end of the day.

So that was this particular experience. Educational, but not entirely pleasant. Then again, I have so many femscars on my heart that I honestly don't think one more will matter in the long run.

Thankfully, one of Teresa's coworkers offered me a place to stay at in London over the next four nights, as I was suddenly left without accomodation after a previous arrangement fell through. So the trip proved to be essential in more ways than one! I'm now at the quite Christmassy North Pole Road in White City, and have just had a few pints with Susanne, and my boss, Neven, who's in town just randomly with his family.

It's good being back in London. Although the English countryside is still the prettiest in the world, bar none...

England, or Being Too Busy

No, seriously, the days are just passing in a whirl. Not helped by the fact that I have my daily quota of translating to do, and also had to write eight pages of film reviews for the Croatian National Radio today. Which means that I missed most of the gorgeous weather in London today, except for my evening meeting with Jonathan Stroud, in which much beer was drunk right behind the National Gallery, which he so gleefully destroyed in Book II of the Bartimaeus Trilogy. Jonathan is so awesome, though. A truly nice, smart, funny man, and someone I liked dearly.

Other highlights: The British Museum (finally!), the Hilde af Klint exhibition (Theosophy!), jumping around the fountain in the Somerset Place, spending a lovely Saturday morning with Carlo, Michael, Liz, Maria and Emma in Borough Market (crowded!), the constant view of the Gherkin Building (penile!), meeting Mr. and Mrs. Susanne (go old LJ friendships!), jetlag (severe!) and fretting about meeting Teresa tomorrow (after five years!).

I still have to write the closing paragraph of that NEVERENDINGLY HUGE radio review, and I'm tired as a cargo elephant and as nervous as a mouse it just inhaled, so wish me luck.

Four hours to go!

Apart from bouncing around the place, I've managed to:

-- Borrow a laptop, because my own hasn't arrived to the distributor in time;

-- Charge all my batteries in the lappy, DV camera, digicam, and mobile phone;

-- Print out the reservation code for the flight and shuttlebus service to Victoria Station;

-- Arrange sleeping accomodations for the first week of my stay;

-- Obtain phone numbers of everyone I was originally scheduled to meet;

-- Obtain detailed information on how to get to Paignton on Tuesday;

-- Get a haircut;

-- Swim another kilometer, to spend some of this rampant energy;

-- Arrange a paragliding experience early on Sunday;

-- Watch four documentaries in competition at the festival into which I'm dipping headlong upon return;

-- Exchange about two dozen e-mails with everyone I'm meeting;

-- Cuddle Sunny and Mom lots.

All that's left now is to put the washed and ironed clothes in a bag, and wait for my uncle -- he turned 60 yesterday, and is taking me to the airport after 4 PM! Which means I still have two hours to bounce around the apartment some more, or perhaps talk to my recently-arrived Treebeard Bust...

YAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAY!!!!

London Update

Okay, so I'm leaving in fifty hours. Not a long time! Only half the people I contacted have bothered to respond, but even so my England schedule seems to be quite crowded. It goes basically like this: I'll be in London Saturday, Sunday and Monday, then leave for Devon early on Tuesday, stay there for a day, go to Exeter on Wednesday, to Reading on Thursday morning, and by evening, I should be in London again. And staying there over the Easter weekend and the following Monday.

Most of the time in London is unscheduled, except for a beer date with Jonathan Stroud which still hasn't got a... date. And I'll be checking both this blog and my e-mail (vcsever@yahoo.com) all the time, so feel free to contact me for any reason, including, but not limited to, cups of tea, art films, exhibitions, concerts, church services and clubbing, throughout the time I'll be in London.

Yay!

The Campbell Afterword

Here's what I did to relieve the drudgery of translating Twilight. Y'know, at the same time as I was prepping the trip, dealing with dodgy eBay sellers, posting on the internet forums, and enjoying a nice B-movie that is Underworld: Evolution. At the same time as I was leading a normal life of anyone with an online presence, in other words.

I finally started writing the Afterword to my translation to A Hero with a Thousand Faces. The book won't be out for at least six more months, but that essay was due, and, you know? Where better to sum up the totality of my reflections on it, as it relates to the world, on the world, as it relates to it, and on the world, as it relates to the world?

The battle for individuality seems completely lost today.

Across the world -- from the First, dedicated to a fight for power, profit and rights; through this our Second, dedicated to a fight for merging with the First, while at the same time grabbing for power, profit and rights; all the way to the Third, dedicated to a fight for mere survival -- even if there is a battle being waged within the human being itself, then it is a battle for identity. In other words, a battle for identification: identification with one of the available supra-personal parameters, be it those of gender, religion, or race; be it those of nation, politics, or class. And a battle for the rights based on an identity thus acquired.

Make no mistake: this is a true battle. Pitched, entrenched, unjust, often perfectly treacherous. A battle with ideological leaders, victims, martyrs, villains and heroes. A battle whose end is, also, out of sight: the elementary right to an identity, even supported by that condition closest to the common sense, of forfeiting the right to endanger anyone else's right to an identity, is almost inachievable in any one of our three worlds. Separated, unyielding, unforgiving, frustrated and mortally afraid of the claim that they are still just one and the same, global world. Inseparably connected, inextricably intertwined.

That terrible global world. That nightmare of all who crave identification with something smaller, warmer, closer and more understandable; with this or that given truth, undeniable doctrine, guaranteed path to the Absolute. That shining ideal of all who dream of a more just, more equal division of power, profit and rights, for all, everywhere, whoever it may be, whatever they might identify with. Intolerance as the extreme in the former; tolerance in extremis in the latter. The irreconcilable nature of the battle to preserve the old, conceived in the categories created for past times and other frameworks, and the battle to usher in new frameworks, conceived in the categories created... for past times also.

Loud is the rattle of automatic rifles; frivolous is the fire of hand propelled grenades; dull is the boom of stepped-on landmines; seductive is the clicking of the buttons of guided missiles; soft is the hum of forgotten nuclear warhead missile silos. Dry is the cry of the eyes of children who will never see a faucet running with potable water; bitter is the substance abuse of the fathers who don't earn enough to be the heads of their families; wordless is the suffering of the mothers who know that even their unceasing labor will not put the food on the tables of their loved ones. Thunderously soar to the clouds the cries of devotion to this or that One and Only God; acidly the clouds rain upon the raped earth. Silent is the pain of those who dared to love a person of their own sex; vehement are the judgments of those who advocate life eternal in the company of those who share their values.

And underneath this caustic murmur of the anguished world, above it, within it, a ceaseless, shrill cry of political slogans, advertising messages, products that guarantee a more prestigious life, advice for delaying death through healthier life. Energy, economy, resources, regulations, progress, proceeds, institutions, interventions, marketing, manipulation, extraction, extinction.

Noise.

The noise of a war waged on a hundred battlefields, far away, right here, around us, within us.

There's no mountaintop out there to climb that hasn't been flagged by this or that conqueror; no desert island out there to reach that isn't stalked by monsters we brought there ourselves.

Too bad, it seems that we truly cannot hear silence anywhere. If giddy Kalashnikov gunfire isn't splitting our eardrums already, we'll be only too happy to plug them into our iPods.

Too bad, it seems that there's truly no place silent enough for us to hear that silence.

Identified with this or that frequency of the noise, we loudly walk in step with this or that current, its slogans, its explications, its truths. Our identity found, or still sought for, we still proudly march along the rhythm that will eventually appear; all the options are on the table already, we just need to dilligently browse through them. Haven't all the important truths been stated already? Haven't they been already poetically hard covered in hundreds of pages of sundry holy writs? Hasn't someone already said that the history had ended?

We need to search for ourselves; we need to fight for ourselves; we need to prove ourselves; we need to assert ourselves.

What we don't need is to keep silent.

And where's the fool who said that there was a voice in the silence?

...yeah, this is my cure for a lonesome Thursday night. After a workout, after doing the dishes and the laundry, after playing with Sunny. Good night, my dears.

Twilight

About twenty days ago, I told myself I'd just hole myself up in my den and type away to translate as much of Stephenie Meyer's Twilight if I could before April. I needed to get as much of that translation done before my trip to England and the week-long PR job at the national short film festival, both fun events which were going to leave me no spare time for my salaried work. Now, less than three weeks after that, I'm happy to say that I've put more than half the book behind me, and that on a good day I'm able to complete over twenty pages of it. It's one of the least difficult books out of the three dozen or so I've translated so far. I'm already gaining on my April quota, which should be half completed by the time actual April rolls in.

So why am I sick of the experience?

Basically, it's not a very good book. It's a vampire romance novel; more precisely, it's a vampire novel as imagined by someone who grew up on a steady diet of romance novels (and, apparently, reality TV). The plot, such as it is, merely serves to underscore the discovery made by Meyer's own Mary Sue (named, just in case you were wondering if I'm exaggerating, Bella Swan) of the perfectest, mostincrediblest, awecorest guy in the everest of ever - who falls hopelessly in love with her klutzy, ordinary self, saves her from all kinds of dangers, and also, darkly, deliciously, and oh so romantically, happens to be a vampire.

I take back anything I've ever said about the Harry Potter being a vicarious story, because NOTHING compares to this. I've dealt with some gothy teenage girls in my time, and Twilight is designed to keep punching them below the belt until they can't stand up straight. A great victory for the book's publishers (and, potentially, for MTV films, who have bought the rights even before the book came out), and a huge, huge loss of innumerable young minds.

What's worse for my aged, experienced mind, is Meyer's style, which seems to be comprised of an endless collection of words for "look", "smile" and "face" in an effort to describe every nuance of Bella's and Edward the Vampire's expressions. I could easily write it off as juvenile and pulpy if not for the nagging feeling that the writer and her editors actually gunned for it -- that this minute description of only what can be seen constitutes easily readable, and thus commendable, writing. That this kind of anti-style is being actively promoted as what the mass-market prose needs. And now I'm complicit in this one small venue for dumbing down the unsuspecting future generations.

So that has been my daily life. Hope yours is better! In any case, I just wanted to say that if anyone of you has Skype, and wants to share a word (and hopefully lift me out of my drudgery), just do a search for "Vladimir Cvetkovic Sever" and I'll be happy to talk to you -- even using my new webcam, if you're not too afraid to see me...

A hundred thousand characters later...

So, just days after Crash did the puniest sweep of the puniest Oscars ever (I think the acting nods and the costume, cinematography and makeup awards were awarded rightly, and that's about it; and, eh, I adored Jon), they announced the Director's Cut. It's good to have official confirmation that the version we saw in cinemas was a studio hack job.

Anyway, a lot of stuff has happened! Milosevic has died, the bastard! Even in death he cheats justice! Now the Serbs will never learn to behave, even if Karadzic and Mladic end up summarily executed on Times Square. Even if Milosevic's megabitch widow, Mira Markovic, is brought to justice; Lady Macbeth has nothing, nothing on her. So. Yeah. I'm pissed off at the old bastard for dying on us like that.

But better things have happened, too! I've discovered the joys of Skype, so I'm getting my daily fill of my brother and his family. Apparently weather has gotten unseasonably warm in New Jersey, while here we seem to have a different season every day. Also, I've discovered that I can swim half a kilometre without losing my breath; I guess all this swimming is paying off magnificently. On Wednesday, I went with a friend to spend some quality time with swans at the local lake, to spite the bird flu paranoia. What magnificent birds! And, best of all, my cousin Leon (remember him? he was comatose just a year ago) graduated this past Friday.

Mainly, though, I've been working. The Amulet of Samarkand is done and finalised, and I've even set up a beer-drinking date with the book's author, Jonathan Stroud, next month in London. Now I'm deep into Stephenie Meyer's Twilight, having done over a hundred thousand charactes of it since late Monday. That's a lot of typing! I'm trying to create a backlog of translation for my April, which is shaping up to be an exciting month. Immediately after my return from England, I'll be delving into the national short film festival, where I've just been appointed as the PR director. Ought to be fun!

I hope you all are having a great early March, too.

Enjoy your Oscars.

I'm actually up at this late hour, and I'll stay up long enough to see Jon Stewart's opening speech. But this is the one year where I just don't really care who wins or loses, as most of the nominations are too outrageous to really count. After Million Dollar Baby's win last year, this award show is just not worth me staying up all night long anymore.

But I've had a lovely day today! Well, despite there being a huge blizzard that covered the city in five inches of snow within hours. And me having to go out all the time. There was a dinner for four to go out, buy, and prepare, and a birthday party downtown to attend, and finally, mother to pick up at the airport at 11.30 PM. Now my family is complete, Mom is safely back from America, Kitty Sunny has already scratched her nose, and all is good with the world.

Except that it isn't, but who cares. I'll be up for maybe a hundred minutes longer, and after that, it's (see how much I don't care?) ...good night, and good luck.

England, England, England

Is a country where I want to be... And I know I've been singing this tune for a while now, yea verily, but finally I can do something about it. In fact, I just did!

I'll be arriving to London on Friday, 7th of April, and staying in the country for ten days. In that time, I hope to meet everyone there who wants to meet me, and enjoy my favoritest country in the world. Also, I'll be checking out the local unis, trying to narrow down the long list of those that seem interesting, with a view of entering a postgrad course sometime late this year or early the next. Of course, I'll have to set some time aside for working while I'm there, but the joy of my present employment is in that I can work virtually anywhere. So: for two weekends and one working week I'll be in England, traipsing around unis and pubs with you guys, or solo, as the case might be.

I've made my travel arrangements courtesy of a low-cost carrier called Wizzair, which starts operating a Zagreb-London/Luton line from 27th March. I got my return ticket for just 35 Euros, although I still had to pay 80 Euros for taxes on top of that. Still, that's dirt cheap, really, and easily affordable. I'll definitely end up paying more for National Express or any of the bazillion privatised (and horrendously unpunctual, if memory serves) train services...

Also, the UK government decided yesterday to end their visa regime with Croatia. No more visa hassles, not from 22nd March! Has all of this come together neatly or what?

I'd gladly whore myself out for accomodation, btw. But my trip to Devon is already arranged -- I'm checking out a uni in Exeter and staying at a hostel where my ex is currently working, so that's settled. That trip will, of course, be during the week. Over the two weekends in London, if I can't crash with anyone, a hostel will quite suffice. So it's not about whoring, it's about a change of scenery and making plans for the future!

Yay!

Shit, I miss blogging.

Worse than that, I miss people I meet while blogging. But this whole month was just wrong: first my little niece dies, then her parents decide to name her and give her a Christian burial, then the Roman Catholic Church actually agrees to that, then my mother learns the joys of Skype and starts calling me every night at 1 AM from New Jersey because she can't figure out this time difference thing, then I decide to stop collecting stuff and refocus on real-life issues, then I have a cameo on that sitcom I filmed three months ago and everyone is overjoyed at my acting ability, and then the endless birthdays start, as does the drizzly sludge, and the weariness of translating a set number of pages, and cleaning up not only my own bachelor mess, but Sunny's cat-mess every day.

I'm afraid I totally let you guys down. Okay, I'll be better, if anyone's still out there reading; if not -- well, at least Susanne will have a chance to meet me in about five weeks. Some major changes are coming up in my life. And, oh, that screenplay I said I'd write? It's almost done, but it's quite a bit darker than I thought it would end up being. It scares me. But it's just where it chose to go. So I shouldn't complain if my own life decides to steer itself in the same fashion.

So: Cleo, June, Gunther, Susanne, Kaja, Nits, everyone -- I hope you're safe and sound, and still remembering me. I might not have dealt with you outright over the past few months or so, but it was just a time when it wasn't truly opportune to blog. I might be in the minority of one, but I'm glad that time has passed. Konichiwa, I'll see y'all at Cannes or Moscow, I can't tell which, yet.

I'm sorry I haven't been updating, guys. We've had a family tragedy. My cousin lost her baby right before childbirth, possibly due to malpractice. My other cousin almost died after a difficult tooth surgery, after her practitioner administered wrong medication. My aunt and uncle are at their wits' end, and even if they sue, it will not give them their baby granddaughter back. And our Croatian doctors stick together, so it is very hard to win a malpractice lawsuit.

So it's been a gloomy January on that side of the family. Mom and I and Sunny are okay, and Mom is leaving for the States this Saturday. I've been working on my translations and lying low, so there isn't really much to report about me as me. And I know I should be giddy about the Oscar nominations, but after last year's debacle I can't bring myself to care. I hope you all are healthy and happy.

First Post of 2006

Took me long enough! True enough, it was because of my short-term New Year's Resolution -- not to blog until I've finished translating Bob Dylan's memoirs Vol. I. It's not a long book, but it's disjointed and rambling (and quite good), and the style is very idiosyncratic, all of which made for a very tiresome translation experience. I've done my best with it and I'm still not sure if it's gonna be readable. Several people I know in the rock music and reviewing business have offered their help, and hopefully they'll come through (Mile from the band Hladno Pivo would, if only his inbox weren't clogged with, presumably, scantily-clad pictures of femfans).

I've also spent a considerable amount of time watching Alias Season 3, a great show which was good to finally have on DVD. Can't wait to get Season 4, which will probably be as soon as my financial situation improves. Above all, I'm reverse-engineering the writing process used on it -- a bit tighter and more plot-driven than in Lost, just as sprawling but somehow less meandering, although the latter show has upped the character quotient and is a clear popular favorite. Hey, J. J. Abrams knows his stuff. And he says in one of the extras on the set that he got his shit together only after he found his wife. That's so true, btw -- I can't tell you how inspiring it is to be in a nurturing relationship! Lack of a nurturing relationship notwithstanding, I've also embarked on my long-term New Year's Resolution -- writing another film script. The initial pitch I came up with around Christmastime was "A postwar Western set in remote rural Croatia, with some elves". Naturally, the ideas and characters kept pouring in, and ten days later I have a workable outline. I'm still sceptical about ever being able to produce any of my stories in this filmmaking environment, but it's always a good idea to have one more up your sleeve.

Finally, a big-time New Year's Resolution seems to have come true in the final days of last year -- I've been offered a regular job, with full package, with Algoritam, the company that publishes most of my translations. This will probably give me financial safety in return for a reasonable amount of pages translated per month. And I won't even have to go to the office. I'm going over on Monday to iron out the details, with the Dylan book as my initial offering. Hopefully I'll be getting easy narrative prose from now on, the easier to churn them out. The salary will probably be quite comfortable, too.

So this gave me and my family a good reason to celebrate over the holidays, even though I stayed flat broke. Went to a house party with some girls of non-heterosexual preference for the New Year's, and mostly played party games like Trivia for Dummies. Had a nice time, even though it wasn't as bizarre as it probably sounds. Stayed indoors afterwards. Feel calm, accomplished, and flat broke, which is a strange concoction. And Sunny has taken to tickling me while I watch my DVDs, the fluffy thing. Doctor Brother's stay came and went by in a flash, and now Mom is planning to go over to New Jersey and spend the entire February there. Hope I'll have at least a treatment ready by the time she returns.

Have a good '06, guys.

Sleeping Awake: My Post-Christmas Vigil

I have to confess something.

I don't really like Christmas.

Or, rather, I don't like what it has become. Not just in the reach-new-heights-of-commerce-and-tackiness sweepstakes, but in the whitewash-more-brains competition indulged in by the current, charisma-free, worldwide-domination-minded Pope. It's not easy celebrating Christmas in an in-letter-only Christian country like Croatia, and I tried to stay away from it as much as I could. I partied hard on Friday with the cast and crew of my sitcom, Bitange & Princeze, and had a lovely time (Tarik Filipovic -- our star -- helped out a lot with the karaoke, and Mile Kekin -- our featured player and a rock personality -- said he'll help me out with the Dylan translation). Went to Iva's birthday party in her parents' huge house on Saturday, but intentions of debauchery were quickly snuffed by a lack of uninvolved females (of which there was only one, the titular celebrant). Sunday was the day when the drudgery set in, with a dinner of inevitable fried greasy food at my brother's in-laws, and a return of my sibling to his old passive-aggressive ways. I tried to amuse myself with the fact that although he looks like Captain Hero Dr. Jack (why do you think our mom likes Lost?), his wife's first husband is a dead ringer for... Sawyer.

I miss Lost. Fortunately, Captain Hero Dr. Brother brought me two presents I bought for myself via Amazon, saving me shipping and customs fees. Alias Season 3 is long overdue, but I'm looking forward to it greatly, having purposely avoided the season on TV. And the Val Lewton Collection is a godsend: a series of nine, mostly obscure 1940s horror titles saddled with ridiculous titles from the studio's front office, they're some of the most intelligent, touching, and impressive movies I've seen all year. So far, I've sampled a movie a night, taking my time, seeing only Cat People and it's sequel, The Curse of the Cat People. The latter is my surpising favorite, being second only to Portrait of Jennie as far as period tales of children and the supernatural go. There's also a nice documentary in the set, in which we learn that Val Lewton was in fact an Eastern European named Vladimir who spent his early thirties thinking his life was going nowhere, was oversensitive and highly creative, couldn't play motion picture politics too well, and a lot of people admire him nowadays, even though he died of heart failure at the age of 46. So this has been the only truly spooky part of this "horror" collection so far. (We also learn that Neil Gaiman makes for a wonderful interview subject, and I wish more DVD boxsets featured him on a regular basis.)

Right now, I'm trying to bring the Dylan book to its conclusion, so I can present it to my own front office a day after New Year's and DEMAND MY MONEY. I'm also staying up because a relative has sent us a huge package of fruits from Southern Croatia by bus, but the bus arrives at 4.50 AM and there's nothing to it but for me to stay up and leave at crack minus thirty to pick it up. Mom felt terrible for asking me to do it, but she's running a bit of a cold, so she ought to be getting a rest. Kitty Sunny, bless her spayed innards, is as crazy as she's ever been, having watched the two Cat People movies with great interest, but she was nowhere to be found when we tried to recruit her to go to the bus station.

I hope y'all are recuperating from the holiday cheer splendidly!

Winter

Ah, I finally have the internet! Okay, can post again, whee.

First of all -- a big shout out to Kaja, Lorien, and Gunther, who have surprised and delighted me with their Christmas cards over this week. You guys are too nice and too generous with your time and postage stamps. And I don't know what I've done to deserve your kindness, but I hug you muchly.

Second -- well, the fact I haven't had any internet access in the beginning of this week is directly related to the fact that I haven't paid my internet bill, which is then related to the fact that my Campbell publisher has coldly forgotten to pay at least a bit of the remaining money they owe me at the completion of the project. Instead of being rich for Christmas, I'm actually dirt poor: mom has lent me the money to pay the net bill, and the money I've gotten for the Unfinished Tales index is barely enough to cover my credit card expenses from November. It sorta takes the lustre from the holiday cheer -- my credit card has now been suspended, to add insult to injury. And my brother and his family are coming over from the States tomorrow: I barely had the cash to buy the first Narnia book for the kid (in Croatian translation), and Cleo's book for Dr. Brother and Wife of Dr. Brother. I hope they like it enough. (Yes, Cleo's book is available in Croatian bookshops. The UK original, of course. Why wouldn't it be?)

Anyway. Lustre taken away. Which is sad: this Tuesday we had the Christmas party of my publisher, Algoritam, and they brought Unfinished Tales straight from the printers to the event. It's their tentpole release of the season, even though it came to the bookstores only today. Apparently it's selling like hotcakes! I've been over to check it out and indeed, they have a huge pile of them and people keep taking their copies. It's a pretty book, with a very nice illustration of Gandalf the White writing something in green ink and getting all dirty, much like Neil Gaiman. The website still lists it as "unavailable", btw: I obviously haven't started working on the final production a day early, as it has two and a half days to set sales records before Christmas... I'm pretty happy with it, even though it has some small mistakes despite all my niggling. But that's just inevitable with Tolkien, I guess. As it is, it was a great professional and personal present to me for my 35 1/2th birthday, which was today.

Yesterday, I saw Narnia: at an unscheduled press screening, hungover from last night. And I fell in love with it. I still see all its downsides -- the quaintness of the original story, and the pedestrian direction -- but it's just a beautiful thing all the same. All the archetypes still work, Lucy deserves an Oscar for Best Child, and the scene in which she and Susan mourn at the Stone Table just melted my heart with its sorrowful perfection. The creature work and the complex effects were grandiose -- simple bluescreen frequently sucked. It feels like nothing so much as a 1950s movie, with all their designs and their staging, done with 2000's technology, and, in a way, it's very fitting. I'll see it again, as soon as it opens.

Have to go and rest. Been translating a lot of Dylan's Chronicles during the Time of No Net, and hopefully my publisher will see it fit to pay me first thing in January if I deliver the manuscript by New Year. Then perhaps I'll get my credit card back and not be dirt poor in 2006... Also, I've been invited to my sitcom's seasonal wrap party tomorrow, and my old friend Iva's birthday on Saturday, so at least I'll be able to drown my woes in some debauchery. Don't think I'll be able to post before Christmas, then: and poor as I am, at least I can share something with you -- a review of The Complete Recordings, one of the things that ate into my credit card bill last month, and the most welcome one. I wrote it for the Shadow and Flame forum, and it can be accessed here.

Merry Christmas, then: Merry, and Happy, and not too Sneezy, and just a little bit Pippin. May you all be as happy and as content as you so richly deserve!

Sad Sights of the World: Spayed Sunny

So Mom gave Sunny to some in-law vet last night, and she came back to us today, spayed.

She has an inch-long cut on her belly. And a lampshade collar around her head to prevent her from licking the suture. She's also drugged and woozy, although she ambles unsteadily at times. We pet her a lot, but she snarls at us. Her pupils are completely dilated and she just feels like crawling into a corner ~~and dying~~ most of the time.

I dunno. Compared to what people say, she seems to be doing okay, and will be up and about within two days. But we just took her away from her happy life and caused her unutterable anguish, and I don't know how she'll ever be able to trust us again.

Let me tell you about Kong, Jimmy

So, Jimmy, today I've seen the movie everyone's talking about. And you're in it, but let's not get carried away, okay, Jimmy? Bear in mind that other people will want to find out about it too, and we can't spoil their other surprises. That doesn't mean we can't give them assorted caveats, though. Or does it, Jimmy?

First of all: Peter Jackson's King Kong is good, but not really great, Jimmy. Bits of it are indeed astounding: some of the most amazing stuff ever put on screen, even. Other bits of it, however, are quite dodgy, and as a whole, the movie is an unbalanced, overlong labor of sheer love. I'd compare it to an act of lovemaking that insists on giving you multiple orgasms, even though you've had your fill for the evening and from now on can basically just feel sore; but as the lover just happens to be someone from your nerdiest daydreams, you're willing to grin and bear it... I said I would compare it, but I'm sorry I did, Jimmy, because you're underage and all.

The movie has three parts, and is easier to digest if we talk about each of them in turn. The first part, Jimmy, is the one that sets up the Great Depression: because, you see, the audiences of 2005 don't actually live in the said Depression, and yet the story of Kong is one that's specifically tailored to that time frame, and more importantly, to that frame of mind. You need to feel down about the world surrounding you to seek hugely escapist entertainment, and yet this entertainment simply can't afford to seem trivial precisely because of the surroundings; and the deeply archetypal story of Beauty and the Beast fits the bill only if the timing is right. (What's that? You do feel down about the world surrounding you, Jimmy? Well I told you you were underage.) So: the Great Depression is set up really well, but I'm not sure how many people will take that as an exposition for the benefit of their own mindsets, not as something that has a particularly important bearing on the story.

Also, in this part a lot of other things are set up, and most of them won't have much to do with the story either, Jimmy. We do meet our intrepid filmmaker Charles Denham, who's built up as a cross between Orson Welles and Merian C. Cooper, but played by Jack Black, whose dramatic range isn't exactly up to the task. Then there's Jack Driscoll, played by the always good Adrien Brody, doing the best he can with the material -- more satisfactory here than in any of the following acts, alas. Finally, there's Ann Darrow, played brilliantly by Naomi Watts, even though she's introduced wearing a mustache. Ms. Watts will provide the emotional backbone of the reminder of the story, which by rights belongs to her, and not to either of the two Jacks (Black or Driscoll), even though they somehow didn't get the memo. (Oh, we also get introduced to about 56 other ancillary characters, including you, Jimmy, but I'm still trying to figure out why.) And let it be known that Mr. Jackson, the uberfan of old filmmaking, actually loses two brownie points in this section: a) because you can't shoot sound takes with a handcranked camera, and b) because the concept of a B-movie simply didn't exist back in 1933...

Soon, a pattern emerges: everything will be played out just slightly over the top. And that's fine for a movie entitled King Kong, I guess: there has to be some theatricality to the proceedings, Jimmy, even though it means that every time someone mentions Sk... Isl... under their breath, the poor composer will underline their words with his multipurpose Kong Theme (one of only two proper ones composed for the film). And a more visible pattern is also in evidence: this movie, more than any movie ever made, just BEGS TO BE SPOOFED BY CLEOLINDA JONES. In fact, Jimmy, you might notice how her Lost recaps are eminently applicable here, what with the movie's second act happening on possibly the same island; and her book -- well, combine the Jurassic Park, LOTR, and Titanic m15ms, and you'll have a ready-made Kong one. So much so that it's really hard to watch the movie with a straight face sometimes. Even though it peddles my own recent career highlights, like Heart of Darkness or Singapore, somehow it's still all about Cleo.

Anyway, Jimmy, if you thought that the miscalculations and excesses of the first half were serious, that's actually nothing compared to those taking place on Skull Island. (We can finally say its name! SKULL ISLAND!) It has some natives, played by actors of all ethnicities in blackface, and sometimes by digital doubles, even, just to underline the filmmakers' cultural sensitivity. But even though they did frighten you, Jimmy (not to mention induce the worst overuse of double- and triple-printed takes -- sometimes mistaken for "shakycam" -- in the history of commercial cinema), they actually have only one plot point to fulfil. And after they do that, they conveniently disappear without a trace. The island also has a lot of ruins, remnants of an obviously post-Lemurian civilisation, and a marvellous ecosystem. Together, they make for the best playground a filmmaker can wish for: and that's the movie's biggest downfall.

I don't know if you noticed it, Jimmy, but Peter Jackson can be a very unruly child if not chaperoned properly by Ms. Walsh and Ms. Boyens. And on Skull Island, they let him loose: what's worse, they let him loose with a humungous budget and a special effects company all his own. The result is a series of incredibly complicated and minutely developed action sequences, each of which raises the bar in terms of sheer spectacle. But don't lie, Jimmy: you felt they were over the top, as did I, and you began phasing out even during the stampede; by the time of the log fight, the V-Rex fight, not to mention the Spider Pit fight, you kept wishing you were back in that Turkish prison. And I just wanted to e-mail the staff of the Oxford English Dictionary with assorted new meanings of the word overkill. Such as: if the fauna of Skull Island insist on overkilling each other at such a frightening rate, how did they ever survive for millenia? And I know I'm a grumpy old guy compared to your geeky vibes, Jimmy, but I assure you, this was the first time ever that the effects enthusiast in me firmly planted his foot down and cried less is more.

Actually, Jimmy, we get some of that in the interactions between Miss Darrow and the film's titular character, who also happens to be her equal in terms of acting chops. Kong is, let it be known, a truly unique creation; while it doesn't have the range of Gollum/Sméagol, it further proves the historically unique capability of Mr. Andy Serkis to imbue digital creations with all kinds of shading and nuance. Yet it never ceases seeming to be a real silverback gorilla who happens to be able to act. He's also the only effect in the movie that gets a ten out of ten across the board. So: the scenes he shares with Ann, as they discover each other and gain mutual trust, are infinitely more compelling and dramatically rewarding than the circuses set up by Mr. Jackson in the parallel storylines. You do feel that the madammes Walsh and Boyens earned their fees here.

Kong gets captured and taken to New York: here the movie gets to the truly iconic ground, and fortunately, doesn't falter for a single beat again. (It even has Maestro Shore conducting some of the original music by Maestro Steiner, in an all-too-brief respite from the bombast of Maestro Newton Howard.) The entire third act is pretty much flawless: from the theatrical unveiling, through the street rampage, to the beautiful, vertiginous, truly perilous and deeply moving finale on top of the Empire State Building. Watch that part of the movie again and again, Jimmy. You'll see a perfect interaction of love for the source material, thoroughly developed filmmaking techniques, a color scheme that actually enhances the emotions on a frame by frame basis, and a slow buildup of emotions that pays off... kinda. Actually, Jimmy, I don't think that the famous last words, as uttered by Denham, pay the movie off particularly well: but that's the ending we're all stuck with, for better or worse. The movie itself said it way better already, anyway.

It's a shame that the over-the-top action on Skull Island took away much of the climactic feeling from this sequence, which rivals some of the most accomplished in the entire history of cinema. And it also left me with another very strong feeling, Jimmy: had we meandered less in the movie's opening hour, and concentrated on Kong and Ann during the Skull Island act, possibly even to the exclusion of every single dinosaur in the story, we might have had a less marketable product... but it could've been a small masterpiece.

As it is, Kong is just a well-done popcorn movie, occassionally too self-important, frequently too self-indulgent, but always fascinating, and sometimes even transcendent.

You should be proud of it, Jimmy. Now get back to your Conrad.

Best Scores of 2005

I was woken by an editor I never worked for before, asking me to provide a list of ten best scores of the year for an upcoming issue. I guess everyone knows me for a film music nerd in this country... And as most of you guys can't buy (or read) Jutarnji list, here's the Top Ten I came up with:

1. Danny Elfman, Tim Burton's Corpse Bride
2. Harry Gregson-Williams, Kingdom of Heaven
3. John Williams, Star Wars, Episode III: Revenge of the Sith
4. John Williams, Memoirs of a Geisha
5. Patrick Doyle, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire
6. Harry Gregson-Williams, The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe
7. Dario Marianelli, Pride & Prejudice
8. Alexandre Desplat, Hostage
9. John Williams, War of the Worlds
10. Howard Shore, A History of Violence

And I have heard just about everything of importance composed this year, aside from James Horner's New World and John Williams' Munich (both likely to end up on the list). Each of these scores is good enough to warrant a blind purchase, and they do range all over the place stylistically. I did write short explanatory blurbs for the newspaper, but I won't bother you with that right now.

I'm just sad that they didn't allow me to pick the Worst Score of the year -- that title would certainly have gone to Hans Zimmer and James Newton Howard for Batman Begins, probably one of the most atrocious blockbuster compositions ever. Not that JNH's own King Kong would be far from bottom... sadly enough.

Why does King Kong like blondes? Because he's an ape.

And it's amazing how this movie is entering the public consciousnes even though it's not out yet -- I guess it's a story everyone knows of, somehow, and also one that you can't really take very seriously. I hope I'll be able to. I'm seeing King Kong this Monday, and you can bet there'll be an advance review right here as soon as I get back -- a morning treat for you Americans.

Advance word is mixed, with geeks praising it to high heaven, but even they often mention PJ's various indulgences. I'm really afraid of those -- it feels like a case of the Grey Havens sequence all over again. That NBC preview drags and drags... Strike one. And now that I've heard the film's replacement soundtrack, by James Newton Howard, I'm starting to veer toward the unimpressed camp: there's a lot of music there, but very little in the way of theme or development. It's not one of the soundtracks I'll be playing again in a hurry. Strike two. So there.

Narnia won't open in Croatia for two more weeks, but I'm starting to get into its vibe. I mean, I'll never be as rabidly devoted to it as those who grew up with it, naturally, but at least I dig Harry Gregson-Williams' score. Apart from the songs, that is. It's all pretty awesome, and after all, HG-W has already bestowed this year's most welcome soundtrack surprise on us with Kingdom of Heaven. This one isn't quite on the same level, but I've had it on repeat ever since I downloaded it. Plus, Tilda does rock all kinds of worlds, and the Pevensies are adoptably cute.

Anyway. Movies. Big Hollywood movies. That's something I haven't had much time for lately, because of all the work I've been doing on the three books I have in current circulation. Unfinished Tales demanded quite a lot of shepherding: having finished the Index, I collaborated on the mapmaking process, the back cover blurb, the title page and whatnot. Right now, I have the book in a bindable copy that's gotten back from the printers, and I have until Monday morning to make any final changes to it. Looks pretty good, though. Thicker than my wrist. And at least I got the names in the acknowledgements section of the Translator's Note right. The Hero with a Thousand Faces is in the process of quote replacement. Which means that I spend a lot of time at the National and University Library, replacing my own translations of Campbell's quotes with the existing Croatian translations of the originals. I've really rejoiced in some of them -- a small nation like mine has one of the best Bhagavad Gitas of the non-Hindu world, I was happy to learn. But then our translation of the Golden Bough was based on a severely abridged version, rendering it useless for my purposes. Also, neither of the several available translations of Alf Layla wa-Layla (or A Thousand and One Nights, or simply Arabian Nights) actually has much beauty, so I'm seriously thinking of just replacing all the relevant quotes (the entire story of Kamar al-Zaman and Princess Budur, actually) with a rendering of my own. (Legend has it that anyone who reads the entire collection will become mad; this might account for the translators' misfortune.) Finally, and fortunately, Bob Dylan's Chronicles, Volume I, are proceeding v. nicely, and I hope to have the book done by Christmas Eve.

This is what I've been doing over the past week, anyway. Just a lot of tedious scholarly work. (Plus a local promotion of a Croatian movie this past Thursday, which was nice and easy, and the food was delicious.) Meanwhile, the Croats have managed to win the Davis Cup (hey hey), and lose their most revered war criminal to the Hague Tribunal (hey hey hey). As for the latter news item, I'll just say this: I've never had much more than scorn for any of the dogs of war who contributed to the cause of genocide in our petty wars, especially as they destroyed the moral high ground our nation did have at the outset: but this is hardly a view shared by anyone in the country. For all our Catholicism, we're a country (and a region, and a subcontinent) where the ends have always totally justified the means.

Nothing to it. Plenty of more interesting things going on around the Net at the time. In the meantime, I'll be over at the Library, adding the final quotes, and in my living room, listening to the Narnia music as I revise Tolkien. And hoping that the world can finally become quiet here once again.

Loose Ends

After going out on my own Thursday night -- there was an AIDS Awareness Day concert I checked out, filled with young people and a very good vibe, plus the Svadbas were performing, which is always nice -- I had a very emotional night out yesterday. Had a few drinks with Ines, my oldest pal, and after discussing the current stuff, she had some very interesting things to tell me about me and my emotional life, and the way I affect those who care about me. Not letting them in, basically. And here I was thinking just the opposite. Is it possible to reject someone you actually care for, because you can't bring yourself to believe that they might care for you too? Quite so; and Ines had a few especially heartrending examples to offer.

So I was quite shaken when I went to bed last night.

Had a rather peculiar dream this morning. I was in a room with a girl (I don't know who), and there was a large mirror there, and the girl looked into it and screamed. I went to see for myself what's so frightening, and when I looked, I saw the girl still reflected in the mirror, and the rest of the room... in fact, everything was reflected but me. And I remember thinking very rationally in my sleep how this is impossible, and this is just a nightmare, and I'm better off waking up.

So I woke up. There was a distressing text message from Kaja on my mobile, and I hope my little Polish sis is okay. And there was an e-mail from Neil, curiously enough not dispatching any of his Morpheus/Daniel wisdom, just sending over a file of Anansi Boys and saying how he liked the copy of Cleo's book that istoo gave him. There was nothing to it, so I sat down and started translating Neil's book, getting lost in the process, and covering about eight pages in one go.

Then I remembered that I actually downloaded and burned episodes 7 and 8 of Lost the previous night, so I popped them in my home theater and watched them. And I just finished Collision, and frankly, I don't remember when was the last time this show hit me this deep. The end of episode 6 was more stunning, of course, but the elegy here just messed my innards up.

I think I have to make a few phonecalls now. Start making up for my own mistakes.