At long last, and now that I am well and truly out of the script translation business, you’ll have the opportunity to view a Norwegian production I had a hand in translating. (I can’t watch it myself, having divested myself of Netflix in the recent austerity initiative.)
Ragnarok can perhaps be described, in what scriptwriters call an “elevator pitch” (a description short enough to be given during an elevator ride) as “American Gods,” crossed with “Stranger Things,” set in a Norwegian high school.
The theme is environmental, and the visuals are, by all accounts, spectacular. I worked on two or three episodes, and some of my work will probably have survived in the subtitles. Not for younger kids.
This was a good day. I did not expect to be able to say that. More on that later.
Yesterday I gave up on a book I was reading. I used to do that more than I do now, but I’m trying to save money on book buying, so I cut books more slack now. But I’d gotten this one free through an Amazon promotion, so no loss.
It’s sad. You read a book that’s clearly well meant, by an
author with something to say. All indications are that the story might well turn
out interesting.
But it’s written so badly. The author, aside from the (now
expected) misspellings and grammar errors, just doesn’t know how to manipulate
the tool he possesses in the English language. The writing is flaccid.
Sentences and paragraphs could easily have been cut. Lines that might have been
dramatic lose all their punch through redundancies and poor word choices. I had
to give up on it.
But today I had a good experience, expecting little.
Some members of my high school graduation class who live in
this general area have adopted a custom of late. Every time there are 5 weeks
in a month (about 3 times a year) they gather on the fifth Wednesday at a bar
& grill in a town near our home town. This time, no doubt made desperate by
the attrition in our ranks, they invited me. And I agreed to go.
My inclination was to give it a miss. I’ve become convinced
over the years that my appearance at any social event is about as welcome as
the Grim Reaper’s. I am miserable, and the cause of misery in others.
But I missed our 50-year reunion, in a recent year I will
not specify. So I felt I owed it to them make an appearance now.
It turned into a long drive, because Google Maps sent me around the north side of the Twin Cities to get to a destination southeast-ward. One assumes traffic was backed up on the rational routes, as is generally the case nowadays. But I was an hour early anyway. Because the guy who invited me told me noon when it was actually 1:00. If I’d gotten there alone, I’d have probably waited a while and then slunk home, feeling persecuted. But another fellow had been similarly misinformed, and we able to enjoy a mini-reunion of our own before the main contingent arrived.
And it went pretty well. I sat at one end of the long table, so I didn’t have to divide my attention left and right (that’s helpful when you’re on the autistic spectrum, as I suspect I am). I conversed pleasantly with my neighbors, none of whom had been particular friends when I was young. The woman next to me told me (to my surprise) that she belongs to a congregation of my church body. The guy across from me spoke quietly about being born again.
What do you know.
Two people in my immediate vicinity told how they’d lost adult children. That’s an experience – a world, really – of which I have no conception. The courage of ordinary folks is a wonder to me, something I can only admire.
We were young once. Now we are old. Once we were cool kids and dorks. Jocks and eggheads. Popular and pariahs. Bullies and bullied. Now, like Civil War veterans, blue and gray, we find comfort in one another, in having seen what we’ve all seen and been what we’ve all been, in a world that no longer exists.
Wow. I enjoyed a social event. I must find a way to suppress
this memory, so it won’t upset my working world-view.
People know America’s great inventor Thomas Edison went through multitudes of material to find a good filament for his little light bulb hobby. He tested everything he could get his hands on and thought could work. Some even claim he made a large bulb in order to test the illumination of a charged cat.*
The Edison Museum states his team tested over 6,000 plant materials, many of them carbonized. The Franklin Institute makes the same claim, possibly taking it from the same source though that source isn’t clearly cited.
Rutgers’ Edison Papers says no one, not even the inventor himself, kept count of how many times they tried this or that. They quote an 1890 interview in which Edison says they tried 3,000 different theories in working out a functional and affordable light bulb, and many more experiments were conducted after they had a patent and a production factory. Edison was awarded that patent on January 27, 1880.
The number of filament experiment may be lost to history, as well as whether he actually said one of his famous quotations:
Genius is one percent inspiration, ninety-nine percent perspiration.
– Thomas Edison or Harper’s Monthly?
Ralph Keyes, in his book The Quote Verifier, notes this quote and its variations can be attributed to Edison, but the earliest version of this can be found in an 1898 Ladies Home Journal. (Check to see if you still have this edition on your TBR pile.) The magazine claims Edison offered two percent inspiration and ninety-eight percent perspiration as a formula for genius. In the years that followed, it seemed magazine writers, not the inventor, were repeating this line in different ways, but by 1932 Edison claimed it as his own.
Update: The 1932 Harper’s Monthly interview referred to above may have been a contemporary interview, an obituary, or a tribute, because the inventor died in 1931. Harper’s doesn’t make it’s archives available online for free, but I have found a citation of it saying it was the September issue of Harper’s and that Edison was thought to have said this in 1903.
I remember a dream I had last night, which is a rarity for me. I remember it because it disturbed me enough to wake me up.
I was in an airport. A ticket agent (or somebody) had just
directed me toward the gate I needed, and I had to hurry. So I rushed along the
walkway, toward a descending stairway ahead of me.
But as I approached the stairway, I had the sudden
conviction that this wasn’t a stairway. It was an edge. Beyond that edge there
was just open space.
I suddenly dropped on my face, and peered over the edge.
Sure enough, I was at the end of a sort of mezzanine floor without a guard rail
– a dangerous arrangement no real-life airport would contemplate.
But as I looked down, I suddenly heard someone (a young
person, male or female, I’m not sure) running up behind me. They were going
very fast, and I had no time to warn them before they shot over the edge and
plunged to the floor below. Not necessarily a fatal fall, but surely injurious.
Then I woke up.
I have theories about what that dream meant, but I’ll let
you speculate.
I applied for a job today. I won’t tell you what it is, except that it involves editing. But it seemed (in some ways) ideal for my skills and personality, so I took a chance.
I was half way through the application when I saw that they
wanted me to link to a Google Doc of some of my editing work. And I thought, “Forget
this. I don’t have Google Docs.”
And my brain replied, “Wait, haven’t you used Google Docs before? You have an account. Check it out.”
I checked, and behold, I do have a Google Docs account. I created
the link.
I’m rather proud of myself for not chickening out (for
once). But boy, I make this hard for myself.
Today I am distracted, or at least I’m pretending to be. Did two high-stress things — saw the dentist to repair the wisdom tooth I broke on Sunday evening (popcorn, if you must know), and then I paid my Minnesota sales tax online.
That, I figure, ought to give me an excuse to be lazy. (In fact, both worked out better than I feared.) Back when I was a school kid, there were days when the teacher would roll a projector into the room and show us some educational film, usually a generation old. Innocent that I was, I figured this was part of some highly strategized educational plan. Nowadays, I’m given to understand that it often meant the teacher wasn’t feeling up to it, and just needed to coast.
In the same way, when I post a YouTube video, it’s not unlikely that I’m loafing.
Last night, in my book review, I referred to Old Norse (Viking) words that have made their way into English. I thought there must be a video or two on that subject.
The selections weren’t as good as I hoped. There were a few, but they were either very short, or hosted by annoying young hipsters whom I hated on sight (or both). Jackson Crawford, who can usually be counted on for interesting stuff on Old Norse, had nothing.
But there is this, posted above. The Lord’s Prayer in Modern English, Old English, Old Norse, and modern Icelandic.
We used to have a tradition of posting “Friday Night Fights” here, showing videos of Viking reenactors going at it with blunt blades. Some of them were friends of mine; occasionally I was involved. We haven’t done that for a while, but I’ve decided to share this clip I found. It involves two fighters doing Macbeth’s death scene from Shakespeare’s play, while fighting with period swords and armor.
It’s not as good as I’d like it to be, and not only because the acting sucks. Macbeth wears a mixture of mail and lamellar (small plates) armor, and lamellar is not generally approved by serious reenactment groups nowadays. Macduff wears some kind of pelt, which is pretty much a Hollywood costuming thing, and they both wear greaves, which are also a faux pas among reenactors.
The fight isn’t bad – it’s quite good in places, certainly
better than what you’ll see in movies. Though I’m not sure what it’s about when
they both lose their shields and then reclaim them. Still, it’s interesting
from a combat point of view.
Why this video? Well, I’ve had Macbeth on my mind lately. I’m
strongly inclined to include him in my next Erling book. He was about 17 at the
time the story starts, and there’s no reason he couldn’t have been in Norway then.
His Scottish Highland home was definitely part of Erling’s world. I have an
idea that throwing him into the story might enhance some of the themes I’m
developing.
But I haven’t decided yet how to portray him – as a budding
villain, as Shakespeare paints him, or as a virtuous and pious young man, which
the actual historical record would indicate.
We’ll see. The story will tell me how it wants me to treat
him.
Hard as it might be to believe, I’m still lacking a finished book to review tonight. I’m finding my current read a little slow, I guess – though it’s gaining interest as I proceed. It’ll probably be ready tomorrow.
What else to talk about? Today lacked the pulse-pounding social
interactions of yesterday. I watched the last half of a movie I’m fond of last
night, though. I can gas about that.
5 Card Stud (1968) is not a great movie, but I find it endlessly entertaining, and generally watch it whenever it shows up. Its attractions are many.
Dean Martin in the lead. Dino was the archetypal Italian-American and seems an odd choice as a western star. But he loved westerns, and excelled in roles where he could play breezy, wisecracking types. By all accounts he was a nice guy too, and faithful to his wife, at least for a long time. Similarly, he joked about drinking a lot, but didn’t actually… until the time came when he did. Here he plays Van Morgan, a gambler who tries to stop fellow card players from lynching a cheater, but fails. Later the participants in the game start being murdered, one by one.
Robert Mitchum plays Rev. Jonathan Rudd, a mysterious
preacher who comes to town and starts tweaking the surviving players’
consciences. Mitchum, I was interested to learn a while back, was half
Norwegian. His mother was Norwegian.
It’s odd when I think back, but I can recall as a young boy
thinking that Dean Martin and Robert Mitchum were the same guy. I guess tall,
dark guys like that weren’t very common in my world and they all looked alike
to me.
But the big draw in 5 Card Stud is Inger Stevens, who plays a prostitute named Lily Langford. It has been my contention for many years that Inger was the most beautiful woman to show up on the public scene in my lifetime. (My friend Mark Goldblatt calls her the “ultimate shiksa.”) She was a Swedish immigrant, but had assimilated to the extent that she had to re-learn her accent when she got the title role in the TV series, The Farmer’s Daughter. An unhappy woman, they say, a little like Marilyn Monroe in forever searching for fulfillment in a man’s love and never finding it. She would die just two years later, in 1970, probably a suicide.
But what beauty! At once regal and impish.
Sadly, most of the films she did that show up on TV from time to time are ones I don’t want to watch. Not even Hang ‘em High, with Clint Eastwood, which is pretty good for the most part, but includes a multiple hanging scene that I, wimp that I am, just can’t handle.
Anyway, 5 Card Stud is a mystery without much actual mystery, and the acting is sometimes over the top. The dialogue can be weak too, though the script was written by Marguerite Roberts, who would write the great True Grit a few years down the line. (However, it should be noted that True Grit follows Charles Portis’s novel very closely, so not a lot of creativity was required. Anyway, Roberts was a Commie.)
But it’s a treat to watch Martin, Mitchum, and Stevens go through
their paces. And Dean sings the title song.
Nothing to review today. My reading has slowed in the last couple days, which is not all bad. I’m trying to reduce my book spending, due to the current cutbacks.
Which will be exacerbated by the plumber’s appointment I had
today. My kitchen faucet succumbed to the corrosive water we enjoy in
Robbinsdale, and had to be replaced. I got the cheapest model they offered, but
still… ouch.
Then out into the wide world and chill air, for a breathless visit to the drug store and the grocery store. Had my prescription filled at CVS. Later in the day, a somewhat pathetic e-mail showed up. Would I take a minute to fill out a form for them? Specifically, to indicate on a scale of one to ten how likely I am to recommend their enterprise to friends and family?
I don’t really want to fill it out. Because the truth would
be cruel. I am somewhere between zero and one on that scale. Not because I
dislike their stores. But because I can’t recall ever discussing drug store
choices with any friend or family member. For some reason it just doesn’t come
up. Maybe we’re atypical.
And in the back of my mind, the constant nagging voice of my inner publicist whispers: “This is what you should be doing, kid. If a big industry like CVS can send out plaintive appeals for affirmation, you can occasionally bug your fans about plugging your books and posting reviews on Amazon.”
Shut up, Nagging Publicist Voice. In these parts, we consider fishing for compliments a mark of weakness.
Then off to the grocery store. At checkout, the lady in
front of me in line noticed I’d bought a Marie Callender Honey-Roasted Turkey meal.
“Is that good?” she asked. “My husband and I eat a lot of that kind of meals,
but we’re looking for something less bland than what we’ve been having.”
I told her I like it quite a bit, and don’t find it bland at all. (“Of course I’m Norwegian,” I should have added.)
Oddly enough, I had a similar conversation some years ago, at the same store, with a guy who told me how much he enjoyed that very same frozen meal. I agreed with him, and we shared a moment of social harmony, then went our separate ways.
In my world, that’s how promotion ought to be done. Not by intrusive tub-thumping, but by people just recommending things they like to each other, in the natural course of things. Even, unlikely as it seems, drug stores.
So when you plug my books, pretend it’s just natural. Thank
you.
I need to write something extra-good tonight, because there’s a good chance I’ll be absent tomorrow. Being retired, I can usually figure on my schedule being pretty open, but tomorrow I have two long meetings . (Both, alas, meetings unconnected with the earning of money.)
But I’m short on subject matter. I drained my brain last
night; I’m fresh out of profound thoughts.
Fended off a Facebook con artist this morning. Got a friend request from a young woman in another state, suspiciously attractive judging by her picture. But we had a mutual friend, and she had the right kind of links posted on her home page, so I gave it a shot. It was but the work of a moment for her to message me and tell me she was looking for a boyfriend. I did give her a fair chance, telling her politely that I was much too old for her. When she told me she didn’t care about that, I severed our association. I may be a fool, as Lord Peter Wimsey once said, “but I’m not a bloody fool.”
I guess I can be proud I’m still sharp enough not to fall for such things.
I’m also a little sad that I’m old enough to have lost all
illusion in the area.
The sixth season of Endeavour is now streaming on Amazon Prime. Six seasons already? How did that happen?
I keep waiting for Shaun Evans to acquire that mark on his temple that his older self has.
I liked the original Morse series very much, but I’m strongly tempted to like this prequel even better. It’s a good recreation of the era when I came of age (though Morse was a little older than me) and it’s more character-driven, I think. The Morse series concentrated mostly on the interplay between Morse and Lewis – and that was excellent. But Endeavour has a larger continuing cast, characters about whom we have come to care. For my part, I particularly like Inspector Bright, who reminds me of a number of older men I’ve known in church work. He came in pretty unsympathetic, but we’ve come to see his finer qualities since then.
The first episode had a character I immediately marked as
the Culprit, simply on the basis of established contemporary TV stereotypes. I
was delighted to be wrong.
Maybe things will work out all right in the world.
I’m going to start by talking about a very private bodily
function… in the vaguest possible terms. Because I’m a sensitive soul. Then I’ll
go on to make a vapid point.
I clicked on an article that showed up on the Book Full of
Faces a little while back.
It was about the aforementioned Private Bodily Function. This is a function performed frequently by every person, saint or sinner, male, female, or delusional. The headline informed me that I was finishing up this function “THE WRONG WAY!”
Out of curiosity, I read the article. When I was finished, I
thought, “It appears that the author of this article has never actually
performed this bodily function.”
Which I find somewhat unlikely.
Then I noticed who published it. When I saw that the article was aimed at college students, all became clear. An academic wrote it. And academics, as you’ve probably noticed, literally don’t know… many things.
It takes an academic to analyze a commonplace physical act
and declare that all mankind has been doing it wrong from time immemorial. The
whole scam of modern higher education is based on taking what is known and
understood, deconstructing it, and rendering it mysterious and in need of
expert intervention.
There was a time in history when the purpose of education
was to learn the higher mysteries, the beauty and wisdom concealed behind the
commonplace.
That changed (I think) some time around the Enlightenment.
The Enlightenment decided there were no higher mysteries, and turned its
energies to deconstruction and demythologizing. Instead of learning what we’d
never known, the modern student is meant to unlearn what everybody already
knows.
I was reminded of the first line of Alan Bloom’s book, Love and Friendship (quoting from memory because I can’t locate my copy at the moment). Describing Rousseau, he writes, “A Swiss told the French they were bad lovers, and the French believed him.”
