Harlan Ellison's Watching (25 page)

The most recent manifestation of this obsession, and one that concerns sf readers, relates to the success (or
apparent
success in the myth-misted minds of network honchos) of the film
The Man Who Fell to Earth
.

Within ninety days of the opening of the theatrical feature, and its seeming popularity among that demographically-desirable audience of youngfolk perceived by the networks and the advertising agencies as being best-adjusted to the Consumer Society, I received three phone calls: two from production companies, one from a major network. All three said, in either these exact words or in close approximations thereof, "We want to do something just like
The Man Who Fell to Earth
."

"So go buy the TV rights to the book or the film and do it," I responded.

"Well, uh, er, we can't exactly buy the rights, they're tied up," they said. "But we want you to think up an idea
like
that."

"In other words," I said innocently, "you want me to rip off the original concept of the book and/or the movie, and change it just enough so you won't get sued."

Much huffing and puffing. Much pfumph'ing and clearing of throats. Much backing and filling. "Not ezzackly," they said, wishing they had called someone a lot less troublesome. "We want to do an alien that falls to Earth, but not the movie."

"But the movie is about an alien who falls to Earth," I said. I was having a terrific little time for myself, listening to them squirm.

"We'll talk to you later about this," two of the three said. "We'll noodle it around here and get back to you."

Is there anyone who would care to guess how many centuries will pass before they call back?

The third call, from a production outfit that supplies many dozens of hours of prime-time product each season, did not end at that point. I was told that an industry-weary writer, with whom I'd worked when he was producer of a short-lived fantasy series at Screen Gems several years before, had written a ten-page
précis
of such an idea, and though the network they'd hustled with it liked the basic concept (an alien who falls to Earth), they wanted me to write the show's pilot. So the production company
had
to talk to me.

They wanted me to read the ten pages. I said I would. They sent them over. I hated them. I called the packaging producer, and advised him I thought the material sucked. I called it "sophomoric, derivative, predictable, idiotic adolescent twaddle." He asked me to spell "twaddle." I spelled it.

Then I explained it.

And explained why the ten pages were dumb. He liked my enthusiasm.

But the network wanted me, so he continued hustling, and got me to agree to come in for a network meeting. I told him I'd only badrap the material. He said that was okay, that it would "open up everyone's thinking." I suggested napalm would have the same beneficial effect. He laughed.

Well, to make a short story as tedious as possible, I took the meeting with the production company and the network, I told them how stupid I thought the original material was, and suggested a completely different approach. Not all that fresh and original, because they can't handle fresh and original. Remember David Janssen? But fresh and original enough that I wouldn't be ripping-off Walter Tevis, who wrote the original novel of
The Man Who Fell to Earth
, and sufficiently fresh and original that I could develop it without suffering constant upset stomach.

So the upshot was that they went for it, put us into "development," which meant I had to write a treatment of what I wanted to do with the series and its pilot, I spent weeks arguing with the guy who had written the ten odoriferous pages and the producer, and finally came up with a
précis
, a treatment, an outline, what they call in The Industry "a bible" for the pilot and series . . .

And I called it
Two from Nowhere . . .

And they started trying to turn it into
The Fugitive . . .

And I made myself scarce . . .

And the network started bugging them for it . . .

And I'm hiding out from CBS and William P. D'Angelo and Joel Rogosin; and anyone tells them where I am, I'll punch your fucking heart out, as George Segal put it.

But what is this all in aid of? It answers your question, What sf can we look forward to next season? And the answer is
Lucan, The Man with the Power, The Man from Atlantis, Logan's Run
and several other "sci-fi" or related series.

All of which are surrogates of David Janssen running from Inspector Javert, trying to clear his name and escape the minions of the Law'n'Order till he can find the one-arm man . . . or the parents who deserted him in the forest where he became a feral child . . . or Sanctuary . . . or his father from another planet . . . or his lost continent . . . or . . .

Which is to say, you can expect more of the same dreadfulness you didn't watch
this
season. And as for that
Star Trek
movie, gentle friends, before you find
that
one, you'll find your parents who deserted you in the forest where you became a feral child . . . or Sanctuary . . . or . . .

Cosmos
/November 1977

2nd INSTALLMENT:
Luke Skywalker Is A Nerd And Darth Vader Sucks Runny Eggs

Badmouthing
Star Wars
these days is considered a felony; on a level with spitting on the American flag, denigrating Motherhood, admitting you hate Apple Pie, or trying to dope Seattle Slew.

In the hysterical wake of all-stops-out media hype, uncritically slavish reviews, effulgent word-of-mouth praise and the chance of being trampled to death by ex
—Star Trek
groupies, who've had their epiphany-conversion, as they queue up to see the film for the sixth or eighth time . . . anyone daring to suggest that
Star Wars
is less monumental than the discovery of the fulcrum and lever, runs the risk of being disemboweled by terminal acne cases.

This lemminglike hegira to worship at the shrine of director George Lucas and "the return of entertainment!" has been so carefully orchestrated that otherwise sane and rational filmgoers whose desiccated sophistication has led them to find flaws in even such damn-near-perfect movies as
The Conversation; Taxi Driver; Oh, God!
and
Nashville
, roll their eyes and clap their hands in childish delight. And I think
childish
is the operative word in this lunatic situation.

And though I find the role of Specter at the Banquet somewhat less than salutary for my social life, as a practicing writer of fantasy (into which genre science fiction and space opera of the
Star Wars
variety plonk comfortably) I'm afraid I must reluctantly piss on the parade.

Hollywood has
never
understood the difference between making science fiction films and making westerns, spy thrillers, Dr. Kildare flicks, historical adventures and contemporary dramas.

In an industry where nothing succeeds as consistently as repeated failure, the ex-CPAs, ex-mail room boys, ex-haidressers and ex-agents who become Producers conceive of imaginative fiction as just another shoot-'em-up with laser rifles. They have a plethora of hype but a dearth of inventiveness. And they think of films in terms of making the deal, not of presenting the logical story. For most of these yahoos, a "film" is something,
anything
, they can get Streisand and McQueen and Pacino to star in. The script can come later. What the hell does it matter if it's good, bad or imbecilic . . . just as long as the names of the stars can be featured above the title.

But science fiction is a very special genre. It is the game of "what if."
What if
we were forced to abandon the land and adapt physically to life in the seas?
What if
everyone was telepathic and could read everyone else's mind, how could you commit a murder and not be discovered when your thoughts gave you away?
What if
the male contraceptive pill became as common as the one women use?
What if
.

And playing that game is the core of the story. But it must be internally consistent. It must have a much more rigorous logic than an ordinary, mimetic story, because you are asking the audience to suspend its disbelief, to go with you into a completely new, never-before-existed landscape. If what goes on in the story is irrational and diffuse, then it all comes up looking like spinach.

But Hollywood doesn't understand that. They make films—like
Star Wars—
that are nothing but
The Prisoner of Zenda
or some halfwit wild west adventure in outer space.

Good
science fiction films have been few and far between. I suggest as a quality level toward which to strive, the following films:

Charly
1984
The Shape of Things to Come
Wild in the Streets
The Conversation
A Boy and His Dog

 

And there are a few others. But they grow harder and harder to name. Because all the films that we
thought
were great, like
2001
, become, in retrospect, merely exercises in special effects. There are damned few "people" stories that deal with what science fiction at its best and most valuable handles better than any other kind of story: the effects on human beings of technology, unusual happenings and the future. Discount films that make us tingle, like
The Thing
or
Dr. Cyclops
, because they are really only horror stories told with a pseudo-scientific flair. I'm talking here about stories where we care about the people, films that cast some new light on the human condition.

Also notice, the films I select as the best are films you probably never even considered sf.
Charly
and
The Conversation
are classic examples. They weren't marketed or reviewed as sf, because they were free of overpowering special effects. They didn't
look
like orgies of bizarre technique, and they did very well at the box office, even with people who hate science fiction. Because they were "people" stories. They couldn't have happened without the scientific bases, but they took those technological advances—raising the I.Q. of an idiot by chemical means in one case, and electronic surveillance in the other—and dealt with them in terms of human
angst
.

This important measure of worth is missing entirely from
Star Wars
.

But before I enumerate the dangers of this classic simpleminded shootout movie, let me give you a few horror stories.

Incident:

During the third weekend in June, for three thousand dollars—the only thing short of bamboo shoots under the fingernails that could get me to do it—I spoke at something called
Space-Con IV
, held at the Los Angeles Convention Center. In the neighborhood of ten thousand people attended this combined
Star Trek
/space science/tv addict media melange: a hyperventilated whacko-freako-devo two-day blast that served as cheap thrill fix for a tidal wave of incipient jelly-brains who would rather sit in front of the tube having their minds turned to puree-of-bat-guano than have to deal with the Real World in any lovely way.

Traditionally, the dealers' rooms, wherein one can buy (at usurious rates) Spock ears, Federation starship gold braid and frogging, German versions of
Star Trek
comics and hairballs called tribbles, has been a place where
Star Trek
reigned supreme. A wad of Kleenex, authenticated as being the very item William Shatner honked into during the legendary phlegm epidemic of the second year of the series, could bring a price that would permit the dealer to return to his native island a rich grandee.

In June, however,
Star Wars
had been open for nearly three weeks; and those who formerly festooned themselves with buttons that said LIVE LONG AND PROSPER or TAKE A KLINGON TO LUNCH now paraded around wearing buttons that proclaimed LET THE WOOKIEE WIN and JEDI KNIGHT and the catch-phrase that has replaced the splay-fingered Vulcan greeting of
Star Trek
, MAY THE FORCE BE WITH YOU.

Dealers loaded down with
Star Trek
memorabilia had their annuities flash before their eyes in a brief two-day nightmare as
Star Wars
posters, light sabers, Darth Vader masks and Ballantine Books paperback novelizations vanished as if they'd been warped into hyperspace.

Even panels of erudite writers and NASA space shuttle engineers were overwhelmed with trivial badinage about
Star Wars
and the effects it would have on the course of Western Civilization.

And the only adverse criticism
of any kind
I heard, from
anyone
, was a comment from the science fiction writer Alan Dean Foster, who had just handed in the manuscript of the novelized sequel to Ballantine; a comment that removed, finally, any vestige of ambivalence I'd had about badrapping
Star Wars
. That comment, in a moment, but first, another: