Tuesday, April 30, 2013

Castle: On "Still," bottle episodes, and how I would have done it

I guess I'll just start off by saying that I didn't necessarily dislike "Still." I responded to it much the same way I responded to "Squab" and a lot of Castle this season -- enjoyment but a lot of disappointment. I hate to talk about the show exceedingly negatively, because, as I think I stated previously, I love the show and I love the characters, so it's my hope that soon we'll be delivered another gem I can shower with affection. But I can't do this for "Still," and while I could just as easily say nothing, I really want to talk about it, so I'm going to do that, my tone be damned.
"Still" was, obviously, a bottle episode, employing my least favorite of all bottle techniques--the Clip Show. I think there's been only one example of the form that I've seen actually work, and that was when it was so nicely subverted by Community (though, to be honest, as much as it claimed to be a bottle episode, "Paradigms of Human Memory" didn't really seem to be one; it more seemed to just exist as a parody of the form). Clip Shows are annoying for obvious reasons, especially for someone like me, for whom characterization is sacred and rerunning is a way of life (and I'm by far not the most extreme example of it; I've known people to have seen an episode nine times within twenty-four hours of its airing, though I don't even know how that was done). There's huge appeal in reviewing past moments, but I bought the episodes on physical and/or digital release for exactly that purpose, and a Clip Show episode fails to capture the joy I find in reexperience while also becoming an episode that is itself hard to rewatch. I look to new episodes for fresh content, to reruns for fulfillment, and to fan communities and YouTube for compilations and clip shows, and it's always disappointing to get one of these from the show itself -- which often, due to the constraints of it being a broadcasted episode, leave out both the best and the most subtle examples anyway. Clip Shows also tend to cheapen the moments they excise from their context, and it was especially disappointing to see some of my favorite dramatic moments, such as those from "Countdown," "Knockdown," and "Knockout"/"Rise," being brought up in that fashion -- rapid fire, with the addition of the cheesy voice-over from Montgomery, which was a speech that in its context I truly loved.

In that vein, just from the standpoint of characterization, Clip Shows create a bizarre sort of fish eye perspective of the character's life. How is it that the moments these characters think of all have to do with something the audience has seen before? Why is it that when Beckett looks back on her life, as she tries to cope with the fact that she's going to die, she sees so many moments associated with her mother's murder, but not the actual crime scene of the murder which we know through backstory she's seen? Why doesn't she think of any part of her life prior to Castle's canon, such as her time in Russia, time with her father immediately following her mother's death, time in the police academy with Royce, or time between canon, such as her recovery in the hospital and the conversations she must have had with her father following her shooting? Limitations of the form tell us exactly why -- because these scenes don't exist to be drawn upon, and since it's a bottle episode, they're not going to go out and film them -- but this is precisely the problem. It's painfully obvious what the episode is (a bottle episode), and it has the effect of immediately flattening the characters. The act of reminiscing feels flat because it is flat, because the memory that these characters have is shortened immediately to incorporate only the happenings of the last few years, and it excludes all of those quiet moments that never would have been in an episode (something like Beckett and Castle taking coffee out on the balcony as the sun rises over the city, or them sitting opposite each other at the precinct, Castle typing into his laptop and Beckett filling out paperwork with a half-empty cup of coffee at her elbow, and after two hours one of them wonders aloud about the possibility of stopping to get a sandwich). Suspension of belief in a Clip Show becomes infinitely more difficult to retain, and it often feels to me like it's even uprooting some of my investment by exposing how shallow characterization can be.

But in the interest of not being completely negative, I'll say that I latched onto the few moments of legitimate dramatic tension in "Still" with a crack addict's desperation, and I savored them as such, because the reality is that characters having to come to terms with Impending Mortal Peril is easily my second or third favorite plot device. Further, I genuinely love the premise of the episode -- that we start with an idyllic morning, one in which the world for Beckett seems both bright and peaceful, and by noon she's suddenly faced with the fact that probably won't live to see the sunset. I love that Castle, as her Loyal, Loving Compatriot, refuses to leave her side or let her cede, mentally or physically. I love the implication that Esposito would put the Big Hurt on their bomber without any hesitation if it meant saving her. If the episode had been done with the same plot, but none of the Clip Show, "Still" easily could have made my top five list, no question. I would've eaten it up and waxed praise like a raving lunatic, complete with exclamation marks and scene by scene analysis and shoving a rerun into my morning. I might not have slept last night. That is the kind of love I'm prepared to have, so being denied that level of joy by something as lazy as a Clip Show just sours my view, especially when a plot that has the potential for emotional intensity instead becomes more of a joke fest.


This leads me back to what I'm fairly certain I brought up earlier in my discussion of "Squab," which is my feeling that Castle tends to skip over opportunities for depth and real character-character/viewer-character connections in favor of shallow humor. Again, I love Castle when it's funny, and it can be exceptionally good at it. I honestly think Castle has done some of the strongest parodies or "inspired by" plots I've seen anywhere, and I would take "Scared to Death" over Scary Movie any day of any week. But I'd again like to point out that Beckett/Stana Katic is capable of delivering an extreme amount of intensity, from regal, somber grace to burns-like-fire, homicidal rage, and it's disappointing to so rarely see that side of her come out to play. This is part of the reason I so love Joss Whedon's approach to television, because his characters constantly exist in that dynamic between funny and not even close to funny, between rage, neutrality, and an almost disquieting level of misery. Buffy Summers is a character I could never find enough positive words to lavish with, and a big part of that has to do with how dynamic her role is allowed to be. She can be hilarious one scene and depressing the next; she can go from a character that is extremely sympathetic, brave, and giving, to a character who is dislikeable, weak, and selfish, without ever going OOC. Jordan Cavanaugh is, to a lesser extent, like this, which is why (or part of the reason why) between these two characters I've never found an equal.

I've often complained that Beckett is simply too perfect to be wholly sympathetic. She's a paragon of goodness. There is no better way to illustrate this than by looking at her actions in episodes like "After the Storm" and "Recoil," in which she, for no explicable reason, allows the man who ruined her life to live. I cannot even begin to describe how I lamented when Beckett saved Bracken from the bomb in "Recoil," because there, truly, was the opportunity for Beckett to be dark and interesting and different. I don't know that there's ever been a moment where I was more disappointed in a character or a plot-point than then. I can't even think of the mytharc anymore without thinking of that scene. I can only hope that the finale sees Bracken's death (and that "Still" was made a bottleneck in part to help fund the finale), and that Beckett has some part in it. That would make me indescribably happy.

But, at any rate, "Still" sharply brings into focus how frustratingly, unrealistically perfect and unflappable Beckett is, as she stands stoically on a bomb arguing trivialities with Castle. On the one level, I can reason that she's able to do this because she's choosing to box away her situation by throwing herself into the comfort of shared memories and old, stupid jokes, but on another I feel that that is completely unrealistic and I wish that she was able to actually react. There was no claustrophobia, no fear, no indignant rage over her rapidly impending death, no lamentation, hardly any tears. She waits to meet her death with a grim stoicism that borders on apathy. Here again, for the second week in a row, Beckett was given the opportunity to flash back on past events in more than just a surface-y, Clip Show level -- to rage that she survived a bullet wound and a tiger and a bombing once already, that despite her decision to remain a moral being and keep the person she hates most alive, she is still going to die here in a freak accident, and she has to wait, tortuously, for that grisly death to come, while her partner feeds her false promises and the bomb unit under her feet gives up.

Just thinking about it, there are a hundred things I would have done differently with this episode. It would have been a lot more interesting to have Beckett actually break down, to have to deal with being unable to move as terror builds pressure in her blood. That coupled with rage toward herself for the decisions she's made and to the universe for stripping her of her life when she'd only so recently gotten it back would cause her to eventually lash out at Castle, to finally blow loose the misgivings she's had over their relationship in a petty attack aimed toward reducing her stress. Poor Castle would be doing his best to remain positive in the face of increasingly grim circumstances, trying to balance his own terror and sharp, internal keening against her needs, but would find himself at a loss at her sudden outburst, at once gaining piercing insight into his behavior and her perception of their relationship. Beckett would see immediately that she's hurt him, and the rage would drain away for just a moment as she rapidly, if somewhat shortly, apologizes and retracts back within herself. After she's saved, late in the night, Castle would tentatively return to her concerns, appreciating deeply how close he'd been to losing her and filled with the desire to make things right before time slips away from them, before either of them have a chance to step on another bomb.

To heighten emotional tension, just at the climax, when there's ten minutes to go, I'd have Castle bodily removed from her, on the insistence of the bomb squad leader. Castle would refuse, for the first time showing anger himself, because he finds himself suddenly, hotly enraged by the fact that Beckett's going to die and there's nothing he can do about it, and he can't even be there with her till the end. He too would be thinking about almost losing her to some gunman two years ago, thinking about the endless, stupid risks, about the fact that he's only just gotten to connect to her with the intimacy he's always wanted from her. He can't bring himself to walk out the door and say goodbye. He can't cope with the fact that this morning he was making hearts in her coffee, coffee she was never able to drink, and by tomorrow he's going to have to try to figure out what to do with the clothes she'd tossed casually over his dresser the night before and with what he's going to tell her father and what's going to happen when he goes into the precinct and sees her desk precisely as she left it. Then Beckett would look him straight in the eyes, suddenly strong and brave and stoic, and she would beg him quietly to leave. And Castle would have to stand there looking at her, wanting more than anything to reach across the spray-painted line and kiss her and carry her home, but be unable to so much as touch her, and then he would have to leave her. And then I would have done a big, wide shot of him walking off frame and out of the room, leaving Beckett in this vacuous, silent space. And then, finally, she would have broken completely, shaking and sobbing even as she stands perfectly still, lost in enough negative space to make Sherlock jealous. Fade to black.

Castle would call the precinct, tell them what's going on, demand they give him something he can use to break the code. On having his wild epiphany, he would break away from the bomb squad leader, who would try and fail to restrain him, and he would run full melt back into the apartment and back to Beckett. Her grief would immediately be replaced with rage upon his re-entrance, for his failure to respect her wish that he not die with her, for continuing to try to seduce her with false promises for survival, when by her count she's less than two minutes left, terrified afresh now not just because she's going to die, but because she knows that Castle will not have time to clear the building even if he were to listen to her and run. She hates him for forcing her to shoulder his death in addition to her own, and she rages against him in a bitter, grief-stricken torrent. Castle, angry at her now both for having accepted her death and for being angry at him, lashes right back at her, but shortly, and tells her that he came back because he's willing to gamble his life on how sincerely he believes himself to be right about the code word, and that she does not, in fact, bear the weight of the world upon her shoulders. He tells her that she isn't going to die. Maybe he even makes a meta joke about them having Plot Armor, because they're the main characters in his book. Beckett, having quieted in the face of his passion, love, and conviction, points out that he killed off Derrick Storm. Castle, having no adequate response, simply holds up the bomb remote and punches in the code. When it disarms, Beckett is still frozen for a moment, waiting for the blast, but when it doesn't come she abruptly falls sobbing into Castle, raging at him for being an idiot before he cuts her off by kissing her. She meets him with aggression born out of the terrified, electric energy still coursing through her soul and her blood, and they spend a long time like that, lip-locked and appreciating their ability to touch each other again. They break apart once the bomb squad leader re-enters, and then they both shakily return to their feet and walk out of the apartment.

Meanwhile, Esposito and Ryan, who had dashed to their car the second Castle had gotten off the line with them, are racing to the apartment, both filled with the unspoken dread that Castle had indeed gone back into that building, and that both him and Beckett are now dead. When they arrive to find that the building is not destroyed, for a moment they think that maybe they don't have the time right, that they got there before the bomb was set to blow, and that they're both about to witness something awful, which Ryan verbalizes to a small extent by starting to say something like "Javie, I..." and being unable to finish the thought. Just as he says this, in the background we see Beckett and Castle exiting the building, and then the two cops run to meet them, relieved at first, then, within a beat, overjoyed. Cue happy reunion and cop humor.

Again, that night, Beckett and Castle would finally have a moment, finally start a frank, adult conversation. Whether or not it'd be something included in the episode, I'm not sure. Probably I would just have them start it, and then do the typical close-up reaction thing, and then I would imply that they do indeed have it, fade to black, and next episode they seem healed.

And that is how I would have written "Still," more or less. I also would have had no music, at all. It would've been one of those episodes marked by its silence, offering, hopefully, a gravity and nakedness similar to that in "The Body" (Buffy). Just thinking about "Still" being produced in this fashion, instead of the Clip Show route they chose to go, makes me sadder about the episode than before.

Please, for the love of god, let Bracken die in the finale.

Sunday, April 28, 2013

Sherlock: "A Study in Pink" (Pt 2) - The Scene at the Flat


In order to refresh and orient myself, I'll just quickly recap with the (few) salient things I've said already. John is shot fairly typically, oriented fairly typically to the viewer. He is sympathetic and grounded. Something I forgot to say earlier was that from the start he's located in spaces he does not feel at home in -- the place he is staying in at the start does not feel lived in (it may possibly be a hotel), and his wander through the park cements his homeless vibe. He is Guy Normal, though lost, having no real home in his head (as we can construe from his nightmares and his shrink appointment) or in London (which is where he wants to be, according to Stumford). Sherlock by contrast is immediately presented as someone who is not grounded at all. His eccentricity is underscored by the energy with which he moves through sets and the way that he orients himself toward the camera. At Bart's, he is at home, but he's at home in his head as much as he is in the space, and he doesn't really care to share his energy with anyone -- not with Molly, and not with the viewer. We know this because through roughly four minutes and several changes in setting, Sherlock never once stops to connect with the viewer by slowing down to face us openly. Sherlock's world is also considerably more sterile than John's, filled with steel and white and beakers and fluorescent lights. This becomes even more evident when John enters it, who looks considerably out of place. By the end of Sherlock and John's first encounter, as Sherlock leaves the room, the viewer has learned everything they need to know about John to understand (and thus sympathesize with) him, but has learned next to nothing about Sherlock, beyond the fact that he's a curiosity. And with all that, I will finally move forward. (this is starting to seem like a lot for only having gone about 14 minutes in)

Character Establishment, Post-Introduction

The Scene at the Flat

We next see Sherlock when he meets John at the apartment, arriving by cab (I almost feel like him showing up in this way, as John hobbles toward the apartment on foot, starts what will be a building theme for him -- his tendency to just appear and disappear from out of nowhere, and with ease). As the scene progresses, we meet Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade (more personally), and we get a look at Sherlock's personal habits. What's interesting here is that despite the change in setting, Sherlock is still very much in his head, and, by consequence, continues to present the barrier to relation that he did in his first scenes -- both for John and for us. This feeling is pronounced through the presence of other characters: the friendly, matronly Mrs. Hudson, who obviously views Sherlock with a great measure of affection, and the frazzled Lestrade, who seems to be in Sherlock's presence only barely voluntarily, out of desperation rather than legitimate desire. All this in the flat that Sherlock has already moved into, and John has only just seen. To me, the scene reads like John, by walking into that flat, arrived straight into the eye of a hurricane without him realizing it, and because he did, we did too. By the end of the scene, he's helplessly sucked into it, and it carries him (and us) through the scene at Brixton, only to disappear as abruptly as it appeared, when Sherlock exits the row house. For the moment I'll drop this hurricane metaphor, so I can discuss distance, but I'll be back to it in a bit.

So what makes Sherlock read as distant and unreachable in the apartment scene, and what does it matter that he's like this? To answer the latter question first, I believe it matters because scenes taking place within a character's dwelling are almost always telling, especially the first time another character enters that space. The best example besides Sherlock I can recall from recent memory was from Castle, the first time Beckett goes to Castle's apartment (1.05: "A Chill Runs Through Her Veins," 24:17). I'm not going to analyze that scene, but I provided the episode and time code in case you would like to see immediately what I'm talking about (also, if you haven't seen it in awhile, as I hadn't, it's friggin' hilarious, so there's that). The thing about scenes like this is that they're generally used to deepen the viewer's knowledge and perception of the characters involved by removing them from the context we had grown used to seeing them in. In the case of Sherlock, both John and the viewer are exposed to Sherlock's personal space almost immediately, without much of anything about him having been revealed previously. On entering his space, we would expect to then start building a connection with him (as John seems to think), but Sherlock doesn't give us the chance, because it's obvious that that isn't something that interests him. Despite the change in environmental context, he's just as planted within his mind as before, and neither the presence of John nor the maternal Mrs. Hudson can serve to pull him out.
John looking to Sherlock to see if it bothers him that Mrs. Hudson just implied that they were a couple, and Sherlock doesn't even appear to have heard
Additionally, just look at all that head-space Sherlock has; standard framing says not to cut off at the knees or other joints, and to keep head-space limited, yet look at this composition. I think this is fully intentional: the fact that he isn't framed conventionally helps to increase the distance between him and the viewer. In this same vein, we've been placed relatively far from him, without a clear view of his face, which is a compositional choice that recurs throughout this scene
When John walks into the apartment and offhandedly refers to the excesses of Sherlock's life as "rubbish," we see Sherlock spurred into an embarrassed, rapid cleaning spree. The viewer is left to observe him rather than join him -- we watch him flit about, curiously glancing at things as he shoves them away, without knowing either what he's doing or what end he's truly working toward. Through this scene, from the meeting on the street to the exit into the cab, Sherlock's movement is of most paramount notice, as he rarely seems to occupy one space long before shifting to another. This helps to further the perception of Sherlock as more of a force than a person. In contrast, John, upon his entrance to the apartment, more or less makes a straight line from door to chair, and there he settles.
These are basically just the key frames of this scene, from the time the door opens to the time they leave. Note how much ground Sherlock is covering in what is, to some degree, a small space and a short amount of time. John remains fairly consistent here, once again anchoring the scene by virtue of his stability, while Sherlock is free to disappear from screen twice (once in tile 2, and again in 17), move through three rooms (living area, kitchen, entrance hall), spin all the way around (12-14), and be seen from extreme close-up (when he walks through the camera, between 20 and 21) to relatively far away (such as 16 and 22); this very closely resembles his movements in the first meeting scene between John and Sherlock, which further reinforces his eccentricity
Here is a closer look at tile 5, in which the choice was made to have Sherlock's face almost entirely unlit, as both John and the viewer are left to interpret what he means by his little utterance "Well, when I say friend..."
I look back over these images, I rewatch the episode, and I find myself smiling at the charm I've found in Sherlock's energy, but I remember that on first viewing, I found it all to be completely off-putting. It frustrated me that he never seemed to just stop moving, so I could build a connection with him. I strongly suspect that this was meant to be the take away, so that we can understand what it's like to be John in that moment. The genius in it is that we feel as left behind and ignored as John does, but just as swept up in his intensity. What's interesting is that we are allowed one moment in which we do see him both still and present, but the nature of that moment only serves to further distance us from him (or, at least, it did the first time; now I just think it's hilarious).
"Found your website..."
"What'd you think?"
When John mentions his website, Sherlock immediately turns and opens himself to both him and the camera, suddenly outside his thoughts. This is really the first time that he's been open to us conventionally -- in the way that characters tend to be filmed, especially in conversation. The end result of this is that one of his first traits (beyond distraction) revealed to us is his vanity, and we see it stressed again shortly, during his "the police don't consult amateurs" spiel, as well as his refusal to don coveralls in Brixton. This decision to hold off viewer sympathy for him (and it is held off, for quite awhile) is an interesting one.

In response to John's implication that he is, as it were, full of crap, Sherlock immediately recedes again, breaking that brief moment of intimacy we shared with him. That break is achieved not just through the look on his face, and the little speech he launches into, but through us physically taking a step back from him.
note: Sherlock has managed to switch sides of the camera without actually moving by virtue of this framing, creating slight disorientation
It may be reaching, but I'd venture to theorize that one possible reason we were given that tantalizingly short moment with him was as a further tactic of disorientation -- because in setting up that conversation, it seemed as if we were about to get our first real connection with Sherlock on a personal level (which would be expected, given this is now our third scene with him and we are in his home), but instead all we saw was that he has feathers and John has just ruffled them. On delivering his rebuttal, Sherlock's feathers resettle, and he holds onto his coolness through Lestrade's arrival.
note how much space Sherlock has on all sides; this emphasizes his general air of aloofness, especially given he's talking to Lestrade, whose background is cluttered by lots of shapes; note also the difference in perspective from which these two are filmed -- Lestrade head-on, Sherlock from the side
Additionally, though during this conversation we once again are brought close to Sherlock's face, lighting, composition, and body language strip this physical closeness of any intimacy.
left, Sherlock talking to John; right, Sherlock talking to Lestrade
lighting on the left is soft, bringing out his whole face, and the background is brightly lit; in contrast, the lighting on the right creates harsh shadows on his face, making it hard to see much of it, and the background is dark; of these two images, it's obvious which one is easier to relate to
Once Lestrade exits, we see Sherlock's energy release like a crossbow bolt, and he rapidly makes his way from the flat (or so we first are led to think). The moment he leaves, we are (or, at least, I am) struck by the stillness left in his wake. John is transformed in an instant from anchor to lead agent, and his brief exchange with Mrs. Hudson seems more banal than it otherwise would have been had it not so immediately followed Sherlock's exuberant departure. From John's demeanor, it seems as if he has much the same feeling.
the length of the kitchen in the background really helps to increase the sense of emptiness here; the fact that it's filled with Sherlock's stuff almost seems to suggest the cause of that emptiness
When Sherlock returns, so does his energy, albeit at a lower simmer, and as he walks back into the room, we can feel it begin to boil again. We know John feels it too because he gets to his feet (something he did not feel the need to do for Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade, though it's possible his decision to rise was also influenced by Mrs. Hudson's "rest your leg"). Sherlock's presence becomes intense very rapidly not only because of the leading nature of his questions, but because of how quickly he comes to fill the screen -- he is first shown in the doorway occupying about a fifth the screen, then moves to occupy almost half of John's screen space and over two thirds his own (the obstruction from John's head in fact serves to suggest a smaller screen space, and he fills all of it) within just a few seconds.
Sherlock, open again, though not necessarily relatable
Both John and the viewer are swept with him out the door because of the intensity of his energy, and the enormous, almost boundless freedom with which he moves through space, one of my favorite examples of which occurs directly following, when Sherlock swings almost like a pendulum from the doorway, to Mrs. Hudson, and back to and out through the door.
What's interesting here is that Sherlock has managed to charm both John and the viewer without offering anything solid with which we can connect. John follows because he's been caught in the hurricane, knowing next to nothing about the where and the why (which is a testament to the largeness of Sherlock's personality, given how many other people would be able to convince a relative stranger to go out with him and view a corpse?), and we want him to go with him, because we are equally as intrigued to know more of Sherlock Holmes and what exactly is making him so happy (in the hopes that maybe then we'll be able to understand him). It's not until John's been sitting in a cab with Sherlock until nightfall that the excitement wears off enough for him to bother to ask the most basic of questions: Who are you, and Where are we going?

Next time, I'll look at that scene, and hopefully get to Brixton, so I can move a bit faster through this episode.

Friday, April 26, 2013

Sherlock: "A Study in Pink" (Pt 1) - Setting & Theme Development


So I'll start this off by saying I really have no idea going in as to the structure I'm planning to attack this with. To be honest, I don't even know quite what I'm going to say, or, to be more precise, how I want to go about saying what I've noticed. I've taken a general class in cinematography, but I'm not by any stretch terribly knowledgeable on the subject of cameras. Further, while I've watched a fair bit of British film, I've not watched any of it critically, and besides Sherlock and a few episodes of Primeval and Doctor Who, I really know next to nothing about typical British cinematography -- if it differs from the usual American (US/Canadian) standards, though I don't really think it does much. That all being said, I've decided to go ahead with my plan of talking about Sherlock's cameras, because the reality is that Sherlock is easily the most stylish production I've ever watched. It's the only show that's consistently made me pause and rewind, just to see how a shot or composition was set up, and I can recall at least four separate scenes that I had to pause, just so I could take in the full impact of what just happened on my screen visually. I'm not going to make an argument about whether or not Sherlock is shot better -- that's far too judgy and subjective. I'm also not going to claim for a moment that its ideas are unique. I'm just going to try to impart my thoughts. And I'll say right off the bat, I'm sorry if anyone's done this before; I'm not in fandom, I haven't looked. This is all just personal gratification anyway.

Anyway, let's get started. I already said in my first post on this subject what I'm going to be looking at, generally, but I'll restate here, just to orient my thoughts. My first point of interest is how characters are framed, though I'm mainly going to stick with Sherlock and John (in future episodes, I'll likely also be talking about Moriarty and probably Irene Addler). I'll propose that the way they are shot heavily influences how they are perceived -- not only their moods, but how we are meant to relate to them. My second point will be made on the use of negative space, which will relate to my discussion on character perception (both in how characters move about the space given to them, and how they tend to be oriented within that space), but with the additional idea being to look at how all this extra space is used for transitions, as well as what I think I'll call "text exposition." My other points will have to do with general beauty in composition, and the cleverness with which the usual "rules" of cinematography are subverted, because I just want to recognize both. And since I'm breaking this up by episode, I'll have the space to do so.

With that out of the way, I'm finally going to actually get started, with "A Study in Pink."

Cameras and Characterization: Establishing Setting & First Impressions

I think it's fair to say that pretty much everyone came into this show with their own notions of who Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson are as characters (to be honest, I hope this is so, because I don't know that I want to conceptualize a world in which Sherlock is the only version of Sherlock Holmes people know about). That being said, initial character introductions were probably trickier than for other shows, because they couldn't simply have A Mysterious Though Obviously Central Figure walk into frame and then throughout the course of the scene, we as viewers find several qualities sympathetic and/or interesting enough to sew the initial seeds of investment. That wouldn't have flown. Most of us probably went in already knowing these characters at least somewhat intimately (for my part, I went in not liking either of them), and so these characters had to be immediately established in a way that would legitimize their source while distinguishing themselves from it. So how did they go about it?
our first view of John Watson
Likely, you form an opinion immediately upon viewing this still, which is precisely the point. I'll state what I see. We are looking down at John immediately after some sort of traumatic war memory. He is unhappy, and he is framed rather claustrophobically by virtue of the wall on the right and the edge of the very small mattress on the left. This all suggests he is trapped mentally, by virtue of his upset and the overall darkness of the scene, as well as physically, by virtue of how much he is being constrained by his environment. It is not surprising to see that he has a disability later on in the scene (or, it didn't surprise me), and I think this may be because of how his first few seconds are shot.
Further, we are immediately invited to sympathize with him. I saw the state of his stark, cheerless apartment, his weary posture, the look on his face, and I found myself already building a connection with him, because I felt sorry for him, and within moments I was looking forward to his eventual introduction to Sherlock, not just because I wanted to meet Sherlock, but because I wanted John to be saved from his situation. In this scene and the ones closely following, John is established as emotionally open through his relationship to the camera, and, consequently, the viewer.
open to the camera
note, warm colors
The way John is framed is actually fairly typical, in terms of what I've observed from other shows, which is probably what someone may say in response to these images. And I'd like to propose that that is exactly the point. John is framed in a familiar way because he's supposed to be familiar. He's the one who makes sense. None of this really comes into play until Sherlock finally makes his appearance.
our first view of Sherlock Holmes
note, cool colors
Once again, I'd imagine that anyone would take less than a moment to come to several opinions on viewing these stills. I know in my case, I was immediately disoriented by Sherlock's introduction. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn't a tight close-up of his face, upside down. Sherlock's introduction is at utter contrast to John's -- we are the claustrophobic one, while Sherlock is clearly not. John's introduction casts the viewer as passive and sympathetic, but our first experience with Sherlock is that of being an object of study, a role which we are made to actively experience; he invades our space without warning or pretext. Immediately, we see Sherlock as someone in command of the situation, as someone bizarre and unpredictable. When the camera switches locations, we can still see him with his head in the bag. The tension and discomfort created by his initial framing are then dispelled, and the moment becomes comical, but we're still left with a lingering sense of confusion and disorientation. We look to Molly for some help in grounding Sherlock, but it's immediately clear that she doesn't have that capacity. And then we rapidly switch locations.
oh, poor, long-suffering Molly
Sherlock's first few scenes come in a whirlwind. The sense of his general weirdness grows. I knew what to expect from a Sherlock, but this one seemed partially insane. I rapidly came to see how funny yet unfunny he was, and the camera never seemed to stop in one place long enough for me to get my bearings. Just when I got used to him being in one place, he would invariably move.
note, Sherlock's orientation; he is on camera left, Molly on the right, but both are positioned in the same way; this means two things: a) this is not a typical conversation, because they are not facing each other, and b) Molly is positioned to be open to the camera (and, thus, sympathetic), while Sherlock is not
alone now, Sherlock is even less open than before, now partially obstructed by lab equipment
It's frankly a bit of a relief when he's finally still, but even then, he's no less enigmatic, and no more sympathetic. He simply doesn't position himself to be open to the camera. If one went in knowing nothing of Sherlock Holmes, one would be left feeling lost and confused about who this maniac is, and why he's whipping a corpse. Even knowing him, I was left feeling cut off from him, and I think that that was the point.
Sherlock is, for the first time, framed somewhat openly here, but within moments he moves again, as John is entering the scene; note John's sympathetic posture and positioning, pretty much open from the second he walks in
John enters, providing us an immediate harbor for grounding. Unlike Molly, he carries with him a measure of control, and the camera uses him as an anchor. Here again is the man we met before, the man who makes sense, and now his traits of normalcy and stability, as established in his introduction, seem heightened. John's presence doesn't necessarily help to unravel Sherlock, but he is able to act as our proxy. The bond that (in theory) began forming with him earlier now strengthens as John is thrown into an experience similar to the one we've just had -- having to grapple with the Great Confusion that is Sherlock.
John's stability and empathy comes, at least in part, from the fact that he doesn't move much in the scene. While Sherlock remains in almost constant motion, John simply stands there, calmly but suspiciously. Additionally, by consequence of his movement, Sherlock is shot from many directions, but John is not. This further cements our perception of John as stable and relatable, and Sherlock as eccentric and confusing.
note how much ground Sherlock is covering as John stands still
John, now alone, left to orient himself to what just occurred
Sherlock abruptly ends the scene by his exit, leaving John standing in the spot he's been occupying since his entrance. I would argue that the end of the scene (seen in the still above), that final image, is the most salient piece of the introduction of these characters, as it is the establishment of what will become a future motif of the show: John left standing in a space that Sherlock has recently abandoned (most heartrendingly, at the close of "Reichenbach") . Additionally, this final image continues to ask the viewer for her sympathy through its composition -- John is small, taking up only about a fifth of the frame, surrounded by a cold and alien landscape of lab equipment and chemicals, which he'd just previously judged as "a bit different from my day."

Initial Character Setting: Conclusion

Obviously, character establishment does not end with this scene. Equally important are the scenes following, but it's my opinion that the actual introduction was concluded here. I didn't expect my discussion of the introduction to run this long, so in the interest of reducing the final size of this particular post, I will stop here. In terms of synthesis, the most important difference between John and Sherlock is that John is always shot sympathetically, with openness to the camera and, thus, to the viewer. It's in him that we are invited to invest in and understand the story through, because he is presented as friendly, likeable, and relatable from the outset. This is important, because Sherlock is not shown to us as any of those things (*yet*). Rather, he is a curiosity, one whom we need more time with to understand; and, ultimately, we want to understand him, because we want to understand what it was we were just personally subjected to. I would argue that had our first view of Sherlock not been from within the body bag, had the viewer remained as passively observant as we were with John, Sherlock's inspiration for confusion and frustration wouldn't have been felt nearly to the same degree. These feelings lead to an increased feeling of solidarity with John, and so serve several purposes.

Next post, I will look at the first apartment scene, and how it affects that initial impression of Sherlock, and, hopefully, I will also look at a lot of other scenes, so that I don't end up talking about this episode for six posts.

Wednesday, April 24, 2013

Re: Castle "The Squab and the Quail"

(this post contains heavy spoilers for Castle, late s3-s5)

I lied yesterday when I said the only thing I wanted to talk about was Sherlock. The reality is, I also really want to talk about Castle. So that's what I'm going to do. Tomorrow will more than likely be when I get to Sherlock and his boingy curls...

At any rate, to Castle. Castle is one of those shows I've been following for a few years now. I didn't bother to give it a chance until I was strong-armed into doing so after the s3 finale, mostly because I took one look at it when it came around as a mid-season replacement (as I recall, anyway) and said to myself "Ugh, another clone." And the reality is, I wasn't exactly wrong: it very much is another clone, and for all its quasi-frequent bouts of extreme gloriousness (thinking of a few choice gems, most notable of which was probably "Close Encounters"), the show suffers from several unfortunate syndromes, not the least of which is its plots. Don't get me wrong, the show has all the most important ingredients to turn me obsessive (quite successfully), starting with Kate Beckett (the Woman) and the Canadian population (SK and NF, former of whom has an accent that never ever stops making me laugh), and ending somewhere with Nathan Fillion (who is, as far as I'm convinced, impossible not to love, even when I was rooting for him to die in a horrible, grisly fashion during his stay on Buffy...sidenote, Xaaaaaandeeeerrrrrr nooooooooooo, Fillion, whyyy??). I have at least six Castle fics lying abandoned between two computers, one of which I'm still legitimately proud of and will hopefully one day actually finish. I have all the boxsets, and the books. I even have a puzzle I found once for $20 when I was wandering around the mall.

My point is, I love the show, I've thought about it a lot, and prior to the whole...Bracken...thing, I'd even devoted something like six+ hours to working out Beckett's mother's murder and who I thought the responsible party would turn out to be (spoiler: I was wrong). It's because of all this that I feel justified in criticizing it, and there are times, especially lately, where I almost can't contain myself. This is one of those times.

So "Squab and the Quail." I had approached Monday skeptically, given I'd seen the ads for the last minute episode switcheroo, and while I was overcome with joy at seeing Ioan Gruffudd again (given his association with the hole in my heart that was once Ringer; oh my soapy show, how I mourn you), that feeling died rather quickly upon seeing the rest of the ad, and the episode. I'll be the first to tell you, I was never a "Caskett" fan. Not ever. Not for half a second. Shipping has never been my thing, and the sorts of plots realized and/or unrequited romance lead to are just never good, unless Joss Whedon writes them, and, clearly, he's not writing this. Part of me longs to write a long, exploratory post on why Castle does a crap job of writing a compelling romance, but that is for another day, because while I didn't enjoy "Squab," it wasn't entirely because of the annoying "will she be faithful?""do I love him?" angst (though I could fill a post just on that). I didn't enjoy it because of one scene.
this scene, or, to be more precise, this moment
This is not because of the sneak attack kiss. That was stupid, but it wasn't episode-ruining, and, frankly, who wouldn't want to kiss Ioan Gruffudd? No, it was because, to reiterate, of this...
I had to pause at this point. I saw at that moment something potentially beautiful, potentially wonderful, potentially actually interesting, and as I saw it, I knew, without any doubt, that they'd never go there. And that thought was confirmed with a few minutes.
yep
So what, if you haven't already guessed, was the thing to which I'm alluding? More than likely, you've glanced the pictures below, and have guessed, but I'll proceed as if you haven't.

I'm all about character continuity and flow, and the more enigmatic, erratic, mistrusting, and self-destructive a character is, and the more they have to deal with the consequences of these traits, the more I am helplessly drawn in. Throw in Mortal Danger of the Constant Kind, Brave Self-Sacrifice, and Long Lasting Ramifications and that's it. My personal life is done for. This is why Crossing Jordan and Buffy together occupy the pinnacle of television to me. This is why I would follow Joss Whedon to the ends of Hell. This is why "Knockout" transformed me from interested to crazoid in the span of ten minutes (and is probably the reason that that was the episode that convinced my friend I had to watch Castle). And this is why "Squab" was disappointing, more so than it otherwise was. I'll now make my case.
"Knockout" and "Rise," AKA Sleepless Night and Endless Rerun AKA The closest Castle has ever been to Buffy
I'm not going to claim for a moment that anything about the s3 finale and s4 premiere was original, but, then again, I've never really cared for originality, and as far as I'm concerned, those two episodes were pretty fantastic. Maybe someday I'll talk about why I loved those episodes, but not here. For now, the only baseline point is that, to me, those two episodes were interesting and compelling, for reasons that should now be somewhat clear. I would also like to point out that while I'm not a fan of Caskett, I am a ridiculous fan of Beckett and, to a lesser degree, Castle, and there is lot to their relationship that I really, truly enjoy. As obsessed as I am with the Woman, she can only barely outshine how much I love her Loyal Friend and Compatriot.

With that said, it should come as absolutely no surprise that I loved the unliving crap out of "Kill Shot." While I recognize the episode's faults after many reruns, I still rank it just below "Rise" on my list of top Castle episodes. PTSD episodes are no more original than the lead character getting shot or getting cancer, but, as I said before, that doesn't matter, and that episode really helped cement Beckett as a permanent member of my favorite character list, which, incidentally, doubles as my dream team in the event of a zombie apocalypse. But as much as I loved "Kill Shot," as with "Rise," on its end I found myself disappointed that long-term trauma from Beckett's near-death experience wasn't going to be a thing. Castle is, at its core, more of a comedy, and while I wanted nothing more than "Buffy s6 v2: On the General Misery and Extended Free-Fall of Kate Beckett, NYPD," I knew that that wasn't going to happen. Still, "Kill Shot" planted within me a deep-seated hope that Castle was capable of being deep, of recognizing the trauma never completely heals, and of allowing Beckett to be more interesting, dynamic, and morally relaxed. The s4 finale pretty much killed that hope (as did "Recoil"), but "Squab" did as good as flatten it.

But why get so upset over squandered opportunity in an MOTW, and a fairly vapid one at that? Because it shows a clear amount of thoughtlessness, and a rather glaring crack in character continuity, as upsetting as the fact that Beckett has a scar from her bullet wound but not from the sternum spreader they used to sunder her chest.
but they cracked you open like a walnut...
I realize that there are several reasons Castle cannot be Buffy. It's a different genre, a different format, and it carries wildly different expectations. It could have chosen to be as intense and interesting as Buffy, back when it was still deciding what it wanted to be in s2, but the time has since passed (though why no one has taken this overdone "cop with dead mother" thing and ran somewhere brutal with it is beyond me...I guess Crossing Jordan is as close as there is at the moment). I accept what it's set out to do, even though I think potential is being thrown away ("Recoil," I'm looking at you). But it's one thing to not go there, to avoid characters falling into emotional pits by simply choosing to travel through roads that are pitless, and it's another to willfully drive over pits and pave them over. I say this, because this is Beckett, slightly less than two years ago.
this is them about to crack you open like said walnut
And this is Beckett a little over a year ago.
hey, look! negative space!
And this was Beckett Monday.
standing right in front of that window, no sweat
This should not be. There is absolutely no reason why she wouldn't have had a reaction similar to what we saw in "Kill Shot." In KS, Beckett isn't shot at or directly targeted. The mere idea of the sniper sends her spiraling. One could attempt to make the argument that she's since healed, but its been less than two years since she was dying on a table with small paddles around her heart, and every day she has to live with several scars from her ordeal (both from the bullet and the tube they jabbed through her ribcage). No one can just get over that, especially not so rapidly, yet she's standing in front of that window probably at most an hour after a sniper bullet came within a foot of her face. At the very least, she should've been nervous about getting near the window, and should have kept near the walls, no matter how much she wanted to save face. The fact that she didn't means the writers didn't think about her history, and the fact that they didn't think about it means that her integrity as a good, solid character has been breached. This is one of those small, yet completely inexcusable continuity breaks, because this scene so easily could have been done without a sniper being involved. The fact that they chose to go the route of a sniper without having any desire to work with what I feel would have been Beckett's very real reaction to such a situation disappoints me a lot. Not only would it have been interesting to see the continued affect her ordeal has on her, it would have immediately thrown into light how ridiculous Castle's jealousy and her concerns about his commitment truly are, and it could have led to a frank, adult, down-to-earth discussion about their worries -- which would truly be a first, given how immaturely their relationship is handled. (And speaking of Castle, I'm not going to forgive him either for it not even occurring to him that the whole sniper thing might have upset her at a deeper level than it might have anyone else...)

Castle is filled with little moments like this, filled with missed opportunities and depth exchanged for shallow relationship-oriented angst. Why this one is the one that stuck with me so hard, I can't really say; maybe it's just the timing, what with me now having this nifty outlet. I won't condemn the show for what it is, and I'll be the first to admit that the Ring and Rear Window parodies were both excellent and hilarious, but it seems a shame to me that week after week we don't really see much substance from two characters and two actors who are so obviously capable of delivering it.

So here's hoping the whole Beckett, pressure plate thing will turn out for the better. God knows I love Mortal Peril, even if it does make me think of that one She Spies episode...

Tuesday, April 23, 2013

Glass and spatial metaphors, or, Why I love Sherlock (BBC)

The nicest thing about a blog of this nature is that I can discuss any subject in as much detail and verbosity as I wish, which is not a freedom I enjoy elsewhere, and for this reason I find myself compelled to come here and spill my heart. At the moment, there is only one thing, in the depths of my soul, that I truly wish to discuss, and that is Sherlock (of the BBC).

I was once a member of fandom, though it was for a different show. After something like two or three years there, I left, and while I've visited others since (most notably, the Buffy and Castle fandoms), I've never been able to stay due to the experiences I tend to have in these generally eclectic (though oddly homogeneous) communities. My experience in fandom will likely be the subject of a different post, so I'll not focus on that here, but I figure I'd give some context as to why the analysis I'm about to give isn't being posted on some fan site (though to be perfectly frank, I can't imagine anyone is or will ever be reading this, so I'm not entirely sure why I feel compelled to explain).

Anyway, Sherlock. I'll admit I didn't love the show at first blush. I only vaguely appreciated it. I watched it at some point between the airing of s1 and s2, and I only made it through the first two episodes before deciding it wasn't holding my attention. It was interesting, but Sherlock as a character annoyed me, I found the plotting to be odd, and I absolutely could not buy some of the deductions. More to the point, at the time all I was looking for was another incarnation of the Woman, and a show with two male leads, one of whom could make House and Perry Cox look meek, just wasn't what I wanted. But somewhat recently I gave it another go, and now I see its genius. Not only that, but I can now see the Woman in Sherlock Holmes (not Irene Addler; the other Woman, the conception of her that I posited in my first post) quite clearly, and I cannot help but view him with an empathy that before I couldn't feel.

I'll save a discussion on Sherlock characterization for a later post, because while a fresh perspective on it was one thing that helped me to get into the show, that was by no means the thing that caught my attention, sucked me in, and now continues to cause me to rerun it and think about it. My obsession was founded in the cinematography and how the actors move through space. There is an extreme and subtle genius in it, and I find myself constantly finding something new to appreciate.
I could talk for ten minutes about this still, and I probably will...
Part of me is tempted to couch this discussion in some great comparative framework. It would be relatively simple for me to make my points on Sherlock by grabbing stills from other shows and saying something to the tune of "And this is why Sherlock does it better." But I've decided not to do that. I've also decided that I'm not going to generalize my discussion to the whole series. Since this is my blog, I'm going to go through each episode one-by-one, and I'm going to talk about the cameras and the acting and whatever else I feel like talking about. I simply have too much to say to be constrained to the big picture. But before doing that, I wanted to give a broader summary of my thoughts as they are now, just so I can provide an idea of what points I'm going to be making. This is probably the only part of my discussion that is going to be spoiler-free, so if anyone is reading, what lies below is safe if you haven't yet watched Sherlock (though if this is the case, two questions: why are you here, and why haven't you?).

First thought - The way the show is shot turns Sherlock into a character who is simultaneously empathetic and completely enigmatic. While he seems accessible, the viewer constantly will find herself at arm's length from him, never truly meeting him at his level. The viewer is effectively put into John's shoes without her ever actually directly occupying them. I will end up spending a lot of time on this point, so I'm not going to expound much on that here, but the main thing I want to suggest is that this is as a result of cinematic decisions mainly. I will not deny the importance of the performance and the writing, because certainly BC's acting is a large part of what sells it, but I will argue that its his relationship with the camera, rather than with the words, that makes his role so interesting. I will end up making a similar case when talking about John Watson, and his relationship with Sherlock, as well as other characters.
this still says more than simply how sexy that coat is
Second thought - The show makes excellent (and constant) use of negative space. Anyone who's watched the show will probably think immediately of how text is projected on blank space on walls and in the air, and while negative space is often employed for this purpose, that is by no means its only use. Negative space is often used to spatially literalize the distance between characters, and its use as a metaphoric device truly deserves some attention and recognition.
negative space here, used for several purposes
Third thought - Extending off that point, Sherlock utilizes metaphors in its camerawork in more ways than just its use of negative space. One of the more obvious is scenes shot through glass, like windows and doors, as well as the use of mirrors and other reflective surfaces. While this cinematic device is nothing new to film, I would nonetheless like to talk about how clever its employment often is, and why it deserves to be discussed. There are other metaphors I saw expressed through scene composition, but I will save specific examples for later posts.
ultimately, this is more than just artful composition
I have other thoughts, many of which have to do with how clever I find the cinematography to be in more of a general sense, but I will not spend the time to list them all here, given that they center around one scene or one episode.

And so that is the game plan. I look forward to talking about this, perhaps in greater detail than anyone cares about, because I cannot bear to not talk about Sherlock for any longer. Distance from fandom does indeed have its disadvantages... But, at any rate, onward, to "A Study in Pink."

Sunday, April 21, 2013

Things left in seldom opened closets


Freshman year of high school I picked up the piano. I used to spend my breaks in a little closet of a music room, with my laptop positioned precariously on its top, and watch piano tutorials and think to myself “One day, I will be just as good as this guy.” The room was only a few inches longer than the piano, barely had enough space for me to scoot the stool back. I used to think, in those little moments of solace snatched between the general tedium of schoolwork, that I was actively engaged in finding myself. I played for several years, self-taught, with dwindling enthusiasm, until eventually the little electric Yamaha in my room became mostly relegated to the role of extended desk space, and I stopped visiting the closet. I've kept that Yamaha with me through several moves. Today I played it again, and I realized that I had forgotten almost nothing since I'd last played – I could still read, my fingers still remembered the songs I'd spent time learning, and I still screwed up in the same places. I realized that if I'd kept at playing all these years, with just an ounce of discipline, I would've been as decent as that guy in the videos.

When I was six or seven, my parents wanted me to learn the violin, but I stopped within two lessons, convinced it was boring. I own a guitar I only vaguely know how to play. My computer is filled with half-written stories, my desk filled with plans I never bothered to see through. Sometimes I look back at my brief existence and see a road of dead opportunities, of skills never achieved, of experiences never garnered, and I just get incredibly annoyed with myself, and I convince myself I will do better, but then I never do.

I often find myself in the position of feeling terribly unmotivated, and just as often it seems as if I'm surrounded by people with similar proclivities. While the characters I commit so much of my time to studying pursue their passions with a zeal encroaching on obsession, I consistently don't find that quality reflected in anyone I know personally, including myself. I generally chalk this up to my larger theory that television is a form of idealism, but then I remember that there are actual people – lots of people – who find the motivation to do things far more difficult than poke some keys for a few minutes every day. That being motivated isn't simply idealistic, and I can't excuse laziness through the actions of my peers.

Standing there today, going over the sheet music I'd printed out several years ago, I thought again of how easy it is to disappoint yourself. I remember most of the ways I used to project myself into the future: a famous paleontologist, trekking through the Gobi desert; a doctor; then a scientist. I used to see myself with capital letters behind my name, actively fantasized about how I would sign my paperwork and introduce myself. Used to think about my life split between a busy job and a quiet apartment, which I would fill with dulcet music and fairy lights and (eventually) multiple lovers. Now I try not to think about the future.

I don't forgive myself for my mistakes, but the thing about being unmotivated is that it has enabled me to live with disappointment. To accomplish much of anything, I often have to half trick myself, or I have to set up some sort of arbitrary award system. Read five pages? Excellent, take a break. Wrote a paragraph? Fantastic, watch through to ad break on Crossing Jordan. Establish a routine? Make sure I have to prove it by marking its completion on a calendar. It gets to the point where I wonder why I bother to engage in activity at all, if it's apparently so unenjoyable that I have to accept bribes from myself just to get it done. What amazes me is that no amount of self-hatred or screaming desire can seem to energize myself into doing anything. Why do I lament my lack of musical and artistic ability when I take no strides to improve them? Why can't the part of my head that understands and appreciates the difficulty of learning seem to establish communication with the part that controls basic motor function and concentration?

I suppose the answer lies in an extreme lack of discipline, established early on when my decisions to quit things despite lack of trying always went uncontradicted (though I refuse to be so trite as to blame my parents for my failures). Even the act of writing this rambling exposition is a form of procrastination, as I write this as a way to avoid working on the very things I've mentioned. But in defense, it does feel good to admit my weaknesses frankly and unapologetically, so that I may see rather nakedly how ridiculous I am. Maybe this is all just another trick – the act of admitting how pathetic I am publicly will cause me to remedy the situation out of shame (though one could debate how public an unread blog truly is). Or maybe I simply wanted to write about something, and through the myriad of possible topics, this one floated to surface. Whatever the cause, and whatever the result, all I can say for certain is that I almost always get a little melancholic when I watch Lindsey Stirling or Sherlock pluck their violins – and that sucks ass.

Friday, April 19, 2013

Pecan ice cream and personal indulgence

I've been asked why my life so often seems to revolve around fictional, pixelized characters. And today, for whatever reason, I started to think about it, and this is what I came up with.

To me, television is something of a shallow lover. Despite all the discontinuities and the disappointments, I remain ever faithful, because part of me longs for those moments when I've turned off the lights and let go of time, and the world falls away as my screen whispers vague promises of love and joy and beauty and fulfillment, as it assures me that pain is as sweet as it is transient, that there is no one too distant, too guarded, or too damaged to find both meaning and acceptance. The falseness of it doesn't matter; it's just the feeling, just the response.

I used to read a lot when I was a kid. I wasn't what one would call a prolific reader – I just tended to read the same things over and over again, constantly searching around for the feeling I got out of one passage or another, and then savoring it once I found it. And it was always the same person that I looked for, across authors and genres: a woman on the outside (sometimes by choice, but generally by circumstance) who slowly builds herself the family she never had – or, to be more accurate, a family builds itself around her, often without her knowledge or request. Generally, she still remains the outsider to some degree, never fully integrating within this family, even though she is its core, and while she may abuse its members, or go off without them for long stretches of time, upon her return or at any hint of threat it will rally around her without hesitation, so strengthened is it by its love, trust, and faith in her. Above all she is strong, and she is right, and she is damaged, and she is plagued by demons, and her conviction will carry both her and her little band through the Gates of Hell in the hope that there she may find solace, though she never truly will.

Feeling generally isolated myself, the Woman became something of a guiding force. I trusted in her saga and her arc, I took faith in the kindness she both exhibited and was afforded, and I loved her fully, unconditionally. She was the ideal, the god I never believed in, and I internalized her as such. Without friends or religion to guide me, I strove to become her, and, once I had done so, I quickly came to realize that the world wasn't adapting around me, that my isolation (which predated my recognition of the Woman) wasn't being breached by anyone looking to save me from myself, that friendships were weak and trustless and selfish, and that life was boring and monotonous. I would never slay monsters; I would never save the world; I would never travel between countries on horseback, restless and determined. Long before I had even entered high school, the world was a place I desperately longed to avoid, and so I did, throwing all of my emotional energy onto printed pages and, eventually, moving pixels. Under the auspices of the Woman, I became an idealist, paradoxically convinced that loyalty and love were as fictional as the stories I so desperately consumed.

Since then, little has changed for me. I've found people – both myself and others – to be constant sources of disappointment. The thing about idealism is that ultimately it's a lonely way to live, and often when I find myself seeking joy and fulfillment, I end up mostly finding emptiness and groundless sentiment. Often I find myself struggling against the recognitions I made in my childhood: that life lessons don't come gift-wrapped from the mouths of friends or strangers, that heroes live mostly in the stories, and that greatness and strength and courage are not traits of great relevancy in this culture of menial jobs and hollow friendships and easy lives. It's true that I'm not starving or cold or dying, that as far as 83% of the world is concerned, I lead a life of privilege and ease by virtue of being American, that my perception of hardship is vastly insignificant in the face of the poverty and desperation so many people face. But this knowledge does nothing to curb the ache for meaning and acceptance, the yearning for true friendships and a found family, and so I find myself constantly returning to the Woman and her sweet promise of humanity, even if I no longer entirely believe her. Living vicariously is, to some degree, the only thing I've learned how to do well, and so often she is my only source of comfort and stasis.

I sometimes wonder who I would have turned out to be if I had never found the Woman, or if I'd never internalized her to the degree that I did. Maybe part of the substance of other people's happiness is that they don't spend so much time trying to unlock the secrets of it. Maybe it's not that joy is complex, it's just that I fail to recognize it. It's equally possible that I'm just a nutcase, that rumination is unproductive, and that people give up on me because I'm difficult to be around. In any case, such is the state of my life, and for whatever reason, it feels good to admit it.

And on that note, I return to Sherlock.