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creativity, writing

Spoilerphobic

Free image from Freefoto.com under Creative Commons licence. Photo by Ian Britton.

When I was a little kid, my younger brother, Bryce, and I decided to search the house for the Christmas presents we knew must be secreted somewhere in our parents’ bedroom. After some heavy duty snooping, we did indeed locate presents that matched what we’d been asking for, or at least seemed likely to be ours.

Come Christmas morning, we opened our presents and found… what we’d already found. It was disappointing. The element of surprise was lacking. It was like we’d already had our presents a month ago, but simply hadn’t been able to make use of them.

I never snooped for presents again. I never even picked up parcels from under the tree and tried to guess their contents. I didn’t want that awful feeling of Christmas Disappointment again.

Fast forward a good 20 years to Poland, where Tim and I lived and taught English for a while. We spoke only a smattering of Polish, so we didn’t bother watching Polish television or attempting to read Polish newspapers. English language films were not a problem, though: they were regularly screened with subtitles at all the local cinemas. However, we had to choose what to see purely on the strength of the poster art, as we had no other information about the film to go on. (Remember, this was pre-internet, with no way to look up plot synopses, casting information, reviews or trailers.)

As a result, we saw a lot of films with practically no expectations except those intimated by the poster. The Mask turned out to be hilarious, because we hadn’t already seen the best bits on the promo. The Crow was a last minute choice on a huge screen that was visually amazing. Arizona Dream was even more bizarre, but much less interesting, than the poster.. (Apparently, Johnny Depp cannot save every film. Not even when Jerry Lewis and Faye Dunaway are trying to help. Or maybe they were the problem.)

Other films packed all kinds of surprises because we had no idea what to expect. The twists and the reveals came to us as the film makers had intended, unfolding with the story. And Tim and I discovered that we liked this approach to seeing a film.

So here I am in the 21st Century, thoroughly spoilerphobic. I don’t even read the backs of books any more, as so many of them reveal events that don’t happen until half way through the story. If a trailer of a film I want to see comes on at the cinema, I close my eyes, stick my fingers in my ears and hum.

It may seem excessive, but I don’t really want to see the Reader’s Digest version of a film, with all the emotional highlights and an suggestion (or downright revelation) of the ending, beforehand. If I see a film and am disappointed by the execution, so be it, but I don’t want to see it and be disappointed because, in effect, I already know the whole story.

Seeing something fresh for the first time, without expectations or waiting for the twist, is wonderful. It’s exciting. If a story is predictable or pat – in effect spoilering itself through bad writing or plotting – I lose interest and walk away. I love it when I can’t quite see how it’s going to pan out; or if I can work out, for example, whodunit, but not how- or why-dunnit. I can appreciate the writer’s skill in assembling plot, character, theme and rhythm without pre-empting their choice of pace and clues.

(Here’s something. I went to see Apollo 13 years ago. It’s based on real life events, but I actually couldn’t recall how those real life events had played out. The last half hour of that film, I was riveted with suspense because I didn’t know what was going to happen!)

Someone once told me that there was no such thing as spoilers any more, because all the information is out there on the internet. But if you can avoid the knowledge (simply by refusing to go looking for it) then surely the term still has meaning. Hell, if it had no meaning, there wouldn’t be a word for it.

I even think you should include spoiler warnings for old films, TV shows and books. After all, the film may have been released 50 years ago, but some people aren’t that old. New generations will still see it for the first time, and they don’t yet know about Rosebud, the Crying Game or Norman Bates. There are people not yet born who may one day appreciate not knowing crucial details of those films.

I know people who love to discover all the details of a film or show well in advance of the screening. That’s fine. If you like to know it all before you start, I wouldn’t stop you. But I would beg of you not to share your inside knowledge with me. I want my surprises as the writer intended.

creativity

Where’s the pound of flesh?

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Writer and food historian, Gillian Pollack, has sent me some recipes for Election Cake in honour of the Australian election being held this weekend. I was joking that we needed cakes full of nuts to represent our conservatives, or a hollow cake in honour of the policy-free zone that has led up to polling. She sent me three recipes, none of which include the requisite pound of flesh, though one of the recipes did include wine and brandy, which I would have thought were pre-requisites for getting through the tension of watching the results come through on election night television. Or for wiping out all the miserable memories if some of those nutters actually get into power.

The one I’m fondest of is this, from The Frugal Housewife, mainly for the book’s dedication: DEDICATED TO THOSE WHO ARE NOT ASHAMED OF ECONOMY

Election Cake
Old fashion election cake is made of four pounds of flour; three quarters of a pound of butter; four eggs; one pound of sugar; one pound of currants, or raisins, if you choose; half a pint of good yeast; wet it with milk as soft as it can be and be moulded on a board. Set to rise over night in winter; in warm weather three hours is usually enough for it to rise. A loaf, the size of common flour bread, should bake three quarters of an hour. — The Frugal Housewife LMF Child 1830.

There’s a certain economy of description here as well – though I suppose when this was written in the first part of the 19th Century, there weren’t that many options on what temperature you should set your oven to. You just stuck in the block of wood and cooked things till they were done. My grandparents had one of those stoves for decades, right up to the end of the 20th century. Perhaps they should have voted for whoever would bring them more modern amenities?

I’m also charmed by the idea of wetting my mixture with milk until it’s ‘as soft as it can be’. How soft *is* that exactly? In the current climate, I imagine as soft as the promises made on funding.

Perhaps for the recipe to really work in honour of the 2010 election, with its lack of policy and vision from the major parties, this particular election cake should only be half baked as well.

Given the number of ex-leaders loitering in the vicinity to queer the pitches of the current leaders, perhaps we should also add some grapefruit peel, to make it more appropriately bitter.