Aha, it's Halloween! That other holiday that only Americans really celebrate. Last year in France, I saw a few kids out trick or treating, but most of the students and the general population didn't care. Another happy example of cultural grafting that doesn't take. At least it's rather easier to explain the rationale behind Halloween: candy is delicious. There's none of this jive history about settlers in funny hats and the natives they displaced and inconvenienced.
Not a lot of visible festivities around, unfortunately. Perhaps that's because Halloween falls in the middle of the week, but personally, I'm all for taking advantage of a day when I can wear ridiculous clothes to work. Bring on the costumes! Bring on the candy corn! How can you dislike a holiday that involves carving pumpkins (mine features Mulder and Scully, or did before it began to slump in on itself) and unabashedly pagan ritual? Halloween's got history, and it isn't all death and destruction (well, lots of death, but mostly not on purpose).
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Saturday, October 27, 2007
like a tree falling in the forest with no one around
I've noticed recently that the way I drive is ridiculous. Not that it's dangerous, mind, or uncouth, just that it's rather silly. Lots of fingertapping, lots of making faces. I crook my pinkies when I'm turning, as if I'm expecting high tea to be served from the passenger's seat. Of course, I also make silly faces when I'm sitting and doing nothing. Right now typing this, I've pursed my lips and crooked an eyebrow. I can't seem to stop my thoughts from affecting my expressions as I sit here at my desk at work with only my thoughts (and the largely empty room) for company. I grin at the thought of my team winning today. I scowl at the thought of battling tonight's traffic.
Ah, the trials of being an introvert.
Fortunately, we live in an age of electronic solitude. Despite the fact that I look as if I'm trying to communicate with an imaginary friend, no one notices. They're all wrapped up in their cell phones or web browsing or iPods. It's a great time to be constantly lost in your own head, since talking to someone else involves more effort than it's worth. They're probably on the phone or listening to music anyway.
In my head, this made a better blog entry. It was less to do with solipsism and more to do with my need to communicate, even if I can't see the expressions of those I'm communicating with. In the absence of conversation, my face does the talking, or my quirky little gestures. I think too much, and when there's no one to talk to, all the thoughts come out as odd expressions or unnecessarily cultured gestures. Much like this blog: it hardly matters if anyone is reading it anymore (I doubt it), because the point is that the expression is there, and the chance of someone catching it is about the same as someone actually responding to the smile that crosses my face as I sit in the coffee shop and relive a great Scrabble play.
Truly it's a great time to be lost in your own head. The internet and the prevalence of personal communication devices makes actually leaving the house to talk to people unnecessary. Your friends and coworkers don't have to be geographically proximal at all. Talking to someone who hasn't specifically contacted you seems almost intrusive. It's only tactful to respond to your screen and nobody else's. Still, my face goes on trying to communicate my inner life, with or without my approval. Just as well. It might be that sometime someone will notice my pointless little scowls and the inner monologue will become a conversation. Or maybe my friends will come home for a visit and I'll have someone to talk to besides the screen.
In my mind, this was an opening line. It would evoke a response. Even introverts enjoy communicating. But in the end, it's probably just another wry grin at nobody.
I need to get out more, eh?
Ah, the trials of being an introvert.
Fortunately, we live in an age of electronic solitude. Despite the fact that I look as if I'm trying to communicate with an imaginary friend, no one notices. They're all wrapped up in their cell phones or web browsing or iPods. It's a great time to be constantly lost in your own head, since talking to someone else involves more effort than it's worth. They're probably on the phone or listening to music anyway.
In my head, this made a better blog entry. It was less to do with solipsism and more to do with my need to communicate, even if I can't see the expressions of those I'm communicating with. In the absence of conversation, my face does the talking, or my quirky little gestures. I think too much, and when there's no one to talk to, all the thoughts come out as odd expressions or unnecessarily cultured gestures. Much like this blog: it hardly matters if anyone is reading it anymore (I doubt it), because the point is that the expression is there, and the chance of someone catching it is about the same as someone actually responding to the smile that crosses my face as I sit in the coffee shop and relive a great Scrabble play.
Truly it's a great time to be lost in your own head. The internet and the prevalence of personal communication devices makes actually leaving the house to talk to people unnecessary. Your friends and coworkers don't have to be geographically proximal at all. Talking to someone who hasn't specifically contacted you seems almost intrusive. It's only tactful to respond to your screen and nobody else's. Still, my face goes on trying to communicate my inner life, with or without my approval. Just as well. It might be that sometime someone will notice my pointless little scowls and the inner monologue will become a conversation. Or maybe my friends will come home for a visit and I'll have someone to talk to besides the screen.
In my mind, this was an opening line. It would evoke a response. Even introverts enjoy communicating. But in the end, it's probably just another wry grin at nobody.
I need to get out more, eh?
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
books, books, books
I think I'm spending too much time around books lately.
Not a statement anyone ever expected to hear from me. I majored in literature, after all. I work in a bookstore and a library. My room is crammed with books. I can't even count the times I've woken up with a book next to me on the pillow. I love the way books feel and the way they smell. I enjoy helping people find just the books they're looking for.
Still, there's a point when it feels like I'm taking my work home with me. One of Mom's library books was lying on my desk on its cover. The back of the book had a stylized R and the word "Revell". "Oh," I thought to myself, "Revell is the Christian-themed imprint of Baker, whose books we buy from J.A. Majors." Or I noticed a Scribner book in the living room the other day; that's Simon & Schuster. Each week I update the bestsellers for our store; Saturday I did the lists and only had to look up one of the publishers. For all the others, I knew the imprints already (Grand Central is Hachette, Vintage belongs to Random House, Riverhead is one of Penguin's and so on. For the record, the one I didn't know was Washington Square Press, which turns out to be part of Atria, which is an imprint of Simon & Schuster.).
While this is great in a way, because it lets me get done with the spreadsheets-and-order-forms part of my job faster and go on to the rearranging-the-displays and hassling-the-cashiers parts, it's also somewhat alarming. What if I suddenly develop a social life? I won't be able to hang out at bookstores, that's for sure. The people at Barnes & Noble have better shelves than I do, and more of them. They also have their own imprint, which makes me shake my fist every time a customer wants a book that's only available at Barnes & Noble. Heaven forbid I ever get invited to a party. I'd probably be standing around jabbering about multi-press conglomerates and how mysterious it is that the big presses don't seem to actually send out their books on time. As it is, I spend more time on the phone with HarperCollins and Von Holtzbrinck than I do with my best friend. It's gotten to the point where I know which companies have the best hold music (not Perseus - Enya makes me want to take a nap).
I suppose I could do something with this knowledge, like start an indie press movement. We'll listen to peppy music and only buy books from small, expensive, tough-to-contact independent presses! Yeah! Books that nobody would ever want! Or I could irritate people by poking through their collections and pointing out that they seem to buy all their books from one group or the other. I could write an exposé about the irritations of restocking fees and shipping delays that get us the bestsellers a week after they've fallen off the list or why the price-gouging students complain about at university bookstores is mostly a bunch of whining. Nothing much compared to ground up rats in the sausage, though.
I suppose in the end my bookstore skills will be just about as useful as any other specialized skill set, say playing bridge or understanding a dead language (neither of which I can do): sometimes entertaining at parties, but not a lot of practical applications outside of the field. Ah well. That's why I went to a liberal arts college, right?
Not a statement anyone ever expected to hear from me. I majored in literature, after all. I work in a bookstore and a library. My room is crammed with books. I can't even count the times I've woken up with a book next to me on the pillow. I love the way books feel and the way they smell. I enjoy helping people find just the books they're looking for.
Still, there's a point when it feels like I'm taking my work home with me. One of Mom's library books was lying on my desk on its cover. The back of the book had a stylized R and the word "Revell". "Oh," I thought to myself, "Revell is the Christian-themed imprint of Baker, whose books we buy from J.A. Majors." Or I noticed a Scribner book in the living room the other day; that's Simon & Schuster. Each week I update the bestsellers for our store; Saturday I did the lists and only had to look up one of the publishers. For all the others, I knew the imprints already (Grand Central is Hachette, Vintage belongs to Random House, Riverhead is one of Penguin's and so on. For the record, the one I didn't know was Washington Square Press, which turns out to be part of Atria, which is an imprint of Simon & Schuster.).
While this is great in a way, because it lets me get done with the spreadsheets-and-order-forms part of my job faster and go on to the rearranging-the-displays and hassling-the-cashiers parts, it's also somewhat alarming. What if I suddenly develop a social life? I won't be able to hang out at bookstores, that's for sure. The people at Barnes & Noble have better shelves than I do, and more of them. They also have their own imprint, which makes me shake my fist every time a customer wants a book that's only available at Barnes & Noble. Heaven forbid I ever get invited to a party. I'd probably be standing around jabbering about multi-press conglomerates and how mysterious it is that the big presses don't seem to actually send out their books on time. As it is, I spend more time on the phone with HarperCollins and Von Holtzbrinck than I do with my best friend. It's gotten to the point where I know which companies have the best hold music (not Perseus - Enya makes me want to take a nap).
I suppose I could do something with this knowledge, like start an indie press movement. We'll listen to peppy music and only buy books from small, expensive, tough-to-contact independent presses! Yeah! Books that nobody would ever want! Or I could irritate people by poking through their collections and pointing out that they seem to buy all their books from one group or the other. I could write an exposé about the irritations of restocking fees and shipping delays that get us the bestsellers a week after they've fallen off the list or why the price-gouging students complain about at university bookstores is mostly a bunch of whining. Nothing much compared to ground up rats in the sausage, though.
I suppose in the end my bookstore skills will be just about as useful as any other specialized skill set, say playing bridge or understanding a dead language (neither of which I can do): sometimes entertaining at parties, but not a lot of practical applications outside of the field. Ah well. That's why I went to a liberal arts college, right?
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Knitting circle: not just for grannies
Fall's been late coming to my town. As recently as last weekend, it was in the 80s. The maples in my yard are stubbornly green (though one's started to drop leaves early). The hills aren't the usual palette of oranges and reds and yellows. Fortunately, a cold front moved in; maybe that will coax the leaves to change. It's been rainy and grey and chilly and awful the last couple of days, and it looks like that'll continue all week. And we know what that means.
Knitting weather.
Not that I didn't knit all summer, but the point is that now it's chilly enough to have a scarf or a sweater piled onto my lap. So long, cottons! Hello, wools and mohairs! I'm fortunately to have a local yarn shop stocked to the ceiling with exactly the sorts of spun things I want to twine between my fingers. There's also a yarncat (the best kind that only smacks the yarn off the shelf and doesn't try to eat it), and they host a knitting circle on Monday nights.
Ever since I came home from France and realized I no longer know anyone in this town (and hence have no social life), I've been looking forward to Monday nights. After all, I don't care about anything on television on Mondays, and the gym's crowded at night now that the students are back. Knitting circle's become the highlight of my week. It gets me and Mom out of the house one evening a week, and we meet a number of amazing, inspiring women.
No doubt about it, the women in my knitting circle are characters. People drift in and out each week (we even have a man who's a regular), but there's a core group of twelve or so who show up almost every time, for half an hour or the whole two hours. People bring in homegrown or homemade snacks to nosh on, like the jalapeño jelly cream cheese dip. There's wine, there's yarn, there's the cat, there's a half-dozen projects of varying difficulties and degrees of completeness. I am astounded by some of the things those women knit. I'd still call myself an advanced beginner: I can do basic lace, I could probably cable if I wanted, but I'm not brave and bold in particular. I don't like seaming and I've never turned a heel. I can read a pattern, but I've never designed anything. Still, the women of knitting circle lavished my simple sweater with praise: I guess it's all about the fundamentals. Plus, I know if I do take on a major project, I'll have plenty of help. These women are sharp, and they know what they're doing, and they're generous enough to lend a hand.
Sure, we have minor strife and tribulation. Mom and I knit continental, and apparently we purl like no one else; the rest of the knitters are mostly English-style, wrappers instead of pickers. There's some friendly bickering about that ("Wrapping is slow!" "Continental is complicated!") as we try to argue the pros and cons of this purl stitch or that cast-on method. We talk about Yankees (Mom is one, and so are a couple of the other members) and how Southern women will say outlandishly snide things, as long as they're followed by "bless his/her/your heart". We talk about the job market, how much we enjoy or don't enjoy our jobs, whether we'd rather be knitting. Sure, most of them are plenty older than I am (but such dignity and sass!), but they're not the stereotypical grandmothers, rocking away and knitting ugly scarves in dull acrylics. These women are knitting hot pants and kicky hats with skull patterns on them. Sure, they're knitting baby blankets and self-striping socks, but with new, cool twists. Part of it is the amazing new yarns that are coming out (Fortissima makes me pine to knit socks of my own, and Koigu looks amazing no matter what you make out of it), but part of it is that knitting is cool again (thanks, Stitch & Bitch!). I may be the youngest there most weeks, but I'm not the only young person knitting.
I'm really looking forward to all this horrible weather. After all, I've got shows to knit through, and waiting rooms to knit in, and Christmas presents to get a start on. Plus, I want to have something to show off next week. Last night, I spent the whole evening struggling through a calamari snarl of the spring green wool/bamboo blend that I dropped the other day as I was heading to work, and trailed behind me for fifty feet or so. Good thing it was sunny then. Good thing I'm going to be keeping the ball in a Ziploc bag once I get it wound.
Knitting weather.
Not that I didn't knit all summer, but the point is that now it's chilly enough to have a scarf or a sweater piled onto my lap. So long, cottons! Hello, wools and mohairs! I'm fortunately to have a local yarn shop stocked to the ceiling with exactly the sorts of spun things I want to twine between my fingers. There's also a yarncat (the best kind that only smacks the yarn off the shelf and doesn't try to eat it), and they host a knitting circle on Monday nights.
Ever since I came home from France and realized I no longer know anyone in this town (and hence have no social life), I've been looking forward to Monday nights. After all, I don't care about anything on television on Mondays, and the gym's crowded at night now that the students are back. Knitting circle's become the highlight of my week. It gets me and Mom out of the house one evening a week, and we meet a number of amazing, inspiring women.
No doubt about it, the women in my knitting circle are characters. People drift in and out each week (we even have a man who's a regular), but there's a core group of twelve or so who show up almost every time, for half an hour or the whole two hours. People bring in homegrown or homemade snacks to nosh on, like the jalapeño jelly cream cheese dip. There's wine, there's yarn, there's the cat, there's a half-dozen projects of varying difficulties and degrees of completeness. I am astounded by some of the things those women knit. I'd still call myself an advanced beginner: I can do basic lace, I could probably cable if I wanted, but I'm not brave and bold in particular. I don't like seaming and I've never turned a heel. I can read a pattern, but I've never designed anything. Still, the women of knitting circle lavished my simple sweater with praise: I guess it's all about the fundamentals. Plus, I know if I do take on a major project, I'll have plenty of help. These women are sharp, and they know what they're doing, and they're generous enough to lend a hand.
Sure, we have minor strife and tribulation. Mom and I knit continental, and apparently we purl like no one else; the rest of the knitters are mostly English-style, wrappers instead of pickers. There's some friendly bickering about that ("Wrapping is slow!" "Continental is complicated!") as we try to argue the pros and cons of this purl stitch or that cast-on method. We talk about Yankees (Mom is one, and so are a couple of the other members) and how Southern women will say outlandishly snide things, as long as they're followed by "bless his/her/your heart". We talk about the job market, how much we enjoy or don't enjoy our jobs, whether we'd rather be knitting. Sure, most of them are plenty older than I am (but such dignity and sass!), but they're not the stereotypical grandmothers, rocking away and knitting ugly scarves in dull acrylics. These women are knitting hot pants and kicky hats with skull patterns on them. Sure, they're knitting baby blankets and self-striping socks, but with new, cool twists. Part of it is the amazing new yarns that are coming out (Fortissima makes me pine to knit socks of my own, and Koigu looks amazing no matter what you make out of it), but part of it is that knitting is cool again (thanks, Stitch & Bitch!). I may be the youngest there most weeks, but I'm not the only young person knitting.
I'm really looking forward to all this horrible weather. After all, I've got shows to knit through, and waiting rooms to knit in, and Christmas presents to get a start on. Plus, I want to have something to show off next week. Last night, I spent the whole evening struggling through a calamari snarl of the spring green wool/bamboo blend that I dropped the other day as I was heading to work, and trailed behind me for fifty feet or so. Good thing it was sunny then. Good thing I'm going to be keeping the ball in a Ziploc bag once I get it wound.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Why I (Still) Watch The X-Files
So I meant to talk about why I watch Friday Night Lights, but it's 10/13. This is, as any X-Phile knows, both the date of (fictional) Fox Mulder's birthday and (oh so real) Chris Carter's (the guy who created the show in the first place). Therefore, in homage to my show, I have to eschew for the moment the tangibly dusty field of the football stadium at Dillon High and wander instead into the strange and wonderful world of The X-Files.
I started watching the show right as it got terrible, in the summer of 2000. Truly it was horrible timing, and I later did exactly the same thing with The West Wing. I know there are those out there who will say that The X-Files started going downhill after Season Three or Season Five, but I think we can all agree that it was a rough and awful transition from the rather light-hearted but compelling Mulder/Scully dynamic of Season Seven to the Duchovny-less Seasons Eight and Nine. No matter how much you enjoy Robert Patrick's John Doggett and the charming Annabeth Gish as Monica Reyes, Duchovny was the anchor. Moody, brooding Mulder was the reason for the show to exist, and it just wasn't the same without him. Regardless, I stuck by The X-Files through the last two long seasons of bizarre plot lines and pointless dead ends (the baby plot, which went nowhere; the last episode, which answered no questions at all; the death of the Lone Gunmen, which was the only episode that ever made me cry).
I don't really watch a lot of television. Which is to say, I watch a healthy number of hours of the few shows I do watch, but I'm never just going to turn the thing on and channel surf. I missed the pop culture explosion: I never saw a tv special or a photoshoot or an article about The X-Files, though I remember seeing a couple of commercials. I didn't see the movie when it came out; I had no idea there was a movie. Because of this not-watching, I had hardly heard of The X-Files before a friend told me about it. Actually, I read a story she'd written that featured the characters; it was my first brush with online fandoms and fanfic. When I met up with her that summer, I told her I'd read it, and she offered to send me some tapes. I still remember getting that box in the mail, with her strange note about the "mytharc" and the "MotW" episodes, and how the mytharc ought to be watched in order. I just took her word for it and popped in a tape, which turned out to be the episode "Duane Barry". This of course means nothing to you if you don't watch the show, but it means quite a lot to the fan: that three-episode story arc was, in my opinion, the twist that really solidified the show's reputation. In that episode, Mulder and Scully (who have been split up) confront an ex-FBI mental patient who is holding people (including his psychiatrist) hostage in a travel agency. Duane Barry believes he has been abducted repeatedly by aliens; he also believes he can escape this by offering the aliens somebody else. Mulder is sent in to negotiate as his slimy new partner Krycek remains with the other agents to throw a wrench in the works. Mulder successfully talks Barry into a compromised position where Barry can be subdued; however, Barry escapes FBI custody and kidnaps Scully, with the aim of exchanging her for his freedom. The other two episodes in the arc deal with Scully's abduction and return, Krycek's deception, and Mulder's despair and loneliness as he tries to bring the powerful men behind Scully's disappearance to justice.
The reasoning behind this story line was writing out a very pregnant Gillian Anderson for a couple of episodes; thank heavens she got knocked up. I was hooked by the end of the episode. The aloof intimacy between the separated partners is magnificent; Mulder casually disregards and manipulates Krycek as he confides in Scully. Barry is played to perfection by Steve Railsback: paranoid, unhappy, sharp-witted, childishly sure of his bargain. He swings from pleading for protection to completely menacing in the space of a moment. Duchovny brings a surprising competence to Mulder's myopic focus, and Gillian Anderson says more with an eyebrow than most actors say with a monologue. Mulder is powerless to stop Scully's abduction or Krycek's defection; though he searches for Scully, none of his contacts accomplish anything, and his self-destructive grief causes him to throw himself into his work even more than before. When Scully is returned, without any answers or memory and with her health compromised, Mulder's powerlessness is even further emphasized, though his relief at having her back overshadows his quest.
Without this arc, I think the show would have faltered. Scully's skepticism or Mulder's fanatic passion for oddities would have driven the partners apart. However, Scully's abduction and subsequent health problems gave her an investiture in the campaign to reveal the shadowy government powers behind the alien abductions. Without a personal stake in Mulder's insane quest, I have no doubt the dynamic of the show would have become stale. Despite the crackle of chemistry between Duchovny and Anderson, Scully's early-season puppyish devotion to Mulder could only have lasted so long without becoming tiresome.
Really, even if every other episode had been awful (and there were some remarkable stinkers during the show's nine-year run), I would have loved The X-Files just for that arc. The longing of the separated partners, whether romantic or platonic, strikes a chord. It's two people against the world, fighting the good but secret fight. They're never going to get a reward for putting themselves in constant danger. Their quest is nearly as pure as the legendary quest for the Grail, but in this case, determination is going to get them a lot farther than purity. Over the course of the show, both agents commit a variety of illegal or questionable acts, but they do more good than bad. Their intentions are good, and they stay good, despite an astounding number of setbacks and attacks. The X-Files, for all its showcasing of twisted and strange individuals, ends up being a testament to the endurance of the human spirit. The world falls apart around Mulder and Scully and they still manage to rely on each other. Though the justice they achieve is only partial, they've made a difference in the world by the end. That's something we'd all like to be able to say.
Fortunately for me, most of the rest of the show is great too. There's the black and white episode, with the Cher-loving mutant just trying to find a friend (even if it's through genetic manipulation and what could probably be called rape). There's the one with the town full of vampires who just want to be good neighbors (my personal favorite). There are creepy ones about government mind control ("Wetwired", "Blood") and silly ones about baseball and Hollywood and local legends like the Jersey Devil. The awful special effects of the first couple of seasons are as charming, in retrospect, as the choppy stop-action alien critters in the original Star Wars trilogy (the original original), and they did get a lot better in later seasons. Even the cringe-worthy episodes usually have a good line or two, or some obscure actor who went on to be famous (Lucy Liu, for example).
There was the landscape of the show, too: from the forests of Florida to the chilly Arctic in the five seasons the show was filmed in Vancouver. The amazingly versatile biomes of British Columbia were put to excellent use. The first five seasons were chilling: Mulder and Scully were in dire danger as often as not, with all manner of supernatural (or not) murderers and forces stalking them. They stuck together through thick and thin, through cancer scares and Bureau censures and the pasts that came back to haunt them. The sixth and seventh seasons, when the show shifted to L.A., were undoubtedly more lighthearted: post-film, the dynamic focused a little more on Mulder and Scully's relationship and the inevitable but deliciously subtle and understated romance.
Funny how watching The X-Files still makes me feel safe and happy, given the eerie to terrifying spectrum of the episodes. It might be the comfort of seeing two people who trust and rely on each other absolutely even through their various spats; Mulder and Scully end up only having each other in all the world, having alienated their friends and witnessed the deaths of their family members. It might be the quirky, funny moments among all the serious ones, like Scully singing Three Dog Night's "Joy to the World" to an injured Mulder as they spend the night stranded in a forest and hunted by mutants. It might be Mulder's earnest ache to believe and Scully's dry skepticism, or the few, illuminating instances of normality in the world-gone-mad they inhabit. It might be the eternal quest for justice. It could be the (slightly ridiculous) writing or the delivery that turned odd lines into extraordinarily quotable dialogue. Or maybe I just enjoy the Mutant of the Week and Mark Snow's well-crafted score. Hard to say. Unlike Mulder and Scully, I don't always have the need to get down to the bones of things. Which is fortunate, really. There are a lot of nasty secrets and truths that might as well stay buried.
So that's my show, the first show I ever planned to watch every week, the gateway that got me into The West Wing, Sports Night, and the handful of other things I now watch, including Friday Night Lights and Pushing Daisies. Thanks, X-Files. Now when's the second movie coming out?
I started watching the show right as it got terrible, in the summer of 2000. Truly it was horrible timing, and I later did exactly the same thing with The West Wing. I know there are those out there who will say that The X-Files started going downhill after Season Three or Season Five, but I think we can all agree that it was a rough and awful transition from the rather light-hearted but compelling Mulder/Scully dynamic of Season Seven to the Duchovny-less Seasons Eight and Nine. No matter how much you enjoy Robert Patrick's John Doggett and the charming Annabeth Gish as Monica Reyes, Duchovny was the anchor. Moody, brooding Mulder was the reason for the show to exist, and it just wasn't the same without him. Regardless, I stuck by The X-Files through the last two long seasons of bizarre plot lines and pointless dead ends (the baby plot, which went nowhere; the last episode, which answered no questions at all; the death of the Lone Gunmen, which was the only episode that ever made me cry).
I don't really watch a lot of television. Which is to say, I watch a healthy number of hours of the few shows I do watch, but I'm never just going to turn the thing on and channel surf. I missed the pop culture explosion: I never saw a tv special or a photoshoot or an article about The X-Files, though I remember seeing a couple of commercials. I didn't see the movie when it came out; I had no idea there was a movie. Because of this not-watching, I had hardly heard of The X-Files before a friend told me about it. Actually, I read a story she'd written that featured the characters; it was my first brush with online fandoms and fanfic. When I met up with her that summer, I told her I'd read it, and she offered to send me some tapes. I still remember getting that box in the mail, with her strange note about the "mytharc" and the "MotW" episodes, and how the mytharc ought to be watched in order. I just took her word for it and popped in a tape, which turned out to be the episode "Duane Barry". This of course means nothing to you if you don't watch the show, but it means quite a lot to the fan: that three-episode story arc was, in my opinion, the twist that really solidified the show's reputation. In that episode, Mulder and Scully (who have been split up) confront an ex-FBI mental patient who is holding people (including his psychiatrist) hostage in a travel agency. Duane Barry believes he has been abducted repeatedly by aliens; he also believes he can escape this by offering the aliens somebody else. Mulder is sent in to negotiate as his slimy new partner Krycek remains with the other agents to throw a wrench in the works. Mulder successfully talks Barry into a compromised position where Barry can be subdued; however, Barry escapes FBI custody and kidnaps Scully, with the aim of exchanging her for his freedom. The other two episodes in the arc deal with Scully's abduction and return, Krycek's deception, and Mulder's despair and loneliness as he tries to bring the powerful men behind Scully's disappearance to justice.
The reasoning behind this story line was writing out a very pregnant Gillian Anderson for a couple of episodes; thank heavens she got knocked up. I was hooked by the end of the episode. The aloof intimacy between the separated partners is magnificent; Mulder casually disregards and manipulates Krycek as he confides in Scully. Barry is played to perfection by Steve Railsback: paranoid, unhappy, sharp-witted, childishly sure of his bargain. He swings from pleading for protection to completely menacing in the space of a moment. Duchovny brings a surprising competence to Mulder's myopic focus, and Gillian Anderson says more with an eyebrow than most actors say with a monologue. Mulder is powerless to stop Scully's abduction or Krycek's defection; though he searches for Scully, none of his contacts accomplish anything, and his self-destructive grief causes him to throw himself into his work even more than before. When Scully is returned, without any answers or memory and with her health compromised, Mulder's powerlessness is even further emphasized, though his relief at having her back overshadows his quest.
Without this arc, I think the show would have faltered. Scully's skepticism or Mulder's fanatic passion for oddities would have driven the partners apart. However, Scully's abduction and subsequent health problems gave her an investiture in the campaign to reveal the shadowy government powers behind the alien abductions. Without a personal stake in Mulder's insane quest, I have no doubt the dynamic of the show would have become stale. Despite the crackle of chemistry between Duchovny and Anderson, Scully's early-season puppyish devotion to Mulder could only have lasted so long without becoming tiresome.
Really, even if every other episode had been awful (and there were some remarkable stinkers during the show's nine-year run), I would have loved The X-Files just for that arc. The longing of the separated partners, whether romantic or platonic, strikes a chord. It's two people against the world, fighting the good but secret fight. They're never going to get a reward for putting themselves in constant danger. Their quest is nearly as pure as the legendary quest for the Grail, but in this case, determination is going to get them a lot farther than purity. Over the course of the show, both agents commit a variety of illegal or questionable acts, but they do more good than bad. Their intentions are good, and they stay good, despite an astounding number of setbacks and attacks. The X-Files, for all its showcasing of twisted and strange individuals, ends up being a testament to the endurance of the human spirit. The world falls apart around Mulder and Scully and they still manage to rely on each other. Though the justice they achieve is only partial, they've made a difference in the world by the end. That's something we'd all like to be able to say.
Fortunately for me, most of the rest of the show is great too. There's the black and white episode, with the Cher-loving mutant just trying to find a friend (even if it's through genetic manipulation and what could probably be called rape). There's the one with the town full of vampires who just want to be good neighbors (my personal favorite). There are creepy ones about government mind control ("Wetwired", "Blood") and silly ones about baseball and Hollywood and local legends like the Jersey Devil. The awful special effects of the first couple of seasons are as charming, in retrospect, as the choppy stop-action alien critters in the original Star Wars trilogy (the original original), and they did get a lot better in later seasons. Even the cringe-worthy episodes usually have a good line or two, or some obscure actor who went on to be famous (Lucy Liu, for example).
There was the landscape of the show, too: from the forests of Florida to the chilly Arctic in the five seasons the show was filmed in Vancouver. The amazingly versatile biomes of British Columbia were put to excellent use. The first five seasons were chilling: Mulder and Scully were in dire danger as often as not, with all manner of supernatural (or not) murderers and forces stalking them. They stuck together through thick and thin, through cancer scares and Bureau censures and the pasts that came back to haunt them. The sixth and seventh seasons, when the show shifted to L.A., were undoubtedly more lighthearted: post-film, the dynamic focused a little more on Mulder and Scully's relationship and the inevitable but deliciously subtle and understated romance.
Funny how watching The X-Files still makes me feel safe and happy, given the eerie to terrifying spectrum of the episodes. It might be the comfort of seeing two people who trust and rely on each other absolutely even through their various spats; Mulder and Scully end up only having each other in all the world, having alienated their friends and witnessed the deaths of their family members. It might be the quirky, funny moments among all the serious ones, like Scully singing Three Dog Night's "Joy to the World" to an injured Mulder as they spend the night stranded in a forest and hunted by mutants. It might be Mulder's earnest ache to believe and Scully's dry skepticism, or the few, illuminating instances of normality in the world-gone-mad they inhabit. It might be the eternal quest for justice. It could be the (slightly ridiculous) writing or the delivery that turned odd lines into extraordinarily quotable dialogue. Or maybe I just enjoy the Mutant of the Week and Mark Snow's well-crafted score. Hard to say. Unlike Mulder and Scully, I don't always have the need to get down to the bones of things. Which is fortunate, really. There are a lot of nasty secrets and truths that might as well stay buried.
So that's my show, the first show I ever planned to watch every week, the gateway that got me into The West Wing, Sports Night, and the handful of other things I now watch, including Friday Night Lights and Pushing Daisies. Thanks, X-Files. Now when's the second movie coming out?
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