The GardenDespatches from The Satyrs’ Forest

Posts in EnglishPage 9

Mx Tynehorne’s link roundup, volume XIV

A bin with the front and binbag taken off
Fuckers took my bin. Can’t have shit in… erm… wherever the exit to this forest is?

THE WAR ON SANTA

ALRIGHT BUCKO IT’S FUCKING NOVEMBER, PUT YOUR GODDAMNED HANDS UP!

MARIAH CAREY DEFROSTING
MARIAH CAREY IS DEFROSTING RIGHT FUCKING NOW AND THERE’S NOTHING YOU CAN DO ABOUT IT

THIS FUCKING HALLOWE’EN SHIT IS OVER MERRY CHRISTMAS I WANT YOU TO REPEAT AFTER ME “MERRY CHRISTMAS” RIGHT NOW AND I’M NOT LETTING YOU GO UNTIL YOU DO IT

MERRRY CHRISTMAS TO YOU TOO

NOW YOU MIGHT BE WONDERING WHY I’VE BROUGHT YOU HERE TODAY AND THERE’S ONE SIMPLE REASON. THE WAR ON CHRISTMAS? IT’S FAKE. IT’S A FUCKING PSYOP. WE’RE RECRUITING YOU INTO THE REAL WAR. THE WAR ON SANTA CLAUS.

THIS RAT FUCKING BASTARD SANTA IS AGGLOMERATING CHRISTMAS INTO ONE CORPORATISED YANKEE MEGATRADITION AND THIS CANNOT STAND! FATHER CHRISTMAS IS THE REAL ONE. SINTERKLAAS AND HIS WEIRD RACIST FRIENDS ARE THE REAL ONES. SATURN IS WEIRD BUT WE KIND OF STOLE HIS SHTICK AND ALSO WE’RE PRETTY SURE HE’D EAT US IF WE DIDN’T LEAVE HIM BE. DED MOROZ IS STAYING. BUT SANTA CLAUS? WE’RE KILLING THAT ELF-ENSLAVING ASSHOLE

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j9jbdgZidu8

YOUR SOUNDTRACK FOR THIS MISSION WILL BE “FAIRYTALE OF NEW YORK”, PLAYED ON REPEAT FOR SEVENTY-TWO HOURS STRAIGHT. THIS IS BECUASE SANTA IS HOMOPHOBIC AND YOU NEED TO GET ACCLIMATISED TO HIM CALLING YOU A WELL YOU KNOW

FATHER CHRISTMAS WITH LASER EYES
WE HAVE LASER EYES POWERED BY THE MAGIC OF CHRISTMAS AND WE ARE NOT AFRAID TO USE THEM

AND AFTER WE’RE DONE, OH TRUST ME BUCKO, WE’RE NOT STOPPING THERE. YOU THINK NOVEMBER IS BAD? WE’RE GONNA EXTEND CHRISTMAS SEASON TO ALL YEAR ROUND. HALLOWE’EN? YOU MEAN PRECHRISTMAS? SUMMER HOLIDAYS? YOU MEAN CHRISTMAS IN JULY??? THAT’S RIGHT FUCKER IT’S CHRISTMAS EVERY DAY THE PROPHECY IS TRUE MERRY CHRISTMAS

Don’t Worry Darling is not the greatest film ever made

I was bored the other day, so i thought i’d go see a film. The problem, my dear readers, is that i have this terribly unlucky habit: 70% of the time, when i go see a film at the cinema, it’s not very good — and i can confirm that Don’t Worry Darling is, indeed, not very good.

If you’ve heard anything about Don’t Worry Darling, it’ll be about the juicy, juicy behind-the-scenes drama, involving saucy affairs between director Olivia Wilde and the film’s leading male star, an exasperated Chris Pine, and Shia LaBeouf. But we’re not going to be talking about any of that — instead, we’ll be talking about the topic everyone is desperately avoiding: the movie itself. Oh dear.

A promotional still showing Florence Pugh making a confused and terribly concerned face at the camera
© Universal or whoever distributed it i don’t really care.

The film boils down to a thin Truman Show pastiche following a troubled couple in an idyllic American suburb, wherein a 1950s housewife, imaginatively named Alice Warren, questions what her controlling husband, the inexplicably British Jack Chambers, actually does at his mysterious government job. The wonderful Florence Pugh, hot off of 2019’s Midsommar, gives her all with the script she’s given as Alice, and is easily one of the standout parts of the film. Jack, on the other hand… Jack is played by Harry Styles, a man who should not act. (Every pop star nowadays seems to think they can walk the tightrope between music and cinema as easily as Lady Gaga does, and it never quite seems to work out for them.)

So, let’s put ourselves in Ms Wilde’s shoes. You have one common plot structure, one brilliant lead actress, and one so-so lead actor. How do you make this movie… good?

Well, first you load up the secondary cast with talented people. KiKi Lane and Chris Pine both absolutely kill it in their respective roles — Margaret, a troubled neighbour to Alice, and Frank, Jack’s hammy villainous boss — but neither character feels fully fleshed out; Mr Pine in particular finds himself with not much to do despite ostensibly being the driving force behind the plot.

You can also pour piles upon piles of money into your film’s technical aspects. The quaint suburb in which Jack and Alice live is designed to within an inch of its life, and every shot is clear, crisp, and packed with colour while not being too overbearing — like a James Bond film or, if you’re being unkind, a perfume commercial.

Alright. You’ve got your cast, you’ve got your style, now you just need to… ah, god, what was it? You look down at the smudged writing on your hand — ah, yes, the script! You have to write a script, with, like, a plot and stuff.

You wake up from a terrible dream. You are no longer Olivia Wilde. You are once again the handsome reader of the blog of an even handsomer webmixter, who politely informs you that the film’s one-block-wide Jenga tower of a storyline, while it seemed to be setting up for an interesting conclusion, falls apart completely in the third act. The film’s writers pull out every cliché in the book — “it was all in VR!” “our protagonist’s best friend was in on it!” “if you die in the game you die in real life!” — in the space of about ten minutes, with barely any of it given room to breathe. (In fact, that third revelation comes after a pivotal death scene.) Just as the audience wonders what impact this will have on the plot going forward, the film just… ends, with a distinctly unsatisfying resolution to our hero’s story, and an air of “well why did they even bother?” about the villainous plot.

All in all, i really can’t recommend watching Don’t Worry Darling — perhaps catch it on streaming when it comes out if it piques your interest, but don’t spend your heard-earned Lizzies on going to the cinema to watch Harry Styles gaslight his wife for an hour and a half. (5/10)

Pass notes: some other films of note

See How They Run is a fun, Wes Anderson–lite romp of a mystery story that gets in and out and does what it needs without making too much of a fuss about itself. Saoirse Ronan and Sam Rockwell drive around in a tiny blue ’50s police car; what more could you possibly want? (7½/10)

The Woman King is a fine enough (alternate-)historical epic carried on the backs of some terrific performances by Thuso Mbedu and Viola Davis. (6/10)

I wasn’t expecting to be so spellbound by a seventy-year-old drama film of a bunch of people talking in a room, but i absolutely could not take my eyes off of 12 Angry Men, which you should really just go watch right now. (9/10)

Just write about gardening or the Bible or Zootopia fanfiction or something

Cyberpunk AI art of a hacker typing into their computer about how much they hate the internet
(Generated with Stable Diffusion.)

I have to say, it gets on my nerves when, on my regular surfing sessions across the high seas of the web, i see a cool-looking website… and then its only content is just about how much its creator misses Le Old Web before they invented capitalism or whatever.1

There’s certainly room for meta-puffery about the internet (i wouldn’t have made this site what it is without Kicks Condor doing exactly that), but after a dozen sites in a row all moaning the same moan without an original insight in sight, it starts to get tired. I’m begging you, just write about gardening or the Bible or Zootopia fanfiction or something!

What makes the free web beautiful is the sheer diversity in the topics covered and how people’s little idiosyncracies and quirks and interests shine through — it saddens me how most sites in the “old web” (did it ever really go away?) revival movement are doing nothing but lamenting their own existence.

Shatner on space

I was originally going to post this excerpt from William Shatner’s new memoir, printed in Variety, alongside the usual link roundup, but something about it touched me enough to give it its own post.

Mr Shatner, in his own words, on his first trip to space:

I continued my self-guided tour and turned my head to face the other direction, to stare into space. I love the mystery of the universe. I love all the questions that have come to us over thousands of years of exploration and hypotheses. Stars exploding years ago, their light traveling to us years later; black holes absorbing energy; satellites showing us entire galaxies in areas thought to be devoid of matter entirely… all of that has thrilled me for years… but when I looked in the opposite direction, into space, there was no mystery, no majestic awe to behold … all I saw was death.

I saw a cold, dark, black emptiness. It was unlike any blackness you can see or feel on Earth. It was deep, enveloping, all-encompassing. I turned back toward the light of home. I could see the curvature of Earth, the beige of the desert, the white of the clouds and the blue of the sky. It was life. Nurturing, sustaining, life. Mother Earth. Gaia. And I was leaving her.
[…]

It was among the strongest feelings of grief I have ever encountered. The contrast between the vicious coldness of space and the warm nurturing of Earth below filled me with overwhelming sadness. Every day, we are confronted with the knowledge of further destruction of Earth at our hands: the extinction of animal species, of flora and fauna … things that took five billion years to evolve, and suddenly we will never see them again because of the interference of mankind. It filled me with dread. My trip to space was supposed to be a celebration; instead, it felt like a funeral.

Upon returning to earth, and trying to put his story into words for the first time, he was, as you may remember, bluntly cut off by Jeff Bezos, asking for more champagne:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1qfVXLQBygw

Mx van Hoorn’s link roundup, volume XIII

The shadow of a bathtub tap appears to form an OK hand
I can’t believe i got 👌’d by a sodding bathtub.

I suppose it’s only fair that the first roundup of October is spooky number thirteen, and we’re starting things off with a suitably spooky link:

What does AI make of the Gods?

I recently bought 1000 images’ worth of credits on DreamStudio — a machine-learningα-powered art generator — on a whim and, after the requisite “Boris Johnson taking a bath of baked beans” joke entries, i thought it would be an interesting test to get it to generate some images for my shrines (on- and offline).

Four images of god. From left to right: a stone carving resembling Zeus, a tapestry with a four-armed figure draped in green robes, fire reaching into the sky with a nebula in the centre, and a stone carving by the seaside resembling the face of Jesus of Nazareth.
Just typing in “God” brought a fascinating cavalcade of interpretations — some clearly Hellenic, some Christian, some taking more inspiration from the dharmic faiths, and the occasional completely abstract depiction.

My motivations were twofold: first, due to copyright constraints, all of the icons adorning these shrines were either old baroque paintings or freely-licenced photos of even older marble statues, which didn’t necessarily represent my mental image of the Gods’ appearances — a topic which, of course, will vary massively from artist to artist and culture to culture. Second, i thought it would be a fascinating experiment to see how this machine learning algorithm, which has taken in hundreds upon thousands (perhaps millions; i’ve not checked) of images, views the Gods in its latent space. Just as it has a prototypical idea of a “dog” and a “cat”, surely it also has one for “God” and “Dionysos”.

Hestia in a toga leaning on a pillar near a hearth, with a halo-like glow emanating from Her head

As is tradition, we begin this article with Hestia (although Her portrait was actually the final one to be generated). On the broad strokes, my computer collaborator knocked it out of the park — but a closer look reveals some glaring imperfections in the face and hands, a theme which we’ll be seeing a lot of (and which i sometimes managed to harness to my advantage).

Apollon — a lithe, youthful, Caucasian man with waving blonde locks of hair — reaches up towards the heavens in front of a hilly valley

I should note that i’m not just feeding it theonyms with no added context: the programme works best if you help it along to your goal with a heaping of adjectives and descriptors, say, to tell it that this is indeed meant to be an artwork (“4K ultra HD”, “trending on ArtStation”), the details of the pose and background you want (“blonde hair”, “raising His hand to the sky”), or the style and artists you want it to take from (“baroque painting by Thomas Cole”, a prominent painter of beautiful, well-lit landscapes). If you calibrate it just right, it can make some genuinely beautiful stuff, like the above picture of Apollon (which i did, admittedly, have to manually touch up to get rid of a prominent Habsburg chin).

GĂŚa, framed by Celtic knotwork, as a green-skinned, bare-chested woman with leaves for hair

It may be an immensely powerful tool, but DreamStudio can also be rather prudish.β It blurs out any images it thinks might contain the utterly offensive sight of the genitalia with which we are all born, which can be a real problem if the relevant pictures it’s learnt from are all Greek and Roman statues — not exactly works known for their nether modesty. The detection software isn’t perfect, though, and sometimes, like in this portrait of Gæa, it lets a few slip past (perhaps because of the greenish tone with which i instructed itγ to portray Her skin).

Hermes as a swarthy young man wearing a three-feathered crown, fleshy wings emanating from His sides

The algorithm sometimes has issues with more complex prompts, for it is just a machine, and doesn’t actually understand that “ball on top of a red box” means that the ball indeed should be on top of the box, as opposed to by its side, beneath it, or fused together in a horrific amalgam. These troubles somewhat manifested themselves in the above portrait of Hermes; the winged cap He is traditionally depicted with has transformed itself into both a crown and a hulking pair of soaring, fleshy wings emanating from His shoulders, and the recognisable caduceus has been reduced to a bamboo stick by His side.

Perhaps it’s just the style i instructed it to paint in — sixteenth-century European paintings aren’t renowned for their diversity — but DreamStudio also has some real trouble with darker skin tones. You can cry “dark skin, dark bronze skin, dark skin, dark skin, dark skin, black” all you want, but the only thing that can consistently get it to generate anything a shade below the average Spaniard is “African American”, which tends to bring along a heap of other associated physical changes besides just skin tone. (I have to say, i don’t particularly envision Hermes as the eponymous Futurama character in my head.)

Hermaphroditus as an androgynous, twinkish fellow with three arms, laying down by a pond in a bed of leaves

It also has quite some trouble with arms and legs. Originally, i thought of its odd morphings and multiplications as a bug to be stamped out, but i came to see them as a feature, representing the manifold, varied aspects of the Gods, their omnipresence, transcending the limits of human form. (This is also why the Hindus do it, if i recall correctly.)

I would have rather the above portrait of Hermaphroditos been slightly more, ah, gynomorphic around the chest, so to speak, but i’d been trying to get a decent pose for what felt like an hour and i didn’t feel like fighting the blur anymore.

Dionysos as a three-legged and -armed bearded man, overweight but muscled, covered in flowers

So then — it’s a bit off in places, and lacks the leopard-skin toga i would have liked, and lord knows what the objects He’s holding are meant to be, and it turned out the computer really, really, struggled with the basic concept of a faun or satyr’s legs, but we end this post with DreamStudio’s interpretation of an icon of Dionysos, framed by some beautiful landscape.

Navigating through the neural net’s knowledge and limitations has been a fascinating, illuminating exercise, which has left no doubt in my mind that “AI art” is, indeed, just that: art. It seems to me much more comparable to something like photography than painting: rather than doing the hard work by hirself with brush strokes and pencil lines, the artist guides hir computer collaborator through latent space, pressing “click” when sie finds something appealing. One can only hope the Muses would approve.

Mx van Hoorn’s link roundup, volume XII

A clock made of flowers

The Elizabethan era

Queen Elizabeth crowns then-prince Charles

I don’t remember finding out that Britain had a Queen. It’s one of those basic, primal facts you learn before you even enter primary school, in “My First Dictionary” books and little picture stories — this is a cat, this is a dog, and this is the Queen.

My mother didn’t either. Even my grandmother was just a bairn when Elizabeth came to the throne. Our family have lived our entire lives never knowing anything else — she seemed like such an immutable constant of British life, an unchanging, unmoving symbol of a country constantly in flux.

Of course i knew it couldn’t be forever. The Netherlands had already gone through this when Queen Beatrix abdicated and all the shops out up cheeky advertisements about the national holiday’s change from Koninginnedag to Koningsdag. But then, she abdicated, didn’t she? William-Alexander didn’t have to wait until his mother died to get her old job. Such is the unique cruelty of the situation His Majesty Charles III — a title i’ll never get used to — finds himself in now.

As Britain leaves the Elizabethan era — from the first televised coronation to a death announced over the internet, from Empire to Commonwealth, an age of immense advancement and change — and enters its third Caroline era, in this increasingly polarised and uncertain time, there is but one thing to say: The Queen is dead. Long live the King.

Some election maps

I’ve been terribly bored recently, and have been occupying myself by trying out a way i came up with of mapping out elections — a compromise of sorts between geographic maps (which don’t always show the whole picture) and cartograms (which tend to be butt-ugly).

I chose to map out 2019’s results in the North East to get a feel of things:

A map showing the most recent general election as it was in North East England, with Labour winning a majority of seats

New Zealand is relatively small, so i figured it would be the best choice for the first full country:

And, finally, the most recent council election in good old Northumberland1:

A map showing the results of an election in Northumberland, with the Conservatives winning

The toponymic bankruptcy crisis

Two street signs, one labelled Birch Street, the other Bob Marleystraat

Oak Street. Acacia Grove. Orchard Way. These are all streets in my local area… and probably in yours as well. And this has to stop.

Tree theme naming is the final vestige of the toponymically bankrupt planner: the man with no connection to his local area, who hasn’t an original bone in his body, and who has a pathological fear of causing even the slightest offence or puzzlement to anyone else. The famous roads of Britain — Oxford Street, Northumberland Street, Watling Street, the Great North Road — all have characteristic, descriptive names which reflect their environs’ history. Not so for the pedestrian Elm Streets of the world.

Perhaps this is a uniquely British sickness. In America, they prefer a neurotic obsession with rectilinear grids and similarly plain street names — Main Street, Second Avenue, Fourth Street, and so on until the end of the world — while the Netherlands, where i grew up, is home to a positive cornucopia of diversity in road toponymy. In Almere alone — a planned city with no local history to speak of, the optimum place to give up and resort to arboreal laziness — there are districts themed after musicians (Jimi Hendrixstraat), fruits (Ananasstraat), Gods (Donarstraat), even particle physics (Elementendreef). But in England? Nothing but trees, baby!

We need a complete and immediate moratorium on naming streets in the UK after trees. The urban planners of this perfidious isle would be well-served to do some actual research into the local area, and where that fails, grow a creative bone in their body — for the good of the ordinary citizens of this great isle.