Lost In Paradise

It would seem we have finally got to the point in our evolution where we’re too damn smart for our own good.
…dumbass.
 Example: A character in a film/TV program being in danger and alone and needing  to increase the number of friendly bipedal entities by a factor of at least one and having no apparent means to do so is becoming something of a rare beasty on the plains of the imagination hunting ground. When ‘help’ became someone’s next eighteen pages of dialogue it used to spark our brains into a whirling fervour of emotions and thoughts whose foundations were built in the deep, dark shadows that dwell behind our eyes in a raising of neck hair and tightening of bowel. Now we openly mock the goons apparent short-sightedness of not owning a mobile phone or a Twitter account.
‘Argh! Humans!’
Similarly, any tension filled moment of scientific discovery or possibly portentous protagonist-on-a-mission muddying up the horizon for Don Heroni that requires vast distances to be travelled and perilous adventure to be undertook in an effort to get to where such messages may be read or results be delivered, it takes a stronger mind to not consider why they didn’t just send whoever-needs-be an email and be done with all the passports and snakes.
Somebody is lost and we desperately need to find them? Well CSI that shit, dude, and zoom in on a Google Maps Street View to see the reflection in the pet shop window of the blue van zooming away from the scene to get the number-plate and thus details and address of the last person known to have seen them and rock on up to their house and I.T. their ass into admitting where they’re hiding the girl. Horatio would.
‘Don’t make me take of my glasses, son…’
The film industry has spent so much in its attempt at running its insubstantial finger of tense down your on edge and anxious  spine – since the first time those theatre goers flung themselves out of the way of the speeding train heading towards them to the idiots in 3D glasses ‘ooh’-ing at the naked blue man on screen –  has now got to be re-written and re-imagined to include either huge mountain ranges that block out the signal or stops the satellite from ‘seeing them’, or  throwing everyone into another worldly dimension of underground and dank, where everything’s made of eighteen inch thick lead and is nowhere near a LAN or WiFi hot-spot.
 Whether it be a shack in the middle of nowhere or a boat at the coast of Alaska, ‘… escape is in absence and ‘help’ is my next eighteen pages of dialogue, you say..?’ Who wouldn’t be looking for the obvious ‘fell down a well’ bit that stops reality from barging in and drawing back the curtains and shaking its head disapprovingly?
Ello, laydeez…’
The next generation of writers has certainly got its work cut out for it, as most problems and building of tension nowadays revolves around the same damn thing; technology, and its wonderfully futuristic Poisoned Chalice appeal.  Gone are the days Tomb Raider hacked her way into a virtual cityscape that represented a company’s entire network and online presence by way of a portable laptop and Superman’s changing room;  we now have to contend with Bruce Willis solving  terrorist situations without blowing the shit out of everything immediately and killing whatever survivors are left.  We have to have a trendy twenty-something shoved up front, ‘net book and Linux tattoo complimenting the studios crass handed attempt at disguising someone who has so obviously never had one day of real shit to contend with their entire school life into a socially palatable view of what represents the term ‘nerd’.
Good luck.
Because we’re pretty much reaching the Nuclear Weapons state, whereby technology and film collide in an unseen twist of body shapes and smells;  where every problem or danger bought down from the skies to rent unto the audience much tension and ‘oh-oh’  is both caused and solved by some technology  we possess.
 ‘How will we rinse out and destroy an entire nations bank account?’
‘With a computer and this foppish-haired young nerd!’
Behold; the next generation of X-Men!
‘Help! Our bank is being hack and we lots monies loss!’
 ‘Team Nerd to the rescue!’
 Just think; every film or TV drama, every play or script for the stage, any straight-to-DVD or only-for-TV product containing any kind of timeline that occurs after the late 1990’s is going to have to become the homologation of every bat-shit stupid or impossible twist that would make the shower scene that bought J.R. back to life a Shakespearian effort of finely tuned detailed dovetailing from the uncanny minds of Sudoku writers and Chest Hair For Men.
Or, to put it another way, the entire series of Lost.
On every channel.
In every theatre.
On every podcast.
Forever.
Or studio-backed reboots.
‘…I’m getting too old for this shit…’
…’nuff said.
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