For those who came in late, since I’m getting hits on this: CBC is running the series again, and a season 2 (series 2) is starting in early October.
Meanwhile: Most of my War of the Worlds poems are in my old blog, but a few are in this new blog, with the most recent one, Champion to Orphans, being two posts previous, September 30. The final poem, Three Men In Three Centuries, being posted Dec 25, 2020.
The Anglo-French limited series (8 per season, for both seasons) will disappoint those craving Hollywood sci fi noise and action. (Hollywood, as shown by my comparing the anime movie Arrietty, in U.S. and U.K. versions, even dubs in extra dialogue to avoid silence) Instead, as in Canadian productions, War of the Worlds has lots of silence and stillness. To me this works well, because it shows the not-so-hopeful everyday life of the survivors. (Reminder: anime, which fans chose to see subtitled on their TV screens, has proven that subtitles work just fine)
Perspective in time… I was flipping through television channels using my remote control clicker… Wait—in my youth a rich family friend had an actual clicker: Without batteries, using the principle of a tuning fork, his remote would turn on the TV set, change channels and move through three volumes. This was back when the TV channel knobs went clicking through only 13 numbers, as only three main networks were broadcasting. No doubt people of the 19th century, when The War of the Worlds was written, had practical “clicker” approaches to meet the same needs we have today.
Perspective in space… I paused at the the French language channel of the CBC simply because the scene was so riveting. Besides, there were big English subtitles. A lady boss wearing a striped sweater was standing in a headquarters bunker. Obviously during an emergency— she has not had time to change into a uniform. Lots of radar consoles and communication screens. Surely in France. She is holding a cellular telephone to talk to a young woman who is stuck on a lonely exposed mountain road, as part of a long traffic jam. I think it’s her daughter! “Get into shelter! You must get underground! NOW!”
“But… there is no shelter…”
Perspective amidst fickle fate… The next scene featured black iron fences and stone buildings just like in London. A worried family in a car is speaking English. Instantly I placed the show: I had read that over 2019-2020 there was a join France-Britain production of a miniseries based on The War of the Worlds. From what I briefly saw—I was working—the production is very good.
I think the episode’s cliffhanger was of two middle aged men, during the invasion panic, crashing their car off an urban road into a river, and somehow, at long last, getting free and reaching the city sidewalk. They lie gasping. Feeling incredibly lucky to have escaped drowning. Gasping. Then the men standing up, and me realizing— …the water must have sheltered them from some futuristic electromagnetic pulse. Bodies everywhere. A minute ago, everyone had been alive…
Regrets… I can’t properly review this series since I am working when it airs—but I can say I will grab it without hesitation if it comes out on DVD!
…Perhaps me being a survivor who fled from child abuse means I can relate to the nightmare of rushing to escape against all odds. I wonder if H. G. Well’s classic was inspired by the volcano that buried the people of Pompeii. As the smoking clouds spewed up from Mount Vesuvius, the smart people left, and stopped at nightfall. The fortunate ones kept trudging on in the dark, for only this would put them beyond the circle of death. The first War of the Worlds poem I wrote was about the lonely highway #1, through the Rocky Mountains and other ranges. In narrow mountain valleys I was struck by the missing iron gun mounts for the 105 mm recoilless rockets. The concrete platforms remain.
Of course the novel, still in print, from before the days of wireless and aeroplanes, has long endured. Not because of mere special effects or action. No, to me the classic offers the chance to have various perspectives on life, perspectives that forgotten “thrillers-of-the-day” just don’t have.
Here’s a humble poem, one more left brain than artistic, with no attempt to avoid cliched and classic words. Perspective: The time is long after the horrible Martians have passed, with the economy is still wrecked. Janet and Susan are the narrator’s sisters, who blessedly survived.
In the Old Tavern
Sitting straight in a brown lounge on a pre-war chair,
relaxed, I won’t slouch anymore without hurting.
Sipping with Harry and Janet and Susan,
at peace, my minutes are passing serenely.
Harry stands without a word and walks out.
Returns, and picks up his glass as if he never has nightmares
in daylight. Somebody must have said something
that reminded him of the Martians.
Sunny days have scudding clouds,
as we well know.
Clouds pass. My life was once built on ambition.
I’m like my dad who once told me
all he wanted now was to live.
And he didn’t mean not dying,
he meant simply existing.
He didn’t care anymore about beating his old record
while doing crossword puzzles.
Now all I want is to breathe and to live.
“Hey look—Here’s young Molly
holding a handful of daisies.”
…
Sean Crawford
On a sojourn to the town of Rocky Mountain House
Where even the ritziest hotel, with the most TV channels,
does not have the science fiction channel.
Arg!
So of course, as a self respecting Trekkie, I did a U-turn. Checked right back out,
October 2020
