The OA
- Креатор на темата Brutus
- Време на започнување
Anon
/b/ House /b/
- Член од
- 13 декември 2007
- Мислења
- 16.700
- Поени од реакции
- 27.627
Кога преку story на Instagram од Kendall Jenner ќе дојдеш до значајна информација.
Netflix ретардите им ја откажуваат The OA на Brit Marling и Zal Batmanglij.
Еве што има Brit Marling да ни каже.
Dear fans of The OA –
Some of you may know already or some of you may be learning from this letter that Netflix will not be continuing The OA.
Zal and I are deeply sad not to finish this story. The first time I heard the news I had a good cry. So did one of our executives at Netflix who has been with us since the early days when we were sketching out Hap’s basement on the floor of our production office in Queens. It’s been an intense journey for everyone who’s worked on and cared about this story.
Someone once asked me on a panel “why are you so obsessed with sci-fi?” I hadn’t realized I was “obsessed” or even that most of the narratives I’d written to date had been inside the genre of speculative fiction. I was caught off guard. The question had come out a bit like an accusation from someone who didn’t enjoy the genre, so I think I just said something like, “uh…it’s fun to world build?” But I’ve thought about that question a lot since then and I think an answer closer to the truth is this:
It’s hard to be inspired to write stories about the “real” world when you have never felt free in it. As a woman writing characters for myself and other women, it has often felt to me as if the paved roads for travel in narrative are limited. Perhaps one day I will be evolved enough as a writer to pave my own roads in “reality” (Elena Ferrante!), but to date I have often felt stymied.
I can write about the women “on top,” but then I am perpetuating the same hierarchies that oppress us (and just asking to shift the oppression to someone else). I can write about the vast majority of women on the economic bottom, but the power of moving images and charismatic actors often glamorizes or perpetuates the very stereotypes the film hopes to critique. I can write about self-deprecating women who expose the abundant gender inequalities for a good laugh, but then, as Hannah Gatsby said in her brilliant story Nanette, I am in some ways trading my humiliation for my paycheck and the chance to be let in.
Science fiction wiped this “real” world clean like an Etch-a-Sketch. Science fiction said imagine anything in its place. And so we did.
We imagined that the collective is stronger than the individual. We imagined that there is no hero. We imagined that the trees of San Francisco and a giant pacific octopus had voices we could understand and ought to listen to. We imagined humans as one species among many and not necessarily the wisest or most evolved. We imagined movements that got unlikely people in rooms together, got them moving, got them willing to risk vulnerability for the chance to step into another world.
That is what The OA has been for Zal and I and every other artist who joined us. The chance to step into another world and feel free in it. We feel profound gratitude to Netflix and the people we have worked with there for making it possible to make Part I and Part II. We feel proud of those 16 uncompromised hours. In large part, millions upon millions of you have given us this sense of pride by watching – with the comments you’ve left, the art you’ve made, the Reddit theories you’ve sown, the movements you’ve performed in public squares, bedrooms, nightclubs and backyards all over the world.
While we cannot finish this story, I can promise you we will tell others. I haven’t figured out any other effective coping mechanism for being alive in the anthropocene. And maybe, in some ways, it’s okay not to conclude these characters. Steve Winchell will be suspended in time in our imaginations, infinitely evolving, forever running after and finally reaching the ambulance and OA.
With love,
Brit
Netflix ретардите им ја откажуваат The OA на Brit Marling и Zal Batmanglij.
Еве што има Brit Marling да ни каже.
Dear fans of The OA –
Some of you may know already or some of you may be learning from this letter that Netflix will not be continuing The OA.
Zal and I are deeply sad not to finish this story. The first time I heard the news I had a good cry. So did one of our executives at Netflix who has been with us since the early days when we were sketching out Hap’s basement on the floor of our production office in Queens. It’s been an intense journey for everyone who’s worked on and cared about this story.
Someone once asked me on a panel “why are you so obsessed with sci-fi?” I hadn’t realized I was “obsessed” or even that most of the narratives I’d written to date had been inside the genre of speculative fiction. I was caught off guard. The question had come out a bit like an accusation from someone who didn’t enjoy the genre, so I think I just said something like, “uh…it’s fun to world build?” But I’ve thought about that question a lot since then and I think an answer closer to the truth is this:
It’s hard to be inspired to write stories about the “real” world when you have never felt free in it. As a woman writing characters for myself and other women, it has often felt to me as if the paved roads for travel in narrative are limited. Perhaps one day I will be evolved enough as a writer to pave my own roads in “reality” (Elena Ferrante!), but to date I have often felt stymied.
I can write about the women “on top,” but then I am perpetuating the same hierarchies that oppress us (and just asking to shift the oppression to someone else). I can write about the vast majority of women on the economic bottom, but the power of moving images and charismatic actors often glamorizes or perpetuates the very stereotypes the film hopes to critique. I can write about self-deprecating women who expose the abundant gender inequalities for a good laugh, but then, as Hannah Gatsby said in her brilliant story Nanette, I am in some ways trading my humiliation for my paycheck and the chance to be let in.
Science fiction wiped this “real” world clean like an Etch-a-Sketch. Science fiction said imagine anything in its place. And so we did.
We imagined that the collective is stronger than the individual. We imagined that there is no hero. We imagined that the trees of San Francisco and a giant pacific octopus had voices we could understand and ought to listen to. We imagined humans as one species among many and not necessarily the wisest or most evolved. We imagined movements that got unlikely people in rooms together, got them moving, got them willing to risk vulnerability for the chance to step into another world.
That is what The OA has been for Zal and I and every other artist who joined us. The chance to step into another world and feel free in it. We feel profound gratitude to Netflix and the people we have worked with there for making it possible to make Part I and Part II. We feel proud of those 16 uncompromised hours. In large part, millions upon millions of you have given us this sense of pride by watching – with the comments you’ve left, the art you’ve made, the Reddit theories you’ve sown, the movements you’ve performed in public squares, bedrooms, nightclubs and backyards all over the world.
While we cannot finish this story, I can promise you we will tell others. I haven’t figured out any other effective coping mechanism for being alive in the anthropocene. And maybe, in some ways, it’s okay not to conclude these characters. Steve Winchell will be suspended in time in our imaginations, infinitely evolving, forever running after and finally reaching the ambulance and OA.
With love,
Brit
Последно уредено:
B
Beginner
Гостин
Значи кои идиоти се овие Netflix 
за гној серии знаат да направат по 120 сезони. И рејтингот не е лош на имдб 7.8/10 од 75 к иако заслужува повеќе незнам која е причината зошто е откажена ама штета.
за гној серии знаат да направат по 120 сезони. И рејтингот не е лош на имдб 7.8/10 од 75 к иако заслужува повеќе незнам која е причината зошто е откажена ама штета.
Anon
/b/ House /b/
- Член од
- 13 декември 2007
- Мислења
- 16.700
- Поени од реакции
- 27.627
Ново писменце од Brit Marling
To the fans of The OA—
We're humbled, to be honest floored, by the outpouring of support for The OA. We've seen beautiful artwork in eulogy from Japan, France, Brazil. We've read moving threads and essays. And we've watched dozens and dozens of videos of people all over the world performing the movements with what can only be called perfect feeling. One young person from a wheelchair, another young woman standing astride two horses, a mother in her backyard with her two children at her side and an infant strapped to her back, (link in bio to a site with many of these videos someone has thoughtfully compiled)
Your words and images move us deeply. Not because the show must continue, but because for some people its unexpected cancelation begs larger questions about the role of storytelling and its fate inside late capitalism's push toward consolidation and economies of scale.
The work you've made and shared has also just been very heartening inside our increasingly complex and often bleak time.
The more news I take in of the world, the more I often feel terrifyingly certain that we are on the brink of moral and ecological collapse. Sometimes I feel paralyzed by the forces we are up against—greed, fear, vanity. And I can't help but long for someone to rescue us from ourselves—a politician, an outlaw, a tech baron, an angel. Someone who might take our hand, as if taking the hand of an errant toddler, and gently guide us away from the lunatic precipice that the "logic" of profit unguided by the compass of feeling has brought us to.
Of course, my desire to lie in wait for a hero is nothing new. Nor is the anesthetizing comfort that brings. These concepts were birthed and encouraged by centuries of narrative precedent. We've been conditioned to wait.
Almost every story we've ever watched, read, been told, held sacred is framed in a single structural form: the hero's journey. The hero's journey is one man with one goal who goes up against increasing obstacles to win his objective and return to his people with the wisdom needed for all to move forward, to "progress." This story has played out from Homer's Odyssey in 8th century BC to every reiteration of the Star Wars franchise. It sallies forth lately with anti- heroes like the beloved Tony Soprano (who, even while doing what we all know to be wrong, is still a hero and the perfect one for late capitalism).
I have loved many of these stories and their heroes. I dressed up as She-Ra "princess of power," He-Man's bustier-clad, sword-wielding twin sister for more Halloweens then I care to admit. I have played roles in films where I have been the hero holding the gun and it certainly felt better than playing the female victim at the other end of the barrel. So it's no surprise that as we face what seem to be increasingly insurmountable obstacles, we scan the horizon for the hero who will come for us. According to the stories we tell it will most likely be a hot man. And he will most likely be wearing brightly colored spandex and exceedingly rich.
But the more I think on this, the more it seems bat-shit crazy. No one is coming to the rescue. We have to save each other. Every day, in small and great ways.
So perhaps, at this late hour inside the dire circumstances of climate change and an ever-widening gap between the Haves and Have-Nots, we are hundreds of years overdue new mythologies that reflect this. Stories with modes of power outside violence and domination. Stories with goals for human agency outside conquest and colonization. Stories that illustrate the power of collective protagonism, or do away with protagonism entirely to illustrate how real, lasting change often occurs—ordinary people, often outsiders, often marginalized—anonymously organizing, working together, achieving small feats one day at a time that eventually form movement.
Steve, BBA, Buck, Jesse, French, Homer, Hap and OA are no longer authoring the story. Neither are Zal or I. You all are. You are standing on street corners in the hot sun in protest. You are meeting new people in strange recesses online and sharing stories about loss and renewal that you never thought you'd tell anyone. You are learning choreography and moving in ways you haven't dared moved before. All of it is uncomfortable. All of it is agitation. All of it is worth something.
Many of you have expressed your gratitude for this story and for Zal and I and everyone who worked on The OA. But it is all of us who are grateful to you. You've broken the mold of storytelling. You're building something far more beautiful than we did because it's in real time in real life with real people. It's rhizomatic—constantly redefining the collective aim as it grows. It's elliptical—it has no beginning and no real end. And it certainly has no single hero. The show doesn't need to continue for this feeling to.
The other day Zal and I pulled over to offer a bottle of water and food to a young woman who has been protesting the cancelation of the show on a street corner in Hollywood. As we were leaving she said "you know, what I'm really protesting is late capitalism." And then she said something that I haven't been able to forget since: "Algorithms aren't as smart as we are. They cannot account for love."
Her words. Not mine. And the story keeps going inside them.
To the fans of The OA—
We're humbled, to be honest floored, by the outpouring of support for The OA. We've seen beautiful artwork in eulogy from Japan, France, Brazil. We've read moving threads and essays. And we've watched dozens and dozens of videos of people all over the world performing the movements with what can only be called perfect feeling. One young person from a wheelchair, another young woman standing astride two horses, a mother in her backyard with her two children at her side and an infant strapped to her back, (link in bio to a site with many of these videos someone has thoughtfully compiled)
Your words and images move us deeply. Not because the show must continue, but because for some people its unexpected cancelation begs larger questions about the role of storytelling and its fate inside late capitalism's push toward consolidation and economies of scale.
The work you've made and shared has also just been very heartening inside our increasingly complex and often bleak time.
The more news I take in of the world, the more I often feel terrifyingly certain that we are on the brink of moral and ecological collapse. Sometimes I feel paralyzed by the forces we are up against—greed, fear, vanity. And I can't help but long for someone to rescue us from ourselves—a politician, an outlaw, a tech baron, an angel. Someone who might take our hand, as if taking the hand of an errant toddler, and gently guide us away from the lunatic precipice that the "logic" of profit unguided by the compass of feeling has brought us to.
Of course, my desire to lie in wait for a hero is nothing new. Nor is the anesthetizing comfort that brings. These concepts were birthed and encouraged by centuries of narrative precedent. We've been conditioned to wait.
Almost every story we've ever watched, read, been told, held sacred is framed in a single structural form: the hero's journey. The hero's journey is one man with one goal who goes up against increasing obstacles to win his objective and return to his people with the wisdom needed for all to move forward, to "progress." This story has played out from Homer's Odyssey in 8th century BC to every reiteration of the Star Wars franchise. It sallies forth lately with anti- heroes like the beloved Tony Soprano (who, even while doing what we all know to be wrong, is still a hero and the perfect one for late capitalism).
I have loved many of these stories and their heroes. I dressed up as She-Ra "princess of power," He-Man's bustier-clad, sword-wielding twin sister for more Halloweens then I care to admit. I have played roles in films where I have been the hero holding the gun and it certainly felt better than playing the female victim at the other end of the barrel. So it's no surprise that as we face what seem to be increasingly insurmountable obstacles, we scan the horizon for the hero who will come for us. According to the stories we tell it will most likely be a hot man. And he will most likely be wearing brightly colored spandex and exceedingly rich.
But the more I think on this, the more it seems bat-shit crazy. No one is coming to the rescue. We have to save each other. Every day, in small and great ways.
So perhaps, at this late hour inside the dire circumstances of climate change and an ever-widening gap between the Haves and Have-Nots, we are hundreds of years overdue new mythologies that reflect this. Stories with modes of power outside violence and domination. Stories with goals for human agency outside conquest and colonization. Stories that illustrate the power of collective protagonism, or do away with protagonism entirely to illustrate how real, lasting change often occurs—ordinary people, often outsiders, often marginalized—anonymously organizing, working together, achieving small feats one day at a time that eventually form movement.
Steve, BBA, Buck, Jesse, French, Homer, Hap and OA are no longer authoring the story. Neither are Zal or I. You all are. You are standing on street corners in the hot sun in protest. You are meeting new people in strange recesses online and sharing stories about loss and renewal that you never thought you'd tell anyone. You are learning choreography and moving in ways you haven't dared moved before. All of it is uncomfortable. All of it is agitation. All of it is worth something.
Many of you have expressed your gratitude for this story and for Zal and I and everyone who worked on The OA. But it is all of us who are grateful to you. You've broken the mold of storytelling. You're building something far more beautiful than we did because it's in real time in real life with real people. It's rhizomatic—constantly redefining the collective aim as it grows. It's elliptical—it has no beginning and no real end. And it certainly has no single hero. The show doesn't need to continue for this feeling to.
The other day Zal and I pulled over to offer a bottle of water and food to a young woman who has been protesting the cancelation of the show on a street corner in Hollywood. As we were leaving she said "you know, what I'm really protesting is late capitalism." And then she said something that I haven't been able to forget since: "Algorithms aren't as smart as we are. They cannot account for love."
Her words. Not mine. And the story keeps going inside them.