Telefantasy has inspired a large percentage of viewers to pen unproduced screenplays, unpublished novels or self-distributed fanzines based on their obsessions, occasionally foraying into the realm of no-budget fan film production, but the golden fleece for all fanboys is inclusion in the official canon of their chosen show – something which today is completely and unconditionally denied them by the gatekeeper mentality of many modern media professionals and their respective products, which they maintain as unique and untouchable for fear that “amateurs” may damage their preciousness. But, by taking an under-appreciated programme no longer in circulation, and appealing directly to its fan base, Canadian outfit Retcon Studios are turning their sci-fi dreams into reality, and proving that viewer input is not only possible but essential.

Space: 1999 was crippled even before its release: a product of the overactive but underfed imagination of husband and wife team Gerry and Sylvia Anderson, and bankrolled by Lew Grade’s infamous Incorporated Television Company, it suffered in its conception from what appears to have been a stiflingly uncreative atmosphere, wherein artistic decisions were overruled in favour of opportunism and cost-cutting. The series as it stands is both confusing and inconsistent, as if those responsible suffered from a narrative amnesia, and yet, as thousands of fans would protest, there is much to treasure in its curiously sombre blend of Arthur C. Clarke, Robert Louis Stevenson and Carl Jung. The central performances are polished and refreshingly human, the production design is almost a thing of retrochic beauty, and Brian Johnson’s model effects work, later emulated by the likes of Star Wars (1977; dir. George Lucas) and Alien (1979; dir. Ridley Scott), on which Johnson himself worked, are pre-CGI textbook – all fertile ground for the work of talented artists and technicians, including David Tomblin and Christopher Penfold.

Retcon Studios have taken the original muddled episodes and reedited their content, as well as realigning them chronologically, to “improve pacing, integrate additional material to improve dramatic texture, and mitigate scientific and technical inaccuracies where feasible”. The mentality hidden by this rather cold objective possibly stems from the fan’s need to apologise for the failures of his or her idols, but sums up their innate desire to be part of the same; a need that informs projects such as the remastered Star Trek series or Star Wars films, both of which set precedents for Retcon’s aspirations. But, more than these, Retcon and their creative driving force Eric Bernard are attempting to rewrite the internal history, characterisation and narrative of the show; changing names, locations and plotlines, in an example of what, at it’s heart, is positive audience participation. Bernard and his colleagues may be media professionals by day, but, like all fans, they want to be part of the show they enjoy, to add to it as much as they are inspired by it – so above all, their actions with Space: 2099 are indicative of every audience’s inherent desire to become an aspect of the spectacle. A desire conceptually denied us in today’s media climate.

Currently the project is waiting for a green light – the copyright to the original shows is tied up with a major media player, and Bernard’s attempts to communicate with them have been frustrating. In his conversations with Granada and the SyFy Channel, there’s that familiar sense of condescending media bullshit, as if Retcon’s project was beneath them simply because it originated outside of their closed world. The mass audio-visual media bitterly resents input from outsiders, and protects itself with a self-imposed system of bureaucratic falsehoods and trivial conditions. Whether or not Space: 2099 will break through these barriers remains to be seen, but that it deserves greater exposure than that it has received from mainstream practitioners and commentators so far is undoubted – what the project says about the viewer’s ability to comprehend, influence and adapt any media product, and, more importantly, bring an effectiveness beyond that achieved by their creators, is just as inspirational as anything the original Space: 1999 put onscreen.

Visit the official Space: 2099 website

Visit the official Retcon Studios website

What begins as an overworked relationship drama reveals itself to have more in common thematically with the likes of Z for Zachariah (1984; dir. Anthony Garner) or the work of Alan Garner, particularly The Owl Service (1969-68) or his novel Red Shift (London: Collins, 1973), than it does any mainstream prime-time drama, and retains the essence of those juvenilia albeit in a modern adult sense, despatching some sublime pop-culture references along the way. The film drags through some wordy, actor-orientated segments that perhaps condemn modern cinematic concepts more than any of the personnel involved here, but these are admittedly well handled by the minimal off-beat cast, and ultimately help to elevate the more unassuming and impressive elements of the film.

In contrast to contemporary sci-fi offerings like Inception (2010; dir. Christopher Nolan) – reviewed here – Framework manages to convey complex themes without patronising its audience, and, even though its trajectory is as conventional as any blockbuster, what remains beyond the narrative is visually stunning and technically assured – properties largely absent from mainstream British cinema. Films like this disprove the myth perpetuated by many modern media practitioners and commentators, and supported by film education in this country and abroad, that successful feature length film production can only be achieved at an absurdly high cost, but helmer Mckenna and his creative team have crafted a fascinating and confident riposte to that misguided belief, joining the growing ranks of intelligent, entertaining and beautiful films made on low-to-zero budgets by UK filmmakers.

Visit the official Framework blog here

Watch the film online at Vimeo

This is an abysmally contrived film, attempting to trade not only on its populist comic book origins but also the trendy compliment of its cast, many of whom are familiar from the tedious North American indie scene. The result is a botched job, unsuitably pitched between a westernized Kung-Fu film and a nauseating teen rom-com, and unassisted by helmer Wright’s similarly slapdash inability to approach his material with anything but an adolescent mindset. The showy effects work here, which attempts to replicate a comic book mise-en-scène, is as flat and predictable as the derided onscreen sound effects featured in Batman (1966-69), precisely because Wright is unable to make the cinematic (and adult) distinction between panel framing and film composition, as exemplified by the likes of Diabolik (1968; dir. Mario Bava) or Hulk (2003; dir. Ang Lee).

That this film has support in the UK from some supposedly well-respected quarters – The Guardian and Time Out in particular have been aggressively vocal in their praise – says as much about the cloyingly desperate need for media commentators and critics to brownnose mainstream practitioners (identified here) as it does any talent on show in this mess. Through their zealousness, we’re forced to accept the view that Wright is somehow one of our most successful exports, both artistically and commercially, but this, his biggest film to date, has taken only sobering numbers at the box office – no doubt due to its impersonal conceit – and his work, which comprises the banal Shaun of the Dead (2004) and the painfully embarrassing Hot Fuzz (2007), reveals nothing but the awkward aspirations of a teenager; an insubstantial attempt to ape the oeuvre of Sam Raimi, with little precision or intelligence.

The British film industry, which has a wealth of untapped and ignored talent, deserves unbiased honesty, not only behind the camera but at a basic review level, especially when the fragile structures on which it rests are in question. The attitude of many critics in this country, and the performance of ex-pat helmers like Wright, who idolize and emulate a crass Hollywood model, cannot assist an industry already beleaguered by inactivity and lack of homegrown recognition. If Scott Pilgrim vs. the World was as well-tuned as it is hysterical, with a more considered control behind its cartoon technique, then any praise may be justified: as it is, it’s little more than a cruel joke to applaud this over countless marginalised UK films and filmmakers.

Scott Pilgrim vs. the World at the IMDb

Actor, filmmaker and creator of YouTube sci-fi series Damon Dark, Adrian Sherlock has recently been re-editing and re-uploading his oeuvre, and today is the turn of The Death of Damon Dark, a shocking installment penned by Brett Gerry Films. Originally conceived as a four-part serial, Sherlock has revised the work into a short film format, condensing some of the action but retaining its mystery.

Read the original four-part screenplay here (PDF, 34.2kb)

Watch Damon Dark on YouTube

Visit Adrian Sherlock’s official website

Become a fan on Facebook

This is an over-hyped, fatuous film that fails to live up to the estimation of a number of critics and commentators, who have lauded the film with platitudes that it barely supports. Helmer Nolan, whose work consistently riffs on Heat (1995; dir. Michael Mann), has crafted a technically adroit and occasionally stunning psychological thriller that is, however, as some have been unable to recognise, a crudely conventional film, revealing the low-level to which many modern media practitioners aspire. There is nothing thought-provoking or moving about this highly convoluted and manipulative mess – in fact, it has more in common with spiritually naive and crassly over-produced films like The Matrix (1999; dir. Andy Wachowski and Lana Wachowski) or The Lord of the Rings trilogy than it does with L’année dernière à Marienbad (1961; dir. Alain Resnais) or The Shining (1980; dir. Stanely Kubrick), to which some totally deluded journos have compared it.

The progression taken by the main character in this film resembles so closely that adhered to in bedfellows The Karate Kid (2010; dir. Harald Zwart) or The Twilight Saga: Eclipse (2010; dir. David Slade), that Inception remains nothing more than a similarly throwaway and empty experience. To compare a bore like Nolan to filmmakers like Resnais or Kubrick – the latter of whom The Guardian stupidly suggested was Nolan’s artistic predecessor – is to likewise deny the universal freedom of cinema that Hollywood itself seeks to restrict. Instead of creating an honest and expressive film, Nolan and his collaborators have stuck rigidly to the self-contained narrative, ignoring all possibilities for honesty in the cinema and change within the industry.

An overblown elephant like this can only ultimately suffer under it’s own weight; and the weight that bears down on Inception, which is the weight of a thousand idiotically glowing reviews, cannot be supported by legs that have little more substance than the flimsy dream-within-a-dream gimmick it espouses.

Inception at the IMDb

Nigel Kneale is largely famous for his work in the field of science fiction, but he also wrote kitchen sink dramas, mysteries and horrors. Despite which, his legacy as a sci-fi author in this country is vast, and he is held beyond reproach by numerous critics and emulators. However, having already noted that his oeuvre is in desperate need of a critical reappraisal – read here and here – and as part of our ongoing online project The Donnerstag Analysis, it has become necessary to force the situation by examining Kneale’s work and its continued impact on British mainstream film and television, particularly narrative sci-fi and horror. The views in this article, and the conclusions reached by our examination of Kneale’s output, may not be comfortable reading for the majority of theorists and practitioners, many of whom add daily to the growing numbers supporting Kneale, but it remains essential to expose the hypocrisy and bigotry underlining much of their idol’s output so as to dissuade others from perpetuating his elegant but crass – and, in most cases, socially detestable – conceits.

A detailed analysis of Kneale’s work reveals that, like most interesting filmmakers, he almost continuously employs the same artistic structure throughout his career, particularly in major works like the Quatermass serials, The Stone Tape (1972; dir. Peter Sasdy) or The Year of the Sex Olympics (1968; dir. Michael Elliott), but also in less well-known fare. When identifying these themes in Kneale’s work, it is important to recognise that the majority of mainstream critics and commentators are merely content with identifying the surface elements of his output – this adolescent lack of insight, which is in no way limited to an appreciation of Kneale’s work but is apparent in most mainstream film and television criticism, inhibits a true understanding of the origins and motives behind an author’s work, as well as adding to the parasitic screen-writing culture.

Kneale’s career can be divided into two parts: the first and lengthiest is also the most popular; the second is less renowned but ultimately more interesting. Throughout the former, Kneale employs a narrative structure that betrays his bigotry and misanthropy almost universally across everything he writes. Each Kneale-penned piece begins by introducing a ‘damaged outsider’ – often, this is a dedicated professional who exists within a team of other dedicated professionals; unlike them, this person has something in their past which remains unspoken, and thus unforgettable and pertinent. This ranges from a barely-acknowledged dead spouse, or a missing grandchild, to a love affair that went wrong, or a full nervous breakdown. In The Quatermass Experiment (1953; dir. Rudolph Cartier), the titular character has extreme feelings of guilt even before he sends three men hurtling into the depths of space; in The Witches (1966; dir. Cyril Frankel), Joan Fontaine is plague by her humiliation at the hands of colonial natives and, possibly, her family.

In a relatively Freudian sense, these painful events or memories have constant bearing on the behaviour and attitudes of the Damaged Outsider, specifically with those around them – which, outside of their Dedicated Team, can also include caricatures of established authority figures and the working classes – who figure largely in Kneale’s work as an ill-educated and superstitious means-to-an-end (and, in Kneale’s universe, it will be shown that superstition is a necessary evil). These other characters remain resolute in their unwillingness to acknowledge the opinions and outlooks of the Damaged Outsider, as Kneale builds the conflict he sees as essential to the core of his scenario: the protagonist is at odds with all around them, both spiritually and intellectually, sometimes physically. Through this conflict, and by constant self-exposure to that which pains them, the Damaged Outsider’s personality comes to be recognised as innately confrontational at best, and radical or bolshie at worst.

Here it is necessary to ruminate on Kneale’s persona as he presents it through his screen-writing. In the aforementioned articles, we outlined our belief that Kneale’s work is that of a bigot and a misanthrope who, instead of using his craft to explore alternative solutions to significant contemporaneous topics, creates clearly constructed formulae that place the source of all the world’s ills beyond the sphere of human influence, and, therefore, render those same topics as neither our responsibility nor our fault. Kneale uses his trade to excuse himself and his audience of any involvement in issues ranging from racism and emancipation to nuclear arms and the peace movement. Anyone familiar with our essay on false-objectivity as integral to conventional narrative frameworks (available here) will realise that the conclusions in Kneale’s dramas preclude any interpretation other than the inhibiting and reprehensible one he instinctively desires.

This is the key to understanding the most important factor in Kneale’s work. Through synchronous events that unfold around the Damaged Outsider, and a slow and deliberate gathering of evidence in a manner strikingly similar to that popularised by M. R. James (another much misunderstood author – read more here), Kneale is able to offer a rationalised supernatural explanation for that which, in the real world, he finds distasteful. Attempted Martian colonisation in Quatermass and the Pit (1958; dir. Rudolph Cartier) proves to be the source of all racism in the world; likewise, youthful rebellion is explained through similar extraterrestrial interference in the later Quatermass (1979; dir. Piers Haggard). In order to enforce this, Kneale suggests that the past, especially the non-institutionalised beliefs and rituals of the past have a distinct but hidden control over contemporary life, but to such a wide-reaching extent that this significance is often unrealised, forgotten or unheeded. By seemingly unconnected or coincidental demonstrations, coupled with the knowledge accumulated through research into the past, the Damaged Outsider ultimately experiences an inrush of knowledge or realisation regarding the values of a perceived phenomenon that represents Kneale’s ‘rationalised supernatural explanation’.

In this way, the behaviour of the protagonist, which is often mentally unhealthy and socially reprehensible, and the superstitions of the past, which are rationalised in their respective disciplines, come together and are enforced by each other to exonerate the author (and, vicariously, the viewer) of any abhorrent doctrine. Interestingly, the rarely discussed second era of Kneale’s work, perhaps beginning with The Stone Tape, but definitely with Murrain (1975; dir. John Cooper), and explored fully with television series Beasts (1976) and Kinvig (1981), actually questions the validity of this view, and occasionally leaves a question mark over the truthfulness of that supernatural explanation. As such, this change in his work may suggest that in later years Kneale became aware of this constant harbouring for the past in his oeuvre, and somehow felt the need to explore it by colliding young and upstanding characters with the Damaged Outsider of his earlier material. Certainly, in scenarios like What Big Eyes (1976; dir. Donald McWhinnie) or The Dummy (1976; dir. Don Leaver), and in the ambiguity of the Kinvig sit-com, he questions that he once swore by.

But by ignoring the deeper narrative conventions or models employed by Kneale, and concentrating on the buried spaceships, pagan influences and substandard spook stories present on the surface of the majority of Kneale’s work, modern theorists and practitioners unconsciously buy into and enrich the paranoid fascist delusions which form the backbone of Kneale’s rationalised supernatural explanation. Worse than this, Kneale’s elevated status as the “grandfather of British science fiction” has resulted in the ubiquity of such wholesale pilfering, present in this country in programmes like Doctor Who (2005-Present), Invasion: Earth (1998), Paradox (2009), Torchwood (2006-Present) and countless magazines, fanzines and novels. But writers as diverse as Mark Gatiss, Russel T. Davies, Stephen Gallagher, Lizzie Mickery or Jed Mercurio, and especially idiot boys like Chris Chibnall or James Moran, fail to appreciate the hazardous intricacies of incorporating Kneale’s work into their own precisely because they are unable or unwilling to recognise the true nature of their source.

Kneale presents himself as an isolated cynic, terrified of change and desperate for the rose-tinted and non-existent past, but the majority of writers mentioned above, like the vast number of modern media professionals, aspire to liberal, if not acceptably left-wing or socialist values, and consider themselves as tolerant and free of chauvinistic sentiment – why then should they seek to incorporate the polar opposite of their social, political and cultural views into their work? The answer is simple and obvious, but, as per usual, requires deeper examination than most said professionals are willing to attempt. When these wannabe sci-fi icons witness the power of Kneale’s work, without realising what imbues it with that strong relevance and personality, they wrongly assume imitation alone will replicate the effect; but they are only powerful because they acutely accent Kneale’s true self, resplendent with all its prejudices and hang-ups, and are structured at their centres to reflect traits that are unique to him and not to them. Thieving magpies like Gatiss or Davies fail to see this, and believe that a shopping list of familiar Kneale-style elements will achieve the same faux-legendary status. Instead, they should discard this parasitic mentality, which not only perpetuates hierarchical film-making processes but limits the imagination of both writers and audience alike, and instead, as Kneale may have been trying to achieve in the latter part of his career, turn their writing onto themselves and look at how their original elements comment on their own personalities and outlooks. Only by constant self-exploration and awareness of themselves on the page or screen, can an author or filmmaker begin to approach the powerful uniqueness of not only Kneale’s work but that of countless other iconographic figures.

Two productions that highlight the central flaw in Kneale’s work, and use it to different ends, are worth discussing in this context. In Ghostwatch (1992; dir. Lesley Manning) – reviewed here – screenwriter Stephen Volk suggests the possible ineptitude of Kneale’s Damaged Outsider by eschewing a rationalised supernatural explanation. We never learn what secrets drive Volk’s Dr Lin Pascoe, but, through performance and insinuation, we suspect that there isn’t just a chip on her shoulder, but a destructive streak that will steer the proceedings to their apocalyptic conclusion. Likewise, the sci-fi extravaganza Lifeforce (1985; dir. Tobe Hooper) uses the tell-tale signs of Kneale’s narrative structure, lampooning the same surface elements cherished by modern writers, to wryly comment on the prominent nature of his status. Here, the Damaged Outsider is closer to the B-Movie heroes Kneale both copies and denigrates, and the rationalised supernatural explanation is ludicrously subsumed into the chaos of the film’s climatic moments, wrenched from any obnoxious double meaning. Hooper draws on the elements of Kneale apparent in the screenplay – which, in this case, have analogues in a spaceship hidden in the tail of Haley’s Comet, and the destruction of London by its possessed citizens – not only as an excuse for some startling pre-CGI special effects, but to highlight the hokey nature of much of Kneale’s work, coupling it with the dry humour Hooper has consistently employed throughout his career. Both of these films offer an alternative approach to that currently on display in this country, but not the ideal…

Cinema and television should dispatch the writer to the dustbin of bad ideas, and concentrate on the rich vein of collaborative film-making available to the cast and crew of any production – or at least, adapt both established and original works with an unvarying critical eye. Unfortunately, this is almost impossible in the current climate surrounding not only British science-fiction but the mass audio-visual media as a whole. Today, the writer is king, and a facile concept like ‘story’ is maintained above all else – any deviation from this warped hero-worship is deemed ‘amateurish’ or ‘inept’. Theorists, commentators, practitioners and even educators continually stress this misguided approach, supplementing the true writing process with fixations on character development or story arcs, and the next generation of media professionals and filmmakers are indoctrinated at the most basic level of media education, ensuring that this narrative-centric tyranny moves forward into the future. It must be broken. Writers and filmmakers must realise that their constructions come from the inside, and are unhealthily skewered by their own prejudices, neuroses and preoccupations. They must recognise it and question it, and, by incorporating that self-analysis into their work, and by avoiding any surface gloss pilfered from the successful works of others, they will help to build an atmosphere of openness and understanding which, rather than aiming for the purely visceral and emotional, as it does now, allows us some true insight into a scenario, and the possible solutions and alternatives to its existence.

With The Donnerstag Analysis, not only will we conclusively prove that the work of Nigel Kneale is laced with bitterness and intolerance, but offer an alternative to currently accepted narrative practices, which we see as detrimental to the social, political and cultural well-being of both creators and consumers. A delivery platform like YouTube allows us access to a receivership both polluted and untouched by either of these aspects, and the success of our project lies not only in our goal of 150,000 total upload views, but also in any potential debate that could ensue from it. A conversation that breaks down the holy sanctity of the writer on film and television, and raises questions about our puerile obsession with mainstream narrative techniques, can only be a positive influence on the next generation of filmmakers, and with The Donnerstag Analysis, we aim to get that conversation started.

Watch The Donnerstag Analysis on YouTube (coming soon)

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We’ve already expressed our dissatisfaction at the modern retread of this classic BBC science fiction series, but it is becoming increasingly obvious that Doctor Who (2005-Present) is nothing more than the British television equivalent of the Emperor’s New Clothes: despite the total lack of substance, it is held aloft as the premiere example of contemporary British programme-making. Some of the blame must lie with its multitudinous, obsessive fan base, who, like all fanatics, seek to protect their idol blindly from criticism or reproach, but also with the mainstream commentators and theorists who persist in applauding its pedestrian and often embarrassing efforts. Critics in The Guardian, The Times and the Metro, amongst many others, have labeled the series with platitudes it barely deserves, elevating its status from poorly-rendered and abysmally acted trash to something akin to Dennis Potter or Troy Kennedy-Martin. For example, take this review here by journo Dan Martin, wherein he seems incapable of containing his adolescent enthusiasm for this same stupefying, worthless episode – surely his total lack of acumen or criticism can’t be the dire level of non-analysis we must endure from mainstream newspapers and magazines? There is the sneaking suspicion that sycophantic remarks like “an astonishing achievement” or “a victory for all” mask, on the whole, a deeper need by their authors to be recognised for their own potential, rather than the individual merits of a programme, in a vain effort to break the gap between critic and solicited writer.

Since the BBC closed its doors to public involvement in the late 1990s, insisting that all new talent be directed through its patronising and elitist Writer’s Room scheme, the Corporation has effectively become a network of friends and school-chums who put the kibosh on others’ efforts to reclaim the action. Nowhere is this more apparent than in the nepotistic credits for Doctor Who, which constantly, season after season, recycles the same redundant authors and their worthless ideas (e.g. Steven Moffat, Helen Raynor, Mark Gatiss), only allowing others in when they are part of the same well-established circus (Simon Nye, Richard Curtis, etc.). It comes as no surprise then to realise that the vast number of wannabe writers, many of whom work as critics and educators, remain stoically unable to criticize such a high-profile piece of crap. They adhere too strongly to the notion of not biting the hand that feeds them, little knowing that they are hardly thrown scraps.

An excellent example of this at work can be seen in the attitude of critic-turned-lapdog Charlie Brooker, who, having built his career on alternative views in mainstream criticism, has become a figure similar to Lord Haw-Haw or John Walker Lindh – in that he has turned his back on the democratic opportunities available to him in his infancy, and aspired to become a part of the fascist elite. At the height of his sell-out, he penned the dismal and atrociously conventional Dead Set (2008; dir. Yann Demange), which perhaps confirms his entire raison d’être was, like many other critics targeted in this review, not to change the world but to be patronised and consumed by it. In recent times, Brooker has been exceptionally vocal about his praise for Doctor Who, appearing totally ignorant of its blatant ineptitude and hideous conservatism – elements he would have previously lambasted in the days of his TVGoHome website – and using every opportunity to make his sentiment for the show apparent not only to the public but also to its creative team. Does this blind worship mask a desire to write for the show? Brooker has already, with Dead Set, shown himself capable of writing appropriately turgid and populist material, so can his repeated applause get him a credit on future seasons? His example is, unfortunately, being followed by countless other hacks and wannabes who, whilst standing at the admittedly alarming precipice of change, turn their backs and run to the comforting arms of an irrelevant hypocrisy.

This insane desire to adhere to and adore the tyrannical hierarchy of the mass audio-visual media, which also perpetuates the misguided supremacy of the self-contained narrative, and an over-reliance on digital image manipulation, has unfortunately become the norm for film and television in this country and abroad. Doctor Who, with its masturbatory hero-worship (that curiously parallels the god-like status afforded the screenwriter in modern British media) and ludicrous attempts at emotional contrivance, can be seen as a flagship show for those modern media professionals who put the visceral and the mediocre above any social, cultural or political relevance, and the possibility for the mass audio-visual media to educate, entertain and encourage. Only by eschewing totally these totemic monstrosities of the MAVM, and the didactic, inhibiting processes they maintain and support, can we erode the positions of privilege coveted by practitioners and theorists alike, and begin to suggest alternative egalitarian frameworks for media production: an action that will inevitably come as an unwelcome wake-up call to those who either produce or adulate this constrictive, hugely reprehensible white elephant.

Doctor Who: Flesh and Stone at the IMDb

Visit the official Doctor Who website

Our recent introduction to, and subsequent involvement with, the science fiction web series Damon Dark has raised pertinent questions about the nature of online media production, and the possibilities it presents for breaking the hierarchical processes of the mass audio-visual media, who have hitherto ignored or belittled such content and its originators. Damon Dark, partly through the collaborative atmosphere encouraged by creator and main driving force Adrian Sherlock, has spawned a handful of related web series, the style and content of which perhaps indicate the highlights, nuances and pitfalls of producing low-budget films for web-based delivery. The comparison of these spin-offs, in consideration to their production techniques and subsequent receptions, as well as with higher-budgeted but more conventional web serials, may suggest how an original concept could be applied for online delivery.

The most consistently interesting of these is Vincent Kosmos (2008-Present). Created by Italian musician and actor Chris Heaven, the title character first appeared as a ‘time thief’ in one of Sherlock’s adventures, and represents the lighter, more roguish aspects of that series’ universe. Heaven’s episodes revolve as much around flirting with sexy aliens and committing acts of petty thievery as they do saving the world and defeating evil – all of which confirms that the nature of a series very much depends on the strength of the central persona: both Sherlock and Heaven bring indomitable but crucially different personalities to their shows, and, regardless of the interconnectedness of their plots or characters, each creation remains specifically their own.

By contrast, the more recent additions to the canon, which constitute The Young Adventures of Damon Dark (2009-Present) and The Lansing Chronicles (2009-Present), currently lack such central galvanizing cores. The Young Adventures of Damon Dark, portrayed and produced by British teenager Jack Knoll, who is perfecting a sometimes uncanny impression of Sherlock, is hindered precisely because it is founded on an impression and, therefore, confined by elements which it must adhere to in order to prove successful in its imitation. Only in recent episodes, which approach an emotional freshness hitherto untouched by Sherlock, has Knoll’s work moved out of its paternal shadow. Likewise, Trea Cotton’s Dr Lansing, who made some effective appearances in both Sherlock and Heaven’s shows, is founded out of a need to replicate and experiment with elaborate digital effects, possibly inspired by mainstream science fiction films and television. The influence of certain programmes through their massive fan-bases on numerous web-based drama productions, Damon Dark and its spin-offs included, cannot be dismissed, and is essential in helping to understand the success or failure of certain projects.

After a few years in the wilderness, science fiction as a genre, specifically on television, is now seemingly ubiquitous: the increasing dominance of programmes like Fringe (2008-Present), Lost (2004-Present) or the modern retreads of Battlestar Galactica (2004-Present) or Doctor Who (2005-Present) have inspired viewers’ imaginations and desires beyond the restrictive confines offered by the programmes themselves. Unlike their antecedents, modern sci-fi fans have access to affordable and high-quality film-making equipment which, coupled with the revolutionary access to resources and distribution available through the Internet, allow them to start making content of at least equal cultural and social relevance. Furthermore, unlike their mass audio-visual media counterparts, these wannabe independent producers should not be constricted by the hierarchical, didactic practices that pepper, and ultimately hinder, the likes of Fringe or Doctor Who, other than in their own approaches, as they are liberated of deadlines, bad media education or any Front Office interference. As these web-based sci-fi and drama filmmakers proliferate across the Internet, often beginning their online careers with fan-films based on their favourite shows, they draw like-minded individuals to them – a phenomena suggesting that, whilst the web series itself may have little connection to a particular well-established base, a similarity in ethos, if not subject matter, is necessary for a project to attract viewers. Damon Dark is not aligned with any populist series, but Sherlock has made a rarely seen Doctor Who fan-film, and has enough in common with Sapphire and Steel (1979-1981) and the Quatermass serials for it to find new viewers and appreciators from fans and supporters of those shows.

But how can these independently-produced, content-rich films, serials and series offer alternative models for future filmmakers and modern media professionals alike? The answer is obscure, and, on the whole, negative. The current nature of the so-called information superhighway, in relation to its widespread use and commonly accepted interpretation, suggest that online material can only appeal to a mass audience, akin to that coveted by mainstream cinema and television, by utilising elements or set-dressing already recognised by them. The moderate success of the Damon Dark franchise, as well as the continued value of web-only mainstream tie-ins, with examples ranging from special episodes of Casualty (1986-Present) to long-running shows for online soap operas and drama series, suggest that frameworks built from familiar elements and set-dressing have a greater scope for drawing the attention of casual browsers and dedicated followers rather than wholly original material, represented by LOL (2008; dir. Ric Forster) or Girl Number 9 (2009; dirs. James Moran and Dan Turner).

Here, we must  make the distinction between dramatic (sometimes fantastical) webseries or serials, and unique comedic sketches that range from staged or unstaged sequences in the style of You’ve Been Framed (1989-Present) or America’s Funniest Home Videos (1989-Present) to on-going pieces-to-camera delivered by home-drawn characters. This latter variety is more popular in North America than Europe, despite a hardcore group of wannabe filmmakers who see the potential in online delivery, and most of the literature covering the subject that originates from that continent discourages productions outside of the comedic genres, but to dissuade from experimentation is exactly the same as denying the possibility of initial participation, which is typical of the attitudes prevalent in many commercial sectors of the industry, specifically Hollywood and its imitators. Again, we are presented with the possibility that any filmmaker seriously considering alternatives to the mass audio-visual media must commit acts that at first seem foolhardy but are, in fact, revolutionary statements to the world: to take the road well-trod is to reinforce inhibiting and possessive processes that film-making must break away from if the form is to grow into the promises it offers.

In reference to the Damon Dark series, and its spin-offs, and to other examples of non-comedic webseries or serials, we get a glimpses of the basic ingredients needed to start building a successful online series. Firstly, the project needs a strong personality at its core, either a character or creator but preferably both. This is the most difficult aspect as, in this business, everybody has an ego big enough to consider themselves a contender for the role, so we must first define ‘strong’. The central core of the production must revolve around a specifically dominant presence, through a combination of sheer force of personality and some aberration that makes then socially or politically awkward – sexism, racism, radicalism, incompetence, compassion and many others lend themselves an inherent shock factor which we must reinforce through demonstrative action and a suitably engineered scenario. This can be achieved through character or creator. A character can be crafted quickly and succinctly who ticks these boxes and will develop substantially, but a creator needs to ask themselves long and difficult questions before they can honestly decide whether they are a suitable candidate for such essential a role. A simpler, and we think, much more interesting option is to choose a public or historical figure who fits the bill easier than any wannabe filmmaker or artist.

Secondly, the aforementioned necessity for an unique selling point that possesses some familiar elements or dressing for its prospective audience. This presents a problem in that many filmmakers, especially those who consider themselves alternative to the mainstream, will see aligning their projects with an established production as opportunistic or, at worst, unacceptable. It is therefore pertinent to remind ourselves that successful filmmakers must be both showmen and businessmen as well as artists, and, as Lenin once suggested, the practices of the old guard must be subverted to the beliefs of the new in order for change to take a foothold in the public consciousness. Only by incorporating this technique – as demonstrated in the Damon Dark examples and the widespread success of fan-films and fan-fiction across the globe – and subsequently maintaining a diffident and highly critical attitude towards them, which is essential to preclude from hypocritical or self-indulgent endorsement of these practices, can we offer cohesive alternative models for media production to the widest possible audience. Subsequent filmmakers and online producers may be able to openly offer and apply these alternative processes in their work without commercial consideration, but today’s climate, which abhors differentiation from its hierarchical structures, and reduces any attempt to dislodge it as amateurish or misguided, makes that impossible; we must pave the way for the next generation to be unrestricted and empowered enough to cast off the shackles that currently bind us.

We’ve already written about the misinterpretation of the works of British screenwriter Nigel Kneale – which you can read here and here – and in a future article we will go further, suggesting that this continual redundancy of insight into Kneale’s oeuvre inhibits the development of much popular British film and television, and this opinion presents a suitable archetype which we can apply to the simplistic formula developed above. Kneale, through his output, demonstrated himself to be a bigot and a misanthrope who projected his own sour feelings at the world onto hokey sci-fi plots, and this dominant personality lends itself, in all its distastefulness and misguidance, to become the powerful attractive personality at the centre of a web serial. Likewise, the popularity of Kneale and his work, specifically the four Quatermass serials and the elegiac The Stone Tape (1972; dir. Peter Sasdy), is a perfect hook with which to reel in online viewers. To test these convictions, we have created and developed The Donnerstag Analysis.

This six-part serial, set in the United Kingdom sometime in the near future, will provide a consistent re-analysis of the Kneale style and method through alternative cinematic processes, and hopefully draw attention not only to its subject matter but the validity of web-based drama as an independent platform, as exemplified by the Damon Dark series. To add further proof to this supposition, and to set a realistic but substantially impressive goal, we aim to achieve 150,000 total upload views based on the episodes alone: six installments spread across three months, with two episodes per month, and another three months for reception gives a good six month period to achieve this. The methods of production and distribution we employ, which vary from conventional film-making techniques to those unique to the medium, will be detailed in future articles and status updates on both Twitter and Facebook. Above all, we hope, regardless of the outcome of this project, that by identifying and experimenting with these archetypes, The Donnerstag Analysis will help others to expand upon their own ambitions, over-throwing the confines of high-budget low-expectation garbage, in the same manner that Damon Dark and its spin-offs have inspired us.

Follow our progress on Twitter and Facebook

More about The Donnerstag Analysis on this site

Watch Damon Dark on YouTube

Watch Vincent Kosmos on YouTube

Watch The Young Adventures of Damon Dark on YouTube

Watch The Lansing Chronicles on YouTube

This is an off-kilter, almost absurdist take on the doomsday scenario popularised by the likes of Survivors (1975-77) or Outbreak (1995; dir. Wolfgang Petersen). Flesichmann – who helmed the equally mocking but disappointing Es ist nicht leicht ein Gott zu sein (1990) – reviewed here – adds a sense of parody to the proceedings, tying a disjointed narrative together with ludicrous scenarios and bizarre images: the hot dog salesman who makes it rich selling gas masks and other protective paraphernalia; the coward escaping from a moving caravan along an empty motorway; even the killer virus itself, which causes everyone to die in a fetal position.

Fleischmann’s peculiar distance from his material, the same which seemed a little at odds with the rest of Es ist nicht…, here only helps to reinforce the stupidity of films that take this sort of subject matter seriously. Outbreak, Carriers (2009; dirs. Àlex Pastor and David Pastor), or even 28 Days Later (2002; dir. Danny Boyle) are so po-faced in their delivery, and forced through their reactionary manner to distance themselves from reality, that they almost demand we ask the question “What’s the point?!”. By removing all essence of reason from the scenario, Fleischmann lays bare the pointless bombast of these productions, whilst also commenting on our own fragile inability to do without similarly preconceived and ill-judged social tropes.

Der Hamburger Krankheit at the IMDb

This is an horrendous miscalculation by everybody involved, including Nigel Kneale, who should never have allowed his original scripts to be handled in such a disastrously inept manner, and was suitably distraught at the results. Originally staged live by the BBC in 1953, under the skillful helming of Rudolph Cartier, The Quatermass Experiment heralded the birth of Kneale’s signature character, as well as proving television could deliver entertainment and intelligence to the same high-profile level as the cinema. This similarly live transmission from modern BBC professionals fails because it treats its source with misplaced respect, and suffers from criminally incidental execution in both acting and production that is no doubt related to the condescending but completely unfounded egotism of many modern media professionals.

We’ve already written about how Kneale and his work are consistently misinterpreted by over-eager fanboys posing as authors or screenwriters – read our argument here –  but Richard Fell, in adapting Kneale’s rather hokey plot, treats it with such fawning reverence that he renders himself incapable of objectively assessing the potential social, cultural and political intricacies of the source, as well as taking into account Kneale’s persona and raison d’être, even failing to adequately update the teleplay for the 21st century: what little additions he manages are both perfunctory and infantile in their obviousness. Likewise, the truncation of the original from six thirty-minute episodes into a single feature length production should not have posed a problem, but Fell abridges in a truly pathetic manner, reducing any potential insight or wit he could have brought to the proceedings in order to further the narrative – which, in the mind of a modern television writer, should be served more primarily than any other essential element like mood or audience participation.

This would only be crap, and not abysmal rubbish, if Fell’s script was in the hands of gifted actors or technicians, but unfortunately the production is hampered on-screen by professional dullards like Adrian Dunbar, Isla Blair or David Tennant – furthering the point made here – and off-screen by ludicrously amateurish helming from Sam Miller, who seems unable to stage anything in an interesting manner, resorting to inane subjective camera tricks to hide his threadbare production values and lack of cinematic confidence. Worst of all, Jason Flemyng’s portrayal of the title character fundamentally misses the point, reinterpreting him as a clichéd maverick rather than a damaged outsider. Flemying, like the rest of the cast, also seems incapable of sustaining his presence or objective for more than thirty seconds, further damaging Miller’s flimsy attempts at replicating an entertaining and thought-provoking live performance.

(It’s also worth noting the presence of Mark Gatiss in the cast. As mentioned previously, Gatiss has founded half of his career on regurgitating ideas and conceits central to Kneale’s work but without any true insight into their origin or meaning. Like Fell, or biographer Andy Murray, he is incapable or unwilling to recognise the bigoted and deeply misanthropic core within Kneale’s oeuvre, and therefore ignorant of the possibilities that any research or even acknowledgment of that core can bring to a reinterpretation of Kneale’s central ideas. The fact that Gatiss lobbied for his minor performance in this piece further concretes the inexcusable fact that an efficient reappraisal of Kneale and his output will be impossible when the majority opinion, largely propagated by celebrity adulators like Gatiss, precludes this through sycophancy and naivety. You can read an obituary of Kneale written by Gatiss here, in which he outlines his inability to understand Kneale and his creations beyond a glib and toadying encounter with his idol).

If those involved, who were obviously over-excited by the idea of staging a live telecast of such a revered story, had paid closer attention to Cartier’s excellent and groundbreaking staging techniques – especially in the magnificent sequel Quatermass and the Pit (1958), which set the high standard for technical innovation on television for the next forty years, and established methods still used on mainstream studio-based drama programmes like Eastenders (1985-Present) to this day –  and had allowed themselves honest access to essential critical processes during the adapting and staging phases, the modern media professionals involved here wouldn’t have exposed themselves as curiously less adept at television production than their counterparts from fifty years previously – whom they no doubt consider primitive, inexperienced and ultimately inferior. This misplaced egotism, partly fueled by an over-reliance on computer-based production techniques but mostly inspired by masturbatory educational practices, can only lead to further unmemorable output from its perpetrators and their contemporaries, and The Quatermass Experiment proves without a doubt that the unhealthy level of privilege coveted by the mass audio-visual media is incapable of involving both the filmmakers and their receiving audiences on anything but a visceral and superficial level.

The Quatermass Experiment at the IMDb

Watch The Quatermass Experiment on YouTube