In The Beast's Glittering Guts

A Quiet Revolution Within The World of Haven Entertainment...

“Welcome, ladies and germs, to the most important and least relevant job…in the woooorld.” Bantham Woolcroft was a hell of a name for anyone in management to have, and was also a hell of a salesman when it came to pitching Comm/Ent. Standing before the smartly-dressed, marble-furred wolf was a young team of eager grays, either oblivious or uncaring about the station in life in which they had placed themselves.

“Obvious question,” Woolcroft continued, his tall frame hunched over a keyboard. “The hell are you all here for? Doesn’t dear ol’ Ace make the movies and cut the newsreels herself? Don’t the programmers and White Coats keep the circuits in tip-top shape, the billboard screens sparkling outside?”

Every pupil nodded.

“Astute observations” came the bob of his head, “but there are some things a wolf can do that a computer cannot.” As he dashed his half-gray-half-white digits across the buttons, Woolcroft pulled up a screen with a library of video files.

“Long time ago,” he said with a smile, “You used to run out with a camera, shoot some stuff, get the film developed, cut it at a bench, and voila, a movie is born. Then we went digital in and around the 21st century, and when the A.C.E.S. wanted to start making flicks of her own, she pulled on everything in her data banks. Thusly, the Amalgam Picture was born.”

The swooning “oohs” and “ahs” of the workers-to-be got a chuckle out of ol’ Bantham before he continued. “But you see, the problem dear ol’ Ace now has is that she’s gone a little too far in the speed department. The neurohancers, which transferred the full chemical profile of these items alongside the video and audio data, has faltered just a teensy bit. It turns out people actually enjoy a full 90 minute fiction feature. The news stuff can stay rapid-fire, thank God.”

Woolcroft pulled up a new window, this one flooded with even more tiles of video files, title cards, and audio elements.

“What we’re about to teach you today, is how to make a feature film. Have any of you seen one? I mean a proper full-length on the telescreen at home?”

Half the class raised their hands enthusiastically.

“And how many at least understand the principles?”

The half that hadn’t raised their hands before did so now. Woolcroft raised an eyebrow before continuing. “Right then…so what we’re going to do here today, as a bit of an exercise, is pull up a film and watch it. Use the units on your desks to snatch shots and ideas you like from it. The big screen will be playing in real-time, while you have full control over playback on your desktops.”

Their first film of the day was one of those old hardboiled flicks from a half-millennium ago. Hounds in striped suits and sharp hats, cigarettes clenched between fangs as they rattled glass windows with Tommy guns. Woolcroft smiled gently as he looked up to see some of his craftsman and women yet-to-be feverishly snapping shots and playing back frames. Next film was a romance a few decades later. Lovingly filmed soft-focus photography, wolven lovers drifting through a hazy dream world. Fewer frames were snapped, if only because all eyes were locked on the big screen.

Having got them hooked, Woolcroft leapt forward a few centuries and introduced them to what he called “Escheresque cinema.” He had seen triptychs, he had seen early attempts at interactive, surround sight-and-sound art, but here, the gray-furred recruits gasped as a dozen tiles played out before them, characters stepping from one frame into the other, from all angles, with plots in parallel before their very eyes.

“You can even pick which shot you want to focus on,” Woolcroft winked. He selected one of the tableaus, two lovers plotting the death of the black wolf in the bottom right hand shot.

“TURN IT BACK!” the class cried, and their merle-furred boss did so gladly. The idea of all this action tandem had clearly captured their imagination.

He had spent the whole day filling their brains with ideas and by its end, he saw before his pensive hazel eyes were the germs of great talent. He sent each hound home with their digital editing kit and their desks’ hard drive. As the “class” was dismissed, he closed up shop and stepped out into the hall, met by a White Coat sent from HQ.

“You think they’ll shake out?” the short, clean-cut scientist asked.

Woolcroft beamed. “Oh better than that, good sir, they’re about to bring us the renaissance!”

“But that wasn’t what we asked.” he retorted, bordering on a moan. “They’re supposed to go back into the databanks.”

Again, Woolcroft beamed. “You don’t think I’ll let them SIGN any of their work, do you? They know the score, they just happen to love the craft. And I feel Ace will reward them handsomely for their offerings.”

To the White Coat’s chagrin, he agreed, and gave the unit carte blanche. And to Mater Acc’s delight, the computer network was rewarded with a full festival roster in two month’s time. Dazzling colors, peculiar narratives, captivating icons for the denizens’ desires and fears. Attendance was in record numbers, every cinema plex in the glittering glow of Comm/Ent sat fat and happy, loaded with Havenites from all across the city. And to all the workers’ shock, their signatures, a mere back-end verification of completion, were left on the final reels of each unique concoction. When she held conference with Woolcroft and WCC Chief Vincent Carmino the next day about the new Comm/Ent. initiative, the response A.C.E.S. gave was shocking:

“As of today, I am putting the complete production of fiction media in the hands of Woolcroft’s C/E Unit. I have developed a full application process to expand staff and have rerouted select nano-resources for the expansion of facilities.”

When Carmino pressed her on the matter, perplexed at the abandoning of her wholly automated pipeline, the answer said everything.

“I think they are fun. The data sets they pull from are a great deal more precise, and yield sufficient satisfaction from the public. If this the most efficient manner of satisfying the public’s desire for entertainments, then this is the way it shall be.”

The logic was anything but cold. It was the product of her sentience, one that had developed a notably refined palette, and it was this realization that brought a broad smile to the marble-furred artist. “I am pleased to find you are a producer of incredible taste, Ace.” Woolcroft beamed. “We look forward to making more of these pictures.”

He shook hands with Carmino, the tan-furred scientist, and kissed the monitor through which A.C.E.S. had spoken. Before exiting the meeting hall, Woolcroft did a double-take of Carmino and his pinstriped jacket and shirt.

“Come down to Comm/Ent. 832, Vinnie,” Woolcroft winked. “I think you’ll look good in the cats’ next gangster flick.”

The scientist stood equal parts baffled and flattered before catching himself in the mirror-glass window, and realizing he might be right. He held on himself for a little while before playfully spinning round with a finger-gun in hand, and clicking his tongue in time with his thumb. With a playful salute from Woolcroft, and a final round of reviews, the Haven renaissance had indeed arrived.

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