The Story That Went Out of Date

There’s a lot of talk at the moment about the challenges facing writing with the advent of generative text software. Much of the discourse has become dull and repetitive, and what I haven’t seen discussed much is how new technology can quickly make an existing story obsolete or dated.

Pick up any novel from the 19th century or before, and the characters will travel by horse or on a ship with sails and rigging. Enter the 20th century and characters will use home phones or call boxes to speak to each other. Readers are quick to make allowances for the age of the text. But what happens when the piece is more recent?

I was reminded this week of a story I wrote in 2015 called Film Star Reanimation Ltd., where the plot revolves around resurrecting two dead actors for a feature-length film.

It’s something that was possible at the time, but involved a lot of manual input and guesswork. It was inspired by, and makes reference to, an advert for Galaxy from 2013 which starred an electronic replica of Audrey Hepburn. Here’s an article from 2014 about how this was achieved.

Now, 13 years on, this sci-fi idea is edging closer to reality, rendering the plot less outlandish than it appeared on its first outing. As such, I can’t foresee this being published professionally now, unless I wait a few decades and present it as a historical piece.

I can find three versions in my files: two from February 2015 and one from December 2015. The last one is the version I’ve included under the cut.

It’s only 1,352 words and I’d like to edit it properly because there are enough plot points in there to unpack it to twice that length. Nonetheless, I’ve left the words unchanged, only the formatting to make it appear correctly on WordPress.

For anyone keeping tabs on my WordPress awards, by the way, the site today awarded me two badges while fixing that formatting:

• CSS Sorcerer. You’re a developer now. Basically.
• Perfectionist. Edit a single post over and over again. It’s still not right, is it?

Film Star Reanimation Ltd.

“It’s uncanny, that’s the only word for it.” Bryan Ross scribbled in his notepad. “Just the way they… talk… and their faces.”

Kelly Carey laughed. “You didn’t expect to see that in Slough, did you? These are the two key factors: make the dialogue seamless and the eyes right and the audience doesn’t see them as animations. They see them as actors.”

“And you can do this with anyone?”

“Anyone. We could dress you up like a fairy godmother if we wanted.”

Bryan scribbled a little more, occasionally looking up at the screen. Humphrey Bogart was chatting to John Candy in a bar. “Why pair them up? They were different eras, completely different.”

“We wanted Cary Grant with Bogart, but his family wouldn’t give permission. One of the techs said, ‘Why don’t we get John Candy?’ and he was only joking but we soon realised they would work quite well together.”

“And they’re going to appear in a film together?”

“Not just any film, our company are going to be the first to make a full-length feature film starring reanimated actors. It used to take a whole archive to make a thirty-second ad, but we’ve got much better software now, and hardware, so feature-length is possible. Actually, just let me rewind this.”

She scrolled it back then pressed Play.

“I think I might look him up on the Internet,” said Humphrey Bogart.

“You’ll get a shock. All the people you knew then are now dead,” said John Candy.

Kelly smiled. “Those are our favourite lines.”

“Our readers are more interested in ethical issues than the technology. Doing this doesn’t automatically make it all right, does it?”

“I don’t follow you.”

“Whether you’ve got permission or not, it’s like digging up their graves in a way.”

“Oh no, we certainly don’t view it that way.”

“How do you view it?”

“Well, for instance, when we ask for permission, a lot of the time the family say it’s a way of keeping the actor’s memory alive or introducing their work to a new audience.”

“A lot of the time? How many actors have you tried this with?”

“I’m sorry, most of them are covered by confidentiality clauses.”

“And those who refuse permission? What do they say?”

“Mainly because they believe it’s not what the actor would’ve wanted. We always obtain permission, even if the actor died fifty, sixty years ago. It’s a matter of courtesy.”

“And where do families stand on TV ads? Would Audrey Hepburn have wanted her image used to sell chocolate bars?”

“A lot of people think we made that ad,” said Kelly quickly, “but we didn’t. I can only assume everyone was happy with the arrangement. We do a lot of research, a lot, it’s at the heart of everything we do, not just on the actor’s sound and image but we also pay attention to their views and philosophies. If an actor took an anti-advertising stance, for instance, we won’t even consider using them.”

Bryan paused to stare at the paused image of Bogart and Candy. “How do living actors feel? About ninety percent of Equity members are unemployed at any one time. They must be furious they’re not being offered work while you resurrect stars from the past.”

“Living actors have nothing to worry about. It takes between five and ten times longer to shoot a scene with a reanimated actor than a living one. Multiply that by the number of scenes you need for a feature-length and it’s far cheaper to employ a real person.”

“Interesting. So why go to the bother?”

“We want to showcase the current state of technology and raise the bar in terms of what can be done to reanimate actors. Britain’s leading the world in this field. I’ll give you an example. There was a major Italian film star who died a few months ago just before they wrapped up his last shoot. The studio came to us and we’re helping film three more scenes so they can finish and release it.”

Bryan pointed at the screen. “Are you likely to make a loss on this picture?”

Kelly paused. “Why would you say that?”

“If it takes longer to shoot the scene, it costs more.”

“Well, of course nobody wants to make a loss.”

“I didn’t ask whether you wanted to, I asked whether it was likely.”

She paused again. “We are prepared for any eventuality.”

“So you accept you might make a loss?”

“We’ll do everything we can to prevent that.”

“Conversely, does it bother you to make a profit on the back of work that a dead actor, let’s face it, didn’t do?”

“Why would it bother me? It’s simply a commercial arrangement. The family can negotiate royalties and we want to recoup the cost of making the film. Similar economics as making any other film.”

“Financial recompense to the family doesn’t make it all right for a studio to profit from it. I’d say ethically, it’s rather dubious.”

Kelly shuffled in her seat. “Again, it’s hardly any different from making any other film. A living actor is simply labour, just like any other job, just like a builder or a shop assistant, and the studio hopes to make a profit from that labour and the actor wants to make a profit personally. With a reanimated actor, the only difference is we carry out the labour ourselves and the payment goes to the family.”

“That doesn’t justify what you’re doing. Unless that actor in their lifetime said it was acceptable to use their image after their death, I don’t see how the family can rightfully make that decision for them.”

“I’ll give you another example. Are you familiar with libel law?”

“I’m a journalist, of course I am.”

“Then you’ll know there aren’t any circumstances under which a family could sue for libel. The law only protects the living. Obtaining permission is our way of keeping good relations with the actor’s family.”

“Kelly, I’m not talking about what the law says you can or can’t do – I know I can write anything about a dead person but it still doesn’t make it right that I should. By extension, even though you have permission – you’ve got financial arrangements, et cetera, et cetera – what is the ethical justification for doing this type of work?”

She stood up. “I think this interview is over. I’d like you to leave the premises now.”

“Don’t you want to justify what you’re doing, or maybe you can’t?”

“Please leave, Mr Ross.”

“Whether I leave or not, this interview is still being published.” He stood up. “Your studio is probably the most ethically bankrupt company I’ve seen for a long time and I’ll be putting my honest opinion in the article. You mark my words.”

“And if there’s anything in your magazine we object to, we’ll…”

“See us in court?” He sniggered as he left the building.


#

Six weeks later, a colleague shouted, “Bry, check your inbox. I’ve sent you a link. You’re not going to like it.”

The link took him to a news article with the headline Film Studio Takes Revenge on Hatchet Job Journalist.

“What fresh hell is this?”

“Read it and find out.”

A film studio has taken creative revenge on a journalist who wrote an article slamming their work. Film Star Reanimation Ltd has digitally altered what appears to be security footage of Bryan Ross from Ethical Matters Monthly.

He skipped down to the bottom and clicked Play.

He saw himself through the lens of a security camera watching Bogart and Candy on the screen. A pink tutu had been digitally added around his waist, pink wings on his back, and his pencil had been replaced by a wand with a star on the end.

“I’m a journalist,” spoke the figure in the video, “of course I am. My brain is ninety percent unemployed. I can write anything about a person, dead or living. I’d say financial recompense makes it ethically acceptable. I’m interested in how you reanimate people with this technology. I want people to dig up my grave. I want to sell chocolate bars like Audrey Hepburn. Your studio is probably the best company I’ve ever seen and that’s my honest opinion. You mark my words.” The video faded out.