Stumble It!

Good article by TERRENCE RAFFERTY from the always excellent, NY Times.

Enjoy!

ThatActionGuy.com

***

When the strange, arresting, thoroughly frightening novel called “Frankenstein” was published in London on New Year’s Day, 1818, there was no author named on the title page, and readers and reviewers, almost to a person, assumed the book had been written by a man. They were mistaken. The creator of “Frankenstein, or the Modern Prometheus” was Mary Shelley, who was the daughter of the radical political thinker William Godwin (to whom it was dedicated) and the feminist Mary Wollstonecraft, and the wife of the poet Percy Bysshe Shelley — and who, when she finished the novel, a few months shy of her 20th birthday, became the mother of horror.

In that capacity she has had many more sons than daughters. Or so it seems, at least, for in the nearly two centuries that have passed since this teenage English girl delivered herself of the first great modern horror novel, men — as is their wont — have coolly taken possession of the genre, as if by natural right, some immutable literary principle of primogeniture. Until fairly recently, just about all the big names in horror, the writers whose stories dominate the anthologies and whose novels stay in print forever, have been of the masculine persuasion: Poe, Le Fanu, Stoker, Lovecraft, M. R. James, King, Straub. Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s remarkable 1892 tale of madness, “The Yellow Wallpaper,” manages to creep into the odd collection, as does Shirley Jackson’s story “The Lottery,” which is so disturbing that it induced a significant number of New Yorker readers to cancel their subscriptions when it appeared in the magazine’s pages in 1948. But for the most part, a woman’s place in horror has been pretty well defined: she’s the victim, seen occasionally and heard only when she screams. It’s probably unwise to speculate on the deep reasons for this, to assert, say, that men have some greater temperamental affinity for the hideous doings horror thrives on, or that women are more likely to shrink from the contemplation of pure, rampaging evil. (It may be the case that men have historically been afflicted with a rather more urgent need to test themselves against such dangers, but let’s leave all that to the gender-studies departments, shall we?) What can be said with certainty, though, is that women writers, even the best of them, have rarely made a career of horror, as the male luminaries of the genre mostly have. Gilman, for example, occupied herself primarily with nonfiction on feminist issues, and Jackson, aside from “The Lottery” and her superb 1959 novel, “The Haunting of Hill House,” in fact wrote very little that fits comfortably into the genre: no vampires, no werewolves, no zombies, just a lot of people whose lives feel to them inexplicably threatened and unstable. (Her 1954 novel, “The Bird’s Nest,” about a young woman with multiple personalities, is a prime example of the sort of real-world unease her eerily detached prose tends to generate; it has, come to think of it, quite a bit in common with the mundane domestic horror of “The Yellow Wallpaper.”)

Even Mary Shelley, after her initial triumph, merely dabbled in the unspeakable for the rest of her writing life. The second half of her too-little-known 1826 novel, “The Last Man,” imagines the end, by plague, of humankind, but is, despite its dire subject, less horrific than elegiac — it’s a book about the death of Romanticism. Three of Shelley’s shorter forays into the fantastic were collected in 2004 in a slim volume called TRANSFORMATION (Hesperus, paper, $13.95) and demonstrate conclusively that horror as such didn’t interest her profoundly: for her, fiction was more about ideas than sensations. In recent years, though, women — perhaps emboldened by the success of the florid vampire novels written by the pre-Jesus Anne Rice — have been claiming a much larger share of their genre birthright, even devoting themselves, in many cases, exclusively to horror. Or maybe it would be more accurate to say they’re writing fiction that uses the traditional materials of horror for other purposes, because novels like those of the wildly popular Laurell K. Hamilton or the Y.A. phenomenon Stephenie Meyer don’t appear to be concerned, as true horror should be, with actually frightening the reader. (Rice wasn’t, either.) The publishing industry has even cooked up a new name to brand this sort of horroroid fiction, in which vampires and other untoward creatures so vividly express their natural and unnatural desires: it’s called “paranormal romance.”

Unreadable as most of this stuff is (at least for us males), there’s a certain logic to this turn of pop-cultural events, in that we the reading public no longer share a clear consensus on what constitutes abnormal, or indeed scary, behavior. In the unlamented prefeminist world, women were themselves so routinely marginalized as “different” or “other” that perhaps it’s not such a stretch for them to identify, as many now seem to, with entities once considered monstrous, utterly beyond the pale. And, further, quite a few of these monsters, notably the vampires, are beautiful, worldly and unstoppably strong — which makes them useful vehicles for empowerment fantasies.

A measure of doubt, or at least ambivalence, about what should terrify us isn’t necessarily a bad thing for a writer. Times change, as do the shapes of our fears: it’s probably just as well not to be too sure where the real threats to our bodies and souls are coming from. Women horror writers, who seem less certain these days than men, have been doing some of the most original and freshly unnerving work in the genre. In 2003, Sara Gran published a terrific short novel called COME CLOSER (Berkley, paper, $6.99), in which a happily married young urban professional finds herself suddenly and incomprehensibly attracted to violence, obscenity, promiscuity, all the nasty sensations her orderly and apparently satisfying life has always excluded. This overpowering walk-on-the-wild-side impulse leads to some extremely unpleasant behavior. The novel is either a demonic-possession story or, like “The Yellow Wallpaper,” a tale of a woman’s every­day madness, and Gran blurs the line suggestively. Is it scarier if the demon is external and real, or internal — self-generated and imagined? In “Come Closer,” the distinction feels purely academic.

Gran is, in the tradition of women writing horror, only a sporadic contributor to the genre. The sole book she’s come out with in the past five years is a noirish crime novel called “Dope.” But “Come Closer” remains one of the signal works of contemporary female horror because Gran manages to locate in her heroine’s anguished sexuality a kind of terror that the paranormal romancers routinely (and lucratively) deny, the uneasy sense that the forces unleashed inside her might be uncontrollable — rampant, voracious, indifferent to natural limits and not unambiguously benign.

Sex has always, of course, been the dirty little secret of horror’s appeal, because what terrifies us is also, often, what attracts us. Where sex is concerned, the distinction between freedom and helplessness — being, as a Romantic writer might say, in the thrall of one’s passions — can be a very, very fine one. And the feeling of helplessness is at the heart of horror. Even when sex isn’t the subject, the good female writers in the genre seem more intimate with that feeling than their male counterparts. Although the protagonist of Alexandra Sokoloff’s recent novel THE PRICE (St. Martin’s, $23.95) is a man, it’s difficult to imagine a male horror writer putting a member of his own sex through what Sokoloff’s Will Sullivan endures: the advanced cancer of his young daughter, the loss of his wife’s love and trust, the long hours spent roaming hopelessly through the corridors of a hospital, a setting in which even the strongest of us can, as the endless days of chronic illness grind past, start to feel defeated, impotent. When the only way out of the impasse comes in the form of a smooth-talking man offering deals fishier than even 21st-century Wall Street would countenance, the hero’s no-exit despair appears fully justified, and irreversible. Sokoloff has the integrity to leave this dire situation essentially unresolved, the glib devil unvanquished, evil still at large in the hospital and in the world.

Sarah Langan, who made a striking debut a couple of years ago in “The Keeper,” isn’t one for tidy resolutions either. Her most recent book, THE MISSING (Harper/HarperCollins, paper, $6.99), continues the grim story of social entropy begun in her first, the collective madness of the dying Maine mill town in “The Keeper” having migrated to a more upscale community and now taken the form of a virus that creates “a hostile, schizophrenic state within its hosts.” This is the diagnosis of a local psychiatrist named Fenstad Wintrob — a name that looks as if it has to be an anagram of something, though I’ve been unable to work it out. (A bit of bonus futility in a book that already has plenty.) But the shrink, like everyone else in town, is power­less to resist the disease or to stop its inexorable spread, and the novel becomes, like Mary Shelley’s “Last Man,” a mournful end-of-the-world narrative, a vision of a society perishing from within, exhausted by its own excesses — although the excesses in this case aren’t those of idealism, as they were in Shelley’s time. And in Langan’s book (which won, and deserved, the Horror Writers Association’s Bram Stoker Award for the best novel of 2007), the last man standing is a woman.

There’s an end-of-the-world feel, too, in Elizabeth Hand’s startling, unclassifiable GENERATION LOSS (Small Beer, $24), which was recently honored with the first Shirley Jackson Award for what the award’s Web site calls “outstanding achievement in the literature of psychological suspense, horror and the dark fantastic.” (Sarah Langan was one of the judges.) Amorphous as this definition may sound, it suits the kind of unsettling stories Hand likes to tell, not only in this novel but also in her melancholy 2006 collection SAFFRON AND BRIMSTONE (M Press, paper, $14.95) and her latest book, THE BRIDE OF FRANKENSTEIN: Pandora’s Bride (Dark Horse, paper, $6.99). “Generation Loss” also takes place in Maine, not in a town but on a bleak island populated mostly by a handful of aging counter­culture types hanging on, in the starkest isolation, to the remnants of their old ideals: all are sad, some are crazy, and one may be a serial killer. The narrator is a seriously damaged woman named Cass Neary, once a famous photographer of New York’s punk scene and now drifting through life in a bitter, narcotic haze, unable to find an appropriate vehicle for her great artistic passion, which is death. (The work that made her fleeting reputation was a volume called “Dead Girls.”) To her, the harsh, unforgiving landscape of that Maine coastal island feels like home.

There’s nothing supernatural in “Generation Loss,” but it’s full of mysteries — all originating in its characters’ troubled psyches — and full of terrors that can’t be explained. Like the heroine of Hand’s brilliant horror story “Cleopatra Brimstone,” Cass Neary has been the victim of a rape, and like the title humanoid of “Pandora’s Bride,” she is stubbornly and defiantly independent. Hand’s bride announces at the very outset of her peculiar memoir: “In fact I was to be no male’s bride: from the moment I knew fire and was thus born, my goal has always been to steal fire, and power, for myself. I am no man’s creature and no man’s possession.” This writer’s Promethean project, her fire-stealing strategy, has always been, as Cass Neary’s is and Mary Shelley’s was, art itself — the act of creation and all its frightful ambiguities. Near the end of “Generation Loss,” Cass comments on another artist’s work: “It was a horrifying world, but it was a real one. How many of us can say we’ve made a new world out of the things that terrify and move us?” At least a few of the women writing horror today can say just that. And there’s no way to mistake the new worlds they’re making for the work of men.

DON'T FORGET TO VISIT THE AUTHOR OF THIS ARTICLE.  BECAUSE WHERE THERE'S ONE GREAT ARTICLE (LIKE THIS) THERE'S BOUND TO BE MORE!

Cheers!
Brian M Logan
ThatActionGuy.com
EMAIL ME HERE 

Stumble It!

Stumble It!

Article by Edward O. Uthman MD on what a real autopsy is like. Very handy for any writer working in the horror or crime genres.

Enjoy!

ThatActionGuy.com

PURPOSE

The purpose of this paper is to make available to screenwriters, novelists, and other interested individuals an authentic detailed narrative account of a routine postmortem examination (autopsy) as performed by a pathologist on a patient who has died in hospital. I have based this on my experiences as a practicing pathologist in both academic and community practice settings in several U.S. cities. I have deviated from the dispassionate, unbiased language of my profession to present a more subjective, sensorial view, which I think should be of greater benefit to those using this information for the purposes of entertainment.

BACKGROUND

Most patients who die in the hospital do not undergo autopsy. In recent years, there has been a decreased interest in the autopsy in the medical community. When an autopsy is requested, it is either by the attending physician or the patient's family. The hospital's pathologist performs those cases of the former type for the educational benefit of the medical staff. Cases requested by the family are best left to an independent pathologist hired by the family. Autopsies performed by the hospital pathologist do not result in cost to the patient's estate; rather, the cost is absorbed by the hospital and the pathologist. "Private" autopsies hired by the family generally cost between US$1500 and US$3200.

After the patient is pronounced dead by a physician, the body is wrapped in a sheet or shroud and transported to the morgue, where it is held in a refrigeration unit until the autopsy. Autopsies are rarely performed at night, but they are typically performed between 8 am and 4 pm every day, including weekends and holidays. In medium-size and large hospitals, the autopsy is done on the premises in a autopsy suite, which is either within or adjacent to the morgue. Small hospitals that do not have autopsy suites may arrange for autopsies to be done at a larger hospital. Yet other hospitals out in the country can only offer autopsies by having them done at funeral homes. Doing an autopsy at a funeral home is one of the most dreaded things a pathologist has to face, as a funeral home typically is not as well equipped as a hospital autopsy suite.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

Immediately before the autopsy, the body is removed from the cooler by a morgue attendant who will help with the autopsy. This individual is called a diener (DEE-nur), which is German for "servant." Most dieners do not realize the derivation of this word and would probably object to being called "diener" if they did. Dieners are not formally trained, but many have some background of employment in the funeral industry. For some reason, in the southern U.S. anyway, about ninety per cent of dieners (my estimate) are African-American. I would estimate that less than ten per cent of dieners are female. Dieners tend to work at their job for decades. I think this is because 1) management types don't know what goes on in the morgue, and would not care to mess around with its staffing come belt-tightening time, and 2) dieners are pretty much left alone by management and enjoy a much greater degree of autonomy than most workers at their pay grade and level of education. My own impression of the "diener personality" is that they are somewhat secretive and cliquish, and one gets the idea that they have a lot more going on in their lives than they tend to let on. It is not uncommon for them to receive a variety of strange visitors in the morgue, some of whom have a less than savory appearance. For fiction writers, I think there is a lot of character development potential for dieners.

There has been a general belief that some dieners also take payment under the table for notifying funeral homes of deaths in the hospital (so that the funeral home can send an agent out to approach the family), but I am not aware of any cases where this allegation was proved. From my own experiences, I know that in some cities the funeral home business is extraordinarily competitive, and I am aware of one case where agents of two funeral homes got into a physical altercation in the morgue over the disposition of a body that each claimed.

The other individual directly involved in the autopsy is the prosector. This is the individual who is in charge of the actual dissection. In small hospitals, the prosector is a Board-certified pathologist, an MD or DO (osteopath) who has undergone a four- or five-year residency in the specialty of pathology, specifically anatomic pathology. In university- based hospitals with teaching programs, the prosector is a pathology resident (a physician who is training to be a pathologist) or a medical student taking an elective rotation in pathology. In larger non-university-based hospitals covered by large pathology groups, the prosector may be a pathologist's assistant. The "PA" is typically a graduate of a masters or baccalaureate program which provides training in several areas of pathology, especially those that involve "hands-on" activities, such as autopsy dissections, dissections of specimens removed at surgery, specimen photography, and video applications. PAs enjoy excellent pay and benefits in their little-known area, and the demand for PAs continues to exceed supply. More information about PAs is available from the American Association of Pathologist Assistants

Other individuals may be present at the autopsy, usually for educational opportunities. These may include the attending or consulting physicians, residents, medical students, nurses, respiratory therapists, and others involved in direct patient care.

The prosector and diener wear fairly simple protective equipment, including scrub suits, gowns, gloves (typically two pair), shoe covers, and clear plastic face shields. Some facilities have sealed-environment "space suits," but I think one is more likely to infect himself as a result of the clumsiness lent by these suits than if he were dressed more lightly in the interest of nimbleness.

THE EXTERNAL EXAMINATION

The body is taken from the cooler by the diener and is placed on the autopsy table. Experienced dieners, even those of slight build, can transfer even obese bodies from the carriage to the table without assistance. Since the comfort of the patient is no longer a consideration, this transfer is accomplished with what appears to the uninitiated a rather brutal combination of pulls and shoves, not unlike the way a thug might manhandle a mugging victim.

The body is then measured. Large facilities may have total- body scales, so that a weight can be obtained. The autopsy table is a waist-high aluminum fixture that is plumbed for running water and has several faucets and spigots to facilitate washing away all the blood that is released during the procedure. Older hospitals may still have porcelain or even marble tables. The autopsy table is basically a slanted tray (for drainage) with raised edges (to keep blood and fluids from flowing onto the floor). After the body is positioned, the diener places a "body block" under the patient's back. This rubber or plastic brick-like appliance causes the chest to protrude outward and the arms and neck to fall back, thus allowing the maximum exposure of the trunk for the incisions. The prosector checks to make sure that the body is that of the patient named on the permit by checking the toe tag or patient wristband ID. Abnormalities of the external body surfaces are then noted and described, either by talking into a voice recorder or making notes on a diagram and/or checklist.

OPENING THE TRUNK

The diener takes a large scalpel and makes the incision in the trunk. This is a Y-shaped incision. The arms of the Y extend from the front of each shoulder to the bottom end of the breast bone (called the xiphoid process of the sternum). In women, these incisions are diverted beneath the breasts, so the "Y" has curved, rather than straight, arms. The tail of the Y extends from the xiphoid process to the pubic bone and typically makes a slight deviation to avoid the umbilicus (navel). The incision is very deep, extending to the rib cage on the chest, and completely through the abdominal wall below that.

With the Y incision made, the next task is to peel the skin, muscle, and soft tissues off the chest wall. This is done with a scalpel. When complete, the chest flap is pulled upward over the patient's face, and the front of the rib cage and the strap muscles of the front of the neck lie exposed. Human muscle smells not unlike raw lamb meat in my opinion. At this point of the autopsy, the smells are otherwise very faint.

An electric saw or bone cutter (which looks a lot like curved pruning shears) is used to open the rib cage. One cut is made up each side of the front of the rib cage, so that the chest plate, consisting of the sternum and the ribs which connect to it, are no longer attached to the rest of the skeleton. The chest plate is pulled back and peeled off with a little help of the scalpel, which is used to dissect the adherent soft tissues stuck to the back of the chest plate. After the chest plate has been removed, the organs of the chest (heart and lungs) are exposed (the heart is actually covered by the pericardial sac).

Before disturbing the organs further, the prosector cuts open the pericardial sac, then the pulmonary artery where it exits the heart. He sticks his finger into the hole in the pulmonary artery and feels around for any thromboembolus (a blood clot which has dislodged from a vein elsewhere in the body, traveled through the heart to the pulmonary artery, lodged there, and caused sudden death. This is a common cause of death in hospitalized patients).

The abdomen is further opened by dissecting the abdominal muscle away from the bottom of the rib cage and diaphragm. The flaps of abdominal wall fall off to either side, and the abdominal organs are now exposed.

REMOVING THE ORGANS OF THE TRUNK

The most typical method of organ removal is called the "Rokitansky method." This is not unlike field dressing a deer. The dissection begins at the neck and proceeds downward, so that eventually all the organs of the trunk are removed from the body in one bloc. The first thing the diener does is to identify the carotid and subclavian arteries in the neck and upper chest. He ties a long string to each and then cuts them off, so that the ties are left in the body. This allows the mortician to more easily find the arteries for injection of the embalming fluids.

A cut is them made above the larynx, detaching the larynx and esophagus from the pharynx. The larynx and trachea are then pulled downward, and the scalpel is used to free up the remainder of the chest organs from their attachment at the spine. The diaphragm is cut away from the body wall, and the abdominal organs are pulled out and down. Finally, all of the organs are attached to the body only by the pelvic ligaments, bladder, and rectum. A single slash with the scalpel divides this connection, and all of the organs are now free in one block. The diener hands this organ bloc to the prosector. The prosector takes the organ bloc to a dissecting table (which is often mounted over the patient's legs) and dissects it. Meanwhile, the diener proceeds to remove the brain.

REMOVING THE BRAIN

The diener takes the body block out from under the patient's back and places it under the back of the head. This elevates the head so that it is positioned as if it were on a very thick, stiff pillow. The diener uses a scalpel to cut from behind one ear, over the crown of the head, to behind the other ear. Like with the trunk incisions, this one is deep, all the way to the skull. The skin and soft tissues are now divided into a front flap and a rear flap. The front flap is pulled (this takes some strength) forward (like being "scalped") over the patient's face, thus exposing the top and front of the skull. The back flap is pulled backwards over the nape of the neck. The whole top hemisphere of the skull is now exposed.

The diener takes an electric saw (typically called a "Stryker saw," even if it's not manufactured by Stryker) and makes cuts around the equator of the cranium. This cut must be deep enough to cut all the way through the skull, but not so deep that the brain is cut (this takes some skill). Typically, the cut is not totally straight but has a notch so that the skull top (calvarium) will not slide off the bottom half of the skull after everything is sewn back up. After this cut, the calvarium is removed and set aside. As the calvarium is lifted off, there is a very characteristic sound that is sort of a combination of a sucking sound and the sound of rubbing two halves of a coconut together. The best recorded representation of this sound that I have heard is in the brain transplant scene of the film Robocop 2.

The outer layer of the meninges (the coverings of the brain), called the dura, stays with the calvarium, so that the top of the brain is now fully exposed. After the chore of getting to it, it is a relatively easy matter to get the brain out. There are no tough ligaments that hold the brain in, so really all that needs to be done is to cut the spinal cord and the dural reflections that go between the cerebellum and cerebrum (called the tentorium). The brain is then easily lifted out.

Since the brain is very soft and easily deformable, it is not manipulated at the time of the autopsy. Instead it is hung up by string in a large jar of formalin (a 10% solution of formaldehyde gas in buffered water) for two weeks or longer. The action of formaldehyde is to "fix" the tissue, not only preserving it from decay, but also causing it to become much firmer and easier to handle without deforming it. The reason that it is suspended by string is to prevent it from having a flattened side from lying in the bottom of the jar (the brain is heavier than water and therefore sinks).

EXAMINATION OF THE ORGANS OF THE TRUNK

At the dissection table, the prosector typically dissects and isolates the esophagus from the rest of the chest organs. This is usually done simply by pulling it away without help of a blade (a technique called "blunt dissection"). The chest organs are then cut away from the abdominal organs and esophagus with scissors. The lungs are cut away from the heart and trachea and weighed, then sliced like loaves of bread into slices about one centimeter thick. A long (12" - 18"), sharp knife, called a "bread knife" is used for this.

The heart is weighed and opened along the pathway of normal blood flow using the bread knife or scissors. Old-time pathologists look down on prosectors who open the heart with scissors, rather than the bread knife, because, while the latter takes more skill and care, it is much faster and gives more attractive cut edges than when scissors are used. The coronary arteries are examined by making numerous crosscuts with a scalpel.

The larynx and trachea are opened longitudinally from the rear and the interior examined. The thyroid gland is dissected away from the trachea with scissors, weighed, and examined in thin slices. Sometimes the parathyroid glands are easy to find, other times impossible.

The bloc containing the abdominal organs is turned over so that the back side is up. The adrenal glands are located in the fatty tissue over the kidneys (they are sometimes difficult to find) and are removed, weighed, sliced, and examined by the prosector.

The liver is removed with scissors from the rest of the abdominal organs, weighed, sliced with a bread knife, and examined. The spleen is similarly treated.

The intestines are stripped from the mesentery using scissors (the wimpy method) or bread knife (macho method). The intestines are then opened over a sink under running water, so that all the feces and undigested food flow out. As one might imagine, this step is extremely malodorous. The resultant material in the sink smells like a pleasant combination of feces and vomitus. The internal (mucosal) surface of the bowel is washed off with water and examined. It is generally the diener's job to "run the gut," but usually a crusty, senior diener can intimidate a young first- year resident prosector into doing this ever-hated chore. Basically, whichever individual has the least effective steely glare of disdain is stuck with running the gut.

The stomach is then opened along its greater curvature. If the prosector is lucky, the patient will have not eaten solid food in a while. If not, the appearance of the contents of the stomach will assure the prosector that he will not be eating any stews or soups for a long time. In either case, the smell of gastric acid is unforgettable.

The pancreas is removed from the duodenum, weighed, sliced and examined. The duodenum is opened longitudinally, washed out, and examined internally. The esophagus is similarly treated.

The kidneys are removed, weighed, cut lengthwise in half, and examined. The urinary bladder is opened and examined internally. In the female patient, the ovaries are removed, cut in half, and examined. The uterus is opened along either side (bivalved) and examined. In the male, the testes are typically not removed if they are not enlarged. If it is necessary to remove them, they can be pulled up into the abdomen by traction on the spermatic cord, cut off, cut in half, and examined.

The aorta and its major abdominal/pelvic branches (the renal, celiac, mesenteric, and iliac arteries) are opened longitudinally and examined.

Most of the organs mentioned above are sampled for microscopic examination. Sections of the organs are cut with a bread knife or scalpel and placed in labeled plastic cassettes. Each section is the size of a postage stamp or smaller and optimally about three millimeters in thickness. The cassettes are placed in a small jar of formalin for fixation. They are then "processed" in a machine that overnight removes all the water from the specimens and replaces it with paraffin wax. Permanent microscopic sections (five microns, or one two-hundredth of a millimeter thick) can be cut from these paraffin sections, mounted on glass slides, stained, coverslipped, and examined microscopically. The permanent slides are usually kept indefinitely, but must be kept for twenty years minimum.

Additional small slices of the major organs are kept in a "save jar," typically a one-quart or one-pint jar filled with formalin. Labs keep the save jar for a variable length of time, but at least until the case is "signed out" (i.e., the final written report is prepared). Some labs keep the save jar for years. All tissues that are disposed of are done so by incineration.

A note on dissection technique: All of the above procedures are done with only four simple instruments -- a scalpel, the bread knife, scissors, and forceps (which most medical people call "pick-ups." Only scriptwriters say "forceps"). The more handy the prosector, the more he relies on the bread knife, sometimes making amazingly delicate cuts with this long, unwieldy-looking blade. The best prosectors are able to make every cut with one long slicing action. To saw back and forth with the blade leaves irregularities on the cut surface which are often distracting on specimen photographs. So the idea is to use an extremely sharp, long blade that can get through a 2000-gram liver in one graceful slice. Some old-time purist pathologists actually maintain their own bread knives themselves and let no one else use them. Such an individual typically carries it around in his briefcase in a leather sheath. This would make an excellent fiction device, which, to my knowledge, has not been used. Imagine a milquetoast pathologist defending himself from a late-night attacker in the lab, with one desperate but skillful slash of the bread knife almost cutting the assailant in half!

Note on the appearance of the autopsy suite: Toward the end of the autopsy procedure, the room is not a pretty sight. Prosectors vary markedly in how neat they keep the dissection area while doing the procedure. It is legendary that old-time pathologists were so neat that they'd perform the entire procedure in a tux (no apron) right before an evening at the opera (pathologists are noted for their love of classical music and fine art). Modern prosectors are not this neat. Usually, the autopsy table around the patient is covered with blood, and it is very difficult not to get some blood on the floor. We try to keep blood on the floor to a minimum, because this is a slippery substance that can lead to falls. The hanging meat scales used to weigh the organs are usually covered with or dripping with blood. The chalk that is used to write organ weights on the chalkboard is also smeared with blood, as may be the chalkboard itself. This is an especially unappetizing juxtaposition.

CLOSING UP AND RELEASING THE BODY

After all the above procedures are performed, the body is now an empty shell, with no larynx, chest organs, abdominal organs, pelvic organs, or brain. The front of the rib cage is also missing. The scalp is pulled down over the face, and the whole top of the head is gone. Obviously, this is not optimal for lying in state in public view. The diener remedies this problem. First, the calvarium is placed back on the skull (the brain is not replaced), the scalp pulled back over the calvarium, and the wound sewn up with thick twine using the type of stitch used to cover baseballs. The wound is now a line that goes from behind the ears over the back of the skull, so that when the head rests on a pillow in the casket, the wound is not visible.

The empty trunk looks like the hull of a ship under construction, the prominent ribs resembling the corresponding structural members of the ship. In many institutions, the sliced organs are just poured back into the open body cavity. In other places, the organs are not replaced but just incinerated at the facility. In either case, the chest plate is placed back in the chest, and the body wall is sewn back up with baseball stitches, so that the final wound again resembles a "Y."

The diener rinses the body off with a hose and sponge, covers it with a sheet, and calls the funeral home for pick- up. As one might imagine, if the organs had not been put back in the body, the whole trunk appears collapsed, especially the chest (since the chest plate was not firmly reattached to the ribs). The mortician must then remedy this by placing filler in the body cavity to re-expand the body to roughly normal contours.

Ultimately, what is buried/cremated is either 1) the body without a brain and without any chest, abdominal, or pelvic organs, or 2) the body without a brain but with a hodgepodge of other organ parts in the body cavity.

FINISHING UP

After the funeral home has been called, the diener cleans up the autopsy suite with a mop and bucket, and the prosector finishes up the notes and/or dictation concerning the findings of the "gross exam" (the part of the examination done with the naked eye and not the microscope; this use of the term "gross" is not a value judgement but a direct German translation of "big" as opposed to "microscopic"). For some odd reason, many prosectors report increased appetite after an autopsy, so the first thing they want to do afterwards is grab a bite to eat. The whole procedure in experienced hands, assuming a fairly straightforward case and no interruptions, has taken about two hours. Complicated cases requiring detailed explorations and special dissections (e.g., exploring the bile ducts, removing the eyes or spinal cord) may take up to four hours.

AFTER THE AUTOPSY

Days to weeks later, the processed microscopic slides are examined by the attending pathologist, who renders the final diagnoses and dictates the report. Only the pathologist can formally issue the report, even if he or she was not the prosector (i.e., the prosector was a resident, PA, or med student). The report is of variable length but almost always runs at least three pages. It may be illustrated with diagrams that the prosector draws from scratch or fills in on standard forms with anatomical drawings. The Joint Commission on Accreditation of Healthcare Organizations (JCAHO, commonly called "The Joint"), which certifies hospitals, requires the final report to be issued within sixty days of the actual autopsy. The College of American Pathologists, which certifies medical laboratories, requires that this be done in thirty days. Nevertheless, pathologists are notorious for tardiness in getting the final report out, sometimes resulting in delays of years. Perhaps the non-compensated nature of autopsy practice has something to do with this. Pathologists are otherwise very sensitive to turnaround times.

THE BRAIN-CUTTING

Remember the brain? We left it suspended in a big jar of formalin for a few weeks. After the brain is "fixed," it has the consistency and firmness of a ripe avocado. Before fixation, the consistency is not unlike that of three-day- old refrigerated, uncovered Jello. Infant brains can be much softer than that before fixation, even as soft as a flan dessert warmed to room temperature, or worse, custard pie filling. Such a brain may be difficult or impossible to hold together and can fall apart as one attempts to remove it from the cranium.

Assuming good fixation of an adult brain, it is removed from the formalin and rinsed in a running tap water bath for several hours to try to cut down on the discomforting, eye- irritating, possibly carcinogenic formalin vapors. The cerebrum is severed from the rest of the brain (brainstem and cerebellum) by the prosector with a scalpel. The cerebellum is severed from the brainstem, and each is sliced and laid out on a tray for examination. The cerebrum is sliced perpendicularly to its long axis and laid out to be examined. Sections for microscopic processing are taken, as from the other organs, and a few slices are held in "save jars." The remainder of the brain slices is incinerated.

DON'T FORGET TO VISIT THE AUTHOR OF THIS ARTICLE.  BECAUSE WHERE THERE'S ONE GREAT ARTICLE (LIKE THIS) THERE'S BOUND TO BE MORE!

Cheers!
Brian M Logan
ThatActionGuy.com
EMAIL ME HERE 

Stumble It!

Good article on rom-coms by Michael Hauge.  I've got a copy of Michael's book sitting on my book shelf, no more than two feet from me as I type this...and it's a great read! 

Enjoy!

ThatActionGuy.com

***  

Because of their enduring popularity and moderate cost (compared to special effects extravaganzas), and because they consistently offer strong roles for both men and women, a well written romantic comedy script is one of the best ways possible to launch or advance your screenwriting career. Since the release of SLEEPLESS IN SEATTLE in 1993, there hasn't been a single year in which at least one romantic comedy didn't surpass the $100 million dollar mark.More important to you as a screenwriter, director or producer, the best romantic comedies are not only funny, sexy and entertaining, they provide you with a wonderful opportunity for exploring deeper levels of inner conflict, character growth and theme.Certainly dramas, period pieces, biographies and dramatic love stories can also achieve thematic depth and complexity, but these rarely reach the huge mass audience that romantic comedies consistently attract. And while action films, thrillers and science fiction deal primarily with physical courage, romantic comedies force their heroes to develop the emotional courage necessary to expose their innermost fears and weaknesses.Using the top-grossing romantic comedies of all time as examples, I want to explore the unique ways the screenplays for these movies use principles of story, structure and character growth to elicit emotion and enlighten the audience. (To see the list, click on the link to the left.) THE ELEMENTS OF ROMANTIC COMEDY

The following are the distinguishing elements that separate romantic comedy from the other genres of film:

1. The hero must be involved in some sexual or romantic pursuit. As with all successful screenplays and movies, the most important character in any romantic comedy is the HERO - the main character (or characters), with whom the reader and audience most strongly identify, and who is pursuing some compelling, visible desire. The story concepts for PANIC ROOM, SPIDERMAN and SAVING PRIVATE RYAN are defined by each hero's desire to escape, to stop the villain, or to save Private Ryan.

In a romantic comedy, this desire is more specific. The hero must desperately try to win (or win back) the love of another character: her best friend in MY BEST FRIEND'S WEDDING; the waitress in AS GOOD AS IT GETS; his high school dream girl in THERE'S SOMETHING ABOUT MARY.

Occasionally, as in LOOK WHO'S TALKING or MOONSTRUCK, the hero is more the pursued than the pursuer. But in both examples, the heroes eventually come to their senses, and the attraction becomes mutual.

2. The hero must pursue some additional visible desire. In GROUNDHOG DAY, the Bill Murray character wants to stop endlessly repeating the same day in Puxatawny, while he also pursues a relationship with Andie MacDowell. And in THE BIRDCAGE, Robin Williams' character wants to convince his son's future in-laws that he's a straight man while trying to win back Nathan Lane's affections.

Pursuing two goals simultaneously adds originality to the story and accelerates the pace. And when the hero's two desires inevitably come into opposition (as I will discuss momentarily), the conflict is increased, along with the audience's emotional involvement.

3. The characters in a romantic comedy never think their situation is humorous. They are desperate to achieve their goals, and terrified by the conflicts they face. When the people on the screen are laughing, the people in the audience aren't.

The driving motivations in romantic comedies actually grow out of immense pain and loss. The plots of the most successful romantic comedies of all time involve unemployment, disease, prostitution, physical abuse, physical deformity, humiliation, ridicule, the loss of one's children, attempted assassination, suicide and death.

The humor then arises from the way the heroes OVERREACT to their situations. They devise fantastic plots, pose as women, adopt false identities, juggle two lovers simultaneously, tell enormous lies, fly across the country to meet a voice on a radio, or do everything imaginable to sabotage their best friend's wedding.

4. Romantic comedies are sexy. You don't have to show your lovers writhing in bed or achieving a grand mal seizure on the kitchen table. (Such a scene would be unwise anyway, since romantic comedies almost never include nudity or sex scenes.) But your characters must at least confront their sexual desire. And if they do go to bed together, as in WHEN HARRY MET SALLY, THE AMERICAN PRESIDENT or BIG, we must see the events that lead to that decision, at least until the moment the two lovers embrace and the camera dissolves away.

5. Romantic comedies have happy endings. In the rare instance where the hero doesn't get the girl, the audience still feels that the resolution is the best, and most appropriate, for the story.

6. Romantic comedies always involve deception. The hero is pretending to be someone he's not (MRS. DOUBTFIRE, MISS CONGENIALITY, COMING TO AMERICA, TOOTSIE, THE BIRDCAGE, DAVE); is lying to his loved one about his alter ego (THE NUTTY PROFESSOR, BIG), his job (MICHAEL, THE SECRET OF MY SUCCESS), his feelings (SHREK, JERRY MAGUIRE, AS GOOD AS IT GETS), or his intentions (GROUNDHOG DAY, ROXANNE); or is lying to others in order to pursue the relationship (GRUMPY OLD MEN, SLEEPLESS IN SEATTLE, MOONSTRUCK, HOUSESITTER).

This dishonesty is necessary not only to increase the conflict and the humor in these films, but also to force the heroes to confront their own inner conflicts and deception. Only by facing the truth about themselves will they be able to change and grow.

THE ROMANCE CHARACTER

To win the heart of your audience, the ROMANCE -- the object of your hero's sexual or romantic pursuit -- must possess certain consistent qualities:

1. The audience must fall in love with the romance character. We must identify with the hero's desire for this other person, or we will not only lose interest in the story, we will lose our sympathy for the hero as well.

2. The audience must root for the hero to win her love. When you write a romantic comedy, you must persuade the reader that the romance character is your hero's destiny. If the audience doesn't long for these two people to walk into the sunset together, you haven't done your job.

Sometimes the audience wants them to get together long before the hero does. In movies where the hero pursues two romance characters, such as HOUSESITTER or WHILE YOU WERE SLEEPING, or films where the hero is already involved with someone else, as in THE WEDDING SINGER or MOONSTRUCK, the hero may be reluctant to accept what the audience has known from the moment the romance character first appeared on the screen.

3. Insurmountable obstacles must separate the two lovers. Without overwhelming hurdles for your hero and romance to overcome, your story will never captivate an audience. The billionaire and the hooker in PRETTY WOMAN, the billionaire and the chauffeur's daughter in SABRINA, the billionaire and the deceptive reporter in MR. DEEDS, or the reporter and the RUNAWAY BRIDE he humiliated - all seem hopelessly mismatched.

Very often the chasm separating the two lovers is the result of the hero's deception in pursuing the original outer motivation: the romance character in WHILE YOU WERE SLEEPING thinks the hero is betrothed to his comatose brother; DAVE falls for a woman who thinks he's really her husband, whom she despises; and Tess in WORKING GIRL pursues a man who thinks she's a broker, not a secretary.

4. The romance character must be intertwined with the hero's other outer motivation. In TOOTSIE, Michael Dorsey wants to be a star on a soap opera, and falls for an actress on the show. The Kirstie Alley character in LOOK WHO'S TALKING wants to raise her son by herself, and falls in love with her baby sitter. The reporter in MICHAEL wants to get the angel back to Chicago, and falls for the other reporter who's competing with him.

It doesn't work to have your hero pursuing some compelling goal while she coincidentally falls in love with the boy next door, because . . .

5. The romance character must create obstacles to both the hero's desires. Without conflict between the hero and romance, your screenplay will lack the emotion necessary to sustain the story. In MRS. DOUBTFIRE, the Sally Field character is an obstacle both to the hero's desire to be with his children AND his desire to win her back. And in PRETTY WOMAN there are times when the hooker helps the billionaire close the deal he's pursuing, and other times when she stands in his way, just as there are times she wants to return his affection and advances, and others when she says no to them.

OTHER PRIMARY CHARACTERS

Those of you familiar with my book or seminars know that I emphasize two other categories of character. The NEMESIS prevents the hero getting what she wants (Cameron Diaz in MY BEST FRIEND'S WEDDING, Matt Dillon in THERE'S SOMETHING ABOUT MARY, or Frank Langella in DAVE). The REFLECTION is the best friend or sidekick who is most closely aligned with the hero (Hank Azaria in THE BIRDCAGE, or Bruno Kirby and Carrie Fisher in WHEN HARRY MET SALLY).

In romantic comedies, the reflection will support, and the nemesis will oppose, BOTH the hero's desires. The rival politician in THE AMERICAN PRESIDENT tries to sabotage Andrew Shephard's crime bill by also sabotaging his romantic relationship. And the bosses in THE SECRET OF MY SUCCESS and WORKING GIRL want to prevent those heroes' promotions as they also compete for the love of the romance characters.

Similarly, the reflection characters in JERRY MAGUIRE, MICHAEL, WORKING GIRL and TOOTSIE are helping the heroes with both their careers and their love lives.

As I will explain shortly, the reflection and nemesis characters are not simply sources of conflict, support and humor. They also play an essential role in enabling your hero to grow and change on a deeper level.

ROMANTIC COMEDY STRUCTURE

Your romantic comedy should follow the same six-stage structure to which almost all Hollywood movies conform. But keep these additional structural principles in mind as you develop your script...

1. Introduce the hero before the romantic rival. Readers and audiences instinctively identify with the first character who appears on the screen. If we were introduced to Pierce Brosnan in MRS. DOUBTFIRE before we met Robin Williams, or to Cameron Diaz before Julia Roberts in MY BEST FRIEND'S WEDDING, we would have a much harder time rooting for the heroes of those movies, because of our ambivalence about the rival being jilted.

2. Show the first meeting between the hero and the romance. Both in real life and in the movies, the most enthralling part of any relationship comes with that first, head-over-heels, all-consuming attraction. Never rob your reader of the opportunity to fall in love along with your characters.

Allowing the audience to be there from the beginning is also important for credibility in your screenplay. If we don't see how the two principle characters meet, and what draws them together, your story risks seeming contrived.

3. Introduce the romance character no later than the beginning of Act II. In a properly structured film, the hero's outer motivation, which defines the story concept, is established exactly 25% of the way through the movie. Since your hero must pursue two goals simultaneously, the object of her desire must certainly appear on screen by then.

4. The hero should commit to the relationship by the mid-point of the movie. The halfway mark of any journey is the POINT OF NO RETURN - that moment where the traveler is closer to the destination than the point of origin. In other words, your hero must do something exactly 50% of the way through the screenplay to indicate that there's no turning back, and she can never return to the emotional life she was living when the story began.

This is often the moment where the hero and romance first sleep together, as in THE AMERICAN PRESIDENT, JERRY MAGUIRE, BIG and WORKING GIRL. But the point of no return is sometimes less outwardly apparent: the first date in SABRINA; revealing his face to Princess Fiona in SHREK; or sending the incriminating email in MY BEST FRIEND'S WEDDING.

5. Give the audience superior position. SUPERIOR POSITION means that the audience knows something before some of the characters in the movie do. This knowledge creates anticipation of what's going to happen when this "secret" is revealed.

Notice how many romantic comedies involve imposture. Almost all of the jeopardy, suspense, anticipation, curiosity, surprise and humor - in other words, the emotion - come from the fact that the audience knows what no one else does: that the hero is really a man, a hooker, a secretary, a king, an office boy, a presidential impersonator, a gay nightclub owner or a 12-year old boy. This knowledge keeps the viewers involved in the movie until finally, the inevitable happens. . . .

6. The relationship ends at the 75% mark. In Hollywood movies, the hero must suffer some MAJOR SETBACK at the end of Act II. In a romantic comedy, this is where the relationship goes up in flames, usually because the deception has finally been revealed.

Think of the big meeting in WORKING GIRL, when everyone learns she's a secretary, or Sydney Ellen Wade learning she's been used in THE AMERICAN PRESIDENT, or Jules confessing her plot to sabotage MY BEST FRIEND'S WEDDING.

This major setback won't always result from such a revelation, but it will always grow out of some flaw or weakness in the hero: the billionaire reverts to treating the hooker like a whore in PRETTY WOMAN, or Annie Reed can't risk giving up her secure life, so she announces, "SLEEPLESS IN SEATTLE is history."

After this devastating event, all that remains in Act III is for the hero to use every ounce of emotional courage he has to win back the love of his life and achieve his destiny in the climax of the film.

CHARACTER GROWTH

By being forced to acknowledge her dishonesty and her weaknesses, your hero will confront her deepest emotional fears. The price of intimacy is always risk and exposure, leading to the character growth.

To recognize the character arc in the movies you see, or to develop it in the screenplays you write, start by asking yourself, "What terrifies the hero emotionally?" Is it emotional commitment (fear of heights and kissing on the lips in PRETTY WOMAN)? Risking the loss of security (SLEEPLESS IN SEATTLE)? Losing one's status and image (THE AMERICAN PRESIDENT)? Touching someone, both literally and figuratively (AS GOOD AS IT GETS)? Or perhaps simply not being good enough, attractive enough or competent enough (SHREK, THE BIRDCAGE, THE NUTTY PROFESSOR and WORKING GIRL)?

When you recognize your hero's greatest fear, then ask a second question: "What is she doing to avoid confronting that fear?" Whatever the answer, whatever protection your hero has created, is what I term the INNER CONFLICT. Recognizing and overcoming this inner conflict is the path to growth.

So THE AMERICAN PRESIDENT needs to realize he's so concerned about staying high in the polls that he'll only "fight the fights he can win." And the Harrison Ford character in SABRINA needs to learn that to avoid losing his company, and his power, he's sacrificed his emotional life. He'll risk billions on a merger, but won't even consider opening his heart to the woman he loves.

This is the other reason deception is so vital to the genre: the heroes of romantic comedies all deceive themselves. They hide behind their images, and their impostures, in order to prevent their unacceptable flaws and weaknesses from coming out into the open. It isn't just his nose that Charlie is hiding in ROXANNE - it's his self-doubt and unworthiness.

The other primary characters in the film can facilitate this character arc, because the nemesis will often embody the hero's inner conflict, and the reflection will reveal it to the hero. Notice how Tess in WORKING GIRL confuses image with substance just as much as Katherine, her nemesis. Or listen to the reflection characters played by Cuba Gooding, Jr. in JERRY MAGUIRE, Rupert Everett in MY BEST FRIEND'S WEDDING, or John Travolta in MICHAEL as they warn the heroes of those films about their behavior toward the people they love.

In movies, as in real life, both the joy and terror of intimacy grow out of our exposure to those we love. To be accepted for who we are is magical. But once we allow ourselves to be seen in this way, all the dark parts of our personalities - our weaknesses, desires, fears and shortcomings - are brought into the open. The possibility that someone might peer beneath our carefully constructed persona and see who we truly are becomes terrifying. So the dance of pursuit and retreat continues endlessly.

Conscious or not, the lies in romantic comedies are always designed to protect the hero's image. Better to lie to the person he loves than to expose the unworthy person he believes himself to be.

But of course, the hero's deception can never work, because it is only by standing up for who he truly is that the hero can achieve real fulfillment and self worth, and connect with the love of his life. The romance character is TRULY the hero's destiny; she's the reward for finding the courage to grow and change.

Romantic comedies concern the continual battle between comfort and longing, between fear and desire. We're all terrified of intimacy, pain and loss, so we all shut down emotionally in one way or another. But the beauty and power of a romantic comedy is that for two hours in the dark we can identify with a hero facing the same eternal struggle. And in the movie theater, we will always grow, and we will always win.

DON'T FORGET TO VISIT THE AUTHOR OF THIS ARTICLE.  BECAUSE WHERE THERE'S ONE GREAT ARTICLE (LIKE THIS) THERE'S BOUND TO BE MORE!

Cheers!
Brian M Logan
ThatActionGuy.com
EMAIL ME HERE