E. C. (Gene) Ayres Blogspot

Years ago when I worked in Hollywood, naïve enough to imagine changing the world (or at least the film industry, if only a mere fleck of a change) I was given a screenwriter's dream opportunity: work as a name director's--better yet, a living legendary name director's--house writer. (House as in 'in-house'). I'd been kicking around the 'Hood for a few years, mostly getting by writing animation (see Gene Ayres on IMDB) when a tennis pal of mine, from an L.A. citywide singles-tennis dating club called, cleverly 'Tennis Match', gave me an introduction to a client of his. My buddy, whose name was one of my all time favorites—Christopher Street-- was a dead-ringer for Michael Caine's younger brother, and looking back, knowing both of them were orphans, it was probably true. Anyway, Chris was the kind of entrepreneur who is very successful serving the byways and back alleys of the 'Wood, in his case running a window-washing operation. He was, like ...

I was raised in a Quaker family, and grew up protesting nuclear weapons in Times Square back in the Fifties (remember 'Ban the Bomb'? That was me, a naive six year old, holding one of those signs). When I graduated from Syracuse University in 1968, the war in Vietnam was raging, and so was my generation. We truly believed we could change the world, bring peace and prosperity and justice to all, and—well, you know how all that turned out. Two decades later, after working so hard to change the world with so little success, I finally concluded that presenting the “truth” as I saw it didn't always work, if ever. Sometimes, I was beginning to realize, good storytelling may be a better way to reach people than on-the-nose reality. Or even gently presented reality laced with humor, the way the late great Art Buchwald mastered this skill with his political satires. Having taken my best shot at doing good without much success, I decided to try my hand at doing well, or at least mak...

Imagine our president doing what he does best, back in his hometown during the last Depression, eighty years ago. A community activist and consensus builder at heart, our man Barack is trying to bring together two of Chicago's most powerful and opposing parties: Al Capone, and Elliot Ness. Al, of course, represents a local ethnic community as well as important Chicago business interests. Mr. Ness, an outsider and worse, a government official from, even worse--Washington, D.C.--is getting the worst of things, in terms of local politics and economic issues. Hence our man Barack's skills are brought to bear. Obama: Mr. Ness, meet Mr. Capone. Capone: Nice ta meetcha. Ness: Are you kidding me? Obama: So, Mr. Ness, I understand you have some concerns about Mr. Capone's business activities in our fair city? Ness: Not really. I just wanna bust his ass and get out of this dump. Capone: Hey, watch yer mouth, fuzz face or I'll teach ya to exit via dat window over dere. Ness: You s...

I’ve been a lot of places. Some of them were wonderful, scintillating, beautiful, even stunning. Some of them less so. None of them, however, ever felt like home. And this chronic feeling of rootlessness is strange, given that I come from Colonial era families on both parents’ sides. I'm many generations removed from the push West, and myself have straddled the four corners of the continent, always searching, never finding. Where did I truly belong, and what would there be about such a place that would make me feel at home there? Dorothy, in the Wizard of Oz, clicked her ruby heels and whispered, “There’s no place like home.” For her, that black and white farm in Kansas was where she belonged. Good for her. But I never felt that way anywhere, from the very beginning. Maybe being a Jersey Boy had something to do with it. Jersey was always a place to leave, not go back to. But Springsteen did fine with that locale and identity. So did Malcolm Forbes, Tom Cruise, Meryl Streep, Frank S...

I never knew Ted Kennedy other than by reputation, but my first awareness of him other than as Jack's and RFK's younger brother came at the time he and I were both new in our jobs and working towards the same goal: justice for American minorities in terms of those most basic of needs: health, education, and welfare. I was working for Kenneth B. Clark at the Metropolitan Applied Research Center in New York City. It was 1969, and I was a young idealist and Conscientious Objector to the war in Vietnam, and as a birthright Quaker, had taken a position with an NGO for my so-called Alternative Service in lieu of military action. This required (and I received) permission from the office of the President, who at the time was Nixon, whose mother had been a Quaker herself. At that time Dr. Clark had hired another white person besides myself for his Harlem-based research and educational development programs: the indominable Jeanette Hopkins, one of two venerable, powerful women pioneers I...

I just couldn't wait. I love disaster movies. Or used to. NBCs miniseries "Storm" was pretty bad, though. Starring former Dawson's Creek hottie James Van Der Beek, playing stud-disguised-as-geek per usual, I hung in there for part I, mostly because I could relate to a scientist that resembled Elvis Costello meets Ken. Or at least, wish I could. Complete with thick black rim Buddy Holly glasses, James really knows how to stand out in the crowd when the LAPD gets after him big time. Van Der Beek's geek, Dr. Kirk Haffner, gets to play a smart pawn to Treat Williams over-the-top and out-to-lunch defense contractor wannabe, whose idea of national defense is to blow up the atmosphere. Never mind General So-and-So is totally in his pocket on this one, along with two really dumb young scientists who must have skipped class a lot, but sure know how to push those buttons. Complete with kewl 1950s retro FX, Dr. Kirk has come up with a way to control the weather, which the DO...

Last night I watched the first episode of an NBC miniseries called “The Storm.” This struck a nerve. My first mystery novel, Hour of the Manatee , was originally titled Storm Warning , and it was just that. The NBC movie was marginally about Global Warming and very exciting, and timely too, were it not for the ridiculous plot. The basic theme of runaway weather is real enough, as we speak. Bizarre mini weather phenomena have been occurring worldwide of late, and if not quite as dramatic yet as in the film, it is at least equally strange and perplexing. Even in Seattle, where I now live, the weather has shown a remarkable tendency towards the strange, pretty much since I got here two years ago. I also felt exonerated, too, by seeing a high level General as the prime heavy in this script. In my latest eco-thriller Cry of the Heron , an Air Force General is less than heroic. Weather as a weapon? Maybe. But it is Mother Nature’s weapon, not ours (which in fairness, is the underlying moral...