...but I overslept--aren't you sick of hearing me say that?--and I have no time for writing, so this is what you get.
Which is to say, not much.
The lengthy piece I intended to write was about Clint Eastwood's Gran Torino, and then not so much about the movie as the somewhat clueless critical reaction to it. Maybe later.
And of course, I should probably say something about Our Beloved President's last full day on the job. Mere hours remain. Can he use his limited time to screw the country over one last time? Come on, Decider! I know you can come through!
As far as Obama goes, man-o-Manischewitz, am I glad I don't live in the D.C. area anymore. Yeah, because it's going to be crowded for the inauguration and all, but mostly because you never know when Bono might be stopping by the White House, filling the very air with the noxious fumes of self-regarding douchebaggery.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Sunday, January 18, 2009
OH, TO BE BLESSED WITH SUCH A VOICE
The more I think about that whole John Mayer variety show thing--and yes, I spend an unhealthy amount of time thinking about it--I wonder how bad it could be.
Yeah, it'll suck--that's a given. But could this faux-hipster American possibly crank out something as bad as a German variety show? A German variety show guest starring Telly Savalas? A tuxedo-clad Telly Savalas inexplicably warbling a Don Williams shitkicker classic? Forget it; Mayer's a pisher, an amateur, a fool. But Telly...now this is how you do a crappy variety show.
Yeah, it'll suck--that's a given. But could this faux-hipster American possibly crank out something as bad as a German variety show? A German variety show guest starring Telly Savalas? A tuxedo-clad Telly Savalas inexplicably warbling a Don Williams shitkicker classic? Forget it; Mayer's a pisher, an amateur, a fool. But Telly...now this is how you do a crappy variety show.
Friday, January 16, 2009
I THINK I'LL TAKE A WALK AND LOOK FOR HER
My friend Julian tried putting it in semi-poetic terms. "Why do you worry so much about the women that left you? They're gone, but that's okay. How many more are out there? Hundreds, thousands, millions? More than you could meet, and so many of them looking for someone. Many of them just like you."
Which sounds good, but after awhile, it becomes difficult to inflict the misery on myself. Women, it seems, don't want to be with me. The relationship will be going along, just fine as far as I can tell, then, KAPOW, I'm sucker-punched by the old "Can't we be friends?" line. And that's if I'm lucky; sometimes they just stop returning my calls.
It's hard to keep from taking these things personally.
Clearly, there must be something about me that initially attracts, then repels. I don't have looks or a smooth line of patter, but I have a sense of humor and a sense of empathy, which is enough, but only for awhile. Once I'm comfortable enough to finally be myself around a woman, she decides she doesn't like who I really am. (Apparently, women aren't charmed by impersonations of Phil Silvers or Woody Allen. Maybe I should stop developing impressions of Great Jews Of Comedy, though my Lou Jacobi is coming along quite nicely.)
Katie and I broke up in May (or, more accurately, she broke up with me), and I decided okay, that's it. I vowed to spend my entire summer free from all attempts at pitching woo with the ladies. (Also, I've discovered most women don't particularly like being called "ladies" and are unamused by my hyper-ironic use of archaic terms like "pitching woo".) My plan was so successful, it stretched into autumn and, now, winter.
And I must say, I'm getting tired of it. I want to be in a successful relationship. Or even an unsuccessful one, just for old time's sake. Hell, I'd be grateful for a weekend fling at this point. Yet...the fact is, the last time I succumbed to the pleasures of the flesh (you don't want details), I honestly couldn't wait to get her back home so I could get back to my place to be annoyed by my cats. (True, the fact that I had no particular feelings for her beyond base physical desire may have had something to do with it...but again, you don't want details.) And maybe that's my ultimate fate: I'll be a crazy old guy who lives in a rotting house with dozens of cats.
Of course, the economy being what it is, it seems unlikely I could afford even a rotting house. Still, that scenario seems more probable than the notion of me ending up in a loving, mutually supportive relationship. But I still crave that, and the desire to go in search of love has reasserted itself. One could almost say that ice is slowly melting. I wouldn't say that, of course, because the only Beatle lines quoted around here are John's (this post's title, for instance), but metaphorically, it works. All hesitations and doubts have fallen away, and I'll state it boldly: I want to give love, receive love, and above all, share my Lou Jacobi impression.
Okay, that last part is optional, but you get the idea.
Which sounds good, but after awhile, it becomes difficult to inflict the misery on myself. Women, it seems, don't want to be with me. The relationship will be going along, just fine as far as I can tell, then, KAPOW, I'm sucker-punched by the old "Can't we be friends?" line. And that's if I'm lucky; sometimes they just stop returning my calls.
It's hard to keep from taking these things personally.
Clearly, there must be something about me that initially attracts, then repels. I don't have looks or a smooth line of patter, but I have a sense of humor and a sense of empathy, which is enough, but only for awhile. Once I'm comfortable enough to finally be myself around a woman, she decides she doesn't like who I really am. (Apparently, women aren't charmed by impersonations of Phil Silvers or Woody Allen. Maybe I should stop developing impressions of Great Jews Of Comedy, though my Lou Jacobi is coming along quite nicely.)
Katie and I broke up in May (or, more accurately, she broke up with me), and I decided okay, that's it. I vowed to spend my entire summer free from all attempts at pitching woo with the ladies. (Also, I've discovered most women don't particularly like being called "ladies" and are unamused by my hyper-ironic use of archaic terms like "pitching woo".) My plan was so successful, it stretched into autumn and, now, winter.
And I must say, I'm getting tired of it. I want to be in a successful relationship. Or even an unsuccessful one, just for old time's sake. Hell, I'd be grateful for a weekend fling at this point. Yet...the fact is, the last time I succumbed to the pleasures of the flesh (you don't want details), I honestly couldn't wait to get her back home so I could get back to my place to be annoyed by my cats. (True, the fact that I had no particular feelings for her beyond base physical desire may have had something to do with it...but again, you don't want details.) And maybe that's my ultimate fate: I'll be a crazy old guy who lives in a rotting house with dozens of cats.
Of course, the economy being what it is, it seems unlikely I could afford even a rotting house. Still, that scenario seems more probable than the notion of me ending up in a loving, mutually supportive relationship. But I still crave that, and the desire to go in search of love has reasserted itself. One could almost say that ice is slowly melting. I wouldn't say that, of course, because the only Beatle lines quoted around here are John's (this post's title, for instance), but metaphorically, it works. All hesitations and doubts have fallen away, and I'll state it boldly: I want to give love, receive love, and above all, share my Lou Jacobi impression.
Okay, that last part is optional, but you get the idea.
AT LAST, THE END
Seriously: applause?
I knew The Decider's farewell address to the suckers out there would be given before an invited audience of cronies and lickspittles, but the full implication of that had somehow eluded me. I knew there'd be a parade of half-truths and outright whoppers--although I admit, one last attempt to link Iraq to 9/11 came as a surprise--but the standing O he received as he came out, and the wave of adulation when he finished...AARRGGHH!!
It had all the credibility of the enthusiasm greeting Jay Leno when he walks out in front of his pre-hyped audience every night, only Bush can't even match Leno's level of smirking mediocrity. What should have been a somber farewell to the nation was instead turned into some bizarre Shock Treatment-esque commentary on itself, Our Beloved President providing himself with the tears and clapping he otherwise would not have earned.
Lies wrapped in dishonesty--the perfect end to the Bush era.
I knew The Decider's farewell address to the suckers out there would be given before an invited audience of cronies and lickspittles, but the full implication of that had somehow eluded me. I knew there'd be a parade of half-truths and outright whoppers--although I admit, one last attempt to link Iraq to 9/11 came as a surprise--but the standing O he received as he came out, and the wave of adulation when he finished...AARRGGHH!!
It had all the credibility of the enthusiasm greeting Jay Leno when he walks out in front of his pre-hyped audience every night, only Bush can't even match Leno's level of smirking mediocrity. What should have been a somber farewell to the nation was instead turned into some bizarre Shock Treatment-esque commentary on itself, Our Beloved President providing himself with the tears and clapping he otherwise would not have earned.
Lies wrapped in dishonesty--the perfect end to the Bush era.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
MERCIFULLY, I DON'T KNOW ANY APPROPRIATE LYRICS TO USE AS A TITLE
Though I was pretty much raised on network TV, I admit I barely watch it these days, so who am I to second guess the wisdom of the programming poobahs at CBS? Nonetheless, I don't feel like I'm going too far out on a limb when I say their notion of giving John Mayer a variety show is a profoundly bad idea.
For one thing, you can't do variety shows anymore. Yes, I'm a devotee of the form at its worst (and watch out, I could bust out a Lynda Carter clip at any minute), but that's just it: The variety show is essentially a relic of a bygone era, a corny joke-and-music machine produced without any sense of irony whatsoever. To even attempt such a thing now--as we learned from that Rosie O'Donnell stinkburger a month or two ago, and that Jessica Simpson/Nick Lachey horror from a few years ago--is to admit to propping up a dead horse, a pointless effort in giving us a form of entertainment we clearly no longer want.
But the even more mystifying aspect of this concept is its host. John Mayer? Really?
Does anybody, anywhere, care about John Mayer? Isn't he mostly famous for boning Jennifer Aniston, when he's not boning a parade of anonymous supermodels? Beyond that, what? He seems like an affable enough presence when he has a guest spot on someone else's show, but so what? Is bland likability all it takes to get you a TV deal these days?
But presumably, the focus of the show would be on Mayer's music, which is...Let me put it this way: I used to date a girl who had a copy of Heavier Things on her kitchen counter, where it always seemed to stay. When I asked her if she ever listened to it, she said no, she'd ordered it through a record club and only played it once and never bothered giving it another spin. She'd left it on the counter to remind her to drop it off at Goodwill, but somehow always forgot. That's John Mayer's music: So utterly dull you can't even remember to dispose of it.
But hey, the ladies seem to like him (well, not any ladies I know, but apparently CBS has demographic studies suggesting they do), and he's vaguely telegenic, and maybe if he has a show he can persuade Aniston to guest star (which would be ratings gold, because her post-Friends career has gone so well) and presumably he knows other famous people who could stop by and hang out and...what? Be famous?
The very existence of this show could be more than just a portent of the End Of Days, it could be The Big One itself: The day the world is finally bored to death.
For one thing, you can't do variety shows anymore. Yes, I'm a devotee of the form at its worst (and watch out, I could bust out a Lynda Carter clip at any minute), but that's just it: The variety show is essentially a relic of a bygone era, a corny joke-and-music machine produced without any sense of irony whatsoever. To even attempt such a thing now--as we learned from that Rosie O'Donnell stinkburger a month or two ago, and that Jessica Simpson/Nick Lachey horror from a few years ago--is to admit to propping up a dead horse, a pointless effort in giving us a form of entertainment we clearly no longer want.
But the even more mystifying aspect of this concept is its host. John Mayer? Really?
Does anybody, anywhere, care about John Mayer? Isn't he mostly famous for boning Jennifer Aniston, when he's not boning a parade of anonymous supermodels? Beyond that, what? He seems like an affable enough presence when he has a guest spot on someone else's show, but so what? Is bland likability all it takes to get you a TV deal these days?
But presumably, the focus of the show would be on Mayer's music, which is...Let me put it this way: I used to date a girl who had a copy of Heavier Things on her kitchen counter, where it always seemed to stay. When I asked her if she ever listened to it, she said no, she'd ordered it through a record club and only played it once and never bothered giving it another spin. She'd left it on the counter to remind her to drop it off at Goodwill, but somehow always forgot. That's John Mayer's music: So utterly dull you can't even remember to dispose of it.
But hey, the ladies seem to like him (well, not any ladies I know, but apparently CBS has demographic studies suggesting they do), and he's vaguely telegenic, and maybe if he has a show he can persuade Aniston to guest star (which would be ratings gold, because her post-Friends career has gone so well) and presumably he knows other famous people who could stop by and hang out and...what? Be famous?
The very existence of this show could be more than just a portent of the End Of Days, it could be The Big One itself: The day the world is finally bored to death.
THE SIMPLE PLEASURE OF CRAFTSMANSHIP
It's ungodly cold outside, and I have the day off, so I'm staying inside until the temperature at least approaches zero. Ideally, I'd be cracking some great books or getting started on that novel I've meant to write for twenty years or so. Instead, I'm watching cable.
Which is how I stumbled across the low-rent 1972 epic Conquest Of The Planet Of The Apes. This would be the fourth entry in the series, and it was the most economically filmed to that point. It's a heavy-handed racial allegory (the apes are slaves, you see, and no, it's best you not think too closely about the use of apes to stand in for African-Americans) with a particularly silly set-up (all cats and dogs got wiped out in some world-wide plague, and apes were domesticated to take their place), and, aside from Roddy McDowell and the late Ricardo Montalban, the cast is dominated by Familiar Faces (Don Murray, Hari Rhodes, Severn Darden) from seventies TV.
And yet...it's highly watchable. Not good, necessarily, but then again, with a movie like this, most standards of quality don't really apply. But it has endearingly simple characterizations, a fair amount of honest suspense, and, best of all, some striking wide-screen imagery, beautifully shot by the great cinematographer Bruce Surtees (who worked with directors as varied as Clint Eastwood, Sam Fuller and Bob Fosse), including some chilling shots of desolate locations--unmanned escalators, empty plazas--that wouldn't be out of place in an Antonioni film.
Paul Dehn's script efficiently sets up the story, and J. Lee Thompson's direction is unremarkable but competent, which is a fair description of the film as a whole. It's easy to laugh at some of the movie's sillier notions (its futuristic America is a facist state, so naturally all cops must be dressed in Nazi uniforms) and occasional cheapness (only McDowell got fully-articulated make-up, so most of the rebelling ape army appears to be wearing costume-shop masks), but given a chance, it becomes surprisingly involving.
It does this simply, by staging the action cleanly, and shooting it well. When a movie is well-made, it can become a compelling experience no matter how trite the material. Conquest Of The Planet Of The Apes doesn't try to reinvent the wheel, it never congratulates itself on its own cleverness, it has no sense of irony, yet at the same time it never feels like its just going through the motions, delivering the bare minimum level of entertainment needed to keep an audience from walking out. Best of all, it's over in less than ninety minutes. It never overstays its welcome, fails to pile climax upon climax upon bloated, endless climax.
It's a solid little little B-picture that knows its place, but also knows how to accomplish its limited goals. In 1972, it was considered a throwaway, mostly fodder for matinee audiences. Thirty-seven years later, it looks like a model of craftsmanship, something I devoutly wish more contemporary filmmakers understood.
Which is how I stumbled across the low-rent 1972 epic Conquest Of The Planet Of The Apes. This would be the fourth entry in the series, and it was the most economically filmed to that point. It's a heavy-handed racial allegory (the apes are slaves, you see, and no, it's best you not think too closely about the use of apes to stand in for African-Americans) with a particularly silly set-up (all cats and dogs got wiped out in some world-wide plague, and apes were domesticated to take their place), and, aside from Roddy McDowell and the late Ricardo Montalban, the cast is dominated by Familiar Faces (Don Murray, Hari Rhodes, Severn Darden) from seventies TV.
And yet...it's highly watchable. Not good, necessarily, but then again, with a movie like this, most standards of quality don't really apply. But it has endearingly simple characterizations, a fair amount of honest suspense, and, best of all, some striking wide-screen imagery, beautifully shot by the great cinematographer Bruce Surtees (who worked with directors as varied as Clint Eastwood, Sam Fuller and Bob Fosse), including some chilling shots of desolate locations--unmanned escalators, empty plazas--that wouldn't be out of place in an Antonioni film.
Paul Dehn's script efficiently sets up the story, and J. Lee Thompson's direction is unremarkable but competent, which is a fair description of the film as a whole. It's easy to laugh at some of the movie's sillier notions (its futuristic America is a facist state, so naturally all cops must be dressed in Nazi uniforms) and occasional cheapness (only McDowell got fully-articulated make-up, so most of the rebelling ape army appears to be wearing costume-shop masks), but given a chance, it becomes surprisingly involving.
It does this simply, by staging the action cleanly, and shooting it well. When a movie is well-made, it can become a compelling experience no matter how trite the material. Conquest Of The Planet Of The Apes doesn't try to reinvent the wheel, it never congratulates itself on its own cleverness, it has no sense of irony, yet at the same time it never feels like its just going through the motions, delivering the bare minimum level of entertainment needed to keep an audience from walking out. Best of all, it's over in less than ninety minutes. It never overstays its welcome, fails to pile climax upon climax upon bloated, endless climax.
It's a solid little little B-picture that knows its place, but also knows how to accomplish its limited goals. In 1972, it was considered a throwaway, mostly fodder for matinee audiences. Thirty-seven years later, it looks like a model of craftsmanship, something I devoutly wish more contemporary filmmakers understood.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
LOVE IS OLD, LOVE IS NEW
What can I tell you? Some days you just need a Fab Four fix. Here's one of my favorites, though Lennon himself reportedly hated it. Even geniuses can be wrong sometimes.
Here's the original vocal track for one of Lennon's most ambitious numbers. Yeah, the lyrics are a bit soup-headed, but the melody is gorgeous, the arrangement ambitious and, Lord, those harmonies--Have I mentioned how great these guys were?
And, just to keep this from being totally John-centric, one of Paul's loveliest ballads. Is it just me, or was McCartney at his best when most melancholy?
And--why not?--let's wrap it up with Chet Atkins and Jerry Reed performing one of George's best.
Here's the original vocal track for one of Lennon's most ambitious numbers. Yeah, the lyrics are a bit soup-headed, but the melody is gorgeous, the arrangement ambitious and, Lord, those harmonies--Have I mentioned how great these guys were?
And, just to keep this from being totally John-centric, one of Paul's loveliest ballads. Is it just me, or was McCartney at his best when most melancholy?
And--why not?--let's wrap it up with Chet Atkins and Jerry Reed performing one of George's best.
Monday, January 12, 2009
I MAY BE SLIGHTLY LESS GEEKY THAN PREVIOUSLY THOUGHT
Three (hopefully) cute anecdotes, and a concern.
1) Tabbatha turns thirty this week. I mention this only because when we first met, still in the exchange-of-personal-information mode, and she told me she was born in 1979, literally the first thought that popped into my head was, "Gee, that means she was only a year old when The Empire Strikes Back opened."
In a rare instance of self-restraint, I did not say that out loud.
2) Hanging out with Paul this weekend, he mentioned his proficiency playing Lego Star Wars. "I just bought my own thermal detonator!" he said proudly.
"Thermal detonator?" I asked. "What's that, like a bomb?"
"Thermal detonator! You know, like Leia uses in Return Of The Jedi when she's trying to rescue Han."
"Oh, right. I forgot what it was called."
"Well, it's a thermal detonator."
"Ah," I said, then continued. "You know, at this point, I think you know more about Star Wars than I do. The apprentice has become the master."
Paul paused for a moment, then cried in mock indignation, "Are you saying I'm a geek?"
3) After finishing lunch at a fake Mexican restaurant, I asked Paul to please not drag his new sweatshirt on the snow-encrusted floor as he started to put it on. "This isn't a sweatshirt," he said, "it's a jacket."
"No, it's a sweatshirt. It has a hood, it's made of some sort of cottony-wooly-fleecey material--definitely a sweatshirt."
Paul turned to a kid in the booth behind us, a total stranger. "Is this a jacket or a sweatshirt?"
"Definitely a jacket," the kid said.
Paul laughed, pointing at me. "He says it's a sweatshirt. Also, he doesn't like the Ewoks."
The kid looked at me. "Who were the Ewoks?"
"The little furry guys in Return Of The Jedi."
"Oh, yeah. No, the Ewoks rock. They beat the stormtroopers. They were the heroes."
"He also hates Jar-Jar," Paul explained.
"Jar-Jar was kind of stupid."
"But he was funny," Paul said.
"Yeah, he was funny," the kid agreed. "Jar-Jar's okay."
"No," I said firmly. "I'm sorry, but no. Everyone hates Jar-Jar. It's a fact."
"We don't hate him."
It kind of continued that way for awhile, until, as we walked out the door, the kid jumped up and pointed an accusing finger at me. "The Force definitely isn't with you!"
"Well, it's not with anyone who likes Jar-Jar, either," I said, realizing I'd lost an argument to two pre-adolescents. I gotta work on my debating skills.
4) Those little tales are all well and good, but here's my concern: Do they have any meaning if you're not a regular reader of this site?
In other words, I'd like to expand my readership--theoretically, I mean; it's not like it's actually happening--and if a new visitor came here and read these pieces cold, would he or she be asking, "Who the hell is this Tabbatha person? Who is Paul? Why should I care?" True, said reader could plow through my back pages in hopes of finding an answer, but why should they have to? Is this site too insular? Is my writing clear enough for a newbie to understand? Are my concerns misplaced? Are my anxieties unfounded? Should I vow to never again use the word "newbie"?
For that last question, at least, I already know the answer.
1) Tabbatha turns thirty this week. I mention this only because when we first met, still in the exchange-of-personal-information mode, and she told me she was born in 1979, literally the first thought that popped into my head was, "Gee, that means she was only a year old when The Empire Strikes Back opened."
In a rare instance of self-restraint, I did not say that out loud.
2) Hanging out with Paul this weekend, he mentioned his proficiency playing Lego Star Wars. "I just bought my own thermal detonator!" he said proudly.
"Thermal detonator?" I asked. "What's that, like a bomb?"
"Thermal detonator! You know, like Leia uses in Return Of The Jedi when she's trying to rescue Han."
"Oh, right. I forgot what it was called."
"Well, it's a thermal detonator."
"Ah," I said, then continued. "You know, at this point, I think you know more about Star Wars than I do. The apprentice has become the master."
Paul paused for a moment, then cried in mock indignation, "Are you saying I'm a geek?"
3) After finishing lunch at a fake Mexican restaurant, I asked Paul to please not drag his new sweatshirt on the snow-encrusted floor as he started to put it on. "This isn't a sweatshirt," he said, "it's a jacket."
"No, it's a sweatshirt. It has a hood, it's made of some sort of cottony-wooly-fleecey material--definitely a sweatshirt."
Paul turned to a kid in the booth behind us, a total stranger. "Is this a jacket or a sweatshirt?"
"Definitely a jacket," the kid said.
Paul laughed, pointing at me. "He says it's a sweatshirt. Also, he doesn't like the Ewoks."
The kid looked at me. "Who were the Ewoks?"
"The little furry guys in Return Of The Jedi."
"Oh, yeah. No, the Ewoks rock. They beat the stormtroopers. They were the heroes."
"He also hates Jar-Jar," Paul explained.
"Jar-Jar was kind of stupid."
"But he was funny," Paul said.
"Yeah, he was funny," the kid agreed. "Jar-Jar's okay."
"No," I said firmly. "I'm sorry, but no. Everyone hates Jar-Jar. It's a fact."
"We don't hate him."
It kind of continued that way for awhile, until, as we walked out the door, the kid jumped up and pointed an accusing finger at me. "The Force definitely isn't with you!"
"Well, it's not with anyone who likes Jar-Jar, either," I said, realizing I'd lost an argument to two pre-adolescents. I gotta work on my debating skills.
4) Those little tales are all well and good, but here's my concern: Do they have any meaning if you're not a regular reader of this site?
In other words, I'd like to expand my readership--theoretically, I mean; it's not like it's actually happening--and if a new visitor came here and read these pieces cold, would he or she be asking, "Who the hell is this Tabbatha person? Who is Paul? Why should I care?" True, said reader could plow through my back pages in hopes of finding an answer, but why should they have to? Is this site too insular? Is my writing clear enough for a newbie to understand? Are my concerns misplaced? Are my anxieties unfounded? Should I vow to never again use the word "newbie"?
For that last question, at least, I already know the answer.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
THE GOP SHO'NUFF CARES
Exciting news: The Republicans have caught Obama fever!
Well, okay, not really. But in a desperate bid to get with the change in the political wind, the GOP has actually nominated two--two!--black guys to be the party's new national chairman.
Huh.
After Strom Thurmond, after the opposition to The Voting Rights Act, after Nixon's Southern Strategy, after Jesse Helms, after Willie Horton, after redrawing congressional districts to favor white voters, after the blatant suppression of black votes in Florida in 2000, after Katrina, after George Allen's macaca comment, after Sarah Palin's scorched earth attacks against Obama, after all that and so much more--this may be the single most racist thing the GOP has ever pulled.
They're basically using the two black nominees, Michael Steele and Kenneth Blackwell, as puppets, as the guys they can point to and say, "But some of our best friends are..." It's utterly shameless; is there a person within the party who honestly thinks this is going to fool anyone?
To show you how clueless the GOP really is, two of the other candidates for the chairmanship include Katon Dawson, who quit an all-white country club right before entering the race, and Chip Saltsman, much in the news lately for distributing a CD among his cronies including the parody song Barack The Magic Negro.
(About that last part: Saltsman and his many defenders within the party have tried to downplay the offensiveness of the song by saying, hey, he didn't write it himself, he didn't create it, it wasn't his doing. No, he wasn't responsible for the racist ditty, he merely shared it. On the moral relativism scale, that's kind of like saying, "Hey I don't create kiddie porn, I merely masturbate to images of pre-teen boys having sex with each other. What's the big deal?")
The sky above, mud below approval ratings of Obama and Bush suggest the smartest thing the Republicans could do right now is just shut the hell up and try to avoid bringing race up at all. Don't elect a black guy, which will look like pandering. Don't elect Dawson or Saltsman, because they're openly racist. Just deal with the fact that you lost big time, and the racial makeup of this nation no longer favors wealthy, bigoted southerners. Your time has finally passed, and if you don't rethink yourself from the ground up, you will always be an embarrassment.
And we certainly wouldn't want to make fun of Republicans, would we?
Well, okay, not really. But in a desperate bid to get with the change in the political wind, the GOP has actually nominated two--two!--black guys to be the party's new national chairman.
Huh.
After Strom Thurmond, after the opposition to The Voting Rights Act, after Nixon's Southern Strategy, after Jesse Helms, after Willie Horton, after redrawing congressional districts to favor white voters, after the blatant suppression of black votes in Florida in 2000, after Katrina, after George Allen's macaca comment, after Sarah Palin's scorched earth attacks against Obama, after all that and so much more--this may be the single most racist thing the GOP has ever pulled.
They're basically using the two black nominees, Michael Steele and Kenneth Blackwell, as puppets, as the guys they can point to and say, "But some of our best friends are..." It's utterly shameless; is there a person within the party who honestly thinks this is going to fool anyone?
To show you how clueless the GOP really is, two of the other candidates for the chairmanship include Katon Dawson, who quit an all-white country club right before entering the race, and Chip Saltsman, much in the news lately for distributing a CD among his cronies including the parody song Barack The Magic Negro.
(About that last part: Saltsman and his many defenders within the party have tried to downplay the offensiveness of the song by saying, hey, he didn't write it himself, he didn't create it, it wasn't his doing. No, he wasn't responsible for the racist ditty, he merely shared it. On the moral relativism scale, that's kind of like saying, "Hey I don't create kiddie porn, I merely masturbate to images of pre-teen boys having sex with each other. What's the big deal?")
The sky above, mud below approval ratings of Obama and Bush suggest the smartest thing the Republicans could do right now is just shut the hell up and try to avoid bringing race up at all. Don't elect a black guy, which will look like pandering. Don't elect Dawson or Saltsman, because they're openly racist. Just deal with the fact that you lost big time, and the racial makeup of this nation no longer favors wealthy, bigoted southerners. Your time has finally passed, and if you don't rethink yourself from the ground up, you will always be an embarrassment.
And we certainly wouldn't want to make fun of Republicans, would we?
Saturday, January 10, 2009
A CHILD'S GARDEN OF FETISHES
Uh, doesn't this seem a little, uh, well...Oh, just watch:
Yes, little boy, enjoy allowing your action figure to remain limp while your female companions play bondage games with their large-breasted fantasy toys. That's fine; whatever problems you'll encounter in your future--and there will be many--military service most assuredly won't be among them.
Seriously, this thing got on the air? Nobody thought it was kind of, you know, creepy? Unwholesome? Just plain wrong? I'd say it was a more innocent time, but this comes from the seventies--the era of porno chic, key parties and, apparently, fetish dolls for children.
On the other hand, maybe it really was simply produced and accepted as some sort of empowerment object, giving little girls heroic action figures to call their own. Maybe it really is innocent. After all, I was a kid when this commercial aired originally, and I turned out okay. no issues in my life, no sir. It's not like I go around obsessively looking for Lynda Carter clips or anything.
Heh.
Yes, little boy, enjoy allowing your action figure to remain limp while your female companions play bondage games with their large-breasted fantasy toys. That's fine; whatever problems you'll encounter in your future--and there will be many--military service most assuredly won't be among them.
Seriously, this thing got on the air? Nobody thought it was kind of, you know, creepy? Unwholesome? Just plain wrong? I'd say it was a more innocent time, but this comes from the seventies--the era of porno chic, key parties and, apparently, fetish dolls for children.
On the other hand, maybe it really was simply produced and accepted as some sort of empowerment object, giving little girls heroic action figures to call their own. Maybe it really is innocent. After all, I was a kid when this commercial aired originally, and I turned out okay. no issues in my life, no sir. It's not like I go around obsessively looking for Lynda Carter clips or anything.
Heh.
Friday, January 09, 2009
AWAKE AT MIDNIGHT
Not a gradual awakening...I'm asleep, then I'm not. My apartment is very quiet, no radio playing, no hum of a radiator or fan. Outside, sirens blare, cops or an ambulance.
I think about going to work in a few hours, and how much I don't want to. Rumors are flying thick and fast about layoffs, forced retirement, reduced hours. Management is doing nothing to quell this. In fact, one of our supervisors repeatedly tells us things are only going to get worse. This does not create a happy workplace.
On every level but administrative, all employees were stiffed on any kind of Christmas bonus, and my department couldn't even be bothered to throw together even the most desultory holiday party. Anger and disillusionment is in the air, and it carries over to how we treat each other. Just showing up takes a major effort, because every day feels like eight hours of soul drainage.
Ordinarily, that would mean time to look for another job. But the economy being what it is, available jobs may not even pay the pauper's wages I earn here. So for now, there is nothing to do but endure.
The elevator roars and rattles to life, then clunks to a stop on my floor. The doors clang open and shut. I hear voices, male and female. At this time of night, that likely means someone's getting laid.
Good for them, I guess. That hasn't happened in my world for awhile, and the last few times it did, it was divorced from any real feeling. I haven't had any actual girlfriend since Katie, and that ended over half a year ago. I haven't actually been in love since Tabbatha.
Funny. When she called it quits with me, Tabbatha told me if I searched my feelings, if I was really honest with myself, I'd realize I wasn't truly in love with her. She prides herself in being right about most things. She was very, very wrong about that.
Wump, wump, wump--the sound of a cat bouncing across the floor. Most likely Monika, the more exuberant of the two. Neither of them are on the bed.
I absent-mindedly finger my wrists, a bad habit I've tried to break. I no longer have the urge to slice them, but it's somehow comforting to feel the scars, to recall a time when I cared enough about life to want to end it.
I was...eighteen? Nearly nineteen? My first time was a half-hearted effort, mostly a play for attention, and it landed me in therapy. Nothing new for me. My history with therapy is that I'm usually pronounced well, then sent on my way as if I've been magically cured. But there is no cure for the disordered mind, there's just...this. Life, and everything it throws my way. Sometimes I deal, sometimes I don't. Mostly I do, I guess. After all, I'm still here.
Delmar hops on the bed, the mattress trembling with his every heavy step. I'm laying on my side, and he bumps his forehead into my chest, curling up, purring his odd, squeaking purr. Soon Monika stretches out along my back, and she purrs as well. Together their sounds provide a soothing white noise, and sleep at last approaches.
I think about going to work in a few hours, and how much I don't want to. Rumors are flying thick and fast about layoffs, forced retirement, reduced hours. Management is doing nothing to quell this. In fact, one of our supervisors repeatedly tells us things are only going to get worse. This does not create a happy workplace.
On every level but administrative, all employees were stiffed on any kind of Christmas bonus, and my department couldn't even be bothered to throw together even the most desultory holiday party. Anger and disillusionment is in the air, and it carries over to how we treat each other. Just showing up takes a major effort, because every day feels like eight hours of soul drainage.
Ordinarily, that would mean time to look for another job. But the economy being what it is, available jobs may not even pay the pauper's wages I earn here. So for now, there is nothing to do but endure.
The elevator roars and rattles to life, then clunks to a stop on my floor. The doors clang open and shut. I hear voices, male and female. At this time of night, that likely means someone's getting laid.
Good for them, I guess. That hasn't happened in my world for awhile, and the last few times it did, it was divorced from any real feeling. I haven't had any actual girlfriend since Katie, and that ended over half a year ago. I haven't actually been in love since Tabbatha.
Funny. When she called it quits with me, Tabbatha told me if I searched my feelings, if I was really honest with myself, I'd realize I wasn't truly in love with her. She prides herself in being right about most things. She was very, very wrong about that.
Wump, wump, wump--the sound of a cat bouncing across the floor. Most likely Monika, the more exuberant of the two. Neither of them are on the bed.
I absent-mindedly finger my wrists, a bad habit I've tried to break. I no longer have the urge to slice them, but it's somehow comforting to feel the scars, to recall a time when I cared enough about life to want to end it.
I was...eighteen? Nearly nineteen? My first time was a half-hearted effort, mostly a play for attention, and it landed me in therapy. Nothing new for me. My history with therapy is that I'm usually pronounced well, then sent on my way as if I've been magically cured. But there is no cure for the disordered mind, there's just...this. Life, and everything it throws my way. Sometimes I deal, sometimes I don't. Mostly I do, I guess. After all, I'm still here.
Delmar hops on the bed, the mattress trembling with his every heavy step. I'm laying on my side, and he bumps his forehead into my chest, curling up, purring his odd, squeaking purr. Soon Monika stretches out along my back, and she purrs as well. Together their sounds provide a soothing white noise, and sleep at last approaches.
Thursday, January 08, 2009
IT'S OKAY, HATERS, THIS IS ONLY TANGENTIALLY BOND-RELATED
It seems half of the sites on the Web this week are bracketed by ads for the new movie Defiance. That would be the new Daniel Craig vehicle in which he stars as a Nazi-fighting Jew.
This isn't the first time Craig has appeared as an ass-kicking representative of The Chosen People, and though he's not actually a member of the tribe, it would be so cool if he was. A Jewish Bond? Imagine the possibilities: From Russia With Guilt, say, or You Should Be So Lucky As To Live Twice or A Quantum Of Matzoh. If nothing else, it would be a nice memorial to Ian Fleming, a not-so-veiled anti-Semite.
Leaving out the whole Judaic angle, just the notion of a movie in which James Bond fights Nazis is enough to take me to Fanboy Heaven. The ads even show exploding Panzers, which--wow! My inner eight-year-old is practically wetting his pants in anticipation.
But then there's this unfortunate tagline: From The Director Of The Last Samurai. Oh, right! Thanks for the reminder! This is an Edward Zwick film, and as his filmography (The Seige, Glory, and the unintentionally hilarious Legends Of The Fall) makes clear, there's no potentially interesting subject matter he can't reduce to boring middelbrow Oscar bait.
I guess what I'm saying is, if Zwick can make a boring movie featuring a Jewish James Bond fighting Nazis, his Directors Guild card should be torn up and he should never work again.
This isn't the first time Craig has appeared as an ass-kicking representative of The Chosen People, and though he's not actually a member of the tribe, it would be so cool if he was. A Jewish Bond? Imagine the possibilities: From Russia With Guilt, say, or You Should Be So Lucky As To Live Twice or A Quantum Of Matzoh. If nothing else, it would be a nice memorial to Ian Fleming, a not-so-veiled anti-Semite.
Leaving out the whole Judaic angle, just the notion of a movie in which James Bond fights Nazis is enough to take me to Fanboy Heaven. The ads even show exploding Panzers, which--wow! My inner eight-year-old is practically wetting his pants in anticipation.
But then there's this unfortunate tagline: From The Director Of The Last Samurai. Oh, right! Thanks for the reminder! This is an Edward Zwick film, and as his filmography (The Seige, Glory, and the unintentionally hilarious Legends Of The Fall) makes clear, there's no potentially interesting subject matter he can't reduce to boring middelbrow Oscar bait.
I guess what I'm saying is, if Zwick can make a boring movie featuring a Jewish James Bond fighting Nazis, his Directors Guild card should be torn up and he should never work again.
SHOULDN'T I HAVE WRITTEN THIS A MONTH OR TWO AGO?
Sure, the folks at Eon were a bit callous in their firing of Pierce Brosnan. He'd served honorably in his time as Bond, and he certainly would have been fine as the lead in Casino Royale, which was shaping up to be one of the most serious-minded entries in the series, and the first one in a long, long time actually adapted from one of Ian Fleming's novels.
But producers Michael Wilson and Barbara Broccoli had something else in mind. They wanted to completely restart the whole franchise, and Brosnan, for better or worse, came with the baggage of his four films. He simply wouldn't be able to do what they wanted. (I would suggest they should have gotten rid of Judi Dench's M at the same time--she also seems too closely associated with the Brosnan years.)
So he was terminated, and despite the initial howls of protest over his casting, the seemingly left-field choice of Daniel Craig as Bond proved a stroke of genius. Not that he did it alone: Casino Royale is easily one of the best in the series, smartly written, sharply directed, perfectly cast down to the smallest role.
And yet...it didn't quite feel like a Bond movie. In some ways, this is because it was simply too good: No puns, no suggestively-named maidens, no nehru-jacketed supervillains. But also no Moneypenny, no Q Branch, none of the familiar tropes and supporting characters long-time fans had come to expect.
Which was fine, for one movie. But when none of those elements appeared in the follow-up, Quantum Of Solace, some fans got angry. This isn't Bond, they said. This plays like a knock-off of a Jason Bourne movie. Where's Q, dammit?
While I share some of those concerns--it was a mistake to hire the editing team from the Bourne series, because the action scenes are so herky-jerky as to be incoherent--I find many of them off-base. There is much here that feels like classic Bond, from the globe-hopping locations and odd settings to the disposable female dalliance and organization of supercriminals.
(That last point is potentially the most fascinating. The film works overtime to set up the Quantum consortium as the SPECTRE of the new millenium, and it's strongly suggested that Bond's next adventure will involve the search for a new Blofeld-style archcriminal. More than likely, the next adventure will be more along the lines of a classic Bond, with this film serving largely as a bridge between the grittier, more emotional Casino Royale and another larger-than-life epic. At least, I hope so.)
Mostly, what Quantum Of Solace has going for it is Daniel Craig. In only two films, he's made any comparisons to past actors irrelevant. He simply is Bond at this point--brooding and weary yet elegant and unflappable, learning to appreciate the good life (his hotel upgrade here is a classic moment), and convincing us he's a gentleman agent who is also a ruthless killing machine. He's worth following wherever he goes--he's so good, he might even have been able to make Live And Let Die worth watching.
But producers Michael Wilson and Barbara Broccoli had something else in mind. They wanted to completely restart the whole franchise, and Brosnan, for better or worse, came with the baggage of his four films. He simply wouldn't be able to do what they wanted. (I would suggest they should have gotten rid of Judi Dench's M at the same time--she also seems too closely associated with the Brosnan years.)
So he was terminated, and despite the initial howls of protest over his casting, the seemingly left-field choice of Daniel Craig as Bond proved a stroke of genius. Not that he did it alone: Casino Royale is easily one of the best in the series, smartly written, sharply directed, perfectly cast down to the smallest role.
And yet...it didn't quite feel like a Bond movie. In some ways, this is because it was simply too good: No puns, no suggestively-named maidens, no nehru-jacketed supervillains. But also no Moneypenny, no Q Branch, none of the familiar tropes and supporting characters long-time fans had come to expect.
Which was fine, for one movie. But when none of those elements appeared in the follow-up, Quantum Of Solace, some fans got angry. This isn't Bond, they said. This plays like a knock-off of a Jason Bourne movie. Where's Q, dammit?
While I share some of those concerns--it was a mistake to hire the editing team from the Bourne series, because the action scenes are so herky-jerky as to be incoherent--I find many of them off-base. There is much here that feels like classic Bond, from the globe-hopping locations and odd settings to the disposable female dalliance and organization of supercriminals.
(That last point is potentially the most fascinating. The film works overtime to set up the Quantum consortium as the SPECTRE of the new millenium, and it's strongly suggested that Bond's next adventure will involve the search for a new Blofeld-style archcriminal. More than likely, the next adventure will be more along the lines of a classic Bond, with this film serving largely as a bridge between the grittier, more emotional Casino Royale and another larger-than-life epic. At least, I hope so.)
Mostly, what Quantum Of Solace has going for it is Daniel Craig. In only two films, he's made any comparisons to past actors irrelevant. He simply is Bond at this point--brooding and weary yet elegant and unflappable, learning to appreciate the good life (his hotel upgrade here is a classic moment), and convincing us he's a gentleman agent who is also a ruthless killing machine. He's worth following wherever he goes--he's so good, he might even have been able to make Live And Let Die worth watching.
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
YOU LIVED TO DIE ANOTHER DAY
Nobody gives Timothy Dalton credit for saving the Bond franchise, but in essence he did just that with 1987's The Living Daylights. He brought the series back down to earth, and for the first time in a long time, the character of James Bond was recognizable as Ian Fleming's creation.
And it really was Dalton's doing. Writer Richard Maibaum and director John Glen had prepped the film as just another Roger Moore outing, but when Dalton unexpectedly became the new Bond, the whole thing was retooled, partly simply to fit Dalton, obviously a younger, tougher presence, but largely at Dalton's insistence--he'd read Fleming's books, and that was the character he hoped to play.
The Living Daylights may not be top-tier Bond--the plot is absurdly complicated, the humor often feels forced, the whole thing runs at least twenty minutes too long--but it represents the first time in damn near two decades that it seemed like the curators of the franchise actually expected audiences to care about what they were seeing, when the storytelling and characterizations were more than rote--when, in other words, the film attempted to function as an organic whole, not a random assemblage of proven elements.
Yes, the Moore years had been popular. And most of his movies were fun, when viewed on the proper level. (Hey, I even like Moonraker. Kind of.) But they continued to be released to diminishing returns--audiences still showed up, but they likely went home feeling empty. In the era of Star Wars and the Indiana Jones pictures, spectacle for its own sake wasn't enough anymore.
The common perception is, Dalton's two Bond outings were failures, and he nearly killed the series. In fact, The Living Daylights was a success on a par with Moore's later outings--the glory days of the series were simply behind it. And while License To Kill did underperform financially, it was due more to a crowded marketplace and poor advertising--though not officially based on a Fleming novel, it contained more of a feel for his work than any movie since On Her Majesty's Secret Service. And it likely gave the producers some sort of baseline when they rebooted the franchise--keep the serious tone of the Dalton pictures while re-adding the elegance of the Connery years.
And it worked, mostly. The Pierce Brosnan era was certainly the most financially successful the series had been in ages (though not as successful as often claimed--I'll try getting to that in a future post), but creatively, they sure were a mixed bag. Goldeneye was about as good as it could possibly have been, and I still say time will confirm my view that The World Is Not Enough is one of the best of all, but Brosnan's run was marked by a thin patina of flop sweat, as if the producers weren't quite sure of themselves, tossing in elements at will, consciously tooling the character and his stories to what they thought audiences wanted, not to what the filmmakers wanted.
Sadly for Brosnan, his tenure ended in a blaze of bad faith, as Die Another Day tries so desperately to be all things to all audiences, it fails on even the simplest level: it's downright unwatchable, from the cartoonish CGI to the already-dated speedramping and AVID-crazed editing to the unwanted cameo from past-her-prime icon Madonna. It's easy enough to see what it tried to do: Combine a Fleming-styled grittiness with the broad spectacle of the Moore era. But it has no idea how to do either, and fails miserably at both.
It did okay at the box office, but so had recent Bond knock-offs like xXx. And just because it made money doesn't mean anyone liked it. If felt like just another disposable entertainment, there and gone. After being the Bond that recaptured the public's interest, would Pierce Brosnan kill the series?
No. But first, Brosnan's Bond would have to die.
And it really was Dalton's doing. Writer Richard Maibaum and director John Glen had prepped the film as just another Roger Moore outing, but when Dalton unexpectedly became the new Bond, the whole thing was retooled, partly simply to fit Dalton, obviously a younger, tougher presence, but largely at Dalton's insistence--he'd read Fleming's books, and that was the character he hoped to play.
The Living Daylights may not be top-tier Bond--the plot is absurdly complicated, the humor often feels forced, the whole thing runs at least twenty minutes too long--but it represents the first time in damn near two decades that it seemed like the curators of the franchise actually expected audiences to care about what they were seeing, when the storytelling and characterizations were more than rote--when, in other words, the film attempted to function as an organic whole, not a random assemblage of proven elements.
Yes, the Moore years had been popular. And most of his movies were fun, when viewed on the proper level. (Hey, I even like Moonraker. Kind of.) But they continued to be released to diminishing returns--audiences still showed up, but they likely went home feeling empty. In the era of Star Wars and the Indiana Jones pictures, spectacle for its own sake wasn't enough anymore.
The common perception is, Dalton's two Bond outings were failures, and he nearly killed the series. In fact, The Living Daylights was a success on a par with Moore's later outings--the glory days of the series were simply behind it. And while License To Kill did underperform financially, it was due more to a crowded marketplace and poor advertising--though not officially based on a Fleming novel, it contained more of a feel for his work than any movie since On Her Majesty's Secret Service. And it likely gave the producers some sort of baseline when they rebooted the franchise--keep the serious tone of the Dalton pictures while re-adding the elegance of the Connery years.
And it worked, mostly. The Pierce Brosnan era was certainly the most financially successful the series had been in ages (though not as successful as often claimed--I'll try getting to that in a future post), but creatively, they sure were a mixed bag. Goldeneye was about as good as it could possibly have been, and I still say time will confirm my view that The World Is Not Enough is one of the best of all, but Brosnan's run was marked by a thin patina of flop sweat, as if the producers weren't quite sure of themselves, tossing in elements at will, consciously tooling the character and his stories to what they thought audiences wanted, not to what the filmmakers wanted.
Sadly for Brosnan, his tenure ended in a blaze of bad faith, as Die Another Day tries so desperately to be all things to all audiences, it fails on even the simplest level: it's downright unwatchable, from the cartoonish CGI to the already-dated speedramping and AVID-crazed editing to the unwanted cameo from past-her-prime icon Madonna. It's easy enough to see what it tried to do: Combine a Fleming-styled grittiness with the broad spectacle of the Moore era. But it has no idea how to do either, and fails miserably at both.
It did okay at the box office, but so had recent Bond knock-offs like xXx. And just because it made money doesn't mean anyone liked it. If felt like just another disposable entertainment, there and gone. After being the Bond that recaptured the public's interest, would Pierce Brosnan kill the series?
No. But first, Brosnan's Bond would have to die.
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
YOU DON'T THINK IT GAVE ME ANY PLEASURE, DO YOU?
As I promised (or threatened, depending on your perspective) yesterday, this is shaping up to be James Bond Week around here, if for no other reason than I've derived so much pleasure from recent viewings of Thunderball.
This is the movie in which the Bond series officially entered its rock star phase. Though the first two films in the series had been popular enough to continue making more, the public reaction to the third, Goldfinger, was something akin to the reaction to Star Wars in its initial release: It was not only a massive box office success but a huge cultural happening, the source of hundreds of spoofs and knock-offs, and referenced repeatedly in the media of the day.
But despite the reaction after the fact, Goldfinger the movie is actually relatively modest, almost austere. Thunderball would be the first film made in actual reaction to the Bond craze, the first time the producers deliberately set out on a path of bigger and better. And it would set a pattern that would effect the Bond series, mostly negatively, for the next twenty years.
First let me say, I love this movie. It has one of the best teasers in the series, Maurice Binder's titles and John Barry's score rank among their best, the physical settings are stunning and it features two of the hottest Bond babes, Claudine Auger and Luciana Paluzzi. (Both redheads, incidentally.) The action sequences are beautifully staged, the underwater photography is gorgeous, the dialogue is witty--it's a lot of fun to watch.
But.
Though money was clearly spent freely in its production, Thunderball was obviously made rather quickly, to cash in on its pop cultural moment. Things happen to impress us, not because they make any sense: Bond eludes some minor henchmen by donning a jetpack that materializes out of nowhere, MI6 stages a top secret meeting in a hallway with huge open windows so anyone could peek inside. (Though it makes no sense, that set is one of Ken Adam's most memorable creations; it was with this film that his production design officially became the key creative element in the series.)
More distressingly, Bond himself shifts from insouciance to outright boorishness. Though his repeated humiliations of supervillain Largo are fun to watch (particularly his skeet-shooting oneupmanship--that scene makes me laugh out loud every time), they make Bond seem like a smug prick, and fatally weaken Largo's status as a threat. Since it's impossible to seriously believe our hero is in any serious danger at any time, there can be no real suspense.
Some fans feel Thunderball marked the point where Sean Connery started phoning it in, but that's not really true. He does everything that is asked of him quite well, but he has no character to play. If it seems at times as though he's just going through the motions, well, so is Bond himself. He seems to exist primarily to nail beautiful women, punch bad guys and make atrocious puns. He's just a prop, moving through elegant settings, accompanied by incredibly cool music, but there's nothing to him, no life, no depth, nothing.
And that, unfortunately, is how he would continue to be played. Though I dearly love the next entry in the series, You Only Live Twice (it has Barry's most drop-dead gorgeous theme song, among other things), its story makes even less sense than Thunderball's, and the whole thing is even more blatantly a series of Ken Adam's Greatest Hits. After that, a brief reprieve--On Her Majesty's Secret Service, not only my favorite Bond picture but one of my favorite movies, period. For one brief, shining moment, the Bond series returned to solid storytelling, adding a new factor: emotional resonance.
But then it was back to light-hearted foolishness with Diamonds Are Forever, and once Roger Moore took over as Bond, jokiness became the order of the day. True, Moore had his moments, and For Your Eyes Only is mostly excellent (though its teaser is one of the worst things in the Bond canon), but the series seemed destined to play itself out as a series of tired jokes, exotic locations and nonsensical plots.
Fortunately, that would change...
This is the movie in which the Bond series officially entered its rock star phase. Though the first two films in the series had been popular enough to continue making more, the public reaction to the third, Goldfinger, was something akin to the reaction to Star Wars in its initial release: It was not only a massive box office success but a huge cultural happening, the source of hundreds of spoofs and knock-offs, and referenced repeatedly in the media of the day.
But despite the reaction after the fact, Goldfinger the movie is actually relatively modest, almost austere. Thunderball would be the first film made in actual reaction to the Bond craze, the first time the producers deliberately set out on a path of bigger and better. And it would set a pattern that would effect the Bond series, mostly negatively, for the next twenty years.
First let me say, I love this movie. It has one of the best teasers in the series, Maurice Binder's titles and John Barry's score rank among their best, the physical settings are stunning and it features two of the hottest Bond babes, Claudine Auger and Luciana Paluzzi. (Both redheads, incidentally.) The action sequences are beautifully staged, the underwater photography is gorgeous, the dialogue is witty--it's a lot of fun to watch.
But.
Though money was clearly spent freely in its production, Thunderball was obviously made rather quickly, to cash in on its pop cultural moment. Things happen to impress us, not because they make any sense: Bond eludes some minor henchmen by donning a jetpack that materializes out of nowhere, MI6 stages a top secret meeting in a hallway with huge open windows so anyone could peek inside. (Though it makes no sense, that set is one of Ken Adam's most memorable creations; it was with this film that his production design officially became the key creative element in the series.)
More distressingly, Bond himself shifts from insouciance to outright boorishness. Though his repeated humiliations of supervillain Largo are fun to watch (particularly his skeet-shooting oneupmanship--that scene makes me laugh out loud every time), they make Bond seem like a smug prick, and fatally weaken Largo's status as a threat. Since it's impossible to seriously believe our hero is in any serious danger at any time, there can be no real suspense.
Some fans feel Thunderball marked the point where Sean Connery started phoning it in, but that's not really true. He does everything that is asked of him quite well, but he has no character to play. If it seems at times as though he's just going through the motions, well, so is Bond himself. He seems to exist primarily to nail beautiful women, punch bad guys and make atrocious puns. He's just a prop, moving through elegant settings, accompanied by incredibly cool music, but there's nothing to him, no life, no depth, nothing.
And that, unfortunately, is how he would continue to be played. Though I dearly love the next entry in the series, You Only Live Twice (it has Barry's most drop-dead gorgeous theme song, among other things), its story makes even less sense than Thunderball's, and the whole thing is even more blatantly a series of Ken Adam's Greatest Hits. After that, a brief reprieve--On Her Majesty's Secret Service, not only my favorite Bond picture but one of my favorite movies, period. For one brief, shining moment, the Bond series returned to solid storytelling, adding a new factor: emotional resonance.
But then it was back to light-hearted foolishness with Diamonds Are Forever, and once Roger Moore took over as Bond, jokiness became the order of the day. True, Moore had his moments, and For Your Eyes Only is mostly excellent (though its teaser is one of the worst things in the Bond canon), but the series seemed destined to play itself out as a series of tired jokes, exotic locations and nonsensical plots.
Fortunately, that would change...
Monday, January 05, 2009
WHY I LOVE THE INTERNET
Recent repeated viewings of Thunderball (a big thanks to Paul for giving me the remastered DVD for Christmas) have led me to two conclusions: 1) I'm probably going to spend much of this week writing about James Bond pictures (again), and 2) John Barry is an absolute genius.
Barry, of course, is revered for his Bond scores, as well as his ultra-romantic scores for Somewhere In Time and Out Of Africa, but I've been spending plenty of time on the Interweb exploring his pre-film scoring days as the leader of the instrumental combo The John Barry Seven. So I found this gem, an instrumental piece called Zapata, which sounds for all the world like it came from one of Ennio Morricone's Western scores. But it predates those, and was apparently an admitted influence on Morricone. Since Morricone has always loomed far higher in my personal pantheon than Barry, the very existence of this work is forcing me to do some reevaluating.
In any event, this piece kicks ass.
Barry, of course, is revered for his Bond scores, as well as his ultra-romantic scores for Somewhere In Time and Out Of Africa, but I've been spending plenty of time on the Interweb exploring his pre-film scoring days as the leader of the instrumental combo The John Barry Seven. So I found this gem, an instrumental piece called Zapata, which sounds for all the world like it came from one of Ennio Morricone's Western scores. But it predates those, and was apparently an admitted influence on Morricone. Since Morricone has always loomed far higher in my personal pantheon than Barry, the very existence of this work is forcing me to do some reevaluating.
In any event, this piece kicks ass.
Sunday, January 04, 2009
THIS IS WHY PEOPLE LIKE DOGS
Almost asleep, the comfort of dreamland within sight, then--CHUK CHUK CHUK.
Delmar's curled up beside me, so it must be Monika in the litter box. Great. This'll take awhile.
CHUK CHUK CHUK CHUK CHUK CHUK CHUK. The sound of her scratching at the litter. All this before she actually tends to her business, which takes no time at all. But the preliminaries--that can take a full minute or two. And even though the litter box is in another room, it's as loud as thunder.
Then, of course, once she's done, the dainty little creature must cover her unsightly mess. So CHUK CHUK CHUK CHUK CHUK, scratching at the litter, this time for three whole minutes. Three minutes--I counted.
A few minutes later, she hops up on the bed, but as if on cue, Delmar hops down. And heads for the litter box. CHUK CHUK CHUK. I turn on the TV, just to drown out the noise, and flip channels until Del reappears.
Then I shut off the TV, snuggle under the blanket--SHHHHHKKKK! Monika is pushing her water dish around, and as it scrapes along the tile floor of the bathroom (I keep it in the bathroom so it's separate from the food dish, otherwise both cats would dunk their food in the water), I look at Del, still sitting at the foot of the bed. Somehow, I know as soon as Monika is done pointlessly pushing the dish, he'll take his turn.
It's going to be one of those nights.
Delmar's curled up beside me, so it must be Monika in the litter box. Great. This'll take awhile.
CHUK CHUK CHUK CHUK CHUK CHUK CHUK. The sound of her scratching at the litter. All this before she actually tends to her business, which takes no time at all. But the preliminaries--that can take a full minute or two. And even though the litter box is in another room, it's as loud as thunder.
Then, of course, once she's done, the dainty little creature must cover her unsightly mess. So CHUK CHUK CHUK CHUK CHUK, scratching at the litter, this time for three whole minutes. Three minutes--I counted.
A few minutes later, she hops up on the bed, but as if on cue, Delmar hops down. And heads for the litter box. CHUK CHUK CHUK. I turn on the TV, just to drown out the noise, and flip channels until Del reappears.
Then I shut off the TV, snuggle under the blanket--SHHHHHKKKK! Monika is pushing her water dish around, and as it scrapes along the tile floor of the bathroom (I keep it in the bathroom so it's separate from the food dish, otherwise both cats would dunk their food in the water), I look at Del, still sitting at the foot of the bed. Somehow, I know as soon as Monika is done pointlessly pushing the dish, he'll take his turn.
It's going to be one of those nights.
Saturday, January 03, 2009
WILD FOR KICKS
It's the weekend, I have to work, I'm in a bad mood, I overslept, I still have laundry to do...in other words, no time for anything but a clip job.
But good clips, with some great music. John Barry's title number for the British teensploitation epic Beat Girl is about as awesome as it gets, plus we get the incredibly hot Gillian Hills working her pout. I've never actually seen this movie, but with Hills, a spaz-dancing Oliver Reed and Christopher Lee as a pimp(!), how bad could it be?
Some Bernard Herrmann? Why not? Here's the theme music from Taxi Driver.
And might as well wrap this up with some Kurt Weill, with lyrics by the always-sunny Bertolt Brecht.
But good clips, with some great music. John Barry's title number for the British teensploitation epic Beat Girl is about as awesome as it gets, plus we get the incredibly hot Gillian Hills working her pout. I've never actually seen this movie, but with Hills, a spaz-dancing Oliver Reed and Christopher Lee as a pimp(!), how bad could it be?
Some Bernard Herrmann? Why not? Here's the theme music from Taxi Driver.
And might as well wrap this up with some Kurt Weill, with lyrics by the always-sunny Bertolt Brecht.
Friday, January 02, 2009
HAPPY NEW YEAR, OR SOME SUCH
A few headlines from today's New York Times:
In A Broadening Offensive, Israel Steps Up Diplomacy
Well, yes. If your definition of "diplomacy" is "slaughtering hundreds of civilians for no apparent reason," then they're stepping up diplomacy. I could suggest the notion that since Israel's right-wing leadership seems determined to wipe Palestinians from the face of the earth, using Hamas as a boogeyman to justify their murderous racism, the word "genocide" would be a more appropriate term than diplomacy.
But to even suggest such a thing would result in being labeled anti-Semitic, so forget I even brought it up.
Donald E. Westlake, Mystery Writer, Is Dead At 75
I could have devoted the whole post to this. If you've never read any of Westlake's books, do so immediately. I'd start with his Parker novels, published under the pen name Richard Stark and which are among the finest, toughest crime novels ever written. You should read The Axe, even though it doesn't quite live up to its ambitions, and any of his old paperback originals, some of which have been recently republished. Oh, and I suppose his series of comic novels featuring professional thief John Dortmunder (imagine Jim Rockford on the other side of the law), though they strike me as Westlake's most formulaic creations.
The point is, Westlake was one of the best and, despite his advanced age, remained prolific as ever. A sad way to start the new year.
Kung Fu Monks Asked For Tourism Blessings
Any headline using the phrase "Kung Fu Monks" is automatically awesome.
In A Broadening Offensive, Israel Steps Up Diplomacy
Well, yes. If your definition of "diplomacy" is "slaughtering hundreds of civilians for no apparent reason," then they're stepping up diplomacy. I could suggest the notion that since Israel's right-wing leadership seems determined to wipe Palestinians from the face of the earth, using Hamas as a boogeyman to justify their murderous racism, the word "genocide" would be a more appropriate term than diplomacy.
But to even suggest such a thing would result in being labeled anti-Semitic, so forget I even brought it up.
Donald E. Westlake, Mystery Writer, Is Dead At 75
I could have devoted the whole post to this. If you've never read any of Westlake's books, do so immediately. I'd start with his Parker novels, published under the pen name Richard Stark and which are among the finest, toughest crime novels ever written. You should read The Axe, even though it doesn't quite live up to its ambitions, and any of his old paperback originals, some of which have been recently republished. Oh, and I suppose his series of comic novels featuring professional thief John Dortmunder (imagine Jim Rockford on the other side of the law), though they strike me as Westlake's most formulaic creations.
The point is, Westlake was one of the best and, despite his advanced age, remained prolific as ever. A sad way to start the new year.
Kung Fu Monks Asked For Tourism Blessings
Any headline using the phrase "Kung Fu Monks" is automatically awesome.
Thursday, January 01, 2009
ROCKAWAY BEACH
She dangles her feet off the jetty, curling and uncurling her toes in the water. He sits beside her, cross-legged, lazily holding her hand. They sit in silence for several minutes, then she clears her throat. "Okay, I know I shouldn't, but I have to ask you something."
He slowly, instinctively withdraws his hand. "Okay..."
"Well, I'm just wondering what we're doing here."
"What do you mean?"
She gestures at the surrounding beach. "This. This whole day. What was it about?"
"Something to do..." He shrugs. "Like I told you, my grandma used to live out here. I thought you might like seeing it."
"It's not that I didn't want to see it, it's just--" She stops, looks at his face, looks out at the water. "It just feels like our usual pattern. We fought last night, today we're off doing something, like if we run away from home for the day it'll magically make everything okay."
"No, it's not like that. I just thought this might be fun." He unwraps his legs and moves ever so slightly away from her. "Apparently, I was wrong."
She hugs herself as if keeping warm. "I just feel like we fight all the time. And we never resolve anything, we just kind of ignore it and go on to something else. But I don't like that. I want things to have an ending. I want to know where we stand."
"I love you. Does that mean anything?"
"I love you, too. But God, that's not the solution, you know? Okay, we love each other, but love is this big, complicated thing and...It's like, I love my parents, but I couldn't live with them."
He stands. "What are you saying? Is this it? Just like that?"
"No. No! Didn't you hear what I just said? 'I love you'? But, God, we're together so much, all the time, really. When we're home, we're together, when we go out, we go out together. Maybe we shouldn't. Maybe we need time apart from each other."
"So...What are you saying? You love me, and you don't want to break up with me, but you don't want to live with me?"
"You're really not listening to me, are you?" She pauses, as if wondering whether to continue. "After last night, after the things we said to each other, I didn't really feel like spending the day with you, you know? I wanted to be by myself, or with friends. My friends, the friends I wish I had more of, since most of my friends were your friends first. I feel like I don't have a life of my own here, I only have my life with you."
"I didn't...I don't..."
"And I know you don't mean for it to be like that, and I know you don't realize I feel trapped sometimes, but I do. You love me so much it's overpowering, and sometimes it's too much. Sometimes I just want to be alone. Like...like right now."
He stands for a few seconds or a few minutes, like he's waiting for his cue. Finally he says, "We came out here together. You want me to take the car? How will you get back?"
"Taxi. Train. 'Far Rockaway, that's the last stop on the A Train.' See?" She smiles. "I was listening to you."
He fakes a smile, stands for a bit longer, then drops the keys beside her. "I'll feel better if you take the car. The train here can be a little rough for a non-native."
He turns to leave, then stops. "You know the way back?"
"There's signs everywhere. Astoria's not that far away."
He nods, then walks slowly along the beach and up the hill. He turns and looks, she's still sitting there, her feet making ever-wider circles in the water.
He slowly, instinctively withdraws his hand. "Okay..."
"Well, I'm just wondering what we're doing here."
"What do you mean?"
She gestures at the surrounding beach. "This. This whole day. What was it about?"
"Something to do..." He shrugs. "Like I told you, my grandma used to live out here. I thought you might like seeing it."
"It's not that I didn't want to see it, it's just--" She stops, looks at his face, looks out at the water. "It just feels like our usual pattern. We fought last night, today we're off doing something, like if we run away from home for the day it'll magically make everything okay."
"No, it's not like that. I just thought this might be fun." He unwraps his legs and moves ever so slightly away from her. "Apparently, I was wrong."
She hugs herself as if keeping warm. "I just feel like we fight all the time. And we never resolve anything, we just kind of ignore it and go on to something else. But I don't like that. I want things to have an ending. I want to know where we stand."
"I love you. Does that mean anything?"
"I love you, too. But God, that's not the solution, you know? Okay, we love each other, but love is this big, complicated thing and...It's like, I love my parents, but I couldn't live with them."
He stands. "What are you saying? Is this it? Just like that?"
"No. No! Didn't you hear what I just said? 'I love you'? But, God, we're together so much, all the time, really. When we're home, we're together, when we go out, we go out together. Maybe we shouldn't. Maybe we need time apart from each other."
"So...What are you saying? You love me, and you don't want to break up with me, but you don't want to live with me?"
"You're really not listening to me, are you?" She pauses, as if wondering whether to continue. "After last night, after the things we said to each other, I didn't really feel like spending the day with you, you know? I wanted to be by myself, or with friends. My friends, the friends I wish I had more of, since most of my friends were your friends first. I feel like I don't have a life of my own here, I only have my life with you."
"I didn't...I don't..."
"And I know you don't mean for it to be like that, and I know you don't realize I feel trapped sometimes, but I do. You love me so much it's overpowering, and sometimes it's too much. Sometimes I just want to be alone. Like...like right now."
He stands for a few seconds or a few minutes, like he's waiting for his cue. Finally he says, "We came out here together. You want me to take the car? How will you get back?"
"Taxi. Train. 'Far Rockaway, that's the last stop on the A Train.' See?" She smiles. "I was listening to you."
He fakes a smile, stands for a bit longer, then drops the keys beside her. "I'll feel better if you take the car. The train here can be a little rough for a non-native."
He turns to leave, then stops. "You know the way back?"
"There's signs everywhere. Astoria's not that far away."
He nods, then walks slowly along the beach and up the hill. He turns and looks, she's still sitting there, her feet making ever-wider circles in the water.
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