Despite my ongoing obsession with the astonishingly misconceived musical Spider-man: Turn Off The Dark, I didn't bother writing anything about the official opening of the show last week. Since the ousting of its formerly "visionary" director/co-writer/co-designer Julie Taymor, the show, according to most critics, turned out exactly as anyone could have predicted: Instead of Taymor's batshit insane down-in-flames grab for glory, the show instead became dully respectable, a competent salvage job of something that shouldn't have been salvaged.
So okay, we saw that coming, nothing more to say...except Taymor, who should have shut up and moved on a long time ago, felt moved this weekend to talk about what became of her baby.
Speaking to a conference of theatrical types, she proclaimed her disgust with her Spider-man producers, who, in a desperation move as Taymor's show missed numerous opening dates, used focus groups to try to salvage something from the show. "It's very scary if people are going to move towards that, to have audiences tell you how to make a show. Shakespeare would have been appalled. Forget about it.It would be impossible to have these works come out because there's always something that people don't like."
Sure, Julie. Except Shakespeare cannily tailored his plays to the audience of the time, mixing his deeper themes with low comedy specifically designed to appeal to the groundlings. Also, he could write--once the script was set, it was rehearsed and performed. There was no "process" to "discover" the show, no endless reworkings of crazy theatrical concepts at the expense of coherent storytelling.
Besides, Taymor's producers only turned to the focus groups after she was fired from the show. She was given months and months and months and months to "find" her show, and she never did. She wasted seventy million dollars of investors' money on her ridiculous notions--Spider-man as a supporting character in a show about the power of myth, or some fucking thing--and she would have been perfectly happy to keep spending, with no regard for what her producers needed (that is, a profitable show) or an audience might have wanted (some kind of entertainment).
Of course, those pesky audiences were part of the problem, according to Taymor: "Twitter and Facebook and blogging just trump you. It's very hard to create. It's incredibly difficult to be under a shot glass and microscope like that."
Well, granted, it would be hard to be under both a shot glass and a microscope, but inexplicable metaphors are nothing new for Taymor. But again, much of the online chatter about the show's astounding non-quality came once previews started. Once you're asking audiences to pay for tickets--at full prices, mind you; there were no discounts during the preview period--they're going to respond. That's how the process works. And if the audience is overwhelmingly telling you that your show has problems, you fix them. If you can't do that, your producers have every right to fire your ass.
Sure, I'm usually all about the artist here, but Taymor was working on a Broadway musical, where the rules have always been in place. And the first rule has always been: It's all about the show. Directors, songwriters, authors, even big-money stars have all been replaced when shows are in trouble. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't, but Taymor acts as though it's all brand new.
The biggest mistake the producers of Spider-man: Turn Off The Dark made was not dumping Taymor much earlier in the process. Like, for instance, when she submitted an incoherent script that had very little to do with the title character. Or after the first, say, ten million bucks were spent with nothing to show for it. After sixty million more was spent, firing Taymor was a mercy killing.
Now if they'd just close the show altogether, we could all pretend this never happened, and I'd finally shut up about it.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Saturday, June 18, 2011
KILL ME NOW
When you see the headline Arizona Town Cashes In On Rock Song, there is no need to click on the story because OF COURSE it will be about the citizens of Winslow taking advantage of the town's fleeting mention in that stupid, stupid Eagles song.
And sure enough, Winslow has installed a bronze statue of a "floppy-haired man with a guitar" (this description, like the story itself, comes from The New York Times, the Arts & Entertainment section of which has clearly seen better days)on a corner near--sigh--Standin' On The Corner Park, which is odd because unless I'm mistaken the actual lyrics of the song are, "standin' on A corner in Winslow Arizona" but why split (floppy) hairs? Once you've decided to name a park after a line in an overplayed country-rock groaner from the seventies, you've already taken leave of your senses. Oh, and hey, there's an annual Standin' On The Corner Festival that draws "thousands" (according to the Times, which I suspect didn't do a lot of fact-checking on this particular story), so...dear God, I can't go on.
The notion of thousands--or even dozens--of people reorganizing their lives just so they'll have time to attend something called the Standin' On The Corner Festival fills me with a sense of overpowering despair. Everybody is entitled to their own obsessions, and it's not like I, with my Jerry Lewis obsession, have any room to question anybody's taste. But still, people making a pilgrimage to a town just because of its mention in a fucking Glenn Frey song...
Seriously. Kill me now.
And sure enough, Winslow has installed a bronze statue of a "floppy-haired man with a guitar" (this description, like the story itself, comes from The New York Times, the Arts & Entertainment section of which has clearly seen better days)on a corner near--sigh--Standin' On The Corner Park, which is odd because unless I'm mistaken the actual lyrics of the song are, "standin' on A corner in Winslow Arizona" but why split (floppy) hairs? Once you've decided to name a park after a line in an overplayed country-rock groaner from the seventies, you've already taken leave of your senses. Oh, and hey, there's an annual Standin' On The Corner Festival that draws "thousands" (according to the Times, which I suspect didn't do a lot of fact-checking on this particular story), so...dear God, I can't go on.
The notion of thousands--or even dozens--of people reorganizing their lives just so they'll have time to attend something called the Standin' On The Corner Festival fills me with a sense of overpowering despair. Everybody is entitled to their own obsessions, and it's not like I, with my Jerry Lewis obsession, have any room to question anybody's taste. But still, people making a pilgrimage to a town just because of its mention in a fucking Glenn Frey song...
Seriously. Kill me now.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
WHEN ALL HOPE SEEMS LOST, WHEN DESPAIR BECOMES OVERPOWERING, THERE WILL BE A BLAND, BLAND LIGHT
This headline from the Associated Press says it all: Pretty In Pink's Andrew McCarthy Writing Memoir. And by "says it all," I mean the AP used the headline to remind us who McCarthy is, or more accurately, was--a guy who was in a semi-loved movie, though he's not the reason anyone liked it. They could also have said Weekend At Bernie's Star Andrew McCarthy Writing Memoir, but then readers would be scratching their heads trying to remember which of the two remarkably uninteresting leads from Bernie's was McCarthy and which was the other guy.
Anyway, the point is--Andrew McCarthy is writing a memoir? Seriously? According to the AP story, which reads suspiciously like a slightly-reworked press release, it will reveal how McCarthy's "journeys helped him defeat his fear of love and commitment." All well and good, but hopefully there will be room for discussions of his distinguished film career, including, um, Pretty In Pink. And Weekend At Bernie's. Plus that all-time box-office smash Fresh Horses, and of course that awful Gertrude Stein/Alice B. Toklas thing he was in. And Weekend At Bernie's 2!
When a megastar of McCarthy's magnitude decides to sit down and spill the beans, it behooves us all to pick up a copy. And take a nice, refreshing nap.
Anyway, the point is--Andrew McCarthy is writing a memoir? Seriously? According to the AP story, which reads suspiciously like a slightly-reworked press release, it will reveal how McCarthy's "journeys helped him defeat his fear of love and commitment." All well and good, but hopefully there will be room for discussions of his distinguished film career, including, um, Pretty In Pink. And Weekend At Bernie's. Plus that all-time box-office smash Fresh Horses, and of course that awful Gertrude Stein/Alice B. Toklas thing he was in. And Weekend At Bernie's 2!
When a megastar of McCarthy's magnitude decides to sit down and spill the beans, it behooves us all to pick up a copy. And take a nice, refreshing nap.
Monday, June 13, 2011
WE WERE ONLY HERE FOR AWHILE
It wasn't so much that I made a point of avoiding a family reunion this past weekend as...oh, okay, I did avoid it.
In fairness, I had things to do. Paul had a baseball game, then we had to see Super 8 (which we both enjoyed) and, for about a minute during the day, it did occur to me that the two of us could drive to Dawson and take part in this big family whoop-de-doo, but it occurred to me also that I'd have to keep explaining to everyone who Paul is, because aside from my brother John and my sister Ann, nobody would have any idea.
Which is kind of odd, because he is of course mentioned here quite a bit, and in status updates of Facebook, and various other places where I hang out online. Paul, Janie, the dog and cats, assorted exes and various friends--there's a regular cast here (even though some of them are kinda like Jeff Conaway on Taxi and disappear once it becomes obvious they're not working out), and regular readers of this site are presumably as familiar with them as viewers of MASH were familiar with Hawkeye, Colonel Potter and that guitar-wielding guy Loudon Wainwright played in three episodes.
But--well, look, I was going to go off on a pissy little tangent about how nobody in my family reads my blog, but that's not really the point. The reason I avoided this thing is, I hate--HATE--family reunions. I'm five years younger than my closest sibling, and my cousins are older still, and whenever I'd get dragged to one of these things as a kid, I felt profoundly alone and abandoned because there was nobody for me to talk to, nobody paying attention to me, nobody comforting me as my sense of isolation overwhelmed me and sent me off to cry alone. Also, even though I was only five or six or seven, I still sensed the weird stifled emotions that were always present when everyone tried to play nice. (I couldn't really give you all the details, but my oldest brothers hated each other--I recall one epic Quiet Man-style donnybrook that raged down the stairs, through the dining room and living room and out the front door--but at family get-togethers, they always smiled and talked to each other. Knowing what they were like at home, and being too young to understand the protocol of events like this, the disconnect fried my tiny brain. It was like they'd been replaced with pod duplicates.)
It sounds facetious, or like a too-pat TV-movie style explanation, but the family reunions I was forced to attend as a kid probably had a lot to do with the fact that I wound up in therapy by the time I was in seventh grade. That is, they took the feelings of isolation and despair I already had as part of my day-to-day existence (again, five years younger than my closest sibling, plus parents who were already into middle age by the time I started school, plus an isolated rural home surrounded by abandoned, rusting farm equipment, the type of heavy-handed symbolism that would cause any rational viewer to roll their eyes if they saw such nonsense in some shitty indie picture) and ramped it up to unbearable extremes. I remember kicking and screaming, begging Mom and Dad to let me stay home, I hated family reunions so much. I dreaded them for weeks in advance, my heart pounding, unable to sleep. And nobody seemed to realize just how profound that dread was, any more than they noticed me at the actual functions, sitting in a corner glassy-eyed, sinking in a Bergman-esque well of despair.
So, yeah, I'm an adult now, and presumably better-equipped to deal with these things, but you know, the last time the tribe gathered en masse was at Mom's funeral, so it just seems that these things are destined to have depressing subtexts for me. In other words, I could have sucked it up and gone to this thing, or I could have spent a beautiful Saturday afternoon hanging out with an eleven-year-old who makes me laugh and gets all my John Williams references.
I'll stand by my choice.
In fairness, I had things to do. Paul had a baseball game, then we had to see Super 8 (which we both enjoyed) and, for about a minute during the day, it did occur to me that the two of us could drive to Dawson and take part in this big family whoop-de-doo, but it occurred to me also that I'd have to keep explaining to everyone who Paul is, because aside from my brother John and my sister Ann, nobody would have any idea.
Which is kind of odd, because he is of course mentioned here quite a bit, and in status updates of Facebook, and various other places where I hang out online. Paul, Janie, the dog and cats, assorted exes and various friends--there's a regular cast here (even though some of them are kinda like Jeff Conaway on Taxi and disappear once it becomes obvious they're not working out), and regular readers of this site are presumably as familiar with them as viewers of MASH were familiar with Hawkeye, Colonel Potter and that guitar-wielding guy Loudon Wainwright played in three episodes.
But--well, look, I was going to go off on a pissy little tangent about how nobody in my family reads my blog, but that's not really the point. The reason I avoided this thing is, I hate--HATE--family reunions. I'm five years younger than my closest sibling, and my cousins are older still, and whenever I'd get dragged to one of these things as a kid, I felt profoundly alone and abandoned because there was nobody for me to talk to, nobody paying attention to me, nobody comforting me as my sense of isolation overwhelmed me and sent me off to cry alone. Also, even though I was only five or six or seven, I still sensed the weird stifled emotions that were always present when everyone tried to play nice. (I couldn't really give you all the details, but my oldest brothers hated each other--I recall one epic Quiet Man-style donnybrook that raged down the stairs, through the dining room and living room and out the front door--but at family get-togethers, they always smiled and talked to each other. Knowing what they were like at home, and being too young to understand the protocol of events like this, the disconnect fried my tiny brain. It was like they'd been replaced with pod duplicates.)
It sounds facetious, or like a too-pat TV-movie style explanation, but the family reunions I was forced to attend as a kid probably had a lot to do with the fact that I wound up in therapy by the time I was in seventh grade. That is, they took the feelings of isolation and despair I already had as part of my day-to-day existence (again, five years younger than my closest sibling, plus parents who were already into middle age by the time I started school, plus an isolated rural home surrounded by abandoned, rusting farm equipment, the type of heavy-handed symbolism that would cause any rational viewer to roll their eyes if they saw such nonsense in some shitty indie picture) and ramped it up to unbearable extremes. I remember kicking and screaming, begging Mom and Dad to let me stay home, I hated family reunions so much. I dreaded them for weeks in advance, my heart pounding, unable to sleep. And nobody seemed to realize just how profound that dread was, any more than they noticed me at the actual functions, sitting in a corner glassy-eyed, sinking in a Bergman-esque well of despair.
So, yeah, I'm an adult now, and presumably better-equipped to deal with these things, but you know, the last time the tribe gathered en masse was at Mom's funeral, so it just seems that these things are destined to have depressing subtexts for me. In other words, I could have sucked it up and gone to this thing, or I could have spent a beautiful Saturday afternoon hanging out with an eleven-year-old who makes me laugh and gets all my John Williams references.
I'll stand by my choice.
Friday, June 10, 2011
IF I FELL
The dog barks at car tires hissing on the rainy streets. The cats mostly sleep, waking occasionally to acknowledge my presence. I've got some Warren Zevon playing, milk and donuts ready to be consumed, and a weekend on the way. Everything is exactly as it should be, except for one thing.
Janie's not here.
No, no, it's okay. She's just visiting her sister for the week. We've talked everyday since she's been gone, and she can't wait to get back. To her recliner, her bed, her cats. And me, presumably.
I can't wait for her to get back, either. She belongs here. Her voice, her laughter, her everything. When I bought this place, I thought...well, honestly, I'm not sure what I thought. I wanted a place of my own, someplace to call home. But it turned out to be just another place to live, no different from the anonymous apartments that had come to define my existence.
But now, when I walk through the front door after a brutal day at work and Janie is here, and we kiss and we laugh and we love, I finally feel like I'm coming home.
Janie's not here.
No, no, it's okay. She's just visiting her sister for the week. We've talked everyday since she's been gone, and she can't wait to get back. To her recliner, her bed, her cats. And me, presumably.
I can't wait for her to get back, either. She belongs here. Her voice, her laughter, her everything. When I bought this place, I thought...well, honestly, I'm not sure what I thought. I wanted a place of my own, someplace to call home. But it turned out to be just another place to live, no different from the anonymous apartments that had come to define my existence.
But now, when I walk through the front door after a brutal day at work and Janie is here, and we kiss and we laugh and we love, I finally feel like I'm coming home.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
WARMTH
I've got a co-worker who still has a rotary phone, who has no idea what a debit card is, who grumbles whenever the radio in the stockroom is tuned to a station that plays a lot of eighties stuff like Bon Jovi or The Thompson Twins because he can't stand that "new" music. He'd probably be happy to have any of the items advertised in this commercial.
But really, who wouldn't want that couch? And it comes with a free portable TV! There's no technology you have to master with these things--with that TV, you could take it anywhere. You'd plug it in, flip the on switch and there it was. Maybe you had to play around with the rabbit ears to get reception, but you didn't need a decoder box, your house didn't need to be wired, you didn't need a router or a wifi card or a minutes plan or anything back in those days. Life was good.
Even the pitchman in this ad is straightforward: Here's the merchandise, here's what it does, this is how you get it. No irony, no flashy graphics, just a simple, effective spiel. You'd never see such a thing these days. But why not? It works. (Again, I really want that couch, hideous seventies burnt-umber color and all.)
Obviously, we'll never go back to a pre-digital world. But I've noticed that some of the people most likely to mock how we looked and acted back in those days are people who were around then. Have they forgotten their own past? Have they forgotten how much better-built merchandise was, and how well it all worked? Have they forgotten how happy we were with what we once had?
But really, who wouldn't want that couch? And it comes with a free portable TV! There's no technology you have to master with these things--with that TV, you could take it anywhere. You'd plug it in, flip the on switch and there it was. Maybe you had to play around with the rabbit ears to get reception, but you didn't need a decoder box, your house didn't need to be wired, you didn't need a router or a wifi card or a minutes plan or anything back in those days. Life was good.
Even the pitchman in this ad is straightforward: Here's the merchandise, here's what it does, this is how you get it. No irony, no flashy graphics, just a simple, effective spiel. You'd never see such a thing these days. But why not? It works. (Again, I really want that couch, hideous seventies burnt-umber color and all.)
Obviously, we'll never go back to a pre-digital world. But I've noticed that some of the people most likely to mock how we looked and acted back in those days are people who were around then. Have they forgotten their own past? Have they forgotten how much better-built merchandise was, and how well it all worked? Have they forgotten how happy we were with what we once had?
Monday, May 23, 2011
IT CAN'T BE WRONG WHEN IT FEELS SO RIGHT
Pop cultural history seemed already to have forgotten Joseph Brooks. His most famous achievement, the lugubrious pop song You Light Up My Life, was a massive hit back in 1977, winning an Oscar and a Grammy, but it quickly became a thing to be mocked, then, soon enough, ignored--even radio stations that regularly program "the biggest hits of the seventies" usually leave it off their playlists, though it was the top-charting song of its year.
The odd thing about Brooks, though, was that he kept doing things, whether anyone wanted him to or not. He'd become a millionaire cranking out commercial jingles, and he used his money to fund a number of vanity projects. He wrote and directed the movie You Light Up My Life, designed as a showcase for his songwriting, and it was a modest hit, largely due to the popularity of the title song. But it was enough to convince him he was an auteur--he followed it with If Ever I See You Again, a drippy romance about a successful pop songwriter forcing his way back into the life of his ex--Brooks starred, despite having zero screen presence and a vaguely reptilian appearance--and Headin' For Broadway, about a group of hopeful kids willing to do whatever it takes to find stardom.
These were movies nobody could possibly want to see, and predictably, they flopped. Somehow, Brooks kept working. A few years ago, he became something of a laughing stock with his Broadway musical In My Life, a misguided semi-romantic trifle which he wrote, scored, produced and directed. Stage musicals are usually collaborative affairs, but Brooks refused any kind of assistance for his terrible show--he would do exactly what he wanted, and he wasn't going to let anyone tell him no.
Not that he would have listened. The word "no" clearly meant nothing to Brooks, who was due to stand trial for sexual assault on over a dozen women he had lured to his Upper West Side apartment with promises of some kind of work in some unspecified project. He posted ads online and held private auditions. When the naive young hopefuls appeared at his door, he offered to show them his Oscar, he poured them wine, asked them to perform a scene he'd devised. Then he raped them.
Even in the New York tabloids, Brooks' unfolding legal saga was never front page news. He just wasn't big enough, famous enough. No matter how hard he tried, how much money he made, he was always a show-biz also-ran. He killed himself over the weekend, a miserable end to a worthless existence, and The Post and The Daily News both buried the story in the back pages. Nobody cared about his fucking Oscar.
The odd thing about Brooks, though, was that he kept doing things, whether anyone wanted him to or not. He'd become a millionaire cranking out commercial jingles, and he used his money to fund a number of vanity projects. He wrote and directed the movie You Light Up My Life, designed as a showcase for his songwriting, and it was a modest hit, largely due to the popularity of the title song. But it was enough to convince him he was an auteur--he followed it with If Ever I See You Again, a drippy romance about a successful pop songwriter forcing his way back into the life of his ex--Brooks starred, despite having zero screen presence and a vaguely reptilian appearance--and Headin' For Broadway, about a group of hopeful kids willing to do whatever it takes to find stardom.
These were movies nobody could possibly want to see, and predictably, they flopped. Somehow, Brooks kept working. A few years ago, he became something of a laughing stock with his Broadway musical In My Life, a misguided semi-romantic trifle which he wrote, scored, produced and directed. Stage musicals are usually collaborative affairs, but Brooks refused any kind of assistance for his terrible show--he would do exactly what he wanted, and he wasn't going to let anyone tell him no.
Not that he would have listened. The word "no" clearly meant nothing to Brooks, who was due to stand trial for sexual assault on over a dozen women he had lured to his Upper West Side apartment with promises of some kind of work in some unspecified project. He posted ads online and held private auditions. When the naive young hopefuls appeared at his door, he offered to show them his Oscar, he poured them wine, asked them to perform a scene he'd devised. Then he raped them.
Even in the New York tabloids, Brooks' unfolding legal saga was never front page news. He just wasn't big enough, famous enough. No matter how hard he tried, how much money he made, he was always a show-biz also-ran. He killed himself over the weekend, a miserable end to a worthless existence, and The Post and The Daily News both buried the story in the back pages. Nobody cared about his fucking Oscar.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
THOUGH YOUR DREAMS BE TOSSED AND BLOWN
What are you going to do, get all weepy about Louis Prima and Keely Smith? Or Buddy Hackett, or Johnny Carson, or even The Beatles, for God's sake? It was just a place where people did some stuff, a piece of a past that can never be recovered.
It's not like it's real history we're talking about here, only show-biz history. But it's long been part of the peculiar nature of Las Vegas that it preserves its past in amber, or at least an amber-colored (but heavily watered-down) drink. How else to explain the continued existence of The Sahara Hotel & Casino, which still sat at the north end of the strip like an aging madame, full of stories about the nearly-forgotten greats she used to escort? (And she'll always refer to her gentlemen friends as escorts, not johns. What the hell do you think she was, some two-bit hooker?) The former "Jewel Of The Desert" shut down yesterday, but it had been closing bit by bit through the years, serving as some sort of reminder of the past in a town that barely has a present.
For the pleasures offered by Las Vegas are, by design, fleeting. Times change, people move on, no one remembers. Really, why should they? Oh, so the Sahara was for many years the home base for Jerry Lewis' Labor Day telethon? That's nice, but so what?
After all, Lewis himself is retiring from that institution after this year. Though he has yet to find a cure for Muscular Dystrophy, there is no question that Lewis' time in the spotlight is due to end. He was once as big as anyone, and he and Dean Martin could pack 'em in like nobody's business, but to watch him continue year after year, unwilling and unable to change with the times, diminishing his own reputation every time he referred to the likes of Jann Carl as a "marvelous" talent, abandoned by the few relevant celebrity friends he still has...well, it was a sad, sad spectacle, like watching the suckers being chased out of the Sahara on its closing day, all of them wanting one more chance to play their lousy dollar slots.
It's not like it's real history we're talking about here, only show-biz history. But it's long been part of the peculiar nature of Las Vegas that it preserves its past in amber, or at least an amber-colored (but heavily watered-down) drink. How else to explain the continued existence of The Sahara Hotel & Casino, which still sat at the north end of the strip like an aging madame, full of stories about the nearly-forgotten greats she used to escort? (And she'll always refer to her gentlemen friends as escorts, not johns. What the hell do you think she was, some two-bit hooker?) The former "Jewel Of The Desert" shut down yesterday, but it had been closing bit by bit through the years, serving as some sort of reminder of the past in a town that barely has a present.
For the pleasures offered by Las Vegas are, by design, fleeting. Times change, people move on, no one remembers. Really, why should they? Oh, so the Sahara was for many years the home base for Jerry Lewis' Labor Day telethon? That's nice, but so what?
After all, Lewis himself is retiring from that institution after this year. Though he has yet to find a cure for Muscular Dystrophy, there is no question that Lewis' time in the spotlight is due to end. He was once as big as anyone, and he and Dean Martin could pack 'em in like nobody's business, but to watch him continue year after year, unwilling and unable to change with the times, diminishing his own reputation every time he referred to the likes of Jann Carl as a "marvelous" talent, abandoned by the few relevant celebrity friends he still has...well, it was a sad, sad spectacle, like watching the suckers being chased out of the Sahara on its closing day, all of them wanting one more chance to play their lousy dollar slots.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
I GROW OLD, I GROW OLD
1. This title, of course, comes from T.S. Eliot. That is, it originated with Eliot, but for me, it comes from the old National Lampoon parody The Love Song Of J. Edgar Hoover, which served as my dramatic reading in a freshman speech class. After I finished, the teacher asked me if I'd even heard of Eliot. Since all I really knew were the few lines from The Hollow Men referenced in Apocalypse Now--sadly, I had no idea what the Lampoon piece was parodying--I said no. My teacher was disappointed.
It was at that moment that I came to believe, as I still believe to this day, that I'm not nearly as smart as I want to be.
2. The two paragraphs above repeatedly featured the words "I" or "me"--twelve, counting variations. One of the reasons posting around here has become less frequent is because I'm trying to make this space less relentlessly self-centered. Many posts in the past were devoted to painfully detailed retellings of awful (and, far less often, joyous) occurrences in my life. All well and good when there is some larger point to be drawn, some fondly-recalled universal moment we've all shared, or even when there's some catharsis to be had by exorcising old demons. Sometimes, though, I resorted to just offering tediously detailed descriptions of bad dates, things that weren't even interesting as I experienced them.
So, you know, sorry about that.
3. All well and good, but hey, today's my birthday, so I get to be a little self-indulgent, right? Problem is, I've got nothing to say. I'm forty-six today, well past the halfway mark--presumably, at least; yeah, you never know how long you'll live, but neither of my parents lived to see eighty, so the odds aren't exactly in my favor--and past the point of taking stock but not to the point of looking back.
My life is still unfolding, in other words. I was in my forties when I decided to become a homeowner, and in the last year alone I've acquired an actual, permanent girlfriend and a small flock of critters. I still have no idea how to do basic things around the house--thank God Janie knows how to set a mousetrap!--but there's time to learn.
But not all the time in the world. There is a definite sense that, even as it unfolds, life is still winding down. I'm aware that my body can no longer do certain things I used to take for granted, and I'm more aware than ever that everything I see and know could be gone tomorrow. These aren't bad things, really--they just make me appreciate what I've got.
4. Obligatory Moment Of Delmar: I love all my cats very much, and will go to my grave insisting the late and much-missed Scotchie was the best cat ever, but there's no question that my beloved little ball of rage Del is my favorite cat in this world or any other. He's been by to rub against me repeatedly as I've been writing, and at one point reared up on his hind legs to begin chewing on my elbow. Sure, he has dozens of psychoses, but more than anything else, he's fiercely devoted to me. Plus, he's adorable!
Though not, it must be said, as adorable as the beagle, who has also been over to say hi repeatedly as I've been writing. Four-legged creatures love me!
5. The first time I wrote a birthday post it was a fairly dismal day, spent buying tires or some such. The pattern repeated from then on, assuming I took note of the day at all. This year...I dunno. Why bother complaining? I'm alive, I'm happy. Life is good.
It was at that moment that I came to believe, as I still believe to this day, that I'm not nearly as smart as I want to be.
2. The two paragraphs above repeatedly featured the words "I" or "me"--twelve, counting variations. One of the reasons posting around here has become less frequent is because I'm trying to make this space less relentlessly self-centered. Many posts in the past were devoted to painfully detailed retellings of awful (and, far less often, joyous) occurrences in my life. All well and good when there is some larger point to be drawn, some fondly-recalled universal moment we've all shared, or even when there's some catharsis to be had by exorcising old demons. Sometimes, though, I resorted to just offering tediously detailed descriptions of bad dates, things that weren't even interesting as I experienced them.
So, you know, sorry about that.
3. All well and good, but hey, today's my birthday, so I get to be a little self-indulgent, right? Problem is, I've got nothing to say. I'm forty-six today, well past the halfway mark--presumably, at least; yeah, you never know how long you'll live, but neither of my parents lived to see eighty, so the odds aren't exactly in my favor--and past the point of taking stock but not to the point of looking back.
My life is still unfolding, in other words. I was in my forties when I decided to become a homeowner, and in the last year alone I've acquired an actual, permanent girlfriend and a small flock of critters. I still have no idea how to do basic things around the house--thank God Janie knows how to set a mousetrap!--but there's time to learn.
But not all the time in the world. There is a definite sense that, even as it unfolds, life is still winding down. I'm aware that my body can no longer do certain things I used to take for granted, and I'm more aware than ever that everything I see and know could be gone tomorrow. These aren't bad things, really--they just make me appreciate what I've got.
4. Obligatory Moment Of Delmar: I love all my cats very much, and will go to my grave insisting the late and much-missed Scotchie was the best cat ever, but there's no question that my beloved little ball of rage Del is my favorite cat in this world or any other. He's been by to rub against me repeatedly as I've been writing, and at one point reared up on his hind legs to begin chewing on my elbow. Sure, he has dozens of psychoses, but more than anything else, he's fiercely devoted to me. Plus, he's adorable!
Though not, it must be said, as adorable as the beagle, who has also been over to say hi repeatedly as I've been writing. Four-legged creatures love me!
5. The first time I wrote a birthday post it was a fairly dismal day, spent buying tires or some such. The pattern repeated from then on, assuming I took note of the day at all. This year...I dunno. Why bother complaining? I'm alive, I'm happy. Life is good.
Saturday, May 07, 2011
SOME THAT YOU RECOGNIZE, SOME THAT YOU'VE NEVER EVEN HEARD OF
There's no point in arguing that Yvette Vickers was an underrated actress, that she deserved better than Attack Of The 5o Foot Woman and the similar Z pictures associated with her name. Sadly, there's not even any use in commenting on her achingly carnal beauty.
Because now, when she's remembered, it will be as that ancient pin-up queen whose mummified remains were found by a neighbor. So she's officially a freak now, a has-been who never quite was, and the ghoulish circumstances of her death are all anyone will ever talk or care about. The fascinating life she led--she was discovered by Billy Wilder, Russ Meyer shot her Playboy spread, she was a fringe player on the Hollywood scene for years--will be forgotten.
Still. At her peak, studio execs treated her as just another blonde in a town full of them, and audiences failed to make her the star she should have been. But now, at last, people will remember her. As befits a mummy, she has become immortal.
Because now, when she's remembered, it will be as that ancient pin-up queen whose mummified remains were found by a neighbor. So she's officially a freak now, a has-been who never quite was, and the ghoulish circumstances of her death are all anyone will ever talk or care about. The fascinating life she led--she was discovered by Billy Wilder, Russ Meyer shot her Playboy spread, she was a fringe player on the Hollywood scene for years--will be forgotten.
Still. At her peak, studio execs treated her as just another blonde in a town full of them, and audiences failed to make her the star she should have been. But now, at last, people will remember her. As befits a mummy, she has become immortal.
Monday, May 02, 2011
STILL AND STRANGE
Yeah, of course I remember life in suburban D.C. in those awful days and months following 9/11, that horrible feeling of looking up, looking around, squinting into the beautiful blue sky, waiting for the next attack.
Not that we had to wait long, because the attack came from within. Osama Bin Laden and his associates surely knew that the attacks on the Twin Towers, Pentagon and wherever the fourth plane was supposed to hit were only the first step. Sure enough, paranoia on a massive scale erupted, and we as a nation were all too willing to surrender our civil liberties, to support a baseless war, to do whatever in the name of...what?
What was the goal? Was it to get Bin Laden? Because if it was, why the hell were we in Iraq? Why did we do half of what we did? Why...Ah, forget it. It's four AM, I need to get ready for work and Osama Bin Laden has been stopped at last. Yes, we know he was more a figurehead than anything else, and we know his associates are still out there, plotting revenge.
There'll be a sequel, in other words. But at least, for now, the story has an ending.
Not that we had to wait long, because the attack came from within. Osama Bin Laden and his associates surely knew that the attacks on the Twin Towers, Pentagon and wherever the fourth plane was supposed to hit were only the first step. Sure enough, paranoia on a massive scale erupted, and we as a nation were all too willing to surrender our civil liberties, to support a baseless war, to do whatever in the name of...what?
What was the goal? Was it to get Bin Laden? Because if it was, why the hell were we in Iraq? Why did we do half of what we did? Why...Ah, forget it. It's four AM, I need to get ready for work and Osama Bin Laden has been stopped at last. Yes, we know he was more a figurehead than anything else, and we know his associates are still out there, plotting revenge.
There'll be a sequel, in other words. But at least, for now, the story has an ending.
Sunday, May 01, 2011
DEFINITELY NOT RACIST
I've been rereading Mark Harris' mostly-exemplary book Pictures At A Revolution, which examines the genesis and cultural impact of the five movies nominated for the Best Picture Oscar at the 1968 awards. Harris' point is that two of those movies, Bonnie And Clyde and The Graduate, represented what was about to come, the New Hollywood of the seventies and early eighties, while two of the others, Guess Who's Coming To Dinner and Doctor Dolittle, represented the staid Old Hollywood that looked increasingly clueless as social and aesthetic changes swept the nation. (The fifth nominated picture, In The Heat Of The Night, was kind of somewhere in between, and as a well-crafted, well-intentioned but essentially dull enterprise, it's the type of Oscar bait that still shows up every year.)
Reading the book now, the most interesting section by far is director Stanley Kramer's experiences schlepping Guess Who's Coming To Dinner through the studio pipeline. This is a movie that, in its pro-interracial marriage premise, seemed daring in the development stages, but by the time it was released, felt instantly dated. The civil rights era had gone a long way to change America's views of race.
Hadn't it? By Kramer's stated intent, he wanted "the black bridegroom to be so exceptional that if anyone objected to him, it could only be due to racial prejudice." Harris wryly points out how far Kramer would go to make this character exceptional: he wasn't just successful in his field, "but an Ivy League-educated potential Nobel laureate who worked for the United Nations on worldwide health missions."
Uh, you can probably see where I'm going with this, right? There are, Lord knows, plenty of reasons to rue Barack Obama's presidency, from a cabinet full of Wall Street insiders to his seeming inability to hold to a simple policy position. But to suggest that he's somehow not entitled to the office, that he's just not smart enough, that he didn't deserve his Ivy League education...well, to paraphrase Stanley Kramer, those objections could only be due to racial prejudice.
The obvious offender would be Donald Trump, whose increasingly offensive string of claims about Obama reveal much more about his need to be constantly talked about than anything else. Trump almost certainly doesn't believe this shit, but he knows if he says it, the media will cover it.
And they do, every word of it. Trump is not the problem, any more than Sarah Palin or Sean Hannity or any other far right nutjob. The problem is the way the story is inevitably framed by the media overlords. They present Trump's blatherings as if they represent some sort of coherent point of view, as if there's some validity to them. There is none, of course. Even the most ideologically rigid exec at Fox News knows how smart Obama is--after all, they used to claim he was some sort of elitist snob, out of touch with every Johnny Lunchpail and Sally Housecoat in this great nation. Yet they bring on experts to "debate" Trump's claims, when they know very well there's nothing to be debated. The man is lying. Call him on it and move on. Ignore the motherfucker, deny him the attention he so nakedly craves, and he'll go away.
No mainstream reporters are quite willing to come right out and say the obvious: If Trump's remarks are racist, then his sudden popularity among Republicans must say reveal much about the party's rabidly anti-Obama stance. But they're not quite willing to say that. Until they do, Guess Who's Coming To Dinner will continue to seem weirdly relevant. Which seems impossible, of course, but there's a lot of things going on these days that shouldn't be happening, but somehow are.
Reading the book now, the most interesting section by far is director Stanley Kramer's experiences schlepping Guess Who's Coming To Dinner through the studio pipeline. This is a movie that, in its pro-interracial marriage premise, seemed daring in the development stages, but by the time it was released, felt instantly dated. The civil rights era had gone a long way to change America's views of race.
Hadn't it? By Kramer's stated intent, he wanted "the black bridegroom to be so exceptional that if anyone objected to him, it could only be due to racial prejudice." Harris wryly points out how far Kramer would go to make this character exceptional: he wasn't just successful in his field, "but an Ivy League-educated potential Nobel laureate who worked for the United Nations on worldwide health missions."
Uh, you can probably see where I'm going with this, right? There are, Lord knows, plenty of reasons to rue Barack Obama's presidency, from a cabinet full of Wall Street insiders to his seeming inability to hold to a simple policy position. But to suggest that he's somehow not entitled to the office, that he's just not smart enough, that he didn't deserve his Ivy League education...well, to paraphrase Stanley Kramer, those objections could only be due to racial prejudice.
The obvious offender would be Donald Trump, whose increasingly offensive string of claims about Obama reveal much more about his need to be constantly talked about than anything else. Trump almost certainly doesn't believe this shit, but he knows if he says it, the media will cover it.
And they do, every word of it. Trump is not the problem, any more than Sarah Palin or Sean Hannity or any other far right nutjob. The problem is the way the story is inevitably framed by the media overlords. They present Trump's blatherings as if they represent some sort of coherent point of view, as if there's some validity to them. There is none, of course. Even the most ideologically rigid exec at Fox News knows how smart Obama is--after all, they used to claim he was some sort of elitist snob, out of touch with every Johnny Lunchpail and Sally Housecoat in this great nation. Yet they bring on experts to "debate" Trump's claims, when they know very well there's nothing to be debated. The man is lying. Call him on it and move on. Ignore the motherfucker, deny him the attention he so nakedly craves, and he'll go away.
No mainstream reporters are quite willing to come right out and say the obvious: If Trump's remarks are racist, then his sudden popularity among Republicans must say reveal much about the party's rabidly anti-Obama stance. But they're not quite willing to say that. Until they do, Guess Who's Coming To Dinner will continue to seem weirdly relevant. Which seems impossible, of course, but there's a lot of things going on these days that shouldn't be happening, but somehow are.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
A PROFOUND SENSE OF LOSS, NARROWLY AVERTED
There are days that we all remember, days that change everything. The Kennedy assassination. The Challenger explosion. 9/11.
And, most sobering of all, the day Ryan Phillippe suggested he may or may not quit acting.
When The New York Post--certainly one of the nation's finest news-gathering organizations--reported a half-assed quote from Phillippe about being so sick of the paparazzi surrounding him twenty-four hours a day that he was thinking of getting out of the acting game, the first thought that crossed the minds of every right-thinking citizen was, "NOOO! We can't live in a world in which Ryan Phillippe's shimmering star presence no longer illuminates our hearts and movie screens."
Well, okay, maybe that wasn't our first collective thought. First it was, "Who the hell is Ryan Phillippe again?" Then, after a quick stop at IMDb, just to confirm that, Flags Of Our Fathers aside, the guy hasn't really been in much of note, we thought, "Wait, paparazzi are stalking this guy?" Then we went about our business. Come to think of it, we didn't really care about Phillippe one way or the other.
But if we had, his rep was quick to inform Access Hollywood--a show so distinguished it should have won a string of Peabody awards by now, assuming they're giving out Peabodys for total crap these days--that no, no, Ryan's cool, he doesn't want to quit acting, he's just looking to branch out. Maybe some producing, directing, that sort of thing. So, sort of like his one-time director Clint Eastwood, only with zero screen presence and marginal talent.
The point is, despite our momentary panic at the thought of losing this vast talent, our screens will continue to be filled with all the Phillippe we can stand, whatever form it may take. Breathe easy, America!
And, most sobering of all, the day Ryan Phillippe suggested he may or may not quit acting.
When The New York Post--certainly one of the nation's finest news-gathering organizations--reported a half-assed quote from Phillippe about being so sick of the paparazzi surrounding him twenty-four hours a day that he was thinking of getting out of the acting game, the first thought that crossed the minds of every right-thinking citizen was, "NOOO! We can't live in a world in which Ryan Phillippe's shimmering star presence no longer illuminates our hearts and movie screens."
Well, okay, maybe that wasn't our first collective thought. First it was, "Who the hell is Ryan Phillippe again?" Then, after a quick stop at IMDb, just to confirm that, Flags Of Our Fathers aside, the guy hasn't really been in much of note, we thought, "Wait, paparazzi are stalking this guy?" Then we went about our business. Come to think of it, we didn't really care about Phillippe one way or the other.
But if we had, his rep was quick to inform Access Hollywood--a show so distinguished it should have won a string of Peabody awards by now, assuming they're giving out Peabodys for total crap these days--that no, no, Ryan's cool, he doesn't want to quit acting, he's just looking to branch out. Maybe some producing, directing, that sort of thing. So, sort of like his one-time director Clint Eastwood, only with zero screen presence and marginal talent.
The point is, despite our momentary panic at the thought of losing this vast talent, our screens will continue to be filled with all the Phillippe we can stand, whatever form it may take. Breathe easy, America!
Saturday, April 23, 2011
AMBULATORY PENIS: A CAUTIONARY TALE
You could feel sorry for him, up to a point. Life as a giant walking dick couldn't be easy, after all. He was what he was, and sometimes--again, he couldn't help it--his cream would spurt all over the place. That was the nature of things for Ambulatory Penis.
No one said he should hide himself away. But hanging around the playground? Not only asking kids about his cream, but forcing them to taste it?
There are rules to society. Ambulatory Penis found out too late, sobbing uncontrollably as he was hauled off in handcuffs, his only words to the press a hushed, "I'm only as God made me." Despite the rumors of his dalliance with Fruit Pie The Magician, he was a first-time offender, and the judge was prepared to be lenient. Still, after all he'd been through, Ambulatory Penis kept babbling at the arraignment about his creamy, creamy filling, and the punishment was harsh: Chemical sterilization.
His jail time was relatively brief, but as a registered sex offender, he found housing hard to come by. He was seen rarely in public, his circumsised head hung low in shame. His enforced flaccid state made him physically unattractive, and when he passed away, his very name was a joke.
Still, some people recall...well, perhaps the details are too painful. But if they try, they see him as he was, and remember.
No one said he should hide himself away. But hanging around the playground? Not only asking kids about his cream, but forcing them to taste it?
There are rules to society. Ambulatory Penis found out too late, sobbing uncontrollably as he was hauled off in handcuffs, his only words to the press a hushed, "I'm only as God made me." Despite the rumors of his dalliance with Fruit Pie The Magician, he was a first-time offender, and the judge was prepared to be lenient. Still, after all he'd been through, Ambulatory Penis kept babbling at the arraignment about his creamy, creamy filling, and the punishment was harsh: Chemical sterilization.
His jail time was relatively brief, but as a registered sex offender, he found housing hard to come by. He was seen rarely in public, his circumsised head hung low in shame. His enforced flaccid state made him physically unattractive, and when he passed away, his very name was a joke.
Still, some people recall...well, perhaps the details are too painful. But if they try, they see him as he was, and remember.
I TOLD YOU EVERYTHING I POSSIBLY CAN
They're bad songs, most of them--Macho Man, Hold The Line, Two Out Of Three Ain't Bad--but they still get played with alarming frequency, in department stores or waiting rooms or dozens of different places. They're just sort of there, part of the collective consciousness.
Yet hearing them now, in pristine digital sound, doesn't seem right. These songs were made to be heard on AM radio. Specifically, they should be wafting from a transistor radio carried by someone on the bus, or the tinny factory speakers in my brother's Chevette. I should be moving forward, past endless barren cornfields, the sky overcast, all branches bare.
Where would I be going? To school, to a movie, simply for a ride? No matter. The important thing is, sooner or later, I would be returning to the house where I lived, to the fuel-oil stove and a casserole-based dinner, to the 19" Quasar which was always on, even when nobody was watching, to the sounds of conversation. Whatever I was doing, eventually I'd go home.
What was I? Twelve? At that age, I still seemed to be living the life I always had, the life I assumed would continue. It seemed as though the warmth and comfort of this particular place would always exist. Yeah, sure, there was a wider world out there, and some day I'd be hurled into it, but that was so far away it was beyond imagination. This was my life, my world.
Things changed. Gradually at first, and I tried to hold tight to the only things I knew. Soon enough, though, the ground erupted and I fell, consumed by overpowering depression , unable to function in any meaningful way until my late twenties. Then I got better. Sort of. I reentered the world.
Marriage. Divorce. Sleepless nights and the occasional doomed relationship. Another relationship, this one I thought for real, but it ended, too. My dad died, and my oldest brother, then Mom. That home I once knew was well and truly gone. Images from the past would blip into my brain and I'd chase them away, unable to process them.
Through it all, I endured. I found a path and took it, winding up here, with a house of my own, three cats and a dog. And Janie, of course, who accepts me for what I am, even when I burst into song for no particular reason. There are familiar rituals, constant conversation, things to do. There are ups and downs, but through it all, there is love.
At long, long last, when I walk through the door every night, it feels like coming home.
Yet hearing them now, in pristine digital sound, doesn't seem right. These songs were made to be heard on AM radio. Specifically, they should be wafting from a transistor radio carried by someone on the bus, or the tinny factory speakers in my brother's Chevette. I should be moving forward, past endless barren cornfields, the sky overcast, all branches bare.
Where would I be going? To school, to a movie, simply for a ride? No matter. The important thing is, sooner or later, I would be returning to the house where I lived, to the fuel-oil stove and a casserole-based dinner, to the 19" Quasar which was always on, even when nobody was watching, to the sounds of conversation. Whatever I was doing, eventually I'd go home.
What was I? Twelve? At that age, I still seemed to be living the life I always had, the life I assumed would continue. It seemed as though the warmth and comfort of this particular place would always exist. Yeah, sure, there was a wider world out there, and some day I'd be hurled into it, but that was so far away it was beyond imagination. This was my life, my world.
Things changed. Gradually at first, and I tried to hold tight to the only things I knew. Soon enough, though, the ground erupted and I fell, consumed by overpowering depression , unable to function in any meaningful way until my late twenties. Then I got better. Sort of. I reentered the world.
Marriage. Divorce. Sleepless nights and the occasional doomed relationship. Another relationship, this one I thought for real, but it ended, too. My dad died, and my oldest brother, then Mom. That home I once knew was well and truly gone. Images from the past would blip into my brain and I'd chase them away, unable to process them.
Through it all, I endured. I found a path and took it, winding up here, with a house of my own, three cats and a dog. And Janie, of course, who accepts me for what I am, even when I burst into song for no particular reason. There are familiar rituals, constant conversation, things to do. There are ups and downs, but through it all, there is love.
At long, long last, when I walk through the door every night, it feels like coming home.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
THE DAY WILL COME WHEN OUR CHILDREN WILL ASK HOW WE AS A NATION ALLOWED JONAH HILL TO BECOME A STAR, AND WE WILL LOOK AWAY, ASHAMED OF OUR COWARDICE
Say, remember that box-office smash and all-time classic movie Get Him To The Greek? Do you remember seeing it and thinking, "Ah yes, Russell Brand and Jonah Hill. Now there's a comedy team for the ages"? Or do you, more likely, remember seeing the ads for it and thinking, "Yeah, maybe I'll catch up with it on cable or something"?
Get Him To The Greek wasn't a flop, but it didn't exactly set the world on fire, either. And considering that it cost way more than necessary to produce, and a whole lot more to market, you might think that Hollywood studios would be in no hurry to offer ridiculous deals to its two stars. You would, obviously, be wrong--why else would I be writing this thing?
Thus, the portly, non-photogenic Hill is currently shooting 21 Jump Street, a presumably comedic updating of the painfully earnest Johnny Depp TV series from the late eighties. This project has been in development forever it seems, and at no time has anyone connected to it bothered asking why the fuck they're bothering with a movie version of a TV show that nobody really remembers. More to the point, no studio execs have ever bothered asking why they're funneling obscene sums of money into Hill's production company in the first place. (He's not just bringing his unique brand of anti-charisma to 21 Jump Street as an actor--he's writing and producing the damned thing as well.)
Nothing against Hill, who was reasonably funny in Superbad, but that's just it--his entire career seems to be based on the success of that one movie. On the basis of that, I can understand giving the guy some gigs as a character actor. But starring roles? And his own production company? Nobody ever gave anything like that to the guys from Porky's, and that movie made a lot more money than Superbad. But then, that was made when studio execs had some sense of perspective. (When the sweaty, coked-out mindset of eighties Hollywood seems like model of common sense, things have deteriorated beyond salvation.)
Even more baffling than the ascent of Hill is the treatment given to his one-time co-star, Russell Brand. When Get Him To The Greek opened, we were deluged with articles treating Brand as a star. Not as someone on the brink of stardom, but a full-fledged movie star, despite the fact that he hadn't really done anything. (Yeah, he was a big deal back in England, but so was the guy who played Selwyn Froggitt, and nobody ever put him on the cover of Rolling Stone.) And sure enough, Brand was soon given the lead in the remake of Arthur, a movie even more deeply unnecessary than a redo of 21 Jump Street. When that movie was released two weeks ago, Warner Bros. made a half-hearted attempt to inflate the weekend grosses, but to no avail: it's a flop.
Rather than admitting their mistake, or at least pretending the whole thing never happened, Warners is reacting to Brand's lack of success by offering him a production deal of his own, as well as the lead in a comedy in which he'll play an arrogant soccer star who, through tiresome plot mechanics, has to--wait, you've never heard this one before--coach a team of rag-tag youths.
It's perhaps unfair to single out Hill and Brand as examples of everything wrong with movies today. The problem isn't with them as performers so much as the mindset of the studio functionaries who keep greenlighting this shit. There's virtually no way any of the announced vehicles for these two gentlemen could possibly be any good, and audiences have consistently shown indifference to their presences, yet here they are, or others like them, taking up space at the multiplexes with movies nobody wants to see.
Ticket prices keep going up, ticket sales keep going down. Can't anybody in Hollywood read a graph?
Get Him To The Greek wasn't a flop, but it didn't exactly set the world on fire, either. And considering that it cost way more than necessary to produce, and a whole lot more to market, you might think that Hollywood studios would be in no hurry to offer ridiculous deals to its two stars. You would, obviously, be wrong--why else would I be writing this thing?
Thus, the portly, non-photogenic Hill is currently shooting 21 Jump Street, a presumably comedic updating of the painfully earnest Johnny Depp TV series from the late eighties. This project has been in development forever it seems, and at no time has anyone connected to it bothered asking why the fuck they're bothering with a movie version of a TV show that nobody really remembers. More to the point, no studio execs have ever bothered asking why they're funneling obscene sums of money into Hill's production company in the first place. (He's not just bringing his unique brand of anti-charisma to 21 Jump Street as an actor--he's writing and producing the damned thing as well.)
Nothing against Hill, who was reasonably funny in Superbad, but that's just it--his entire career seems to be based on the success of that one movie. On the basis of that, I can understand giving the guy some gigs as a character actor. But starring roles? And his own production company? Nobody ever gave anything like that to the guys from Porky's, and that movie made a lot more money than Superbad. But then, that was made when studio execs had some sense of perspective. (When the sweaty, coked-out mindset of eighties Hollywood seems like model of common sense, things have deteriorated beyond salvation.)
Even more baffling than the ascent of Hill is the treatment given to his one-time co-star, Russell Brand. When Get Him To The Greek opened, we were deluged with articles treating Brand as a star. Not as someone on the brink of stardom, but a full-fledged movie star, despite the fact that he hadn't really done anything. (Yeah, he was a big deal back in England, but so was the guy who played Selwyn Froggitt, and nobody ever put him on the cover of Rolling Stone.) And sure enough, Brand was soon given the lead in the remake of Arthur, a movie even more deeply unnecessary than a redo of 21 Jump Street. When that movie was released two weeks ago, Warner Bros. made a half-hearted attempt to inflate the weekend grosses, but to no avail: it's a flop.
Rather than admitting their mistake, or at least pretending the whole thing never happened, Warners is reacting to Brand's lack of success by offering him a production deal of his own, as well as the lead in a comedy in which he'll play an arrogant soccer star who, through tiresome plot mechanics, has to--wait, you've never heard this one before--coach a team of rag-tag youths.
It's perhaps unfair to single out Hill and Brand as examples of everything wrong with movies today. The problem isn't with them as performers so much as the mindset of the studio functionaries who keep greenlighting this shit. There's virtually no way any of the announced vehicles for these two gentlemen could possibly be any good, and audiences have consistently shown indifference to their presences, yet here they are, or others like them, taking up space at the multiplexes with movies nobody wants to see.
Ticket prices keep going up, ticket sales keep going down. Can't anybody in Hollywood read a graph?
Friday, April 15, 2011
ALL NECESSITIES PROVIDED
I remember reading an interview with the great director Sidney Lumet, who died this weekend at the age of 86, in which he was asked if he had a particularly identifiable style.
No, he said, because he believed every story had a particular way it needed to be told, and his job as director was to find it. As example, he cited one of his best-known movies, Network. Many scenes he chose to shoot in an almost verite style, the better to establish the reality of the world he's presenting. He realized, however, that certain individual scenes would seem ridiculous if shot in a naturalistic manner. So these scenes have their own style, whether over-the-top flamboyant, or rich with the shadowy menace of classic noir, or whatever.
The trick was deciding how far to push these individual scenes for maximum impact while not allowing the different styles to clash with each other, to make sure the film stood as its own fully-integrated entity, not just a collection of scenes. And if you've seen Network, you know Lumet more than met his goals. You can dislike the movie itself, mostly due to Paddy Chayefsky's declamatory script, but it's impossible to quibble with Lumet's handling of it--purely as a piece of filmmaking, it is absolutely brilliant.
As was so much of what he did--Twelve Angry Men, Serpico, Dog Day Afternoon, Prince Of The City, Before The Devil Knows You're Dead. He was incredibly prolific, and he made a few also-rans, as well as a number of outright losers. (If you have a few spare hours sometime, ask me what I think of The Wiz.) Good, bad or great, everything he did was the work of a man who above all had the intention of telling you a story. He was something rarer and more valuable than an artist. He was a professional.
No, he said, because he believed every story had a particular way it needed to be told, and his job as director was to find it. As example, he cited one of his best-known movies, Network. Many scenes he chose to shoot in an almost verite style, the better to establish the reality of the world he's presenting. He realized, however, that certain individual scenes would seem ridiculous if shot in a naturalistic manner. So these scenes have their own style, whether over-the-top flamboyant, or rich with the shadowy menace of classic noir, or whatever.
The trick was deciding how far to push these individual scenes for maximum impact while not allowing the different styles to clash with each other, to make sure the film stood as its own fully-integrated entity, not just a collection of scenes. And if you've seen Network, you know Lumet more than met his goals. You can dislike the movie itself, mostly due to Paddy Chayefsky's declamatory script, but it's impossible to quibble with Lumet's handling of it--purely as a piece of filmmaking, it is absolutely brilliant.
As was so much of what he did--Twelve Angry Men, Serpico, Dog Day Afternoon, Prince Of The City, Before The Devil Knows You're Dead. He was incredibly prolific, and he made a few also-rans, as well as a number of outright losers. (If you have a few spare hours sometime, ask me what I think of The Wiz.) Good, bad or great, everything he did was the work of a man who above all had the intention of telling you a story. He was something rarer and more valuable than an artist. He was a professional.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
WOOFS OF SORROW, WAGS OF JOY
It was a year ago today, on what would have been my mom's eighty-second birthday, that I somewhat reluctantly drove down to the Animal Rescue League to see this beagle puppy Tabbatha had told me about. I had no intention of bringing it home with me, but as we all know, the puppy had other ideas.
And Isabella T. Beagle (there's nothing excessively cutesy about that name, is there?) has brought me more joy in that year than I would have thought possible. She does this in all the standard dog ways--bouncing, rolling, barking unexpectedly, deploying the big brown soulful eyes to get whatever she wants.
Mostly, though, she's just there when I need her. I mean, cats are great and all, and for that matter, so are girlfriends, but there are some problems in life that can only be solved by hugging a dog. And the great thing about Bella is, after a minute or so of hug-time, she starts squirming furiously, as if to say, "OK, sad time's over. Let's go play." And she's right, of course--after hugging her, I always feel better, and playing with her always makes me happy.
Which isn't to say she can't be a pain in the ass, because she can. Janie and the cats would all be perfectly happy if she wasn't around. On the other hand, there was the time Janie was scared to the point of crying, and Bella gently climbed onto her lap and carefully licked away her tears. And though Staley--who, incidentally, is one of the greatest cats in the history of the species--doesn't exactly like the dog, the two of them are nuzzling each other even as I write this.
The main thing bout Bella--look, I'm kind of reluctant to bring this up, because it sounds like so much sentimental bullshit, or feel-good semi-mystical hooha, or something. But it's to do with the day she came into my life. I'm quite sure Tabbatha wasn't giving any thought to the fact that I was going through my annual Mom's Birthday Sadness when she called to tell me about this adorable puppy. That was on a Friday night, and I didn't care to head out that night, waiting instead until the next day to take a look--April 10th.
As I drove home with this tiny, helpless beagle snuggled against my side--the last time she'd be so calm in my presence!--the day was suddenly transformed. No longer would April 10th be a signifier of the loss of the most important person in my life. It would be a day celebrating a new chapter, a day of joy, of happiness.
Of life.
And Isabella T. Beagle (there's nothing excessively cutesy about that name, is there?) has brought me more joy in that year than I would have thought possible. She does this in all the standard dog ways--bouncing, rolling, barking unexpectedly, deploying the big brown soulful eyes to get whatever she wants.
Mostly, though, she's just there when I need her. I mean, cats are great and all, and for that matter, so are girlfriends, but there are some problems in life that can only be solved by hugging a dog. And the great thing about Bella is, after a minute or so of hug-time, she starts squirming furiously, as if to say, "OK, sad time's over. Let's go play." And she's right, of course--after hugging her, I always feel better, and playing with her always makes me happy.
Which isn't to say she can't be a pain in the ass, because she can. Janie and the cats would all be perfectly happy if she wasn't around. On the other hand, there was the time Janie was scared to the point of crying, and Bella gently climbed onto her lap and carefully licked away her tears. And though Staley--who, incidentally, is one of the greatest cats in the history of the species--doesn't exactly like the dog, the two of them are nuzzling each other even as I write this.
The main thing bout Bella--look, I'm kind of reluctant to bring this up, because it sounds like so much sentimental bullshit, or feel-good semi-mystical hooha, or something. But it's to do with the day she came into my life. I'm quite sure Tabbatha wasn't giving any thought to the fact that I was going through my annual Mom's Birthday Sadness when she called to tell me about this adorable puppy. That was on a Friday night, and I didn't care to head out that night, waiting instead until the next day to take a look--April 10th.
As I drove home with this tiny, helpless beagle snuggled against my side--the last time she'd be so calm in my presence!--the day was suddenly transformed. No longer would April 10th be a signifier of the loss of the most important person in my life. It would be a day celebrating a new chapter, a day of joy, of happiness.
Of life.
Tuesday, April 05, 2011
WON'T SOMEBODY THINK OF THE CHILDREN?
I'm no prude, okay? Nor am I some Bill O'Reilly conservative type, or a fundamen6talist Christian nutjob. Nonetheless, I must ask: Do we need jokey cameos from Hugh Hefner in a movie aimed at kids?
I'm speaking, of course, of Hop, the new animated/live-action mongrel that is, as the ads proclaim with a certain level of pride, "from the director of Alvin & The Chipmunks," which you may remember as the movie in which semi-beloved characters from an earlier era are reduced to eating shit and conspiring to get their human buddy laid. So expectations are already low.
Still, this is a movie about the Easter Bunny, which is one of those childhood concepts that ceases to have any significance once you reach the age of, I dunno, seven or so. So presumably, if you're making a movie about the Easter Bunny, you're setting your sights on really young kids as your target audience.
Now I realize that when millions and millions of dollars are spent on a movie, it has to try to reach as large an audience as possible. Presumably the filmmakers wanted to provide some sort of entertainment for the adults who are accompanying all those kids. They could have done this by creating a well-crafted, witty film that would enrapture everybody, the kind of thing Pixar can do without even trying.
Or they could take the most cynical route imaginable and make a bunch of cheap semi-dirty jokes, trot out the likes of Hefner and the deplorable Chelsea Handler, and give audiences a cameo from David Hasselhoff because...wait. Why would you do any of that? Even for b-level celebrities, haven't Handler and Hasselhoff long passed their sell-by date? Would anybody in any audience conceivably welcome their presence?
Probably not, but it's not like the maker of Hop give a sweet shit. If they did, they would have made a good movie.
I'm speaking, of course, of Hop, the new animated/live-action mongrel that is, as the ads proclaim with a certain level of pride, "from the director of Alvin & The Chipmunks," which you may remember as the movie in which semi-beloved characters from an earlier era are reduced to eating shit and conspiring to get their human buddy laid. So expectations are already low.
Still, this is a movie about the Easter Bunny, which is one of those childhood concepts that ceases to have any significance once you reach the age of, I dunno, seven or so. So presumably, if you're making a movie about the Easter Bunny, you're setting your sights on really young kids as your target audience.
Now I realize that when millions and millions of dollars are spent on a movie, it has to try to reach as large an audience as possible. Presumably the filmmakers wanted to provide some sort of entertainment for the adults who are accompanying all those kids. They could have done this by creating a well-crafted, witty film that would enrapture everybody, the kind of thing Pixar can do without even trying.
Or they could take the most cynical route imaginable and make a bunch of cheap semi-dirty jokes, trot out the likes of Hefner and the deplorable Chelsea Handler, and give audiences a cameo from David Hasselhoff because...wait. Why would you do any of that? Even for b-level celebrities, haven't Handler and Hasselhoff long passed their sell-by date? Would anybody in any audience conceivably welcome their presence?
Probably not, but it's not like the maker of Hop give a sweet shit. If they did, they would have made a good movie.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
CATS! ALSO, DOG!
Do any of you--specifically, the two remaining readers I still have--remember the old days of this site? When leftist political screeds (laced, sadly, with frequent Star Wars analogies) would alternate with painfully detailed explorations of the minutia of my personal life? Man, with a surefire combo like that, no wonder this thing took off!
I mention this because, first of all, it seems weird that I never even mention things like the assault on Libya by The Coalition Of The Still-Willing, or the non-existent economic recovery, or radiation leaking over from Japan. The world could end tomorrow, and I'd still spend all my time here complaining about that stupid fucking Spider-Man musical.
What's even more mystifying is my inability or unwillingness to write about my life. That is, my life now; God knows, I've spent plenty of time turning over the rocks of my past. (Talking about past suicide attempts: a positive way to embiggen your readership!) I mean, for crying out loud, she's been here for weeks now and I still haven't said a word about new cat Cookie.
Cookie is Janie's cat--because Janie has officially moved in, and hey, I haven't mentioned that, either--and, man oh Manischewitz, she's the furriest cat I've ever known. But the thing is, unlike other recent feline addition Staley--who I should also talk about more often, because she's awesome--Cookie barely sheds at all. If she sleeps on my pillow, I'll be able to get up the next morning breathing clear. If Staley's next to my head all night, I'll spend the day hacking up hairballs.
Since there are now three cats roaming around the house (beloved malcontent Delmar is still here, of course, and dealing with all this as best he can), the poor beagle is forced to spend more time in her kennel, just to allow the cats some wandering around time without a rambunctious dog trying to stomp them.
At first, I was kind of opposed to this idea. Isn't it terrible to confine a dog for long periods of time? But actually, as many dog trainers can tell you, it is in fact a good idea. Isabella loves her kennel--she jumps into it willingly, and immediately curls up. It's kind of her home inside her home, and more importantly, it helps establish a routine for her. There are rules around here, just like any other household, and this is one Bella is expected to follow. When she obeys, she is rewarded with love. And biscuits, which frankly count for more in her world.
It occurs to me that if Bella has rules she is expected to follow, and if Janie and I have certain responsibilities we have to carry out each day, the cats are pretty much free to do whatever the hell they want, any time of day. As they would no doubt tell you, this is part of the natural order of things.
I mention this because, first of all, it seems weird that I never even mention things like the assault on Libya by The Coalition Of The Still-Willing, or the non-existent economic recovery, or radiation leaking over from Japan. The world could end tomorrow, and I'd still spend all my time here complaining about that stupid fucking Spider-Man musical.
What's even more mystifying is my inability or unwillingness to write about my life. That is, my life now; God knows, I've spent plenty of time turning over the rocks of my past. (Talking about past suicide attempts: a positive way to embiggen your readership!) I mean, for crying out loud, she's been here for weeks now and I still haven't said a word about new cat Cookie.
Cookie is Janie's cat--because Janie has officially moved in, and hey, I haven't mentioned that, either--and, man oh Manischewitz, she's the furriest cat I've ever known. But the thing is, unlike other recent feline addition Staley--who I should also talk about more often, because she's awesome--Cookie barely sheds at all. If she sleeps on my pillow, I'll be able to get up the next morning breathing clear. If Staley's next to my head all night, I'll spend the day hacking up hairballs.
Since there are now three cats roaming around the house (beloved malcontent Delmar is still here, of course, and dealing with all this as best he can), the poor beagle is forced to spend more time in her kennel, just to allow the cats some wandering around time without a rambunctious dog trying to stomp them.
At first, I was kind of opposed to this idea. Isn't it terrible to confine a dog for long periods of time? But actually, as many dog trainers can tell you, it is in fact a good idea. Isabella loves her kennel--she jumps into it willingly, and immediately curls up. It's kind of her home inside her home, and more importantly, it helps establish a routine for her. There are rules around here, just like any other household, and this is one Bella is expected to follow. When she obeys, she is rewarded with love. And biscuits, which frankly count for more in her world.
It occurs to me that if Bella has rules she is expected to follow, and if Janie and I have certain responsibilities we have to carry out each day, the cats are pretty much free to do whatever the hell they want, any time of day. As they would no doubt tell you, this is part of the natural order of things.
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