When my ex-wife told me she would be back in Iowa headlining a concert, there was no question in my mind that I'd attend. The date of the concert was on a weekend I was scheduled to work, but I could have easily signed up for PTO. But as the date approached, I never got around to doing that, or booking a motel, or buying tickets for the event.
I didn't go, is what I'm saying.
Sue Ellen was--presumably still is--a wonderful singer, and of all the things I miss about our time together, hearing her perform is high on the list. And yet, such was the nature of our relationship, even that was a point of contention. I thought she had the potential to turn pro, and pushed her to get more gigs and record. But she was ambivalent about performing, for reasons that I dismissed because...because...
Because I was an asshole?
Well, yeah. On the other hand, it wasn't just me, because she...Look, if I told you everything that went down between us, what we did to each other, you would most assuredly think much less of the both of us. Bu that's not the only thing in the mix. There were abundant good times, too, and even some of the shitty things we did ultimately gave us the tools to navigate the rest of our lives more successfully.
I haven't even been in the same room as her since the hearing at which my lawyer advised against eye contact, and as everything about this sentence tells you, it didn't end well. But we eventually reconnected over the phone--her safely in Maryland, me far away in Iowa--and we became friends all over again. We talked almost daily for awhile, and she was the person who encouraged me to start this very site.
We're good now, as good as can be, considering. But to actually see her again, even from a seat in the audience, in the town we once called home...there are about a hundred thousand ways I can see that scenario playing out, emotion-wise, and even the best possible outcome could only be described as melancholy.
Maybe we'll see each other again, some distant day in the future. Until then, the past is still in the past, and it probably needs to stay there.
Monday, May 14, 2018
Sunday, December 31, 2017
WHEN I WAS YOUNGER, SO MUCH YOUNGER THAN TODAY
I've told people the stories, of the well-liquored crowd gathering in the Vegas streets as midnight approached, of the Elvis impersonator at the wedding chapel whose singing made my soon-to-be wife wince, of the taxi ride back to the hotel as fireworks lit up the sky.
These are the stories of my wedding night, twenty years ago today.
Thing is, though, they seem to exist mostly as stories, not as actual, tangible memories. Whenever I tell anybody about that night, or the brief years of married life that followed, it's like I'm reciting lines, an actor late in the run of the play, no longer capable of feeling the meaning behind the words.
Part of that is simply time. This happened a long time ago, and a lot has happened since. Memories fade, details disappear, all to make way for newer memories. The human brain only has so much storage capacity.
Sure, but I can remember the late afternoon light falling through the windows in the mental ward of the University Hospital in Iowa City, and the Phil Collins video on the TV, and the juice boxes that accompanied meals. I can still feel the intense heat and smell the urine-soaked floors of the Port Authority men's room from my first trip to New York City. For that matter, I still vividly recall the crisp air and overcast sky on my first date with Sue Ellen, before I was foolish enough to propose, before she accepted, before we found ourselves in Vegas.
After that, though, it all gets hazy. Is it because I know how the story ends? Have I distanced myself as a form of protection? Or was it maybe just not as big a deal as it seemed at the time? I'd never been in love before, and I thought it was supposed to last forever, but really, it was only five years out of a life that has lasted fifty-two years. Maybe it was just a blip along the way.
We're still friends. We don't talk as much as we used to, but that's okay. We have different lives, and as time goes on, it's become more obvious that we don't really have all that much in common. But I suspect we have similar memories of that night, and of all our time together. It was a thing that happened, but it was another time, another place.
Another life.
These are the stories of my wedding night, twenty years ago today.
Thing is, though, they seem to exist mostly as stories, not as actual, tangible memories. Whenever I tell anybody about that night, or the brief years of married life that followed, it's like I'm reciting lines, an actor late in the run of the play, no longer capable of feeling the meaning behind the words.
Part of that is simply time. This happened a long time ago, and a lot has happened since. Memories fade, details disappear, all to make way for newer memories. The human brain only has so much storage capacity.
Sure, but I can remember the late afternoon light falling through the windows in the mental ward of the University Hospital in Iowa City, and the Phil Collins video on the TV, and the juice boxes that accompanied meals. I can still feel the intense heat and smell the urine-soaked floors of the Port Authority men's room from my first trip to New York City. For that matter, I still vividly recall the crisp air and overcast sky on my first date with Sue Ellen, before I was foolish enough to propose, before she accepted, before we found ourselves in Vegas.
After that, though, it all gets hazy. Is it because I know how the story ends? Have I distanced myself as a form of protection? Or was it maybe just not as big a deal as it seemed at the time? I'd never been in love before, and I thought it was supposed to last forever, but really, it was only five years out of a life that has lasted fifty-two years. Maybe it was just a blip along the way.
We're still friends. We don't talk as much as we used to, but that's okay. We have different lives, and as time goes on, it's become more obvious that we don't really have all that much in common. But I suspect we have similar memories of that night, and of all our time together. It was a thing that happened, but it was another time, another place.
Another life.
Saturday, October 07, 2017
PEOPLE TELL ME IT DON'T TURN NO MORE
The first person in my life to die was Uncle Burr. I don't even remember how old I was, but young enough that Mom decided it would be for the best if I didn't attend the funeral. Everyone else did, though--on that day I came home from school to a plate full of brownies, a new comic book and a note from Mom. I may not have grasped the concept of death, but hey--brownies!
The thing is, I don't remember Uncle Burr. I remember that he existed, I remember that he and Auntie Alice would come to visit once in awhile, and they'd stay in Grandma's trailer, right across the driveway from our house, but there's a hole where the actual man should be. My memories of him are like a bad, smudgy carbon copy--a memory of a memory.
Even my Dad, who died twenty-one years ago, is no longer as active a presence in my mind as he should be. I recall his blue chambray shirts, his fondness for Grain Belt and the sound of his voice, but I have to work a little harder to remember what he was actually like, to remember him doing or saying something specific. Dad, my brother Keith, even Mom, in whose memory I started this site--yeah, they're there, but not all the time.
On the other hand, Walter Becker and Tom Petty, guys I never met, never had a chance of meeting--they won't ever leave my memory.
Partly it's the music, of course--there's always a Steely Dan or Petty tune playing in my head. But I only saw The Dan live one time, and Becker's hilarious, rambling patter ("I'd like to invite you all--figuratively, not literally--back to my hotel room for a drink"), his old-man sweat pants and countless dazzling guitar solos will stay with me, even as I forget memories I shared with actual family and friends.
And Tom Petty, well, I mean: Damn The Torpedoes dropped like a big-ass bomb just as I was entering high school, and its string of perfect singles--Refugee, Don't Do Me Like That, Here Comes My Girl--tracked one of the most difficult periods of my life, and the depression I spiraled into for most of the eighties was made largely bearable by Hard Promises, Long After Dark and Southern Accents.
Our cultural heroes become a part of us, whether we're telling their jokes, singing their lyrics or watching their movies. They matter, and when they die, it's natural to grieve--if not for the actual person, then for what they brought to our lives, and what they can never bring again. Or to put it another way: I loved my mom, but she didn't write American Girl.
The thing is, I don't remember Uncle Burr. I remember that he existed, I remember that he and Auntie Alice would come to visit once in awhile, and they'd stay in Grandma's trailer, right across the driveway from our house, but there's a hole where the actual man should be. My memories of him are like a bad, smudgy carbon copy--a memory of a memory.
Even my Dad, who died twenty-one years ago, is no longer as active a presence in my mind as he should be. I recall his blue chambray shirts, his fondness for Grain Belt and the sound of his voice, but I have to work a little harder to remember what he was actually like, to remember him doing or saying something specific. Dad, my brother Keith, even Mom, in whose memory I started this site--yeah, they're there, but not all the time.
On the other hand, Walter Becker and Tom Petty, guys I never met, never had a chance of meeting--they won't ever leave my memory.
Partly it's the music, of course--there's always a Steely Dan or Petty tune playing in my head. But I only saw The Dan live one time, and Becker's hilarious, rambling patter ("I'd like to invite you all--figuratively, not literally--back to my hotel room for a drink"), his old-man sweat pants and countless dazzling guitar solos will stay with me, even as I forget memories I shared with actual family and friends.
And Tom Petty, well, I mean: Damn The Torpedoes dropped like a big-ass bomb just as I was entering high school, and its string of perfect singles--Refugee, Don't Do Me Like That, Here Comes My Girl--tracked one of the most difficult periods of my life, and the depression I spiraled into for most of the eighties was made largely bearable by Hard Promises, Long After Dark and Southern Accents.
Our cultural heroes become a part of us, whether we're telling their jokes, singing their lyrics or watching their movies. They matter, and when they die, it's natural to grieve--if not for the actual person, then for what they brought to our lives, and what they can never bring again. Or to put it another way: I loved my mom, but she didn't write American Girl.
Tuesday, July 25, 2017
I LOVE BEING REDUCED TO A CULTURAL STEREOTYPE
In the online world, things get recommended to you for reasons you don't always understand (No, Amazon, I do not want the soundtrack to Xanadu, so please stop trying to push it on me.) In this case it was Google that thought I would be interested in the trailer for this new movie.
That, uh, looks a little familiar, doesn't it? I mean, the specifics of the plot and characters may be somewhat different, but in form and intent, doesn't it seem a lot like this?
Look, I realize that not every New York-set comedy/drama is automatically ripping off Woody Allen. I haven't seen Person To Person. Sure, everything about the visuals in this trailer, from the staging to the framing of the shots, is, shall we say, reminiscent of the style Allen worked out with cinematographers Gordon Willis and Carlo di Palma, just as the clipped pacing strongly reminds one of the cutting style of Allen's former editor Susan Morse. But it's just a trailer. Maybe the movie's different. (Louis C. K., incidentally, hired Morse to edit one season of his series Louie, but hey, I'm sure that was pure coincidence.)
I have, however, seen Frances Ha...
...and yeah, it's a really good movie, and the focus and characters are different, but come on.
And then there's the most egregious example of all.
i mean, they're not even trying to hide what they're doing in this case, right down to the use of white-on-black titles and old timey music. The difference, of course, is that Annie Hall is prickly and uncomfortable while When Harry Met Sally is cuddly and lovable.
And it's weird that people rip off Allen by making generic "neurotic New Yorkers" or "bittersweet romance" movies, because Allen himself has made relatively few of those. He has one of the most recognizable visual and verbal styles of any filmmaker in history--at his worst, they become mannerisms--but he's really quite diverse in his subject matter. Many of his best films--Zelig, The Purple Rose Of Cairo, Alice--are fantasies, or memory pieces like Radio Days and Cafe Society. Some of his best comedies, like Manhattan Murder Mystery or Bullets Over Broadway, are pure door-slamming farce, but nobody tries to emulate that.
No, they go for the things that are stereotypical "Woody Allen" without seeming to realize he's a filmmaker, not a brand. The only other director who has been stolen from so shamelessly for so long is Steven Spielberg, everything from Cocoon to Super 8, and like Allen, Spielberg has made relatively few movies in what is thought to be his signature style.
Allen has a new movie, Wonder Wheel, coming out later this year. He's in his eighties, and his best days are almost certainly behind him, but even if this one sucks at a Curse Of The Jade Scorpion level, at least the only person ripping him off this time will be himself.
That, uh, looks a little familiar, doesn't it? I mean, the specifics of the plot and characters may be somewhat different, but in form and intent, doesn't it seem a lot like this?
Look, I realize that not every New York-set comedy/drama is automatically ripping off Woody Allen. I haven't seen Person To Person. Sure, everything about the visuals in this trailer, from the staging to the framing of the shots, is, shall we say, reminiscent of the style Allen worked out with cinematographers Gordon Willis and Carlo di Palma, just as the clipped pacing strongly reminds one of the cutting style of Allen's former editor Susan Morse. But it's just a trailer. Maybe the movie's different. (Louis C. K., incidentally, hired Morse to edit one season of his series Louie, but hey, I'm sure that was pure coincidence.)
I have, however, seen Frances Ha...
...and yeah, it's a really good movie, and the focus and characters are different, but come on.
And then there's the most egregious example of all.
i mean, they're not even trying to hide what they're doing in this case, right down to the use of white-on-black titles and old timey music. The difference, of course, is that Annie Hall is prickly and uncomfortable while When Harry Met Sally is cuddly and lovable.
And it's weird that people rip off Allen by making generic "neurotic New Yorkers" or "bittersweet romance" movies, because Allen himself has made relatively few of those. He has one of the most recognizable visual and verbal styles of any filmmaker in history--at his worst, they become mannerisms--but he's really quite diverse in his subject matter. Many of his best films--Zelig, The Purple Rose Of Cairo, Alice--are fantasies, or memory pieces like Radio Days and Cafe Society. Some of his best comedies, like Manhattan Murder Mystery or Bullets Over Broadway, are pure door-slamming farce, but nobody tries to emulate that.
No, they go for the things that are stereotypical "Woody Allen" without seeming to realize he's a filmmaker, not a brand. The only other director who has been stolen from so shamelessly for so long is Steven Spielberg, everything from Cocoon to Super 8, and like Allen, Spielberg has made relatively few movies in what is thought to be his signature style.
Allen has a new movie, Wonder Wheel, coming out later this year. He's in his eighties, and his best days are almost certainly behind him, but even if this one sucks at a Curse Of The Jade Scorpion level, at least the only person ripping him off this time will be himself.
Thursday, February 16, 2017
IT'S BEAUTIFUL, AND I THINK IT'S WHAT I WANT TO BE
As she started explaining the details of the chemo, my mind wandered, because that was my defense mechanism. Anytime she talked as if she had limited time left, I pretended she and the doctors and everybody else was wrong, because it was the only way the world made sense. I didn't want to live in a world without my mom, and I tried to will it so.
But I wasn't listening in another sense. As she explained the possible side effects, what chemo could and couldn't do, she was also expressing her own ambivalence about the whole thing. The cancer was fatal. There was no doubt about that--it had spread too far, and her body was too old and weak to fight it. All the chemo could do was slow it down, give her another few months or weeks or days.
Well, you have to do it, I said. You have to live as long as you can.
So she did. The first round went okay, but the second round was much worse. She was violently ill and physically weak, and since she lived alone, she took a nasty fall. Her medical team had somehow neglected to take her off her blood pressure meds, and they combined with the chemo to limit the flow of blood to her brain. She started hallucinating giant scarecrows and fissures in the earth. Her body weakened. Her heart stopped. She died, and the chemo hadn't extended her time on earth, and in fact only made her final days miserable.
And I realize now that she never wanted any of it in the first place. Living with cancer was uncomfortable, but she was still herself, still eating and going out to movies (and complaining about them), and she probably saw the end coming and just wanted to be done with it. To make a comparison I'm sure Mom would have appreciated, she wanted to end like Season Five of Buffy The Vampire Slayer, at the top of her game and like she'd always been, but the chemo made her more like Season Seven, muddled and weird and somewhat out of character.
How dangerous it is to play the "what if?" game. What if she hadn't had chemo? Would her final days have been less painful? Would her mind have been clearer, her body more steady? Would she have not fallen, and fallen again, with welts and lumps on her face? Would she have seemed less small and sad when the time came? Could she have spent her final hours at home, surrounded by her beloved cats and dog, instead of an anonymous hospital room?
No. Or, put another way, maybe, but so what? She died, and she would have died either way, and it wouldn't have been pretty because death never is. And none of that means anything, because the important thing is that she laughed and cried and sang to her cats and marveled at rainbows and loved her children with the intensity of a thousand suns.
She lived.
But I wasn't listening in another sense. As she explained the possible side effects, what chemo could and couldn't do, she was also expressing her own ambivalence about the whole thing. The cancer was fatal. There was no doubt about that--it had spread too far, and her body was too old and weak to fight it. All the chemo could do was slow it down, give her another few months or weeks or days.
Well, you have to do it, I said. You have to live as long as you can.
So she did. The first round went okay, but the second round was much worse. She was violently ill and physically weak, and since she lived alone, she took a nasty fall. Her medical team had somehow neglected to take her off her blood pressure meds, and they combined with the chemo to limit the flow of blood to her brain. She started hallucinating giant scarecrows and fissures in the earth. Her body weakened. Her heart stopped. She died, and the chemo hadn't extended her time on earth, and in fact only made her final days miserable.
And I realize now that she never wanted any of it in the first place. Living with cancer was uncomfortable, but she was still herself, still eating and going out to movies (and complaining about them), and she probably saw the end coming and just wanted to be done with it. To make a comparison I'm sure Mom would have appreciated, she wanted to end like Season Five of Buffy The Vampire Slayer, at the top of her game and like she'd always been, but the chemo made her more like Season Seven, muddled and weird and somewhat out of character.
How dangerous it is to play the "what if?" game. What if she hadn't had chemo? Would her final days have been less painful? Would her mind have been clearer, her body more steady? Would she have not fallen, and fallen again, with welts and lumps on her face? Would she have seemed less small and sad when the time came? Could she have spent her final hours at home, surrounded by her beloved cats and dog, instead of an anonymous hospital room?
No. Or, put another way, maybe, but so what? She died, and she would have died either way, and it wouldn't have been pretty because death never is. And none of that means anything, because the important thing is that she laughed and cried and sang to her cats and marveled at rainbows and loved her children with the intensity of a thousand suns.
She lived.
Wednesday, February 01, 2017
IT MAKES IT BETTER, I KNOW
The flimsy cardboard kitty carrier may not be strong enough to hold him if he starts to struggle. Delmar is a very strong cat, and can be very determined. But he simply eases in and rests there. He knows.
He and I have such history. I've had him since he was born, the first cat I owned after my protracted, painful divorce. I had to move back in with my mom for awhile, and Delmar was there. I got a job, moved into a tiny apartment, got a better job, kept the same apartment, and he remained my constant companion. Mom died, I was in despair, he comforted me as best he could, mostly just by being there, which was always enough.
It's a gray day. Not cold, but a dampness in the air. Not that I notice it as I take him out to the car. I reach through the air holes of the carrier and touch his coarse, spiky fur. "It's okay, Buddy. We're going for a ride."
A few blocks later, we're at the vet's office. They wave me right in to the exam room. The table is covered with a little blue blanket, and it looks so much like the penguin blanket my mom had, the one I inherited, the one Delmar so frequently used for naps. I start to lose it.
Del was born pretty much fully-formed. He never had a cute kitten phase. He was awkward and gangly from the very beginning, and always would be. He could be cranky, he could be sweet, he was never quiet and restful. I could usually anticipate his moods, but he couldn't tell me when his kidneys started failing, not until he started drinking massive amounts of water and eating less, and by then it was too late.
I set him on the table and he immediately curls up, as if he's bypassed all the other stages and gone straight to acceptance. The doctor comes in and explains the procedure, asks if I'm okay with it, has me sign some forms. I hold Del as they give him a sedative, then they leave the room while it takes effect.
I talk to Del, I sing the lyrics I invented for the first season instrumental theme from Walker, Texas Ranger ("Hey! It's Delmar and he's great! It's Delmar and he's grea-ea-eat!"). The doc comes back in, shaves some fur from his hind leg and administers the IV. Del puts his paw in my hand. I grip it as tight as I can.
And he's gone.
"Do you need some time?" the vet asks, and I nod. "We don't need this room for the rest of the day. Take as long as you need."
His paw is still resting in my hand. He looks like he's asleep. I don't know what I expected. I talk to him some more, running through his many, many nicknames. (Del Star, Delmar Von Delmington, Li'l Feller, My Special Little Guy...) My tears are falling without control, hitting the table, dotting the blanket all around him.
There is a thoughtfully provided box of tissues on a stool beside the table. I blow my nose, then again, and I turn back to Del. "Not so bad, was it?" I say. "See you, Buddy. See you whenever I can." A final tissue to wipe my eyes, and I leave.
Driving home, I'm listening to Ben Folds' Songs For Silverman because it's the album that happens to be playing, and I know I will always unfortunately associate it with this. Janie will be there when I get home, and two other wonderful cats, and my beloved beagle.
But Delmar won't be, and he never will be there again.
He and I have such history. I've had him since he was born, the first cat I owned after my protracted, painful divorce. I had to move back in with my mom for awhile, and Delmar was there. I got a job, moved into a tiny apartment, got a better job, kept the same apartment, and he remained my constant companion. Mom died, I was in despair, he comforted me as best he could, mostly just by being there, which was always enough.
It's a gray day. Not cold, but a dampness in the air. Not that I notice it as I take him out to the car. I reach through the air holes of the carrier and touch his coarse, spiky fur. "It's okay, Buddy. We're going for a ride."
A few blocks later, we're at the vet's office. They wave me right in to the exam room. The table is covered with a little blue blanket, and it looks so much like the penguin blanket my mom had, the one I inherited, the one Delmar so frequently used for naps. I start to lose it.
Del was born pretty much fully-formed. He never had a cute kitten phase. He was awkward and gangly from the very beginning, and always would be. He could be cranky, he could be sweet, he was never quiet and restful. I could usually anticipate his moods, but he couldn't tell me when his kidneys started failing, not until he started drinking massive amounts of water and eating less, and by then it was too late.
I set him on the table and he immediately curls up, as if he's bypassed all the other stages and gone straight to acceptance. The doctor comes in and explains the procedure, asks if I'm okay with it, has me sign some forms. I hold Del as they give him a sedative, then they leave the room while it takes effect.
I talk to Del, I sing the lyrics I invented for the first season instrumental theme from Walker, Texas Ranger ("Hey! It's Delmar and he's great! It's Delmar and he's grea-ea-eat!"). The doc comes back in, shaves some fur from his hind leg and administers the IV. Del puts his paw in my hand. I grip it as tight as I can.
And he's gone.
"Do you need some time?" the vet asks, and I nod. "We don't need this room for the rest of the day. Take as long as you need."
His paw is still resting in my hand. He looks like he's asleep. I don't know what I expected. I talk to him some more, running through his many, many nicknames. (Del Star, Delmar Von Delmington, Li'l Feller, My Special Little Guy...) My tears are falling without control, hitting the table, dotting the blanket all around him.
There is a thoughtfully provided box of tissues on a stool beside the table. I blow my nose, then again, and I turn back to Del. "Not so bad, was it?" I say. "See you, Buddy. See you whenever I can." A final tissue to wipe my eyes, and I leave.
Driving home, I'm listening to Ben Folds' Songs For Silverman because it's the album that happens to be playing, and I know I will always unfortunately associate it with this. Janie will be there when I get home, and two other wonderful cats, and my beloved beagle.
But Delmar won't be, and he never will be there again.
Tuesday, August 30, 2016
COMMON CLAY
It was burnoff season in the summer of 1980, when the Big 3 networks aired all the failed pilots and unloved theatrical releases to which they owned the rights, and which would inevitably get terrible ratings. But they had these things, and they were contractually required to air them, so when they knew no one was watching, they'd go ahead and show them, these pathetic Bob Denver sitcoms and terrible variety shows, and these odd, obscure movies. Like The Little Prince.
A failed, little-loved adaptation of Antoine de Saint-Exupery's book, it was airing in a ninety minute time slot as part of The CBS Saturday Night Movie. Though a short film, it would have been extensively cut to fit in that time slot, which shows how little the network cared about it.
Nonetheless, my brother and I made sure to watch. We didn't know Saint-Exupery's book at all, or care about the fact that it had an original score by Alan Jay Lerner and Frederick Loewe. We just watched because it featured an appearance by Bob Fosse, and we were both huge admirers of Fosse's All That Jazz, and the chance to watch the man himself, as opposed to Roy Scheider portraying him, was just to strong a lure. Plus, hey Stanley Donen directed! Singin' In The Rain, Bedazzled. How bad could it be?
Well, it wasn't very good, and even Fosse's sequence is kind of disappointing. But it does have Gene Wilder as a fox, a wild fox tamed by the title character.
This scene was followed by a commercial break. We were watching this in my brother's room upstairs, and during the break, I went downstairs to the kitchen to get a drink. Turns out Mom was watching it, too. She'd exiled herself to the kitchen to watch it on a small black-and-white TV, because she knew it wasn't anything Dad would like.
And she was crying. I asked her if she was okay. "Oh, honey," she said. "The poor fox," then, unable to say anything more, she continued crying.
I could talk and talk and talk about the greatness of Gene Wilder, who died Sunday at the fine age of 83. I could explain how his surprisingly melancholic performance in Blazing Saddles anchors that film's anarchy, how his meticulous preparation for the role of Willy Wonka, a role many actors would have tossed off, resulted in a film that is rediscovered and loved by every new generation. I could tell you that the screenplay he co-wrote with Mel Brooks for Young Frankenstein is a masterpiece of carefully-escalated comic madness, or that his performance, descending from barely-controlled calm to outright madness, in a brief segment of Woody Allen's Everything You Always Wanted To Know About Sex is possibly the greatest comic performance ever put on film.
I could tell you all that, and it would be true. But more important than any of that, at least to me, is this: Once upon a time, he made Mom cry.
A failed, little-loved adaptation of Antoine de Saint-Exupery's book, it was airing in a ninety minute time slot as part of The CBS Saturday Night Movie. Though a short film, it would have been extensively cut to fit in that time slot, which shows how little the network cared about it.
Nonetheless, my brother and I made sure to watch. We didn't know Saint-Exupery's book at all, or care about the fact that it had an original score by Alan Jay Lerner and Frederick Loewe. We just watched because it featured an appearance by Bob Fosse, and we were both huge admirers of Fosse's All That Jazz, and the chance to watch the man himself, as opposed to Roy Scheider portraying him, was just to strong a lure. Plus, hey Stanley Donen directed! Singin' In The Rain, Bedazzled. How bad could it be?
Well, it wasn't very good, and even Fosse's sequence is kind of disappointing. But it does have Gene Wilder as a fox, a wild fox tamed by the title character.
This scene was followed by a commercial break. We were watching this in my brother's room upstairs, and during the break, I went downstairs to the kitchen to get a drink. Turns out Mom was watching it, too. She'd exiled herself to the kitchen to watch it on a small black-and-white TV, because she knew it wasn't anything Dad would like.
And she was crying. I asked her if she was okay. "Oh, honey," she said. "The poor fox," then, unable to say anything more, she continued crying.
I could talk and talk and talk about the greatness of Gene Wilder, who died Sunday at the fine age of 83. I could explain how his surprisingly melancholic performance in Blazing Saddles anchors that film's anarchy, how his meticulous preparation for the role of Willy Wonka, a role many actors would have tossed off, resulted in a film that is rediscovered and loved by every new generation. I could tell you that the screenplay he co-wrote with Mel Brooks for Young Frankenstein is a masterpiece of carefully-escalated comic madness, or that his performance, descending from barely-controlled calm to outright madness, in a brief segment of Woody Allen's Everything You Always Wanted To Know About Sex is possibly the greatest comic performance ever put on film.
I could tell you all that, and it would be true. But more important than any of that, at least to me, is this: Once upon a time, he made Mom cry.
Saturday, April 02, 2016
'CAUSE YOU MEAN THAT MUCH TO ME
One of the many unfortunate side effects of the successful 1983 film The Big Chill was the way it turned the recorded legacy of Motown into a soundtrack for Boomer nostalgia. Suddenly "The Sound Of Young America", some of the most important and influential music ever performed and, more importantly, written and produced by black artists was being used to soundtrack the lives of well-to-do white people. The Four Tops were used to sell luxury cars, Smokey Robinson became a karaoke favorite and, worst of all, Marvin Gaye's indelible I Heard It Through The Grapevine was rerecorded in a soundalike version and used to sell raisins.
But in honor of what would have been Gaye's 77th birthday, let's reclaim it and recognize if for what it was, is, and will always be: One of the greatest singles ever released.
Let's start with the beginning: That first snap of a drum, leading into Johnny Griffith's slightly ominous keyboards, their terrible portent joined by the rattlesnake tambourine. This is not an upbeat pop song, or a heartbreak song. This is something else.
Next, a solid groove is laid down by James Jamerson's bass. Whatever else is going on here, there will definitely be funk.
And then. Oh, and then.
The sheer majesty of Gaye's vocal performance simply can't be overstated. With this one song, he went from being one of Motown's most reliable crooners to something else entirely, an artist fully in charge of his instrument, able to whiplash from paranoia to anger to aching vulnerability, all in service of the song, or, more accurately, the emotion of the song.
And he does this all without showing off. There are so many times here when Gaye deploys a falsetto ("losing YOOUU would end my life you see"), and it could come off as shameless showboating of the Whitney/Mariah school. But it never does. He knows how to use his voice not for effect but for truth. His voice can do anything, but he only takes it where the song needs it to go, not where he wants it to go.
I Heard It Through The Grapevine was produced--magnificently--by Norman Whitfield. The musicians and arrangers at Motown were second to none, but the actual recording techniques used by the label tended to be utilitarian. But Whitfield clearly took extra care here, in mike placement (the drum sound is amazing) and in his handling of his singer. He didn't just record Gaye's vocals, he directed him, and helped him follow his emotions while singing, wherever they may lead.
And those emotions could lead to some dark places. It's obvious in the vocal track that Gaye is wrestling with some personal demons, the paranoia and pride and arrogance that would unfortunately define his personal life, but would also lead him to explore those emotions on record, and how to harness all that to the astounding instrument of his voice. He took charge of his own career after this song, and wrote, produced and arranged his own material. The results were What's Going On, I Want You, and Here, My Dear--some of the greatest recordings ever made, by arguably (inarguably, if you ask me) the greatest singer who ever lived.
And that's a pretty good legacy for a song that too many people associate with dancing raisins.
But in honor of what would have been Gaye's 77th birthday, let's reclaim it and recognize if for what it was, is, and will always be: One of the greatest singles ever released.
Let's start with the beginning: That first snap of a drum, leading into Johnny Griffith's slightly ominous keyboards, their terrible portent joined by the rattlesnake tambourine. This is not an upbeat pop song, or a heartbreak song. This is something else.
Next, a solid groove is laid down by James Jamerson's bass. Whatever else is going on here, there will definitely be funk.
And then. Oh, and then.
The sheer majesty of Gaye's vocal performance simply can't be overstated. With this one song, he went from being one of Motown's most reliable crooners to something else entirely, an artist fully in charge of his instrument, able to whiplash from paranoia to anger to aching vulnerability, all in service of the song, or, more accurately, the emotion of the song.
And he does this all without showing off. There are so many times here when Gaye deploys a falsetto ("losing YOOUU would end my life you see"), and it could come off as shameless showboating of the Whitney/Mariah school. But it never does. He knows how to use his voice not for effect but for truth. His voice can do anything, but he only takes it where the song needs it to go, not where he wants it to go.
I Heard It Through The Grapevine was produced--magnificently--by Norman Whitfield. The musicians and arrangers at Motown were second to none, but the actual recording techniques used by the label tended to be utilitarian. But Whitfield clearly took extra care here, in mike placement (the drum sound is amazing) and in his handling of his singer. He didn't just record Gaye's vocals, he directed him, and helped him follow his emotions while singing, wherever they may lead.
And those emotions could lead to some dark places. It's obvious in the vocal track that Gaye is wrestling with some personal demons, the paranoia and pride and arrogance that would unfortunately define his personal life, but would also lead him to explore those emotions on record, and how to harness all that to the astounding instrument of his voice. He took charge of his own career after this song, and wrote, produced and arranged his own material. The results were What's Going On, I Want You, and Here, My Dear--some of the greatest recordings ever made, by arguably (inarguably, if you ask me) the greatest singer who ever lived.
And that's a pretty good legacy for a song that too many people associate with dancing raisins.
Monday, February 08, 2016
WANTED TO BE SURE WE WANT THE SAME THING
We had issues, she and I. I'd never been in love, and had only fairly recently emerged from a decade-long struggle with crippling depression. So when things were good with us, I felt something akin to ecstasy, and I never wanted the high to end. Consequently, every little spat, every minor issue, felt like it could bring everything tumbling down. I was confused a lot, and the confusion tended to manifest itself as anger. She was bipolar, only she hadn't been diagnosed as such, and in fact wouldn't be until after we split. She acknowledged she had issues, but never wanted to admit they were as serious and deep as they very clearly were. At her worst moments she would lash out at me, claiming I was intentionally trying to make her believe she was crazy, but I knew I just wanted her to feel better. But even in that, I was selfish--I wanted her to feel better so my life would be easier.
Time passed. Most days were status quo. Issues were dealt with my ignoring them, hoping they'd go away. When they didn't, they would reemerge at the worst possible times, leading to evenings resembling a badly improvised take on Who's Afraid Of Virginia Woolf? The rest of our time was spent like something out of a nineties sitcom, all snappy one-liners and random pop cultural references, which in a way was more exhausting than fighting.
Either way, we were always on, always performing. Our emotions were kept on the surface, operatic and overwrought, and we fed off each other, in good ways and bad. There were more good days than bad, but the bad ones stood out, and tended to skew the curve. We kept going even after it should have been obvious the marriage had ended. And then it ended for real.
The thing is, we were only together for five years, and yet it felt like it went on forever. Not in a bad way--I lived an entire life in time with her. I've had my beloved cat Staley for five years, and I still think of her as "the new cat". But time moves differently now, more slowly, it seems. Or maybe I've just finally learned how to relax.
I'm happy now with Janie, with the dog and cats and the odd little life I've made for myself. But I'm grateful for the journey that brought me here, and the defining moment of that trip occurred nineteen years ago when I met Sue Ellen. Until that moment, I could never imagine myself getting married. After that moment, I could never imagine myself getting divorced. But then, nothing about life is ever what we imagine.
Time passed. Most days were status quo. Issues were dealt with my ignoring them, hoping they'd go away. When they didn't, they would reemerge at the worst possible times, leading to evenings resembling a badly improvised take on Who's Afraid Of Virginia Woolf? The rest of our time was spent like something out of a nineties sitcom, all snappy one-liners and random pop cultural references, which in a way was more exhausting than fighting.
Either way, we were always on, always performing. Our emotions were kept on the surface, operatic and overwrought, and we fed off each other, in good ways and bad. There were more good days than bad, but the bad ones stood out, and tended to skew the curve. We kept going even after it should have been obvious the marriage had ended. And then it ended for real.
The thing is, we were only together for five years, and yet it felt like it went on forever. Not in a bad way--I lived an entire life in time with her. I've had my beloved cat Staley for five years, and I still think of her as "the new cat". But time moves differently now, more slowly, it seems. Or maybe I've just finally learned how to relax.
I'm happy now with Janie, with the dog and cats and the odd little life I've made for myself. But I'm grateful for the journey that brought me here, and the defining moment of that trip occurred nineteen years ago when I met Sue Ellen. Until that moment, I could never imagine myself getting married. After that moment, I could never imagine myself getting divorced. But then, nothing about life is ever what we imagine.
Tuesday, December 15, 2015
THAT IS, I THINK IT'S NOT TOO BAD
Have you ever heard a band you really like cover a song you love, but somehow been tremendously disappointed with the result? Sure you have! Covers are a dime a dozen, but good ones are as rare as...I dunno, something less common than dimes.
Consider this:
That, of course, was R.E.M. with a why-bother version of Richard Thompson's great Wall Of Death. It's not bad, really, but it just kind of sits there--there's a half-assed attempt at making it their own, but they don't seem to want to try too hard, and what's more, they don't really commit to the song.
And maybe it's not really a song for them. Thompson's original has a sing-along feel that makes it seem like some traditional melody, but as is usual for him, it's also very personal, with a heavy dose of anxiety and angst at its core. To do it justice, you'd really need to embrace both its sunny melody and hidden darkness, and R.E.M. by nature tend to be a little more detached.
In other words, they didn't connect to the song. It happens, and usually in far worse ways. After all, there are too many bad versions of great songs to count. This time of year, you can't walk into a public place without hearing some generic easy-listening crooner murdering Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas. The problem is always the same: They make the song about themselves, about their show-offy styles and melismas and grandstanding. They're not performing a song, they're demanding attention like a little kid having a hissy fit. If you can get all the way through this, you're stronger than me:
Obviously, Aguilera can sing, but she wants to make damn well sure you know it. The song is incidental.
Which brings us to the worst kind of cover: The clueless version. The version performed by an artist who obviously has no idea what the song is about, but for whatever reason, does it anyway. The popularity of karaoke shows like The Voice seem to encourage this sort of thing, but it's a long and ignoble tradition, sometimes done with actual malicious intent (Pat Boone removing any trace of soul from classic R&B songs, and somehow reaping profits that the actual creators of the material were denied), but most often it just happens because the music industry is a terrible thing that must constantly feed on itself.
Great song, good cover. I mean, Tom Jones sings the hell out of it--that's what he does--but Art Of Noise approaches the material as something to be deconstructed, and includes so many distracting bells and whistles that the actual song is almost secondary. Which is kind of ironic, really, because Prince is often prone to over-producing his own work, but Kiss in its original form is one of the few times he lets the song do the work.
And that's really what it comes down to. Marshall Crenshaw's version of Abba's Knowing Me, Knowing You is one of my all-time favorites, simply because Crenshaw has the good sense to leave well enough alone. Nothing here is significantly different than the original recording; even the keening, minor-chord guitar solo comes straight out of the Benny & Bjorn playbook. But simply by singing it in a straightforward manner, in his own sad, resigned voice, Crenshaw makes it sound like it came straight out of his own repertoire. It's an approach all singers should take: Always trust the song.
Consider this:
That, of course, was R.E.M. with a why-bother version of Richard Thompson's great Wall Of Death. It's not bad, really, but it just kind of sits there--there's a half-assed attempt at making it their own, but they don't seem to want to try too hard, and what's more, they don't really commit to the song.
And maybe it's not really a song for them. Thompson's original has a sing-along feel that makes it seem like some traditional melody, but as is usual for him, it's also very personal, with a heavy dose of anxiety and angst at its core. To do it justice, you'd really need to embrace both its sunny melody and hidden darkness, and R.E.M. by nature tend to be a little more detached.
In other words, they didn't connect to the song. It happens, and usually in far worse ways. After all, there are too many bad versions of great songs to count. This time of year, you can't walk into a public place without hearing some generic easy-listening crooner murdering Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas. The problem is always the same: They make the song about themselves, about their show-offy styles and melismas and grandstanding. They're not performing a song, they're demanding attention like a little kid having a hissy fit. If you can get all the way through this, you're stronger than me:
Obviously, Aguilera can sing, but she wants to make damn well sure you know it. The song is incidental.
Which brings us to the worst kind of cover: The clueless version. The version performed by an artist who obviously has no idea what the song is about, but for whatever reason, does it anyway. The popularity of karaoke shows like The Voice seem to encourage this sort of thing, but it's a long and ignoble tradition, sometimes done with actual malicious intent (Pat Boone removing any trace of soul from classic R&B songs, and somehow reaping profits that the actual creators of the material were denied), but most often it just happens because the music industry is a terrible thing that must constantly feed on itself.
Nothing illustrates this better than the endless string of Beatles covers. There have been countless albums full of the damned things, jukebox musicals on stage, and terrible, terrible movies. And the worst of these by far is the 1978 disaster Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, starring Peter Frampton and The Bee Gees as ersatz Mop Tops. Inexplicably produced by George Martin, the Fifth Beatle himself, the soundtrack was one dreadful misjudgement after another, performed by artists who simply don't seem to understand the basic emotions of the songs they're performing. Let's take a listen to Sandy Farina's version of Strawberry Fields Forever, and observe John Lennon's wistful classic turned into some faux-Olivia Newton-John styled pop
Ugh. Well, we won't do that again.
But obviously, there are good covers. But even then, they sometimes try too hard.
Great song, good cover. I mean, Tom Jones sings the hell out of it--that's what he does--but Art Of Noise approaches the material as something to be deconstructed, and includes so many distracting bells and whistles that the actual song is almost secondary. Which is kind of ironic, really, because Prince is often prone to over-producing his own work, but Kiss in its original form is one of the few times he lets the song do the work.
And that's really what it comes down to. Marshall Crenshaw's version of Abba's Knowing Me, Knowing You is one of my all-time favorites, simply because Crenshaw has the good sense to leave well enough alone. Nothing here is significantly different than the original recording; even the keening, minor-chord guitar solo comes straight out of the Benny & Bjorn playbook. But simply by singing it in a straightforward manner, in his own sad, resigned voice, Crenshaw makes it sound like it came straight out of his own repertoire. It's an approach all singers should take: Always trust the song.
Friday, August 14, 2015
I KNOW THAT YOU KNOW IT MAY BE THE LAST
I don't even remember how many mulberry trees we had on the farm. The one on the fence row of the old orchard was the best, and closest to the house. The one behind the pump house would do in a pinch, if I was playing in the corn crib and needed my fix. The other trees tended to be scraggly, and most of the berries they bore were more pinkish than purple. But I might eat them anyway, because they were mulberries, and they were there.
Because soon they would be gone. Mulberries were at their ripest in June and July, the prime days of summer, when every day was a string of endless possibilities. The farm had essentially ceased functioning as a farm around the time I was born, so the chicken coop, the barn, all the buildings and abandoned equipment were mine to do with as I would. Of course a hay rack was made to be a pirate ship; what other purpose could it serve?
Then August would come, and the mulberries would be gone. The whirr-whirr-whirr of cicadas and the Greene County Fair served as annual reminders that summer was coming to an end. School would be starting again, and dread gnawed at my stomach. Precious weeks, then days, were all that remained of my freedom. But how could I enjoy them when I knew they had to end?
The very concept of things ending haunted me as a kid. I was prone to depression, but not to philosophical musings, or I may have realized that it is the very fact that all happiness has a sell-by date is also the thing that makes it so precious. Seasons, at least, are predictable. We know when they will end. Life itself is more wonderful than all the glorious days of summer, better even than a handful of mulberries, but it could all be over any time.
Which is OK. Everything needs an ending. And really, good things are lessened when they run too long. (It's why the earlier, shorter James Bond movies are more satisfying.) Trees change color, school starts again. People grow older, people die. But they were good while they were here, and we'll have fond memories, until it's our time to go, and hopefully others will have fond memories.
There's a mulberry tree in my back yard. Everyday while it was in bloom, I would stop while taking the dog out and pluck some berries from the branches. They were always delicious.
Because soon they would be gone. Mulberries were at their ripest in June and July, the prime days of summer, when every day was a string of endless possibilities. The farm had essentially ceased functioning as a farm around the time I was born, so the chicken coop, the barn, all the buildings and abandoned equipment were mine to do with as I would. Of course a hay rack was made to be a pirate ship; what other purpose could it serve?
Then August would come, and the mulberries would be gone. The whirr-whirr-whirr of cicadas and the Greene County Fair served as annual reminders that summer was coming to an end. School would be starting again, and dread gnawed at my stomach. Precious weeks, then days, were all that remained of my freedom. But how could I enjoy them when I knew they had to end?
The very concept of things ending haunted me as a kid. I was prone to depression, but not to philosophical musings, or I may have realized that it is the very fact that all happiness has a sell-by date is also the thing that makes it so precious. Seasons, at least, are predictable. We know when they will end. Life itself is more wonderful than all the glorious days of summer, better even than a handful of mulberries, but it could all be over any time.
Which is OK. Everything needs an ending. And really, good things are lessened when they run too long. (It's why the earlier, shorter James Bond movies are more satisfying.) Trees change color, school starts again. People grow older, people die. But they were good while they were here, and we'll have fond memories, until it's our time to go, and hopefully others will have fond memories.
There's a mulberry tree in my back yard. Everyday while it was in bloom, I would stop while taking the dog out and pluck some berries from the branches. They were always delicious.
Monday, February 16, 2015
PART HEAVEN, PART SPACE, OR HAVE I FOUND MY PLACE?
Janie got out of bed because my loud snoring was keeping her awake, and now she's sleeping in her recliner. It seems like she and I have been together forever, but really, it's only been about four and a half years. Paul is sleeping in the other recliner, because he still hangs out here a lot. He came into my life when I dated his mother, and even though that relationship only lasted a few months, he and I have stayed friends for--wow. Eight years and change? That's a long time. (I'm still friends with his mom, for that matter, although minus the whole "hanging out together" part.) And of course, freely traveling between both chairs is Isabella T. Beagle, the greatest dog in the history of dogs, curling up with both of her friends for a few minutes, then coming back to me and placing her head on my lap as I type, nuzzling my beloved cat Staley.
It's a nice, warm life I've made for myself, here in a ramshackle house I can at least call my own. There's only one thing wrong: Mom missed the whole thing.
When my mother passed away nine years ago today, I was in a bad place: Still reeling from the breakup with my wife four years earlier, prone to fits of depression and anger, certain that I was destined to drift through the world alone. Mom had confidence in me, thought that wherever I landed would be wherever I was meant to be--she actually phrased it that way during one of our conversations, to which I responded, "Thanks a lot, Buckaroo Banzai," and of course she laughed, because there weren't too many arcane pop culture references she wouldn't get--but I was certain that my marriage was my one shot at happiness, and I'd blown it.
Well, maybe not certain. In fact, I was starting to think the whole divorce thing was just a distraction in my life, but I hadn't figured out what the next act was supposed to be. When Mom got sick, even though she stayed in good spirits even as the doctors explained just how far the cancer had progressed, spending as much time as possible with her became a kind of top priority.
Then she died, and I felt lost, and briefly wondered if I'd ever feel happiness, or anything, again. But I'd inherited mom's cat Monika, who started interacting with psychokitty Delmar in the most entertaining ways, and I loved just watching them get to know each other, and I found myself laughing at their antics on a daily basis. So I could still feel some measure of joy. And I started this very site, initially as a way to process my grief, but then it kind of turned into a journal of my dating life, because that's a thing that also continued. (Eventually, of course, it became whatever the hell it is now. To Theoretical Reader Who Has Been Here All Along, I'd just like to say how very sorry I am for all those clips from Lynda Carter variety specials.)
Most importantly, I just kept living. I'm pretty sure Mom would be overjoyed to see I've finally attained some measure of happiness in life. Heck, I'm certain of it. But I will never be able to share it with her, and knowing that is an ache that will always linger, a hole in my heart that can never quite be repaired.
It's a nice, warm life I've made for myself, here in a ramshackle house I can at least call my own. There's only one thing wrong: Mom missed the whole thing.
When my mother passed away nine years ago today, I was in a bad place: Still reeling from the breakup with my wife four years earlier, prone to fits of depression and anger, certain that I was destined to drift through the world alone. Mom had confidence in me, thought that wherever I landed would be wherever I was meant to be--she actually phrased it that way during one of our conversations, to which I responded, "Thanks a lot, Buckaroo Banzai," and of course she laughed, because there weren't too many arcane pop culture references she wouldn't get--but I was certain that my marriage was my one shot at happiness, and I'd blown it.
Well, maybe not certain. In fact, I was starting to think the whole divorce thing was just a distraction in my life, but I hadn't figured out what the next act was supposed to be. When Mom got sick, even though she stayed in good spirits even as the doctors explained just how far the cancer had progressed, spending as much time as possible with her became a kind of top priority.
Then she died, and I felt lost, and briefly wondered if I'd ever feel happiness, or anything, again. But I'd inherited mom's cat Monika, who started interacting with psychokitty Delmar in the most entertaining ways, and I loved just watching them get to know each other, and I found myself laughing at their antics on a daily basis. So I could still feel some measure of joy. And I started this very site, initially as a way to process my grief, but then it kind of turned into a journal of my dating life, because that's a thing that also continued. (Eventually, of course, it became whatever the hell it is now. To Theoretical Reader Who Has Been Here All Along, I'd just like to say how very sorry I am for all those clips from Lynda Carter variety specials.)
Most importantly, I just kept living. I'm pretty sure Mom would be overjoyed to see I've finally attained some measure of happiness in life. Heck, I'm certain of it. But I will never be able to share it with her, and knowing that is an ache that will always linger, a hole in my heart that can never quite be repaired.
Sunday, January 11, 2015
WELL. I GUESS WE HAVE TO TALK.
Today is the birthday of actor Marc Blucas, and I mean no disrespect--I'm sure he's a nice guy and all--but it seems like as good a reason as any to explore the little-discussed cultural phenomenon of the Made-For-TV actor.
Television is a unique medium because its text is ever-changing by its very nature. A novel may turn out very differently from its authors original intentions, but the reader only ever sees the finished work. The script of a movie may go through dozens of different drafts, but we only see the version that was filmed. And a play is a text set in stone; it can be interpreted any number of ways, but the words and actions will always be the same.
But a successful TV series is its own beast. Even if its creators have a particular goal in mind, the workaday nature of TV production can provide detours along the way, or even change the goal. The network nixes a particular plot development. A planned location is suddenly unavailable. A necessary scene is simply too complicated to pull off within the scheduled time and budget.
And then there's the actors. Casting a TV show is a leap of faith. The evolving nature of a TV show means that characters are liable to be put through some pretty extraordinary paces, be required to do things whether comedic or dramatic that the creators may not have originally intended. And that may require the actors to deploy a skill set that they simply don't possess.
A sidebar here: For the longest time, there was believed to be a clear difference between "movie actors" and "TV actors". Movie actors could do more heavy dramatic lifting, and more importantly, they had charisma, they had cool. Steve McQueen, Al Pacino, Diane Keaton--those were movie actors. TV actors could do light drama, light comedy, and were familiar comforting presences: David Janssen, Alan Alda, the casts of most seventies sitcoms.
But even among the actors that toiled in the TV trenches, there was a subset: The Made-For-TV actor. These were guys (and they were mostly guys) like Ben Murphy or Gil Gerald, affable, unthreatening presences with only trace amounts of charisma, doomed forever to star in shows like Gemini Man or Buck Rogers, programs that only got on the air because a network couldn't just schedule dead air for an hour. You see someone like Gil Gerald in a show, you immediately know you're seeing the third or fourth choice for the role.
Back to my main point: Once an actor is cast on a series, the character evolves, mostly because the writers see what the actor brings to the role. The classic example is Edward Asner's role on The Mary Tyler Moore Show--it became obvious that he could do absolutely anything, nail any punchline but also break your heart. Moore's name may have remained in the title, but Asner clearly was the soul of the series.
The first season of Buffy The Vampire Slayer is a fairly rough ride, as you see the writers and the actors struggling to figure out exactly what they want from the show and its characters. But what the sow will be is still there, in embryonic form; it just needs to evolve.
And it does, quickly. The actors assembled by creator/producer Joss Whedon may not have the technical chops of more rigorously trained thespians, but they're perfect for their roles, and as the show goes along, the writers clearly play to their strengths. And more delightfully, it's the kind of show that can mock itself and its cast--when other characters discuss Buffy's idiosyncrasies, they're as much discussing the various shades of Sarah Michelle Gellar's performance.
All of which brings us to Marc Blucas. Introduced as Buffy's love interest in Season 4, Blucas stands out like a sore thumb in this series. It's not entirely his fault--his character has no real traces of personality, but that's probably at least partly due to the fact that he's written as a fairly standard-issue jock, and you don't get the feeling that the writer's room of this particular show was filled with people who knew much about jocks.
Still, Buffy specialized in characters who seemed to be one thing but turned out to be much more. And maybe that was the intention, but it became obvious that Blucas just wasn't up to it. But he didn't go away, and his presence undermined the entire season. He could have been like Margaret Dumont in a Marx Brothers movie, only Blucas didn't seem to realize he was the straight man. (The original Marx Brothers analogy I was going to use was Alan Jones--the bland romantic lead nobody cares about--but in earlier Marx pictures that role was usually essayed by Zeppo, and as all Buffy fans know, the show already had its own Zeppo.) He had no self-awareness at all. He played his character as a straight-ahead TV type, a Ben Murphy on a show that had no use for Ben Murphys.
In that sense, he may have represented the last of a line. Sure, there are still TV actors hilariously outmatched by the demands of their part--have you tried sitting through that new Katherine Heigl thing?--but it's very rare to find a purely Made-For-TV actor anymore. Thanks in no small part to Buffy itself, TV writing has become smarter and deeper than ever before. There are still time-killer shows, but even those incredibly formulaic CBS procedurals showcase the likes of Joe Mantegna and Laurence Fishburne. The days of Ben Murphy, Gil Gerald--and Marc Blucas--may be gone forever.
Television is a unique medium because its text is ever-changing by its very nature. A novel may turn out very differently from its authors original intentions, but the reader only ever sees the finished work. The script of a movie may go through dozens of different drafts, but we only see the version that was filmed. And a play is a text set in stone; it can be interpreted any number of ways, but the words and actions will always be the same.
But a successful TV series is its own beast. Even if its creators have a particular goal in mind, the workaday nature of TV production can provide detours along the way, or even change the goal. The network nixes a particular plot development. A planned location is suddenly unavailable. A necessary scene is simply too complicated to pull off within the scheduled time and budget.
And then there's the actors. Casting a TV show is a leap of faith. The evolving nature of a TV show means that characters are liable to be put through some pretty extraordinary paces, be required to do things whether comedic or dramatic that the creators may not have originally intended. And that may require the actors to deploy a skill set that they simply don't possess.
A sidebar here: For the longest time, there was believed to be a clear difference between "movie actors" and "TV actors". Movie actors could do more heavy dramatic lifting, and more importantly, they had charisma, they had cool. Steve McQueen, Al Pacino, Diane Keaton--those were movie actors. TV actors could do light drama, light comedy, and were familiar comforting presences: David Janssen, Alan Alda, the casts of most seventies sitcoms.
But even among the actors that toiled in the TV trenches, there was a subset: The Made-For-TV actor. These were guys (and they were mostly guys) like Ben Murphy or Gil Gerald, affable, unthreatening presences with only trace amounts of charisma, doomed forever to star in shows like Gemini Man or Buck Rogers, programs that only got on the air because a network couldn't just schedule dead air for an hour. You see someone like Gil Gerald in a show, you immediately know you're seeing the third or fourth choice for the role.
Back to my main point: Once an actor is cast on a series, the character evolves, mostly because the writers see what the actor brings to the role. The classic example is Edward Asner's role on The Mary Tyler Moore Show--it became obvious that he could do absolutely anything, nail any punchline but also break your heart. Moore's name may have remained in the title, but Asner clearly was the soul of the series.
The first season of Buffy The Vampire Slayer is a fairly rough ride, as you see the writers and the actors struggling to figure out exactly what they want from the show and its characters. But what the sow will be is still there, in embryonic form; it just needs to evolve.
And it does, quickly. The actors assembled by creator/producer Joss Whedon may not have the technical chops of more rigorously trained thespians, but they're perfect for their roles, and as the show goes along, the writers clearly play to their strengths. And more delightfully, it's the kind of show that can mock itself and its cast--when other characters discuss Buffy's idiosyncrasies, they're as much discussing the various shades of Sarah Michelle Gellar's performance.
All of which brings us to Marc Blucas. Introduced as Buffy's love interest in Season 4, Blucas stands out like a sore thumb in this series. It's not entirely his fault--his character has no real traces of personality, but that's probably at least partly due to the fact that he's written as a fairly standard-issue jock, and you don't get the feeling that the writer's room of this particular show was filled with people who knew much about jocks.
Still, Buffy specialized in characters who seemed to be one thing but turned out to be much more. And maybe that was the intention, but it became obvious that Blucas just wasn't up to it. But he didn't go away, and his presence undermined the entire season. He could have been like Margaret Dumont in a Marx Brothers movie, only Blucas didn't seem to realize he was the straight man. (The original Marx Brothers analogy I was going to use was Alan Jones--the bland romantic lead nobody cares about--but in earlier Marx pictures that role was usually essayed by Zeppo, and as all Buffy fans know, the show already had its own Zeppo.) He had no self-awareness at all. He played his character as a straight-ahead TV type, a Ben Murphy on a show that had no use for Ben Murphys.
In that sense, he may have represented the last of a line. Sure, there are still TV actors hilariously outmatched by the demands of their part--have you tried sitting through that new Katherine Heigl thing?--but it's very rare to find a purely Made-For-TV actor anymore. Thanks in no small part to Buffy itself, TV writing has become smarter and deeper than ever before. There are still time-killer shows, but even those incredibly formulaic CBS procedurals showcase the likes of Joe Mantegna and Laurence Fishburne. The days of Ben Murphy, Gil Gerald--and Marc Blucas--may be gone forever.
Thursday, January 01, 2015
KNOWS NOT WHERE HE'S GOING TO
If you grew up in the seventies, you will likely always associate The Carol Of The Bells with this
Watching that commercial as a kid, or others like it, which suggested cheap mass-market alcohol was a portal to class and sophistication, I ached for the world it envisioned, a world in which feather-haired men in sweaters and blandly pretty blondes rang in the new year with clinking glasses. There would be toasts, and finger food, and a general air of--I imagined--adulthood.
Even though my parents were adults, and they certainly didn't do that sort of thing, I assumed they once had. They must have. It was part of the allure of being a grown-up. It seemed like silly behavior, but I felt certain that once I reached that point in my life, it would all make sense.
Evidently I got lost along the way. My twenties were marked by stays in mental wards, suicide attempts and whole years lost as I fumbled in a haze of depression. When I more or less turned my life around, I got married, and made a point of having the ceremony on New Year's Eve, because hey, surely that would lead to toasts and clinking glasses and the life once promised me by Andre champagne.
That didn't work out. In fact, one of the peculiarities of my life is that, despite being divorced, losing both parents, buying a house--despite the fact that I am nearly half a century old--I don't feel like an adult. I have a reasonable amount of life experience, but I'm still waiting for the big reveal, the moment when everything clicks into place and I realize I've arrived. Until then, it's always going to seem like champagne is being poured somewhere, but not for me.
Watching that commercial as a kid, or others like it, which suggested cheap mass-market alcohol was a portal to class and sophistication, I ached for the world it envisioned, a world in which feather-haired men in sweaters and blandly pretty blondes rang in the new year with clinking glasses. There would be toasts, and finger food, and a general air of--I imagined--adulthood.
Even though my parents were adults, and they certainly didn't do that sort of thing, I assumed they once had. They must have. It was part of the allure of being a grown-up. It seemed like silly behavior, but I felt certain that once I reached that point in my life, it would all make sense.
Evidently I got lost along the way. My twenties were marked by stays in mental wards, suicide attempts and whole years lost as I fumbled in a haze of depression. When I more or less turned my life around, I got married, and made a point of having the ceremony on New Year's Eve, because hey, surely that would lead to toasts and clinking glasses and the life once promised me by Andre champagne.
That didn't work out. In fact, one of the peculiarities of my life is that, despite being divorced, losing both parents, buying a house--despite the fact that I am nearly half a century old--I don't feel like an adult. I have a reasonable amount of life experience, but I'm still waiting for the big reveal, the moment when everything clicks into place and I realize I've arrived. Until then, it's always going to seem like champagne is being poured somewhere, but not for me.
Monday, December 15, 2014
SOMETIMES GOOD THINGS GET THROWN AWAY
My brother and I weren't talkers, so all we did was listen. People babbling excitedly about the movie they were waiting to see, or other movies they'd seen recently, why they were here, where they were from. It was December of 1980, and we were waiting in an increasingly long line on this cold winter night for the massive Plaza Theater to open its doors so we could all pile in and get our first look at Robert Altman's Popeye.
The Plaza was the only theater in town showing this particular blockbuster, a fairly common practice then. If you wanted to see a movie, you had to go where it was playing, because it wouldn't be playing at two or three or ten auditoriums in every multiplex in town, because there were no multiplexes. Sure, there were three- or four-screen theaters, but every screen played something different.
So since the number of locations showing a movie was limited, seating space was at a premium. Lines formed, and in those lines little communities developed. People got to know each other, there was a shared anticipation, a communal ritual known as "going to the movies".
The Plaza was one of several remaining stand-alone theaters Des Moines had in the seventies and eighties. There was the mighty River Hills, originally built for Cinerama, and its neighbor, the classy Riviera, its auditorium resplendent in rose and white hues. There was the Capri, a vision of early sixties modernity, the location for most middlebrow Oscar bait. There was the Wakonda, a nondescript neighborhood theater that miraculously transformed in 1980 to The Movies, the same auditorium with the addition of a fifty seat adjunct called the Screening Room. The Movies would become Des Moines' first repertory theater, and there I saw Once Upon A Time In The West, The Red Shoes, Dark Star, The Seven Samurai, Pink Flamingos, Eraserhead--a roll call of what would become my all-time favorite movies, in often battered prints that nonetheless looked beautiful on the big screen.
All these theaters are gone now, except for the Plaza, which was renovated and renamed the somewhat less elegant Merle Hay Mall Cinema, and which features a colossal sixty-foot screen and the first THX-certified sound system in the state. Well, it has those features until tomorrow night, when it closes forever.
The closing was immediately prompted by the opening of a new bar/restaurant/theater right next door, but the end has been coming for a long time. The last movie I saw there was Guardians Of The Galaxy, and though it was a real treat to see such a thoroughly modern blockbuster projected in 35 mm--complete with cigarette burns to mark the reel changes!--it felt strangely incongruous. Guardians is a wonderfully entertaining movie, but in the modern blockbuster style, meant to be consumed and enjoyed but nothing more, a fun ride while it lasts but not the shared dream we use to experience in giant temples built to honor the cinematic gods.
And I tell myself that's okay. It's the movies that matter, not where you see them. But I think of seeing Apocalypse Now on the 70-foot curved screen at the River Hills, and I know that's not true.
The Plaza was the only theater in town showing this particular blockbuster, a fairly common practice then. If you wanted to see a movie, you had to go where it was playing, because it wouldn't be playing at two or three or ten auditoriums in every multiplex in town, because there were no multiplexes. Sure, there were three- or four-screen theaters, but every screen played something different.
So since the number of locations showing a movie was limited, seating space was at a premium. Lines formed, and in those lines little communities developed. People got to know each other, there was a shared anticipation, a communal ritual known as "going to the movies".
The Plaza was one of several remaining stand-alone theaters Des Moines had in the seventies and eighties. There was the mighty River Hills, originally built for Cinerama, and its neighbor, the classy Riviera, its auditorium resplendent in rose and white hues. There was the Capri, a vision of early sixties modernity, the location for most middlebrow Oscar bait. There was the Wakonda, a nondescript neighborhood theater that miraculously transformed in 1980 to The Movies, the same auditorium with the addition of a fifty seat adjunct called the Screening Room. The Movies would become Des Moines' first repertory theater, and there I saw Once Upon A Time In The West, The Red Shoes, Dark Star, The Seven Samurai, Pink Flamingos, Eraserhead--a roll call of what would become my all-time favorite movies, in often battered prints that nonetheless looked beautiful on the big screen.
All these theaters are gone now, except for the Plaza, which was renovated and renamed the somewhat less elegant Merle Hay Mall Cinema, and which features a colossal sixty-foot screen and the first THX-certified sound system in the state. Well, it has those features until tomorrow night, when it closes forever.
The closing was immediately prompted by the opening of a new bar/restaurant/theater right next door, but the end has been coming for a long time. The last movie I saw there was Guardians Of The Galaxy, and though it was a real treat to see such a thoroughly modern blockbuster projected in 35 mm--complete with cigarette burns to mark the reel changes!--it felt strangely incongruous. Guardians is a wonderfully entertaining movie, but in the modern blockbuster style, meant to be consumed and enjoyed but nothing more, a fun ride while it lasts but not the shared dream we use to experience in giant temples built to honor the cinematic gods.
And I tell myself that's okay. It's the movies that matter, not where you see them. But I think of seeing Apocalypse Now on the 70-foot curved screen at the River Hills, and I know that's not true.
Sunday, November 30, 2014
THERE'S BEEN AN AWAKENING
It starts, as it always does, with what pretends to be a valid argument.
"Hey," one observer mentions on Reddit or 4chan or whatever depressing part of the web where decency goes to die, "what's with that new Star Wars trailer? The first thing we see is some black guy in a Storm Trooper outfit. But how can that be? Storm troopers are all clones."
Then someone else points out that no, that was a thing that happened during the Clone Wars (as established in Episode II: Attack Of The Clones, and yes, I'm embarrassed to know this), but the Clone Wars were already over by the time the original trilogy started, and the Storm Troopers were just guys recruited by the Empire, and somebody else says, No, man, you're wrong, and the conversation continues, and pretty soon it becomes obvious that the original poster wasn't so much complaining that the black guy playing a Storm Trooper conflicted with what he saw as the series' continuity as he was...complaining about a black guy being in a Star Wars movie.
The conversation deteriorates, as again, it always does, with claims that a black actor having a prominent part is a capitulation to the forces of "political correctness" which descends to watermelon and fried chicken jokes and undisguised racism of a force and virulence that you thought surely would surely no longer exist in this day and age.
But of course, it does exist, as one is reminded on a daily basis when reading any comments board on the events in Ferguson, or the ongoing sexual assault claims against Bill Cosby, or pretty much anything to do with Barack Obama, whose very legitimacy as a president and an American citizen is challenged by bullies online every single day. But not because he's black, God knows. You can tell, because these claims are frequently preceded by the claim, "I'm not racist, but..."
And then it starts, as it always does, with what pretends to be a valid argument.
"Hey," one observer mentions on Reddit or 4chan or whatever depressing part of the web where decency goes to die, "what's with that new Star Wars trailer? The first thing we see is some black guy in a Storm Trooper outfit. But how can that be? Storm troopers are all clones."
Then someone else points out that no, that was a thing that happened during the Clone Wars (as established in Episode II: Attack Of The Clones, and yes, I'm embarrassed to know this), but the Clone Wars were already over by the time the original trilogy started, and the Storm Troopers were just guys recruited by the Empire, and somebody else says, No, man, you're wrong, and the conversation continues, and pretty soon it becomes obvious that the original poster wasn't so much complaining that the black guy playing a Storm Trooper conflicted with what he saw as the series' continuity as he was...complaining about a black guy being in a Star Wars movie.
The conversation deteriorates, as again, it always does, with claims that a black actor having a prominent part is a capitulation to the forces of "political correctness" which descends to watermelon and fried chicken jokes and undisguised racism of a force and virulence that you thought surely would surely no longer exist in this day and age.
But of course, it does exist, as one is reminded on a daily basis when reading any comments board on the events in Ferguson, or the ongoing sexual assault claims against Bill Cosby, or pretty much anything to do with Barack Obama, whose very legitimacy as a president and an American citizen is challenged by bullies online every single day. But not because he's black, God knows. You can tell, because these claims are frequently preceded by the claim, "I'm not racist, but..."
And then it starts, as it always does, with what pretends to be a valid argument.
Thursday, November 20, 2014
HELLO DARKNESS, MY OLD FRIEND
Mike Nichols was already a legend when he directed his first film, the 1966 adaptation of Edward Albee's Who's Afraid Of Virginia Woolf. As a member of Chicago's Compass Players, he had been at the forefront of the movement towards improvisational comedy, and as a result of that he formed a duet with Elaine May that quite simply helped change the form forever. From there he easily segued to directing for the theater, where he was responsible for, among other things, the original production of Neil Simon's The Odd Couple.
But all of Nichols' work to that point had involved connecting with a live audience. Film is a different medium, requiring a great deal more subtlety, and here he was directing a theater piece on celluloid, starring two of the biggest ham actors of all time, Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton. There was almost no way this could work.
He knocked it out of the park.
Of course he did. Mike Nichols, who has died unexpectedly at the age of 83, was a professional. Yet he was kind of an odd duck as a filmmaker, since he was never quite an auteur. He never wrote his own scripts, and his films were often adaptations of plays or novels. There was no difference in his mind between directing for the theater or directing movies. The job was always to find the best way to interpret somebody else's material.
When the material was strong--The Graduate, Catch 22, Carnal Knowledge, Charlie Wilson's War--it inspired him to amazing heights, to create films that had tremendous influence of everyone from Hal Ashby to Steven Soderbergh to Wes Anderson (who gave Nichols a "Special Thanks" credit on Fantastic Mr. Fox). His mastery of the form could be breathtaking.
But then again, there's Day Of The Dolphin. And Heartburn and Working Girl and--shudder--Regarding Henry. You could probably argue that Nichols made the best possible movies he could from such awful material, but that doesn't change the fact that they weren't worth doing in the first place. Most of Nichols' worst work came in the eighties and early nineties, admittedly a bad time for the sort of literary, mid-budget film he did best, but surely he could have found better things to do than directing Wolf.
But he rebounded, with The Birdcage and Primary Colors, and a fine adaptation of Tony Kushner's Angels In America for HBO. Plus more work for the theater, and occasional reunions with Elaine May. And he'd return to Who's Afraid Of Virginia Woolf, which he'd later direct for the stage and even played the lead in one production. And why not? It's the quintessential Mike Nichols work--caustic, cruel and way more sentimental than it dares admit.
But all of Nichols' work to that point had involved connecting with a live audience. Film is a different medium, requiring a great deal more subtlety, and here he was directing a theater piece on celluloid, starring two of the biggest ham actors of all time, Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton. There was almost no way this could work.
He knocked it out of the park.
Of course he did. Mike Nichols, who has died unexpectedly at the age of 83, was a professional. Yet he was kind of an odd duck as a filmmaker, since he was never quite an auteur. He never wrote his own scripts, and his films were often adaptations of plays or novels. There was no difference in his mind between directing for the theater or directing movies. The job was always to find the best way to interpret somebody else's material.
When the material was strong--The Graduate, Catch 22, Carnal Knowledge, Charlie Wilson's War--it inspired him to amazing heights, to create films that had tremendous influence of everyone from Hal Ashby to Steven Soderbergh to Wes Anderson (who gave Nichols a "Special Thanks" credit on Fantastic Mr. Fox). His mastery of the form could be breathtaking.
But then again, there's Day Of The Dolphin. And Heartburn and Working Girl and--shudder--Regarding Henry. You could probably argue that Nichols made the best possible movies he could from such awful material, but that doesn't change the fact that they weren't worth doing in the first place. Most of Nichols' worst work came in the eighties and early nineties, admittedly a bad time for the sort of literary, mid-budget film he did best, but surely he could have found better things to do than directing Wolf.
But he rebounded, with The Birdcage and Primary Colors, and a fine adaptation of Tony Kushner's Angels In America for HBO. Plus more work for the theater, and occasional reunions with Elaine May. And he'd return to Who's Afraid Of Virginia Woolf, which he'd later direct for the stage and even played the lead in one production. And why not? It's the quintessential Mike Nichols work--caustic, cruel and way more sentimental than it dares admit.
Sunday, August 24, 2014
IN THAT BRIGHT LAND TO WHICH I GO
I'm dreaming, and I know I'm dreaming, so it's easy to sit back and enjoy the ride. Specifically, this ride--an endless loop around the parking ramp on the north side of Merle Hay Mall. It's dark, and the headlights barely keep up with my speed. But again, it's a dream. I'm safe.
Then, immediately, the outside of a hotel, an old dilapidated affair. There are lights around it, and machinery and scaffolding--it's being excavated. I'm not an active participant at this point. This is like watching a movie.
Cut to the inside of the hotel. A small team of rugged, anti-social types have gathered to learn whatever secrets this place might tell them. Oh, I get it. This is like Alien or The Thing, and this band of disparate near-strangers will have difficulty working together once...whatever happens. Will it be aliens or ghosts or...well, I guess I'll find out.
The plot moves right along, as the guy in charge--who vaguely resembles Kurt Russell, but not from The Thing but from Stargate, and since this is my dream that's weird, because I hated Stargate--is offering running exposition, even though nobody is listening to him. He passes the desk in the lobby, and lodged between an old-timey ledger and a ceramic cherub is an envelope from Rexall pharmacy. He opens it and pulls out a thick stack of old Polaroids. "This is the key," he says, and hands them to me.
And it's not like a movie anymore. I'm standing alone in the dark, with only enough light to see the photos.
The first picture is of my beloved and much-missed cat Monika. It was taken at my apartment in Des Moines, after Monika had moved in with me when Mom passed away. Of course, the only reason Mom had her in the first place was because I'd abandoned her when I moved away to get married. Wait. No...it's not quite as heartless as it sounds. When I moved, Mom moved back into the house where I'd been living. Monika stayed put. She just had a different master, is all. I didn't "abandon" her. Why did I use that word?
Next photo: The outside of the apartment building where I lived in Iowa City. There seems to be no significance to this picture--there are no people in it, not even my car is visible. The sky is gray and there are no shadows. I don't remember taking this picture.
Next photo: A black-and-white image of the clothesline from the farm where I spent my childhood. The grass is tall, and unshelled walnuts cover the ground. The orchard is in the background. Everyone called it the orchard, but nothing really grew there, unless you count the rhubarb patch. To the right of the photo is the old broken-down swing set that took up a surprising amount of space in the yard, considering it was unusable. Even further to the right is the very tip of a dog's tail. That would be Penny--I know it's her even though I can't see her.
Next photo: Inside the farmhouse, in color this time. Mom's wingback chair. Beside it is the little wooden stand she used to hold all manner of junk, and on top of that is her jade green ashtray--complete with a lit cigarette--and coffee cup. In front of the chair is a ratty foot rest with the remains of the day's newspaper piled on top of it. Behind the chair is the drawing my sister scribbled when she was little, of what she said was "Mighty Mouse all tied up." But it's a more recent photo, after the living room was painted, so the drawing had been touched up with magic marker. And again, there are no people in this photo. It's like a recreation in a museum.
Next photo: Dad's recliner, with the floor model ashtray beside it, and a few empty bottles of Grain Belt on top of that. On the other side is...a stand and behind that...is nothing, literally nothing. It's like my mind can't supply the details, but come on, I spent the best part of my life there, I can remember this, but no, this picture doesn't lie, it's right there plain as day, a document of my faded memory.
Next photo: But no, before I can see it, I feel something, a presence, and I immediately know it's Mom trying to tell me something...
...and suddenly, violently, I'm awake, aware only of what is missing, still waiting for Mom's voice to comfort me, knowing it will never be heard.
Then, immediately, the outside of a hotel, an old dilapidated affair. There are lights around it, and machinery and scaffolding--it's being excavated. I'm not an active participant at this point. This is like watching a movie.
Cut to the inside of the hotel. A small team of rugged, anti-social types have gathered to learn whatever secrets this place might tell them. Oh, I get it. This is like Alien or The Thing, and this band of disparate near-strangers will have difficulty working together once...whatever happens. Will it be aliens or ghosts or...well, I guess I'll find out.
The plot moves right along, as the guy in charge--who vaguely resembles Kurt Russell, but not from The Thing but from Stargate, and since this is my dream that's weird, because I hated Stargate--is offering running exposition, even though nobody is listening to him. He passes the desk in the lobby, and lodged between an old-timey ledger and a ceramic cherub is an envelope from Rexall pharmacy. He opens it and pulls out a thick stack of old Polaroids. "This is the key," he says, and hands them to me.
And it's not like a movie anymore. I'm standing alone in the dark, with only enough light to see the photos.
The first picture is of my beloved and much-missed cat Monika. It was taken at my apartment in Des Moines, after Monika had moved in with me when Mom passed away. Of course, the only reason Mom had her in the first place was because I'd abandoned her when I moved away to get married. Wait. No...it's not quite as heartless as it sounds. When I moved, Mom moved back into the house where I'd been living. Monika stayed put. She just had a different master, is all. I didn't "abandon" her. Why did I use that word?
Next photo: The outside of the apartment building where I lived in Iowa City. There seems to be no significance to this picture--there are no people in it, not even my car is visible. The sky is gray and there are no shadows. I don't remember taking this picture.
Next photo: A black-and-white image of the clothesline from the farm where I spent my childhood. The grass is tall, and unshelled walnuts cover the ground. The orchard is in the background. Everyone called it the orchard, but nothing really grew there, unless you count the rhubarb patch. To the right of the photo is the old broken-down swing set that took up a surprising amount of space in the yard, considering it was unusable. Even further to the right is the very tip of a dog's tail. That would be Penny--I know it's her even though I can't see her.
Next photo: Inside the farmhouse, in color this time. Mom's wingback chair. Beside it is the little wooden stand she used to hold all manner of junk, and on top of that is her jade green ashtray--complete with a lit cigarette--and coffee cup. In front of the chair is a ratty foot rest with the remains of the day's newspaper piled on top of it. Behind the chair is the drawing my sister scribbled when she was little, of what she said was "Mighty Mouse all tied up." But it's a more recent photo, after the living room was painted, so the drawing had been touched up with magic marker. And again, there are no people in this photo. It's like a recreation in a museum.
Next photo: Dad's recliner, with the floor model ashtray beside it, and a few empty bottles of Grain Belt on top of that. On the other side is...a stand and behind that...is nothing, literally nothing. It's like my mind can't supply the details, but come on, I spent the best part of my life there, I can remember this, but no, this picture doesn't lie, it's right there plain as day, a document of my faded memory.
Next photo: But no, before I can see it, I feel something, a presence, and I immediately know it's Mom trying to tell me something...
...and suddenly, violently, I'm awake, aware only of what is missing, still waiting for Mom's voice to comfort me, knowing it will never be heard.
Saturday, August 16, 2014
I HAVEN'T GOT TIME FOR ORGASMS AND FLATULENCE
Let's get this out of the way first: Robin Williams made a lot of bad movies. Stunningly bad, reference standard bad: Jack, Jakob The Liar, Bicentennial Man, Old Dogs and especially Patch Adams had reduced Williams' name, turning him into a punchline in someone else's joke.
True and unfortunate. Still, there's the astonishing comic inventiveness of his work in Popeye and The Adventures Of Baron Munchausen, the lived-in decency displayed in The World According To Garp and Moscow On The Hudson, the terrifying darkness found in The Fisher King and World's Greatest Dad.
Good or bad, what all of his movies have in common is he was fully invested in all of them, giving absolutely everything he had. Williams was much the same as a comedian: His material could be uneven, but that hardly mattered when skittered across the stage like a live wire, free associating random bits, observations and dialects, his whole body contorting or expanding, an entire vaudeville review in the form of one man.
More than anything, he could make people instantly connect with him. Gen Xers first knew him as Mork from Ork, Millenials loved him first as the Genie from Aladdin, then loved him all over again in Mrs. Doubtfire, a wacky, sight-gag laden comedy that nonetheless delivers some hard truths about divorce and its effects on families. Plus, you know, Good Morning Vietnam, Dead Poets' Society, Jumanji...the list is yours to make.
The last few weeks have been brutal. Increased tension with Russia and Iraq, the ongoing madness in Gaza, the racial and social fissures erupting in Missouri, the growing feeling that not only our government but our very nation is somehow broken. Earlier this week we lost Lauren Bacall, one of the last living links to the glamour of Old Hollywood, to another, seemingly better time.
But the pain of losing Robin Williams is because he was so very much of our time. We grew up with him and he was supposed to always be around. To entertain us, sure, but dammit dammit dammit, even more to inspire us, to fill us with that passing joy that is as essential to human life as breathing.
True and unfortunate. Still, there's the astonishing comic inventiveness of his work in Popeye and The Adventures Of Baron Munchausen, the lived-in decency displayed in The World According To Garp and Moscow On The Hudson, the terrifying darkness found in The Fisher King and World's Greatest Dad.
Good or bad, what all of his movies have in common is he was fully invested in all of them, giving absolutely everything he had. Williams was much the same as a comedian: His material could be uneven, but that hardly mattered when skittered across the stage like a live wire, free associating random bits, observations and dialects, his whole body contorting or expanding, an entire vaudeville review in the form of one man.
More than anything, he could make people instantly connect with him. Gen Xers first knew him as Mork from Ork, Millenials loved him first as the Genie from Aladdin, then loved him all over again in Mrs. Doubtfire, a wacky, sight-gag laden comedy that nonetheless delivers some hard truths about divorce and its effects on families. Plus, you know, Good Morning Vietnam, Dead Poets' Society, Jumanji...the list is yours to make.
The last few weeks have been brutal. Increased tension with Russia and Iraq, the ongoing madness in Gaza, the racial and social fissures erupting in Missouri, the growing feeling that not only our government but our very nation is somehow broken. Earlier this week we lost Lauren Bacall, one of the last living links to the glamour of Old Hollywood, to another, seemingly better time.
But the pain of losing Robin Williams is because he was so very much of our time. We grew up with him and he was supposed to always be around. To entertain us, sure, but dammit dammit dammit, even more to inspire us, to fill us with that passing joy that is as essential to human life as breathing.
Sunday, August 03, 2014
EVERYTHING YOU EVER
It's strange to even consider now, but back in 1998 I actually eagerly anticipated Roland Emmerich's Godzilla. True, I'd hated his previous movie, Independence Day, but come on--this was a Godzilla movie. How bad could it be?
Astonishingly bad, as it turns out, but its release at least briefly generated some interest in the character, and when Sony subsequently released the first in Toho's Millennium series, Godzilla 2000, to theaters in an English dub, I paid money to see it twice. I also bought the DVD, as I did with all the further Millennium titles, as well as the Showa titles as they were released in definitive forms, and when Criterion released the 1954 original on Blu-ray, I bought it again, even though I already owned it in many, many different formats.
The point is, man, I love me some giant critters. It would follow, then, that the recent spate of monster movies--Pacific Rim and its announced sequel, the newly-rebooted Godzilla and its announced sequel, as well as Skull Island, yet another King Kong adventure--should make squeal with delight.
Or maybe just sigh with regret.
Sure, the 1973 epic Godzilla vs Megalon is an objectively bad movie, but the wrestling matches between towering robot Jet Jaguar and an explosive-spitting whatsit from beneath the earth are a lot of fun, and even the (many) non-monster scenes have a certain goofy elan. But when Guillermo del Toro--a fine director, to be sure--stages similar robot/monster fights in Pacific Rim, they somehow underwhelm, and the movie itself is ponderous and overlong.
A similar problem mars Gareth Edwards' otherwise admirable Godzilla, which keeps its title monster off screen for much of its runtime--a valid dramatic choice, but it forces us to spend too much time with flat dramatic scenes featuring charisma vacuum Aaron Taylor-Johnson.
Worse, both of these movies feel incomplete, as if they're setting up not just sequels but series, inspired by the success of the Marvel Studios superhero franchise, where every movie is connected to another and you can't tell the players without a scorecard. This suspicion is furthered by the fact that Godzilla and Skull Island both come from Legendary Pictures, which is presumably setting up an inevitable Godzilla/King Kong showdown at some future date.
So every movie will just be a setup for the next movie, and if they're all taking place in a shared universe, they'll all be tonally similar. Yeah, sure, Toho cranked out a lot of monster movies back in the day, but they weren't much on continuity--you could drop in to the Showa series at any point and have a great time.
Or not, if giant monsters aren't your thing--after all, Toho in the fifties and sixties not only made giant monster movies, they also produced and released many of the great films of Akira Kurosawa. But these days, Hollywood seems to produce nothing but movies aimed at twelve-year-old boys. Guardians Of The Galaxy is a ton of fun, but it's still just an exemplary version of the same formula we've seen a million times before, and as a former twelve-year-old, I enjoy that sort of thing, but come on. There are still many great movies being made, but they don't have nine-digit budgets and open in 3000 theaters at once. And to make something like, I dunno, The Godfather, you'd need that kind of money. But studios don't want to make that kind of movie anymore. Bring on the digitally-rendered monsters!
Astonishingly bad, as it turns out, but its release at least briefly generated some interest in the character, and when Sony subsequently released the first in Toho's Millennium series, Godzilla 2000, to theaters in an English dub, I paid money to see it twice. I also bought the DVD, as I did with all the further Millennium titles, as well as the Showa titles as they were released in definitive forms, and when Criterion released the 1954 original on Blu-ray, I bought it again, even though I already owned it in many, many different formats.
The point is, man, I love me some giant critters. It would follow, then, that the recent spate of monster movies--Pacific Rim and its announced sequel, the newly-rebooted Godzilla and its announced sequel, as well as Skull Island, yet another King Kong adventure--should make squeal with delight.
Or maybe just sigh with regret.
Sure, the 1973 epic Godzilla vs Megalon is an objectively bad movie, but the wrestling matches between towering robot Jet Jaguar and an explosive-spitting whatsit from beneath the earth are a lot of fun, and even the (many) non-monster scenes have a certain goofy elan. But when Guillermo del Toro--a fine director, to be sure--stages similar robot/monster fights in Pacific Rim, they somehow underwhelm, and the movie itself is ponderous and overlong.
A similar problem mars Gareth Edwards' otherwise admirable Godzilla, which keeps its title monster off screen for much of its runtime--a valid dramatic choice, but it forces us to spend too much time with flat dramatic scenes featuring charisma vacuum Aaron Taylor-Johnson.
Worse, both of these movies feel incomplete, as if they're setting up not just sequels but series, inspired by the success of the Marvel Studios superhero franchise, where every movie is connected to another and you can't tell the players without a scorecard. This suspicion is furthered by the fact that Godzilla and Skull Island both come from Legendary Pictures, which is presumably setting up an inevitable Godzilla/King Kong showdown at some future date.
So every movie will just be a setup for the next movie, and if they're all taking place in a shared universe, they'll all be tonally similar. Yeah, sure, Toho cranked out a lot of monster movies back in the day, but they weren't much on continuity--you could drop in to the Showa series at any point and have a great time.
Or not, if giant monsters aren't your thing--after all, Toho in the fifties and sixties not only made giant monster movies, they also produced and released many of the great films of Akira Kurosawa. But these days, Hollywood seems to produce nothing but movies aimed at twelve-year-old boys. Guardians Of The Galaxy is a ton of fun, but it's still just an exemplary version of the same formula we've seen a million times before, and as a former twelve-year-old, I enjoy that sort of thing, but come on. There are still many great movies being made, but they don't have nine-digit budgets and open in 3000 theaters at once. And to make something like, I dunno, The Godfather, you'd need that kind of money. But studios don't want to make that kind of movie anymore. Bring on the digitally-rendered monsters!
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