I was going to prattle on about more weird pop culture ephemera from the seventies--commercials, talk shows, TV movies--and who knows, I still might. But not today, or tomorrow, either, I suspect, since what with working the holiday and the day after and whatnot, I'm not anticipating having much time to write.
(And yes, even when I'm just posting old Twinkie and Hamburger Helper ads, I put more thought into these things than may be readily apparent. Which is just kind of sad, I know, but hey...)
Anyway, I felt like starting my day with some Cheap Trick, and hope you do, too. First, from their first album (which ranks very high on the list of Greatest Things In The World), He's A Whore.
And a live version of one of the highlights of the second album (which also ranks pretty high on The Greatest Things list...in fact, if you ignore much of their eighties output, Cheap Trick could damn near own that list), Downed. Enjoy your turkey and stuffing, if you do that sort of thing. If you don't, have a good day anyhow.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
SHUT THE DOOR, BABY
Planned to use my day off before my work-jammed holiday weekend to see No Country For Old Men, finally playing here in Des Moines. Unfortunately, snow blanketed the area, much to the apparent surprise of local weather prognosticators, and while it wasn't a storm by any means, road crews were caught unawares and the streets remained untreated and slick, making a trip out to suburbland to hole up in darkness for two hours a dicey proposition.
So instead I stayed home and watched old Sgt. Bilko episodes, which come to think of it is probably better than anything else I could have done. Before that, though, I wound up yet again at my neighborhood Chinese restaurant--I seem to have a regular seat--and enjoyed my usual meal.
This time, however, I was struck by the odd mix of music playing in the background. Usually this place features the standard mix of generic oldies and gen pop-friendly contemporary hits. But it seemed to be weepy balladeer day--two Gene Pitney songs (Only Love Can Break A Heart and Town Without Pity), plus Without You (Mariah Carey's version, unfortunately, but still...) and Rufus Wainwright's Barcelona.
(That last one makes me wonder how outre a song can be and still get played in bland corporate settings. Once as I grocery shopped, in between the standard Hall & Oates and Billy Joel tunes, I heard a familiar synth riff. It couldn't be, I thought, but soon Alan Vega's mumbling, keening vocals kicked in--Suicide's Cheree as background music for buying milk! That's just...wrong.)
I ate more quickly than usual, afraid the music was going to become too depressing, even for me. What if they started playing Lost In The Stars, or some Nick Cave or Jim Carroll. I like pineapple chicken as much as anyone, but not when its served with a side of emotional arsenic.
So instead I stayed home and watched old Sgt. Bilko episodes, which come to think of it is probably better than anything else I could have done. Before that, though, I wound up yet again at my neighborhood Chinese restaurant--I seem to have a regular seat--and enjoyed my usual meal.
This time, however, I was struck by the odd mix of music playing in the background. Usually this place features the standard mix of generic oldies and gen pop-friendly contemporary hits. But it seemed to be weepy balladeer day--two Gene Pitney songs (Only Love Can Break A Heart and Town Without Pity), plus Without You (Mariah Carey's version, unfortunately, but still...) and Rufus Wainwright's Barcelona.
(That last one makes me wonder how outre a song can be and still get played in bland corporate settings. Once as I grocery shopped, in between the standard Hall & Oates and Billy Joel tunes, I heard a familiar synth riff. It couldn't be, I thought, but soon Alan Vega's mumbling, keening vocals kicked in--Suicide's Cheree as background music for buying milk! That's just...wrong.)
I ate more quickly than usual, afraid the music was going to become too depressing, even for me. What if they started playing Lost In The Stars, or some Nick Cave or Jim Carroll. I like pineapple chicken as much as anyone, but not when its served with a side of emotional arsenic.
BUT WE GOTTA MOVE AND WE MIGHT GET SUED AND IT LOOKS LIKE IT'S GONNA RAIN
Whiny, puffy ex-Bush spokesman Scott McClellan claims in his upcoming book he was ordered to deliberately lie about the outing of CIA operative Valerie Plame, and that Bush and Cheney were the very people behind it.
YAY! HOORAY! McClellan no longer works for the White House, so the administration can't claim executive immunity when the Democrats subpoena him and--
What? The Democrats aren't doing anything? Yeah, I know congress is on break and all, but come on. This is the smoking gun, proof positive that the rulers of our nation knowingly lied to the American people, and deliberately compromised national security by exposing a covert operative. This is an impeachable offense, folks. This is a big deal.
But not as big a deal as kicking back for the holidays, and after that it back to campaign mode, and all that talk of impeachment just harshes the national buzz.
Okay, Democrats, fuck yourselves. If you can't do something with this, you don't deserve even my reluctant support. I'm sitting out this election. I'm not voting. You can't be trusted any more than the Republicans.
And as Han Solo once said, I'll see you in Hell.
YAY! HOORAY! McClellan no longer works for the White House, so the administration can't claim executive immunity when the Democrats subpoena him and--
What? The Democrats aren't doing anything? Yeah, I know congress is on break and all, but come on. This is the smoking gun, proof positive that the rulers of our nation knowingly lied to the American people, and deliberately compromised national security by exposing a covert operative. This is an impeachable offense, folks. This is a big deal.
But not as big a deal as kicking back for the holidays, and after that it back to campaign mode, and all that talk of impeachment just harshes the national buzz.
Okay, Democrats, fuck yourselves. If you can't do something with this, you don't deserve even my reluctant support. I'm sitting out this election. I'm not voting. You can't be trusted any more than the Republicans.
And as Han Solo once said, I'll see you in Hell.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
AND IT SMELLS GOOD, TOO
I hadn't planned to spend this week noting the strange undercurrents of seemingly dull seventies TV commercials, but the actor Dick Wilson has died at the age of 91, and his lasting fame came from one role.
Gee, that's...
...um, uh..."a whole inch," that's kind of...
...well, that's just creepy. From the sledgehammer innuendos to the portrait of a network of suburban squeezing fetishists to Mr. Whipple's chilling, shameful inability to admit his own addiction, these commercials could only have been produced and accepted by a nation desperately trying to keep its collective id closeted.
It's weird. I grew up with these things, and never really paid any attention to them. Looking at them now, the only reaction is, What the hell were they thinking? But what were we all thinking? These ads manage to be monumentally stupid in concept, bland and uninteresting in execution...and breathtakingly perverse in subtext. Were we all too repressed in the seventies to notice how weird this stuff was, or too busy ingesting massive amounts of coke at key parties to pay attention?
Gee, that's...
...um, uh..."a whole inch," that's kind of...
...well, that's just creepy. From the sledgehammer innuendos to the portrait of a network of suburban squeezing fetishists to Mr. Whipple's chilling, shameful inability to admit his own addiction, these commercials could only have been produced and accepted by a nation desperately trying to keep its collective id closeted.
It's weird. I grew up with these things, and never really paid any attention to them. Looking at them now, the only reaction is, What the hell were they thinking? But what were we all thinking? These ads manage to be monumentally stupid in concept, bland and uninteresting in execution...and breathtakingly perverse in subtext. Were we all too repressed in the seventies to notice how weird this stuff was, or too busy ingesting massive amounts of coke at key parties to pay attention?
Monday, November 19, 2007
ALL SEVERED BODY PARTS SHOULD BE SO CHEEFUL
Oh, the seventies. Were we really so bland, so naive, so lacking in irony? Would we just accept any stupid commercial pitchman that ambled down the pike?
I love how utterly whitebread the housewife is (no career outside the home for this proper suburban gal!), and how calmly she accepts the Lovecraftian manifestation of sinister forces from worlds beyond casually appearing in her kitchen.
Mostly, I love imagining the animation tests that must have been done to get out cheerful li'l hand guy to do that finger snap. There must have been footage of him smashing in his face with his own fingers. Couldn't have been any more disturbing than what we got, though.
I love how utterly whitebread the housewife is (no career outside the home for this proper suburban gal!), and how calmly she accepts the Lovecraftian manifestation of sinister forces from worlds beyond casually appearing in her kitchen.
Mostly, I love imagining the animation tests that must have been done to get out cheerful li'l hand guy to do that finger snap. There must have been footage of him smashing in his face with his own fingers. Couldn't have been any more disturbing than what we got, though.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
SOME ARE DEAD AND SOME ARE LIVING
Dreary, rainy, cold. Mid-afternoon and I head as I do too often for my neighborhood Chinese restaurant. I sit in the car for a bit, watching people enter and leave, listening to the wind roar, aware of my solitude.
The first time I ate here, my mom was with me. My brother and I ate here the day of her funeral.
I've brought friends here, and unexpectedly run into friends here. Mostly, I eat by myself, alone in a corner with that day's New York Times, the same food, the same drink, the same tip.
I've had dinner here with almost every woman I've known in the last five years, the casual dates and the long-term relationships. None of these ever worked out.
When Tabbatha and I planned on moving in together, it would have been someplace else, a different neighborhood, another part of town. That didn't happen, of course. I still miss her, still wonder what happened, and know that I should move on, get out of this place, this rut, this part of my life.
Yet I'm still here. The sky is gray and the wind is bitter. The whole day feels numb, and so do I.
The first time I ate here, my mom was with me. My brother and I ate here the day of her funeral.
I've brought friends here, and unexpectedly run into friends here. Mostly, I eat by myself, alone in a corner with that day's New York Times, the same food, the same drink, the same tip.
I've had dinner here with almost every woman I've known in the last five years, the casual dates and the long-term relationships. None of these ever worked out.
When Tabbatha and I planned on moving in together, it would have been someplace else, a different neighborhood, another part of town. That didn't happen, of course. I still miss her, still wonder what happened, and know that I should move on, get out of this place, this rut, this part of my life.
Yet I'm still here. The sky is gray and the wind is bitter. The whole day feels numb, and so do I.
HOW DO YOU SLEEP?
So I saw Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium, and before I say anything about that, take a look at this:
Wow.
First of all--David Cross is in this? One of the greatest stand-up comedians in history, a brilliant writer ("The Legend Of T.J. O'Pootertoot's" from The Ben Stiller Show), co-creator of one of the greatest things in TV history, Mr. Show--and now this? I figured the cast members of Arrested Development would eventually do embarrassing things after the show's cancellation, but I didn't figure Cross would be the first to soil our fond memories. (My money was on Jason Bateman.)
But aside from that--Jeebus, what a depressing spectacle. Just what you want in a movie aimed at kids: fart gags, porno references and the apparent underlying message that life isn't worth living unless you're a "success"--that is, famous. I can't think of anything, anything more noxious to put out there for a kiddie audience.
The script is credited to Jon Vitti, Will McRobb and Chris Viscardi. Vitti wrote for The Simpsons back when that really meant something. McRobb and Viscardi created The Adventures Of Pete And Pete, a kid's show so awesome it attracted guest stars like Steve Buscemi, Syd Straw and Marshall Crenshaw. Now the three of them get together and decide a CGI chipmunk trying to get Jason Lee laid is perfect kiddie fodder. This isn't just stupid and insulting, it's morally bankrupt.
Happily--a word I never thought I'd use in reference to a movie featuring Dustin Hoffman channeling Ed Wynn--Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium has none of that. It's not a great movie, but it isn't bad at all, and has a genuine sweetness and sense of modesty. It isn't smugly self-satisfied (like Tim Burton's dreadful Charlie And The Chocolate Factory), and is blissfully free of pop culture references meant to amuse adults. True, there's a Mourning Becomes Electra pun, and a shout-out to Istanbul (Not Constantinople), but these are obscure enough it's unlikely most parents would get them. This is a rare movie made for kids that actually seems to like them, that isn't embarrassed about what it is, that doesn't smirk or talk down. Plus, Kermit The Frog has a cameo!
The thing is, Kermit's bit actually got a huge response from the packed audience of kids. Let that be a lesson, Hollywood: If you want to make entertainment for kids, get out those Muppet Show DVDs and see how it's done.
Wow.
First of all--David Cross is in this? One of the greatest stand-up comedians in history, a brilliant writer ("The Legend Of T.J. O'Pootertoot's" from The Ben Stiller Show), co-creator of one of the greatest things in TV history, Mr. Show--and now this? I figured the cast members of Arrested Development would eventually do embarrassing things after the show's cancellation, but I didn't figure Cross would be the first to soil our fond memories. (My money was on Jason Bateman.)
But aside from that--Jeebus, what a depressing spectacle. Just what you want in a movie aimed at kids: fart gags, porno references and the apparent underlying message that life isn't worth living unless you're a "success"--that is, famous. I can't think of anything, anything more noxious to put out there for a kiddie audience.
The script is credited to Jon Vitti, Will McRobb and Chris Viscardi. Vitti wrote for The Simpsons back when that really meant something. McRobb and Viscardi created The Adventures Of Pete And Pete, a kid's show so awesome it attracted guest stars like Steve Buscemi, Syd Straw and Marshall Crenshaw. Now the three of them get together and decide a CGI chipmunk trying to get Jason Lee laid is perfect kiddie fodder. This isn't just stupid and insulting, it's morally bankrupt.
Happily--a word I never thought I'd use in reference to a movie featuring Dustin Hoffman channeling Ed Wynn--Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium has none of that. It's not a great movie, but it isn't bad at all, and has a genuine sweetness and sense of modesty. It isn't smugly self-satisfied (like Tim Burton's dreadful Charlie And The Chocolate Factory), and is blissfully free of pop culture references meant to amuse adults. True, there's a Mourning Becomes Electra pun, and a shout-out to Istanbul (Not Constantinople), but these are obscure enough it's unlikely most parents would get them. This is a rare movie made for kids that actually seems to like them, that isn't embarrassed about what it is, that doesn't smirk or talk down. Plus, Kermit The Frog has a cameo!
The thing is, Kermit's bit actually got a huge response from the packed audience of kids. Let that be a lesson, Hollywood: If you want to make entertainment for kids, get out those Muppet Show DVDs and see how it's done.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
IT'S SATURDAY, FOLKS...WHAT DO YOU EXPECT?
Having spent so much time making fun of the very title of Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium--as so many have pointed out, it sounds like something Troy McClure once starred in, which means soon Dustin Hoffman may be hosting the instructional film Alice's Adventures Through The Windshield Glass--you can imagine my surprise to discover I'll be seeing it today.
Well, Paul wants to see it, and for one very good reason: It has Natalie Portman. Or, as he thinks of her, Padme. He found a Star Wars connection where I hadn't. Well played, sir.
Of course, Paul's eight, and is into the prequels much more than me. He doesn't even share my inexplicable Admiral Ackbar obsession, which manifests itself mostly by repeatedly muttering
which is, of course, just sad.
Well, Paul wants to see it, and for one very good reason: It has Natalie Portman. Or, as he thinks of her, Padme. He found a Star Wars connection where I hadn't. Well played, sir.
Of course, Paul's eight, and is into the prequels much more than me. He doesn't even share my inexplicable Admiral Ackbar obsession, which manifests itself mostly by repeatedly muttering
which is, of course, just sad.
Friday, November 16, 2007
IT'S GETTING UGLY
If you waste time at various entertainment-based websites, you'll find there's not a lot of sympathy out there for the Writer's Guild strike. The attitude seems to be, Hey these people are hacks and don't deserve what they're already making, and besides, now i can't watch new episodes of the shows I claim to hate.
But the studios, bless their poisoned hearts, appear to be unwittingly drumming up support for the writers by going out of their way to appear dickish.
Universal has not only suspended production on all scripted shows--perfectly understandable, with no scripts available--but has invoked the force majeure clause in the actors' contracts, suspending them on half pay for now, threatening to terminate them altogether if the strike continues. Universal is said to be considering taking similar actions against the writers of their shows.
Uh, excuse me, but...why? Whenever the strike is settled, don't you want to resume production of your shows? If you piss off the cast and writers, aren't they likely to go elsewhere? What is the plan here? Surely the shows you are producing have some value, and if they do, isn't it because the audience has some emotional investment in the characters? And if suddenly those characters are played by different actors, do you really think audiences won't notice?
Even dumber is the action taken by Sony, which has told castmembers of two of its sitcoms they're being put on unpaid hiatus--but are still contractually bound to the studio.
The Screen Actor's Guild is claiming this is an outright violation of the terms of the actors' contracts. Since SAG is mulling the possibility of its own strike next year, pissing off the most visible of Hollywood players doesn't seem like a wise move.
Yes, many actors are grotesquely overpaid--Nicholas Cage makes twenty million per picture? Seriously?--but the fact is, most people go to movies because they want to see movie stars. The studios (or more accurately, their controlling conglomerates) must realize this, right?
Right?
But the studios, bless their poisoned hearts, appear to be unwittingly drumming up support for the writers by going out of their way to appear dickish.
Universal has not only suspended production on all scripted shows--perfectly understandable, with no scripts available--but has invoked the force majeure clause in the actors' contracts, suspending them on half pay for now, threatening to terminate them altogether if the strike continues. Universal is said to be considering taking similar actions against the writers of their shows.
Uh, excuse me, but...why? Whenever the strike is settled, don't you want to resume production of your shows? If you piss off the cast and writers, aren't they likely to go elsewhere? What is the plan here? Surely the shows you are producing have some value, and if they do, isn't it because the audience has some emotional investment in the characters? And if suddenly those characters are played by different actors, do you really think audiences won't notice?
Even dumber is the action taken by Sony, which has told castmembers of two of its sitcoms they're being put on unpaid hiatus--but are still contractually bound to the studio.
The Screen Actor's Guild is claiming this is an outright violation of the terms of the actors' contracts. Since SAG is mulling the possibility of its own strike next year, pissing off the most visible of Hollywood players doesn't seem like a wise move.
Yes, many actors are grotesquely overpaid--Nicholas Cage makes twenty million per picture? Seriously?--but the fact is, most people go to movies because they want to see movie stars. The studios (or more accurately, their controlling conglomerates) must realize this, right?
Right?
Thursday, November 15, 2007
DARLING, I WILL UNDERSTAND
A musical mixed bag for you today, starting with one of my all-time favorite covers, Ry Cooder's take on an old Jim reeves classic. That's Flaco Jiminez on accordian.
Here's one of Cooder's regular compadres, ace guitarist and fashion plate David Lindley:
Speaking of great guitarists, here's Joe Pass with some obscure vocalist named Ella Fitzgerald:
Finally, a pair of twangy redheads. Let's start with Neko Case:
And finish with Jenny Lewis. Even when she blows a note, she's great:
Here's one of Cooder's regular compadres, ace guitarist and fashion plate David Lindley:
Speaking of great guitarists, here's Joe Pass with some obscure vocalist named Ella Fitzgerald:
Finally, a pair of twangy redheads. Let's start with Neko Case:
And finish with Jenny Lewis. Even when she blows a note, she's great:
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
THE STEPFORD WHATEVER, AND OTHER THINGS
More Random Thoughts? Sure, why not:
1) I'm not going to pretend I've ever read any of Ira Levin's books, because I haven't. However, his passing at the age of 78 reminds me of something we've been missing out on lately: Classy horror movies with a literary pedigree.
I'm thinking of the adaptations of three of Levin's novels: Rosemary's Baby, directed by Roman Polanski and featuring Mia Farrow and John Cassavetes; The Stepford Wives, directed by Bryan Forbes and starring Katherine Ross; and The Boys From Brazil, directed by Franklin Schaffner and starring Gregory Peck and Laurence Olivier. Forbes and Schaffner may not have been auteurs of Polanski's stature, but they were solid craftsmen, and even the worst of these movies (that would be Boys, with hilariously hambone performances from its two aging stars) have a solid level of professionalism and respect for the audience's intelligence sadly missing from today's horror fare.
The Stepford Wives in particular has a nice feel of everyday life going slightly wrong. Yeah, it has a cheesy seventies look, and if the story's ultimate destination seems kind of obvious these days, it's because we've seen it ripped off so many times since. It's not a great movie, but it's pretty good, and when was the last time you could say that about any major studio suspense thriller? Levin's novel and Forbes' film were popular enough for the title to have slipped into the lexicon, and can be used to identify anyone or anything that doesn't feel wholly natural. For instance, calling Hillary Clinton The Stepford Candidate...
2) Speaking of Clinton, I'm stunned there hasn't been more coverage and outcry over a stunt she pulled at the Jefferson-Jackson Dinner in Des Moines this weekend. At a forum in which all the major candidates were given speech time, it's customary for the other candidates to sit quietly and let their rivals talk. However, as Barack Obama spoke from the stage, Clinton took the opportunity--on the floor, in plain view of the stage--to pose for a photo op with Quincy Jones!
This calculated bit of racial back-stabbing conjures ugly visions of Lee Atwater or Karl Rove at their worst. That it's the Democratic front-runner pulling this shit is utterly contemptible. But not surprising.
3) OK, Mariano Rivera is coming off a pretty good season, but seriously--45 million bucks to get him to stay? If the Yankees can cough up that much for a relief pitcher, why can't they shell out a few bucks to pay for the war in Iraq?
4) Ingmar Bergman's film Monika has been reissued, at least in New York, and hopefully elsewhere. (Note to local exhibitors: HINT!) I mention this only because my cat is named after this very movie. The photo accompanying Manohla Dargis' review in The New York Times shows why: Harriet Andersson has a lovely but off-kilter, wide face with a prominent nose. Just like Monika!
5) If I'm not mistaken, I've gone a whole week without mentioning Star Wars. You're welcome!
1) I'm not going to pretend I've ever read any of Ira Levin's books, because I haven't. However, his passing at the age of 78 reminds me of something we've been missing out on lately: Classy horror movies with a literary pedigree.
I'm thinking of the adaptations of three of Levin's novels: Rosemary's Baby, directed by Roman Polanski and featuring Mia Farrow and John Cassavetes; The Stepford Wives, directed by Bryan Forbes and starring Katherine Ross; and The Boys From Brazil, directed by Franklin Schaffner and starring Gregory Peck and Laurence Olivier. Forbes and Schaffner may not have been auteurs of Polanski's stature, but they were solid craftsmen, and even the worst of these movies (that would be Boys, with hilariously hambone performances from its two aging stars) have a solid level of professionalism and respect for the audience's intelligence sadly missing from today's horror fare.
The Stepford Wives in particular has a nice feel of everyday life going slightly wrong. Yeah, it has a cheesy seventies look, and if the story's ultimate destination seems kind of obvious these days, it's because we've seen it ripped off so many times since. It's not a great movie, but it's pretty good, and when was the last time you could say that about any major studio suspense thriller? Levin's novel and Forbes' film were popular enough for the title to have slipped into the lexicon, and can be used to identify anyone or anything that doesn't feel wholly natural. For instance, calling Hillary Clinton The Stepford Candidate...
2) Speaking of Clinton, I'm stunned there hasn't been more coverage and outcry over a stunt she pulled at the Jefferson-Jackson Dinner in Des Moines this weekend. At a forum in which all the major candidates were given speech time, it's customary for the other candidates to sit quietly and let their rivals talk. However, as Barack Obama spoke from the stage, Clinton took the opportunity--on the floor, in plain view of the stage--to pose for a photo op with Quincy Jones!
This calculated bit of racial back-stabbing conjures ugly visions of Lee Atwater or Karl Rove at their worst. That it's the Democratic front-runner pulling this shit is utterly contemptible. But not surprising.
3) OK, Mariano Rivera is coming off a pretty good season, but seriously--45 million bucks to get him to stay? If the Yankees can cough up that much for a relief pitcher, why can't they shell out a few bucks to pay for the war in Iraq?
4) Ingmar Bergman's film Monika has been reissued, at least in New York, and hopefully elsewhere. (Note to local exhibitors: HINT!) I mention this only because my cat is named after this very movie. The photo accompanying Manohla Dargis' review in The New York Times shows why: Harriet Andersson has a lovely but off-kilter, wide face with a prominent nose. Just like Monika!
5) If I'm not mistaken, I've gone a whole week without mentioning Star Wars. You're welcome!
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
SUCKERS
The New Frontier casino in Las Vegas vanished in a cloud of dust earlier this morning, to be replaced by yet another bazillion-dollar Steve Wynn monstrosity. "We see fewer people playing the quarter slots since the New Frontier and Stardust closed," said Wynn, referring to two of the very few hotels on the Strip that actually catered to budget-minded visitors.
Used to be, Vegas offered the siren call of cheap food and lodging as an incentive, knowing damn well they'd get the money out of you in other ways. Even nickel slots could be addictive, and you could be down a hundred or more before you knew it.
These days, they don't bother. Sometime in the nineties, the major players in Sin City discovered just how stupid people can be: People no longer needed to be lured into gambling, they'd do it willingly. Hell, they'd pay top dollar for a room and food just for the privilege of throwing their money away. It's so much easier to fleece the suckers when they come willingly into your arms.
Which brings us to the Democrats.
The Jefferson-Jackson Dinner is a major blowout for the party faithful here in the caucus state of Iowa, and all of the major candidates would be there. Being one of the faithful, my sister Ann attempted to buy a ticket, or maybe two: Her companion was interested in attending, so Ann asked the party rep selling tickets about handicapped access.
Well, she was told, it was an old building and blah blah blah, but if he can walk at all--
No, Ann interrupted, he can't.
Well, then, the rep continued, we really can't--
Fine, whatever. She bought only one ticket.
Things got worse for Ann when she attempted to attend the event. Her ticket guaranteed her entrance to a specific section, but shortly after being admitted, she was told Secret Service agents had ordered that section closed for security reasons. She asked person after person where she should go, but nobody knew anything. Finally, disgusted, she left.
Aside from the woeful disorganization--or had the party deliberately overbooked the venue?--what's most interesting is how blind the party's organizers were to Ann's concerns. Why should they accommodate a guy in a wheelchair--even though Federal law says they must--when to do so might take away precious room on the main floor? People paid big money to sit down there and mingle with the candidates, and those people are simply more important than one handicapped guy.
Similarly, who cares about the troubles of one person--or dozens of people--who only paid for general admission seats? They don't contribute the big money that makes the machine run, so the hell with them. What are they gonna do, vote Republican?
No...but maybe they won't vote at all. The Democrats have for so long assumed a support base they no longer feel the need to seek that support. They have always been the party that cares about minorities and the downtrodden and basic human rights, and once upon a time, they showed that concern: The New Deal, the Great Society. Now empty words are the best you can hope for, and more often, you don't even get that. All the Democrats have going for them is the fact they're not Republicans, but is that enough? Not when their contempt for their base is so transparent.
The Democratic party is Steve Wynn, and most of us play quarter slots.
Used to be, Vegas offered the siren call of cheap food and lodging as an incentive, knowing damn well they'd get the money out of you in other ways. Even nickel slots could be addictive, and you could be down a hundred or more before you knew it.
These days, they don't bother. Sometime in the nineties, the major players in Sin City discovered just how stupid people can be: People no longer needed to be lured into gambling, they'd do it willingly. Hell, they'd pay top dollar for a room and food just for the privilege of throwing their money away. It's so much easier to fleece the suckers when they come willingly into your arms.
Which brings us to the Democrats.
The Jefferson-Jackson Dinner is a major blowout for the party faithful here in the caucus state of Iowa, and all of the major candidates would be there. Being one of the faithful, my sister Ann attempted to buy a ticket, or maybe two: Her companion was interested in attending, so Ann asked the party rep selling tickets about handicapped access.
Well, she was told, it was an old building and blah blah blah, but if he can walk at all--
No, Ann interrupted, he can't.
Well, then, the rep continued, we really can't--
Fine, whatever. She bought only one ticket.
Things got worse for Ann when she attempted to attend the event. Her ticket guaranteed her entrance to a specific section, but shortly after being admitted, she was told Secret Service agents had ordered that section closed for security reasons. She asked person after person where she should go, but nobody knew anything. Finally, disgusted, she left.
Aside from the woeful disorganization--or had the party deliberately overbooked the venue?--what's most interesting is how blind the party's organizers were to Ann's concerns. Why should they accommodate a guy in a wheelchair--even though Federal law says they must--when to do so might take away precious room on the main floor? People paid big money to sit down there and mingle with the candidates, and those people are simply more important than one handicapped guy.
Similarly, who cares about the troubles of one person--or dozens of people--who only paid for general admission seats? They don't contribute the big money that makes the machine run, so the hell with them. What are they gonna do, vote Republican?
No...but maybe they won't vote at all. The Democrats have for so long assumed a support base they no longer feel the need to seek that support. They have always been the party that cares about minorities and the downtrodden and basic human rights, and once upon a time, they showed that concern: The New Deal, the Great Society. Now empty words are the best you can hope for, and more often, you don't even get that. All the Democrats have going for them is the fact they're not Republicans, but is that enough? Not when their contempt for their base is so transparent.
The Democratic party is Steve Wynn, and most of us play quarter slots.
Monday, November 12, 2007
JUST GO AWAY
I was going to go on and on about my sister Ann's adventures at a major Democratic blow-out over the weekend, and probably will later, but I don't have a lot of time for writing this morning.
Still, I'd be remiss if I did not mention one of the most noteworthy events of said blow-out: the unveiling of Hillary Clinton's new slogan: Turn Up The Heat.
Um.
The turning up of heat, apparently, is what she and her Democratic rivals should be doing to the Republicans, but it's also a whining protest against mounting criticism of her. "Hey," she's moaning, "why attack me, just because I'm a ruthless political animal who will say or do anything necessary to get elected? Let's attack the Republicans because, hey, they're ruthless political animals who...well...Turn Up The Heat!"
I've never refused to vote in a presidential election, but I'm thinking this might be the one to sit out.
Still, I'd be remiss if I did not mention one of the most noteworthy events of said blow-out: the unveiling of Hillary Clinton's new slogan: Turn Up The Heat.
Um.
The turning up of heat, apparently, is what she and her Democratic rivals should be doing to the Republicans, but it's also a whining protest against mounting criticism of her. "Hey," she's moaning, "why attack me, just because I'm a ruthless political animal who will say or do anything necessary to get elected? Let's attack the Republicans because, hey, they're ruthless political animals who...well...Turn Up The Heat!"
I've never refused to vote in a presidential election, but I'm thinking this might be the one to sit out.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
TOUGH GUYS MAY NOT DANCE, BUT THEY SURE CAN CRANK OUT LONG, UNREADABLE NOVELS
Given the literary pretensions I once harbored, I suppose I should say something about Norman Mailer's passing.
(Crickets chirping, lonely wind howling, tumbleweeds blowing across the floor.)
Okay, here's my thought about Mailer: Eh.
To be honest, I never understood the man's reputation. All right, the only books of his I actually finished were An American Dream (again: eh)and The Executioner's Song (pretty damn good, but unimaginable without the template of In Cold Blood), but from my samplings of his other work, I found...nothing, really.
Armies Of The Night is forever credited as one of the most influential works of New Journalism, but compared to the contemporaneous work of Tom Wolfe and Hunter Thompson, it just doesn't hold up. Wolfe's prose may have been self-consciously flashy, but it was born of a genuine attempt to convey an experience. Thompson tended to write about himself as much as his ostensible subject matter, but that's okay, since he was a truly fascinating individual. Also, both of these guys could really write, whereas Mailer just cranked out words.
Oh, Lordy, did he crank out words. Every few years, he'd knock out yet another 500-page doorstop, making the inevitable claim that this one was really, no shit, really, the greatest thing he'd ever written; upon its release, the world would shrug and he'd go back to feuding with Gore Vidal. Tellingly, his squabbles with other authors seem to get more notice in his obits than anything he wrote. After all, how can you make a case for greatness from the guy who wrote Ancient Evenings, or that godawful Marilyn Monroe bio, or that pathetic thing about Jesus? Outside of the rarefied New York literary world, Mailer never really had much of a reputation because he simply wasn't that good.
(Crickets chirping, lonely wind howling, tumbleweeds blowing across the floor.)
Okay, here's my thought about Mailer: Eh.
To be honest, I never understood the man's reputation. All right, the only books of his I actually finished were An American Dream (again: eh)and The Executioner's Song (pretty damn good, but unimaginable without the template of In Cold Blood), but from my samplings of his other work, I found...nothing, really.
Armies Of The Night is forever credited as one of the most influential works of New Journalism, but compared to the contemporaneous work of Tom Wolfe and Hunter Thompson, it just doesn't hold up. Wolfe's prose may have been self-consciously flashy, but it was born of a genuine attempt to convey an experience. Thompson tended to write about himself as much as his ostensible subject matter, but that's okay, since he was a truly fascinating individual. Also, both of these guys could really write, whereas Mailer just cranked out words.
Oh, Lordy, did he crank out words. Every few years, he'd knock out yet another 500-page doorstop, making the inevitable claim that this one was really, no shit, really, the greatest thing he'd ever written; upon its release, the world would shrug and he'd go back to feuding with Gore Vidal. Tellingly, his squabbles with other authors seem to get more notice in his obits than anything he wrote. After all, how can you make a case for greatness from the guy who wrote Ancient Evenings, or that godawful Marilyn Monroe bio, or that pathetic thing about Jesus? Outside of the rarefied New York literary world, Mailer never really had much of a reputation because he simply wasn't that good.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
THE GIANT AMBULATORY PENIS LONGS TO BE EATEN
As a kid, I never noticed how much Twinkie The Kid resembled a huge walking dick. References to "creamy filling" of the fact that nothing can beat him never made me chuckle or cringe.
Maybe I was unusually naive, or maybe we all were. True, Twinkies are a truly noxious product, but this commercial is charming in its utter simplicity. You could argue that selling crap to children is inherently evil, but hey, the li'l squabs love crap that's bad for them. At least this commercial treats kids as kids, not as wised-up, hyper-ironic little poseurs. The seventies may have been a last gasp of innocence, when things targeted to kids could be good or bad or profoundly stoopid, but never self-conscious.
Maybe I was unusually naive, or maybe we all were. True, Twinkies are a truly noxious product, but this commercial is charming in its utter simplicity. You could argue that selling crap to children is inherently evil, but hey, the li'l squabs love crap that's bad for them. At least this commercial treats kids as kids, not as wised-up, hyper-ironic little poseurs. The seventies may have been a last gasp of innocence, when things targeted to kids could be good or bad or profoundly stoopid, but never self-conscious.
Thursday, November 08, 2007
AND IT'S HERE TO STAY
In honor of the fact that Alan Dershowitz defends waterboarding in today's Wall Street Journal because, hey, it worked for the Nazis...
And since a form of this torture (under the wonderfully lurid name tortura del agua) dates back to the Spanish Inquisition...
And because Mel Brooks' new musical opens tonight on Broadway...
Ladies and Germs--The Inquisition!
And since a form of this torture (under the wonderfully lurid name tortura del agua) dates back to the Spanish Inquisition...
And because Mel Brooks' new musical opens tonight on Broadway...
Ladies and Germs--The Inquisition!
I NUDGED HIM AND I NUDGED HIM BUT HE'S AWFULLY STILL
Geez, sorry the last couple posts have been depressing. Here's a certifiable classic from the Chuck Jones-Mike Maltese genius factory:
SWEET SONGS NEVER LAST TOO LONG ON BROKEN RADIOS
A depressing story on the rise of homelessness among veterans of the Iraq and Afghanistan campaigns in today's New York Times.
According to the Veterans's Affairs Department, over 400 vets have turned up in homeless shelters. These are the numbers of people who have gone looking for help; God knows how many are suffering in silence.
11% of these veterans are women, the highest number in U.S. history. 40% of them were sexually assaulted by male soldiers overseas.
All these numbers are unusual, experts claim. Homelessness is not uncommon among veterans of foreign wars, but the downward spiral usually takes awhile. These days, it's immediate.
They come back to their world, some of them physically battered, most with their psyches turned inside out. Government agencies meant to help them ignore them, put them on waiting lists, let them twist in the wind. Some look for comfort or at least release in crack and meth, but with housing costs so high and their pay so low, it's easy to fall.
Our Beloved President, in an act of caprice, shattered these people's lives. He and his enablers knowingly used bogus claims and fake evidence to lead us into this foreign policy cul-de-sac, knowing but not caring what would happen. People continue to die every day, and hell, maybe the dead are the lucky ones, they won't have to see the continuing indifference of those in power.
Yes, we all say we're tired of this war, but what are we doing. How many seeds must be planted before we reap this terrible harvest, how much blood can we sponge from our hands, how many homeless bodies must we step over?
According to the Veterans's Affairs Department, over 400 vets have turned up in homeless shelters. These are the numbers of people who have gone looking for help; God knows how many are suffering in silence.
11% of these veterans are women, the highest number in U.S. history. 40% of them were sexually assaulted by male soldiers overseas.
All these numbers are unusual, experts claim. Homelessness is not uncommon among veterans of foreign wars, but the downward spiral usually takes awhile. These days, it's immediate.
They come back to their world, some of them physically battered, most with their psyches turned inside out. Government agencies meant to help them ignore them, put them on waiting lists, let them twist in the wind. Some look for comfort or at least release in crack and meth, but with housing costs so high and their pay so low, it's easy to fall.
Our Beloved President, in an act of caprice, shattered these people's lives. He and his enablers knowingly used bogus claims and fake evidence to lead us into this foreign policy cul-de-sac, knowing but not caring what would happen. People continue to die every day, and hell, maybe the dead are the lucky ones, they won't have to see the continuing indifference of those in power.
Yes, we all say we're tired of this war, but what are we doing. How many seeds must be planted before we reap this terrible harvest, how much blood can we sponge from our hands, how many homeless bodies must we step over?
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
AND THAT'S WHY I'M TURNING YOU IN
Oh, hey, here's a surprise: The Senate Judiciary Committee yesterday recommended Michael Mukasey's confirmation as Attorney General.
Mukasey, of course, is the guy who maintained a straight face as he told the senate he was unfamiliar with the practice of water-boarding. Given the post-Abu Ghraib heightened awareness of torture in all its forms, Mukasey's claim is simply unbelievable.
Or, to put it more succinctly, he's lying.
The guy needed to bring a sense of, well, justice to the Justice Department has already failed the only conceivable test of his worth. Yet somehow he gets a big okey-doke, and his confirmation by the full senate is pretty much a lock.
Two influential Democrats helped Mukasey along, Charles Schumer and Dianne Feinstein. Schumer's from New York, Feinstein from California--supposedly hard-core Blue States, yet their top senators have no problem blowing a big wet kiss to the Bushinistas. (Incidentally, please not my substitution of "big wet kiss" for the usual oral sex metaphor I would normally deploy here. I'm trying to learn restraint...) Nobody would expect otherwise from Feinstein (on the San Francisco political scene, she used to run with George Moscone and Harvey Milk; once she became a career politician, her views more closely resembled Dan White's), but Schumer was the first senator to call for Alberto Gonzales' resignation; you'd think he'd demand better from Gonzales' replacement.
You would think that, if you honestly believed the Democratic party actually stood for something, had any kind of spine, offered something other than mild, token opposition to the most anti-humanistic presidency imaginable. Such thoughts might have been possible once.
Things have changed.
Mukasey, of course, is the guy who maintained a straight face as he told the senate he was unfamiliar with the practice of water-boarding. Given the post-Abu Ghraib heightened awareness of torture in all its forms, Mukasey's claim is simply unbelievable.
Or, to put it more succinctly, he's lying.
The guy needed to bring a sense of, well, justice to the Justice Department has already failed the only conceivable test of his worth. Yet somehow he gets a big okey-doke, and his confirmation by the full senate is pretty much a lock.
Two influential Democrats helped Mukasey along, Charles Schumer and Dianne Feinstein. Schumer's from New York, Feinstein from California--supposedly hard-core Blue States, yet their top senators have no problem blowing a big wet kiss to the Bushinistas. (Incidentally, please not my substitution of "big wet kiss" for the usual oral sex metaphor I would normally deploy here. I'm trying to learn restraint...) Nobody would expect otherwise from Feinstein (on the San Francisco political scene, she used to run with George Moscone and Harvey Milk; once she became a career politician, her views more closely resembled Dan White's), but Schumer was the first senator to call for Alberto Gonzales' resignation; you'd think he'd demand better from Gonzales' replacement.
You would think that, if you honestly believed the Democratic party actually stood for something, had any kind of spine, offered something other than mild, token opposition to the most anti-humanistic presidency imaginable. Such thoughts might have been possible once.
Things have changed.
WHO KNEW?
Apparently, I am Weird Al.
Aside from the obsessing over Marshall Crenshaw--this before his killer turn in La Bamba!--I happened to be eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich (on white bread, no less!) as I watched this. While wearing a Hawaiian shirt.
Plus, Al is a well-known Star Wars fanatic. Scary...
Aside from the obsessing over Marshall Crenshaw--this before his killer turn in La Bamba!--I happened to be eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich (on white bread, no less!) as I watched this. While wearing a Hawaiian shirt.
Plus, Al is a well-known Star Wars fanatic. Scary...
Monday, November 05, 2007
I RUNNE TO DEATH, AND DEATH MEETS ME AS FAST, AND ALL MY PLEASURES ARE LIKE YESTERDAY
Look, I promise the rest of the post won't be as depressing as the title. (He said, fingers crossed.)
Maybe it was the not-unattractive women both in front of and behind me in the checkout line, both of whom noticed what I had laid out on the counter, both smirking Funky Winkerbean-style as they perused my purchases.
As I noted the sum total of my trip to the grocery store, I wept for my spirit: Cat food, peanut butter, chocolate chip cookies and sandwich bags.
It looked so...pathetic. The combination of sandwich bags and peanut butter, like I'm stowing away the same pathetic foodstuff every day. Store-bought chocolate chip cookies, because I'm too paralyzed with stasis to even make my own. Cat food, because I'm turning into a crazy cat person. (Friskies Select cat food...not exactly the best of the best, but fairly top of the line for mass market stuff, thus suggesting the cats are eating better than me.)
I could probably defend my purchases if I absolutely had to, but seeing them on display like that made me feel so vulnerable, made me question whether I am in fact living, or have accepted the rest of my life as a long winding-down to death.
But hey, the woman ahead of me may have been judging my purchases, but how much moral authority did she carry? She bought a pack of Camels, a case of Bud Light and a bottle of Absolut--not enough for a party, but way more than one person should consume.
Besides, just because I'm in limbo now doesn't mean I'll be staying here. Sometimes--okay, most of the time--it feels like my life is in a holding pattern, but it was only a year ago I realized I felt as much love for the son of the woman I was dating as I did for her, that I was capable of being part of a family, something I had never previously considered possible. It didn't work out--for reasons I still don't understand--but Tabbatha and I still are friendly, and Paul and I still hang out together. That right there shows surprises are still possible in my life.
But such miracles won't happen on a regular basis, and there's still the drudgery of everyday existence: Peanut butter. Sandwich bags. Chocolate chip cookies. Cat food. Sometimes the comfort of the familiar isn't so comforting at all.
Maybe it was the not-unattractive women both in front of and behind me in the checkout line, both of whom noticed what I had laid out on the counter, both smirking Funky Winkerbean-style as they perused my purchases.
As I noted the sum total of my trip to the grocery store, I wept for my spirit: Cat food, peanut butter, chocolate chip cookies and sandwich bags.
It looked so...pathetic. The combination of sandwich bags and peanut butter, like I'm stowing away the same pathetic foodstuff every day. Store-bought chocolate chip cookies, because I'm too paralyzed with stasis to even make my own. Cat food, because I'm turning into a crazy cat person. (Friskies Select cat food...not exactly the best of the best, but fairly top of the line for mass market stuff, thus suggesting the cats are eating better than me.)
I could probably defend my purchases if I absolutely had to, but seeing them on display like that made me feel so vulnerable, made me question whether I am in fact living, or have accepted the rest of my life as a long winding-down to death.
But hey, the woman ahead of me may have been judging my purchases, but how much moral authority did she carry? She bought a pack of Camels, a case of Bud Light and a bottle of Absolut--not enough for a party, but way more than one person should consume.
Besides, just because I'm in limbo now doesn't mean I'll be staying here. Sometimes--okay, most of the time--it feels like my life is in a holding pattern, but it was only a year ago I realized I felt as much love for the son of the woman I was dating as I did for her, that I was capable of being part of a family, something I had never previously considered possible. It didn't work out--for reasons I still don't understand--but Tabbatha and I still are friendly, and Paul and I still hang out together. That right there shows surprises are still possible in my life.
But such miracles won't happen on a regular basis, and there's still the drudgery of everyday existence: Peanut butter. Sandwich bags. Chocolate chip cookies. Cat food. Sometimes the comfort of the familiar isn't so comforting at all.
Sunday, November 04, 2007
SUPER DUPER SUPERMEN
First, a warning: Enjoy this while you can, since the Disney legal gremlins could remove it at any time.
That said, here is one of the greatest animated shorts ever made. The animation, as you'd expect from Disney, is outstanding, Jack Kinney's staging is exemplary, and Oliver Wallace's title song will be lodged in your head for the rest of the day, possibly longer.
Some questions to ponder:
1) Do you think Mel Brooks saw this?
2) Is the Japanese caricature any more offensive than, oh, Rob Schneider's buck-toothed Asian character in I Now Pronounce You Chuck And Larry?
3) While it's supposed to be rah-rah patriotic bullshit, how chilling is that finale? Was the fact that the shadow of the Statue Of Liberty seemed to be giving a Nazi salute considered ironic? And what about that "New World Order" line?
Ah, enough of that. Here's the cartoon:
That said, here is one of the greatest animated shorts ever made. The animation, as you'd expect from Disney, is outstanding, Jack Kinney's staging is exemplary, and Oliver Wallace's title song will be lodged in your head for the rest of the day, possibly longer.
Some questions to ponder:
1) Do you think Mel Brooks saw this?
2) Is the Japanese caricature any more offensive than, oh, Rob Schneider's buck-toothed Asian character in I Now Pronounce You Chuck And Larry?
3) While it's supposed to be rah-rah patriotic bullshit, how chilling is that finale? Was the fact that the shadow of the Statue Of Liberty seemed to be giving a Nazi salute considered ironic? And what about that "New World Order" line?
Ah, enough of that. Here's the cartoon:
Saturday, November 03, 2007
THE HELL---?
It's Saturday night, burn-off evening on network TV. NBC shows reruns of shows from its weekly schedule, and I'm sitting home bored off my ass, so I figured it was a good time to try out the redo of Bionic Woman.
As I tune in, two improbably attractive, tight-shirted brunettes are arguing. I'm assuming one of them is the titular bionic woman (and pardon my juvenile giggle at the use of the word "titular" in this context), and as the scene continues, it becomes an argument over their respective abandonment issues.
Cut to another scene. A college lecture, the professor showing slides, the first picture, in his words, "A victim of a car bombing in Baghdad..."
Well, that's enough of that.
Hey, I'm all for a certain amount of depth in my lightweight entertainment, I appreciate characters with some history, I get the idea of science fiction as metaphor for current issues. But come on. Anybody settling in for a show called Bionic Woman has a certain set of expectations, and none of which involve souls in torment or the war in Iraq. They involve seeing the titular (giggle) babe going undercover as beauty contestant or lifeguard or mud wrestler, and punching out vaguely foreign but unspecified bad guys, and running fast and leaping high. This show should be about fluff, not angst. If you want to do a crappy knock-off of Heroes, fine, but why the hell call it Bionic Woman?
If it brings a halt to production of this crap, that writer's strike can't come soon enough.
As I tune in, two improbably attractive, tight-shirted brunettes are arguing. I'm assuming one of them is the titular bionic woman (and pardon my juvenile giggle at the use of the word "titular" in this context), and as the scene continues, it becomes an argument over their respective abandonment issues.
Cut to another scene. A college lecture, the professor showing slides, the first picture, in his words, "A victim of a car bombing in Baghdad..."
Well, that's enough of that.
Hey, I'm all for a certain amount of depth in my lightweight entertainment, I appreciate characters with some history, I get the idea of science fiction as metaphor for current issues. But come on. Anybody settling in for a show called Bionic Woman has a certain set of expectations, and none of which involve souls in torment or the war in Iraq. They involve seeing the titular (giggle) babe going undercover as beauty contestant or lifeguard or mud wrestler, and punching out vaguely foreign but unspecified bad guys, and running fast and leaping high. This show should be about fluff, not angst. If you want to do a crappy knock-off of Heroes, fine, but why the hell call it Bionic Woman?
If it brings a halt to production of this crap, that writer's strike can't come soon enough.
Friday, November 02, 2007
"WHAT ARE WE?" "FIST!"
Apparently, the Writer's Guild Strike will happen, and most, if not all, TV and movie production will be shut down. The reasons for the strike are primarily financial, and not unreasonable, but there is one additional demand they should make: Dignity.
When your average stoopid Hollywood blockbuster is criticized, it's often over the inanities of plot and dialogue, and the writer is duly chastised. But is it the writer's fault? If you're the fifth, or fifteenth, scribe assigned to a Bruckheimer-esque adaptation of a seventies TV show or eighties toy line, and you're dealing with twentysomething studio executives giving you notes on the nuances of your characters, are you even going to bother trying? Or will you just grind out some shit that makes these pinheads happy, and pray for the day you can work on something you care about? And if that day never arrives, and your salvage job on Manimal: The Motion Picture landed you a seven-figure payday for Strawberry Shortcake 2: The Reckoning, will you even remember you sold out your dream?
I'm looking at writing credits for recent Big Hollywood movies. Roberto Orci and Alex Kurtzman have become the go-to guys for Michael Bay, but they used to write for Hercules and Xena. Those were enjoyably silly shows, often with genuinely clever scripts, but who knew they'd turn out to be a career highlight?
Or consider Alvin Sargent, one of numerous credited writers on Spider-man 3. His career dates all the way back to TV shows like Route 66 and Run For Your Life. He wrote Paper Moon, for God's sake. Do you think the idiotic plot complications and ridiculous coincidences in Spider-man 3 were his doing, or the result of some minor studio functionary demanding more "character arcs" while simultaneously requesting more explosions?
This is why screenwriters need to frame their demands differently. Striking over pay won't win you many supporters here in flyover land--it's impossible to sympathize with millionaires asking for more money. But if you demand the right to never again be forced to write an unwarranted sequel or needless remake, the good wishes of the entire nation will be behind you.
When your average stoopid Hollywood blockbuster is criticized, it's often over the inanities of plot and dialogue, and the writer is duly chastised. But is it the writer's fault? If you're the fifth, or fifteenth, scribe assigned to a Bruckheimer-esque adaptation of a seventies TV show or eighties toy line, and you're dealing with twentysomething studio executives giving you notes on the nuances of your characters, are you even going to bother trying? Or will you just grind out some shit that makes these pinheads happy, and pray for the day you can work on something you care about? And if that day never arrives, and your salvage job on Manimal: The Motion Picture landed you a seven-figure payday for Strawberry Shortcake 2: The Reckoning, will you even remember you sold out your dream?
I'm looking at writing credits for recent Big Hollywood movies. Roberto Orci and Alex Kurtzman have become the go-to guys for Michael Bay, but they used to write for Hercules and Xena. Those were enjoyably silly shows, often with genuinely clever scripts, but who knew they'd turn out to be a career highlight?
Or consider Alvin Sargent, one of numerous credited writers on Spider-man 3. His career dates all the way back to TV shows like Route 66 and Run For Your Life. He wrote Paper Moon, for God's sake. Do you think the idiotic plot complications and ridiculous coincidences in Spider-man 3 were his doing, or the result of some minor studio functionary demanding more "character arcs" while simultaneously requesting more explosions?
This is why screenwriters need to frame their demands differently. Striking over pay won't win you many supporters here in flyover land--it's impossible to sympathize with millionaires asking for more money. But if you demand the right to never again be forced to write an unwarranted sequel or needless remake, the good wishes of the entire nation will be behind you.
Thursday, November 01, 2007
YOU'RE JUST AT AN AWKWARD AGE
Sorry, folks, another lazy day. Hey, it's no longer National Blog Writing Month, so I don't even have to pretend to come up with original content. Just some video clips today, and if it seems as though they've been chosen at random, it's because they have been.
First, the late Sandy Denny, singing with her much-underrated post-Fairport Convention band, Fotheringay:
The pure dada joy of the Max Fleischer studio. Wanna be a member, wanna be a member?
Finally, Joe Jackson, from 2003:
First, the late Sandy Denny, singing with her much-underrated post-Fairport Convention band, Fotheringay:
The pure dada joy of the Max Fleischer studio. Wanna be a member, wanna be a member?
Finally, Joe Jackson, from 2003:
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
THIS IS THE END...
It's not like it was an actual contract or anything. More like a half-hearted challenge issued with mock seriousness by my ex-wife. Nonetheless, when I pledged to put up an original post every day through the month of October, I took the challenge seriously.
Now the month is over, so I can go back to slacking. Not saying I will, merely that I can. It's been good, though, forcing myself to do this every day, a discipline I've sorely needed but unfortunately lacked. Oh, sure, sometimes I'd just throw up some video clips, but even then, I had to figure out what to use, how to tie them together, editing, assembling. I need to take writing seriously again, and decide what I want to do with it.
I realize there are people out there in Blogland with actual readerships, who actually receive money (if not quite earning livings) off of this sort of thing. Me, I just plod along here, never expanding beyond my regular readership (again, hello to both of you!), though you'd think I'd have sewn up the highly-coveted demo of Vincente Minnelli-loving, Bush-hating, Marshall Crenshaw-worshipping Star Wars fanatics. They're a force to be reckoned with, you know.
Anyway, I got very little sleep last night, and my mind's not up to tapping out the personal essay/psuedo-think piece this was meant to be, so I'll cut this short. Thanks for reading.
Now the month is over, so I can go back to slacking. Not saying I will, merely that I can. It's been good, though, forcing myself to do this every day, a discipline I've sorely needed but unfortunately lacked. Oh, sure, sometimes I'd just throw up some video clips, but even then, I had to figure out what to use, how to tie them together, editing, assembling. I need to take writing seriously again, and decide what I want to do with it.
I realize there are people out there in Blogland with actual readerships, who actually receive money (if not quite earning livings) off of this sort of thing. Me, I just plod along here, never expanding beyond my regular readership (again, hello to both of you!), though you'd think I'd have sewn up the highly-coveted demo of Vincente Minnelli-loving, Bush-hating, Marshall Crenshaw-worshipping Star Wars fanatics. They're a force to be reckoned with, you know.
Anyway, I got very little sleep last night, and my mind's not up to tapping out the personal essay/psuedo-think piece this was meant to be, so I'll cut this short. Thanks for reading.
EXACTLY THE SAME...BUT TOTALLY DIFFERENT!
Say, kids, it's been a long time since I did one of those Random Thoughts posts, right? So it's about time for another, right? Right? Hey, where ya all goin'?
1) There's this annoying guy at work--late fifties, unkempt, belches and farts a lot--who keeps trotting out references to old movies and TV shows. The other day, as a bunch of us sat around, he actually trotted out the catchphrase "Ver-ry interesting...but stupid" in the worst Arte Johnson voice imaginable.
The only thing more annoying than a tired catchphrase is a tired catchphrase most people don't remember. If he trotted this out in some sort of ironic, Tom Servo-and-Crowish way, alright, but he didn't. He seems to think it's still relevant.
This, apparently, is his sad substitute for a real life. One time he started asking me questions about an episode of the old Nick Adams series The Rebel, despite protestations that the show was before my time. (Though as far as The Rebel goes, a trip to the IMDb reveals that it was directed for most of its run by Irvin Kershner, who later helmed The Empire Strikes Back...and thus have I made today's gratuitous Star Wars reference.)
The other day, he kept pressing it, asking me all these pointless trivia questions, until I finally answered with, "I don't fucking care!" He reacted like a wounded puppy, and for the rest of the day, whenever I asked him to do something, he'd respond with, "I don't fucking care." Poor dope.
2) Man, there's a lot of hate for A-Rod out there in Yankeeland. OK, I realize Rodriguez skipped out on his contract, and spent most of his time with the Yankees doing nothing, and in general acts like a spoiled kid.
But he kicked ass for most of the past season. No, he didn't nail the homers when they were most needed, during the playoffs, but it's not fair to ask him to carry the whole misbegoten team on his shoulders.
In other Yankee news, Joe Torre and Don Mattingly are apparently going to be in charge of the dodgers next season, and Joe Girardi will take over as Yankees manager. Whatever. They'll probably suck, anyway.
3) I had a dream last night that involved, among other things, Raymond Burr dancing to Footloose.
Let me say that again: Raymond Burr. Dancing. Footloose.
The horror! The horror!
4) So the State Department apparently offered immunity to the Blackwater thugs who murdered seventeen Iraqi civilians. No fallout, no justice, no nothing. Hey, Iraq, enjoy your democracy.
5) The deeply unnecessary proposed remake of Escape from New York has lost its second proposed director. It's as though the Gods of Cinema themselves are trying to prevent this sure-fire crapfest from happening. Oh, Hollywood, will you be wise enough to listen?
1) There's this annoying guy at work--late fifties, unkempt, belches and farts a lot--who keeps trotting out references to old movies and TV shows. The other day, as a bunch of us sat around, he actually trotted out the catchphrase "Ver-ry interesting...but stupid" in the worst Arte Johnson voice imaginable.
The only thing more annoying than a tired catchphrase is a tired catchphrase most people don't remember. If he trotted this out in some sort of ironic, Tom Servo-and-Crowish way, alright, but he didn't. He seems to think it's still relevant.
This, apparently, is his sad substitute for a real life. One time he started asking me questions about an episode of the old Nick Adams series The Rebel, despite protestations that the show was before my time. (Though as far as The Rebel goes, a trip to the IMDb reveals that it was directed for most of its run by Irvin Kershner, who later helmed The Empire Strikes Back...and thus have I made today's gratuitous Star Wars reference.)
The other day, he kept pressing it, asking me all these pointless trivia questions, until I finally answered with, "I don't fucking care!" He reacted like a wounded puppy, and for the rest of the day, whenever I asked him to do something, he'd respond with, "I don't fucking care." Poor dope.
2) Man, there's a lot of hate for A-Rod out there in Yankeeland. OK, I realize Rodriguez skipped out on his contract, and spent most of his time with the Yankees doing nothing, and in general acts like a spoiled kid.
But he kicked ass for most of the past season. No, he didn't nail the homers when they were most needed, during the playoffs, but it's not fair to ask him to carry the whole misbegoten team on his shoulders.
In other Yankee news, Joe Torre and Don Mattingly are apparently going to be in charge of the dodgers next season, and Joe Girardi will take over as Yankees manager. Whatever. They'll probably suck, anyway.
3) I had a dream last night that involved, among other things, Raymond Burr dancing to Footloose.
Let me say that again: Raymond Burr. Dancing. Footloose.
The horror! The horror!
4) So the State Department apparently offered immunity to the Blackwater thugs who murdered seventeen Iraqi civilians. No fallout, no justice, no nothing. Hey, Iraq, enjoy your democracy.
5) The deeply unnecessary proposed remake of Escape from New York has lost its second proposed director. It's as though the Gods of Cinema themselves are trying to prevent this sure-fire crapfest from happening. Oh, Hollywood, will you be wise enough to listen?
Monday, October 29, 2007
STRIKE ZONE
Seriously, the hell with baseball.
First of all, it was a Who Cares? World Series anyway. The Rockies, a team steeped in fundamentalist values who are nonetheless hypocritical enough to play on Coors Field, or the Red Sox, which...I mean, they...if you...AARRGGHH!!!
Just take a look at any of the painfully ubiquitous photos of Red Sox fans celebrating en masse. Have you ever seen such a scary sea of whiteness? Have you ever seen so many guys, whatever their age, looking like drunken frat boys? Have you ever seen so many people you just want to hit repeatedly with a shovel?
Boston fans have always been a particularly virulent lot, no matter how badly their team sucked, but now that the Sox have won their second series in four years, they've now got a sense of entitlement. I don't really care about the team one way or the other--although, Jeebus help me, if you've ever read Curt Schilling's blog, you'll never want to stop vomiting--but their fans are such an annoying bunch, they ruin the game for me.
Or ruin it further, considering the state of my beloved Yankees. Alex Rodriguez--or more precisely, his agent, and I'd just like to say FUCK AGENTS--has announced he wants out of his contract. This, after saying as recently as the play-offs that "New York feels like home."
I've got mixed feelings about Rodriguez's tenure with the Yankees. Until this season, he never really delivered, but in the past year, he was not only the team's MVP but one of the most awesome presences in the game. He also gave the team some superstar recognition, but paradoxically, that has always been a problem with the Yankees in the Steinbrenner era: the tendency to hire individual stars rather than building a functioning team.
But his departure couldn't come at a worse time, since the Yankees will certainly be wobbly following the departure of Joe Torre, one of the best managers the game has ever known. His agent didn't specify Torre's absence as figuring in Rodriguez's decision, but he did mention the uncertain future of the team, not even knowing for sure who his teammates would be.
Which is another reason for concern: Next year's Yankees will be the first mostly assembled by Steinbrenner's kids, Hal and Hank. (Even typing the words "Hal and Hank" sent cold chills down my spine.) While I'd like to believe they couldn't possibly be any more misguided than their dad, I'm afraid they'll be paralyzed by attempting to think like him, will be too intimidated to do anything to displease him.
Think bigger, guys. Time to step up to the plate.
First of all, it was a Who Cares? World Series anyway. The Rockies, a team steeped in fundamentalist values who are nonetheless hypocritical enough to play on Coors Field, or the Red Sox, which...I mean, they...if you...AARRGGHH!!!
Just take a look at any of the painfully ubiquitous photos of Red Sox fans celebrating en masse. Have you ever seen such a scary sea of whiteness? Have you ever seen so many guys, whatever their age, looking like drunken frat boys? Have you ever seen so many people you just want to hit repeatedly with a shovel?
Boston fans have always been a particularly virulent lot, no matter how badly their team sucked, but now that the Sox have won their second series in four years, they've now got a sense of entitlement. I don't really care about the team one way or the other--although, Jeebus help me, if you've ever read Curt Schilling's blog, you'll never want to stop vomiting--but their fans are such an annoying bunch, they ruin the game for me.
Or ruin it further, considering the state of my beloved Yankees. Alex Rodriguez--or more precisely, his agent, and I'd just like to say FUCK AGENTS--has announced he wants out of his contract. This, after saying as recently as the play-offs that "New York feels like home."
I've got mixed feelings about Rodriguez's tenure with the Yankees. Until this season, he never really delivered, but in the past year, he was not only the team's MVP but one of the most awesome presences in the game. He also gave the team some superstar recognition, but paradoxically, that has always been a problem with the Yankees in the Steinbrenner era: the tendency to hire individual stars rather than building a functioning team.
But his departure couldn't come at a worse time, since the Yankees will certainly be wobbly following the departure of Joe Torre, one of the best managers the game has ever known. His agent didn't specify Torre's absence as figuring in Rodriguez's decision, but he did mention the uncertain future of the team, not even knowing for sure who his teammates would be.
Which is another reason for concern: Next year's Yankees will be the first mostly assembled by Steinbrenner's kids, Hal and Hank. (Even typing the words "Hal and Hank" sent cold chills down my spine.) While I'd like to believe they couldn't possibly be any more misguided than their dad, I'm afraid they'll be paralyzed by attempting to think like him, will be too intimidated to do anything to displease him.
Think bigger, guys. Time to step up to the plate.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
MY MOTHER'S MAIDEN NAME WAS HOOLIGAN
Look, I overslept this morning, and spent wy too much time watching video clips on YouTube. Does that mean I'm going to cheat and post those clips here? But of course!
(In most circumstances, I wouldn't bother posting at all. But it's still October--National Blog Writing Month, don'tcha know--and since I was challenged to post every day, by cracky ah aims tuh do it.)
Anyway, the clips. These are all from probably the greatest sketch comedy in the history of the known universe, SCTV. Let's start with Eugene Levy as Rockin' Mel Slurm, hapless host of "Mel's Rock Pile." Dave Thomas' Richard Harris makes me laugh out loud every time I see this--I can still annoy people with my impression of Thomas' impression to this day.
A great bit with Rick Moranis as Michael McDonald:
Finally, one of my all-time favorite sketches, from SCTV or anywhere else, an extended parody of Grapes Of Wrath featuring most of the show's original cast--Joe Flaherty, Catherine O'Hara, Andrea Martin, Thomas, Levy and Harold Ramis. (John Candy, strangely, isn't in this one.) The writing is sharp ("Better get the big frying pan") but what really sells it are the performers, some of the best comic actors of all time. Everybody is great here, but my favorites are O'Hara's insane takedown of Jane Darwell, Levy's preacher and especially Ramis' Muley, which makes me laugh for reasons I don't even fully understand. Great stuff.
(In most circumstances, I wouldn't bother posting at all. But it's still October--National Blog Writing Month, don'tcha know--and since I was challenged to post every day, by cracky ah aims tuh do it.)
Anyway, the clips. These are all from probably the greatest sketch comedy in the history of the known universe, SCTV. Let's start with Eugene Levy as Rockin' Mel Slurm, hapless host of "Mel's Rock Pile." Dave Thomas' Richard Harris makes me laugh out loud every time I see this--I can still annoy people with my impression of Thomas' impression to this day.
A great bit with Rick Moranis as Michael McDonald:
Finally, one of my all-time favorite sketches, from SCTV or anywhere else, an extended parody of Grapes Of Wrath featuring most of the show's original cast--Joe Flaherty, Catherine O'Hara, Andrea Martin, Thomas, Levy and Harold Ramis. (John Candy, strangely, isn't in this one.) The writing is sharp ("Better get the big frying pan") but what really sells it are the performers, some of the best comic actors of all time. Everybody is great here, but my favorites are O'Hara's insane takedown of Jane Darwell, Levy's preacher and especially Ramis' Muley, which makes me laugh for reasons I don't even fully understand. Great stuff.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
SO MUCH YOUNGER THAN TODAY
I'm just here trying to do my job, but it's hard to ignore the young man with the phone. For one thing, he is constantly moving, and his voice, louder surely than he realizes or intends, follows me everywhere.
"Hi, it's me. Yeah...yeah...Listen, I'm at the hospital. Mom's here. She's in the ICU. She got hit by a car...Some high school kid didn't want to stop for a light...He just didn't see her..."
He sits in a chair for maybe half a minute, he leans against a railing, he braces a shoulder against a window. "No, not good...I'm gonna be here awhile...Awhile, you know?...As long as I have to be...I'm not gonna leave, she's gotta have...Someone has to be here...Yeah, I'll have to run home and get some things...If you could bring them?...That would be, thanks so much...No, I know, I just don't want to leave her..."
You work in a hospital, you hear things like this. Sometimes you can't help it, you want to hear it all, embrace every detail, remember that you're human. Sometimes you want to shut it out and get as far away as possible. Which response is better?
"Hi, it's me. Yeah...yeah...Listen, I'm at the hospital. Mom's here. She's in the ICU. She got hit by a car...Some high school kid didn't want to stop for a light...He just didn't see her..."
He sits in a chair for maybe half a minute, he leans against a railing, he braces a shoulder against a window. "No, not good...I'm gonna be here awhile...Awhile, you know?...As long as I have to be...I'm not gonna leave, she's gotta have...Someone has to be here...Yeah, I'll have to run home and get some things...If you could bring them?...That would be, thanks so much...No, I know, I just don't want to leave her..."
You work in a hospital, you hear things like this. Sometimes you can't help it, you want to hear it all, embrace every detail, remember that you're human. Sometimes you want to shut it out and get as far away as possible. Which response is better?
Friday, October 26, 2007
AN EMPTINESS BEGAN TO GROW
I finally caught up with the 3-D reissue of Nightmare Before Christmas yesterday. I'd been avoiding it because I was afraid the digital trickery involved in converting the film to 3-D would screw with the integrity of the beautifully-rendered stop-motion. I had a couple quibbles (and at least one line of dialog is inexplicably missing), but mostly impressive.
I'd also been avoiding it because when Nightmare came out back in 1993, it instantly became one of my favorite movies ever. I saw it repeatedly in the theater, and shelled out a hundred bucks for the huge laserdisc boxed set. I gorged on it back then, but quite honestly, I haven't seen it in at least ten years, and I doubted I could have the same enthusiasm.
Surprise, surprise: Nightmare looks better than ever, endlessly inventive, a marvel of staging and design. It was originally released two years before Toy Story changed the face of animated films forever. If you believe the hype, in this age of CGI and Motion Capture, anything should be possible on film. Yet recent animated features have been so thuddingly literal in trying to capture the feel of the real world, they've completely forgotten the greatest power of the form: to create a world we haven't seen.
Here's the trailer for what, sadly, may be the future of animation:
Why are they bothering? Why give us, for instance, a mo-capped simulation of naked Angelina Jolie when the fanboys most likely to see this would rather see the real thing? Has anybody ever said, "You know, I'd like to see a movie with Anthony Hopkins and John Malcovich, only I'd like to see them with synthetic skin and creepy dead eyes?" The production design, the simulated flames--this looks like a video game at best, the work of technicians, not artists.
Compare that to this scene from Nightmare Before Christmas, with lengthy, elegant takes and fluid movement which excites because of its unreality--Jack's impossibly long limbs and spidery hands. This is recognizable human movement stylized, as a great choreographer might. Also, note the quiet melancholy of this scene--though Danny Elfman's melody apes Kurt Weill a little too closely, at least he's stealing from the best. Besides, this scene always made my mom cry:
This gorgeous sequence was created using one of the oldest techniques in film history, yet it feels absolutely vital and alive. There's no reason you couldn't do something similar in CGI, but you'd have to want to, you'd need the will to break from reality, from all the easy tricks and lazy shortcuts you know so well, and give us something new.
I'd also been avoiding it because when Nightmare came out back in 1993, it instantly became one of my favorite movies ever. I saw it repeatedly in the theater, and shelled out a hundred bucks for the huge laserdisc boxed set. I gorged on it back then, but quite honestly, I haven't seen it in at least ten years, and I doubted I could have the same enthusiasm.
Surprise, surprise: Nightmare looks better than ever, endlessly inventive, a marvel of staging and design. It was originally released two years before Toy Story changed the face of animated films forever. If you believe the hype, in this age of CGI and Motion Capture, anything should be possible on film. Yet recent animated features have been so thuddingly literal in trying to capture the feel of the real world, they've completely forgotten the greatest power of the form: to create a world we haven't seen.
Here's the trailer for what, sadly, may be the future of animation:
Why are they bothering? Why give us, for instance, a mo-capped simulation of naked Angelina Jolie when the fanboys most likely to see this would rather see the real thing? Has anybody ever said, "You know, I'd like to see a movie with Anthony Hopkins and John Malcovich, only I'd like to see them with synthetic skin and creepy dead eyes?" The production design, the simulated flames--this looks like a video game at best, the work of technicians, not artists.
Compare that to this scene from Nightmare Before Christmas, with lengthy, elegant takes and fluid movement which excites because of its unreality--Jack's impossibly long limbs and spidery hands. This is recognizable human movement stylized, as a great choreographer might. Also, note the quiet melancholy of this scene--though Danny Elfman's melody apes Kurt Weill a little too closely, at least he's stealing from the best. Besides, this scene always made my mom cry:
This gorgeous sequence was created using one of the oldest techniques in film history, yet it feels absolutely vital and alive. There's no reason you couldn't do something similar in CGI, but you'd have to want to, you'd need the will to break from reality, from all the easy tricks and lazy shortcuts you know so well, and give us something new.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
REELING
Thoughts on some recent films:
Eastern Promises: Not sure if David Cronenberg's best days are officially behind him, but this alarmingly anonymous Russian mob drama continues the downward slide of Spider and A History Of Violence. He seems to have entered a for-hire phase, following the early bodily horror squirmfests that made him famous (The Brood, Videodrome, The Fly) and the fascinating, deeply personal adaptations of literary mindfucks (Naked Lunch, Crash).
Those earlier films succeeded precisely because they seemed to be taking place in their own peculiar worlds. But Cronenberg's recent movies are set more or less in the real world, but they seem cut off from any details of everyday life. In Eastern Promises, no one ever says or does anything that isn't pertinent to the plot, no character seems to have a life outside the constraints of the script. Viggo Mortensen and Armin Mueller-Stahl give fine, nicely shaded performances, but they seem to be floating in space, not enhanced or supported by anything surrounding them. Cronenberg's direction is airless, but not in a seemingly intentional way; frankly, it just looks badly directed. Not a terrible movie, but a crushingly uninteresting one.
The Assassination Of Jesse James By The Coward Robert Ford: I like Ron Hansen's novel, too, but writer/director Andrew Dominik is apparently so in awe of the damned thing he doesn't bother adapting it, merely illustrating. For maybe the first half of this very long movie, Dominik seems in control: The expressionist visuals, layered soundtrack and eccentric performances suggest what would happen if David Lynch made a western.
As we plod on beyond the two-hour mark, Dominik's stylistic traits become annoying (when in doubt, cut to time-lapse photography of clouds), and he uses a narrator to read huge chunks of Hansen's prose, literally describing what we can already see...which makes you wonder why we're watching, not reading. On the other hand, given the abruptness of certain scenes and performances (Zooey Deschanel makes a late appearance and has maybe one or two lines), I suspect we're seeing a cut-down of a much larger, possibly more successful whole. If only they'd cut out some of those clouds...
Still worthwhile, for fine performances by Casey Affleck, Brad Pitt and Sam Rockwell, a gloomy score by Nick Cave and some wondrous photography from Roger Deakins (who, considering his awesome body of work, should just legally change his name to The Great Roger Deakins). Probably of greater interest if you're a western fan, though the use of the songs I'm A Good Old Rebel and Jesse James will make you wish you were watching Walter Hill's The Long Riders instead.
Gone, Baby, Gone: Again with the time-lapse clouds and the Casey Affleck!
The time-lapse photography is one of the few stylistic cliches director Ben Affleck allows himself in this mostly straightforward, astonishingly downbeat adaptation of Dennis Lehane's novel. This study of moral choices and the human heart set against the class divides of contemporary Boston is also a showcase for some great acting, particularly from Casey Affleck (who knew?) as a working class detective, Amy Ryan as a not-quite-grieving mother of a missing girl and Titus Welliver as the little girl's uncle.
There's a sometimes unfortunate tendency to speechify, and sometimes the film is conflicted about whether to be a crime melodrama or character study (the character study is more interesting, though in fairness, Affleck's direction makes what could have been standard suspense scenes crackle with tension), but on the whole, this is the best American studio film of the season.
Eastern Promises: Not sure if David Cronenberg's best days are officially behind him, but this alarmingly anonymous Russian mob drama continues the downward slide of Spider and A History Of Violence. He seems to have entered a for-hire phase, following the early bodily horror squirmfests that made him famous (The Brood, Videodrome, The Fly) and the fascinating, deeply personal adaptations of literary mindfucks (Naked Lunch, Crash).
Those earlier films succeeded precisely because they seemed to be taking place in their own peculiar worlds. But Cronenberg's recent movies are set more or less in the real world, but they seem cut off from any details of everyday life. In Eastern Promises, no one ever says or does anything that isn't pertinent to the plot, no character seems to have a life outside the constraints of the script. Viggo Mortensen and Armin Mueller-Stahl give fine, nicely shaded performances, but they seem to be floating in space, not enhanced or supported by anything surrounding them. Cronenberg's direction is airless, but not in a seemingly intentional way; frankly, it just looks badly directed. Not a terrible movie, but a crushingly uninteresting one.
The Assassination Of Jesse James By The Coward Robert Ford: I like Ron Hansen's novel, too, but writer/director Andrew Dominik is apparently so in awe of the damned thing he doesn't bother adapting it, merely illustrating. For maybe the first half of this very long movie, Dominik seems in control: The expressionist visuals, layered soundtrack and eccentric performances suggest what would happen if David Lynch made a western.
As we plod on beyond the two-hour mark, Dominik's stylistic traits become annoying (when in doubt, cut to time-lapse photography of clouds), and he uses a narrator to read huge chunks of Hansen's prose, literally describing what we can already see...which makes you wonder why we're watching, not reading. On the other hand, given the abruptness of certain scenes and performances (Zooey Deschanel makes a late appearance and has maybe one or two lines), I suspect we're seeing a cut-down of a much larger, possibly more successful whole. If only they'd cut out some of those clouds...
Still worthwhile, for fine performances by Casey Affleck, Brad Pitt and Sam Rockwell, a gloomy score by Nick Cave and some wondrous photography from Roger Deakins (who, considering his awesome body of work, should just legally change his name to The Great Roger Deakins). Probably of greater interest if you're a western fan, though the use of the songs I'm A Good Old Rebel and Jesse James will make you wish you were watching Walter Hill's The Long Riders instead.
Gone, Baby, Gone: Again with the time-lapse clouds and the Casey Affleck!
The time-lapse photography is one of the few stylistic cliches director Ben Affleck allows himself in this mostly straightforward, astonishingly downbeat adaptation of Dennis Lehane's novel. This study of moral choices and the human heart set against the class divides of contemporary Boston is also a showcase for some great acting, particularly from Casey Affleck (who knew?) as a working class detective, Amy Ryan as a not-quite-grieving mother of a missing girl and Titus Welliver as the little girl's uncle.
There's a sometimes unfortunate tendency to speechify, and sometimes the film is conflicted about whether to be a crime melodrama or character study (the character study is more interesting, though in fairness, Affleck's direction makes what could have been standard suspense scenes crackle with tension), but on the whole, this is the best American studio film of the season.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
100% FREE OF JOY
Recent posts around here have been almost, I dunno, happy. Or at least, not totally depressing.
Well, we can't have that! We have an image to maintain. Let's all get bummed out, and what better way to do it than with a visit from Nick Cave:
Thanks, Nick, for bringing us all down. Say, Christine Collister, what have you got? Something kind of sad, maybe?
That was lovely, but you know what I'm looking for? Something absolutely bleak, something that will erase every memory of joy I've ever known? Oh, wait? William Burroughs once recorded a Kurt Weill song? With lyrics by Bertolt Brecht that nonetheless sound like Burroughs could've written them himself? Nope, nothing perky here:
Well, we can't have that! We have an image to maintain. Let's all get bummed out, and what better way to do it than with a visit from Nick Cave:
Thanks, Nick, for bringing us all down. Say, Christine Collister, what have you got? Something kind of sad, maybe?
That was lovely, but you know what I'm looking for? Something absolutely bleak, something that will erase every memory of joy I've ever known? Oh, wait? William Burroughs once recorded a Kurt Weill song? With lyrics by Bertolt Brecht that nonetheless sound like Burroughs could've written them himself? Nope, nothing perky here:
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
IT CAN ONLY BE ATTRIBUTABLE TO HUMAN ERROR
I realize I've pretty much done away with Tuesday DVD recommendations, but great googly moogly there's a lot of great stuff out today.
Upgraded issues of Battleship Potempkin, Breathless, and Days Of Heaven; a Burt Lancaster boxed set that's a bit of a mixed bag, but which features the hugely enjoyable swashbucklers The Flame And The Arrow and His Majesty O'Keefe; the long-awaited DVD debuts of O Lucky Man!, Our Hitler and Under The Volcano; and a second boxed set dedicated to the great Italian fantasist Mario bava.
The big news ought to be spiffed-up, digital remasters of a bunch of Stanley Kubrick pictures, including the first high-def issues of 2001 and A Clockwork Orange. Curiously, I've read much promo material for these releases online, and plenty of breathless recitation of specs and extras, but I've not read anything to tell me how the films themselves look in this format.
2001 in high-def would almost certainly reveal things we were not meant to see--wires on floating objects, thick matte lines. Unless, of course, the remastering included digital removal of wires, tweaking of effects shots, that sort of thing.
Either way, however, it wouldn't be the film that Kubrick, the most obsessively perfectionist of directors, intended us to see. He was notorious for his devotion to detail, not just in the shooting, editing, even the processing of his films, but for how they were exhibited. He wanted his work to be seen by us as he saw it himself.
In his lifetime, Kubrick was rather indifferent to how his films looked on home video, because that was not his chosen medium. He wanted his work shown on the big screen, or possibly not shown at all. Hard to know what he would have made of the brave new digital world, in which theatrical exhibition is barely a stop on a film's journey to public consciousness--he might have embraced it, condemned it, ignored it. We'll never know.
I would not want to live in a world in which I couldn't see 2001, a film which probably had as profound an impact on my life as...well, anything, ever. Still, there's a part of me that would rather not see it at all than see this new edition. It's simply passed through too many hands on its way to the digital realm to quite be considered Kubrick's 2001, or mine.
Upgraded issues of Battleship Potempkin, Breathless, and Days Of Heaven; a Burt Lancaster boxed set that's a bit of a mixed bag, but which features the hugely enjoyable swashbucklers The Flame And The Arrow and His Majesty O'Keefe; the long-awaited DVD debuts of O Lucky Man!, Our Hitler and Under The Volcano; and a second boxed set dedicated to the great Italian fantasist Mario bava.
The big news ought to be spiffed-up, digital remasters of a bunch of Stanley Kubrick pictures, including the first high-def issues of 2001 and A Clockwork Orange. Curiously, I've read much promo material for these releases online, and plenty of breathless recitation of specs and extras, but I've not read anything to tell me how the films themselves look in this format.
2001 in high-def would almost certainly reveal things we were not meant to see--wires on floating objects, thick matte lines. Unless, of course, the remastering included digital removal of wires, tweaking of effects shots, that sort of thing.
Either way, however, it wouldn't be the film that Kubrick, the most obsessively perfectionist of directors, intended us to see. He was notorious for his devotion to detail, not just in the shooting, editing, even the processing of his films, but for how they were exhibited. He wanted his work to be seen by us as he saw it himself.
In his lifetime, Kubrick was rather indifferent to how his films looked on home video, because that was not his chosen medium. He wanted his work shown on the big screen, or possibly not shown at all. Hard to know what he would have made of the brave new digital world, in which theatrical exhibition is barely a stop on a film's journey to public consciousness--he might have embraced it, condemned it, ignored it. We'll never know.
I would not want to live in a world in which I couldn't see 2001, a film which probably had as profound an impact on my life as...well, anything, ever. Still, there's a part of me that would rather not see it at all than see this new edition. It's simply passed through too many hands on its way to the digital realm to quite be considered Kubrick's 2001, or mine.
Monday, October 22, 2007
LITTLE DITTY 'BOUT A FORMERLY REPUTABLE NEWSPAPER
Today's New York Times features an in-house editorial about immigration law, which is neither here nor there for purposes of this post. What is upsetting about the piece is its title: Ain't That America.
Yes, kids, The New York Times is trying to improve its street cred by getting down with the kids and harnessing the populist power of auto company shill John Mellencamp.
This inspires three thoughts:
1) What the hell were they thinking?
2) In his Jack And Diane days, The Times referred to Mellencamp as "Mr. Cougar."
3) Wouldn't Reservoir Dogs have been cooler if the character's code names had been species, not colors? Keitel would have been Mr. Cougar, Tim Roth would have been Mr. Gazelle, and Buscemi would have whined about being Mr. Mink.
Can't wait until The Times starts referencing Bob Seger...
Yes, kids, The New York Times is trying to improve its street cred by getting down with the kids and harnessing the populist power of auto company shill John Mellencamp.
This inspires three thoughts:
1) What the hell were they thinking?
2) In his Jack And Diane days, The Times referred to Mellencamp as "Mr. Cougar."
3) Wouldn't Reservoir Dogs have been cooler if the character's code names had been species, not colors? Keitel would have been Mr. Cougar, Tim Roth would have been Mr. Gazelle, and Buscemi would have whined about being Mr. Mink.
Can't wait until The Times starts referencing Bob Seger...
Sunday, October 21, 2007
HAN SOLO IN NIGHT OF THE DOOM MAKERS
This is how my mind works.
I wanted to link to this piece by Frank Rich in today's New York Times. It's one of the most depressing things you'll ever read, but you should read it, if only to realize the situation in Iraq is far worse even than it seems on the surface.
Rich is by far the best columnist at The Times, the best thinker (lacking, for instance, Paul Krugman's tendency to Clinton-worship, or David Brooks' batshit insanity) and easily the best stylist as well. He's a wonderful writer, as anyone who's read his book Ghost Light could tell you.
Unfortunately, like so many so-called progressives, he's a bit of a snob. He hides it well these days, frequently writing sympathetically on the plight of the poor in Bush's America, but back when he was drama critic for The Times, his sneering condescension towards the lower classes burst forth with alarming frequency. I'm thinking in particular of his review of Marsha Norman's 'Night, Mother, in which he described the lifestyles of its lower-middle class characters as "worthless". Apparently, a life not lived among Manhattan's upper crust is not a life worth living.
Okay, here's where my thought processes twist. Thinking of Rich's review reminded me of my own encounter with 'Night, Mother. In the fall of 1984 my mother and I took a mini-vacation up to Minneapolis. This trip was made at the suggestion of my therapist, to whom I had been assigned following a suicide attempt the preceding spring. From spring to fall I hadn't made any notable progress, and Mom was essentially in the role of care-giver, since I wasn't working or contributing to society in any way.
The trip was supposed to be both a break from normal routine and some sort of bonding experience. My therapist recommended a trip to the Guthrie theater, since regardless of what was playing, any production there would be worthwhile.
Long story short, the trip was a mixed bag--I was prone to wild mood swings back then, unlike my shiny happy personality these days (heh)--and 'Night, Mother was playing at the Guthrie. I knew it was about an adult child's plan to commit suicide in front of her mother, but Mom had never heard of it, and I cruelly let her discover the premise as we watched. It was not, shall we say, a pleasant evening, though it did lead to long, soul-searching conversations afterward.
To cheer ourselves up, we went to Indiana Jones And The Temple Of Doom the next day, still playing at a first-run theater in the suburbs. And though I'd already seen it twice, I thoroughly enjoyed it again.
So here my mind veered from musing about Iraq, Frank Rich's snobbery or bummer anecdotes from my personal life to geeking out about Temple Of Doom, my favorite Indiana Jones movie. Yeah, I know it's not as well-scripted as Raiders Of the Lost Ark, and I'm not unaware of its flaws--though critics who decry its retro racial and gender stereotypes are missing the point, since Temple Of Doom is clearly trying to recreate the attitudes of pulp fiction from the era in which it's set.
This is probably the reason I love it so much. The first time I saw it, that great climax with Indy and Mola Ram duking it out man-to-man while hanging from the foot bridge, literally had me on the edge of my seat, and I remember thinking, This is what Raiders didn't have. Much as I loved it, it didn't have the sheer, pulpy elan of Temple Of Doom, so redolent of the Doc Savage reprints I devoured in junior high, and which were my lifeline to a more exciting world.
Of course, thinking about these movies gets me to thinking about how great Harrison Ford was as Indy, which gets me to thinking about how great he also was as Han Solo, which is my point: No matter what is going on, in my life or the wider world, I'm never more than five minutes away from thinking about Star Wars.
Sad, really.
I wanted to link to this piece by Frank Rich in today's New York Times. It's one of the most depressing things you'll ever read, but you should read it, if only to realize the situation in Iraq is far worse even than it seems on the surface.
Rich is by far the best columnist at The Times, the best thinker (lacking, for instance, Paul Krugman's tendency to Clinton-worship, or David Brooks' batshit insanity) and easily the best stylist as well. He's a wonderful writer, as anyone who's read his book Ghost Light could tell you.
Unfortunately, like so many so-called progressives, he's a bit of a snob. He hides it well these days, frequently writing sympathetically on the plight of the poor in Bush's America, but back when he was drama critic for The Times, his sneering condescension towards the lower classes burst forth with alarming frequency. I'm thinking in particular of his review of Marsha Norman's 'Night, Mother, in which he described the lifestyles of its lower-middle class characters as "worthless". Apparently, a life not lived among Manhattan's upper crust is not a life worth living.
Okay, here's where my thought processes twist. Thinking of Rich's review reminded me of my own encounter with 'Night, Mother. In the fall of 1984 my mother and I took a mini-vacation up to Minneapolis. This trip was made at the suggestion of my therapist, to whom I had been assigned following a suicide attempt the preceding spring. From spring to fall I hadn't made any notable progress, and Mom was essentially in the role of care-giver, since I wasn't working or contributing to society in any way.
The trip was supposed to be both a break from normal routine and some sort of bonding experience. My therapist recommended a trip to the Guthrie theater, since regardless of what was playing, any production there would be worthwhile.
Long story short, the trip was a mixed bag--I was prone to wild mood swings back then, unlike my shiny happy personality these days (heh)--and 'Night, Mother was playing at the Guthrie. I knew it was about an adult child's plan to commit suicide in front of her mother, but Mom had never heard of it, and I cruelly let her discover the premise as we watched. It was not, shall we say, a pleasant evening, though it did lead to long, soul-searching conversations afterward.
To cheer ourselves up, we went to Indiana Jones And The Temple Of Doom the next day, still playing at a first-run theater in the suburbs. And though I'd already seen it twice, I thoroughly enjoyed it again.
So here my mind veered from musing about Iraq, Frank Rich's snobbery or bummer anecdotes from my personal life to geeking out about Temple Of Doom, my favorite Indiana Jones movie. Yeah, I know it's not as well-scripted as Raiders Of the Lost Ark, and I'm not unaware of its flaws--though critics who decry its retro racial and gender stereotypes are missing the point, since Temple Of Doom is clearly trying to recreate the attitudes of pulp fiction from the era in which it's set.
This is probably the reason I love it so much. The first time I saw it, that great climax with Indy and Mola Ram duking it out man-to-man while hanging from the foot bridge, literally had me on the edge of my seat, and I remember thinking, This is what Raiders didn't have. Much as I loved it, it didn't have the sheer, pulpy elan of Temple Of Doom, so redolent of the Doc Savage reprints I devoured in junior high, and which were my lifeline to a more exciting world.
Of course, thinking about these movies gets me to thinking about how great Harrison Ford was as Indy, which gets me to thinking about how great he also was as Han Solo, which is my point: No matter what is going on, in my life or the wider world, I'm never more than five minutes away from thinking about Star Wars.
Sad, really.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
SUNSHINE
An uncharacteristically good day today, or a day I managed to uncharacteristically enjoy, or some damn thing. The point is, the sun came out after a dreary, gray week, and the ennui and despair battering me for months lifted, at least temporarily.
Tabbatha called me two weeks ago asking me if I could spend the day with Paul since she'd been called to some kind of family duty, and I of course said yes. I'd been wanting to take him to Final Season ever since we'd seen a preview. Inspirational sports movies aren't normally my sort of thing, but Paul is baseball crazy, and expressed the desire to see it.
This morning I sat on the bench outside of my building at the agreed-upon drop-off time, then sat for half an hour more before Tabbatha called my cell phone to tell me she was running late. Usually, that sort of thing would piss me off, but since I was digging Katy Lied on my iPod, I really didn't care.
(Incidentally, my use of a cell phone and iPod are both things that would, by my own personal standards, mark me as an asshole. I rail against technology, usually. But the cell comes in handy at times like this and the iPod...well, look, I just finally got around to figuring out how the damned things works last weekend, and I'm already in love with it. Merely walking into my place of employment with some Ennio Morricone blasting in my ears starts the day right, even if the stifling tedium of the job itself soon ruins it.)
They finally arrived, Paul bounding out of the car full of enthusiasm for...whatever we might do. Sure, the movie, but he seemed excited just to spend the whole day with me. Tabbatha took off (not before chuckling at the image of me using technology--"I'm surprised you even know how to turn an iPod on"--and she had a point), and we had to figure out what to do.
First, we reacquainted ourselves with the collected adventures of Chad Vader, then headed out. We ate, then spent an hour or so wandering around the library. I agreed to buy a used Ninja Turtle tape for him, and showed him a coffee table bio of George Lucas showcasing plenty of Star Wars production art. "Have you always been so nice?" he asked.
I don't know as I'm that nice, I said. Women don't seem to think so.
"Oh no, my mom tells people how nice you were. She just doesn't want to be married to you."
Wow. Praise and a slam at the same time. I focused on the praise; I must've been in a good mood.
We still had an hour before the movie, so we took the long way to the theater, giving us time for one of our typically loopy conversations:
"Who's your favorite Star Wars character?" he asked.
I dunno, Chewbacca, maybe...
"No, I mean people. And only characters from A New Hope."
Oh, Princess Leia, no doubt, because I just like her.
"Like her like her?"
Yeah, I laughed.
"If you could marry her or Lauren Graham, which would you marry?"
Scary. This kid knows me way too well.
Finally, we got to the theater. Pleasantly, there were no pre-film ads and only one trailer. The movie began and...
Again, this sort of thing isn't my cup of tea. Sports Movie cliches appeared on schedule, so much so that Paul, who's only eight, could predict them. ("As soon as he throws the pitch, it'll be in slow motion." "The first two will be strikes, then he'll really hit it on the third.") The Coplandesque score provided lots of unintended chuckles.
Damn it, though, they get so many details of small-town Iowa life right. Somebody even uses the word "pertinear" at one point, and from then on, this thing had me. The simplistic characterizations and rote storytelling didn't matter, because it felt true. The small tragedy of a small community school being swallowed up by a larger whole, and the subsequent devastating effect on the town's businesses...this may have been merely background to a baseball-themed Hoosiers knock-off, but such a lovingly portrayed background!
After the movie, Paul said it was better than Star Wars. That prompted another loopy, logic-impaired conversation, one that happily continued all the way until I dropped him off at his mother's apartment. I felt so good afterwards that I actually went grocery shopping on a Saturday afternoon. The store was crowded, but a new check-out line opened as I approached. A small, good thing in a day already full of them.
Tabbatha called me two weeks ago asking me if I could spend the day with Paul since she'd been called to some kind of family duty, and I of course said yes. I'd been wanting to take him to Final Season ever since we'd seen a preview. Inspirational sports movies aren't normally my sort of thing, but Paul is baseball crazy, and expressed the desire to see it.
This morning I sat on the bench outside of my building at the agreed-upon drop-off time, then sat for half an hour more before Tabbatha called my cell phone to tell me she was running late. Usually, that sort of thing would piss me off, but since I was digging Katy Lied on my iPod, I really didn't care.
(Incidentally, my use of a cell phone and iPod are both things that would, by my own personal standards, mark me as an asshole. I rail against technology, usually. But the cell comes in handy at times like this and the iPod...well, look, I just finally got around to figuring out how the damned things works last weekend, and I'm already in love with it. Merely walking into my place of employment with some Ennio Morricone blasting in my ears starts the day right, even if the stifling tedium of the job itself soon ruins it.)
They finally arrived, Paul bounding out of the car full of enthusiasm for...whatever we might do. Sure, the movie, but he seemed excited just to spend the whole day with me. Tabbatha took off (not before chuckling at the image of me using technology--"I'm surprised you even know how to turn an iPod on"--and she had a point), and we had to figure out what to do.
First, we reacquainted ourselves with the collected adventures of Chad Vader, then headed out. We ate, then spent an hour or so wandering around the library. I agreed to buy a used Ninja Turtle tape for him, and showed him a coffee table bio of George Lucas showcasing plenty of Star Wars production art. "Have you always been so nice?" he asked.
I don't know as I'm that nice, I said. Women don't seem to think so.
"Oh no, my mom tells people how nice you were. She just doesn't want to be married to you."
Wow. Praise and a slam at the same time. I focused on the praise; I must've been in a good mood.
We still had an hour before the movie, so we took the long way to the theater, giving us time for one of our typically loopy conversations:
"Who's your favorite Star Wars character?" he asked.
I dunno, Chewbacca, maybe...
"No, I mean people. And only characters from A New Hope."
Oh, Princess Leia, no doubt, because I just like her.
"Like her like her?"
Yeah, I laughed.
"If you could marry her or Lauren Graham, which would you marry?"
Scary. This kid knows me way too well.
Finally, we got to the theater. Pleasantly, there were no pre-film ads and only one trailer. The movie began and...
Again, this sort of thing isn't my cup of tea. Sports Movie cliches appeared on schedule, so much so that Paul, who's only eight, could predict them. ("As soon as he throws the pitch, it'll be in slow motion." "The first two will be strikes, then he'll really hit it on the third.") The Coplandesque score provided lots of unintended chuckles.
Damn it, though, they get so many details of small-town Iowa life right. Somebody even uses the word "pertinear" at one point, and from then on, this thing had me. The simplistic characterizations and rote storytelling didn't matter, because it felt true. The small tragedy of a small community school being swallowed up by a larger whole, and the subsequent devastating effect on the town's businesses...this may have been merely background to a baseball-themed Hoosiers knock-off, but such a lovingly portrayed background!
After the movie, Paul said it was better than Star Wars. That prompted another loopy, logic-impaired conversation, one that happily continued all the way until I dropped him off at his mother's apartment. I felt so good afterwards that I actually went grocery shopping on a Saturday afternoon. The store was crowded, but a new check-out line opened as I approached. A small, good thing in a day already full of them.
Friday, October 19, 2007
CHARITY
Oh, Democrats tried, but no Republican representatives could be convinced by overturn Our Beloved President's veto of a bill to finance health insurance for children. Bush claimed, and his enablers concurred, that the bill was too far-reaching; it wouldn't just pay the bills for poor kids, but middle-class kids, as well. And everyone knows the middle-class can afford insurance, right? Right?
I work in a hospital, and this week fliers were plastered all around the building. The baby daughter of a physical therapist has been diagnosed with a muscular disease, and a bake sale was held to help raise money for treatment.
Physical therapist--a good, solid job in the health care profession. She has insurance, no doubt, but it isn't going to cover the ongoing costs of taking care of the kid, and she must go begging for money. This, mind you, while the top guy at the hospital is building a nice two million dollar home for himself in suburbland.
Clearly, something is wrong here. Something is not only broken, but destroyed beyond repair. House Republicans are like our CEO, so cocooned in their comfortable lifestyles they simply can't see outside, are somehow convinced things aren't as bad as all that. My boss no doubt thinks the pathetic health care plan he offers is quite generous. Perk-loaded members of the House may genuinely be convinced they understand the lifestyles of the middle class. From their standpoint, the economy's doing fine, and doesn't a rising tide lift all boats?
Do they hold desperately to these beliefs out of need, because it's the only way to justify all they have? Or do they know better, and genuinely don't give a shit about other people?
I work in a hospital, and this week fliers were plastered all around the building. The baby daughter of a physical therapist has been diagnosed with a muscular disease, and a bake sale was held to help raise money for treatment.
Physical therapist--a good, solid job in the health care profession. She has insurance, no doubt, but it isn't going to cover the ongoing costs of taking care of the kid, and she must go begging for money. This, mind you, while the top guy at the hospital is building a nice two million dollar home for himself in suburbland.
Clearly, something is wrong here. Something is not only broken, but destroyed beyond repair. House Republicans are like our CEO, so cocooned in their comfortable lifestyles they simply can't see outside, are somehow convinced things aren't as bad as all that. My boss no doubt thinks the pathetic health care plan he offers is quite generous. Perk-loaded members of the House may genuinely be convinced they understand the lifestyles of the middle class. From their standpoint, the economy's doing fine, and doesn't a rising tide lift all boats?
Do they hold desperately to these beliefs out of need, because it's the only way to justify all they have? Or do they know better, and genuinely don't give a shit about other people?
Thursday, October 18, 2007
EMPTY VESSELS
If you dare, sit through these back to back to back:
Ten years of mainstream cinema, from 1996 to 2006. All three are crappy movies, but again, I want to concentrate on the trailers. Can you tell them apart? Two feature raging clouds behind the WB shield, all feature quick cuts of the actors while telling us nothing about their characters, all suggest a vague premise rather than a story worth telling.
Mostly, all three simply feature meaningless sensation. Clouds, wind, water, screaming, crashing, smashing, WHOOSH, WUMP, AAIIEE! To what purpose?
These three movies are linked by their use of natural disasters, but are otherwise dissimilar. Twister is designed as boilerplate Big Dumb Entertainment. A Perfect Storm has a true, interesting story to tell about real human beings caught up in forces beyond their comprehension. (It botches the job, but that's not the point.) Poseidon is a knowingly campy throwback to seventies disaster epics.
Yet in their trailer, they're all the same movie. This is one of the reasons I actually dread going out to the movies these days. Depending on the theater chain (I'm talking to you, Carmike Cinemas), you can sit through a full half hour of previews before the movie you've come to see. When they're all like this, the same thing over and over, it becomes punishing, and worse, depressing. Any sentient being enduring this merely longs for escape.
Ten years of mainstream cinema, from 1996 to 2006. All three are crappy movies, but again, I want to concentrate on the trailers. Can you tell them apart? Two feature raging clouds behind the WB shield, all feature quick cuts of the actors while telling us nothing about their characters, all suggest a vague premise rather than a story worth telling.
Mostly, all three simply feature meaningless sensation. Clouds, wind, water, screaming, crashing, smashing, WHOOSH, WUMP, AAIIEE! To what purpose?
These three movies are linked by their use of natural disasters, but are otherwise dissimilar. Twister is designed as boilerplate Big Dumb Entertainment. A Perfect Storm has a true, interesting story to tell about real human beings caught up in forces beyond their comprehension. (It botches the job, but that's not the point.) Poseidon is a knowingly campy throwback to seventies disaster epics.
Yet in their trailer, they're all the same movie. This is one of the reasons I actually dread going out to the movies these days. Depending on the theater chain (I'm talking to you, Carmike Cinemas), you can sit through a full half hour of previews before the movie you've come to see. When they're all like this, the same thing over and over, it becomes punishing, and worse, depressing. Any sentient being enduring this merely longs for escape.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
THE OLD AND THE NEW
Here's a trailer for a recent movie:
What with the horses and the cowboy hats and whatnot, they couldn't really hide the fact that this is a western. But rather than tailor the advertising to fans of the genre--who tend to be older, and alternately more and less sophisticated in their tastes than the average filmgoer--the studio went with a campaign designed to make this look like just another lame action movie, all flash cuts and thudding boom-boom-BOOM music. The "Coming Soon" slamming into your face is a particularly ridiculous touch.
This is a painfully typical modern trailer. It's just selling a movie, any movie, not this particular one. Nobody involved with this ad campaign cared about 3:10 To Yuma, nobody felt the need to position this film as something different, to advertise it on its own merits.
Or consider this:
An awful trailer--just the inclusion of Blind Melon's No Rain is enough to make any sensible person want to vomit--for one of the best movies of recent years. It gives you a sense of the movie's story arc, and reluctantly admits this is something more than just a routine road comedy. But it suggests this is some sort of feel-good dramedy, when in fact the comedy is much darker and the pain more raw than an audience might be led to expect.
Compare that to this trailer from 1974:
Okay, admittedly, this is one of my all-time favorite movies, and even if I'd never heard of it, it'd be easy to get me to the theater. Art Carney's the lead? Hey, I'd see anything he's in. Paul Mazursky? Yeah, I'll be there. An orange stripey kitty? Not only am I there, I already love it.
But this trailer wasn't designed for me. It actually coveys some sense of the movie it is advertising, captures its mixture of goofy comedy, practical realism and well-earned sentiment. The trailer appeals to me because the movie appeals to me; if you don't like the trailer, you wouldn't like the movie, either. It's not deceptive, positioning the movie as something it's not, nor does it make you think of a million other movies. Almost like they, you know, cared.
What with the horses and the cowboy hats and whatnot, they couldn't really hide the fact that this is a western. But rather than tailor the advertising to fans of the genre--who tend to be older, and alternately more and less sophisticated in their tastes than the average filmgoer--the studio went with a campaign designed to make this look like just another lame action movie, all flash cuts and thudding boom-boom-BOOM music. The "Coming Soon" slamming into your face is a particularly ridiculous touch.
This is a painfully typical modern trailer. It's just selling a movie, any movie, not this particular one. Nobody involved with this ad campaign cared about 3:10 To Yuma, nobody felt the need to position this film as something different, to advertise it on its own merits.
Or consider this:
An awful trailer--just the inclusion of Blind Melon's No Rain is enough to make any sensible person want to vomit--for one of the best movies of recent years. It gives you a sense of the movie's story arc, and reluctantly admits this is something more than just a routine road comedy. But it suggests this is some sort of feel-good dramedy, when in fact the comedy is much darker and the pain more raw than an audience might be led to expect.
Compare that to this trailer from 1974:
Okay, admittedly, this is one of my all-time favorite movies, and even if I'd never heard of it, it'd be easy to get me to the theater. Art Carney's the lead? Hey, I'd see anything he's in. Paul Mazursky? Yeah, I'll be there. An orange stripey kitty? Not only am I there, I already love it.
But this trailer wasn't designed for me. It actually coveys some sense of the movie it is advertising, captures its mixture of goofy comedy, practical realism and well-earned sentiment. The trailer appeals to me because the movie appeals to me; if you don't like the trailer, you wouldn't like the movie, either. It's not deceptive, positioning the movie as something it's not, nor does it make you think of a million other movies. Almost like they, you know, cared.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
AND HE WOULDN'T WANT US TO GIVE IT AWAY
I commented recently on my trepidations over Tim Burton's forthcoming film adaptation of Stephen Sondheim's Sweeney Todd. Whether the movie is any good or not can't really be judged until it is actually seen. What has been dropped, what has been changed? Is the screenplay an improvement over Hugh Wheeler's book for the stage show, probably its weakest aspect? All we know is what we see in the trailer, which I'm re-posting to make a point.
Certainly, it appears Burton has found the correct visual style. Johnny Depp and Helena Bonham Carter appear to be giving very committed performances. Depp is no George Hearn or Michael Cerveris in the singing department, but maybe that's okay; in the more literal world of film, a less theatrical approach might be better.
But that's about all we can glean from this trailer, which seems to actively discourage interest in the film. To what potential audience is this supposed to appeal? The more sophisticated audiences likely to enjoy an adaptation of a well-regarded play wouldn't be lured into what looks like just another creaky suspense melodrama, and the people wanting to see the Johnny Depp horror movie promised by this ad will no doubt be surprised they've stumbled into a misanthropic musical.
It's as though the studios only think of movies as so much product, and so this is Generic Blockbuster Preview. If you feel like you've seen this ad before, you have, as this fan-made mash-up makes clear:
Sticking with Johnny Depp movies, I was also reminded of this:
In other words, there's nothing to suggest Sweeney Todd is something different, something out of the ordinary. But all movies are sold like that now. The advertising takes its cue from other advertising, not from the movie it's allegedly selling.
Compare these to the trailer to for another Tim Burton movie:
Not a great trailer, but it does suggest some of the extraordinary qualities of the film itself, and more to the point, it sells the movie for what it is. No way watching this ad you're going to think of the hundred other movies you've sen that look just like it.
I'm sensing I have more to say on the subject of how movies are sold. More later...
Certainly, it appears Burton has found the correct visual style. Johnny Depp and Helena Bonham Carter appear to be giving very committed performances. Depp is no George Hearn or Michael Cerveris in the singing department, but maybe that's okay; in the more literal world of film, a less theatrical approach might be better.
But that's about all we can glean from this trailer, which seems to actively discourage interest in the film. To what potential audience is this supposed to appeal? The more sophisticated audiences likely to enjoy an adaptation of a well-regarded play wouldn't be lured into what looks like just another creaky suspense melodrama, and the people wanting to see the Johnny Depp horror movie promised by this ad will no doubt be surprised they've stumbled into a misanthropic musical.
It's as though the studios only think of movies as so much product, and so this is Generic Blockbuster Preview. If you feel like you've seen this ad before, you have, as this fan-made mash-up makes clear:
Sticking with Johnny Depp movies, I was also reminded of this:
In other words, there's nothing to suggest Sweeney Todd is something different, something out of the ordinary. But all movies are sold like that now. The advertising takes its cue from other advertising, not from the movie it's allegedly selling.
Compare these to the trailer to for another Tim Burton movie:
Not a great trailer, but it does suggest some of the extraordinary qualities of the film itself, and more to the point, it sells the movie for what it is. No way watching this ad you're going to think of the hundred other movies you've sen that look just like it.
I'm sensing I have more to say on the subject of how movies are sold. More later...
Monday, October 15, 2007
I GOT NOTHIN'
No, seriously--I got nothin'.
I had to work this weekend, and my brain is frazzled. Too much sleep, not enough sleep, hey, what's the difference? The point is, I'm tired and can't think straight.
And yet here I am, cranking out some words for no particular reason...except of course that my ex challenged me to put up a new post every this month, and dammit, I'm gonna do it.
That's three paragraphs--well, now four, actually--and surely that's enough. I could go off on another anti-Bush screed, or...ah, who am I kidding? When I can't think of anything else to write about, I can always turn to my old friend YouTube.
So here, for your entertainment, is the opening credit sequence from the mostly craptacular 1961 Nelson Algren adaptation, A Walk On The Wild Side. The movie itself is worthless, but this sequence, directed by Saul Bass, has a strutting sense of elegance, thanks to Bass' sense of composition, Elmer Bernstein's great music and, of course, that kitty.
I had to work this weekend, and my brain is frazzled. Too much sleep, not enough sleep, hey, what's the difference? The point is, I'm tired and can't think straight.
And yet here I am, cranking out some words for no particular reason...except of course that my ex challenged me to put up a new post every this month, and dammit, I'm gonna do it.
That's three paragraphs--well, now four, actually--and surely that's enough. I could go off on another anti-Bush screed, or...ah, who am I kidding? When I can't think of anything else to write about, I can always turn to my old friend YouTube.
So here, for your entertainment, is the opening credit sequence from the mostly craptacular 1961 Nelson Algren adaptation, A Walk On The Wild Side. The movie itself is worthless, but this sequence, directed by Saul Bass, has a strutting sense of elegance, thanks to Bass' sense of composition, Elmer Bernstein's great music and, of course, that kitty.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
BLOOD DRIES UP
Not that I expect anyone to remember, but back when I first started embedding video clips here (or, if you prefer, getting lazy), the first clip I posted was of Tim Finn, and I promised there would be more of Tim and his brother Neil on the way. I'm nothing if not a man of my word.
So let's start with their first band, Split Enz.
That was Tim on lead. Not sure why he was dressed like Daryl Dragon, but there you go. Sartorial eccentricity was these guys' stock in trade. Along with great music, of course. Here's Neil with the only hit single the Enz would have in the U.S.
After Split Enz broke up, Neil formed Crowded House and found huge success. Deservedly so. This is one of my all-time favorite songs.
In the nineties, Tim briefly joined Crowded House. But he also released several fine solo albums, on one of which he wrote lyrics to an instrumental Richard Thompson number. Not surprisingly, the result was absolutely gorgeous. Let's enjoy Tim and Richard, shall we?
Finally, Neil and Tim together, with a song they co-wrote. The sound is off in this clip, but I wanted to include it for the obvious love between the two of them, in beautiful harmony in more ways than one.
So let's start with their first band, Split Enz.
That was Tim on lead. Not sure why he was dressed like Daryl Dragon, but there you go. Sartorial eccentricity was these guys' stock in trade. Along with great music, of course. Here's Neil with the only hit single the Enz would have in the U.S.
After Split Enz broke up, Neil formed Crowded House and found huge success. Deservedly so. This is one of my all-time favorite songs.
In the nineties, Tim briefly joined Crowded House. But he also released several fine solo albums, on one of which he wrote lyrics to an instrumental Richard Thompson number. Not surprisingly, the result was absolutely gorgeous. Let's enjoy Tim and Richard, shall we?
Finally, Neil and Tim together, with a song they co-wrote. The sound is off in this clip, but I wanted to include it for the obvious love between the two of them, in beautiful harmony in more ways than one.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
LAY DOWN ALL THOUGHTS
Not a lot going on around here this morning. I had to correct the previous sentence because it originally read "Not a lot going on around her this morning." Innocent typo or Freudian slip? You be the judge.
Anyway, I dreamed I beat Kid Rock to death with a baseball bat. (At least, I think it was a bat. Might've been a golf club.) He continued to be cocky and arrogant even after the first few blows, claiming to love the taste of his own blood as it cascaded down his face, but along bout the time he lost control of his bowels, he started wimpering. I kept hitting him anyway.
Of course, I in no way advocate this sort of thing. I can't control what visions my subconscious conjures in a dream state. However, if anyone deserves to be beaten to death, Kid Rock would be pretty high on the list. Others, like Nicholas Cage, would probably only receive a severe beating, though in Cage's case, he'd probably enjoy it.
I'm only mentioning this because I toured various newspapers this morning, and across the board, the news is so depressing I didn't even want to read it, much less write about it.
Anyway, I dreamed I beat Kid Rock to death with a baseball bat. (At least, I think it was a bat. Might've been a golf club.) He continued to be cocky and arrogant even after the first few blows, claiming to love the taste of his own blood as it cascaded down his face, but along bout the time he lost control of his bowels, he started wimpering. I kept hitting him anyway.
Of course, I in no way advocate this sort of thing. I can't control what visions my subconscious conjures in a dream state. However, if anyone deserves to be beaten to death, Kid Rock would be pretty high on the list. Others, like Nicholas Cage, would probably only receive a severe beating, though in Cage's case, he'd probably enjoy it.
I'm only mentioning this because I toured various newspapers this morning, and across the board, the news is so depressing I didn't even want to read it, much less write about it.
Friday, October 12, 2007
GOOD NEWS, BAD NEWS
The good news is, one of the finest short fantasy films ever made is finally available on DVD this week. The bad news is, it's part of Twilight Zone: The Movie.
First the good: Joe Dante's magnificent It's A Good Life relates an encounter between disaffected teacher Helen and a boy named Anthony. He invites her into his house, where she eets his suspiciously high-strung family.
But all is not as it seems. Anthony is no normal kid; he has the ability to create or destroy whole worlds at will. His "family" is made up of random strangers he has met, people he holds hostage in an attempt to create a family unit he's never known. These stangers are terrified of Anthony and the capricious, candy-colored world he has created for them. But maybe Helen can understand him...
It's A Good Life (never identified by this title in the film itself) is like the polar opposite of Guillermo Del Toro's The Devil's Backbone and Pan's Labyrinth, films in which a child's imagination is the only thing to save them from terrible reality. Here, Anthony's fantasy world is the cruel reality, a child's id run amock. Yet Dante doesn't judge him too harshly; any kid who loves Chuck Jones and Max and Dave Fleischer can't be all bad!
The film is note-perfect in every way, from the performances (Kathleen Quinlan as Helen and Jeremy Licht as Anthony are controlled, the actors playing the extended family go over the top, particularly the wonderful Kevin McCarthy), to the cartoon-styled production design and John Hora's eye-popping camerawork. Throw in Rob Bottin's amazing make-up designs (so much more impressive than CGI), and...a minor masterpiece.
Unfortunately, the crap surrounding it diminishes its impact. Twilight Zone: The Movie is most notorious for the on-set helicopter accident that killed Vic Morrow and two child actors, but it 's most lasting legacy is as a symbol of the stasis that infected Hollywood moviemaking in the 80s. Conceived by then-superstar directors John Landis and Steven Spielberg, top talent signed on, but when the time came to actually deliver the goods, nobody bothered.
Landis' segment, the only one not adapted from an episode of the Twilight Zone TV show, has only one point to make: racism is bad. Thanks, I didn't know that. George Miller's redo of the fondly remembered Nightmare At 20,000 Feet is utterly pointless, and way too full of the frantic camera movement and whiplash editing we're all sick and tired of.
The worst thing here is Spielberg's Kick The Can, the first evidence that Spielberg's natural talent had curdled, displaying the underline-every-point subtlety and maudlin overkill that creeped into The Color Purple and Empire Of The Sun, and would reach critical mass with Always and Hook.
(By the way, allow me to vent for a bit here: Hook. Is this the worst movie ever from a major filmmaker? Sure, Brian DePalma made Mission To Mars, Sam Peckinpah made Convoy, Peter Bogdanovich made...well, too many to mention. But Hook deserves a special place in Movie Hell. Terrible acting--Robin Williams in full-out ManChild mode, and Dustin Hoffman indulging in some of the most irritating mannerisms you'll ever see--and a surpassingly ugly physical production, but the worst thing is its underlying attitude; it's the work of extremely wealthy people telling us common folks to relax and not work so hard.)
Twilight Zone: The Movie has the feel of far too many movies you see these days, churned out by people who are paid well but simply don't care, executed with a level of professionalism but utterly devoid of soul or purpose. Happily, on DVD you can bypass all that and skip to the good stuff.
First the good: Joe Dante's magnificent It's A Good Life relates an encounter between disaffected teacher Helen and a boy named Anthony. He invites her into his house, where she eets his suspiciously high-strung family.
But all is not as it seems. Anthony is no normal kid; he has the ability to create or destroy whole worlds at will. His "family" is made up of random strangers he has met, people he holds hostage in an attempt to create a family unit he's never known. These stangers are terrified of Anthony and the capricious, candy-colored world he has created for them. But maybe Helen can understand him...
It's A Good Life (never identified by this title in the film itself) is like the polar opposite of Guillermo Del Toro's The Devil's Backbone and Pan's Labyrinth, films in which a child's imagination is the only thing to save them from terrible reality. Here, Anthony's fantasy world is the cruel reality, a child's id run amock. Yet Dante doesn't judge him too harshly; any kid who loves Chuck Jones and Max and Dave Fleischer can't be all bad!
The film is note-perfect in every way, from the performances (Kathleen Quinlan as Helen and Jeremy Licht as Anthony are controlled, the actors playing the extended family go over the top, particularly the wonderful Kevin McCarthy), to the cartoon-styled production design and John Hora's eye-popping camerawork. Throw in Rob Bottin's amazing make-up designs (so much more impressive than CGI), and...a minor masterpiece.
Unfortunately, the crap surrounding it diminishes its impact. Twilight Zone: The Movie is most notorious for the on-set helicopter accident that killed Vic Morrow and two child actors, but it 's most lasting legacy is as a symbol of the stasis that infected Hollywood moviemaking in the 80s. Conceived by then-superstar directors John Landis and Steven Spielberg, top talent signed on, but when the time came to actually deliver the goods, nobody bothered.
Landis' segment, the only one not adapted from an episode of the Twilight Zone TV show, has only one point to make: racism is bad. Thanks, I didn't know that. George Miller's redo of the fondly remembered Nightmare At 20,000 Feet is utterly pointless, and way too full of the frantic camera movement and whiplash editing we're all sick and tired of.
The worst thing here is Spielberg's Kick The Can, the first evidence that Spielberg's natural talent had curdled, displaying the underline-every-point subtlety and maudlin overkill that creeped into The Color Purple and Empire Of The Sun, and would reach critical mass with Always and Hook.
(By the way, allow me to vent for a bit here: Hook. Is this the worst movie ever from a major filmmaker? Sure, Brian DePalma made Mission To Mars, Sam Peckinpah made Convoy, Peter Bogdanovich made...well, too many to mention. But Hook deserves a special place in Movie Hell. Terrible acting--Robin Williams in full-out ManChild mode, and Dustin Hoffman indulging in some of the most irritating mannerisms you'll ever see--and a surpassingly ugly physical production, but the worst thing is its underlying attitude; it's the work of extremely wealthy people telling us common folks to relax and not work so hard.)
Twilight Zone: The Movie has the feel of far too many movies you see these days, churned out by people who are paid well but simply don't care, executed with a level of professionalism but utterly devoid of soul or purpose. Happily, on DVD you can bypass all that and skip to the good stuff.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
I HELD HIS PAW AND I TOUCHED HIS COLD NOSE
As a hardcore Mystery Science Theater 3000 fan, I am required by law to note the forty-third birthday of the show's head writer and second host, everyone's favorite pasty, unthreatening white guy, Michael J. Nelson.
I would point out two things here:
1) Mike Nelson actually saluted me with his bottle of Heineken as I prepared to stride onstage at a costume ball at the second MST convention in 1996. (I was dressed as Jack Perkins, yet failed to even win the Jack Perkins Really Good Award. Not that I'm bitter...) This isn't as cool as the time John Pizzarelli saluted me with his water bottle for being the only person in a crowd to applaud his Bobby Troupe reference, but it's close. As a matter of fact, screw you, Pizzarelli. Mike Nelson saluted me with his Heineken!
2) After hearing my proceed every other sentence with the phrase, "Well, according to Mike Nelson...", my mom tried to forbid me from referencing Nelson and his mighty works every time we'd talk. Didn't work, because the Power Of Nelson cannot be denied!
Anyway, here's Mike and the Bots, doing one of the many things they do best: Singing!
I would point out two things here:
1) Mike Nelson actually saluted me with his bottle of Heineken as I prepared to stride onstage at a costume ball at the second MST convention in 1996. (I was dressed as Jack Perkins, yet failed to even win the Jack Perkins Really Good Award. Not that I'm bitter...) This isn't as cool as the time John Pizzarelli saluted me with his water bottle for being the only person in a crowd to applaud his Bobby Troupe reference, but it's close. As a matter of fact, screw you, Pizzarelli. Mike Nelson saluted me with his Heineken!
2) After hearing my proceed every other sentence with the phrase, "Well, according to Mike Nelson...", my mom tried to forbid me from referencing Nelson and his mighty works every time we'd talk. Didn't work, because the Power Of Nelson cannot be denied!
Anyway, here's Mike and the Bots, doing one of the many things they do best: Singing!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)