Lamplight Drivel

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo

2012-01-26T05:00:00.000-08:00

That David Fincher came to direct 2011's THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO is one of those filmic self fulfilling prophecies. The auteur behind such dark offerings as SE7EN, FIGHT CLUB, and ZODIAC is as suited to this material as any artist could possibly be. Those earlier films were so saturated in Fincher's lucidly bleak visions that I wonder if they in part influenced the author of Tattoo and its sequels, Stieg Larsson.

You're likely aware that the wildly popular Tattoo was already filmed in 2009 in Sweden (the setting of this story) by director Niels Arden Oplev to great acclaim. Cue the chorus of disapproval when it was announced Hollywood would have its turn with it. I've seen many botched American remakes of foreign classics and neo alike (POINT OF NO RETURN comes to mind). This time, Fincher and company have legions of fans of the book and the original film adaptation frothing at the mouth. No adaptation or remake could possibly be satisfactory.

I came into THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO without having read any of the trilogy or seeing the original film adaptation. In other words, I'm part of the targeted demographic. I saw the film not because the storyline tantalized me - it sounded like any old fashioned whodunnit, though adorned with 21st century gadgetry and a punk attitude - but because I am a fan of Fincher, and knew this ride would be worth taking.

A long, harsh ride it is. You know from the opening titles, a discordant orgy of images of black ooze pouring horizontally and vertically all over a woman's body, set to Trent Reznor's equally dissonant re-imagining of Led Zeppelin's "Immigrant Song", that Fincher is out to set a macabre and uncomfortable stage. In a weird bit of coincidence, this sequence is in some ways reminsicent of those silhouetted slender women moving about in the openings of James Bond movies. Daniel Craig, who plays Mikael Blomquist, the leading role, is the current 007.

Blomquist is a writer/reporter for a Swedish magazine of which he is part owner (along with Erika, played by an underused Robin Wright) who is charged with libel after his printed damnation of a shady local businessman. Disgraced and broke, Blomquist accepts an offer from a elderly CEO named Henrik Vanger (Christopher Plummer) to write a book detailing his large, troubled family's history in Hedeby Island in Hedestad, a bleak, frigid tundra of a place. Vanger also wants Blomquist to play detective and find out what happened to his niece, who mysteriously disappeared 40 years earlier. This mystery will form the crux of THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO.

Meanwhile, Fincher cuts to the unfortunate life of a young, multi-pierced and tattooed woman named Lisbeth Salander (Rooney Mara), who has had a lifetime of foster homes and remains a ward of the state due to being declared unfit to manage her finances. She seems to be a classic sociopath, often quite brutal, but with a keen self-awareness. Her personality and strong intellect suggest perhaps undiagnosed Asperger's Syndrome. She works as a researcher and computer hacker for a security firm. Her current job: doing an extensive background check on Blomquist.

Lisbeth is assigned to a new caregiver after her current one (a gentle fellow with whom she regularly plays chess) suffers a stroke. The new guy is, to put it mildly, a scumbag who will take advantage of her in multiple ways. One graphic and close to unwatchable sequence will find Lisbeth brutally raped. As I've gotten older, I've become much more sensitive to such scenes. As necessary to the story as it is, I think Fincher showed far too much; the screams would've been more than enough. Less is more. Less is more.

Blomquist and Lisbeth will eventually cross paths and team up to solve the mystery. Nick and Nora, they ain't. The writer learns quickly that Lisbeth is an incredibly sharp and organized young woman who tirelessly researches and pursues clues. She also can apparently retrieve any piece of data off any computer in existence. When Blomquist catches her attempting to hack into his computer with her trusty Apple ProBook, he tries to explain the boundaries she should observe and oh, that everything is encrypted. "Please.." she retorts with a roll of her eyes. She is Privacy's worst nightmare, perhaps Larsson's statement on the increasing surveillance in society. But what if Big Brother is helping to solve/prevent crimes?

And THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO does make many points on technology, how it insidiously has altered our existence. Also, how it contributes to isolation. It's a bit funny and ironic in this story as several of Venger's family members (including the creepy Martin, played by Stellan Skarsgård), live within sight of each other but barely (or never) speak to one another. They are already isolated and perhaps damaged beyond repair. Much is made of Lisbeth's lack of social graces and skills, but is she fundamentally that different than the Vengers? As the missing girl's story gels, several interesting points on identity will be raised. But the mystery, as I said, is nothing any fan of Ellery Queen or Agatha Christie hasn't seen before. The plot is fairly engrossing, but hardly inspiring or innovative. Old photographs and the book of Leviticus will be integral pieces of the puzzle.

But the film is arresting in its near continuous intensity. Fincher shifts gears deftly throughout, weaving disturbing imagery within traditional storytelling and suspense. Craig is game as the investigator but at times a bit more casual than you would expect of a man in such perilous conditions. Mara does fine work in the flashiest role, her very embodiment singular and alien-like. Also: violent, carnal, hyper-conscious, extraordinarily guarded. In the later segments of THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO, she will open up, allow herself vulnerability. In the final, abrupt scene, she does pay for that mistake.....

Bubba Ho-Tep

2012-01-23T04:50:00.000-08:00

OK, you gotta admit that the plot of 2002's BUBBA HO-TEP is intriguing in a good ol' B-movie sorta way: an elderly Elvis Presley (Bruce Campbell) finds himself in a Texas nursing home and joins forces with a black man (Ossie Davis), who insists he is President John F. Kennedy, against an ancient mummy that prowls their halls at night, sucking the souls out of residents. Imagine the cheesy possibilities.The movie had the most interesting drive-in movie premise since William Castle's 1965 I SAW WHAT YOU DID, the one where 2 girls make random prank phone calls, saying the movie's title, then finding themselves stalked by one of their victims, a guy who just killed his wife.

To add to the pedigree, BUBBA HO-TEP was written and directed by Don Coscarelli, the guy responsible for all those PHANTASM movies, the ones with the flying silver ball that punctured unfortunates' skulls. I was expecting this movie to be vintage exploitation, with lots of gore and nekked women. Talk about being blindsided.

This movie does have some violence and one (very briefly) topless woman, along with some creative vulgarity, but BUBBA HO-TEP, believe it or not, is a very insightful examination of aging, sense of purpose, relevence. I can't recall another low budgeter of this stripe that made so many salient points.

Early in the movie, Elvis' roommate dies suddenly, prompting the latter's daughter to make exactly her second visit to the home, to collect his valuables; the first was when she had admitted him years earlier. Initially, Elvis lusts after her but then a terse dialogue develops between them, her words painfully realistic in reflection of our nation's attitude toward those advanced in years. This film actually seems more interested in examining the ennui and unspeakable sadness that accompany the "golden years" of life than showing graphic bloodletting or icky make-up effects.

Elvis is seen day after day in his squalid room, struggling physically with ambulation and an embarrassing tumor on his private part, as well as mentally with the weight of decades of memories. My grandmother, 98 years of age, has described this feeling. The unimaginable sense of isolation, the lonely nights as she nods off thinking of so many loved ones who have passed. The weight of the memories, years and years of half and clearly remembered good and bad times. The enormity of it makes it hard to breathe, she states.

How did the King end up in a nursing home? Didn't he die in 1977, face down on the carpet while he was on the toilet? BUBBA HO-TEP concocts an amusing alternate reality, playing on the old "Elvis was seen at.." legendry with a convuluted story of how he swapped identities with an Elvis impersonator so he could get up and perform again (and have sweaty panties flung at him from adoring fans). The plans see some unfortunate twists that you can learn of on your own.

The African American man who claims to be JFK (his explanation of this involves, in part, an elaborate skin tinting and prosthesis in his skull at the exit wound) is quite enthusiastic about catching the gauzy predator that hobbles the dim halls and retrieves souls through victims', um, orifices (this is a B movie). Davis turns in a vibrant performance as a throughly delusional conspiracy theorist who is quietly insane but so ingratiating you just can't help but nod your head when he explains of the forces that tried(!) to assassinate him on that gloomy Dallas day. His monologues are equal parts E.C. Comics and (almost) New Yorker satire.

Campbell, well known to B-movie audiences (and fans of Burn Notice) is just as good as a contemplative King, his narration far more poignant than expected. When the final showdown arrives, BUBBA HO-TEP has proven itself far more than just a horror programmer, and the moments after the fade out actually left me feeling more pensive than grossed out.

One Trick Pony

2012-01-18T05:00:00.000-08:00

By the time famed musician Paul Simon wrote and starred in 1980's ONE TRICK PONY, the whole affair, like its protagonist, seemed dated. That's a bit ironic, as the story concerns a once bestselling songwriter named Jonah who finds himself marginalized in a music business that is increasingly Flavor of the Moment. The Vietnam war was over, the peace and love Boomers had moved on and purchased Mercedes and Cuisinarts. The younger Boomers were listening to screaming punk rock and New Wave. Lyrics, so integral to Jonah's songbook, were barely noticed (or intelligibile). The venues Jonah plays nowadays are the kind where the half filled tables seat chatty singles and blind drunks.

ONE TRICK PONY is noble in its intentions. It involves us in the life of a man struggling for relevance not only in his music, but his family life as well; his wife (Blair Brown) wants a divorce, and his child feels neglected due to his father's constant touring. Jonah's band begins to have those "creative differences". The record company executives (played to perfection by Rip Torn and Allen Goorwitz) nod politely as Jonah demos a tune but then inform him that it needs a good "hook". When Jonah finally gets a chance to cut an album, it is only because he sleeps with Torn's wife (Joan Hackett). Once in the studio, a commercially-minded producer (Lou Reed, in perhaps the most hilariously ironic casting in recent memory) insists on adding a string section and back-up singers to the mix.

Oh so familiar, no? Almost every cliche in this sort of tale is covered in director Robert M. Young's film. That's the main problem. Of course, cliches are born out of real life. I remember reading Roger Ebert's review of COAL MINER'S DAUGHTER, also from 1980, how he stated that it isn't Loretta Lynn's fault that Horatio Alger wrote her life before she actually lived it. Granted, but the deja vu I felt throughout this film just made it seem so trite, so shallow. Maybe if I had seen it during its original release....

The events in ONE TRICK PONY likely echo those in Simon's real life in the mid-1970s (he did pen the script). He had had massive chart success in the 60s with Art Garfunkel and in the 70s on his own. Then, the inevitable backlash. Trends change. You may think your art is timeless, but...what you produced yesterday becomes nostalgia. What you produce now must be in step with current tastes or you are now a footnote. Early in this film, Jonah's band (Simon's real life collaborators, including drummer extraordinaire Steve Gadd) opens for the B-52's, quite representative of the "new style" of the late 70s/early 80s. Jonah peers through the curtain and observes the funky outfit as they prance and yell. It is foreign to him. It is not him.

Another problem with this movie is Simon himself. It would seem that a semi-autobiographical screenplay would lend itself to have the writer as the star. Unfortunately, Simon's performance is less than inspiring. He seems a bit adrift much of the time, as if waiting for a cue or a mark from the director and/or other actors. His work here is better than that of his former compadre in music, Mr. Garfunkel (who underwhelmed in CARNAL KNOWLEDGE and BAD TIMING), but not by much. The supporting cast, however, fares much better.

I had sought out this film for a long time. I have a strange curosity for films of this time period. That interest, and a vivid atmosphere, sustained me through ONE TRICK PONY, though not enough for me not to point out its failings. I also enjoyed Simon's soundtrack, insightful and catchy songs that were, both in this film and real life, not cashbox Top 40. But they are Paul's/Jonah's, without compromise. The (arguably) victorious final image of the film, also a bit of a cliche, will certainly resonate with any artist who's ever felt compromised.

The Muppets

2012-01-15T05:00:00.000-08:00

Watching 2011's THE MUPPETS, I felt a wide variety of emotions, mostly favorable. Seeing those beloved creatures of my youth of course warmed my heart, the way any fondly remembered piece of one's past might. I was one of millions who watched The Muppet Show and saw their films back in the 70s and 80s.

When I heard of this new outing, I was immediately suspicious, and fearful. I was concerned that director James Bobin would screw this thing up a thousand ways. Honestly, there are endless possibilities to destroying the legacy of the late Jim Henson's creations. At worst, I had visions of a vulgar re-imagining ala Avenue Q. I was also curious as to Frank Oz's, long a Muppeteer, non-participation (he disagreed with an early script draft). THE MUPPETS, happily, does not in any way taint the Muppets and their charm, but is not an entire triumph, either.

If I could base my review on the opening and closing scenes alone, I would write glowing positives, sentences all ending in exclamation points. But that darned middle section, hmpf!

The Disney Studios' THE MUPPETS begins by introducing a Muppet we've never met before: Walter, a pleasant fellow who grows up in suburbia with his human brother, Gary (Jason Segel). How he was born into a human family may raise a few eyebrows, but no matter. Walter narrates a montage of his early years: the fun, the inevitable teasing from the neighborhood kids, his lack of growth spurts. It ain't easy being made of felt in a human world. Gary is always supportive and one day gives him a video of the The Muppet Show . It's a life-changing moment for Walter.

Gary meets Mary (Amy Adams) and on the 10th anniversary of their dating/courtship, surprises her with a trip to Los Angeles. Another surprise: Walter gets to tag along. Mary, a sweet, unfailingly polite young lady is visibly (and understandably) concerned but goes along with it. Before the bus trip, we get a bouncy, clever opening number with solos from everyone in town, right down to the milkman. It is a great start, worthy of the memories of all the fun tunes from 1979's THE MUPPET MOVIE et al.

Gary also surprises Walter with plans to visit the Muppets' Theater on Hollywood Boulevard (filmed at the El Capitan, where I saw Disney's TARZAN in '99). Once there, sad discoveries are made. The place is a shambles, mostly abandoned. A zombie-like tour guide (Alan Arkin) offers a drowsy walk-around. Walter steals away and hides in Kermit the Frog's old office, overhearing a buisnessman named Tex Richman (Chris Cooper) making plans to buy the old theater from those 2 crumudgeon Muppet judges, Statler and Waldorf. You remember them, with their caustic commentary from the balcony, offering scrooges in the audience who didn't like the Muppets some comic relief.

Walter stays long enough to discover that Richman not only wants to buy the theater, but also raze and tap the oil reserve beneath it. The only hope for the Muppets is for them to raise 10 million dollars to buy the theater back. But where are they? The film takes us to the Bel Air mansion of a near manic deppressive Kermit, seeming more like Eeyore than his old cheerful self. We learn he has not seen his friends in many years. Walter encourages Kermit to track down his co-horts and put on a show to raise $$$. This plot is as old as cinema itself.

It is about this point where THE MUPPETS' spirit and energy began to wane for me. The exposition of learning where each Muppet is (Fozzie's in a cheesy band in Reno, Gonzo's the CEO of a plumbing company, Miss Piggy's working for Vogue in Paris, etc.) sort of entertaining, but perhaps the malaise of the characters affects the movie itself. It is interesting to see a kids' movie deal with the disappointments of life with some insight, but everything turns sour with the realization that (seemingly) the 2010 pop culture audiences view the Muppets not even with half-remembered warm feelings but just total non-awareness. Veronica, a network executive (Rashida Jones) who reluctantly offers them a time slot for a telethon, very plainly spells it out for them: no one cares.

1984's THE MUPPETS TAKE MANHATTAN dealt with the realities of show biz in the Big Apple, but the Muppets were still in their prime. Things didn't seem so gloomy. A long stretch of THE MUPPETS seems almost catatonic. Half-hearted. Maybe the years will do that to ya? The gang regroups in the dilapadated old Theater, then begins to restore it (inexplicably and infuriatingly set to Starship's "We Built This City")and rehearse their old schtick. Gary and Mary have their inevitable squabbles; the fiance needs to decide who is his number one priority. Mary sings an embarrassing song in the middle of a diner. Gary sings his own questionable tune, "Am I a Man or a Muppet?". The Muppets kidnap a celebrity (I'm no spoiler) to host their show (in a sequence that awkwardly pays homage to Q. Tartantino) since these has-beens can't get a willing volunteer. Worst of all, Tex sings a cringeworthy rap song about how greedy he is. Gloomy going, I tell you.

But then THE MUPPETS gets back on track and delivers an upbeat, on-target third act, mainly covering the telethon, with some surprise guest stars manning the phones. Old favorites (including "Rainbow Connection") and new gags ("Smells Like Teen Spirit" set in a barber shop) abound. The absolute funniest skit? Camilla and the Chickens singing (or "bokking") Cee Lo Green's "Forget You". The original song is pop refuse; this cover is comedy gold. Walter even gets his debut on stage. Good spirits, the kind present in the productions of the Muppets of yore, prevail in the third act.

The finale, a reprise of the winning number, "Life's a Happy Song" sends you out with a smile, almost redeeming THE MUPPETS from a lackluster second act. Having "Minah Minah" sung during the credits was also a good idea. Dee dee deedeedee.

Long As You Know You're Living Yours

2012-01-12T05:02:00.000-08:00

"Judge For Yourself", Part MCMVII:

Pianist Keith Jarrett successfully sued Steely Dan (Donald Fagen and Walter Becker) for plagiarism after hearing their 1980 tune "Gaucho". Listen; I can't argue the similarities.

Matewan

2012-01-09T05:22:00.000-08:00

John Sayles is one of the few well known filmmakers (indie or otherwise) who truly stayed the course. Never "sold out". He penned several screenplays for B-movies in the 70s and 80s, then scripted and directed his own films. Independents that, starting with THE RETURN OF THE SECAUCUS SEVEN, felt authentic and were yet never amatuerish. Or stained with dewey nostalgia. He did a few studio movies like BABY, IT'S YOU, even then maintaining integrity in his art. If Sayles has directed a film, it's worth seeing, even if he once in a great while creates a disappointment (CITY OF HOPE).

1987's MATEWAN is one of his finest. Gritty, straightforward, honest, all of the qualities you could use to describe a Sayles work. MATEWAN details the struggles of a small town in West Virginia in 1920. Coal mining drives the local economy; its workers are all but owned by the Stone Mountain Coal Company. The workers are poorly treated, their hours are punishingly long, and their wages garnished bit by bit for work necessities like uniforms. A general store in town, also owned by the Company, continues to raise its prices. Even worse, the Company owns all the land and houses in Matewan.

The men are a dime a dozen in the eyes of the Company. When the workers threaten to form unions (lead by organizer Joe Kenahan, played by Chris Cooper), Stone Mountain imports a trainload of "scabs", African-American non-union workers from Alabama and immigrants from overseas. They are treated like dirt by both the Company and the mine workers whose jobs they may take. Tensions among the townspeople boil over not only against Stone Mountain, who sends two reps to try to maintain order, but against each other. There will be turncoat traitors, false accusations, discussions of being "red", and even some dueling pulpit preaching before the storm settles.

MATEWAN patiently retells this tragic chapter in American history in a manner that might be termed "novelistic". Each scene carefully develops the story, the characters therein. Mary McDonnell and David Strathairn, Sayles film regulars, excel in their respective roles as Elam Radnor (who runs a boarding house at which Kenahan stays) and Sid Hatfield, Matewan's police chief who bravely stares down Company thugs. Even the smallest roles are given weight by Sayles; few actors with speaking parts are merely anonymous extras on the margins of the frame. The later events in this story are powerful not only because of the inherent drama, but also because we've gotten to know people like Bridey Mae Tolliver (Nancy Mette),"Few Clothes" Johnson (James Earl Jones) and even Sayles himself, who plays a "hardshell", anti-union Baptist preacher. What is remarkable is that these characters don't necessarily have a lot of screen time. It is a credit to Sayles' lean approach that we learn everything we need to know about them and their significance to the story without extraneous scenes. There isn't a wasted line.

That is not to say that MATEWAN isn't stylish. Haskell Wexler's photography can be admired for a certain sooty beauty, utterly real. Bad cinematography can completely remove a viewer from the world the filmmakers are trying to portray; Wexler again demonstrates why he is one of the best of his craft. Sayles' direction is also beautiful, beautifully austere. He's controlled yet relaxed, never dictating our emotions but letting the events speak for themselves. I did not learn about the town of Matewan in history books. This film fills in that huge gap. Its discussions of union versus corporation are as relevant as ever. MATEWAN is a small treasure that deserves (re)discovery.

TV or.....?

2012-01-06T05:20:00.000-08:00

Further evidence of "the good old days".....

Midnight in Paris

2012-01-03T04:45:00.000-08:00

Woody Allen is as in love with Paris as he is New York. Perhaps even more. His 2010 MIDNIGHT IN PARIS opens with a 3 minute plus travelogue that highlights many of the most famous spots in the City of Lights. It reminded me of the opening of 1979's MANHATTAN, though this time sans Gershwin (there is Sidney Bechet) or voiceover. I especially enjoyed this montage as I had traversed these scenes last year on my first ever trip to Europe. I had many such moments during this movie.

As in some of his previous, Allen does not appear in the film but rather has an actor channel his famous neuroses. Owen Wilson plays Gil, a possibly talented scribe who's made a living cranking out formuleic Hollywood pap while dreaming of composing the Great American Novel. I'll bet many screenwriters in Los Angeles secretly sneer at the work they turn in while fancying themselves a Faulkner or at least a Jonathan Franzen. Gil is vacationing in France with his grating fiancee, Inez, (Amy McAdams) and her wealthy parents (Kurt Fuller, Mimi Kennedy). Within minutes you'll rightly wonder how Gil and Inez ever stayed together: he's a romantic who likes to walk in the rain and wants to relocate to Paris for good; she's a pragmatist on whom the very essence of the magic of Paris is lost, and is quite content with living in Malibu.

Inez's mother likes art and antiques only because they are expensive; her father is an "Ugly American" Tea-Party conservative. At one point, after Inez believes a chambermaid stole her jewelry, says to Gil, "You always take the side of the help. That's why Daddy says you're a communist!" As you can see, the characterizations Allen creates are paper thin, possibly with no more depth than a Playboy cartoon panel or even a Saturday Night Live skit, and will not hold up to scrutiny; that can describe the entire film.

Eventually, Gil tires of the boorish family and the arrival of Inez's ex-boyfriend, Paul (Michael Sheen), another in Allen's long line of aggravating pseudo-intellectuals who loves to endlessly pontificate on art and history (he reminded me a bit of Alan Alda's character from CRIMES AND MISDEMEANORS). Gil makes excuses to skip outings to spend each evening alone strolling the ancient streets, meeting at midninght a mysterious antique cab filled with revelers in 1920s garb. People with names like F. Scott Fitzgerald and Cole Porter. Could they be...?

At a saloon he also meets Josephine Baker and none other than Ernest Hemingway, who asks him if he likes to box. Even Salvador Dali (Adrien Brody), Luis Bunuel, and T.S. Eliot show up! Gil is understandably aghast. Does he "need a neurologist"? After his initial disbelief, Gil finds himself intoxicated with discourse among these luminaries, finding that no less than Gertrude Stein (played by Kathy Bates) will even take time to read his novel in progress! This is after Hemingway turned him down: "If it's bad, I'll hate it. If it's good, then I'll be envious and hate it even more. You don't want the opinion of another writer."

If you are seeking an airtight scientific explanation for the time traveling or anything ressembling an accurate characterization of any of these historic figures, you've wandered into the wrong movie, mon ami.

Gil will later meet Pablo Picasso and his mistress Adriana (Marian Cotillard), with whom Gil becomes smitten. She entrances him with lofty words and a glowing beauty that matches the city around them. Through a series of interesting plot dynamics involving the 1920s and present day, Gil even tries to steal his fiancee's pearl earrings to give to Adrianna. His creative whims and heart are stirred by this "Golden Age" atmosphere, this curious dimension that Woody never tries to logic out, a correct approach. You may find yourself concluding that it's all in Gil's mind, but again, if thoughts like this invade your enjoyment of MIDNIGHT IN PARIS.....

This is a light as air, fluffy confection of a movie, but it wouldn't be a Woody without some sober analysis among the lush cinematography and old music. Dew eyed nostalgia is taken to (gentle) tasking. Paul, in a moment of genuine insight, explains, "Nostalgia is denial - denial of the painful present... the name for this denial is golden age thinking - the erroneous notion that a different time period is better than the one ones living in - its a flaw in the romantic imagination of those people who find it difficult to cope with the present." Gil will find that Adriana feels much the same of the 1920s as he feels of the 2010s, a point exemplified when the couple walks into Maxim's Paris of the 1890s. Gauguin and Degas, among others, are holding court. The young lady wants to remain here in the Belle Époque, an era Adrianna feels is the true Golden Age.

But things never get too serious or maudlin in MIDNIGHT IN PARIS. Bittersweet, yes. The best of Allen's comedic and dramatic trademarks are present throughout in this, his most enjoyable film since 2005's MATCH POINT. This includes his "wish I'd written that" dialogue, such when Gil, again awash in Paris-love, states: "What is it with this city? I need to write a letter to the Chamber of Commerce!"

2011 Ticks Away

2011-12-31T00:00:00.000-08:00

This was a good year. It was not a roller coaster or speeding bullet, or filled with any more drama than usual. I continue to be blessed with an incredibly loving and patient wife and fabulous job and workplace. We are surrounded by family and friends, both of which multiplied handsomely in 2011.

There was only one big story this year; we finally moved. After over 2 years of cramped quarters in my old bachelor pad, we made the leap and moved to a condo in a gated community with nearly 3x as much square footage. We now have access to a clubhouse and pool. I really miss the old, historic neighborhood, but it was time. We've adjusted quite nicely. The move was a wise decision for a myriad of reasons, one of which we've yet to employ: having guests. Well, we did have 3 people stay with us for 2 nights in October when a freak snowstorm in the Northeast prevented their flight home. We had just set up the guest bedroom the weekend before - talk about good timing! The details of this stay should be revealed soon.

Christmas 2011 was very nice, with the usual hopping among houses from Jupiter to Coral Gables. No scenes, no screaming children demanding more (and fancier) gifts. Examine last year's entry - the little girl in question grew up this year, maybe because she now has a baby brother? Her demeanor was far better and less greedy. Chritsmas 2011 had great food, great fellowship, and lousy weather. Well, it WAS sunny and beautiful, but warm. You know how much I hate that. The entire month of December has been unseasonable. I really long for those future days when the fireplace won't be merely on our TV.

My mother's status has not changed, but thank you Jesus she has not regressed. Her contentment with her predicament continues to disturb me, and it is becoming more and more appearent that a major disruption is needed. Read: she needs a different rehab facility that will do more than merely provide low rent accomodations.

My grandmother turned 98 this year. All things considered, she is doing remarkably well. It is with relief and awe that I state that her biggest problem lately is with her television's remote control (since the digital cable switch). She does still struggle with loneliness. I wonder if 2012 will be the year she needs a change of venue as well?

I won't consult the Mayans, but I'm looking forward to a fruitful, healthy 2012. Happy New Year!

Get Crazy

2011-12-27T05:10:00.000-08:00

If you've ever served or just hung out backstage for a theatrical production you know well how frenetic things can get. I have not ever lucked into backstage passes for a concert, where I've heard things can get downright Bacchulean, but I did volunteer for a few community theater and school productions and spent time behind the scenes with friends who apprenticed at the Jupiter (formerly Burt Reynolds) Theater. Not the same as that of a rock and roll festival, I grant you, but a similiar atmosphere of (somewhat) controlled chaos reigns and at any moment, something rather extraordinary can happen: an unannounced celebrity may sneak in the back door, a shower of sparks may rain on the flyspace, or a performer can ad lib something more inspired than what was planned.

Those things, in one form or another, all happen in writer/director Allan Arkush's thoroughly whacked 1983 comedy, GET CRAZY, a film he based on his time ushering at the famed Fillmore East venue in NYC in the early 1970s. This is another of those films for which you have to dig as it has not received a DVD release, likely because of the music in it, and the associated rights and royalty issues. Such has held up/prevented the release of many other films, especially from the 1980s. GET CRAZY was released on VHS way back and pops up on obscure cable channels every once in a while. I happened to notice the title on the On Demand menu and quickly grabbed it, having not seen it in nearly 30 years.

GET CRAZY concerns a New Year's Eve concert at the ficticious Saturn Theater in L.A., a much beloved hall that has seen its share of anarchy over the years, what with flower power hippies, glam boys, classic rockers, bluesmen, troubadours, and punk and New Wave maoschists taking the stage. This night in 1982 is the 15th anniversary of such shows, featuring artists, (some of whom are portayed by real life musicians) of the above genres including: Captain Cloud and the Rainbow Telegraph (hippies); Nada, an all-girl rock/punk band with occasional vocals by a rather destructive singer called Piggy; Auden, a Dylanseque recluse (played by Lou Reed); King Blues (Bill Henderson), heir to the throne of Muddy Waters and Howlin' Wolf, and Reggie Wanker (Malcolm McDowell, in one of his most entertaining performances ever), a clear parody of Mick Jagger. There's even a subtle ribbing of McDowell's unfortunate lead role in CALIGULA.

The myriad of subplots include threads dealing with the preparations for and the show itself, threatened by evil record company exec Colin Beverly (Ed Begley, Jr.) and his 2 lackey yesmen who want to buy the Saturn from beloved longtime owner, Max Wolfe (Allen Goorwitz/Garfield) who seems to be in every other movie I've seen lately, and turn it into a high rise. Max is modeled after Bill Graham, the legendary concert promoter who wanted to make Big Acts accessible and affordable to the average listener. Colin could be any corporate jackass who's littered the headlines over the past few decades.

We also meet stage manager Neil Allen (Daniel Stern) and former Saturn stage manager named, yes, Willy Loman (Gail Edwards) who happens by. In the midst of the fracas, the film slows down to chart their obvious budding romance, sometimes framed in cute fantasy sequences.

But once the concert is underway, GET CRAZY really shines. By then we've been given some fine character work by each actor, who, including McDowell, sings his or her own songs. Their stage personas are natural extensions of their offstage selves, and it just adds to the fun (and sense of genuiness). Wanker's backstage excesses of every imaginable sort turn sour and inspire him to return to the mic for an encore, an uncharacteristic ballad that leaves even the punks misty eyed. By the way, the music throughout this movie is damned good. One funny motif: after King Blues does his version of "Hoochie Coochie Man" (which the film has him as the originator), the other acts cover it. Each time, Blues overhears and is impressed, at one point stating "I'm going to go bask in my own genius".

During my recent viewing, I was surprised at how much I remembered of this film. But also, how unrelentingly goofy much of it is. Some of the gags in this movie are painfully dumb, and mostly drug related: a rock group's jet flies upside down when the pilots get high, a robot named Electric Larry shows up at key moments (soundtracked by Adrian Belew's trippy "Big Electric Cat")with briefcases full of pharmaceuticals to "save the day", and one of the audience members is literally a walking marijuana joint. And so on. The pace of this movie is rapid fire, the gags nearly non-stop. There is incredible energy, undeniably. Much like Arkush's previous foray into rock comedy cinema, ROCK AND ROLL HIGH SCHOOL which prominently featured tunes (and appearances) by The Ramones.

GET CRAZY is mostly recommended for music philes, the type of people who can list album tracks in order, argue about whether the Beatles sound better monoaurally or in hi-fi, and read artist bios. It is obvious Arkush has real affection for his time at the Fillmore, and this film is an imagining of what that hall might've been like had it survived past 1971. It is at various times a clever, vulgar, silly, insightful, stupid, and rockin' good time. I might consider it a small classic if it had dispensed with some of the wackier gags and just tried to be a mock documentary, or a rose-colored glasses remembrance like ALMOST FAMOUS. I still recommend it to those who..well, if you read this far you know who you are.

P.S. Lou Reed's character, Auden, sings a sweet tune live over the credits. I've also neglected to mention how funny his take on Dylan is.

For Unto Us a Child Is Born

2011-12-25T03:00:00.000-08:00

Merry Christmas!

Merry Christmas Eve

2011-12-23T00:00:00.000-08:00

I was never really a fan of Better Than Ezra, but this holiday tune is warm without being sugary.

Wintah Wundahland

2011-12-21T05:01:00.001-08:00

This version is a particular favorite of Uncle Angelo's on E. 4th Street:

...

Going Elsewhere

2011-12-20T05:14:00.000-08:00

I was greeted with this sad news on Facebook yesterday. I feel fortunate to have visited earlier this year (see previous post). If you are in the NYC area, check them out one last time.

It is with heavy hearts that we write to inform you that after dinner service on Friday, December 23rd, Elsewhere Restaurant will be closing its doors permanently. The reason is simple: While we had great food and service and a loyal following to prove it, we never attracted enough business, with enough consistency, to be sustainable in this location.

We would, howeve...r, like to go out not with a whimper but with a bang. So we encourage you to join us for dinner this week and help us clear out the wine cellar as we say goodbye to our loyal friends and neighbors. Monday will be half price wine night, as always. For the rest of the week, all bottles over $60 will be 25% off. (As the end draws near, who knows, we might start letting you name your own price!) Thursday and Friday, come in and eat like family; no menus, just Megan, Leigh and staff cooking what they love until we run out of food! Please make a reservation if you can (on the left, right here on facebook).

It has been a roller-coaster of a year for us and we couldn't have made it this long without the support, encouragement and return business of you, our loyal friends and neighbors. Thank you for being a part of the journey. We look forward to seeing you this week at Elsewhere and forever at Casellula!

Brian, Allen, Megan, Leigh, Sarah and the rest of the Elsewhere Team

Your Audiology Tutorial: $%!@*?^#

2011-12-19T05:00:00.000-08:00

As I unfold the Palm Beach Post each day I am greeted by an ad for a local audiology group, exclaiming that they are ready to fit the hearing impaired with the latest technology, and for a competitive price. Every single day. My patients bring me these ads as well as the glossy mailers which promise very low costs for sophisticated devices. Never mind that sometimes the hearing aid pictured doesn't match the description.

Such advertising is irritating. I feel it cheapens and merely commoditizes the profession. Even worse is the ad above, from a Walmart in Texas. Hearing aids, off the rack. A commodity. When someone purchases amplification at a legitimite clinic, they are not only spending $$ on an electronic device but also a service. The fitter will/should spend ample time fitting and programming the hearing aid to help the patient with speech understanding and clarity. The fitter will ensure a proper physical fit and acoustic adjustment. One does not get this when merely buying an aid from a retail store.

It is also increasingly common to purchase these behind-the-ear and in-the-ear (not custom made, obviously) devices from Internet websites. Many audiology and dispensing organizations are fighting this. How can a patient adjust these aids on their own? What if they simply make everything (including air conditioners, ticking timepieces, flushing toilets) louder while still rendering a spouse inaudible? I suppose eventually that as tech savvy folks reach their "golden years" they may be more adept at self-programmming than the current elderly, who largely are not. Anyone who has programmed or worn hearing aids know how difficult it can be to get benefit from them when they are expertly programmed. Time will tell.....

Low Key?

2011-12-16T05:00:00.000-08:00

It's December, time to report on the annual holiday work party. I see I've done it for the last several years so why break tradition? Although, I must say that this year's event was far less colorful than past ones. Dare I say it was, low key?

We met at McCormick & Schmick's, a somewhat upscale seafood chain with really good mahi mahi (we had an alternate choice of beef). I saw the full menu and would like to go back. The key lime pie was not so good, surprisingly. The sweetness won out over the tartness. Good in a person, but unfortunate in a key lime pie.

While there was a gift exchange, it was not the "white elephant" kind, with outrageous gag gifts and the ability to trade your selction with someone who picked an earlier number. Many of the gifts were alcoholic (including the red wine I received). One of the docs also gave me the whiskey set he received. Someone on my list will be the lucky recipient of that. I like whiskey, maybe once a year. On the other hand, I don't want to encourage my FIL or anyone else to inbibe too much.

The practice gave out Employee of the Year awards, a first. It was a tie between 2 very deserving ladies: a nurse and a front office staffer. Five year service awards (sterling silver engraved bookmarks) were also handed out. A very nice time. No embarrassing drunken behavior! I was pulled out on the floor to dance, but only for a few minutes. This was not a wild bash - even the after party at Blue Martini was subdued, at least for the 1/2 hour or so I was there.

So there you go, invisible audience, another for the record. I love my workplace and everyone there. I have not always been able to honestly make that claim, unless awash in holiday booze. Here's a toast to sobriety/moderation and a stellar practice!

Everything is Illuminated

2011-12-13T04:50:00.000-08:00

I remember clutching my grandmother's original engagement ring, knowing that I would present it to my bride-to-be. The ring was over seventy years old. It was a beauty with its regal pearl firmly set atop a silver band. I thought on all the years it had seen and survived; the stories it could tell. An inanimate object. Something that will one day turn to dust. Maybe I'm over personifying, but it had lived long enough to represent familial bonding, love, committment. It sometimes seemed as if it would audibly cry out in joy. The mere sight of it an evocation of powerful emotions.

2005's EVERYTHING IS ILLUMINATED features a young Jewish man named Jonathan Foer, named after the author of the book of the same name. He seems a bit off. Something about his aloofness, his cautiousness in even his posture. Perhaps those suspicions are confirmed as first-time director Liev Schrieber's camera pulls back to reveal a wall in Jonathan's room, covered floor to ceiling with a myriad of objects in plastic bags. We spy them long enough to discern that they are keepsakes, pieces of the boy's life. All with stories to tell. A scene or two later, Jonathan sits by his grandmother on her deathbed. He asks her about the significance of someone named Augustine after she hands him a photograph of his grandfather and the mysterious woman. The grandmother sighs and then passes on. Jonathan bags the false teeth she had left on her nightstand.

Years earlier, the boy had stood by his grandfather's deathbed, eventually taking his bedside curiosity - a chunk of amber containing a cricket. As he currently examines the photograph, he notices the woman is wearing the amber on a necklace. He will retrieve the artifact for his trip to Russia - a pilgrimage to a place once known as Trachimbrod- to learn of his heritage and what of the significance of Augustine.

Once in the Ukraine, Jonathan (Elijah Wood) meets up with Alex (Eugene Hütz), a youth obsessed with American popular culture, and his crotchety, anti-Semitic grandfather (Boris Leskin), the tour guide. EVERYTHING IS ILLUMINATED continues in a comedic vein, with the American having a real time of it adjusting to life in Russia (a dinner scene is especially amusing), and dealing with his 2 cranky travelmates. There's also a dog belonging to the grandfather called Sammy Davis Jr., Jr. The grandfather is horrified to learn that the namesake singer was Jewish.

The film gradually becomes more serious, though never overly somber, as the men get closer to their destination. An elderly woman who has much in common with Jonathan and, it turns out, with Alex's grandfather figures prominently in the final passages of EVERYTHING IS ILLUMINATED. The significance of seemingly trivial tchotchkes will beautifully render Schrieber's film quietly crushing. The essence of identity is also significant, perhaps even stronger, from opening to closing, with some late hour revelations about one character the anchor of not only the story, but larger themes writer Foer probes. Are we only what others remember? Is a piece of ceramic or the like the only tangible evidence of who we were? What if we were misrepresented? Only God can know.

Schrieber, better known as an actor, apparently diverts from the original novel but in ways that utilize irony not for post-modern humor, but to underline Foer's points. He manages the shifts in tone quite smoothly; we are more than ready for the film to dispense with the comedy (well done as it is) and reveal the layers of the characters' pasts. EVERYTHING IS ILLUMINATED at first seems slight but as it develops in your thoughts, it becomes weightier and even important. This is not a Holocaust downer like THE DAMNED or SOPHIE'S CHOICE, but rather an elegant little play that, once viewed, will have you looking twice (and perhaps more pointedly) at your grandfather's wristwatch. Or your aunt's tea cup. Or even a chunk of amber.

"Buzz" Kill

2011-12-10T05:38:00.000-08:00

Truth is, I hadn't really listened to West Palm Beach's 103.1 "The Buzz" with any regularity for over 10 years. The programming simply ceased to be interesting to me. It being a commercial station, it was merely a reflection of what was popular in "New Rock". I'm sure it mirrored the playlists of many other such stations around the country.

I can trace it back to 1999. I was driving to a friend's house and had the misfortune of hearing "Nookie" by Limp Bizkit for the first time. I knew even then that if this was the sound of new rock, I'd be looking for an exit. It only got worse, as the likes of Creed, Nickelback, and Puddle of Mudd began to take over the airwaves. In 2000, I liked exactly 2 new songs The Buzz played: Dynamite Hack's droll, white boy cover of "Boys in the Hood" and The Dandy Warhol's "Bohemian Like You". I twisted the dial elsewhere, though there was little of interest anymore in the radio wasteland.

The Buzz had signed on sometime in 1995, while I was living in Atlanta. It was there I discovered 99X, an alternative station that played classic Cure as well as newer things by Weezer, Pizzicato Five, Rage Against the Machine, and Juliana Hatfield. I loved it. I had moved from West Palm and its dearth of radio choice (The Gater, still in existance this day, was my usual preset, but I heard Zeppelin's "Livin' Lovin' Maid" a few thousand too many times). 99X was as guilty of repetition as other stations but overall it was some sort of oasis, playing music I wasn't used to hearing on mainstream FM. What a nice surprise to find a similiar station when I returned to WPB!

For a few years, it was pretty good. When it seemed there would be an electronic revolution in '97 or so, artists like Prodigy and Orgy were played quite a bit. The coup fizzled, but the music on the Buzz was still good, even if the novelty had long since worn. Then came Limp Bizkit.

In 1997 I also attended my only Buzz Bake Sale concert, their yearly daylong outdoor festival of rock and art. It was quite an experience. Plenty of concertgoers were plenty "baked", and I clearly recall a girl on all fours, a dog collar around her neck being led on a leash by her boyfriend or something. That year the lineup included Goldfinger, Cake, and the headliner, Green Day. They were all smashing. I regret leaving after Green Day, as Echo and the Bunnymen closed the show. What was I thinking? I'm sure it was the weariness that won out, for me and the girl I went with (a co-worker). The Bake Sale has been held ever since, but the lineups again reflected the new rock scene of the day and to me, most of it was/is aural sludge.

So CBS Radio lowered the axe on 103.1 this past week, switching to a pop format that plays Lady Gaga, Adele, and whoever else lands on the Billboard lists. Yeah, WPB needed another pop channel, sure. The station management, however, stated that their extensive research did indicate the desire for this change.

We've all seen this before. I documented the demise of 97 GTR back in 1990 in a previous post. That was disappointing. This one was, eh. I was long since uninvested. Plus, 103.1 The Buzz will continue to stream on their website and through smartphone apps (and HD radio). But it illustrates the fickle nature of the Arbitron diary fillers and focus groups. Additionally, local radio seems to becoming a thing of the past, at least for music. You've heard my Clear Channel rants.

It is sad that there are fewer and fewer local stations to get to know, to feel a sense of community with. But, streaming stations of all types are definitely the refuge, my favorites being Radioparadise.com and the Soma channels. We are living in an interesting time, watching the slow death of local radio, bookstores, DVD rental outlets, and the U.S. Postal Service. Perhaps this century will see a special museum for each. What will we tell the grandkids?

Murder à la Mod

2011-12-07T04:02:00.000-08:00

It is evident immediately in 1967's MURDER à la MOD that director Brian De Palma loves film. That most voyeuristic of mediums. Celluloid not merely to document with a master shot, but a tight, intrusive zoom invading the space of his victims, er, subjects. The first images of MURDER are of a woman modeling for the camera in period garments, instructed by the cameraman (not seen) to suggestively pose and eventually remove her clothes. She is the first of several "birds" to be sleazily persuaded and bullied by this anonymous documentarian, and the first to have her throat slashed with a razor.

De Palma has used such imagery throughout his subsequent career. For a film buff familiar with his later work, watching MURDER à la MOD is a revealing experience. The (pardon the pun) obsessions and fetishes which infected many of De Palma's suspense films are evident in this, his first full length feature. Stalking cameras from the killer's point-of-view, stylized bloodletting and violence, loving angles on female forms, split screens, nimble camera dollying (usually tracking a chase) - it's all here. What's also on display is the playful method of telling the story, a sort of RASHOMONish telling of the same events several times, but from different points of view. With each episode, we learn something new, are given visual information as to why something happened, such as how that tire went flat. From a filmic standpoint, it's almost like what filmmakers call "coverage", shooting from different places to get different perspectives.

I won't bother with a long synopsis. A young filmmaker has a very devoted girlfriend who hangs out with her stylish friend over the course of a mid-afternoon. The filmmaker works with a slick producer and a really odd guy named Otto, who runs around Greenwich Village with both real and fake ice picks (titles appear onscreen to tell us which is genuine and which isn't) and flits around like he's on amphetamines or maybe too much coffee. There will be murders. We think we know who committed them, but as we back up in time and view things from a different vantage point, we may learn otherwise. I liked the scene where someone is listening to a radio soap opera, then quotes it as if they are his words to someone else. Previously, watching this same scene, we believed they were his own thoughts and feelings.

We later follow Otto, hearing the traffic jam of thoughts in his head, sounding like Frank Zappa played at 78 speed. Even without the sped up photography (undercranking?), this chap is plenty hyper. I'm not sure if De Palma and actor William Finley (who would appear in many later De Palma movies) were going for a Buster Keaton homage, though at times it seemed that way. There's even a pie in the face gag. Is he a killer? Or just weird? Finely's performance will likely divide viewer opinion.

This being a De Palma film, the violence, quick as it is, is lingered upon perhaps even more than the (mild) sexuality. MURDER à la MOD is nowhere nearly as explicit as DRESSED TO KILL or BODY DOUBLE, both of which owe much to this film. The lengthy city street and cemetery chase reminded me of a key scene in the latter film. The inserts of murder weapons evoke 1973's SISTERS and 1980's DRESSED TO KILL. The slashing and Karo syrup spurting is virtually a De Palma trademark. The palpable sleazery is evident in films as late as THE BLACK DAHLIA (2006), a film to which I was not exactly beholden.

MURDER à la MOD is included as an extra on Disc 2 of Criterion's release of De Palma's 1981 thriller BLOW OUT, a fine film. Tracing the threads over the 14 years between the 2 efforts is an exercise that probably only students of the director will enjoy. I was expecting to really dislike MURDER à la MOD, but after a tedious first half hour, was consistently entertained. The acting is more or less amateur night, especially a bank employee you will want to strangle after about 2 minutes (that scene, by the way, is unforgivably long), but the real star is behind the camera. Any De Palma retrospective would do well screening this film as the lead off.

Do As The Romans, er, French, er....

2011-12-05T05:00:00.000-08:00

Cyrus

2011-12-01T05:00:00.000-08:00

The titular character is a large boy, 22 years of age, who lives at home with his mother, Molly. They're very close. They go to the park every morning, taking pictures of nature and playfully wrestling on a picnic blanket. He composes songs on his keyboards (one of many in their living room) for her. He goes into the bathroom and sings along with her while she showers. She lies with him in bed when he has panic attacks at night. Invisible audience, are you crying "Oedipus complex!" yet?

One night, Molly (Marissa Tomei) spies a shlubby guy named John (John C. Reilly) urinating in the bushes. "Nice penis!" she tells him. It is a great moment for John, the first good one after a night of striking out with the ladies at a party to which his ex-wife of 7 years, Jamie (Catherine Keener) invited him. Jamie had recently told John was getting remarried. He was devastated. As 2010's CYRUS plays out, we will also see another odd relationship, between John and Jamie.

But back to John and Molly. After their funny/awkward first meeting, they immediately click. She appreciates his lack of embarrassment (though he is piss drunk at the moment), and he further proves this by running back inside to the party to sing along with Human League's "Don't You Want Me". The new couple fall into bed that very night, but she slips out in the wee hours, leaving a note telling him what an awesome time she had.

After another similiar date, and no explanations as for her hasty exit, John decides to follow Molly home. On his stakeout, he falls asleep in his car overnight, then eventually walks up to Molly's front yard, and is eventually discovered by Cyrus, her son. He seems friendly and personable, inviting John in and even sharing one of those musical masterpieces with him. Soon enough, John will learn just what a not-so-little fly in the ointment Cyrus really is.

The set-up makes CYRUS sound like another of those dreadful, child-of-divorce/divorcee-attempts-to-sabotage-parent's- new-relationship movies. That is not entirely inaccurate. However, viewers expecting MAN OF THE HOUSE or any of its ilk will quickly be bored and/or frustrated. This film is not a slapstick ballet of lighthearted comic warfare. The ensuing struggle between the 2 males grows a bit darker with each scene before the inevitable meltdown and aftermath. As I assessed this movie, I concluded that Cyrus isn't so much a bad seed or evil as just confused.

And very self-aware. Jonah Hill plays the young man as a very subtly conniving juvenile, all outwardly gracious and disarming. After several scenes of his passive-aggressive behavior designed to make his mother feel guilty and John feel like a selfish bastard, the men finally throw off the gloves and acknowledge their intentions. Cyrus will use any means necessary to be rid of the new man. Through that, Cyrus gradually also acknowledges, even verbally, that he is messed up. Er, something along those lines.

But he isn't the only one. Molly is almost as guilty, enabling her son at every opportunity, giving in and giving in at maybe the cost of her own happiness. Tomei convincingly creates this character with the right amount of vulnerability and without chewing the scenery. She seems a bit childlike herself as she tries to maintain an adult relationship with John, requiring him to be open and honest and yet she repeatedly violates her own criteria.

John is basically an overgrown adolescent, clinging to his ex-wife in ways that more than suggest he never moved on or learned how to be friends with others of the opposite sex. Even as his fondness for Molly grows, he continually disrupts Jamie's time with her new fiance, seeking her as a sounding board. With the increasing difficulty of dealing with Cyrus, John will bombard his ex with more requests for psychotherapy than she is willing to (or should) offer. Is Jamie an enabler as well?! Is there a single healthy relationship in this picture?

Writers/directors Jay and Mark Duplass' film does sometimes feel like a couch session, sometimes at the cost of ingratiating the audience. Reading back over my summary, I feel as if I'm analyzing real acquaintances of mine. This is a far from perfect movie, but it does not flinch from the uncomfortable scenarios that would naturally fester out of the plot. The script is sometimes predictable and sometimes not, leading to a final scene that will not please those who want confirmation and resolution in their movies. To me, it was just right.

My major carp with CYRUS? It looks like a television program, albeit a high quality HBO series. Digital video is increasingly sucking the life out of cinema. While Michael Mann sometimes makes it work, the Duplass brothers produce a movie that is visually without soul. Cinema should be cinema, with wide compositions and expanse of scope. Every technical aspect in this "movie" (editing, photography, soundtrack, lighting) falls short of making this worth the effort to see in a theater (I didn't). Plus, that "snap zoom" that we see in every other shot gets highly annoying. It's really bush league. It screams "indie-lite". Or, "television".

Movies, when inspired, are like paintings. Television is rarely if ever more than a really good photograph. Think on that a bit. Where does this description leave CYRUS?

But....I admired the acting. The screenplay gives a good foundation for each character, and the actors, all of whom have been impressive before, do very well here. But it's unlikely that I'll want to revisit this movie anytime soon.

PBA, Book VIII

2011-11-26T07:00:00.000-08:00

I almost forgot to mention that one summer while at Palm Beach Atlantic I took a course called "Understanding Motion Pictures". Seeing as a majority of the entries in Lamplight Drivel concerns films, I feel it deserves a mention.

I was excited about the class. Students were expected to write several page reviews of a film screened each week. I don't believe I had done so before that class. Many times I had scribbled a paragraph here or there about a movie I'd seen. I was greatly influenced by the cinematic rants of Pauline Kael, Herbert Swope, Vincent Canby, Michael Mills, Archer Winsten, and especially of the yearly Leonard Maltin almanacs (in terms of their entries' brevity and content). It was always fairly easy to knock off a few sentences summarizing a movie. A full-length analysis that doesn't ramble, repeat, feel bloated, or seem otherwise incoherent is another matter. I still struggle with all of that in the current reviews I write. But they're just for fun. If I wrote professionally, I would adopt the adage: "write drunk, edit sober." And then edit some more.

The college's drama instructor oversaw the class. He was a jolly fellow, known quite well to me as I had had him for several speech and communication courses (my minor). He loved cinema, loved discussing it. He had a very memorable, hearty laugh that often edged over into a coughing jag. But....he also pronounced mise-en-scène as "mize-en-seen" which made (likely only) me wince each time.

And...he directed a version of "The Glass Menagerie" for the PBA stage later that year that, ahem, borrowed an idea from Woody Allen's HANNAH AND HER SISTERS (the film we screened for our final): using a line of dialogue to be uttered by an actor in the following scene as a title card for that scene. That made me wince, too. I tried to ignore my disgust and treat it as an homage. I was partially successful.

What other films were featured in "Understanding Motion Pictures"? I remember: CITIZEN KANE, THE GODS MUST BE CRAZY, CASABLANCA, GHOSTBUSTERS, DR. STRANGELOVE, and HANNAH..I think there were others. Somewhere, I still have my review for GODS. Our class would discuss each film after its viewing. Less debate than you might think, but then most of the class seemed to be in agreement that TOP GUN was great cinema. Is that unfair? That's my recollection. What stands out most vividly now is another wince-worthy memory - a girl who ripped DR. STRANGELOVE to shreds. I remember feeling my neck get warm! I took this all very seriously. I was too polite to fire back. When I was younger I was worried about popularity. Nowadays? Ha! But before you write me off as unapologetically crusty: I still care deeply about people's feelings and would take caution not to let my opinions become attacks. Somewhat like today's version of political discourse. Stop laughing now.

Our prof. also explained how he had thought about screening Robert Altman's M.A.S.H. for us, but reconsidered as he felt that the film was blasphemous (likely because of, in part, a Last Supper spoof therein). PBA is a Christian institution. Do I agree with that the film is "blasphemous"? To a certain extent I do, actually, and somewhat agree with the prof's decision to omit it from the syllabus. That doesn't mean I dismiss the film because of my spiritual convictions. I think M.A.S.H. is quite brilliant. It would've provided a great example to examine a worldview very different than what most Christians usually expose themselves to in the arts, but it still may have been inappropriate for the class. Young, impressionable minds and all.

You could make the argument that viewing films which espouse a very different religious and/or political viewpoint from your own is very healthy, allowing you to not only become more educated, but also a better critical thinker. I've made such an argument many times over the years, especially when other Christians have questioned why I've watched certain movies. For many believers, film choice is often considered in light of "offensive content": language, sexuality, nudity. Violence? Not so much in this culture. That is totally accepted. Truly warped, in my opinion.

Where was I? Class, yes. The professor would go on to teach at PBA for several years after I graduated. He was also in the church choir with me during those years, taking a role as a greedy king in our annual Christmas pageant. These days he is teaching at other colleges in Florida and writing books. He even made a film of his own. I would be so curious. Perhaps I'll screen and review it and ask him to grade it?!

Happy Thanksgiving!

2011-11-24T04:00:00.000-08:00

We all have for much for which to be thankful. But, I don't think the point here is (or can be) overstated regarding our country's history:

King of the Hill

2011-11-21T10:00:00.000-08:00

Do you recognize the look on an adult's face when a child is telling a tall tale, elaborating a fib that grows larger by the second? Sometimes you may see it in a mother's eyes as she plays "True of False" with her son ("I'm taking your word that what you say is true really is true"). Or the same boy's teacher as he explains that he lives in a nice apartment building (instead of in a fleabag hotel) with his father, a spy. Or even the mother of one of the boy's classmmates, as she listens to the explanation of how his father is a pilot for the government. The expressions begin with hard lines, stern brows, then soften in realization that the poor child needs to conjure such tales to avoid a complete erosion of self-worth.

Aaron Kurlander (14 year old Jesse Bradford) lives with his family in Missouri in 1933, a time when the country was in the deepest trenches of the Great Depression. The Kurlanders live in said rundown hotel, filled with all sorts of downtrodden folks, including a curious fellow across the hall (Spalding Gray) who once "smoked dollar bills like cigars" in earlier, far more prosperous times. Things become so desparate that Aaron makes tomato soup out of ketchup and tap water for his father. It's a moment that tells much, the switched roles revealing Aaron's maturity and his father's (Jeroen Krabbé) lack of it. Mr. Kurlander spends his days selling wickless candles, forever speaking of a job he hopes to get with a fancy watch manufacturer. Aaron's mother (Lisa Eichorn) is chronically ill. His little brother (Cameron Boyd) is barely there before he is shipped off to relatives in another state. One less mouth to feed.

As writer/director Steven Soderbergh's KING OF THE HILL (1993) progresses, Aaron will be separated, one by one, from family, friends, mentors, and neighbors. It's a heartbreaking tale. Mrs. Kurlander is sent to a tuberculosis hospital. Mr. Kurlander indeed gets the sales job, requiring him to travel state to state, without his son. Bradford plays his scenes with Krabbé with the right amount of pathos and disbelief; how could his dad could leave him alone in the apartment for an indeterminate amount of time without money? One of the saddest scenes shows the boy cutting up magazines for pictures of food that he arranges on a plate and pretends to savor.

While Aaron is still in school, he'll observe the obscene wealth of his classmmates. The extravagance, the waste, the taking for granted is astonishing to him. One boy has a room filled with birdcages (he breeds them as a hobby) and autographed sports memorabilia. Aaron covers his poverty with the tall tales of which we spoke, not so embarrased of his social standing as interested in just getting some food that these people have in plenty. A girl (played by a very young Katherine Heigl) who likes Aaron invites him to a post-graduation party, where his multitude of lies catches up to him.

The scenario of KING OF THE HILL plays like many survival stories (EUROPA EUROPA, for one), the hero using his wits and the kindness of others, especially neighbor Letser (Adrien Brody, quite good). Lester is a older version of Aaron, with more years under his belt and savvy as to how to exploit any situation for reward. He's a rascal and a thief, but kindhearted. He's also certainly more of a father to Aaron than his real one. Aaron remains strong, but his spirit is crushed a bit more as he loses each contact, even the strange girl down the hall who wants him to come over and have hot dogs and dance with her. He finally does, learning more about the girl he previously dismissed. He selflessly spends fifty cents he desperately needs on a kitten for her.

I wish Soderbergh had made more films like KING OF THE HILL. It is a beautifully written, acted, and shot gem, so vivid in its depictions of a relentlessly bleak chapter of American history. The director brings his off-kilter sensibility to the project, most visible in scenes with Gray's character (who spends time with a live-in prostitute played by Elizabeth McGovern) to balance the inherent drama of the story; it's a privileged mix. The result is a warm, even sentimental at times movie that isn't the usual Hollywood tearjerker, or conversely a smug, irony drenched revisionist tale. We are not toyed with in the usual ways: sappy music cues, angelic lighting. Instead, Cliff Martinez' score is just disturbing enough to flavor the drama, yet never becoming overwhelmingly sad.

Soderbergh uses natural and artificial light instead to create beautiful images that could be frozen and admired as art, almost Norman Rockwell or Ansel Adams-like in their old school down home charm. Aside from a derivative scene in which Aaron beats some older boys in a game of marbles (uncharacteristically scored with upbeat music and featuring a slow-motion shot of Aaron's marbles shattering those of his opponents'), KING OF THE HILL never missteps. Well worth your time.

Best Granola EVER!

2011-11-19T04:00:00.000-08:00

Unfortunately, only available at stores in the NYC area. You can order it online. I suggest you do.

http://earlybirdfoods.com/index.html

Rush: Beyond the Lighted Stage

2011-11-16T05:00:00.000-08:00

I owe it all to a guy named Michael Brunson, a childhood friend who lived down the street. Circa 1981, I sat with him in front of his stereo, experiencing for the first time the musical majesty that is Rush. The album: Moving Pictures. I had not heard anything like it before. The shock and joy of something new; I can still remember how I felt. Prior, I was listening to novelty songs, Disney and Sesame Street records, church hymns, and (Lord help me), Norwegian accordion albums that were absolutely interminable. All was forgotten once I heard the first notes of "Tom Sawyer." Thanks, Mike!

A few days later I bought my own copy of Moving Pictures at the local Spec's record store. I slipped on my gigantic headphones every day after school. It was like a religion. The music was hard and rockin', which I definitely appreciated (I had also recently discovered AC/DC and Van Halen, much to my parents' horror and dismay), but there was much more. Something I could not quite explain. The lyrics were different, thoughtful even. The music was so, accomplished. My young ears didn't know how to pick out time signatures or the denseness and meaning of the words, but I knew something about it all was very special. "The Camera Eye" became the first tune that ran over 3 minutes that I would appreciate. To this day I get chills when I hear the final guitar solo in it. It's one of my favorites.

Thus began well over a decade of dedicated Rush fanship. At that time, the band was heading into another stylistic phase of their career. I knew that they had been around for a while, but did not delve into the older albums like 2112 and A Farewell to Kings right away. Not long after my initial listens to Rush, another guy at my elementary school let me borrow a cassette of Hemispheres but it was way too much for me to process at the time.

But I easily got into the keyboard heavy compositions of Signals, Grace Under Pressure, and Power Windows as the 80s continued. I was obssessed. The older fans were not enamored of the new sound. "Rush was," stated one of my co-workers at the fast food joint in which I slaved during high school. But a few years on, I went back and absorbed the older albums. I was again stunned, blown away by something so different sounding once I heard the sidelong tracks from the 70s such as "By-Tor and the Snow Dog" and "Cygnus X-1". Intricate sci-fi tales with profound lyrics, some of them inspired by the writings of Ayn Rand. Rush was not your typical rock group.

The 2010 documetary RUSH: BEYOND THE LIGHTED STAGE is a long overdue telling of the history of the power trio from the Great White North: bassist/keyboardist Geddy Lee, guitarist Alex Lifeson, and lyricist/drummer Neil Peart, from their schoolboy days to the present. Fellow Canadians Sam Dunn and Scot McFayden directed the film; their previous films had focused on heavy metal culture. Rush has sometimes been lumped in with the likes of Iron Maiden and Dokken, but they're nothing like them, really.

BEYOND THE LIGHTED STAGE features valuable home movie clips of friends-since-grade- school Lee and Lifeson, particularly of an 18-year-old Alex as he sits around the dinner table, explaining that he does not want to go on to college to get "a big degree". He was far more interested in playing guitar with Geddy, as explained by the principals themselves and, amusingly, their parents, who recall many loud nights in their respective basements.

The film traces Rush's early gigs in Toronto gymnasiums and church rec rooms, the lack of funds, and briefly profiles early members of the band. Namely, John Rutsey, the original drummer, who had to leave the band in 1974 (due to diabetes) just before their first big tour, promoting their first eponymous album. Of course, a guy named Neil Peart would replace him and suburban boys all over North America and beyond would soon be air drumming within an inch of their lives imitating him.

The early albums and tours get a thorough overview. The debut was a bluesy, Zeppelinesque batch of tunes that went virtually unnoticed until a program director in Cleveland heard "Working Man", correctly predicting it would be popular with many blue collar listeners. Rush would sign to Mercury and begin touring, opening for Uriah Heep and even Kiss (Gene Simmons recalls how straight arrow and serious those Canadian boys were, unlike himself and his cronies, who pretty much bedded anything that wore heels). After 1976's landmark concept LP, 2112, Rush was granted the freedom to create the opuses they wanted without record company interference, including 1978's Hemispheres, an album all band memebers recall being extremely difficult to perform and record. It is illustrative of how driven and ambitious Lee, Lifeson, and Peart were/are. Geniuses, in my opinion.

As we cruise into the 80s (when the songs were less guitar laden) and 90s (when the axes returned front and center)periods, BEYOND THE LIGHTED STAGE's coverage becomes broader, sketchier, but overall the film hits most of the band's personal and artistic highlights. Some time is given to discuss the double tragedy of the death of Peart's daughter and wife within a year in the late 1990s. The band went on a lengthy hiatus as the drummer took to the roads on a motorcycle (some 55,000 miles from start to finish) to heal. Out of that time came a few books and a renewed perspective for Peart. The lyrics on the new albums Vapor Trails (2002) and Snakes and Arrows(2007) reflected these experiences. Any serious fan of Rush knows how insightful Peart's lyrics can be, and I've been especially impressed at how increasingly human and heartfelt they've grown over nearly 40 years. Life'll do that to you.

RUSH: BEYOND THE LIGHTED STAGE would be many hours long if it covered everything in the sort of detail a rabid Rush fan like myself would desire. But what we have is quite good. It is absolutely essential viewing for any Rush devotee. Interviews with all 3 band members are interspersed, as are discussions with musicians who were big fans and influenced by Rush, including, Billy Corgan, Sebastian Bach, Les Claypool, Trent Reznor, Jack Black, and many others. Corgan especially is insightful as to how the musicians inspired him. Perhaps Black says it best, though: "Rush is just one of those bands that has a deep reservoir of rocket sauce. A lot of bands - they've only got so much in the bottle. They use it up sometimes in one song. These guys were the real deal. Their bottle was so big and so filled to the brim, they were shaking it literally for decades. And still there was sauce coming out"

The bonus DVD contains outtakes from the film, as well as longer segments on Rush "fashions" over the years (these guys are great self-deprecators), the sometimes scary fans (who have Rush conventions, complete with karaoke), and a seat at dinner with the guys as they get intoxicated and silly and cajole comfortably like 3 old friends would. There are also some concert clips from the recent "Rush in Rio" video and a mesmerizing record of a live 1979 performance of "La Villa Strangiato".

Your Audiology Tutorial: Tympanometry

2011-11-14T05:20:00.000-08:00

During a routine hearing exam battery, the audiologist may begin with what is known as tympanometry. It is an important measurement which gives the clinician an assessment of middle ear function. He or she will place a flexible plastic probe attached to a low tone generator which will measure how easily your eardrum (tympanic membrane) moves. The low frequency tone will vibrate the drum and a compliance measurement (admittance) will alert the clinician to a few things. Namely, that outer atmospheric pressure and Eustachian tube (runs between the eardrum and nasopharnyx) function are equal, or not. The tube opens and closes as you chew, yawn, change altitude, etc.

When the test is administered, the patient feels a "squeeze" in the ear canal. This is the result of a pressure seal created between the probe and the eardrum. A tymp measures ear canal volume, pressure, and drum motility. The results are designated by types (see above for graphical representation of each):

Type A: Normal E. tube function. Eardrum is moving normally with a pressure change.

Type B: Abnormal. Something is restricting the movement of the drum (likely fluid, but can also be/or ossification of the malleus, incus, and stapes bones[ossicular chain] that connect the drum to the inner ear, which would be classified as a Type As - shallow tymp). Children with fluid behnind their eardrums often have a flat or Type B tymp. The ear, nose, and throat doctor may place PE (pressure equalization) tubes in the child's ear to alleviate pressure and drain fluid.

Type C: The drum is moving but something is retracting it inwardly, toward middle ear space (could be negative pressure from the E. tube). Positive pressure can build up and do the reverse, pushing the drum outward. You can cause this by pinching your nostrils and exhaling with your mouth closed (Valsalva).

When a patient has a perforated (hole) eardrum, the measured canal volume may be quite large, as the measurement is going beyond the area between probe and drum and now into the middle ear via the perf. If the ossicular chain is disarticulated, the drum may beome flaccid (Type Ad-deep tymp).

Tympanometry is a quick, vital diagnostic that should be part of every audiometric examination.

Roger Dodger

2011-11-10T12:00:00.000-08:00

The cinema has presented its fair share of male lotharios who are more than willing to share their so-called secrets to seducing the fairer sex. I think on Richard Lester's THE KNACK...AND HOW TO GET IT and even FAST TIMES AT RIDGEMONT HIGH as solid examples of this genre. Add 2002's ROGER DODGER to the list, similiarly documenting a Don Juan who proves to be all surface; not as slick as he thought, and actually quite an empty soul.

Campbell Scott is cast a bit against type as Roger Swanson, a rather jaded NYC advertising exec. Note this exchange he has with his nephew, Nick (Jesse Eisenberg) who's shown up in town (and his office) unexpectedly:
Roger: You can't sell a product without first making people feel bad.
Nick: Why not?
Roger: Because it's a substitution game. You have to remind them that they're missing something from their lives. Everyone's missing something, right?
Nick: I guess.
Roger: Trust me. And when they're feeling sufficiently incomplete, you convince them your product is the only thing that can fill the void. So instead of taking steps to deal with their lives, instead of working to root out the real reason for their misery, they go out and buy a stupid looking pair of cargo pants.

Roger is also quite cynical about women. In the opening scene of ROGER DODGER, he's holding court at a dinner with several colleagues, explaining how technology will one day render males completely unnecessary to women:Technology and evolution will have combined...
to exclude sperm from procreation...
and our fiinal destiny will be to lift couches...
and wait for that day when telepathy overcomes gravity...
and our gender's last remaining utility is lost forever
As the film progresses, Roger is shown to be an alarming (though quite articulate and entertaining) narcissist, perhaps even a sociopath. Witness his speech to a 50ish woman he's just met at a bar:

I could tell you that what you think of as your personality is nothing but a collection of Vanity Fair articles. I could tell you your choice of sexual partners this evening was decided months ago by some account executive at Young & Rubicam. I could tell you that given a week to study your father and the ways in which he ignores you I could come up with a schtick you'd be helpless to resist. Helpless.

I quote so much of this movie directly as the dialogue is one of ROGER DODGER's best qualities. Not since the small body of films by writer/director Whit Stillman (METROPOLITAN) has dialogue been so intregral to character (and the overall film's) definition. Here, an middle-aged urbanite whose loathing of himself is only assauged by directing it to others tenfold. His speeches are lengthy and self-important but quite rhythmic and fascinating. It is the first time I've seen Campbell exploit this sort of persona, after nice-guy turns in THE SPANISH PRISONER and SINGLES. He's quite good here.

The bulk of ROGER DODGER follows the main character and his nephew through NYC as the former offers his strategies for female seduction, per Nick's request. Roger begins with nuts and bolts nuances (even old tricks like dropping a pen to look up a skirt) and eye contact. He brings the 16 year old Nick into a bar where they meet Andrea (Elizabth Berkley) and Sophie (Jennifer Beals), the kid telling them he made a bet with his uncle for one grand that he could get a woman to fall in love with him in one night. Conversations of refreshing honesty and intelligence follow. Hearing them is quite a contrast to the paper thin and idiotic exchanges we hear in most contemporary films, regardless of genre. Neither actress has ever been so warm and appealing (and genuine) as they are here. This sequence manages to be hopeful and romantic in the best possible ways. The ladies provide choice counterpoint to Roger's continuous cynicism and crassness. "Feeling a little bit of vertical displacement?" he asks his nephew after Sophie kisses the boy.

The night will continue with ill advised ventures to Roger's boss' (and ex-lover's) party, to which he was not invited, and a "fail safe", a place he considers a last resort sure thing for a man who has struck out everywhere else. And indeed Roger strikes out repeatedly. ROGER DODGER gives us a sobering view of a very lonely man whose mask is cocksureness, an alleged proclivity for female companionship, albeit the kind that usually doesn't last past breakfast.

As Nick, Eisenberg is quite perfect as the nerdy straight laced bookworm who doesn't even consume caffeine, finding himself having drinks with much older women. It's probably more fun to watch his performance now than it was in '02, as his later turn in THE SOCIAL NETWORK is similiar in many ways. Nick is not quite as neurotic as his performance as Mark Zuckerberg, rather more romantic and innocent, but still unsure of social politics, the in-person kind, that is. Nick's trajectory in ROGER DODGER is not as dynamic as perhaps I would've liked, but writer/director Dylan Kidd's screenplay allows him to react convincingly to a first kiss, to both real and childlike females.

But Roger is the more childlike of the pair. Frighteningly erudite in his speech (his ramblings, some very funny and eminently quotable, are reason enough to see this movie) but unable to truly relate and connect in an adult fashion. ROGER DODGER would be essential viewing for someone who likes to discuss things like "emotional IQ". Most of the way, it's a very astute essay. I just wish Kidd had a better wrap-up for his film; the final scene in Nick's high school cafeteria is quite dissapointing in its simplicity, seeming almost as if to tie everything up with a tired joke.

Five Easy Pieces

2011-11-07T05:00:00.000-08:00

America Lost & Found: The BBS Story, Part VI

Spoilers...

By the closing scenes of 1970's FIVE EASY PIECES, Robert Dupea (Jack Nicholson)has perhaps decided to banish himself to permanent anonymity, to an existence of complete denial (or maybe embracing?) of true self, whatever that may be. When we meet first meet him, he seems to be a average joe as he works in oil fields by day and goes bowling in the evenings. His friends and his waitress girlfriend, Rayette (Karen Black) call him "Bobby" and they idle the hours the way many lower middle class folks do, sitting in a trailer park, chugging beer, and watching TV.

Dupea is also a bit of a prick. His mercurial behavior baffles during the first half of director/co-writer (along with Carole Eastman) Bob Rafelson's great film. Why does he treat Rayette so poorly, lying to and cheating on her at every opportunity? Chalk it up to unchecked machismo? Amorality? One day he goes off on his co-worker and drinking buddy Elton (Billy "Green" Bush) after learning from him that Rayette is pregnant. A condescension, a dismissal of the cheap and pointless life that he sees with Elton and company, spills from Dupea's lips. This is to be his fate? But who is he to judge?

Then one morning while stuck in a freeway traffic jam, Bobby decides to get out of the car, sneer at a few other divers, then jump atop a truck transporting a piano. He plays the keys with violence. Not something like "Heart and Soul", but rather Frédéric Chopin's "Fantasy in F Minor Op. 49" (one of the five "easy" pieces of the title). Who is this man?

The audience learns more about Robert after he visits his sister, Partita (Lois Smith) in Los Angeles. She's playing J.S. Bach's: "Chromatic fantasia and Fugue" in a recording studio (character actor and TV vet Richard Stahl quite hilariously plays her recording engineer). Partita relays that their father has suffered several strokes and that Robert should pay a visit to their old home in Puget Sound in Washington State.

The remainder of FIVE EASY PIECES expands on the hints we've been given with great, contemplative elaboration. We journey to the Dupea homestead where the patriarch remains silent in a wheelchair. The father only stares ahead, though perhaps not so blankly. His eyes portray a steeliness, an acknowledement. This will be be essential to note when Robert opens up to him late in the the film.

And Robert, we find out, is indeed a creative soul, one who has (lost?) great musical ability. His siblings likewise are all musical prodigies; we learned of Partitia's talents earlier, then we meet Robert's violinist brother, Carl Fidelio Dupea (Ralph Waite) who is accompanied by a protege and fiancee, Catherine (Susan Anspach). Robert acts on what he believes are favorable sexual signals from Catherine. For her he will play Chopin's "Prelude Op. 28, No. 4", another "easy" piece. It is seductive to her, but Robert dismisses his playing as a genius might, stating that he played it with proficiency when he was even 8 years of age. Catherine quickly discovers Robert's contempt for himself. She's sufficiently attracted long enough for a tryst, but recognizes little potential for a healthy relationship.

Robert disagrees, trying to convince himself that he cares deeply for Catherine, for his family. Perhaps he really does, or wants to. His affection for his sister is obvious. He even rallies to the defense of Rayette (she eventually crashes the visit) during a gathering after listening to the insufferable rants of a pseudo-intellectual as she belittles the simple waitress. A complete abhorrence of the entire atmosphere in which he grew up envelops him. He hates the environment which made him, so thus, he hates himself. He unsuccessfully tried the working class shtick. He still has contempt for the manor born. We reach the film's final scene.

FIVE EASY PIECES is just brilliance. It illustrates how a fairly straightforward narrative can be engrossing and artful while also being free of pretension. Yet, such a complex character study it is! The very language of film here conveys the information necessary. Rafelson composes many great shots but never to draw attention to themselves. Laszlo Kovacs's photography is expansive and intimate by turns, appropriate to the mood of the scene. Bobby surveys the oil field with weary eyes and loneliness, the vastness of the field overwhelming in its banality. Robert stares into the ancient furniture of his childhood home with similiar loneliness, and claustrophobia. Rafelson and Kovacs create visuals that could almost play silently in their expressiveness. Many shots run long enough to suggest restlessness and frustration.

But the dialogue is a charm throughout FIVE EASY PIECES. Most famous is the diner scene, where Dupea has stopped on his trip home. Rayette and 2 hitchhikers (one who never stops chattering) accompany him. This scene is worth quoting:
Bobby: I'd like an omelet, plain, and a chicken salad sandwich on wheat toast, no mayonnaise, no butter, no lettuce. And a cup of coffee.
Waitress: A #2, chicken salad sand. Hold the butter, the lettuce, the mayonnaise, and a cup of coffee. Anything else?
Bobby: Yeah, now all you have to do is hold the chicken, bring me the toast, give me a check for the chicken salad sandwich, and you haven't broken any rules.
Waitress: You want me to hold the chicken, huh?
Bobby: I want you to hold it between your knees.

This scene has found its place in Cinema History, not for being interal to the story, but because it certifies Jack Nicholson's familiar untamed persona. It is almost as patented as that image of his face gaping through an axed door in THE SHINING. Eastman (writing as Adrien Joyce) and Rafelson's dialogue is almost like another classical piece itself. The diner scene plays like music, expertly performed.

But so do the other scenes in FIVE EASY PIECES: Dupea's half-hearted consolations to Rayette (Black describes her soft-hearted and soft-brained character in one of the disc's documentaries: "To play her, I just stopped thinking."), his confrontations with his brother, with Catherine, with just about every other character. There is also the scene to which I already alluded, a surprising and genuine monologue by Robert to his father, the latter who only sits and listens. This scene is somewhat of a "pre-climax", really ellucidating the character of Robert Dupea. By the time we see him surveying his reflection in a service station restroom mirror, we have some idea of him. And of where he's headed.

Criterion's presentation of FIVE EASY PIECES in the BBS set includes in its extras a short interview and feature length commentary with Rafelson, an audio of the director's interview at AFI in the mid 70s, and an excellent doc that summarizes the brief but shining life of the BBS enterprise, complete with summaries of all 7 of their productions.

Show Some Emotion

2011-11-04T11:20:00.000-07:00

A moody, yet spirited tune from one of my all-time favorite singers, Joan Armatrading.

Word.

127 Hours

2011-11-01T05:00:00.000-07:00

Spoilers Ahead!

You know, I've been thinking. Everything is... just comes together. It's me. I chose this. I chose all this. This rock... this rock has been waiting for me my entire life. It's entire life, ever since it was a bit of meteorite a million, billion years ago. In space. It's been waiting, to come here. Right, right here. I've been moving towards it my entire life. The minute I was born, every breath that I've taken, every action has been leading me to this crack on the out surface

Aron Ralston barely has enough strength to utter these words after several days of being trapped between, quite literally, a rock and a hard place. His solo trek into the canyons and caves of Robbers Roost in Utah was another of his anonymous adventures into the wide open. Nary a mention is made to family and friends as to his plans. 127 HOURS opens in Ralston's apartment as he's packing, rifling through cabinets for the last bits of gear. Forbodingly, his grasp just misses a Swiss Army knife that he eventually gives up for missplaced. We hear his mother's voice on the answering machine. The call goes unreturned.

The young man happily speeds into the desert with windows down and music cranking. He's in his element. That's not to say he doesn't enjoy company; we learn through flashbacks that he is quite a social animal. Early scenes in this movie find him meeting up with two young female hikers who join him for some stunt diving in an underground spring. But we also get a strong sense of his love of solitude, of pushing himself against the Great Outdoors on his own terms.

Into Blue John Canyon he climbs, but that fateful rock will pin his arm to a canyon wall as he descends an especially narrow passage. His efforts to chip away the rock with a multi-purpose pocket tool prove fruitless. Aron will begin to ration his food and water, meanwhile recording his ordeal with a video camera. Each hour and day points in a terrible direction. Ralston is a cheerful guy, after a few days still trying to find rays of optimism even after he's forced to drink his own urine to stay alive. He continues to record his (lack of) progress.

127 HOURS tells a true story with which you're probably familiar. You'll know that Ralston (played by James Franco) will eventually, after the fifth day, sever his arm with a dull knife to break free. Director and co-writer Danny Boyle makes this biography distinguished by examining Ralston's mind and soul, both of which are worn down as the days pass. We see memory fragments of ex-girlfriends and family members, things we would expect to see. As he gets thirstier, he remembers all the soft drink commercials he's ever seen. The memories then work their way into his current locale, as his family is seen on and around a sofa right there in the cave. Their faces are stern, as if they are a jury, sentencing him. Is this his punishment for shutting them out, perhaps for much of his life? He cries out, eventually assigning weighty spiritual and metaphorical significance to the rock.

Boyle structures his film like a contemporary fever dream. A peer into the mind of a media saturated individual. Cuts among real memories and those of commercials and YouTube clips. The movie cuts well, nearly seamlessly, with shots seen through Ralston's camcorder screen. As the human body is depleted of nourishment, so goes the discernement of the real and imagined. In a fascinating subtext, perhaps this film argues that many of us are, due to our constant stimulation with media, in this state on a daily basis, even if we aren't literally fighting for our lives. Even though 127 HOURS is a mostly faithful recount of a specific true event, I still wonder what Marshall Mcluhan would've thought of this movie's stylistics.

I also thought about about how Ralston would often retreat to lonely outposts in the desert, in the ocean, on mountains. All alone. Many of us avoid being alone so we don't have to deal with ourselves. We fill every available moment with family and friends to take the focus away. Ostensibly, that's healthy. But never taking a hard look at yourself can rob you of individualism, of self-awareness. How can you love others if you don't love (or at least accept) yourself? For all of Aron's solitude before, it takes a precarious life-or-certain death scenario for him to realize something else -how selfish he's been.

127 HOURS also has Ralston seeing into the future, his yet to be born child calling to him, perhaps propelling him to do the momentarily unthinkable but ultimately liberating. It is a moment I think many can relate to. I certainly can. Franco plays it perfectly. The real Ralston was similiarly impressed. 127 HOURS concludes with a slide show of his further adventures. He left word with his loved ones every time thereafter.

P.S.: The arm severing scene, it must be stated, is quite graphic and lengthy. If you are at all squeamish, squinting and/or averting your eyes is advisable.

Terror in the Aisles

2011-10-27T05:00:00.000-07:00

Boy, this must've sounded good on paper. Or in pitch meetings. Imagine a non-stop barrage of all the best scare scenes from horror films/thrillers from the past 30 + years! No boring expositions or slow dialogue scenes! 1984's failed collage TERROR IN THE AISLES has this as its promising premise. Unfortunately, a seemingly promising idea is wrapped in a completely misguided one.

Almost immediately, this film is a bust. How could it miss? TERROR IN THE AISLES is narrated by 2 latter day stars of horror cinema: Nancy Allen (DRESSED TO KILL) and Donald Pleasance (HALLOWEEN). You might rightly wonder why the "Queen of scream" of the late 70s/early 80s Jamie Lee Curtis (HALLOWEEN, TERROR TRAIN, PROM NIGHT....)didn't participate. The narration is obvious and silly, and not only in voiceover; we also see Allen and Pleasance sitting in movie theaters amongst terrified patrons, reacting to the clips in TERROR's anthology. If the commentary had been insightful, it might've been interesting. Instead, we get lines like, "why would we subject ourselves to these movies when there's plenty of real horror in the world?" We also see the moviegoers clutching each other, covering their eyes, screaming. To remind us that the films showcased are scary.

It reminded me of a test I put to certain genre films, namely comedy and horror. If a film needs an audience to tell me that it is funny or scary, it is a failure. I don't need a group of strangers to dictate or validate my reactions.

But many would cite the joy of the filmgoing experience, the collective thrill of screaming and laughing along with those strangers. How a good laugh or scare is perhaps the great equalizer. I might've thought that once. I still do enjoy seeing movies in the theater, but for the excitement of the big screen and big sound and the unquantifiable magic that occurs. The other people in the theater have often been the downside to the experience: the obnoxious comments, the cell phone chatter, the fidgeters, the noisy eaters, on and on.

But, rethinking, many of the films featured in TERROR IN THE AISLES perhaps play best with audiences shouting out instructions to those being chased by serial killers in masks. During a clip from HALLOWEEN, when Curtis wearily discards a knife, one of the actors in the fake movie theater yells, "don't drop that, you asshole!"

That is accurate. During my many nights of spending my allowance or fast-food job earned cash on all those 80s slashers, the audience was almost as much spectacle as the films themselves. In writing this review, I recalled all those Friday and Saturday nights at the Cross County 8 and Village Green theaters, listening as people broke wind, threw things, and argued and threatened each other if they didn't shut up. Those crowds were rowdy. I guess Freddy Krueger or Jason inspires such behavior. TERROR IN THE AISLES' audience does not exhibit this sort of action (aside from Ms. Curtis' heckler); it should've, it would've been more precise and entertaining.

But what about the clips themselves? We are shown key moments from:

JAWS
WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO BABY JANE?
CARRIE
THE SHINING
SCANNERS
THE FURY
THE THING (1982)
PSYCHO
THE TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE
WAIT UNTIL DARK
POLTERGEIST
THE EXORCIST
THE BIRDS
VIDEODROME....

.....and many others. There are also clips, to no great effect, from films not classified as horror, like STRANGERS ON A TRAIN, KLUTE, VICE SQUAD, and the 1981 Sylvester Stallone cop drama NIGHTHAWKS. Then there are comedic scenes from PHANTOM OF THE PARADISE, ABBOTT AND COSTELLO MEET FRANKENSTEIN, and the intriguingly awful ALONE IN THE DARK, featuring a clearly slumming (and hammy) Martin Landau. Archival footage of Alfred Hitchcock describing his cinematic methods is even featured. TERROR IN THE AISLES attempts to link the assembled clips thematically, but it just doesn't really make any sense. Many of these scenes are undeniably effective (the stomach burst in ALIEN, the transformation in AMERICAN WEREWOLF IN LONDON) but thrown together in this hodgepodge, it is almost ineffectual. The movie, as a result, is poorly paced and even boring! Not the wild ride that was intended.

This idea could work. Just edit the scenes to a mix of your favorite disturbing music. Correctly match the intensity of the visual and the aural. Rob Zombie or Ministry for the carnage, Incubus or Morphine for the slow dread, fast, dissonant classical piece of your choice for the chase scenes...TERROR IN THE AISLES might've been a decent trash classic if it were constructed as a music video. In this age of decreasing attention spans, it would be apt.

I'm not advocating for a remake, mind you, because then we'd have to suffer through scenes of the HOSTEL and SAW films and the like. If you really want to have a horror film marathon this Halloween, you'd be better off just getting the original films in their entirety. Good advice: skip any film that has "DON'T" in the title.

Coogan's Bluff

2011-10-24T05:03:00.000-07:00

Since my recent move I've rejoined the mainstream of American culture and once again have cable TV. Most of my viewing time consists of 5-10 seconds on each channel as I flip around. You could call it a guy cliche to do such a thing, but it usually doesn't take me long to recognize crap. Despite multitudes of channels, often this sort of surfing reveals only a wasteland. And endless Law & Order re-runs.

However, to my surprise, the Encore movie channels are included in the extended basic cable package (also: IFC, Sundance, and Flix). All films uncut for content and commercial free. One of the great things about these channels is that they run films that are obscure and/or not available on DVD. 1968's COOGAN'S BLUFF is neither, though it is not necessarily one you think of when you survey the career of Clint Eastwood.

Walt Coogan is an Arizona sheriff who says little and gets his man by any means possible. Warrants, probable cause, Miranda rights, not necessary. In an effective opening scene, he apprehends an American Indian hiding in the desert who had killed his wife. En route to jail, Coogan stops at his girlfriend's house for an assignation, bounding his quarry to a column on the front porch while he, um, takes care of other business. Coogan's superiors happen by and find the prisoner singing the blues while tied up. They bust in the house and dress down Coogan (who is in the bathtub) for his blatant disregard for the law and unorthodox behavior. "That's a man out there, not an animal!" This scenario should sound familiar to Eastwood fans, particularly reminiscent of a certain character the iconic actor would go on to portray in the 70s and beyond.

The superiors also inform Coogan that he is to fly to New York City to bring back James Ringerman (Don Stroud), a hippie who killed someone in Arizona and fled. Here begins a classic "fish out of water" story you have seen perhaps many times. No nonsense, "get it done" small town cop outsmarts more sophisticated big city men in blue on their own turf. There will be culture shock for all concerned.

What makes COOGAN'S BLUFF worth a few hours' viewing? Eastwood gets to try out his classic lawman persona, immortalized in the DIRTY HARRY and other later films. His Coogan immediately clashes with NYC cops, especially Lieutenant McElroy (Lee J. Cobb), who wearily explains that Ringerman is currently residing in a mental hospital and getting him released requires a lot of red tape that could take weeks. Cue the patented Eastwood eye squint.

Soon, Coogan uses his own methods to spring the perp, only to be ambushed by Ringerman's girlfriend, Linny Raven (Tisha Sterling) and an accomplice (David Doyle, later of Charlie's Angels ) at the airport. They steal his firearm. After recovering in the hospital, Coogan tracks Linny down at an ultra psychedelic nightclub called the Pigeon Toed Orange Peel (where filmstrips of naked women and tranatulas play on the walls and live naked women sit on a trapeeze), spends the night with her (Eastwood's characters are almost James Bondian in their libido), then again is ambushed after she brings him to a pool hall where several cohorts are waiting. We are then treated to a Clint vs. at least seven creeps wielding cue sticks. There's also a fine motorcycle chase finale.

For a 1968 film, COOGAN'S BLUFF is pretty violent. Director Don Siegel, who worked with Eastwood several times, directs with force and economy. He's almost like Hemingway in his conciseness. It's easy to see how Siegel influenced his star when the latter directed his own films years later.

Along the way, Clint also woos a probabtion officer named Julie (Susan Clark, looking very lovely) who happens to have Linny as one of her parolees. Various things happen through the course of the movie to prevent a consummation of their sexual tension.

COOGAN'S BLUFF benefits from generous amounts of humor, some dated, some very un-PC. There's a running gag as everyone thinks the cowboy hatted Coogan is from Texas instead of AZ. There are roughouse gags (the encounter with "Wonderful Digby" at the club), the socially observational digs (the little old lady at the stationhouse who reports that everyone is trying to rape her), and the regional jokes (a cabbie charges Coogan fifty cents extra for his luggage [he's merely carrying a briefcase], then a hotel clerk charges him extra because he does not have any luggage.)The timing of some of the funnier bits is more deft than many of the so-called comedies of the same period. Clint also gets to utter at least one great line, "You better drop that blade, or you won't believe what happens next, even while it's happening."

Don't think about the plot too hard. Don't arrive at the end of COOGAN'S BLUFF and survey what just happened, how everything could've been avoided if...just enjoy. If you're an Eastwood completist, this a must.

PBA, Book VI

2011-10-20T05:30:00.000-07:00

When I got that 1986 midnight blue Chevy Cavalier in late January 1990, it was some sort of deliverance. I was no longer restricted by who I could receive rides from; it was liberating. My life, in a sense, had begun. I dated like crazy, ran every errand I could, and was chauffeur to my carless PBA friends.

Around that time I also met a unique girl who hailed from Jackson, Mississippi. Yes, she had the accent you're hearing in your head right now. She had fire engine red hair and often wore Laura Ashley dresses. She attended Palm Beach Atlantic and also worked at Eckerd with me. We became fast friends, strictly platonic. A back massage is about as erotic as anything got. She seemed typically conservative in the PBA (and Southern) vein.

As we hung out, I learned otherwise. "Laura" (not her real name, but it'll do) had a bit of a wild streak, eager to stir things up when given the opportunity. How clearly I remember that night on Palm Beach Lakes and Village Blvds., at a stop light next to a car with two young black guys. Laura was in the passenger seat, directing her derogatory remarks and accents at them. I was livid and scared, fearing some serious damage. Sure enough, the guys followed us onto Village and it seemed as if I would have to put the pedal to the metal. But within seconds, they flew into the left lane and sped past, shouting something at us I've blocked out. I gave Laura a few words, but soon we were laughing.

By night Laura was a goth, complete with black fingernails and black robed garments. She loved going to Respectables, a downtown WPB club that played music by The Cure, New Order, Faith No More, Front 242, Nitzer Ebb, along with doses of old school ska and punk, and lesser known acts like Alien Sex Fiend and The Swimming Pool Qs, both of whom did shows there. Even before I met Laura, I went to this club semi-regularly, but was usually clad in blue jeans and untucked short or long sleeved polo. I actually slam danced or something there a few times, though mostly hung at tables with my friends and just listened to one cool song after another. A few years later, I was outside in the back bar area, eating something from the late night menu. "Marijuana is the only food you'll ever need," a helpful chap offered.

With Laura I got to meet and hang with many other goths, and it was fascinating. Back at Laura's place at some ungodly hour, many a head spinning night was had - not necessarily because of drugs or an excess of alcohol, but definitely becuase of the conversations (whatever their catalyst). These people came from much different backgrounds than me; their points of view so foreign. They looked at me with curiosity and I imagine in some cases, pity. One of them wore a T-shirt that read: CHRISTIANITY IS STUPID. Despite that, most of my exchanges with them were friendly.

That changed, however, when I met Laura's ex-boyfriend, a somehat psychotic and combustable fellow named "Rick". Rick also frequented Respect's and seemed to always be glaring at me. He thought Laura and I were an item. Laura confided many awful tales to me about her ex, including a time he picked up a hammer left by a construction crew and tried to bonk her in the skull. Lies? Who knows? My observations and overall vibe about this dude suggested otherwise. One night, I felt his hand slap me on the back. He sarcastically said "hi" as we were all swaying to Depeche Mode or something similiar.

The best story about Rick? He went nuts one day and damaged several pianos in the music department with a fire extinguisher. That was being talked about around campus. I'm pretty sure Rick got expelled.

Laura and I had a fun time, and she even played advisor/counselor when the girl I spoke of in the previous entry called me out of the blue to see if I would take her to her senior prom, on a cruise out to sea and back. This was a few months after we had broken up. Laura told me not to accept, but of course I did, and had a miserable night. It all concluded with my date and I being kicked off the ship's dance floor by her teacher/pastor, beacuse we began fighting, loudly. Once we reached the deck, it was cold and raining, but the shouting crescendoed nonetheless. I don't remember it all, but she most certainly did storm off and tell me to go to hell. Laura had warned me.

But Laura and I would have our own falling out after she and her roommate toilet papered my car in my driveway. Normally, I would LOVE that sort of thing. I had a couple of choir mates build a nest on my hood once. I don't know, though, for some reason that night I was not amused, and quite furious that this was happening. After my scene, I went back in the house and they tore off. We did not speak after that. So silly. I don't know what got into me.

A few weeks later, in a postscript straight out of a David Lynch movie, I saw her chatting with some guys near one of the dorms on campus. I drove by, stuck my head out the window and did a bizarre loud cackle at them, eliciting confused stares. It was another strange moment for me, as I never did things like that. Laura must've had some odd influence.

Many years later, Laura is one of my 380+ Facebook friends. She even sent me a case of Peach Nehi! The reason behind that is for another time, invisible audience.

Caddyshack

2011-10-17T05:01:00.000-07:00

There are few movies more heavily quoted among middle aged American males than 1980's CADDYSHACK. Perhaps a distant second might be 1985's FLETCH, which also features actor/comedian Chevy Chase. Both films' dialogue and wisecracks are very often incorporated to everyday speak for said demographic. Someone not enarmored with such communication might take pity on these guys, believing that it is a form of denial of "real life" of responsibility, of the seriousness of a brutal world. By composing entire conversations of things like "I feel like a hundred dollars," or "Gunga Galunga", perhaps fans of these movies have allowed escapism to at least partially define them. You are what you watch?

I preach about that all the time. I'm always fascinated at how otherwise intelligent people spend their time with the most brainless TV shows, movies, and music. Hours of unchallenging drivel that just numbs the brain. When I take them to task on this, they argue that their jobs and lives have sufficient challenge, and they just want some mental bubblegum. I understand and agree. But, if that is all you consume, I don't believe that new neural pathways will be forged. The brain needs stimulation, new data to foster dendritic branching and learning. If you feed it with complex music and art that requires some effort, I believe you will have better capacities for reasoning and conceptualization and you may well stave off that dreaded placquing that can cause degenerative brain diseases.

I am not a neuro scientist, but I know enough to see the results in my own life. If I go on autopilot and only listen to the 80s "comfort food" with which I grew up, well....I crave classical and jazz and other genres and works which allow for more active listening. I suppose an argument could be made that the familiar things can be healthy for you, for blood pressure and anxiety and the like. But there has to be more.

Hold on. This is a review for CADDYSHACK, fer cryin' out loud! Not a lot of mental taxing occurs while watching it. Should I bother recounting the plot? OK, in a nutshell: Danny is working class kid who caddies at a snooty country club with members like Judge Smails (Ted Knight, red faced almost the entire time) and Ty Webb (Chevy Chase, coolly detached as usual). Ty likes the kid and shares his Zen-like outlook on life as he blatantly shows off on the links (blindfolded at one point). Smails also takes a shine to Danny and offers him the coveted Caddy Scholarship. Meanwhile, an assistant greenskeeper, Carl (Bill Murray) spends the movie trying to flush out a pesky gopher that is digging tunnels under the course. The obnoxious Al Czervik (Rodney Dangerfield) shows up and fires off one liners that viewers familiar with Dangerfield's stand-up act will recognize.

But the plot is just a skeleton on which to hang a series of scenes in which the 4 name actor/comedians get to do their patented shticks. CADDYSHACK is most interesting, to me, as a document of the men's wildly different comedic styles. Chase is all diffidence and nuance, goofily suave and blissfully bored. Knight is pure bombast, spending the movie being outraged at one thing or another. He has that certain timbre in voice when he's angry and impatient. We saw a bit of it on The Mary Tyler Moore Show but here it boils over, especially in his scenes with Dangerfield, who plays a perhaps neuveau riche loudmouth who flings wads of cash and is a complete antithesis to the sort of member the Bushwood Country Club desires. His style is crude and unsubtle, and often hysterically funny.

That leaves Murray, whose Carl has become iconic in its incoherency. He stalks the grounds with water hoses and explosives, on a mission to exterminate the gopher, a character all its own (played by a cute furry puppet). All the while he mumbles things that sound ad-libbed ("I'll fill your bagpipes with Wheatena") and acts like a proto-stoner-hippie-guru-of-some-sort. He's mostly off on his own, though he does have one scene with Chase, sharing a joint. Perhaps the broadest comedic moment involves his retrieval of a Baby Ruth during a swimming pool disinfection. Knight and his wife (thinking the candy bar is, er, something else) recoil in horror as Carl bites down on it, "It's not so bad!".

This may all sound pretty undisciplined. Harold Ramis co-wrote and directed CADDYSHACK in the most casual way possible, and in the film's defense I say it was the correct choice. Script? The plot isn't taken seriously for a second. The supporting cast seem almost as blase as the star players. It's a very loose, harmless movie (although my mother freaked when some female toplessness was visible in a few scenes when I watched it with her when I was 12, oops!) that provides some chuckles and a few golden moments. All of the comics are in a good form, though it would've been better if they all interacted a bit more and the silly storyline were dropped entirely.

It's easy to see why so many people my age quote CADDYSHACK so often, but I wish they would also maybe utter a few lines from SWEET SMELL OF SUCCESS or LION IN WINTER for balance. Be good for their grey matter.

NOTE: CADDYSHACK was filmed in part at the Rolling Hills Country Club in Davie, FL in 1979. Over 20 years later, I went to Nova Southeastern University, right across the street from it. One of my clasmmates lived in a condo which had a good view of it. Funny. I looked for Carl a few times.

Elsewhere

2011-10-13T05:00:00.000-07:00

As you learned from the last entry, I had a glorious trip to the NY/NJ area recently. I took time to enjoy a night at my friend Allen Stafford's restuarant, Elsewhere, located in the Hell's Kitchen District in Manhattan. Allen has quite a bit of experience in the NYC restaurant world, having been the "man about town" in the Grammercy Tavern, Casalulla, and other wonderful spots. Allen helped design the interior and menu of Elsewhere, situated on 43rd street in what used to be a French eatery. Much of the architecture is the same from the previous tenant, including some words in Francais painted on the walls. Allen reports brisk business these days. Additionally , Elsewhere has a special snack menu in the afternoons, which has proven popular with theater goers, pre- and post-matinee.

I went on a Friday with family and friends and was led to the back room, complete with a real tree growing out of the floor among the tables. We were treated to some bacon and lavender flavored popcorn, featured on the sharing menu. A complimentary "Leigh's Biscuit" layered with brown butter and sprinkled with sea salt and crushed black pepper arrived and it was tempting to scarf several more.

My chorizo encrusted lamb chop was sizable and scrumptious (love these restuarant review adjectives!). My wife had the "Bo Bo Chicken", the name of which refers to a respected brand name of poultry from China. The dish came with a cider glaze and served with braised kale over a bed of freekeh. Others in my party had braised rabbit, striped bass over polenta, and diver scallops. I sampled everyone's plates. Not a disappointment to be found. Well, maybe that no one ordered the "Pig's Ass" sandwich.

After the entrees came a cheese plate of cow and goat variety (don't recall the exact names) along with hams and mustards. Elsewhere, like Casalulla, has an impressive selection of regional cheeses from around the U.S.A. and is featuring specialty cheese nights throughout October (New Yorkers, you should go). Dessert was also quite nice: peach marble cake with mascarpone ice cream; the portion was just right. Others had the decadent sweet corn hush puppies with blackberry honey and scoops of cactus pear sorbet. No one tried the "dutch baby" (pancake); it sounded fabulous.

When in The City, take time to go Elsewhere!

ELSEWHERE
403 W. 43rd St.
New York, NY 10036
212-315-2121
info@elsewherenyc.com

The Wiseacre Duos: Steely Dan, Part X, or Postscript

2011-10-10T05:15:00.000-07:00

I concluded the Steely Dan portion of the WD series a few years back, yes. But on September 17th I had the privilege of attending my first live Dan show. How exciting it was to see Donald Fagen and Walter Becker with their ace backing band in New York City! At the Beacon Theatre, no less. We had great seats, only seven rows back on the right side. That blur above was my attempt at a shot with the flash turned off. It does not accurately reflect my point of view that night, as my sole libation was a Stella Artois. Well, there was a Kirin at the restaurant before. Annnd, a Guinness on the PATH train over from Jersey.....

My show was part of a weeklong stint that included specialized sets featuring entire albums, all requests, and my night, a "rarities"("the unreleased, the mythic, the reborn, the rarely-if-ever-heard; on this numinous Night of Nights, all will be revealed") program. The Beacon is significant as it has long been a favorite of Fagen and Becker's, especially Fagen, who also performed the Rock and Soul Revue concerts there in the early 1990s.

The Beacon was constructed in 1929, with a rich history of musical acts to follow. The auditorium fell into serious disrepair over the years, in the 2000s becoming serious with crumbling ceilings and broken chairs. A remodel in the last year has renewed its viable place in the NYC venue scene.

Despite my being a huge Dan fan, I had never attended a concert. As you may know, the guys have toured yearly since the 90s, and there were many opportunities, though school and plain old bad timing always prohibited my attendance. Often, they played a date while I was away or just returning from a trip. Plus, the live recordings I had heard and watched online were less than enticing. Their Alive in America live album was similiarly uninspiring.

But the wait was well worth it. After a nice warm up by keyboardist Sam Yehel and saxophonist Joe Lavano, the Steely Dan ensemble ("Miles High Big Band") came out: Michael Leonhart, Jim Pugh, Roger Rosenberg, and Walt Weiskopf on horns, Joe Herington on guitar, Freddie Washington on bass, Jim Beard on piano and keyboard, and a very youthful looking Keith Carlock on drums. Then Fagen and Becker appeared with their 3 backup singers, Carolyn Leonhart, Cindy Mizell, and Catherine Reussell. "Your Gold Teeth" opened the set, confirming at least part of a bet I had with my 2 companions at a Chinese restaurant prior to showtime. There was something hypnotic and sexy about the rhythm of that song, the combination of it and the gyrating bods of the gorgeous background singers, lately called The Embassy Brats. I knew it would be a good night.

I was consistently amused as I watched Fagen, appearing behind his keyboard as if a puppet, with his arching shoulders and mouth wide open nearly 100% of the time. His voice has really changed since the 70s and even 00s; a much higher, whiny register. He changed up the familiar phrasing of just about every song, which you expect in concert. I was fine with it save some odd echo effect used on the chorus of "Hey 19". Fagen occasionally walked out to play his melodica (strap-on keyboard), revealing a hilariously misbuttoned grey shirt. He appeared as if to have rolled out of bed. I thought the guy wore sharp dark suits for his shows?!

And Becker? Man, has this guy's appearance gone to seed. His gut was awe inspiring, stretching his dark T-shirt to some kind of limits. He stood in one spot and basically noodled through the songs, adding a good bluesy solo once in a while. He stepped up to the mic to do a rambling monologue during "Hey 19", filled with the sort of cheesy and occasionally ribald ranting that you might expect of him.

The set wasn't ALL rarities. The old chestnuts like Aja's "Peg", the title track (with Carlock's exhausting stickwork, proving he is more than worthy to the throne of Steve Gadd), and "Josie" were among the songs, as were Countdown to Ectasy's "My Old School" and Can't Buy a Thrill's "Reelin' in the Years", which despite my years of overexposure to it, sounded pretty good. I had heard they replaced Eliot Randall's famous guitar solo with a horn chart for earlier live versions; I'm happy to report that was not the case this night.

So the questions were many as to what "rarities" would be played. Deep album cuts? One of the many tracks recorded but discarded for the old albums? Demos? Alternate versions of album cuts? Fagen announced after the second or third number that all of the above were in store for us. I was quite pleased that the infamous "The Second Arrangement", a song intended for the Gaucho album and accidentally erased by an engineer, was performed. As Fagen said, it would probably be the only time ever. I looked around and was also pleased to see a few peeps were mouthing the words along with Fagen and the trio of lovelies.

"I Got the Bear" is a Gaucho Outtake that was also performed, a really groovy tune that continues to baffle for its exclusion on that album. Most of the audience were unfamiliar but seemed to really dig it. Of the album cuts rarely performed were "Pearl of the Quarter" from Countdown to Ecstacy and "Dr. Wu" from Katy Lied. The original version of Two Against Nature's "Jack of Speed" was sung by Becker, quite incoherently. The keyboard arrangement was very different with a much faster tempo. At times, it was a bit reminiscent of Bernie Worrell's keyboards during Talking Heads' STOP MAKING SENSE shows! The version on the 2vN album is far better. It was interesting, but as one of my companions also stated, "a mess".

There were two real surprises that night. First was "American Lovers", a song penned by Fagen and Becker for another artist when they were staff writers at ABC Records (before they formed SD) It seemed not a soul in the Beacon was familiar with it. It had a real late 60s sound, and despite some strong vocals from the ladies, Fagen really nailed it when he said, "it was a hippie song written about 5 years too late."

The second came during the encore. "This All Too Mobile Home"(!), the song they used to close their concerts back in the earlier 1970s. I was floored. I could feel the disappointment and disbelief of the audience, clearly expecting "FM" or something. I was thrilled, however, and their version was just as rousing as the mp3s I've heard online of the old concerts. Nice "A Summer Place" type final part, too. In true Steely Dan fashion, Fagen stated, "this is the track WE wanna finish with". God bless those guys. And maybe hire a wardrobe wrangler for 'em, willya?

True Visionary

2011-10-06T05:18:00.000-07:00

"Steve Jobs was an extraordinary visionary, our very dear friend and the guiding light of the Pixar family. He saw the potential of what Pixar could be before the rest of us, and beyond what anyone ever imagined. Steve took a chance on us and believed in our crazy dream of making computer animated films; the one thing he always said was to simply 'make it great.' He is why Pixar turned out the way we did and his strength, integrity and love of life has made us all better people. He will forever be a part of Pixar’s DNA. Our hearts go out to his wife Laurene and their children during this incredibly difficult time."

- John Lasseter, Chief Creative Officer & Ed Catmull, President, Walt Disney and Pixar Animation Studios

Eyes Wide Shut

2011-10-04T04:00:00.000-07:00

NOTE: This review is not an interpretation of the film's themes or an attempt to "roll back the meaning", but rather a face value take on a film that despite its many faults, assumes a place in film history for obvious reasons.

1999 was a fine year for the cinema. Several interesting, even groundbreaking bits of mainstream (BEING JOHN MALKOVICH, THE MATRIX, FIGHT CLUB...) graced theater screens. There was also a truckload of white hot anticipation for 2 particular pictures: STAR WARS EPISODE ONE and the latest film directed by Stanley Kubrick, EYES WIDE SHUT. I had learned years before how films with impossible expectations can lead to a hollow filmgoing experience. Crushing disappointment. I often refer to Tim Burton's BATMAN from 1989. I attended a midnight advance screening and by 2 A.M. I was merely underwhelmed and longing for my pillow.

EPISODE ONE came with 16 years of anticipation preceding it. I also attended a late night sneak peek and again was unimpressed. I just never learned, did I? All of the elements seemed to be in place, though. George Lucas was again in the director's chair! It missed, big time. Later that summer, I was in line in Los Angeles to see EYES WIDE SHUT, Mr. Kubrick's first film in 12 years. Sadly, it would also be his final film. To say I was excited about seeing it is pure understatement. My excitement evaporated quickly.

I think I knew something was wrong during the opening Christmas party scene. It did not seem as if I was watching a film directed by Stanley Kubrick. I could not quite say why. Was it what felt like hesitency? A filmmaker unsure of himself? Was the rhythm of the scene by design? Was I misreading, perhaps just so excited to be seeing a film on opening night in L.A. (Universal Ampitheater, no less)? If anything, that should've allowed me to be more forgiving of the film than I was (and am). I remember marveling at how quiet, heck, how downright reverent the audience was that evening. There wasn't a crinkling candy wrapper, popcorn crunch, or cell phone to be heard. It was so quiet I was afraid to even sneeze.

Several reels went by and again I wondered if filmgoers had been hoodwinked. An awkward chase scene on the streets of New York City (actually a fairly meticulous recreation on a London soundstage) felt far too amateurish to be of Kubrickian hands. Awkwardly blocked, oddly paced. This was a film that had specific instructions by Kubrick for the projectionist to turn around and avoid looking at the screen during the first preview showings? Earlier Kubricks may have earned such preemptive hubris; not this one.

And the lead, Tom Cruise, was playing a psychiatrist named Bill Harford, but was acting like his usual familiar persona, with all of the standard brow furrowing and hand gesticulation I'd seen in his other films. What was the difference between his performance here and in THE FIRM? It didn't make sense.

As a segue, THE FIRM's director Sydney Pollack (who occasionally acted) turns up in EYES WIDE SHUT as Victor Ziegler, a pivotal character. His performance also reeked of his usual shtick. Now, I'm well aware Kubrick sometimes looked upon actors as mere tools or props for his pallettes. Possibly with no more regard for them than for a roll of gaffer's tape but possibly less than for those special lenses created by NASA for BARRY LYNDON. Would anyone cite Keir Dullea, Ryan O'Neal, or Shelley Duvall for their stellar performances? Some actors in Kubrick's films did do amazing, thespian defining work (Peter Sellers, Malcolm McDowell, Vincent D'Onofrio), but excellent as they were, they were just raw materials for the hands of a master. In EYES WIDE SHUT, bland performances are merely another homogenous element of a bland film.

Nicole Kidman (then real-life Mrs. Cruise) plays his onscreen wife, Alice. Under the influence of marijuana, she confides to her husband that she has entertained adulterous thoughts and had dreams much the same. This is too much for Dr. Harford and so he goes into the Manhattan night to perhaps heal himself. He meets an assortment of lost girls who proposition and/or warn him of certain danger. Some turn up dead. Harford also meets up with his med school drop-out/pianist friend, Nick (Todd Field), who tips him off as to a curious party/orgy at a huge mansion where everyone is in costume. This scene is the centerpiece of EYES WIDE SHUT, and perhaps the most controversial. U.S. censors insisted that silhouetted figures be placed stratecgically in front of som of the steamier goings-on at this party.

Which, by the way, is, to this viewer, just one reason this sequence is spectacularly silly. It is so self-consciously ominous that I found myself wanting to giggle amongst the reverent filmgoers around me. The nadir comes with a quick B-movie zoom on a masked figure on one of the upper levels of the mansion. I could not contain my laughter, decorum be damned. This is a Kubrick movie? Fidelio? Bah.

Even worse is a terminally long scene late in the film, a pool game between Ziegler and Harford where everything is explained. An ordeal it is to sit and listen to these characters speak as if they take the plot's intracies so seriously. The dialogue is straight out of mid 20th century potboiler. Even Kubrick's KILLER'S KISS isn't as melodramatic. I could not take this film's urgency with any seriousness or involvement. The final scene's abruptness is also entirely unearned and ineffectual. If the director was trying to continue his dehumanization theme with EYES WIDE SHUT, it was only achieved incidentally. Some criticized Jack Nicholson's portrayal in THE SHINING for not being dynamic (i.e., the "before" Jack Torrence was little different than the "after"). The characters in EYES WIDE SHUT are truly just shadows to begin with, devoid of any humanity from which to fall.

But...who was Private Joker in FULL METAL JACKET? What of David Bowman and Frank Poole in 2001: A SPACE ODYSSEY? We don't always get privileged views inside the characters of a Kubrick film. We do not always get complex examinations of specimens like Alex in A CLOCKWORK ORANGE or Lolita in LOLITA. In EYES WIDE SHUT, however, not only do we not get a sober read on the characters (who are vapid at best), but the canvas on which they play out is that of a maestro working far below his capabilities. Yearlong principal photography or not, the legendary perfectionism did not pay off in its usual dividends.

We often speak of the painstaking mise-en-scene of a Kubrick picture. Astonishly stylish yet coldly clinical. What of, for example, the harsh uses of lighting? The famous eyes up from a downturned face shot? One could marvel merely at the technique, yet, each of his films reveal layers of thoughtful essays that lay bare man's avarice, of which one might discern a contribution to the protagonist's downfalls (CLOCKWORK, BARRY LYNDON). "Meaning" that takes a few viewings to truly flower, perhaps. EYES WIDE SHUT has yet to reveal itself in such a way to me. It just seems muddled and half-baked, a mere collection of ideas rather than a film. Most Kubrick films had mixed reviews upon their original releases, later to be deservedly lionized. The jury is most certainly still out on EYES WIDE SHUT. I've watched it a few times since 1999. Ask me in another ten years.

Part XII, The Great Overrated

Jump?!

2011-10-01T17:00:00.000-07:00

In the genre of Hilariously Reimagined Cover Songs:

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

2011-09-27T05:00:00.000-07:00

"Gonzo" journalist Hunter S. Thompson has been the source of so many writings attesting to his nearly mythological standing in American culture that I've often wondered what he was really like. When you're an icon of such stature, where does the true self end and the myth begin, or vice versa? There is always the danger of believing your own press. Thompson probably bought into and dismissed it simultaneously. Who else would have the chutzpah to appear in a photograph holding a gun to a typewriter?

"Gonzo" journalism is described as a style of reporting where the reporter is so involved in what he/she is covering that they become part of the action. I picture director Terry Gilliam as a "gonzo" type himself, maybe not literally doing the stuntwork he asks of his professionals but nonetheless being extremely hands on. What a perfect auteur to realize Thompson's legendary 1971 Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas! Or so I thought.

As with other entries in "The Great Overrated" series, I acknowledge that Gilliam's 1998 adaptation may well be a worthwhile film (recently given the white glove treatment by Criterion on DVD and Blu-Ray), but perhaps I'm too busy holding my nose to appreciate it. I've tried with this one. Really tried. FEAR AND LOATHING IN LAS VEGAS is what I rather informally and broadly call "punk rock cinema", a near complete abandon of the usual rules of the medium. Films that create their own cinematic language. Sometimes, it works: LIQUID SKY, MEMENTO, WERCKMEISTER HARMONIES, Pi, Kubrick films, many Lynch films, early Wim Wenders. Other times, it does not: 200 MOTELS, TIMECODE, this movie.

I can see the attempt, even not having read Thompson's book in full. Gilliam was trying to capture that perpetual jaggedness of substance abuse. How events would play under the influence of mescaline, acid, diethyl ether, and probably every other controlled susbtance ever derived. Having never experienced such fear and loathing myself, perhaps I'm not qualified to properly review Gilliam's film. Just how interesting could it be to watch someone else's drug trip? Ever been the designated driver amongst a bunch of drunks?

Some folks use the term "write drunk, edit sober". For this film it seems to be: "Write drunk, edit stoned". Yes, it suits the material. As Thompson, er, Duke (Johnny Depp) and his attorney, Dr. Gonzo (Benicio del Toro) stumble through and destroy hotel suites throughout Sin City in the early 70s, the viewer is treated to camerawork that will most certainly be a workout for the vestibular system. Duke is in town to cover the Mint 400 motorcycle race, and does, but his drug fueled paranoia does not allow clear analysis. Imagining that there are swarms of non-existent bats and hotel staff morphing into lizards does not promote concise writing. But we're talking about Hunter Thompson.

Duke and Gonzo leave and return to town, do drugs, meet a lost girl (Christina Ricci), do more drugs, sit in bathtubs fully clothed, begging for the other to drop a radio in so it can be heard better, and so on. Describing the film's events is pointless and tedious, for me to type, and, I imagine, for you to read. For me, also to watch. To say a little of FEAR AND LOATHING goes a long way is patently obvious. As with many of the films in this "Overrated" series, a point is made and then painfully belabored for far longer than necessary. Filmmaker: you can smash cut and fill the frame with vomit for a little while, but some sort of transition keeps your masterpiece from being a didactic bore. I do have to hand out kudos for the amazing art direction on this movie, however. That must be noted.

Man, did I want to like this movie. It has a very loyal fandom who will defend it to the end and call its detractors uncool and ignorant. I had a near lynch mob upon me after I derided the film one night after it was first released on DVD. Hey, I do the same for other "difficult" movies (ERASERHEAD, BEING JOHN MALKOVICH, BREWSTER MCLOUD, etc.). People rave about this film the way they do about another troubling "classic", the Coen Brothers' THE BIG LEBOWSKI, though that is a film I can appreciate and enjoy, despite its faults. FEAR AND LOATHING, after several viewings (as I said, I've tried my darndest) remains a cinematic migraine, a real test for my nausea receptors. If you're old enough to remember all those hysterical movie ads from the 1970s, the ones that warn that the movie may make you faint or get ill due to its intensity (and actually, THE EXORCIST really did do those things to many viewers during its original run), you might wonder why FEAR AND LOATHING IN LAS VEGAS did not have similiar disclaimers. They would be appropriate.

But, to be fair, Depp is game as Thompson, his take on the maverick is more successful than Bill Murray's attempt in the subpar 1980 WHERE THE BUFFALO ROAM (in fact, Thompson hated Murray's performance so much, he threatened to "rip his throat out" if the two ever crossed paths). I'm not sure what sort of research Depp did to prepare, but he manages to navigate a very treacherous course as best as can be expected, allowing for the only moment in the film I really liked, a quiet voiceover where the journalist assesses the wreckage of it all. Just undiluted honesty, nothing sentimental. It is a moment of clarity and sanity not to be found in the rest of FEAR AND LOATHING IN LAS VEGAS.

Part XI, The Great Overrated

Iowa?

2011-09-23T05:00:00.000-07:00

The voice of early 80s David Byrne filled my head as I stood in the Heartland Inn in Coralville, IA a few weeks ago. You may find yourself.....How did I get here, indeed? What was I doing in Iowa?

I was attending a conference on tinnitus, defined as those often annoying sound perceptions 1 out of every 100 persons in the United States experiences. Richard Tyler, Ph.D., a renowned expert on tinnitus management (don't ever use the word "cure", please) was hosting an annual conference at the University of Iowa in Iowa City. Audiologists, ENTs, neurosurgeons, hearing aid reps, and others presented a very impressing program of research and potential solutions to this often debilitating condition, coined by someone as "the malady of the 21st century".

The clinic trial/research studies were mind blowing. Many addressed the problem of defining what tinnitus is: a by-product of hearing loss, a psychological manifest, both? Several presentations discussed use of functional imaging studies to examine what happens in the cortices in tinnitus patients. One study used rodents as subjects, curiously stating that these rats had tinnitus. You may ask yourself, how did they know this? There is no objective tool to measure tinnitus, in humans or otherwise. Obviously, a reliable case history cannot be obtained from a rat. The clinicians subjected the poor animals to several minutes of very loud stimuli, to provoke tinnitus. If you've been to a loud concert, you've been a test subject yourself.

One presenter stated that a conditioned response with food (akin to Pavlovian) was another measure to determine which rats had tinnitus and which didn't (control group). There are more details about this that I will spare you. The crux of the study involved the permanent ablation of a certain part of the rat's brain. Following the surgery, a statistically sigificant amount of rat subjects with alleged tinnitus "reported" by their carefully monitored responses that the sounds had ceased. Human subjects later? How can we do such an invasive trial?

Other studies documented the implementation of the anaesthetic Lidocaine into parts of the (human) brain to temporarily stop the tinnitus. Yet others used electrical stimulation with a similiar result, however, hearing loss and even deafness also occurred in some cases. I see that perhaps a future Your Audiology Tutorial entry will be necessary to explain these models in more comprehensive detail for the interested.

But there I was in Iowa, my first time. Though my excitement for travel has dimmed a bit over the years, I still light up like a kid in certain moments. The very different landscape of Iowa City was a catalyst. Not a palm tree to be found. A much different feel than South Florida, that Midwestern vibe I've written about here before. Just to be somewhere else still gets me mildly buzzed.

The U of Iowa was much larger than I would've expected. We had lunch on campus both days, the first of which was in the student cafeteria. It was similiar to a mall food court, with stations for nearly every cuisine you can name. The student body was mostly lily white and blonde, as I did expect. The group attending the conference, however, was very ethnically diverse.

The highlight of this trip was surely just outside of the very rural Downey, IA, about 10-15 miles outside of Iowa City, in an historic barn owned by Dr. Tyler. 150 years old, to be exact. Tyler gave us a mini-tour, explaining the network of ropes seen bordering the octagonal ceilings. It was/is part of an efficient hay bailing system. Above that is an impressive collection of wood planks forming rafters that reminded me of the attic at my father in law's chateau in France. Pitchforks and other ancient tools were hung on the walls. Silos for grain sat in various spots. I loved it. The barn was just this side of a cornfield (but of course), not the sweet corn for human consumption, but the kind thrown to cattle and pigs.

An actor came and performed a 15 minute monologue. He played a man suffering from hyperacusis, an abnormal sensitivity to loud or even moderately loud sounds. The charcter was based on the actor's girlfriend's friend, or someone, as they were diagnosed with superior canal dehiscence, which, to simplify, is an erosion of bone over the inner ear which allows another portal for sound to travel through. The monologue was intense and fascinating.

Afterward, we enjoyed a barbeque. Then an older gentleman clad entirely in white brought in a record player and a microphone. Yup, it was time to square dance! Something I had not done since junior high school in P.E. class on those few Florida days it was too chilly to "dress out". I was dreading this, but had a whale of a time, even sweating a bit. I also enjoyed watching doctors and audiologists from Brazil and Singapore try to make sense of this very American custom. But I stopped and thought more than once, I'm square dancing in a barn in Iowa! It was funny. I spoke with the caller afterward, listening as he explained that VCRs killed square dancing back in the 80s, as folks decided to stay home instead of coming out to do-se-do and allemande. He remarked that the Internet really did it all in.

The final night a few of us, including one attendee's niece, hung out in the charming downtown Iowa City area, perusing a great old bookstore called The Haunted Bookstore (complete with sleeping cats) that had me salivating at their selection of used volumes. We all mentioned that we could've spent the entire night there. One of my colleagues bought a few writings of Dorothy Parker and Somerset Maugham. Nice to see an audiologist with good taste! When she found out that I like to write creatively she suggested I collaborate with her on a project she's been considering: profiles of why audiologists chose the profession. It is a fascination of hers, and she quizzed nearly everyone at the symposium, including a woman from British Columbia who does house calls, often driving hundreds of miles.

We dined at a slightly upscale hipster place called Motley Cow. There was no bovine on the menu. My polenta was quite good. We ate ice cream at Whitey's afterward. Most of the downtown strollers were Cucasian, though there were a few Asian and Middle-Eastern folks. I expected to see more of them, but what do I know of Iowa.

So we're back at the Heartland Inn, a slightly rundown hotel ala Days Inn with not too smelly carpets and suspicious bedspreads (the staff there was excellent, though). I looked at my room and thought of all the previous ones I'd stayed in for other syposiums and hearing aid trainings. It was like I looked up, and ten years had flashed by. What a long journey since graduate school. There were times during that I didn't think I would make it, but here I was. Very hard to explain, but Talking Heads' "Once in a Lifetime", for the myriad of meaning and relevance to middle age it has, really resonated those few days in Iowa, though I wasn't thinking things like "this is not my beautiful hotel room"! I've stayed in swanky places. No, it was more of one of those moments where you truly have time to stop and assess. As the guy in the breakfast room explained to me why he pours the batter for the waffle irons (fire marshall mandate), and the physician articulated neural activity to a late afternoon audience, I thought, once in a lifetime, indeed.

Swimming with Sharks

2011-09-20T04:00:00.000-07:00

Buddy Ackerman is the sort of Type A supervisor who'll waste his underling's moments with endless dressdowns, then scream at them at the end of the rant for not having moved the Earth while they were being yelled at. As played to perfection by Kevin Spacey in 1995's Hollywood scather SWIMMING WITH SHARKS, this sort of pirahna is certainly recognizable to Tinseltown footmen, but certainly also to anyone who has had a boss, teacher, coach, or drill instructor with such a personality.

When I first saw this movie, I was in fact reminded of R. Lee Ermey's electrifying scenes as a drill instructor in FULL METAL JACKET. Spacey is almost as creative with his obscenities and maybe just a notch or two below in intensity. During a discussion of JACKET with a former Marine co-worker years ago, I watched as he nodded his head as to the authenticity of Ermey's performance, recalling his own experiences as a private. He stated that his sargeant was so bullying and detestable that the private would spend hours formulating elaborate plans, step by step, as to how he would murder the old cuss.

Guy (Frank Whaley) likely also entertains such daydreams. After assuming his position as Buddy's (a well connected film mogul) go-to guy/slave, he learns quickly that cordiality and respect are indeed rare qualities in the L.A. entertainment world. He was warned by Buddy's outgoing assistant in the early scenes of this movie("not only is hitting below the belt expected in this town, it's rewarded"), but Guy's fresh out of film school optimism is buoyant. In a series of bravura scenes, Guy's morale will be deflated bit by bit as Buddy repeatedly destroys the young man's self-esteem with insults and barbs. "You want a friend," Buddy sneers, "get a dog."

"Shut up! Listen! Learn! is Buddy's trademark opening to his tirades. Some are comically mysognistic: when Guy suggests Penny Marshall as a director for a project, Buddy retrorts: "Avoid women directors. They ovulate. Do you have any idea what that does to an three month shoot?." Others are protypical of power/denial: when Buddy names "big" directors, he mentions David Lean. Guy reminds him that Lean is dead. "No he's not, don't you ever say that. He's just unavailable!"

Eventually, Guy will reach his last strand of patience and turn the tables, quite literally. Buddy finds himself bound to a chair in his own house, subjected to some physical and psychological revenge. It is here where SWIMMING WITH SHARKS attempts to become more than just a masochistic exercise, where the characters show their true selves, even if they still mean to cloak. Spacey demonstrates from start to finish what a consummate pro he is, infusing his rants with simultaneously frightening and comedic power, then demonstrating the dynamic nature of Buddy, a man with many of his own tools at his disposal. Whaley does fine as the put upon Guy, fresh meat ripe for the horrible molding. A kid who will have to decide, in a somewhat shocking finale, which path he truly wants to take. One of the darkest endings I've ever seen in a film will play out. I felt nauseated as I watched the ugly certainty of the final scene, yet I believed it could happen.

Writer/director George Huang must've created this movie as therapy for himself. He had fought in the trenches as an underling for some notorious real life producers, plus observed the behavior of folks like Scott Rudin, long known for his Draconian demeanor. Haung's script has moments of what seem like privileged insight and others that promote a sense of deja vu. Tying up your boss is not exactly a novel plot twist, as memories of NINE TO FIVE and other wish fulfillemnt pics came to mind. While this device allows for said soul baring and character development, most often it felt like melodrama. But then again, how else could the film take a restless being like Buddy out of his big pond and allow for some analysis?

SWIMMING WITH SHARKS, overally, falls short of its apparent goals of being a nasty little classic, another in the Trenchant Hollywood Satire genre to join the likes of THE PLAYER, SULLIVAN'S TRAVELS, S.O.B., and others. The writing and filmmaking is competent but far from the sort of artistry that say, Sidney Lumet employed for his television damnation, NETWORK. SWIMMING WITH SHARKS has the brio of a young writer/director who isn't afraid to play his scenario to its terrible end, but the path there is rendered with mediocrity (actors of course notwithstanding).

And again, Spacey is so good in this movie that he is reason enough to see it. His embodiment of Buddy is so natural you wonder at times if he is drawing on personal experience himself, as giver or recipient. He's in the biz, he's probably met a few Buddy Ackermans. Haven't we all?

Forever Night Shade Mary

2011-09-16T04:15:00.000-07:00

Groovy little tune, perfect for a late evening with minimal lighting and the libation of your choice.

PBA, Book V

2011-09-13T05:15:00.000-07:00

The last entry concluded with a mention of a girl I met while working at Eckerd Drug. To recap: after a rather stormy 4 or so months, we called it quits a few weeks before Christmas, 1989. I thought that was the end of the story. It wasn't. I will skip some details (such as my accompanying her on her senior prom cruise) and mention that the following summer I found myself showing her around the PBA campus. She was about to start her freshmen year. I was a senior.

I'll skip more details and relay that we had a pre-semester week of hanging out (beach, movies, dinner) and my introducing her to a few peeps at PBA. Oh, maybe I should mention that I brought her into Respectables, a downtown club that played "alternative" music and was a bit of a haunt for me. We got thrown out because someone realized that she was under 21 and that I bought her a drink. "I'll be back in here next week!" she yelled as we were escorted out. I was embarrassed and pissed off.

She would, upon starting school a week or so later, quickly adapt to campus life, complete with new boyfriend. She barely acknowledged me now. What was I expecting? I was so young and stupid. When she called over the summer, did I believe that she wanted to get back together?! I think I've blocked any such conflicting thoughts from my memory. I was good at self-torture.

I would later meet a girl I began dating and a few months later I found myself in a very curious spot - sitting with my new gf across from the old one (with her new bf) in one of the ancient houses used for girls' dormitories. There were others there, in the living room; it was awkward and just downright weird. I'm continually intrigued by relationship dynamics, how someone so dear to you at one time can, in the space of very little time passage, become almost inconsequential. There were no incidences that night. The old gf would leave PBA by midway through her second semester. In a strange parallel, so would my new gf.

Why? Such a long story. I've debated how much of that saga to relay in this series (or at all on this blog). I would be engaged by Valentine's Day, and she would shortly thereafter quit school and move back to central Florida. Her rationale? She was to be married, why did she need to continue school? I was puzzled and a bit sad about this; she was a talented actress who had already appeared in a production on the PBA stage ("The Lower Room"). It was my desire that she continue her studies and acting. At that time, she did neither. I graduated a few months later and moved to the Orlando area to be near her. Another story. Maybe another time.

But that senior year at PBA, I would also take the stage, in "Rope". My friend Allen was taking a directing class and their final was to be a one-act play, either original or adapted, presented near the end of the semester over a series of 3-4 nights. He caught me on the steps to the library one afternoon and asked if I was interested in playing the lead: identified only as "he". I was taken aback, but quickly accepted. Have I told this story here before?

I remember the hours I spent memorizing the considerable amount of dialogue. The natural acting would come once I knew the words. Hopefully. This was a 2 character piece, an adaptation of Katherine Anne Porter's short story. Allen described the scenario as "funny", and I could agree if the humor was deemed the "recognition of life's horrors" kind of funny. Porter creates a put-upon man and his somewhat high maintenence wife, city sophisticates, who take a annual trip to the country. The story deconstructs their relationship, a subtle shaking of the marital rug that reveals a bit of dirt about them. It was an almost academic psychoanalysis, with artful dialogue. My friend did a splendid adaptation, really bringing these people to life. Hopefully, we actors did the same? Gigi, another senior, played "she", totally nailing the part, though Allen put her through a bit of hell as he had her practice a certain shrieking cackle about 1000 times. I had my own multi-take madness, having to repeat a line of dialogue with every imaginable inflection almost as many times. Our director was precise.

The performance itself was eventful. The show before ours, a bizarre skid-row drama called "Starstone" or something, which I remember featured people living in trashcans, involved a complete dousing of the stage with water. When we took the stage for "Rope", it had not sufficiently dried. One of Gigi's entrances took her across the stage a bit faster than intended. I also missed a chair with my foot as I was trying to step/lean on it. I hope I covered it well. Our stage manager got caught on stage as the lights came back up before the next scene. Most significantly, the last line of a lengthy monologue of mine was given a last minute change in my vocal interpretation. I raised my voice about 2 octaves to mimic Gigi's, not at all how we rehearsed it. It was a split second decision that was entirely selfish on my part; I did it because I knew it would get a laugh. It did. Allen and I have never referred to this. I hope he wasn't mad.

At the drama department's award ceremony a few weeks later, I, to my complete surprise, won the award for Outstanding Male Actor. I'm not sure if I really earned that, but it was a nice sentiment. I also was recognized in the Business Department as Outstanding Senior. Dr. Robert Inglis, one of my frequent professors, handed me this honor during a ceremony in the First Baptist Church sanctuary. These were nice caps to my senior year.

Next time (final entry?): we'll back up and talk about another girl with whom I worked at Eckerd and attended PBA. That story will involve absusive exes wielding hammers, a near car chase, and a fateful toilet papering. I know I can't wait.....

TO BE CONTINUED....

The Fountain

2011-09-09T05:07:00.000-07:00

There are several options to reviewing Darren Aronofsky's 2006 curio THE FOUNTAIN. The safest would be to discuss it merely in technical terms: the unique (and uniquely derived) special effects, the creative camerawork, the strong acting. Arguably, such an approach is the only quantifiable one, as subjective interpretations wade into treacherous terrain, teacherous because no two visitors can agree on the landscape, much less why anything is happening (if indeed, anything is happening at all).

THE FOUNTAIN tells one or three stories, depending on your take. Present day we meet Dr. Tommy Creo (Hugh Jackman) as he experiments with unorthodox surgeries on primates. His use of an untested tree bark intrigues his collegaues and concerns his supervisor (Ellen Burstyn, somewhat underused here). Meanwhile, Dr's wife Izzy (Rachel Weisz) is reconciling the end stages due to an inoperable tumor, and thus we learn why the doctor is so relentless in his methods. This central narrative is a bit surreal, a standard story of illness adorned with Izzy's mystical outlook and some unorthodox lighting choices for a hospital/OR. Aronofsky always infuses his films with restless creativity; in THE FOUNTAIN that restlessness matches the drama.

Izzy is writing a book called "The Fountain", a 16th century tale of an oppressed Spain during the Spanish Inquisition. Tommy becomes engrossed in its pages one night, reading of Tomas (Jackman), a conquistador commissioned by Queen Isabela (Weisz) to find the Tree of Life mentioned in the Book of Genesis. Finding the Tree is believed to spark the cessation of fighting for the Queen's throne. There are some spear wielding Mayans to dispatch before the magical tree sap can be tasted. Aronofsky opens THE FOUNTAIN with this scenario, disorienting us for awhile until we learn of the framing device.

There is also, in the year 2500, a bald spaceman named Tom (no relation to David Bowie's or Peter Schilling's "Major Tom", I assume), floating about in a bubble that contains the Tree and a garden. Tom is inching toward a faraway galaxy, or nebula, that will somehow free the soul of Izzi from the tree, I think. We also periodically see a ghost of Izzi that disturbs Tom (also Jackman). As a further link to the other scenes in THE FOUNTAIN, said nebula is known as Xibalba, a mystical cave from Mayan mythology.

The Creos' contemporary tale receives the most running time in THE FOUNTAIN, perhaps adding weight to the argument that this film has only one story, with the 16th century merely existing in Izzi's book and the spaceman perhaps Tommy's dream of life after Izzi. I found myself also wondering if Aronofsky was suggesting some sort of reincarnation with Jackman's three characters. Tomas eventually samples the Tree's lifeblood and...well, see for yourself. Tom, some 500 years later, has lived and lost and had years to reflect (he also has tattoos on his limb for reference, much like the rings in a tree trunk reveal age). The film's tagline does say "What if you could live forever"?

But what is Aronofsky truly saying? It all comes back to death. It is the end, but also the portal to life, if in a very different form. Christians believe death leads to either eternal life with or eternal separation from God; the actual embodiemnt of form after death subject to much debate. Death is what makes us human. Tommy Creo doesn't share his dying wife's acceptance; "death is a disease, it's like any other. And there's a cure. A cure, and I will find it."

THE FOUNTAIN's screenplay is a labyrinth of history, theology, psychology, metaphysics, science, and sociology. There are elements of Buddhism (particularly in the 2500 scenes) and Christianity vying for relevance among the themes of clinical science and legendry. I'm sure it all ties together more thoroughly than I was able to discern. The most successful and intriguing parts of this film deal with the most enduring of motivators: love. Not merely "love is not separated by death" but a co-existence. Tom has Izzi in his mind for centuries, but is she also physically, spiritually in the tree? Is that why her apparition appears? Is that the mind fighting the soul, or are they trying to occupy the same plane?

As you can see, THE FOUNTAIN is an invitation to post-film discussion. While it played, I admired its beautiful photographic palate, its special effects not born of CGI, but in a petri dish via macrophotography. The actors sink their teeth into their parts. Jackman is better here than in most anything else I've seen him; Weisz is luminous as a woman who learns to take comfort in her mortality. Her dynamic, in a very oblique way, reminded me of Peter Greenaway's A ZED AND TWO NOUGHTS, a film which had lead characters utterly fascinated with decay. THE FOUNTAIN isn't a fifth as grim, but similiar themes are touched upon.

Does love conquer all? The finale of THE FOUNTAIN suggests of a circle of life (and love) that is unrestricted by time, or death. Is it moving? Intellectually satisfying? Yes and yes, but not to the degree which I was hoping. While I was also reminded of 2001: A SPACE ODYSSEY at times, THE FOUNTAIN did not quite take me beyond the infinite. That does not mean it is not a trip worth taking at least once. Though revisiting this film may improve appreciation.

Calling Major Tom

2011-09-05T07:00:00.000-07:00

Makes complete sense....

David Bowie's "Space Oddity" Becomes a Children's Book :: Books :: News :: Paste

Cat 1? Cat 2?

2011-09-01T05:00:00.000-07:00

September. We are deep into Hurricane Season 2011. Ominously, I heard someone say that 9/11 is the apex for yearly hurricane activity. Last weekend, you may have heard, Hurricane Irene headed North and caused a lot of water damage. Parts of New England especially were saturated with more rain and subsequent flooding than they've seen in decades. Overall, the storm was less devastating than predicted, but tell that to the families of the 40 who perished or those who've lost their homes or or suffered structural damage. Or thought they were in the clear only to see rivers overflow a few days later. Will your insurance company jack the rates or drop you altogether, you in the Carolinas? Jersey?

Florida was in the "cone" for Irene a good part of the previous week, but we avoided yet another one. In fact, South Florida seemed to have an invisible hand (not of the Adam Smith variety), or at least a pressure system, that kept them away for many years. About 25 of them.

I was 10 in 1979. Hurricane David plowed through West Palm Beach leaving strewn palms and our TV antenna in the backyard. I remember sitting by the front door with my tape recorder, trying to get cool wind sounds. The tape was mostly my cheesy narration ala In Search Of or something...

After David, we lost power for a few days. I went to my grandma's house (who lived even closer to the water) to do my homework as her electricity was still on. Doing Roman numerals by candlelight would've sucked. David was a Category One (74-95 MPH).

In 1992 it appeared that Hurricane Andrew was targeting WPB. That was scary. I was living one block from the Intracoastal waterway and police cars came through with loudspeakers, telling us to evacuate. I helped my friends in Lake Clarke Shores, a few miles inland, to board up and tape those windows. I hung with them overnight, playing board games. The storm decided, literally in the eleventh hour, to turn SW and proceeded to obliterate Homestead, south of Miami. Leveled the city. Boats were piled upon each other like discarded toys. Much the same for all the jets at Homestead Air Force Base. We dodged the bullet.

We dodged many other bullets as the years went on. Oh, we got some nasty tropical storms, a few of which wreaked havoc on the roofs of my workplaces. My years in retail pharmacy were denoted by lots of clean-ups, either from storm flooding or overnight robberies. Hurricane Katrina even went through Ft. Lauderdale in 2005 but was to get much more powerful once it hit the Gulf of Mexico. You know the rest.

In 2004, South Florida's seeming luck ran out. Hurricanes Frances and Jeanne were back-to-back storms that did not destroy us but were significant enough to make a big mess and knock the power out for as much as 2 weeks in some areas. I stayed with my grandmother (91 at the time) during and after the hurricanes. I remember hearing the wind sounding like a locomotive outside the bedroom window. No real damage to her unit, though, other than some minor screen tearing and porch flooding.

The worst of it was in the days after. Humid August days and nights. The lack of power was a bit more than a nuisance. The novelty of "old school"-style life before electricty, sorry, wore thin quickly. I thought I would appreciate it, but I was wrong, esepcially as I worried about my grandmother during this time of going to the grocery stores, barely running on their generators. Things were eerie there in the days prior to the storm, with ransacked shelves and folks flailing around more than they normally would. Gas station lines into the street. Reminded me of the 70s, sitting with my dad waiting for fuel during one of those phony shortages. I was in grad school during Frances and Jeanne, driving to Davie for night classes, wondering if I would get home in time for curfew.

A year later, we got another storm. Powerful Hurricane Wilma again caused some destruction, though she did not hover around for hours like Frances. Moved fairly quickly. She was huge, though. The eye wall stretched over most of SoFL. I remember walking in it, the calm before the next wind and rain pounding. Again, it took a week before the power returned during a triumphant pre-dawn. Beforehand, I kept seeing convoys of utility vehicles, not just Florida Power and Light but also from even Canada! Wondering when all this manpower would come our way. Things got ugly as powerless days raged on. Oh, that fine line. I heard people even threw things at the utility guys when they came around! Good times? Not so much, but thank God we all lived to talk about it. We did not experience the widespread horror seen in New Orleans and Mississippi.

We laugh as we see meterologists on TV, bending 45 degrees on location as they report. You wonder of their sanity. Does it really add anything to see them pelted with the elements? I don't think so. The coverage these days hilariously stretches for hours and days. We watch and listen to newspeople show us cars buried in floods, downed branches, large puddles. Some idiot invariably will walk back and forth in the background, even in treacherous conditions, hoping to get on television. That always happens when a news crew is around, regardless of the weather. It can also backfire, like when my grounded friend's parents spotted him at Oktoberfest on the 11 O'Clock News. He never lived that down.

I have mixed feelings overall on hurricane coverage; better to get the word out than not, make folks aware. Maybe with just a wee bit less hysteria. But what if a Katrina is coming? Would the hysteria be appropriate?

The Kentucky Fried Movie

2011-08-29T07:00:00.000-07:00

The "anthology" comedy enjoyed a nice run in the mid- to late 1970s. In the wake of the popularity of sketch comedy on stage (Second City) and television (Saturday Night Live) came several cinematic pastiches that smashed together a series of bits of varying subject matter (and quality). While hints of a thread may have existed through their short running times, most of these films were comprised of a parade of unrelated shorts. Our focus: 1977's THE KENTUCKY FRIED MOVIE, one of the few worth watching.

A few years earlier, THE GROOVE TUBE tickled audiences with its nutty (and sometimes smutty) send-ups of TV programs and commercials. A pre-SNL Chevy Chase appeared in a few segments. THE GROOVE TUBE was enough of a success to inspire imitators, most quite bad: TUNNELVISION, PRIME TIME, JOKES MY FOLKS NEVER TOLD ME, LOOSE SHOES....All had their moments, but wading through painfully unfunny blackouts was a real test for viewers who weren't either stoned and/or losing their virginity at a drive-in theater. THE KENTUCKY FRIED MOVIE is a noticeably better example of this quaint genre, perhaps because of its pedigree: writers David and Jerry Zucker and Jim Abrahams would go on to make AIRPLANE!, while director John Landis would oversee some of the most popular comedies of the late 70s/early 80s (ANIMAL HOUSE, et. al). The Zuckers had been producing a stage revue, The Kentucky Fried Theater; Landis had directed only one film prior, 1971's horror spoof SCHLOCK.

THE KENTUCKY FRIED MOVIE is similiar in structure to the other films, if a bit broader (in many senses) in scope. Its targets are not only related to TV but also public service announcements, drive-in films, disaster films, porno films, martial arts films, and so on. The 78 minute running time gives a disproprtionate 1/2 hour or so to A FISTFUL OF YEN, a parody of Bruce Lee movies, specifically ENTER THE DRAGON. The fight scenes are actually pretty good (extras were recruited from Los Angeles karate studios) and certain running ZAZ gags would be introduced, including a damnation of the city of Detroit. YEN is so lengthy you almost forget that there are/will be other gags.

Leading up to YEN are commercial parodies with Bill Bixby (a headache remedy called Sanhedrin), a news/entertainment program spoof during which a gorilla runs amok (a Landis trademark), periodic newscaster updates (example: "I'm not wearing any pants, film at 11") and the showstopper, a trailer for CATHOLIC HIGH SCHOOL GIRLS IN TROUBLE, a riotous send-up of 70s porn that demonstrates the adage, "if you parody something, you gotta be it". Ever see Terry Southern's CANDY? In other words, CHSGIT is about as filthy as its target. No cliche is left untouched, plus the filmmakers manage to work in references to legitimite movies and commercials of the day as well. It may be reaching, but I think there may also be a leering wink to Russ Meyer.

Because of CHSGIT and the final segment, "Eyewitness News", where a rather amorous couple are nearly oblivious to the newscasters on their television who can see their lovemaking and get rather aroused themselves, KENTUCKY FRIED MOVIE has this reputation of being quite a dirty and raunchy film. But most of the other bits are almost PG by comparison. Hare Krishas knocking back a few after a long day of handing out pamphlets, a disaster film spoof called THAT'S ARMAGEDDON!, a family playing a board game called "Scot Free". Though watch out for that prop in the B & W television courtroom spoof, "Courtroom" and "Big Jim Slade"! My personal favorites are "Danger Seekers", the, ahem, aforementioned Catholic girl thing, the "Feel-A-Round" segment, and another mock trailer for CLEOPATRA SCHWARTZ, an action exploitation film with a Pam Grier-like hot chick who brandishes justice with shotguns and has a meek Hassidic Jewish rabbi as her sidekick!

The recent DVD reissue by Anchor Bay features the Zuckers, Abrahams, and Landis offering candid recollections of THE KENTUCKY FRIED MOVIE, often quite critical of the skits they feel drag on too long. You'll likely agree if you bother to listen. Either way, KENTUCKY FRIED MOVIE is a guilty pleasure that evokes the joys of sneaking into the drive-in in your friend's trunk and/or catching a late night HBO thrill while your parents are asleep. You'll also see the genesis of the talent of some very funny guys....

Adieu

2011-08-25T07:00:00.000-07:00

I find it hard to fathom that 4 years have passed since I moved to this sweet hideaway on Washington Road. A small apartment hidden behind a large driveway fence and a forest of bamboo trees. It was the perfect bachelor spot. I knew from my first walk-through that it would be home.

I was still in my final years of grad school, but doing an "externship" (full-time clinical duties, no academics). My mother had recently underwent surgery and began a long rehabilitation that is still in progress. I had lived at her place while in school. The last time I had had my own apartment was in 1998 at the now long gone Alpine apartments on Olive Ave. It was exciting to have my own space again.

The first month, I had almost no furniture. I purchased (and slept on) a sofa with a hide-a-bed from the previous tenant, who now lived in the unit upstairs. I learned from him that my small place was even smaller just a few years before. His girlfriend, who also lived upstairs, told me that the living room had been enclosed and "looked like a postage stamp". The landlord had removed one wall and opened it up to the kitchen area. The apartment was not spacious by any means, but just fine for one guy. Side note: the place had/has 2 bathrooms and 1 bedroom. This was because of an addition/remodel at some point. I learned from my landlord's foreman that my place was once a traditional 2-story house. Even in the earlier part of the 2000s, he had difficulty selling it.

My electric bill averaged about $35.00 per month. No joke. Even during the punishing summers it never went north of $55-$60. This was due to low ceilings and plentiful shade from said bamboo forest. Can't say that about too many units in the Palm Beaches.

After moving in I quickly indulged in the benefits of bachelor living: any kind of music as loudly as I wanted (or at least to a level that didn't tick off the neighbors), eating at places besides the dining room table, and a relaxed attitude toward housekeeping. However, the place was always fairly clean, unlike the apartments of my 20s, oh boy. I had my first real pine Christmas tree there, too.

In 2009, the couple upstairs purchased a house a little out west and moved on. They had been looking even before their baby was born. Their unit was the same size as mine; way too small for 3. A young woman and her boyfriend moved in a few months later. They fought a lot, loudly. She was a waitress in her father's Palm Beach bistro and had late hours. She and her friends would begin parties up there at 2 A.M. The couple was there for about 6 months. They were friendly kids, though we never actually hung out with them. The current tenant is a very nice (and quiet) middle-aged guy, an ideal neighbor who we've gotten to know a little. I'm continually ashamed of how bad I am with being neighborly. It's not getting any easier as I age.

I also got married in 2009 and now had a wife and kitty sharing my little space. It was obvious almost immediately that it was no longer sufficient. This was mainly because we had too much stuff, which cluttered the living room and prohibited any attempts at having guests. We stuck it out for over 2 years, but even earlier we began looking for houses and apartments. We originally considered purchasing something but we both realized that we are ready to bolt out of Florida in the not-so-distant future. It is only because of family and my great job that we've stayed this long.

It IS possible to make such a small spot (not sure of the square footage) liveable for 2 people. We talked of using IKEA models, like peeps do in NYC, where units tend to be small. I once read an article about a guy in Tokyo who was able to fit a surprising array of furniture into a 500 square foot apartment, then change the configuration every month. One thousand or so change-ups were photographed and featured in the article. Hard not to be inspired by that.

But, we've finally taken some steps and now we are moving to a much larger place that goes against some of my current criteria: gated community of homogenous units, not in an historic district, many retirees. I was adamant about living in an older style place with wood floors, my preference. So, I've compromised a bit in the name of more space, but it was necessary. Yes, there are several historic neighborhoods in Eastern West Palm Beach with amazing homes and apartments. Mostly homes, though. If I were still single, I'd be just fine with living in these funky old school walk-ups that you find behind those gorgeous old homes off Flagler Drive. Many would find that a case of arrested development, perhaps. People seem to have this idea that you're supposed to live in a "normal" place.

In a strange bit of paradox, I'm NOT fond of "old Florida" apartments/condos with their jalousy windowed doors and terazzo floors. They remind me of the prototypical Florida senior quarters. Depressing.

No, our next place is not that old, even if some of the neighbors will be. It is a quite attractive unit in a very well maintained complex to which I'm acclimating quickly. We sat during our screening and listened to all the rules and regs. Our interviewer was quite blunt about the plethora of "crotchety old folks" who tend to shoot off their mouths over the smallest things. We're used to that noise; my wife and I both grew up here.

I will document the new chapters of condo life semi-regularly. But right now I have to once more reflect on this closing chapter. A lot happened over these four years here. Graduation, marriage, an as-yet-to-be-disclosed-on-this-blog huge discovery about my identity. This apartment will live in my memory like the previous ones, all distinguished in some way. But this last one was just so liveable, a real haven of calm. I will often reflect on the peace of the swaying bamboo outside of my bedroom window, watching my cat bat the neighborhood felines through the glass of our French doors, hearing the specific sound of the front gate as the door swung open. Little things. What was so special about this one? Maybe it was the clandestine landscape; one felt as if he was nestled in a secret retreat. I will miss it....

Gentlemen Broncos

2011-08-22T05:00:00.000-07:00

Some years ago I began reading about this quirky film called NAPOLEON DYNAMITE. Professional reviewer and imdb poster alike were raving of the droll exploits of a nerdy teen making his way through high school in rural Idaho. It did not sound enticing. The film finally opened relatively close to me and by that time, it seemed that it already achieved cult status. I went to see it and within 10 minutes I knew what all the shouting was about. The filmmakers recognized how to milk a dreary landscape with dour characters into comedic gold. The timing of dialogue and facial reactions of characters were priceless. The actors seemed to have an understanding of the importance of "beats" and eye contact to maintain the tone. The audience at the theater was knowing and appreciative. I would later buy the DVD and my wife and I have watched it countless times, still finding some nuance not noticed before.

The director was a 25 year old Mormon named Jared Hess. He and his wife Jerusha collaborated on the screenplay for NAPOLEON. They followed it up with the mild but enjoyable NACHO LIBRE, starring Jack Black. Some of the same smug goofiness was there, but things were a bit broader, cruder. One of the remarkable things about the PG-rated NAPOLEON was how clean it was in an era of AMERICAN PIE and ROAD TRIP type crassness. It managed to be hilarious without any real profanity ("friggin" was about the worst it got) or sex gags. NACHO was still family friendly, but the material was second rate and while the satiric tone held most of the way, it just wasn't that memorable, even with the allegedly Wes Andersonian touches. Was it the dreaded sophomore slump? If so, I'm hard pressed to find an excuse for the Hesses' latest, GENTLEMEN BRONCOS.

In a sentence, this is one of the worst studio films I have ever seen. No kidding. I've seen some real refuse in my 34 years of filmgoing, too. I can include or exclude the real bottom of the barrel direct to video schlockers that don't even deserve a mention by title, "video nasties" that exist only to appeal to bloodlust or the viewer's genitals. No, the worst films are often the ones that have talent behind the camera, people we know are capable of much better. When they write and direct something as witless and painfully unfunny as GENTLEMEN BRONCOS, it just seems worse than even legendarily bad films of all stripes like ISHTAR, STREET TRASH, and THE BELIEVERS.

As with many bad films, the intial ideas of BRONCOS are promising: severely introverted, home-schooled teen Benjamin Purvis (Michael Angarano) attends a sci-fi writer's conference to enter his beloved masterwork "Yeast Lords: The Bronco Years" in a competition judged by a luminary in the field, one Dr. Ronald Chevalier (Jermaine Clement of HBO's "Flight of the Conchords", here sporting an amusing gutteral accent). Chevalier wote his first galactic trilogy as a young teen and is very happy to remind you of that with each encounter. His sessions typically end in humiliation for his fans, budding Bradburys and Asimovs all, as Chevalier dismisses the young charges' ideas and even their names for characters. "Nebbacanezzer?" he scoffs at a disciple, "how predictable!" That sequence had the germ of funny, but it drags on far too long, like an interminable one joke Saturday Night Live skit.

Chevalier is also currently creatively blocked. When he does produce a new tome of late, it is dismissed by his editors. As he reads through one turgid manuscript after another during the competition, he discovers "Yeast Lords" and sees his deliverance. He changes the names and a few details and again reclaims his celebrity.

Meanwhile, Benjamin returns to his sad life in Utah in one of those 1970s "dome" houses with his mother (Jennifer Coolidge, often funny nonetheless), the owner of a dress shop. The garments are as sad as the proprieters. To make things worse, Benjamin works there as well. His lot does not improve when Tabitha (Halley Feiffer) and Lonnie (Hector Jiminez), two utter flakes he meets at the conference, show interest in his story and offer to film it. Lonnie is a self-proclaimed artist who boasts that his company has produced 85 films (they're actually merely trailers). Benjamin suffers what many writers do when filmmakers get their hands on their works - the adaptation: the omissions, the unfortunate additions, etc. The resulting film plays at local theater to many deserved jeers. The filmmakers have no talent.

Part of the joke of GENTLEMEN BRONCOS, I think, is that neither do Benjamin or Chevalier. We are periodically treated to breaks in the main story, episodes bringing the "Yeast Lords" book to life, complete with Sam Rockwell as Bronco, the protagonist. The episodes are intentionally awful on the Hesses' part, recounting a story that has something to do with testes in jars and ammo that fires out of women's breasts and reindeers' anuses. I could try to tell you the real plot of "Yeast Lords", but trust me, it ain't worth anyone's bother. These sequences are quite oblique, but strangely uninteresting. The 50s B-movie parody sequences in AMAZON WOMEN ON THE MOON were more entertaining than anything here. Maybe I am just not in tune with the humor. Maybe I don't get what are certain to be specific targets. All during this movie, I imagined a small contingent of certain viewers laughing hysterically. Good for them, baaaadd for everyone else.

Benjamin eventually learns that Chevalier plagiarized his work and we are treated to a climax and denouement that is far more satisfying than the nonsense that preceded it. I sat in disbelief as a non-stop parade of testicle, excrement, and breast jokes played out. This film is truly fixated on them. The Hesses have made a gross out comedy that nonethless is still relatively clean, but is just awesomely bad. It just tries too hard, often desparately. The reason NAPOLEON worked so well was because it just allowed its characters to be themselves. The humor blossomed out of that. In BRONCOS we are served distorted faces, ridiculous accents, clumsy, esoteric satire, and the aforementioned preoccupation with gags related to the human (and even snake!) anatomy. Did Jared and Jerusha channel their inner 6-year olds when they wrote this?!

It's tempting to call the movie stupid, but it's clear that a certain subculture is getting a knowing ribbing. Jabs at sci-fi fandom and those who perhaps can't quite reconcile reality are not spared, and there is an occasional laugh or at least smile as a result. Sci-fi books and films also get a good skewer, especially when one attempts to defend its merit as a genre. Unfortunately, GENTLEMEN BRONCOS seems more content with going over-the-top with goofiness and obscure humor. Not that I mind either (I love BUCKAROO BANZAI, for example), but it really does not come off here.

I read a posting that stated one needs to be familiar with life in Utah to really get this movie. That is more effort than I am willing to spend to reconsider this, um, turd of a movie.

Pachuca Sunrise

2011-08-19T06:40:00.000-07:00

Day For Night

2011-08-16T05:00:00.001-07:00

Director Francois Truffaut was one of the most inveterate film obsessors in the history of the medium. You can read about how he, like many other future filmmakers (Kubrick among them), was a poor student. Poor not because he wasn't capable, but just disinterested. Truffaut realized early on where his heart sang. His earliest goals? To "see 3 movies a day and read 2 books a week." He spent some years as a film critic before stepping behind the camera himself.

By the time he created 1973's love poem to moviemaking, DAY FOR NIGHT, he was one of the world's most acclaimed auteurs, with SHOOT THE PIANO PLAYER and THE 400 BLOWS gracing his resume. As I watched DAY FOR NIGHT, seeing Truffaut play Ferrand, an amicable but determined director of a soapy romance called JE VOUS PRESENTE PAMELA, or MEET PAMELA, I wondered how close this performance was to his day to day. We hear him at times in voiceover, explaining that a director's job is to answer an endless stream of inquiries from the crew. You wonder if that hearing aid he wears is to discourage even more questions about which weapon to use for a key scene or what to do about a starlet who tried to keep her pregancy a secret and is about to do a pool scene in a two-piece.

Ferrand also mirrors his real life counterpart by, in one scene, marveling over the books he has delivered to the set: biographies and assorted tomes about Hitchcock, Lubitsch, Dreyer, Godard, Bresson, and others. Is it little wonder Ferrand also has recurring dreams of being a young boy stealing posters of CITIZEN KANE from a theater?

DAY FOR NIGHT tracks several weeks of the production of MEET PAMELA, introducing us to the actors: Jacqueline Bisset is Julie Baker, whose character falls in love with her fiance's father; Valentine Cortese is Severine, the fiance's mother; Jean-Pierre Aumont is Alexandre, the father; Jean-Piere Leaud is Alphonse, the fiance. The onscreen drama is echoed by (or echoes) the on-set intrigue.

Baker had nervous breakdowns on previous pictures and an ill-advised liaison on the current film leads to another. Severine's aging screen matron hits the bottle and can't quite get her blocking right, having to repeat a scene where she opens the correct door over and over and over. She also had worked before with Alexandre, the elder hearthrob, and a recurrence of earlier real-life drama between them seems to be a whisper away. Most dramatic of all is Alphonse, an alarmingly insecure young man who falls in love at the drop of a hat. His jealousy toward script girl Liliane (Dani) becomes set legend, both enriching and endangering his performance. The art imitates life/life imitates art adage gets much mileage here.

Truffaut hits many filmic bases with DAY FOR NIGHT. The nervous insurance guys/bond holders. The uncooperative animal actors (here, a kitten who won't drink a saucer of milk on cue). He'll show us the secrets behind the use of fake snow and stunt doubles. Also, sets that aren't what they seem (such as a window on a hill that appears to be part of a house). Film has been called "the great lie" and "heightened realism". Truffaut does nothing to dispel these labels. He portrays many of the crew as those who postively live for the cinema, who do not find fulfillment in anything else. Another script girl (Nathalie Baye) explains before a fade out how she could understand giving up a man for a film, but certainly not the reverse. Ferrand will counsel his actors during their lowest points by explaining that they are people who will only find meaning in their work, on the set. Life will always be a pale imitation.

DAY FOR NIGHT, which took the Oscar for Best Foreign Film, should appeal to more than just buffs, though. Its whimsy and relational politics are in the great Truffaut tradition, maybe a bit fluffier in this movie than his others.

PBA, Book IV

2011-08-12T05:00:00.000-07:00

As I jump through my PBA timeline I would certainly be remiss in forgetting to tell you about the time I fell in the Lake. Yup. Embarrassing as anything. I was wandering around First Baptist Church's Chapel by the Lake, an ampitheater built in the 1960s, across from the College. I was killing time before I took the mandatory CLAST exam, a standardized test undergrads had to take before they could continue on to their junior year. It was early on a Saturday morning in March of 1989, and a bit chilly for Florida.

I stared down at the Intracoastal Waterway and over at Palm Beach as I had many times before. I started to hear the scrapes of skateboards on concrete. Kids yelling. The sloping cement aisles of the Chapel were always popular with boarders. I listened for a bit, eventually hearing something that caused me to do a slight turn, and enough to send me backward into the water. I was fortunate to just miss some jagged rocks. The water was shallow but pretty cold. I stood in waist deep water, dumbfounded. Those kids never knew I fell in, but a guy walking his dog along Flagler Drive did. I looked up at him and his pooch with what I imagined was relief and embarrassment. While I could have climbed my way out unassisted, he offered his arm and soon I was on the grass, dog tongue in my face. I was mortified for a few seconds, but it quickly turned to anxiety. I was due to take a test in 1/2hour!

Luckily, I was wearing all black and you could not tell I was wet. I figured no one would know. I slinked into the bathroom in Borbe Hall and exhausted the paper towel supply. It wasn't enough to prevent a drip trail from my corduroys. I stood in line to the classroom, chatting with some classmmates as if nothing unusual had happened. Only one teacher who saw a puddle I left down the hall threatened my secret. I sat down in a cold room (inexplicably, the air conditioning was turned way down on a cool day) to take the exam, hoping I would not catch pneumonia. Everything turned out OK.

That same semester, I wrote about this experience for my Creative Writing course. I wrote the entire thing in 30 minutes flat. I received an A+ for a piece that required very little of my soul, unlike the other assignments for which I really put in some effort. It was so well received by the prof and my classmmates that it ended up in the yearly Lit mag! I couldn't believe it. I mentioned this in my review for the film TALK RADIO here last year.

Later that year I began dating a girl with whom I also worked at Eckerd Drug. It would be my first lesson in "don't mix business with pleasure" or the cliche of your choice. She was a pistol, that girl. She did most of the driving, as I was still a few months away from getting my own ride. It was a stormy relationship that spilled over into our work. Initially, we flirted in the aisles as Little River Band and America droned overhead. We would also sneak away into the storage room...Later, when the inevitable fights began, we would fire sarcasm at each other across the store, sometimes right in front of customers. It got bad enough to necessitate the manager scheduling us on different days.

Why did we fight? I can say it was mainly because I was a bit jealous of her friendliness with other guys. I was 20 but very immature. I had this idea that she and I would last. I didn't like her liberal affection with everyone. Maybe there was a bit of Jake LaMotta in my Italian blood. Got me. The corker came when one of my other co-workers tipped me off that my so-called gf and some other dude (a bagboy from the Winn-Dixie next door, no less) were getting cozy in the parking lot. I came over and while I did not catch them engaging in any illicit activity, it was clear that my beloved liked to play the field. A few weeks later, I broke it off. She (coincidentally?) quit a week or so after that.

What does this have to do with PBA? Stay tuned........

TO BE CONTINUED

Who Killed the Electric Car?

2011-08-08T05:01:00.000-07:00

The 2006 documentary WHO KILLED THE ELECRTIC CAR? opens with a funeral procession. A line of sedans files into a Southern California cemetery, the hoods covered with wreaths. A eulogy is read. The departed? The General Motors EV1, the first mass produced electric car. As GM only allowed the cars to be leased, every last one of them had to be turned in after the California Air Resources Board reversed their own decision to combat air pollution (the Zero- emissions vehicle mandate of 1990).

Why? Director Chris Paine formulates a few theories. Big Oil. The auto manufacturers themselves (Chrysler and Toyota, among others, also produced electric vehicles). The GW Bush Administration. There were multiple lawsuits and muscle from each of them. An electric car does not need oil. You know the rest. You may well just end the discussion right there. But, there are other variables. What about the push for hydrogen powered cars? No other than W himself took the pulpit and offered his approval. Did all of the enthusiasm and R & D $$$s also kill the electric car? There isn't enough space here for me to postulate the problems with hydrogen (not clean burning, not easily extracted, etc.) and how its adoption would be a retrograde step for consumers and the environment.

WHO KILLED THE ELECTRIC CAR? is comprised of a listing of culprits (the above, as well as battery manufacturers) and an ongoing serial of several EV1 owners who become activists, even willing to be arrested as they try to block a semi that will haul the last of the EV1s to their destruction. The latter follows very devoted folks, celebrities (Alexandra Paul, Ed Begley, Jr., Mel Gibson, et. al) and regular joes as their bewilderment turns to anger and action. Paine structures this thread almost like a straight drama. We become concerned for those hunks of metal, what they symbolize, what could've been.

Of course, those right of center will be quick to brand WHO KILLED THE ELECTRIC CAR? liberal pap. Even as someone who is definitely not in that group, I at times felt the film was a bit content with pointing fingers, and not considering other points of view. I'm all about sticking it to the Man, but equal time should be given to all the talking heads. Not just in terms of screen time, but also in how the principals are presented. This films bathes the EV1 owners and "green" proponents almost in an angelic glow, fighting an uphill battle as if they were fighting a degenerative disease. I'm not saying the environment is not an essential cause, but this movie, at times, portrays its heroes as positively oppressed. Paine paces his doc with a heavy hand.

The coporate guys are of course shown as abrupt, bottom line minions who cite chapter and verse as to why production of electric vehicles were halted. The lines of horseshit they deliver are as unconvincing as some of their hairlines, but I wish maybe we could listen to them a bit longer? Are they really this greedy and one dimensional? Is anyone? Possibly. This movie suggests a conspiracy among Big Business and politicos; don't stop the presses on that one. But, the slant in ELECTRIC CAR was bit more lefty than necessary.

Therein lies the unavoidable problem with so many docs: subjectivity. Some filmmakers are blatant, like Michael Moore. I've championed unabashedly partisan documentaries like HEARTS & MINDS and DR. DEATH, but in those I felt freer to interpret and arrive at my own conclusions. Paine uses graphics and bullet points to make his case, like we're watching someone's Power Point presentation. Plus, all the electric car peeps wear white hats and the fossil fuel diehards wear black. I like to see the waters muddied a bit more; that's reality, but it could trip up your thesis.

Still, WHO KILLED THE ELECTRIC CAR? makes salient points about the machinery of government and industry, of how everything is about money. I think most people of a certain age have gathered that much, but seeing it documented is a good reminder and possible catalyst. Thinking back, if anyone should be praising this film, it should be the car battery manufacturers, the only of Paine's suspect list that gets acquitted of the title crime. I'd like to see a facedown between them and the oil companies, the latter of whom blamed the former for the electric car's death. Let's see a battery life chart diagnostic and Shell's balance sheet side by side. That would be a good starting point.

NOTE: Electric cars will be featured on showroom floors yet again. 2011 looks to be a year of re-birth. Nissan's Leaf is electric, while the Chevy Volt will be a "plug-in hybrid". They look to be expensive, but tax credits and state rebates may help. We'll see how the saga unfolds this time.

The Wiseacre Duos: 10cc, Part II

2011-08-05T04:51:00.000-07:00

1974's Sheet Music was 10cc's sophomore effort and for my pound note, their best. A flowering of eccentric creativity and a myriad of styles, this album goes far beyond the debut, encompassing several genres: pop, rock, C&W, R&B, experimental, ballad, mock ballad, etc etc. It is an endlessly eclectic listening experience. What continues to strike me is how timeless it sounds, how the lads' creative use of the recording studio as an instrument itself has lent to music that never feels out of date.

Out of the 10 tracks, 8 are stellar, one is decent, and one is ambitious but an overblown failure:

1. "The Wall Street Shuffle": Written by Eric Stewart and Graham Gouldman, this track sends up the capitalist market system and the vipers who exploited it to rise to the top. Howard Hughes gets a mention. A hit single in the U.K., it boasts some good digs but the last verse runs out of steam.

2. "The Worst Band in the World": Lol Creme and Gouldman in one of the several cross-polinations of songwriting (recall that Stewart and Gouldman had the more commercial instincts while Creme and Kevin Godley were more daring, experimental). This is a self-acknowledging song in the "biting the hand that feeds" genre. A great, caustic tune that proclaims, "Up yours! Up mine! But up everybody's? That takes time!...but we're working on it!"

3. "Hotel": This one is pure Godley and Creme, a very curious tune and my fave one on this album. Elements of calypso, Motown, doo-wop. Unavoidably boppable with lyrics that may be considered as from the point of view of Yanks or their mockers. Great tune.

4. "Old Wild Men": This is the "decent" song, a mellow lamentation on aging rock stars. It sounds reverent but knowing G & C, it's likely rather a savage parody. It's not bad, with quaint sounding keyboard effects and fuzzy guitar, but mild and undistinguished.

5. "Clockwork Creep": You could accurately call this one a novelty song, with its twisted story of a conversation/pleading between a jumbo jet and the bomb in its cargohold set to detonate. The tempo is rapid with its plinkity piano, and absolutely right to tell this breathless tale. Another prototypical G & C..."but we're gonna crash, that's for certain, the pilot is too busy flirtin'..."

6. "Silly Love": Apparently, this was a tribute/parody of Paul McCartney tunes (the guys were big fans), and Creme and Stewart's lyrical dance is hilarious. Great heavy guitar by the songwriters. Stewart gets to use his funny falsetto, too.

7. "Somewhere in Hollywood": G and C wrote a few epics during their time in 10cc. This is the singular dud: a joyless, overlong, obscure, not especially interesting piece about Tinseltown that has moments of inspiration but just doesn't work. Several 10cc songs are smug, but here the composition is just annoying and dull.

8. "Baron Samedi": Even though it was recorded in the early 70s, this track (by S & G) could sit alongside the Eno sessions of Talking Heads albums from the early 80s. Amazing percussion and ingenious transitions throughout. The song conjures visions of the voodoo subplot of the James Bond film LIVE AND LET DIE, which came out just before this album. Coincidence?

9. "The Sacro-Iliac": Droll number by G and G that addresses the old inevitability of aging, though more specifically the aging one's attempt to be hip, a depressing notion attested to by anyone who's watched middle-agers trying to be cool.

10. "Oh Effendi": Solid guitar work on this biting political track by S & G. As you listen to this stinging attack on relations between the West and the Middle East, you'll realize how little has changed. This song has almost a country feel, with vocal stylings to match, creating a bizarre incongruity that will either impress or leave you cold. Either way, this track, like most of Sheet Music, is bloody genius.

What a deliriously imaginative album! My favorite of theirs. Next time, we'll speak of the next album, the one with their most famous track. A track that finally cracked the American Top 40. We'll also get a little deeper into the process of the songwriting.

To Be Continued.........

How Soon is Now?

2011-08-03T13:19:00.000-07:00

The Smiths Inspire Comic Book Series :: Blogs :: Awesome of the Day :: Paste

I can just see it: panels of Morrissey at a club, looking around, going home alone....

The Tree of Life

2011-08-01T05:00:00.000-07:00

"No one who loves the way of grace comes to a bad end."

Whispers, heard throughout. Not so random thoughts, observations, quotations of those who came before. Thoughts of several family members, perhaps seen only as memory fragments. If you ever stop and think on what led you to where you are, you may also begin audibly expressing your feelings, your frustrations. More often, you internalize. When you're a child, some of those thoughts may be directed at a stern but nuturing parent. In a moment you may curse him to banishment, away from your happy home. You may later defend him right back to him, explaining that you understand why he does what he does.

The life of a family in 1950s Texas is the foundation of writer/director Terrence Malick's THE TREE OF LIFE, a film like none other I've seen. Oh, I was reminded at times of seminal works like Kubrick's 2001: A SPACE ODYSSEY and also-rans like Darren Aronofsky's THE FOUNTAIN. I also likened those whispers to some of the narration in Malick's own BADLANDS. Otherwise, THE TREE OF LIFE stands alone in singular beauty and wonder, presented not as a linear work but a fragmented poem, much they way we might sit and remember our own past lives.

A middle-aged architect named Jack (Sean Penn) finds himself lost in the pages of his own history, reminscing of simpler but urgent adolescent days. As he wanders through his workday, barely listening to colleagues and riding in elevators, he revisits that neighborhood block in his small town, the scene of the usual boyhood things: paternal reprimand and guidance, emerging lust, mischief, chores, frustration. These scenes are rendered in shots that rarely last more than five seconds. Many will recognize their own childhoods in these flashes.

Jack remembers his father (Brad Pitt), whose first name we never learn (and children would certainly never dare to utter their parents' first names) as a tough but loving man who would not tolerate being called "dad" and tried to pass along the sort of advice that could bring success to a man in America: don't be too good, don't let anyone take advantage of you. Mr. O'Brien sacrificed a music career to become an inventor, repeatedly seeing his attempts at securing patents unfulfilled. Perhaps he desires that his son not follow in those footsteps.

We do not learn very much about the grown up Jack. We see him briefly in his house, an unidentified woman awakening with him. We see no children. What has become of his life? His memories are haunted by the death of his brother, years after the central events of THE TREE OF LIFE. His mother would receive a telegram, the kind parents got when their children did not return from war. His father would break down after learning the news over the phone, then vainly trying to shrug it off and go back to work. He just couldn't. Neither can Jack, all these years later.

I haven't yet mentioned the breadth of THE TREE OF LIFE's ambitions. No less than an examination of the creation and perpetuation of life itself. Footage of the Big Bang, mysterious auras, and dinosaurs are also part of this film. The first image is of a verse from the Old Testament book of Job:

"Where were you when I laid the earth’s foundation...while the morning stars sang together and all the sons of God shouted for joy?"

A mysterious flame will appear. Clips of rolling fire and water. The Big Bang? Creation? I sat and wondered if Malick was espousing a particular viewpoint, of how it all began. Christianity teaches that God created the earth, with countless Sunday School teachers and pastors trying to explain that the earth is several thousand years old rather than several million. But what about those dinosaurs? Malick actually dares to show them in a scene that questions instinct versus mercy. Or is it back to grace versus nature? Viewers will doubtless have many different things to say about why that predatory Troodon spares the wounded Parasaurolophus. A belief system, whether one espouses "faith" will certainly color one's take.

When I read those first verses of Genesis, I always wondered about time itself. How much time really elapsed after God breathed the world into being over the face of the deep. A formless world. You may have heard of the "gap theory" and its variants. The Bible states that God created the earth in seven days. Twenty-four days? Much debate cotinues to rage over that question. Malick shows scenes of protozoa and increasingly complex lifeforms before we find ourselves back in Waco, Texas with the O'Brien family. Many viewers find it impossible to connect the evolutionary sequences with the 1950s ones. They find it pretentious.

Many also scratched their heads over the ethereal beauty of Malick's WWII pic THE THIN RED LINE. It confused folks; they preferred Speielberg's straight-ahead war drama SAVING PRIVATE RYAN. Malick has spent 40 years composing cinematic essays, philosophical plays that are far deeper than the coffee table book surfaces would suggest. The staggering visual beauty of DAYS OF HEAVEN and THE NEW WORLD are exteriors leading to a gateway to contemplation for more patient viewers. As I've covered, most viewers need constant stimulation. I found THE TREE OF LIFE quite stimulating, relaxing, and disturbing. To prompt large questions as this film does is noble enough, but for such an elegiac and personal film to come of it is quite miraculous. I won't try to say too much more about it. See it, and decide if it is worth many more journeys. I will certainly be taking them.

You Don't Have to Be So Sad

2011-07-29T05:00:00.000-07:00

Close to perfect.....

Mic Tap, Summer 2011

2011-07-26T05:02:00.000-07:00

Still with me, invisible audience? I'm never quite sure. Well...I am aware of 2-3 regular readers who are friends. Also, Google Stats displays, per geographic region, browser, and device, that several people have at least looked at my posts. But who among those followed from my very first post in 2007, "Point A"? I re-read those early posts occasionally. I was a Johnny-Come-Lately blogger, unsure where any of it would lead.

In four years, I see I've amassed a collection of movie reviews. Mainly. There is the occasional real life report, some music appreciation, links to videos, silly comics. The first year and a half of Lamplight Drivel was filled with fewer overall but more personal entries. I've gone far afield, but I try to steer things back on course here and there. My understanding of "blog" involves the recounting of one's doings. There are, as you know, many, many blogs that don't tell an iota of data on the bloggers themselves. Specialty blogs cover all sorts of topics. I consider those "columns" more than "blogs". But I know that "blog" is defined differently among the populace.

With that, I don't forsee any radical changes to LD. There will still be a plethora of film rants. I might sometimes address "important" topics if I'm so inclined, at a loss for something else to write, or seriously bored. Ah yes, I must also continue the audiology series. I would also like to have more science related posts. The arts and science are the things I think on most because they are dynamic, with new discoveries and achievements almost daily.

Politics doesn't earn prime real estate in my brain. It's a stagnant, frustrating, and damn near worthless (yet paradoxically quite vital) subject that never changes. Or, its just the same only cyclical thing. Obviously, I stay aware of the republic and the other continents' machinations, but to pontificate on or even devote too much valuable time to watching the news is increasingly pointless. Be aware, not immersed.

Does that seem shallow? It was never my intention to make this a blog a depository for anything profound or intellectually stimulating. Perhaps a bit of fugitive insightfulness may leak out occasionally. Purely accidental, I assure you. When in doubt, recheck the title of this blog.

In any event, I'll report that Summer 2011 has been quite pleasant. Caseload at work has dropped dramatically, as it is expected to in the summertime in S. Florida. This year, it was a steep decline within a shorter window than last year. One week, the snowbirds were still showing up without appointments. The very next week (and since), there are large gaps in my schedule. It is a nice break.

My wife and I carpooled with friends to central Fl. for the July 4th weekend. One of those friends was a college chum of my wife's in undergrad, and we met another one in Clermont, where her family lives (my wife's friend lives in San Diego). Clermont has special memories that will be addressed in a future PBA posting, and being there for the second summer in a row still makes me feel funny.

We also hung in Mount Dora, lunching at an English establishment called the Windsor Rose Tea Room. We put on silly hats and had a great lunch (plus ale, of course). A platter of scones and crustless sandwiches started things off nicely. Later, a ramshackle tiki bar in Clermont was a nice scene for dinner and watching early amateur fireworks. This place looked liked someone's rundown backyard with a dock attached. As casual as it could possibly be. Great burgers and I can't remember the last time I washed down tater tots with beer. On July 4th, we went up Hwy 27 again to Tavares for a picnic at Wooten Park. Lots of food vendors and families. An awesome mini water park there was enjoyed by my wife's friend's children and many others.

We were almost home when...I got rear ended on I-95 as I was ironically slowing down in the left lane due to another accident ahead. I was not a head on collision, but rather a hard swipe against the driver's side tailight and wheel well. The other driver jumped out and immediately stated that we did not have to call the police and that his brother-in-law owned a body shop. Uh huh. He also seemed rather, out there. Maybe not inebrieated exactly, but definitely impaired. Once he realized we were not just going to "play ball", he went back and sat in his car. We watched as he unsuccessfully tried to meet a lighter with his cigarette.

The fire department came first and after checking in with us and asking the "are you OK" questions, they spent quite a while questioning the other guy. A state trooper soon arrived and after HE spent awhile with the guy he informed us that "this guy's on something". Long story short, the guy was taken to the hospital. We found out later that he was arrested and released some hours later. My wife's car was fortunately still driveable. At the time of this writing, it is being repaired. Thank the Lord everyone was unhurt and the Honda hybrid is on the mend.

Otherwise, a quiet summer. I'll take it. See you for the next occasional update! Uh, save me the aisle seat?!

Super 8

2011-07-22T05:17:00.000-07:00

There was a time, decades ago, when a spark was ignited in a certain young man's heart. Jules Verne might've already been the forefather of his creative whims, the author's tales so vivid to a young imagination. Soon after, the young man would discover moviegoing. Images and sound married on a huge screen drove this child's flights of fancy into overdrive. This was not TV. If I can pinpoint the moment my film appreciation and obsession began, it would be about the time the Millenium Falcon sped across the galaxy in STAR WARS. I was so excited and fidgety that I could barely sit still in the car on the way home. My afterschool playtime was forever changed; nearly every bit of my make believe acting out was influenced by the movie. Then, came CLOSE ENCOUNTERS OF THE THIRD KIND, then....

What was it about fantasy films made in the late 70s/early 80s? Was there something magical about them? Or was I dazzled simply because I was an impressionable little kid? E.T. THE EXTRA-TERRESTRIAL came out a little later, when I was 13. I was still in awe. I have revisited the above films and many like them periodically as I've gotten older. They're still magical. Yes, the films haven't changed, I have (the sort of thing one says when they wonder why they are now disppointed with something they once cheered). I still love those classic Steven Spielberg and George Lucas films, even as I've found that other movies, TV shows, and music from the era now leave me cold or even embarrassed.

Those earlier films were magical for multiple reasons. The special effects wowed. The stories were engaging. The characters were recognizable from my own neighborhood. The action scenes revved our little hearts. Today's films are not so nuanced. They're pummeling. Each superhero, sci-fi, or chase thriller ups the ante on intensity to such a degree that anything less will bore its intended audience (mostly teens, but certainly overgrown adolescents as well). More action. More destruction and noise and spectacle. Less emphasis on characterization and mood. Dialogue, when intelligible, is reduced to a psuedo-clever sound bite. Filmmakers don't let their films build or develop with any sense of anticipation. The first images we see are climactic. Where does a film have from there to go? The wick has already been lit even before the studio logo flashes. Many of today's viewers have no patience.

This is why so many folks will not appreciate SUPER 8. Just go on imdb.com and see for yourself. It was so very predictable, the postings I saw. Many of them were even from people my age and older, the target audience of director J. J. Abrams' latest.

Huh. Maybe they just didn't understand what Abrams and producer Speilberg were going for. Anyone familiar with the Spielberg epics cited above can't miss it here. The loving tilt zooms up on teenagers' faces. The soaring orchestral score. The otherwise drab suburban landscape, suddenly filled with slashing lights and levitating objects. The (relatively) deliberate editing. SUPER 8 looks and plays like a film from the year in which it is set: 1979. The pans and dollies with a low POV, as if through the eyes of...an alien, mayhaps? Abrams even makes the film stock look a little grainy. He only could've done a few better by putting scratches and those little circles you used to see in the upper right hand corner, signal markers for the projectionist to switch reels (sometimes called "changeover marks")on his film.

But it's more than just tech. The warmth, the empathy, so clumsily attempted in most of today's popcorn films (and even some art house fare) played easily and effectively in E.T., THE GOONIES, and several others. Even minor things like THE LAST STARFIGHTER, a little gem from 1984, managed to transcend their modest budgets and screenplays and make you care. They made you believe you could escape and/or save your world. Even if the f/x were less than stellar they were still more involving than much of the computer generated stuff we see nowadays, in my opinion. This is ground I've covered many times here, but watching SUPER 8 made me realize that something significant has been lost in the summer blockbuster over the years. The sweetness? The heart? Yes.

Yet Spielberg's earlier films were not sappy. Sentimental, sure, sometimes corny, but never sickeningly sweet. They allowed their protagonists to speak like real kids, do kid things like sneak out and sample alcohol and swear. SUPER 8 involves a group of Midwest teens who find their little town the scene of something rather extraordinary. It begins one night as they try to film a scene (with a Super 8 camera) for their cheesy homemade zombie pic.

Joe (Joel Courtney) and his friend Charles (Riley Griffiths), the director, rally their buds, including Cary (Ryan Lee), who always has pockets full of firecrackers and reminded me of Tanner from THE BAD NEWS BEARS, and Alice (Elle Fanning), a likely crush object for the boys, to an old train station for a midnight shoot. A train announces itself in the distance and Charles becomes quite excited, seeing an opportunity for "production values". But Joe also sees a wildly careening pickup truck racing, racing, seeming as if it is trying to beat the train at the crossing. Instead, the truck turns as if to meet the train head on. SUPER 8 then proceeds to stage a very impressive looking (and sounding) derailment. The kids' camera falls to the ground as they take cover. The film continues to run....

I don't want to give too much of SUPER 8's plot away, but suffice it to say that we will learn of the special cargo of the train, who was driving that truck and why, and what in Sam Hill all those military guys are doing at the wreckage and later, throughout the sleepy town. There are also subsequent disappearances, childhood romance, parental angst, lots of yelling, narrow scrapes, special effects...I knew little of the film going in and that is really the best way to approach it. I was also unaware of what an out-and-out homage Abrams had made, right down to the sound effects. It's impressive.

That what SUPER 8 is, period. If you nitpick the holes in the plot (and there are many), you've entirely missed it. I like what Ebert said in his summary: "it was like seeing a lost Speilberg classic". It really does feel that way, as if an old reel was discovered in a vault. Or a decades old unwrapped Christmas gift you found in the attic. Abrams has so meticulously crafted his film that even the CGI doesn't feel like CGI. He does also manage to work in a few refernces to some of his earlier projects, including CLOVERFIELD and Lost, but just fleetingly.

I so embraced those films of yesterday that seeing this new one allowed me to forgive some lapses in pacing and characterization and just enjoy. I've often wished I could board a time machine and spend a little time in my pre-adolescence. SUPER 8 is the closest I'll probably get to come, minus the zits and "birds and the bees" talk.

Addendum: You really need to stay through the closing credits. That sequence alone makes it worth the time.

Man on Wire

2011-07-18T05:00:00.000-07:00

Four men are hiding under construction tarps near the tops of twin NYC skyscrapers. The waiting is painful; they can't move, unsure if security guards are still pacing around, watching for anything unusual. Little do those guards know that one of the four gentlemen will, by dawn the following morning, have exacted his master plan. A highly unsual one.

MAN ON WIRE, despite the description I've laid out for you, is not a thriller, at least in the traditional fictional sense. In 1974, there was a cheerful yet singularly determined Frenchman named Phillipe Petit, who organized and excuted a tightrope walk between the twin towers of the World Trade Center. This illegal act would be the piece de resistance of a career that already allowed high wire stunts at Notre Dame in Paris and the Sydney Harbour Bridge in Sydney, Australia. The authorities would never approve such actions, of course, so each time Petit returned to earth, he was greeted with handcuffs. A man so focused to his craft also never took the time to get permits for his regular street juggling, so being arrested was a familiar formality.

James Marsh's documentary frequently features Petit describing his arrest record, and how he never considers the aftermath. His mind is wired for artistic challenges, not worry over terrestrial consequence. Such people are cause for concern for the more traditionally rational among us, including Petit's co-conspirators and girlfriend. After Petit indeed walks between the Twin Towers (for nearly an hour), his relationships will suffer irreparably. Sometimes that is the price in the pursuit of the grandiose. And the insane, so thought the NYPD after they apprehended the man and had him go for a mandatory psychiatric eval. You can't blame them, especially you of the rational mindset. A wire strung by rope. Nearly 1,400 hundred feet upwards. Unpredicatble wind conditions. No safety net. For Petit, these were not roadblocks.

MAN ON WIRE, its title dervied from the actual words on Petit's police report, sounds and plays like a suspense film. Marsh presents the events of the night before and morning of the walk (not heist, though the thriller elements aren't far off) with the anticipation of a lit fuse with a short wick, even though we know the outcome. The story of this peculiar stunt lends itself to such treatment, and Marsh beautifully weaves testimony, original home movies (with better than average production values - the crew were film school pals of Petit's), and a few recreations seamlessly. It was, at times, like watching a more up-to-date RAFIFFI! How the stunt came together cannot be left to coincidence. Much went wrong as Pettit's crew attempted to get the wire strung from one rooftop to the other. A bow and arrow and Petit's nudity made it possible. Yes, the details are so bizarre they can only be true.

The best documentaries entirely absorb you into their propaganda. Errol Morris' THE THIN BLUE LINE is another example of a riveting narrative with suspenseful cinematic elements: sharp editing, choice scoring, and revealing narration. MAN ON WIRE's recount is fairly objective, with points-of-view that differ among the interviewees, but not wildly so. If there is an agenda to this movie, it is to invite you into the mind of free spirit who is truly free of any inhibition. So infectious is his enthusiasm, you may feel admiration, jealousy, and concern for the fellow at various times.

The tragedy of 9/11/2001 is not mentioned or even hinted at in MAN ON WIRE. I agree with its exclusion. However, watching this film at this late date creates a warm nostalgia, lending a certain innocence to Phillipe's daring do. Highly recommended.

Shampoo

2011-07-13T05:00:00.000-07:00

Hal Ashby's 1975 iconic SHAMPOO may well be a good movie, but my eyes can't recognize it. The indications are there: natural, confident acting, dialogue that does not sound overly written (most of the time), loose, friendly direction, good color photography, nice capture of Los Angeles locations. Watching it, I felt like I was privvy to a well preserved document that had been stored in optimal conditions for future analysis. Arguably, any film with any fiber of importance should feel that way.

But is SHAMPOO dated? Is that even avoidable? What about great films like THE RED SHOES and THE WILD BUNCH, filmed even longer ago but remain timeless? It isn't just about the time period being captured, but also the technology and the attitude brought to the table. A film about a hedonistic Beverly Hills hairdresser(Warren Beatty) and his various entaglements with women of various ages (Julie Christie, Goldie Hawn, Carrie Fisher, et. al) in the late 1960s by its very nature is almost unavoidably going to feel quaint at this late date. But the screenplay and the point of view (which had the benefit of hindsight) are the culprits for my lack of enthusiasm. An examination of 60s mores through a 70s sensibility should've been more telling.

It's a generational thing; that's what I've concluded. As much as I am fascinated with and well read on the time period in which it is set, SHAMPOO is a movie I just don't get. I was just a child when this film was conceived and shot and I was not around in the 60s to have an informed jadededness about them later. By the middle of the Me Decade, it seemed everyone with a platform was complaining at how everything had fallen short. The revolutions, the counterculture energy. Nixon had left office in disgrace, Vietnam was ending but the scars would never heal. The creators of SHAMPOO look back when Nixon was about to be elected, when the anti-Establishment brio was suddenly threatened. The party was ending. If there was doubt, one could consider Kent State and the Rolling Stones' Altamont Freeway disaster, so brilliantly documented in GIMME SHELTER.

Beatty's character, George, is also watching his own little world disintegrate. A straight male hairdresser may well be a rarity, and accordingly he beds many of his female clients. There are older women like Felicia (Grant) with rich husbands who can bankroll a dream salon for George, possibly, and also kooky younger, playful types (Hawn). Christie plays George's former girlfriend, Jackie, someone he actually had feelings for. There's a problem with any potential rekindling: Jackie is the mistress of Felicia's husband, Lester (Jack Warden). Thus, SHAMPOO is a political film, but of a different sort than in Nixon's realm, you see. This movie tries to infuse the two, with very limited success.

SHAMPOO could've gone in many directions. Ashby and co. could've taken a good hard look at George's hedonism, seen so clearly in that harsh Southern California sunlight, and passed judgment. It could've also been a feel good dramedy playing George's life for laughs and titilation. But this movie has a conscience, if not a pulse (it is slow paced and dull, often). The screenplay is a disorganized, fuzzy mess, but it wants to show that actions have consequence. There is a moral justice at work, even in L.A. Many moments are contemplative, including the bleak finale as George assesses the wreckage. We're privileged to view these events with knowledge that George can't have: the 60s will burn out and fade away. There will be malaise and catatonia to follow.

But you may argue that George was already catatonic, going about his narcissism with nary a regard for things beyond the SoCal landscape. He barely cares even for those who play in his sandbox, except for Jackie, who may prove to be even more self-centered by the end. Beatty's character doesn't undergo a metamorphasis so much as he finds himself face down in his own soullessness. SHAMPOO is a somber pictorial of this empty lifestyle, but the characters are barely more than paper thin magazine models (the point?). Ashby's direction is just there, and things feel a bit too improvised. There should be more fire and grit in this story. Instead, it feels as ineffectual as its lead character. But that's Southern California for you, brother. Maybe I'm all wrong about this.

And maybe that's what a notable film of the 1970s dealing with moral decay was supposed to feel like: an unspooling of laid back insouciance? Many hold SHAMPOO in very high regard. I'm stumped. There are so many truly great social dramas of the same era (THE LAST DETAIL, TAXI DRIVER, CARNAL KNOWLEDGE) that I feel really are worthy of the accolades that it again comes back merely to my chronology. I didn't live it then, so I can't feel it now. While many of us can identify with the ultimately dissatisfying aftertaste of an aimless life, there's something about George's story that requires more from the viewer. Not merely experience, but experience of a specific time. I wasn't there on election night 1968 in Los Angeles, and how things felt and how perhaps portentuous things were is alien to me. I could say it is Ashby's failing that he doesn't convey it effectively to me. Recall from other reviews that the simple fact that a film doesn't move me does not dicatate whther it is good or bad. As I said, SHAMPOO may well be a good movie. I dunno.

But....Ashby, mostly otherwise a director with a highly impressive resume (check out his THE LANDLORD, a fine drama) should've made SHAMPOO more immediate, I feel. Many others did feel it. Rock on.

Part IX, The Great Overrated

PBA, Book 3

2011-07-10T07:03:00.000-07:00

Those first two years at Palm Beach Atlantic University were, as I relayed, fairly uneventful. Went to class, hung out in the Student Center playing pool and listening to Amy Grant, etc. In some ways, it was merely a continuation of high school, minus the keg parties. Ha! So I thought. As I walked to classes I nonetheless heard stories of beer blasts taking place in some of the same neighborhoods as that of my hs buds. At a Christian college?!

PBA was/is a Christian institution, but of course it did not exclude those who were unbelievers, quite the contrary. There was certainly a large evangelical component to the school's mission. In regards to the alcohol, I have to recall at this point that during the application process, a pledge to not consume had to be signed. By all students. I cocked an eyebrow at that as I scribbled. I'm sure others had to conceal their laughter.

But the school was serious about enforcement. A rulebook mentality evoking Prohibition-era tactics was adhered to. A wine cooler could mean suspension. There were rumors of spies who roamed parking lots of the local Bennigan's and Houlihan's, looking for PBA parking stickers and their owners who may have dared to down a Bud Light with their jalapeno poppers. Several folks felt the justice. I was spared.

I did not have the need for a parking sticker. I did not have my own vehicle until halfway through my junior year. I made do with my father's Escort wagon and rides from others. Sometimes, I had to take the city bus. Ugh. It was humiliating. Convenient (when it showed up on time; WPB's public transit was never known for its reliability), but still a drag. I felt like I was still a kid, riding the Co-Tran to the Palm Beach Mall. Getting that midnight blue Cavalier in January 1990 was like getting the keys to Adulthood.

I also went to work, about a month before I started at PBA, as a pharmacy clerk/tech at an Eckerd Drug store. I only worked 20 or so hours a week, but it was enough to get me out of what was known as "Workship", a program of voluneteerism, required of all students not holding an outside job of 20 or more hours per week. It is with some shame that I admit that I was quite happy to get out of Workship, despite my regular volunteering in the church: beach clean-ups, gardening and painting for the elderly, singing at nursing homes. Maybe it was because I just didn't have any more time to spare.

I did not get out of going to weekly Chapel services. Several students skipped regularly, and there were consequences. I don't recall skipping more than once or twice. It was usually an enriching hour of praise and worship, with school announcements and the occasional skit thrown in. There was also the annual American Free Enterprise Day, a grandoise parade of capitalism that always seemed wrong for a church sanactuary. Each year, it got bigger. The keynote speaker was usually a CEO. The most notorious episode in my time at PBA involved a student yelling "What does this have to do with Jesus!" after several minutes of relentless patriotic display in the First Baptist Church. Such a great moment. I bet many wanted to applaud. It was a moment frozen in time. Sadly, I learned that the young man (whose name I can't recall) recently passed away.

I mentioned Eckerd Drug. My store was in a shopping center on the border of Lake Worth/WPB. Years before, the Skydrome Drive-In sat there. I worked at the drug store the entire time I was at PBA, plus change. I liked and hated it at various times. I'm not sure what to say about it, though there are some significant parallels/overlaps with PBA. The pharmacist with whom I worked was the mother of someone with whom I grew up. A lovely Southern lady who taught me much about pharmacy, a career that would last for the next 20 years. She was very conservative, often remarking that PBA was, even in 1987, becoming "too liberal". This was despite the fact that until sometime in the 1990s the school still wouldn't hold a dance. Old Baptist thing.

At Eckerd I also met a few girls who would make my junior year quite interesting. Until next time.....

TO BE CONTINUED

Weather Check

2011-07-08T11:19:00.000-07:00

Blow Out

2011-07-05T05:03:00.000-07:00

Jack Terry always seems on edge, about to either fall into an inert heap or ignite everything around him. His perpetually tired visage may well be the summation of countless hours in a film lab, splicing sounds of footsteps, wind through the trees, croaking frogs, hooting owls. Jack is a sound editor, his talents squandered on Grade Z slashers, the sort that used to play on double bills in grindhouses and drive-ins. His work is particular and often tedious. Wearying. While collecting sounds on a bridge one night, he records something curious. A gunshot? A blown out tire? Yes. A car careens off the road into the drink.

Jack finds himself diving in and saving the passenger, a young woman. The driver is dead. The police and some shifty politicians will interrogate Jack at the hospital. It seems that the driver was a potential Presidential candidate. When the young woman comes to, Jack learns she is a lady of the evening, sweet in spirit and a bit soft in the head. She was part of something, something very sinister. She was certainly in the wrong place at the wrong time, but did she have a hand in the plot?

Director Brian DePalma's 1981 thriller BLOW OUT begins with that scenario, well, actually it begins with a scene from CO-ED FRENZY, one of Jack's unfortunate film assignments. As he watches it, he'll find yet again that the currently looped scream from a victim (caught by a serial killer in the shower, no less) is laughably awful, not the least bit convincing or bloodcurdling. The director demands Jack scout for new background sound effects, while he interviews a parade of "actresses" who audition their own laughably bad screams. Then comes the "blow out".

De Palma allows us to spend time with Jack (John Travolta) as he meticulously pieces together oxided audio tape to discover what exactly happened that night at the park. It is a fascinating process, and these scenes reminded me of similiar ones with Harry Caul (Gene Hackman) in 1974's THE CONVERSATION. Both films reward our patience and intelligence as we observe an artist/technician at work. Both Harry and Jack are experts at their crafts, little dreaming they would also be required to become detectives and svengalis. Neither succeeds very well with the latter.

BLOW OUT is one of De Palma's very best works. His screenplay takes a bid from not only THE CONVERSATION, but also many of the political paranoia pics of the 70s (PARALLAX VIEW et al). 1981 audiences were still freshly aware of Nixon's famous implosion, still witnessing assassination attempts (Reagan, Sadat). BLOW OUT furthers its plotline with the introduction of a guy named Manny Karp (Dennis Franz, doing his well oiled sleazy bit), who happened to also be at the park that night, taking pictures. Like Zapruder two decades before, his pictures are sold to the media and history is made. Jack will compile the photos and create a short film to match his painstakingly assembled soundtrack. It's all there, but what will the public learn? The truth? Did the Warren Commission come clean?

Topicality is but one of this film's strengths. De Palma is a true stylist, often sacrificing narrative logic for Panavision finesse and cinematic trickery (slow motion, wild dollies, split screens, close-ups, depth of field). Many of his films feature at least one grandiose extended set piece (the staircase in THE UNTOUCHABLES, the subway chase in CARLITO'S WAY, the prom massacre in CARRIE). Here, Travolta pilots his Jeep through Philadelphia like a madman, racing to save Sally from an assassin (John Lithgow, icily excellent). The sequence is edited by Paul Hirsch with razor precision, allowing for both the expected adrenaline and enough time for City of Brotherly Love appreciation in equal measure. As before, just don't think about it too hard.

Travolta and Allen are entirely believable in their roles. Neither is spotless in character yet both are jerked out of their respective malaises as the bleak reality begins to illuminate like an exposed photograph, or a clearly heard recording. Their chemistry is spot on throughout. When we reach the conclusion of BLOW OUT, a certain dark logic has been satisfied, but it is just so heartbreaking. This movie may have its cerebral elements, but it (like most De Palmas) works most effectively on an emotional level.

Viewers familiar with 1966's BLOWUP will see many parallels with the basic plot here. The shades of Hitchock are also seen in BLOW OUT (a MacGuffin or two is thrown in the mix), but again De Palma creates his own trademarks, in my opinion never plagiarizing but rather tipping his hat in perhaps obvious ways. Voyeurism is a theme of all De Palma's works, as it had been in some of Hitch's (most obviously REAR WINDOW). This time out, we're spared some of De Palma's seamier trademarks (sexual and psychosexual) in favor of a more straight laced mystery. While DRESSED TO KILL and BODY DOUBLE are necessarily torrid, such elements would've made BLOW OUT unnecessarily exploitive.

Criterion recently released BLOW OUT on DVD and Blu-Ray with newly restored prints and a second disc of choice extras. Director/writer Noah Baumbach spends an (mostly) interesting hour interviewing De Palma. Neither are particularly animated, but De Palma is a little too laid back to sustain interest unless you're already a buff. His anecdotes are meaty for the faithful, but maybe a Red Bull ahead of time might've been a good idea. In another segment, cameraman Garrett Brown discusses his unique invention, the Steadicam (an ingeniously crafted mounting and armature system for the camera which allows smooth tracking even in difficult spaces), used so fluidly through BLOW OUT (and THE SHINING and others previously). Nancy Allen contributes her recollections in a fairly new interview and Louis Goldman's still photos from the set of the film are also included in this package. A book containing Paulene Kael's glowing 1981 review (the sourpuss critic was nonetheless a longtime champion of the director), a facsimilie of the magazine article featuring Karp's crash photos, and a gallery of the B-movie posters, all real films, seen on the walls in Jack's office is included.

De Palma's 1967 film MURDER à la MOD is also included on Disc Two. Review to come. Will certainly be telling to see if the director would inspire himself for BLOW OUT. He would be in good company.

180º South

2011-07-01T05:01:00.000-07:00

Subtitled "Conquerers of the Useless", the 2010 documentary 180º SOUTH charts the sort of path many a cubicle dweller only dreams of: a months long journey into the heart of the rarely explored, away from the mind numbing repetition of the typical work week. Ever notice how many murals of tropical isles and mountain ranges you see in fluorescent drenched offices?

A guy from California named Jeff Johnson (no relation to singer/surfer Jack, who has a song in this movie) saves enough cash to sail from Mexico to (eventually) Patagonia, Chile, every moment along the way strategizing a Holy Grail quest of sorts for the adventurous: climbing to the top of Cerro Corcovado. There are side trips for other climbs as well as a fair amount of surfing. He's joined by two older guys named Yvon Chouinard and Doug Tompkins, who made a similiar trek back in 1968 (some footage of that trip opens this doc), and a young woman named Makohe, who Johnson met while his boat was stranded for several weeks in Rapa Nui, more widely known as Easter Island.

It is while we are with Jeff on Easter Island that we get to the crux of 180º SOUTH's theme: man is killing the environment. Johnson narrates a brief history of the Island, how the famous wooden idols were erected centuries before in fits of unhealthy competition among the Natives, leading to a complete erosion of a harmonious society. Depending on what source you locate, the genesis of this downfall may or may not have been precipitated by British settlers. No matter; Johnson is trying to draw parallels with modern society.

Once we get to South America, we not only take in the beauty of the coastline and rocklands, but also the blight of pulp mills that, yes, provide jobs, but also, according to the locals interviewed in this movie, destroy the character of the town. Their definition of "progress" will be quite different from that of industry types. Earlier on Easter Island, Makohe worried about potential advancements to her tropical idyll, about any changes that may come.

Johnson will latter narrate that navigating through Chile, despite the machinery and black smoke and dams, is like travelling back to a more primitive time. But, while he is in the city of Santiago, he will relay that he felt he was back in Big City, U.S.A., strapped to a job and a routine. The country folk explain that people in the City are increasingly cut off from nature, and each other, by iPods and smart phones. Apathy is rampant, and the environment will reap that harvest, they argue. Depending on your views, invisible audience, you may well argue that it is already happening. Plus, industries continue to build dams to provide energy for the big cities. Think of the rivers devasted by this process, sighs Johnson and director Chris Malloy.

Tompkins, unlike many armchair environmentalists, uses his funds to preserve land in Chile, to keep Big Business at bay. He's a Zen-like fellow, and a real proactive kinda guy. His compadre, Yvon, has similiar views but is also an entertainingly gruff blowhard who bitches about, well, lots of things. My favorite line of his: when describing mountain climbing, real, bona-fide roughing it mountain climbing, he cites how corporations conversely make it too easy and pretty. How packages that schedule climbs up Mt. Everest make those with enough cash very comfortable, such as surgeons and attorneys. He jokes, "they even leave a little chocolate on your sleeping bag. You get nothing out of it, You're an asshole at the beginning of the climb, and you're still an asshole when you return!"

But back to Patagonia and the treacherous Cerra Corcovado. It proves to be a more difficult climb than anyone believed, though it is acknowledged that the Easter Island delay is to blame, as the temperature in Chile got warmer, making the upper reaches of the mountain more apt to hazard. Just 200 feet of the summit, Johnson and a few others (Yvon had bailed earlier) raise the white flag. Too dangerous. So frustrating, but as I watched I felt as if God was chuckling. Why does Man always feel he has to conquer nature? Be it a monstrously cresting wave or a snow capped mountain peak, there are those with adrenaline in their veins who thrive on insane, extreme quests, taunting the wild outdoors. They can't help it. Perhaps it is pathological?

In my efforts to avoid a sermon here, I simply believe we should enjoy nature, respect it. Part of that respect includes knowing when to leave it alone: be it mining, stripping, exploiting. Or even climbing and surfing. I was glad to see these guys have a healthy perspective on it all. 180º SOUTH is different than many outdoorsy/extreme sport/ecological docs, more thoughtful, if imperfect. Decent soundtrack. Worth a look.

Black Metallic

2011-06-27T05:15:00.000-07:00

One of the best of the "shoe gazer" genre. I love how this song builds and soars.....

I selected the "audio only" version because this is a song best set to YOUR imagination, not a video director's (though the official video did grab my attention in places).

Remembering 97 GTR

2011-06-24T05:00:00.001-07:00

Back in the late 80s/'90 I often found myself laying rubber to the guitar and metal crunch of Miami's WGTR 97.3 FM. It was an Album Oriented Rock (AOR) station in a market already crowded with 'em. 97 GTR focused more on the rock of the day than obscure Crosby, Stills, & Nash like competitor Zeta 4, though. Along with the expected hair band fluff of Warrant and Poison, GTR played Joe Satriani and even Donald Fagen and Midge Ure tracks.

The music suited me, but it was the station's personalities who made it so much fun. Herman and McBean (formerly of competitor 103 SHE) did the morning show. It was actually funny. Steve Stansell, a very personable sounding guy, did evenings. Scott "Guitar Balls" Chapin lent his voice to just about everything (and guaranteed you've heard him somewhere, as he's done spots and voiceovers for many TV and radio stations around the country). GTR portrayed a party atmosphere that was infectious, and evident at the remotes they did in Dade and Broward counties (occasionally southern Palm Beach, too). Crazy contests, song parodies, practical jokes (they hyped and simulcast a fantasy superconcert with the driving directions which, if followed exactly, would've led you smack in the middle of the Atlantic). I also recall an event where eveyone met in the paking lot of a Sound Advice and cranked Guns 'N' Roses' "Paradise City" simultaneously to see who had the best (or least distorted) car stereo unit.

In the same North Bay Village (off the 79th Street Causeway) building as GTR was AM talk station WIOD, and I also listened to host Neil Rogers in those days. During his show, Neil would stop and remark that the walls of his studio would rumble due to the music and Lord knows what else was going on in the GTR studios next door. It was like a scene out of that film FM (scroll back for review). Somtims GTR jocks would stop in and chat with Neil, too. As a side note, Rogers passed away in Dec. 2010. I posted an entry about him a year and a half or so before. He was quite the personality himself, so having him tangentially involved in the GTR nonsense just made it all the more fun.

It all sounds dumb, I realize. Many stations, even today, don the infantile act, but GTR was something different. It was a nice alternative to the self-importance, relentless self-promotion of so many radio stations (FM and AM) at the time. It somehow made you feel like you were part of it, not just some anonymous listener. It was one of the last stations I heard that so prominently featured "personalities", DJs who actually added to the mix, rather than just being annoying voices that talked all over your music. Those who grew up in generations past really got to experience radio stations as more of an art form. I wish I had been old enough to appreciate it. Those who were might've felt GTR was already a corporate compromise, but I felt it was something cool. Yes, I was in my late teens/early 20s, but still.

These days, radio has largely become consolidated, lifeless shlock (the music and the DJ banter). Clear Channel and other behemoths have drained the life away, and housed many stations on the same floor in various buildings. I got to visit a local industrial park last year where one of my patients, a DJ and tinnitus sufferer, worked. We played around with a mixer and spectral analyzer to suss out various narrow bands of noise for him to listen to on his iPod. Very cool night. But it also allowed me to see that several local radio stations were all just a door away from each other.

One of the most memorable of the GTR DJs was Patty Murray, who did drive time broadcasts (3-7 weekdays). Her energy and appreciation of even the most ridiculous tracks (like Sam Kinison's cover of "Wild Thing") made for fun listening. Sadly, she died in a car wreck in 1989, on a day I still remember so clearly. The way the normally raucous station handled this tragic news was tasteful, approriately reverant, yet the spirit of the station was never morose. Patty would've wanted it that way. Shortly after, a CD featuring several of 97 GTR's song spoofs was compiled, with proceeds going to the Make A Wish Foundation. I never got to purchase one.

About a month ago, the GTR page on Facebook announced that a box of these CDs had been found in Chapin's (now living in Wisconsin) garage. Again, proceeds from the $10 discs would go to Make A Wish in Patty's honor. I got one and experienced that rush one gets when hearing something familiar for the first time in many years. Patty herself sang "Bimbo Rock", a knock-off of that old limbo song. Other tracks take potshots at Jim Bakker and Sylvester Stallone, both dubious 80s icons, of course. "Bowling with a Turkey" is a wildly silly but well produced take on CCR's "Proud Mary". The disc also contains the infamous "Jamaican Bobsled" and National Condom Week tunes, as well as the theme song for the "Home Invasions", where listeners would win contests to have the DJs crash their houses at 6 in the morning with a whole bunch of ruckus. Imagine living next door to a winner! Van Halen's "Eruption" vibrating your windows.

Listening to this disc put me right back in my old '86 Chevy Cavalier, rockin' out while driving to Palm Beach Atlantic College. Those were good times. But, in May of 1990, 97 GTR went dark. After the last rebel yells, the safer sounds of "the 70s, 80s, and today" suddenly filled the air: The Coast was born. I also clearly recall driving home from school and wondering what in the heck Michael Jackson and Swing Out Sister were doing where Rush and The Cult belonged. You know the story; the Arbitron ratings weren't favorable. Three rock stations were perhaps one too many for the market. I wish I could hear tapes of the last several hours of 97 GTR. An article I read stated that management told the jocks they could play whatever they wanted that final afternoon, as long as they didn't rip on their bosses. Would be pretty historic to hear, hours that could also be analyzed as some of the last of Old Radio itself......

Last Tango in Paris

2011-06-20T05:15:00.000-07:00

What a cause célèbre was director Bernardo Bertolucci's 1972 atrocity LAST TANGO IN PARIS! During some initial screenings, filmgoers on both sides of the Atlantic had to contend with picketers who hurled epithets at them while they waited in long lines to buy tickets. Local governments around the world confiscated prints. Maria Schneider (Jeanne) and Marlon Brando (Paul) denounced the harrowing experience of shooting the picture, both eventually accusing their director of bullying and deviance. The behind the scenes fracas (pre and post production)is far more interesting than what we witness onscreen for 129 painful minutes. One of my favorites: Brando refused to memorize his lines (can't blame him, and I would've charged the studio thousands per word to utter this nonsense)so he suggested that, during one of the more intimate scenes, his words be written on his co-star's derriere. Even Bertolucci refused such an absurd and lascivious request.

I'm certainly in the minority in my opinion among film lovers on this movie, though some respected critics agree that it is essentially smut wrapped in an art house package. Maybe it is. Not that I'm a connoiseur of the alleged pornographic, but this film fails in that department as well as artistically. I originally saw this film some 20 + years after its controversial debut, so I was well removed from being influenced by the zeitgeist. But by then, this film was hailed as some sort of piece of classic cinema. A notorious film with a famous "butter" scene, billed as supremely erotic. It (and the film) is not.

Paul and Jeanne both seek to rent the same apratment in Paris. They decide to have an affair, the kind where names are not disclosed and emotions are held in check. They proceed to have emotionless, empty sex. I saw no joy, especially not in Jeanne's eyes. Paul is an arrogant prig who spouts some of the most outrageously banal dialogue I've ever heard in a film of this stature. For your reading pleasure, I'll list some of them further on. He seems to be enjoying thet trysts, and then promptly stops showing up at the apartment. Jeanne is distraught; she seeks him out. Or does she?

They eventually meet on the street and Paul is the one who wants to resume the affair. They do indeed do a tango in a bar and begin to really communicate. Jeanne gets a bit spooked and decides to end it. Paul admits he is in love. Somewhere in between, he forces himself upon her, using a stick of butter as a lubricant. It is a scene of great pain, to my eyes. How people can decide that the scene is erotic or sexy is beyond me, and I'm far from prudish. I just think people misread Bertolucci's intentions. The scene is abrupt and edited with no regard for sensuality. It is all about Paul's sense of power. I guess the scene works in that regard.

The closing scenes of the film contain the Relevatory, Meaningful Climax (no pun intended; sorry, couldn't resist). It's a scene you've seen in one form or another many times. Here, it is clumsy and ineffectual. Even if it was poignant, I would not have cared, as I hadn't for the previous 2 hours. LAST TANGO IN PARIS is a deadeningly dull, pretentious pile of swill that some have championed, perpetuating this reputation of brilliance that I did not see. I often say that films are only successful if they meet the filmmaker's goals. It seems to me that Bertolucci was trying to make something sexily high-brow and dissonant, but it's all just twaddle.

And often ridiculous. Let's laundry list some of the dialogue:

1. "I could dance forever! Oh, my hemorrhoid!"

2. "You know in 15 years, you're going to be playing soccer with your tits. What do you think of that?"

3. "What are we doing here?"

"Let's just say we're taking a flying fuck at a rolling donut."

4. "Listen, that's not a subway strap, that's me cock!"

Sure, there's more, but this is a family blog! You might about now blow a whistle and say that I've quoted out of context. I ask you: in what context would any of the above be considered appropriate or indicative of something worthwhile? This film is supposed to be art! I think it all may have had a chance of working if it were silent. Yes, a silent film, even as late as the 1970s. It would've been a bold experiment that, had Bertolucci focused and rallied the talent he has shown on most of his other films (even other controversial pieces like 1979's LUNA, quite underrated),LAST TANGO might have really been something. Instead we have what we have. The scenery (here, I mean architecture) in some scenes is at least nice.

Is it worth even one viewing, just to say that you've seen it? Caveat emptor, invisible audience, caveat emptor. Feel free to respond if you disagree!

Part VIII; The Great Overrated

Tourista, Book VII: Finale!

2011-06-16T05:00:00.001-07:00

Our legs were on fire from hiking the steps at Montmartre but we had to squeeze in another famous Parisian spot: the Moulin Rouge. On this day, we decided to skip the Metro and just marvel at this great City on foot; the Boulevard de Clichy wasn't that far away. Before we saw the well known red windmill we spotted a long line of folks waiting for the cabaret inside. Apparently, the show is far less risque than in years past (dating back to the 1880s), especially at the turn of the century when saucy burlesque was the mainstay. The can-can style of dance is still performed, if with a bit less fishnet flaunting. We wanted to stay for a show but there were more sites to visit.

On the way to Moulin Rouge, I saw a sign that would certainly raise the eyebrows of an American.Ordering lunch in Paris can be tricky!

The final day, we managed to see the retail paradise known as the Champs-Élysées, looking quite a bit more modern than I would've imagined. Many of the storefronts looked like places I've seen across the U.S. I'm sure longtime vistors would explain how Americanized the long row of shopping has become. I remember my 9th grade French teacher telling us her madras blouse and funky purse had been purchased in a shop there. I also remember one of my smartass classmmates repeatedly calling it the "Champs (hard C-h) Ulysses".

That kid also tried to butcher the pronunication of the Arc de Triomphe, which stands west of the Champs-Élysées. This monument, completed around 1835, is a mammoth structure which celebrates the solidiers of the Napoleonic Wars and the French Revolution. The names of many who served are etched inside the concave pillars of the Arc, with sculptures depicting battles of the Wars viisble on the outer rims. I took some pictures but the light was not with us, unfortunately.

I did manage to get a usuable shot of the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel, which stands west of the great Louvre Musuem. Its sculptures depict the wartime victories of Napoleon.
Speaking of the Louvre....I'm speechless. More comprehensive or eye-filling a place I've yet to witness. The Palais du Louvre, originally a fortress built in the 12th century, houses the over 650,000 thousand square foot space. Here's a slice.The Musuem opened in the eighteenth century amidst some disorganization. Later, into the next century, collections and building wings were now arranged chronologically. It would take me several entries to detail what I saw that day in September of 2010, though the fact that we were only able to spend a few hours there (not nearly enough by a mile) would not provide sufficient data anyway.

The initially controversial glass pyramid, completed in the late 1980s, stands over an entrance to the Cour Napoleon, the main court. Some felt the more modern structure was a blight on the landscape, an insult to the structures which had stood through periods of the Restoration, the Third Republic, and so on.

Close to 35,000 items are housed in the Louvre, many dating from prehistory. I was endlessly fascinated as I examined primitive tools, cookware, furniture, and weaponry. Not just the intracacies (yet apparent functionality) of design, but that these artifacts survived untold climates over the centuries, including the metereological sort. It seemed impossible to stare at an item so ancient, one that had not yet turned to dust, like so many others had that were built so long afterward.

We of course had a mission to see the most famous painting of all, the Mona Lisa: Leonardo Da Vinci's 16th century portrait of an ordinary Italian woman named Lisa del Giocondo. I saw the crowd as I entered the room in which it was housed. It (canvas and frame) was much smaller than what I was expecting and is encased behind thick panes of bulletproof glass in response to multiple attempts at theft (including a successful one in 1911; the painting was missing for 2 years), and vandals over the years.

We also marveled at the famous Greek statue, the Venus de Milo, from several angles.We wandered the halls of the Louvre, often overwhelmed as to what to observe, what to study, what to pass by. I cannot say enough about this most essential of museums. If you create "bucket lists" this surely must be in the Top 5.

We flew back to the U.S.A. with a suitcase filled with goodies purchased in France and Spain. This would be my first experience with customs, and it was not at all bad. The agent spread cans and packages across a backroom table in the Charlotte, NC airport with a meticulous eye. My wife is a thorough packer and itemizer, ensuring we had no difficulties (or confiscations).

Since this, my first trip ever overseas, I've already formulated a return not just to Paris, but to many stops in Europe. Sorry it has taken me nearly a year to complete these entries! I look forward to writing many more in the years to come.

Paris, Je T'Aime

2011-06-13T05:00:00.000-07:00

I'm not saying it's easy to tell a story in 90 or 120 minutes, but it's a heck of a lot harder to tell it in 5. The luxuries of character development and transition are not at your disposal. It's not like a lengthy jazz piece, but rather more like a rock or pop song in which you have to burn all the way through. Wes Craven, one of the directors of 2007's anthology PARIS, JE T'AIME, describes it as (something like this) "In five minutes you can't have John. Drives to the market. Meets Jane. Goes to the park. It's John drives to the maket and meets Jane and goes to the park." Apt. As you could imagine, things could go awry very easily.

They most certainly do not in this collection. Recall my review for its sequel, 2009's NEW YORK, I LOVE YOU, last month. The disparate tales told in that movie rarely worked and just felt pointless. In PARIS JE T'AIME, we conversely understand these characters and entirely get why they love this most romantic of cities. It is a very happy merger of the cinematic and the beautiful economy of the short story. Just about every segment involves us. In very little time, we get a richly detailed portrait. We, of course, can't get all the details but we're given enough to develop ideas on our own. Like that young mother (Catalina Sandino Moreno) in "Loin de 16e" who drops off her own child in daycare to rush across the city to tend to her employer's baby. Or the aging couple (Ben Gazzara and Gena Rowlands) in "Quartier Latin" who meet for a drink before divorce proceedings the next day. Also, the mother (Juliette Binoche) who, in "Place des Victoires", grieves the death of her son and gets the chance to visit him in the afterlife, if but for a moment. Sometimes it's in the dialogue, and when there's little of that, it's in the directors' and actors' choices. What to show? What to hold back? Every moment has a purpose. There's just so little time. NEW YORK, I LOVE YOU, didn't seem to get that.

The other movie also tried to hard to be clever, to pull the rug out from under us at the conclusion of each tale. This time, a few segments suprise us without feeling gimmicky. Alfonso Cuaron's "Parc Monceau" reveals the relationship between an American (Nick Nolte)and a young Parisian girl (Ludivine Sagnier)gradually, their dialogue filled with clues. Gus Van Sant's "Le Marais" leads to a climax we've all experienced in one form or another. Vincenzo Natali's "Quartier de la Madeleine", a vampire horror/romance (complete with copius CGI bloodletting) resolves in a way consistent with vampire legendry; this episode is good campy fun, one you might've expected to have been directed by horror maestro Craven, who instead contributes "Pere-Lachaise", a story of an about to be married couple who visit the grave of Oscar Wilde.

The Coen Brothers contribute "Tuileries", a coldly clever, unsympathetic yet funny bit with Steve Buscemi as a tourist, hunched down in the Metro with his maps and guidebooks, drawing the ire of a local and his girlfriend (and a little brat with a pea shooter). It's amusing and very much in the vein of the Coens' other works. Buscemi never says a word, even at times reminding us of one of the clowns of silent films. Tom Tykwer's "Faubourg Saint-Denis" is a frantic, time shifting bit of cinema focusing on a young blind man's (Melchior Beslon) romance with an actress (Natalie Portman) that dazzles us with its style (think RUN LOLA RUN's energy) and satisfying wrap up. Sylvain Chomay's "Tour Eiffel" manages to take that most enduring of French cliches, the mime, and not only poke fun at them, but also embrace them with a sweetly funny valentine.

The tone of PARIS JE T'AIME shifts wildly among episodes, but smoothly, expertly. Like a DJ segueing music. Some of the bits became instant favorites of mine that I know I'll be watching again for years to come. It's a fine blending of styles among such an eclectic band of directors. The only piece that didn't completely come together for me was "Quartier des Enfants Rouges", directed by Olivier Assayas and starring Maggie Gyllenhal as an actress on location, striking up a connection with a young man we learn is a courier of special merchandise. The intrigue is minimal; it felt like one of the misfires of I LOVE YOU, NEW YORK.

This film also has this certain quality that appeals to me: the unxplainable feeling you get when you're on to the next story, but you're still thinking about the previous one. You're full into a new segment, meeting the principals and learning about them, but still you think on that young man who meets a Middle Eastern woman and her grandfather. You wonder what happens right after that last shot we just saw. You care. This occurred for me over and over in this movie, but maybe it's just me. I sometimes feel this way when I've finshed watching one TV program and the next one begins. What are the other characters doing now?

My favorite segment of PARIS JE T'AIME? "14e arrondissement", written and directed by Alexander Payne, who has an impressive resume of films like SIDEWAYS and ABOUT SCHMIDT. Each of his works examine someone who feels increasingly isolated, perhaps trapped in the past. Margot Martindale plays an American who has saved enough to spend 6 days in Paris. She narrates her segment entirely in French, quite proud of her lessons. Her attempts at an authentic accent are positively authentically American. She describes her life as a postal worker back home in Denver, a former boyfriend who is now married with children, the loneliness she often feels. It is heartbreaking, yet flashes of well timed humor are just perfect amongst the melancholia (like in SCHMIDT). Martindale is just perfect as the plain Jane, and having her narrate in French just makes it so effective. Her final scene is a summary for the entire film, a great moment that many have experienced while in the City of Lights, a moment that was all the more effective for me as I made my own first trip to Paris last year. This is a wonderful movie.

Changeling

2011-06-10T05:00:00.001-07:00

Possible Spoilers

Director Clint Eastwood's 2008 CHANGELING, for many, is the worst sort of horror film: a harrowing document of the loss of a child. As I watched the true, heartbreaking story of Christine Collins (Angelina Jolie), I just couldn't imagine the enormity of the pain. I'm not a parent, and I don't imagine this film would be an easy experience for any viewer who might be. Especially knowing that J. Michael Straczynski's screenplay is faithful to the events of corruption and murder in 1928 Los Angeles.

Single mother Collins, a switchboard operator manager, returns home one day to find her young son missing. After several agonizing months, the LAPD reports that the child has been found. When Collins meets Captain J.J. Jones (Jeffrey Donovan), Head of the Juvenile Division at the train station, she expects a joyous, tearful reunion. Instead, she finds an imposter, a boy who only ressembles her beloved son in passing. Understandably, Collins is aghast, but there are reporters present, and Jones repeatedly refutes Collins' dismissal: it's been a long time, he's not the same child, etc. Jones is quietly relentless; Collins acquiesces, agreeing to take the boy home "on a trial basis".

There is no doubt;it is not her son. His height doesn't reach that pencil mark on the doorjamb, the one Collins measured with her son in the opening scenes. Collins repeatedly calls the department with her outrage. However, an LAPD appointed doctor comes to the house and explains that a child's spine can shorten after a trauma. He will also summarily dismiss all of Collins' claims. There seems to be a conspiracy, but why? Perhaps not a malicious conspiracy, but instead the wiping of egg off of one's face, or in contemporary parlance, a "CYA". Unfortunately, a department's cover-up of ineptitude will be a woman's hell.

Meanwhile, a local reverend, Gustav Briegleb (John Malcovich), whose weekly radio program is mostly spent decrying the rampant corruption of the local police force, hears about Collins' case. Briegleb is the sort of fellow you want on your side; he's just as determined to expose wrongdoing as the LAPD are to perpetuating it. He meets Collins, but in the interim she will be institutionalized by Jones due to her insistence as to her "son's" identity. We will observe Collins endure a hellish stay at L.A. County Hospital's "psychopathic ward". We will also follow another detective as he apprehends and questions a young Canadian boy as he's about to be deported. As CHANGELING's serpentine events unfold, it will be apparent that Christine's dilemma has more than a bit of commonality with the other case.

The second half of the film details the fallout, the aftermath of the described events. These scenes may give you a bit of relief, watching as the wheels of justice perhaps finally spin. The desire to see Christine receive some vindication is what drives the later scenes of this lengthy picture, and there is no denying the payoff, even if the conclusions are not especially Storybook Happy. That's life. I'm pleased that the filmmakers stuck to history.

Grim meat, this movie. Somber, almost humorless in its storytelling, CHANGELING is far from light entertainment. The very material of the storyline is engrossing from start to finish. Eastwood and his crew pay particular attention to period detail: the drab garments, the ubiquitous cable cars. However, like many recent Eastwood pictures, it is a craftsmanlike drama that is satisfying, yet a bit too pat.

Originally, Ron Howard (still credited as a producer) was to direct. Interestingly, the movie nonetheless plays like something Howard would make. CHANGELING is filled with (and a bit hampered by)big Hollywood moments, such as when Briegleb and colleagues bust in and rescue Collins just before she is subjected to shock treatment in the ward. The sequence even has her saviors yelling at the nurses, a scene I've seen dozens of times, the "I'll have your job if you don't let me through" type. Also, one of Collins' ward mates, a feisty prostitute, utters an empowering, profane line of dialogue which of course Collins will repeat at just the right moment. Scenes such as this are too contrived for me, too written. Christine's story is potent enough without this silliness.

Ms. Jolie is quite fine in the title role, for once not toting a gun or wearing tank tops. She disappears behind floppy period hats and constricting clothing, her face sullen yet always suggesting a dash of hope. Malkovich is excellent, as usual, with the correct forcefulness and brio Briegleb requires. The supporting cast are also well chosen (it's good to see Donovan in something besides Burn Notice, though his mannerisms are similiar here). The "making-of" programs on the DVD show the happy atmosphere Eastwood fostered on his set.

But that got me thinking. You've heard how dictatorial, hardass directors are hell to work with, yet often produce great cinema? Eastwood is not a multiple take guy, he works quickly and without perfectionism. Is that why his films (excepting UNFORGIVEN and some others) are solid but not seminal? Perhaps, but the screenplay is also to blame, in part, for CHANGELING's standard issue feel. As before, I will still recommend the film (unless you're a grieving parent; there's one flashback that is especially unnerving and graphic)with mild enthusiasm. The appropriate tone and professionalism are there. I just wanted something...more..Not dramatic weight, but perhaps dramatic artistry that dispenses with the Syd Mead Screenwriting rulebook.

Ordet

2011-06-07T05:00:00.001-07:00

There are no onscreen cast and crew credits for 1955's ORDET. We are not told that the esteemed Dane Carl Dreyer directed it. There isn't a hint of a whiff of a shred of pomp. This film, based on a play by Kaj Munk, deals with the struggle of faith. A story framework which could understandably be perceived as melodramatic when described is mere business, nuts and bolts to elucidate Munk's and Dreyer's points. The atmosphere is entirely somber and melancholy in the great Scandanavian tradition. The one humorous line in the movie uses Kirkegaard in its punchline.

The story is told deliberately, though the pace of ORDET is not glacial. We are almost immediately involved in the drama of the Borgen family, of widowed patriarch Morten and his three sons: Mikkel, a religious skeptic, Anders, a lovelorn youth, and Johannes, a former seminary student whose studies perhaps have caused enough of the leaving of his senses to believe he is Jesus Christ. Mikkel is married to Inger, a loving and supportive bride with two young daughters; a third child is due any day. Morten hopes it will be a son.

Anders is in love with Anne Petersen, daughter of Peter, the local tailor. Peter does not approve of Anders or the entire Borgen farm as he feels their faith in God is merely lip service, not genuine. The stage is set for perhaps a Shakesperian tale of warring families. Morten arrives at the Petersen domecile to discuss the dilemma. The two men discuss their misgivings with each other. Morten feels that Peter's rigidity has choked the joy out of him, that his somber demeanor belies the joy of knowing God. There are many miserable Christians out there.

The viewer might say both Peter and Morten are unrepentant in their refusal to acknowledge each other's points of view. Why are there so many denominations? There is one word of God, but the interpretations of it are countless, often shaped to fit one's comfort. Mikkel is a good person, caring and human, but apparently isn't so sure about the Divine. The characters in ORDET seem adrift in either strict ritual or a more aimless, benign form of God acknowledgement.

But there's also Johannes. Was it merely the young man's immersive studies that lead to a madness so deep and profound that he believes he is the son of God? Are Dreyer and Munk insinuating something else? Maybe God is using Johannes as a vessel to remind those who've lost their way (read: everyone else in the village). Johannes will continue to hover around as his sister becomes gravely ill as she tries to deliver her baby. The doctor does his work, crediting science for every step. The family will wait and acknowledge. Johannes asks all to believe in miracles. Only Inger's older daughter will listen, though she also wishes her uncle would at least tuck her into bed.

By the amazing climax of ORDET, a miracle does occur. It is quite stunning and powerful, even to my cinematically jaded eyes. It must have been positively overwhelming to 1950s audiences. The final scene is a culmination of the film's many themes regarding faith in what one cannot see. Who among His believers (especially in the face of blinding tragedy) truly believes that God can engineer events that science alleges to debunk? When the flesh is pushed to the fire, even the most devoted may wilt. Those who don't, outcasts like Johannes, are deemed insane. Even Christians' resolve to acknowledge the Divine will often fail if things aren't logical.

ORDET would be perfect viewing for mixed company, believers and empiricists alike. I could imagine that someone might consider my previous paragraph and then say, what about someone like Harold Camping? Remember him, the guy who predicted that the Rapture would occur this past May? Wasn't God using him? How can we tell who is genuine and who is a crackpot? ORDET does not answer, but rather shows the beauty and power of undiluted faith, even if it is through a character many would consider a blasphemer.

I have read reviews from folks who were Christians and others who were agnostics or atheists; most found ORDET to be a beautifully rendered meditation on the power of unwavering faith. Dreyer challenges the viewer at every turn, holding a mirror to every audience member, reflecting our mores and inhibitions in his and Munk's characters. The director moves the camera deftly around rooms, sometimes ominously, other times with anticipation. Dreyer creates the cinematic out of what is essentially static, but I also felt he preserved the theatrical origins as the actors' line readings and posture evoked the excitement of seeing a live production. How rare, to succeed in both regards.

ORDET is a bona fide classic that will certainly be a personal experince for most viewers, regardless of their spirtual convictions. Regardless of that, there's little denying the sheer power. Especially that final scene.

PBA, Book Two

2011-06-04T05:02:00.000-07:00

My first day as a college student at Palm Beach Atlantic in the Fall of 1987 was pretty heady. I can still remember walking through the August heat down Olive Ave. to my first class: Philosophy. Not exactly a cushy introduction. Dr. Don Berry, whose sons I grew up with in the church, stood at the lectern in Borbe Hall and proceeded to conduct the class in the most laissez faire manner I imagined was possible. No outlines, no structure at all. This was not anything to which I was accustomed. I kept waiting...waiting..for some main point, but he just spoke. He spoke like one of those guys who sat cross legged in the Student Center, pontificating on antimatter, if with a bit more authority. Rather, Dr. Berry, a highly esteemed and great man, mind you, was dressed like a Southern Baptist preacher and spoke of Heidegger and his contemporaries. And note taking? I had no idea what to write down.

Philosophy class also introduced me to the "mixed ages" sampling so common in college, especially with what was largely a commuter campus. There were middle aged men sitting in the front row; I found it odd. I was 18 and used to being around people my own age in the classroom. It was odd but I began to appreciate it, and the class. Even if it was often merely an arena for debate. While my new friend Randall, who in great frustration, stated rather frankly that his time would be better spent even masturbating, I grew to really enjoy Dr. Berry's lectures. We did have tests, mostly essay, and I'm pretty sure I received an "A". It would prove to be one of my most memorable courses.

During my freshmen year I also took American Free Enterprise, required for all students. As Dr. Donald Warren recounts in his book Miracles and Wonders: A Chronicle of Palm Beach Atlantic University, the class was created in the 1970s by Colonel Trauger (who I had for Advertising a few years later)after he became increasingly dismayed at students' lack of understanding of how our market system (is supposed to) works after he saw the results of a campus questionnaire. Robert Inglis taught the comprehensive course. Dr. Inglis would be my prof. for several more classes as I later declared my major to be Business Administration.

Why? I've thought about this many times. That's what a guy was supposed to major in. Women typically majored in psychology (or as the many Baptist humorists quipped: the "Mrs." degree). Certainly some truth to that, as I'll relay. PBA was a Christian campus, so of course many of the guys who didn't major in business sought their B.A. or B.S. in religion. Not too many girls did. I took a homiletics course my senior year (my minor was Communications, and since we had to write and deliver a sermon at the end of the semester it counted as such) and in a class of 12 or so there were 2 females. When they delivered their orations they were torn apart during the critique session for being "too emotive."

As a sidebar, I still have the sermon I wrote, which was based on the Book of Job. I delivered mine in a semi-ominous tone ala Brad Crandall, who narrated IN SEARCH OF HISTORIC JESUS, that schlocky documentary (I use that term loosely) from the 70s. I don't remember any harsh criticism. I was also no Adrian Rogers at the podium.

Was I interested in business? Yes, actually I was. In those days, I read the Wall Street Journal and even some of the more esoteric economic journals with great interest. Mainly, I just seemed like the right major to declare, a path to credibility during the job hunt. I was naive. Bus. Adm. is one of the most general of degrees. I had little idea specifically of what I wanted to do. But I still had a few years to think about it.

I was also interested in literature and creative writing, but the so-called Voices of Reason were loud and discouraged me from taking that road, a road I believed would lead to unemployment. If I had it to do over again? Well, as I later found audiology as my career choice, I would probably major in Communication Disorders, but PBA didn't have that. Otherwise, I might've tried something more artistic.

TO BE CONTINUED..........

Key West

2011-06-01T05:01:00.000-07:00

A sizable chunk of my 20s are/were an alcoholic blur. That included (I'm fairly sure) a brief trip to Key West. It was vaguely familiar. I'd always wanted to return for a proper tour. For our second wedding anniversary, I did. What a gorgeous place.

Folks are constantly referring to South Florida as "paradise". If you consider a sweltering, overly commercialized, attitude-ridden swath of swampland a paradise, more power to you. Yes, there are pretty beaches, quaint historic neighborhoods (I live in one), and some lovely people, but overall I've always found it a wildly overrated mecca of unchecked entitlement and humidity. But not Key West.

It takes over 4 hours by automobile from West Palm Beach to the southernmost tip, but the drive down U.S. 1 ("Overseas Highway") is dandy. Instead of miles of concrete and unpredictable truckers, to say nothing of those daredevil cyclists who speed around you maybe 20 degrees off the pavement, you get a 2 lane highway that passes over the gorgeous waters of the Atlantic and Gulf of Mexico, their hues in the sunlight brilliant blues and greens. Some of the islands or "keys" you pass through are more commercial (Islamorada, Marathon, Tavernier) and feature lots of shops and the usual eyesores of local businesses, but usually it's only a minute before the landscape once again reveals much unspoiled foliage and wetland. There's even a habitat for deer in Big Pine Key; you are warned with several signs to watch for them. It was encouraging to learn that the deer population, once near extinction, has now multiplied.

When you finally get to the county seat of Monroe County, you are now closer to Havana, Cuba than to Miami. The neighborhood where the famous buoy sits announcing the 90 mile point from Cuba in fact reminded my wife of the troubled country to the South (she had visited nearly 10 years before). We took the obligatory picture with it. There was a line of folks waiting for their turn, handing their cameras to strangers behind them; quite the unexpected social event, there.Nearby on Whitehead and Truman (named after the U.S. President who spent quite a bit of time in town) is the Hemingway House. Almost immediately you are greeted by the famouse yellow shutters and dozens of felines, some with six toes, descendents of Snowball, Ernest's kitty from decades past.A tour guide with just the right amount of character lead us through the rooms and gardens of the estate, his colorful narrative quite entertaining.As I had already learned during my work on a research paper during high school, Papa Hemingway had a troubled but adventurous 61 years on this earth. Several wives, homes also in Cuba, Spain, and Idaho (where he committed suicide in the early 1960s), famous and not-so-famous friends were all discussed. The House was very peaceful, the cats dozing in the shade or on antique furniture. A bit of amusement: a urinal from the original Sloppy Joe's sits horizontally in the garden, used as a fountain. Our guide explained that Hemingway felt that since "I pissed enough money away in (it), I might as well keep it!" We also huddled in a narrow stairwell to see the room where many of the author's novels were typed.Across Truman Street is the Key West Lighthouse and Museum, open for tourists since its deactivation in 1969.Completed in 1847, the tower was a replacement for the previous structure built at Whitehead's Point, the southernmost point of the island, in 1826. Over the years, the lighthouse system was improved with Fresnel lenses from France and the tower itself got higher and higher. We ascended the very narrow staircase and looked out over the Key, all 360 degrees from the top.

Back down in the gift shop, I picked up a book which detailed the history of the one time railroad system spearheaded by Henry Flagler around 1911-1912. It was the first and only time trains were to be linked to the mainland. Many laborers lost their lives erecting the concrete structure with tracks over swamps and eventually into the Gulf of Mexico. The Great Depression and a major hurricane did it in in the mid-30s. The railroad was not rebuilt, but U.S. Highway One's full trail to the lowest Keys was completed in 1938.

Backing up, per a recommendation we at at the lovely Blue Heaven restaurant on Thomas Street, an outdoor, patio-like atmosphere of neon and art, the tables placed around giant trees. We of course had to have key lime pie on this trip, and theirs was a doozy, complete with a tall meringue head atop.In fact, you would expect we had lots of fine food and atmosphere to go with it. We had a lunch at Hog's Breath (sirloin sandwich and onion rings), a nice wrap for lunch at Sweet Tea's, a tasty plate of flounder at the 30 + year old Bagatelle; the latter 2 eateries on famous Duval Street.

You've heard of Duval? It's the only street in the U.S. bordered by 2 oceans: the Atlantic to the East and the Gulf of Mexico to the West. It is the main drag, part of Old Town, with bar after bar after restaurant.....life was teeming there on Saturday night. One guy dressed like Spiderman was playing a sitar. THAT was worthy of some coin in his hat.

Side note: Pepper's, off Duval on Green Street. We went for a visit as my wife's cousin had worked there several years earlier. Never have I seen such a collection of hot sauces and condiments, even spicy coffee! One wall has a glass case with the most potent sauces locked up. We were told that any one drop of those should be diluted in a gallon of water. You have to sign a waiver to purchase any of them.

We did not engage on any aquatic adventures on this trip, aside from a few hours on the glass bottom boat, which sails about 6 miles into the Gulf, hovering over one of the largest barrier reefs in the world.Crew members provide very interesting data on the reef and the biology of it; I was not aware how toxic humans' bateria are to coral, for example. On future visits, we will definitely snorkel around. John Pennekamp State Park in Key Largo to the north is also a great location to gaze at undersea life.

We did not drive around Key West; it just isn't necessary. Renting a bike or scooter serves one well. The weather was grand, so we just walked (better to burn all those calories!). We would walk Eaton toward Old Town, drinking in all the fanatastic architecture. Antebellum and Art Deco homes line the aves, many converted into hotels, B & Bs, museums, but many occupied by residents, perhaps many who visited and never left. Understandable. Our final morning in town we ate breakfast at a hotel right on the beach. Our English waitress explained that she and her husband moved to Key West last summer and have no immediate plans to leave. If it wasn't for the hurricane threat to such a low lying plain (plus the heat of the summer months), I think my wife and I would follow suit.

Finally, there are 2 other things about Key West you may have very likely heard about: ubiquitous roosters and otherwordly sunsets. Our wanderings around the island revealed many chickens and roosters, and their offspring, pecking about the beautiful gardens in search of insects. The roosters crow near non-stop on the street, in trees, everywhere. Someone said there is a city ordinance protecting them. After a few hours in Key West, it seemed completely normal to have them around.

The sunset? I first learned of the patented beauty and appreciation, interestingly enough, from the 1985 buddy comedy RUNNING SCARED. That was the one with Billy Crystal and Gregory Hines as Chicago cops who strongly consider retiring in the Keys. In one scene, Crystal wonders why everyone has gathered just to watch the sun dip into the West yet again. He learns it is a tradition. If you go, it won't take long for you to stand mesmerized by the shifting light and color schemes, the palette growing more orangey golden as the giant ball melts and kisses the ocean. We stood in Mallory Square with hundreds of others, including entertainers who juggled and had cats jumping through hoops of fire. The soft clicking of cameras and "ooh"s and "ahh"s lasted quite a while until the great light finally disappeared. We were left with a violet twilight that was perfect atmosphere for a romantic stroll with my bride.

We wondered aloud many times why it took so long for us to visit. I think we'll be returning quite soon.

Historic West Palm Beach and Thereabouts

2011-05-29T00:00:00.000-07:00

A splendid gallery of what it all used to look like.............

http://postpix.palmbeachpost.com/mycapture/enlargePopup.asp?image=24571399&event=792421&CategoryID=50975"

Easy Rider

2011-05-25T05:02:00.000-07:00

America Lost & Found: The BBS Story, Part V

SPOILERS

"They're not scared of you. They're scared of what you represent to them."

The speaker of that line is a lawyer named George (Jack Nicholson), and he goes on to explain that what he means by his statement is "freedom": a complete severence from the grid of society's work schedules, prepackaged foods, and yes, short hair. Billy (Dennis Hopper) and Wyatt (Peter Fonda) are a pair of "true nature's child(ren)" who've decided to hit the pavement on a pair of gleaming choppers to discover the genuine U.S.A. Their destination is New Orleans, and the road to it is filled with nature's wonders and man's hate. The pair eventually makes it there, but things don't end so well for them.

As I watched 1969's EASY RIDER again recently, I began to ponder the finale a bit more. It is a sudden, violent, fiery finish, but for this film it is entirely necessary. I mean that both in narrative logic and in more ambiguous thematic terms. The cyclists' odyssey through America has been made possible by the sale of some heavy narcotic. In the opening scenes, the men purchase the unidentified drug in Mexico and then sell it in L.A. to a guy who pulls up in a Rolls Royce. Wyatt, who prefers to be called Captain America (complete with American Flag helmet), stows the cash in the gas tank of his cycle - a bit of symbolism that could provoke endless discussion. It is enough money for him and his compadre to realize their dream life, though we learn later that their actual final stop is Florida, to retire. Just like those thousands of working stiffs who take a bit longer to reach that goal.

So our heroes did the deal like the good capitalists they so despise, threw their watches away cause they're free, man and proceed to experience the backroads and backwaters of our great nation. Check their first names too, bro, yet another thing that makes EASY RIDER seem like a Western on wheels. Just a whole lot hipper.

Most of the time, these guys are completely stoned (according to the materials on the Criterion discs, Hopper et. al really were). Once they reach New Orleans, they advance to harder stuff, acid, which causes much anxiety amongst the chaos of Mardi Gras. Captain America, usually quite the stoic one, even jumps up on a statue and talks to it as if it is his deceased mother (Fonda's real-life mother died when he was 10). They survive the bad trip, after which Wyatt announces that they "blew it." Billy is confused, thinking that they've achieved exactly what they set out to do, and now Florida is just a yellow brick road away.

The path which led them there was troubled. It started fine, with a stop off to meet a friendly farmer who invites them to stay for dinner, with food grown off the land (Captain America really digs that). They pick up a hitchhiker who leads them to a commune of hippies and dropouts who also drop seeds, hoping for a rich harvest. Harvest of food, I mean. These folks also wanted to free themselves of the shackles of the Man and his utility companies and shopping centers. But it gets a little weird at the compound, so Billy and Wyatt split. Then, after getting themselves jailed for driving in a parade without a permit, they meet George, a short haired lawyer who "tied one on" the night before. He's a local, with a hot shot father, and he seems to have a clear perspective on things. He tags along with the duo, laying out for them (and the audience), why this who lifestyle they chose is so dangerous. It won't take long for all three to realize this. They encounter some lynch mob locals in Louisiana. That's America, boys. EASY RIDER ends with a couple of shotgun blasts and downed bikes afire.

The ending is abrupt but inevitable. What cost freedom? Indeed. It makes perfect sense. I originally saw EASY RIDER when I was in high school, responding more to the film's gorgeous travelogue (the New Mexico landscape especially is breathtaking, cinematographer Laslo Kovacs does astounding work again) and ultracool rock soundtrack (Steppenwolf, The Band, Jimi Hendrix). I don't think that bummer of a close resonated as strongly then. Today, it's as if I watched some Americans die for their rights, their freedoms, but in a different way than those who wear military uniforms and comandeer tanks. These guys wear their hair long with pride, they love Mother Earth and believe in live and let live.

But screenwriters Hopper, Fonda, and Terry Southern don't make these guys heroes or martyrs. They are not bathed in some sort of grandeur; they're just people who make choices. With any choice comes responsibility. How exactly did they blow it? If EASY RIDER was some sort of sermon, it wouldn't work, and I don't believe it would've become the sensation it did, even if a lot of its fans took it as some sort of religion. The film was made for less than a mill, bankrolled by the BBS guys after the Monkees venture took off ("If it weren't for the Monkees, there wouldn't have been an EASY RIDER", says Steve Blauner in an interview on Disc Two). It would go on to gross around 60 million dollars worldwide. Seen today, that is unfathomable. It was released by Columbia Pictures. A European style art film with a bare narrative is a box office success in America? It once again makes me wish I had been born earlier.

Criterion's treatment of EASY RIDER includes 2 commentaries. Hopper does one solo, his husky voice full of interesting info but like so many commentaries, he's silent for long stretches. I found it odd that he did not comment on one of the film's most famous moments, when we first see Nicholson on the back of Fonda's ride, sporting a football helmet. Someone once described that as the moment when Jack became a star. Another commentary features, Hopper, Fonda, and production manager Paul Lewis. Brief footage of Hopper and Fonda at the Cannes Film Festival is also featured.

Two making-of docs are also on Disc 2, one from 1995 and the other from '99, with cast and crew often contradicting each other on the tumultuous history of the movie. Hopper comes off like an egomaniac, a wild child. Perhaps his explosive personality is part of what made EASY RIDER such a classic. These guys lived it. They did not retreat to cozy trailers at the end of the day. In fact, Hopper tells of how he resented Stepehen Stills' (of Crosby, Stills, & Nash) arriving to pick him up in a Rolls to discuss scoring. Hopper literally bolted; he wanted authenticty at every level. He would instead utilize the above artists' songs to narrate this trenchant film. It was one of the first movies to feature songs rather than a score. There's also a story of how Hopper pulled on a knife on actor Rip Torn, who was originally supposed to play Wyatt. For years, Hopper rebutted that it was the other way around. And so on.

My favorite moment of the supplements? Blauner gets his own interview, recounting the genesis and development of the BBS project. He's entertainingly gruff as he talks about EASY RIDER's meteoric success. He also describes a fateful association with a young director named Jim McBride (who would later make THE BIG EASY), and how he (Blauner) got so frustrated with the auteur that he slammed a hotel room door and quit the movie business right then and there. The screen immediately goes dark, and we see the credits. I laughed out loud at how abrupt this was. It gives great insight into those forces who make films like EASY RIDER happen. These folks may be tough to take in person, but thank God for the likes of Blauner and Dennis Hopper (who passed in 2010). They saved us from mediocrity in art. EASY RIDER and the next 2 films in the BBS series to be reviewed are clear testament to that.....

Your Audiology Tutorial: Enlarged Vestibular Aqueduct

2011-05-23T05:00:00.000-07:00

The inner ear contains two organs: the cochlea (for hearing) and the semicicular canals, or vestibular labyrinth (for balance). Vestibular aqueducts are the bony canals leading from the inner ear in the temporal bone into the skull. The fluid known as endolymph fills a tube which runs through the aqueduct. How the endolymph moves influences how the brain interprets motion (grossly simplified explanation).

If the aqueduct is enlarged (determined by imaging studies such as MRIs or CT scans of the internal auditory canals), the sac in which endolymph resides may swell and cause imbalances of ions which drive signals up the vestibulococochlear nerve (cranial nerve VIII). These electrical signals are how the brain recognizes stimuli and accordingly regulates hearing and balance. If the aqueduct is enlarged, there may concurrently be a significant loss of hearing sensitivity. Much lit. is devoted to studies of children with enlarged vestibular aqueducts (EVA) and inner ear hearing loss. The etiology of EVA is usually attributed to a mutation of the PDS gene, or the SLC26A4 gene on chromosome 7. It is important to note that not every case of EVA is caused by such mutations. Other causes (including environmental) are being traced, with varying success.

The genetic disorder Pendred Syndrome, a cause of hearing loss during childhood, often presents with a symptom of EVA. The hearing loss often degrades at varying rates over time, sometimes leading to deafness. Balance function may also be affected. However, the brain is often able to achieve compensation : an ability to adapt to an impaired vestibular system in one or both ears.

Treatment for EVA is not clear cut. Surgical options are risky and can actually damage the inner ear. If sudden sensorineural hearing loss (SSHL), a condition that can literally overnight cause hearing to degrade significantly (sometimes due to barotrauma, autoimmune disease, etc.)is present, the ear, nose, and throat doctor may prescribe an oral or transtympanically injected course of steroids. According to the National Institute on Deafness and Other Communication Disorders (NIDCD), no scientific studies support steroidal intervention as being effective for EVA.

The Rapture (REPOST)

2011-05-21T07:00:00.000-07:00

In honor of Mr. Camping's predictions today, here is an appropriate repost...

(COMPLETE SPOILERS, READER BEWARE)

It's been nearly 20 years since I've seen this movie from beginning to end, but one thing remains burned into my cerebrum. A little sign affixed above the box office speaker, big bold black markered letters:

THERE WILL BE NO REFUNDS FOR THE RAPTURE

For many, this might be a red flag. For me, this was some sort of odd affirmative confirmation, the misanthrope I tend to be. I hadn't even seen the movie yet, and already I knew I was in for something unique, worthwhile. Even if THE RAPTURE would ultimately fall short of its impossibly ambitious goals, it would certainly earn a place in cinema history for daring to embrace such a controversial subject. I had also heard that the climax of this film showed a vision of what is told in the book of Revelations in the New Testment of the Bible. That is, the "rapture". An event where living believers in Jesus Christ would abruptly ascend to Heaven when Christ returned to Earth.

Writer/director Michael Tolkin had never heard of such a thing. Not until he saw a rather alarming bumper sticker that read "In Case of Rapture This Vehicle Will Go Unmanned". I'd like to think that in case of rapture, believers in the act of doing things like driving and doing surgery will not levitate until their work is done, lest some very awful things occur in the wake, but nothing in the Scriptures confirms this. In any event, Tolin was curious and decided to research. THE RAPTURE is the 1991 result, a classic case of overreaching, of biting off more than one can chew. Tolkin had written the brilliant screenplay for Robert Altman's THE PLAYER the same year, so he was a Flavor of the Moment. How else could a movie like this get made, much less get a wide release??

Sharon (Mimi Rogers) is bored. She's not living, but merely existing. Her job: phone operator among many others in rows of cubicles at a faceless corporation. She says the same things into her headset all day long. You might say she's just phoning it in.

Her free time isn't any more fulfilling. Accompanying her male partner, with whom she presumably grew bored with as well, Sharon prowls the sorts of nightspots where swingers congregate, trading partners as mere sport. It's certianly easier than deep, meaningful connection. For years, Sharon alternates her daytime drudgery with a nighttime one. We see her engaged in fairly graphic sexual situations, yet they are no more stimulating than anything else in her existence. One amusing and highly telling scene shows on her face an expression of extreme boredom/disgust while she is in the throes of intercourse. That moment is a perfect summation of her life, one of many bravura moments for Rogers in what is possibly the best role in her very erratic career. I can't think of a more moving and strong performance of her's. It is a shame she was not recognized for her work here.

One day in the break room, Sharon begins to overhear co-workers speaking of prophetic dreams they have had. She discovers that they are born-again Christians, individuals who have devoted their lives to following the teachings of Jesus. For those who aren't familiar, Christianity involves a denial of self and a total committment to a life that relies on Christ. Different Protestant denominations have different answers as to how one becomes "saved", but it usually involves a prayer and a life-changing decision to follow the Lord. I am one of these folks. My experience of conversion came during a Youth Camp in 1986. This entry is not designed to be a testimony, by the way, but there is relevance here.

Sharon gets saved. She parts ways with her companion and the decadent lifestyle. She meets more evangelical Christians, folks who tell all of their faith and how it informs their lives. This includes a young boy who seems to have an uncanny gift for prophecy. Her circle of friends are especially fixated on the aformentioned rapture, their every day given purpose by preparation for it. She eventually marries a godly man (David Duchovny, yes, it's true) and has a daughter. Alas, her husband is later killed in a random act of senseless violence in his workplace. Doubt begins to cloud Sharon's faith. She feels the need to test it, and to also test God's promises.

She gives all her possessions away and retreats to the desert with her daughter. Her plan is to remain there until Christ's return. She continues to deny herself and her child, even food and water. The desperation mounts with each sunset. She recalls Scripture, tales of sacrifice upon the alter to God. Sharon and her daughter decide that this will involve the offering of the latter. Sharon has a gun and does the unthinkable. Still, Christ does not return.

She does not commit suicide, believing she will be condemned to eternity apart from God. Meantime, she is imprisoned. Christ finally returns. Tolkin attempts to show what occurs during the Rapture, and his low budget most certainly influences this. Seen today, the effects are especially unimpressive. But would a big f/x extravaganza have driven home Tolkin's points any better? I hope Jim Cameron doesn't helm a remake.

At the end of the film, we stand with Sharon in what appears to be a sort of Purgatory. While in jail, she angrily renounced her faith. Her husband and daughter plead with her to repeal her anger toward God and join them in Heaven. She steadfastly refuses and remains in the void. In a highly effective last shot, we see the light that had shined from Heaven go dark over her, leaving only an anonymous silhouette.

Now, Christians and even secular Biblical scholars alike will take major exception with this film's theology. At almost every turn, we see liberties taken with what evangelicals believe, what the Bible describes. For openers, when one is truly saved, they are saved for eternity, even if they shake a fist at their god on occasion or even turn away. Of course, who is to know if another is "truly saved"? That is between oneself and God. We look at others, measure ourselves (and even Faith) to some mortal yardstick, to our peril. I am no theologian, but having grown up in an evangelical environment, having been immersed in the Bible at various times, I can clearly see that THE RAPTURE's events are not based on solid doctrine. This film attempts to analyze this most curious of biblical proclamations, how it can define one's entire life. "This earth is not our home" so many believers cry. However, not too many I've met forsake their responsibilities and wait for the trumpet blast. But I know they're out there.

This is but one of the problems I have with this movie. The Christians we see here all speak forbodingly, all seem obsessed with prophetic events. Speak of mysterious pearls and such. The Christians I've encountered tend to be more obsessed with football and the right to bear arms. Forgive me the social dig. But seriously, why are Christians almost always depicted as one-dimensional loons in films and television programs? Is it a lack of understanding by writers? Maybe they're the most visible in society. Even if Francis of Assisi didn't really say this, I wonder why more believers (in art and life) don't subscribe to "Preach the gospel at all times; when neceassry, use words." Instead, we get bigoted, judgmental, or just plain odd types with diarrhea of the mouth. The film SAVED attempted to lampoon this sort of buffoon, with limited success.

The tone of THE RAPTURE seems an appropriate portent, but it unfortunately turns the whole effort into what feels like late night B-fare. A similiar dilemma befelt the intriguing 2001 drama FRAILTY, which had some themes in common with THE RAPTURE. There are serious points, legitimate inquiries under the ominous surface that are worth exploring. What does it mean to truly follow Christ? How does compromise fit in? Who are these people who dare say that they have a ticket to eternal peace? What can we interpret of the word "rapture" itself? This film would be excellent for a screening and discussion time. However, for many viewers, it will be tough wading through the early sequences of Sharon's pre-conversion, scenes that often push this film's R-rating beyond its usual parameters.

That final image of Sharon, holding firm to her decision to not trust in God again, may come off as superficial, like a spurned lover refusing to forgive her non-committal boyfriend. This event also, if taken literally, does not reflect accurate theology as with I'm familiar. But it is still effective and disturbing, a vivid picture of an unforgiving, hard heart that even following that most empirical of events, the rapture, where the proof is right there (take that, Msr. Hitchens!), said heart will reject the Divine. How many among us once believed and then drifted, rejected?

Considered again at this late date, with THE RAPTURE, Tolkin just about treads water. That said, I'd rather see a talent like Tolkin treading water than many other filmmakers at full stroke. I wish he would create more...

The Nightfly

2011-05-19T05:15:00.000-07:00

People talk about "Desert Island Discs", those albums you would take with you should you find yourself shipwrecked (and presumably with a medium through which to play music, of course). I've compiled such lists many times, with titles added and dropped. Donald Fagen's 1982 The Nightfly began and remains close to the top of the list.

My tastes have refined and degraded since I first discovered this album, sometime during my senior year of high school (4 or so years after its original release). My music moods shift almost hourly. Is it time for some Gang of Four? Nah, feeling more Horace Silver now? Wait, how about some British Sea Power? All over the map. The Nightfly? Always in the mood for that one.

Fagen was 1/2 of Steely Dan, a group I documented in some detail a few years back in a series of posts. I also described some of that backstory of this album there (thanks in part to Brian Sweet, author of the unauthorized bio, Reelin' in the Years ). The Dan was characterized by razor sharp lyrics and smooth sounds. At least in the later years. In the early to mid 70s, pedal steel guitar was more likely to be heard than synths. Either way, the music reflected a certain jadedness, a caustic worldview that more often than not was despairing. SD's final album (for a while at least) was 1980's Gaucho, a real howl of pain. Fagen regrouped and sans his partner in crime, bassist Walter Becker, created a wistful, surprisingly thoughtful album of recollection.

The tracks on The Nightfly are reminiscences of a simpler time, the Eisenhower and JFK years when technology promised much, including the ability to travel from New York to Paris in 90 minutes ("undersea by rail"). The World's Fair sported gadgetry that fired the imaginations of bohemian and housewife alike. But "by '76 we'll be A O-K"? Didn't quite work out to the rosy expectations. Of course, Fagen recorded "I.G.Y.", the song that features these ideas, in 1981 so hindsight sobers the dream. Looking back on what didn't happen, as well as the burn out that did (for Fagen as much as anyone), gives his album a particular poignancy.

The Nightfly is not a dour affair, however. Unlike the Steely albums, its POV is almost sunny, if in a mildly ironic way (how could it be otherwise?). There's joy in the remake of the old Dion tune "Ruby Baby", complete with background partygoing recorded in the studio. The album's closer "Walk Between Raindrops" is a peppy keyboard waltz across Miami. "Green Flower Street" sort of evokes WEST SIDE STORY with its barrio romance. The tempo is swift and Fagen's voice sounds far more energetic than it had on say, "Third World Man" from Gaucho.

Contemplation and meditation describes the mood of most of the songs. "New Frontier", a wonderful recollection of Cold War life and romance, is bittersweet lyriclly and musically; even the bassline is heartfelt. A clever video was produced as well, with a nerdy teen inviting a young lady into his dad's bomb shelter for some Brubeck. If this was a Steely Dan song, the scenario would've quickly turned lecherous. On The Nightfly, it's a sweet memory.

The title track is narrated by a lonely nighttime DJ at a jazz station. We hear him, in between spinning Sonny Rollins and taking listener calls ("So you say there's a race of men in the trees; you're for tough legislation? Thanks for calling. I wait all night for calls like these.") ruminating on a lost love. In fact, the song is directed at that person. It is such a romantic image of romance. Fagen's patented studio aces contribute such perfect guitar as to stroke our emotions without seeming cloying. "The Goodbye Look" perhaps tells the story of the last day of the Batista regime in Cuba, or maybe just that of a stranded American stuck in a now Communistic society. Fagen's tenor is just right in its sad yet hopeful tone. The Caribbean sounding keyboard conjures sunny isles yet something haunted and defeated about them all the while. Almost muted, as if heard from another room, as part of a dream.

"Maxine" is the most unabashedly emotional paean to (lost) love, as we hear a young man explain to his ladyfriend how they must wait to consummate their committment. After college, he muses, they'll marry and move to Manhattan and live fabulous lives, far away from the dreary suburbs of the now. Fagen himself was stuck in a subdivision in New Jersey, a place he's described with great derision. This and all of the songs on this album contain shards of the autobiographical. Such a personal album for a man previously known for enigmatic verses of snark.

Don't get me wrong, I loved and love Steely Dan's uniqueness. I also admired Fagen's later two solo albums: 1993's Kamakiriad and 2006's Morph the Cat (another is being mixed at the time of this posting). But, to me, The Nighfly is Fagen's definitive work. Every listen since 1987 confirms the album's timelessness. How he managed to make a batch of tunes so rooted in another decade's longing is miraculous. But it's all right there, under the usual post-production gloss: a wounded yet hopeful assessment of Life Thus Far. Even as Fagen was only in his mid-30s at the time, he already had an old soul that saw far more than did his contemporaries.

SunFest '11

2011-05-16T07:15:00.000-07:00

Almost impossible to remember how small SunFest, the annual music, arts, crafts, and foodie extravaganza along the Intracoastal Waterway in West Palm Beach, FL once was. It began in 1982 as just a low key jazz gathering with mainly local acts. It expanded a bit each year. I remember going a few times in those days as a teen. It was always pleasant but the music didn't excite me. Fatburger and Yellowjackets were the prototypical smooth jazz offerings. I always felt that that music was best to sip Bloody Marys to. I still feel that way, more or less, favoring the jazz of yesteryear, especially the early 40s to the late 60s, though you cannot discount the ensembles of earlier times, back in the late 1910s when "jass" was gaining steam. Right, Duke? Right, Dizzy?

Anyway, by the late 80s SunFest was becoming more than just a traffic annoyance. I remember seeing Harry Connick Jr. there in '90 or '91. There were several "main" stages and bigger acts were gracing them over time: Sheryl Crow, Journey, Weezer, Bob Dylan, James Taylor, Flaming Lips, etc. etc. Vendors from all over South Florida would offer trinkets and edible temptations. The infamous Captain Morgan tent on a dock threatened to sink in the water under the weight of more and more revelers. A spectacular fireworks display over the Intracoastal would cap it off.

SunFest has always been memorable mainly for the encounters. Yes, even as you're being swayed along Flagler Drive amongst thousands of sweaty, often inebrieated Fest goers, you may just run into someone from the past. Let me amend my pronoun usage there: I always seemed to. After all, I grew up in WPB. The law of averages was in my favor. The reunions I had were mostly smooth, a few awkward. It often depended upon who I was with, as well. SunFest and the departed T.G.I. Friday's on the corner of Village Blvd. and Brandywine (now Renegades, a C & W nightclub) were always guaranteed to be way stations for the ghosts of my past. Is that washed out looking dude really the guy I rode the bus with? Wait, that's ____, wearing Billabong? I remember he sported boots (probably from Griff's Western) and one of those green caps with the colored lines that rednecks wore. At times my thoughts echoed those of Joe Walsh in "Life's Been Good": Everybody's so different, I haven't changed...

SunFest 2011 was unattended by me until the last day, Sun, 5/1. I went with a childhood friend that day as Jeff Beck, one of my all-time favorite guitarists ("Because We Ended as Lovers" is one of the most beautiful pieces of Stratocaster I've ever heard), would be playing. He put on a fine show. The audience were mainly Baby Boomers, with a smattering of teens who looked bored - their parents probably dragged them. Beck is nearly 70 but he still can pluck some strings (sans pick). He did several of his great originals (including "Freeway Jam"), "People Get Ready" (without the vocals of his friend and local resident, Rod Stewart), and Beatles ("A Day in the Life") and Hendrix ("The Wind Cries Mary") covers. Beck's female bass player at times took the simple instrument to heights rarely achieved, except by people like Jaco Pastorious. A brief waft of what was lilkely to be reefer (does anyone still call it that?) occured somewhere in there, as did a lengthy make-out session of two teens right near us. I can't think of better music for that kind of activity.....

After Hours

2011-05-13T09:30:00.000-07:00

Since New York City has provided content for so many of the entries in this blog, I thought I'd revisit Martin Scorsese's 1985 AFTER HOURS as a possible next entry in "The Great Overrated" series. Perhaps I wouldn't respond so negatively to it as years have passed, age has provided a bit more wisdom, my tastes have sharpened (yet widened). The first few times I watched this movie I twitched and fidgeted; it seemed deliberately conceived to aggravate viewers. On some level, I can appreciate that. However, the annoying film in question must also be defensible on some other level (technically or otherwise). I can find little to no cause to celebrate Scorsese's film.

So disheartening! It seemed like a good exercise for the director, who at the time was in the midst of preparing for THE LAST TEMPTATION OF CHRIST. A chance to loosen up and be more playful after all the serious (and landmark) films in his canon. Many great directors do one-offs like this, but this time it just feels like a misstep.

I always judge a film's success on whether the creators have realized their goals, goals which should be established in the first reel. Whether or not I like it or if it moves me in some way has nothing to do with its quality. I can be terribly objective. Given that, I wonder why I don't like AFTER HOURS. It seems that Scorsese wants to irritate us with a gallery of assholes who do questionable things. The overall vibe is that of nausea. It makes sense, too, that some dialogue between our poor protagonist, Paul (Griffin Dunne) and a doorman is straight out of Kafka.

But then I thought, "OK, Scorsese and writer Joseph Minion are saying that life in SoHo is just absurd, random." No argument. As Roger Ebert said in his glowing review of this movie, parts of this film will play like a documentary to many New Yorkers. Subway fares can change at the stroke of midnight, bouncers at a club could take a pair of clippers to your mane, the girl you met at a cafe might commit suicide after she invites you home. In NYC, nothing is surprising, nothing, especially in the 1980s. And, in another existential moment, having a mob form in the streets to hunt Paul down also makes sense.

So I should at least admire AFTER HOURS, no? I just can't. I can't appreciate its weirdness because it's not weird enough to sustain interest. I mentioned that the characters are assholes - yes, but they're boring assholes. Teri Garr shows up and freaks out, but she's the sort you would rightly walk away from in mid-sentence 'cos she's just so vapid (Paul is too nice to do that). I can't appreciate the film's NYC slice of life documentation for similiar reasons. Also, because the film is such a tease. Trying to be completely straight-faced can be funny and effective. But, trying to achieve that and be oddball and teasing just creates a stew of frustration. "Stew of frustration": was that the filmmakers' intention?

Scorsese's THE KING OF COMEDY, shot a few years earlier, was another such stew, a film which deliberately provided no catharses at key moments but yet it worked beautifully for me. When I compare KING and AFTER HOURS, I begin to see the problem: the earlier film is a tight riff on alienation and celebrity, the latter film seems to have no aim, like we're just watching someone's bad night. That can work in cinema, of course, (director Kelly Reichardt is a current master of this), but in AFTER HOURS it's just tedious. I don't need a point, per se, but I do need an agreeable alternative to recaulking my bathtub or watching cement grow.

If so, I think the film still fails because it wasn't bad or dull enough to make me stop watching. It is kind of like the train wreck scenario of which people often speak. I was also interested in seeing what a very diverse cast (including Rosanna Arquette, Verna Bloom, John Heard, and even Cheech and Chong) would do with this material. The ending is actually kind of clever and logical, but reaching it provided no satisfaction, not even relief. Just shrugged shoulders.

Part VII, The Great Overrated

PBA, Book One

2011-05-10T05:20:00.000-07:00

My days at Palm Beach Atlantic College (now University), for the most part, had been filed away in some non-descript cabinet amongst the cortices of my brain. It was 20 years ago that I graduated with my Bachelor's in Business Administration and a minor in Communications. I majored in Bus. because that seemed to be the course to Success. I would graduate and corporations would court me and offer me an office with a view and expense account and lunches in Palm Beach that would last 2 hours every day.

When I hit the pavement to find a job, I of course learned otherwise. I brought my crisp, hot off the Xerox machine resumes to several banks in downtown Orlando (I'll explain why I was there later) only to learn that they were indeed hiring entry-level tellers. I would actually have to work my way up. The old story - why did I go to college? You've heard it before. But again, I'm getting ahead of myself.

Yes, invisible audience, I will begin yet another thematic series, this time dealing with those long-ago days at a little private Christian liberal arts college in West Palm Beach, FL. When you get into your 40s, I suppose you get a moment to think back, take stock. Those PBA years were actually pretty uneventful and pleasant. Until my junior year, when things got interesting.

I grew up in WPB, always aware of PBA, as it was right next door to the First Baptist Church I attended. When I was in 1st grade or so, my class at First Baptist Day School saw a play in the old Administration building Theater; that's my earliest specific memory of PBA. Its campus overlapped with the church's and the day school's at several junctions. I had not planned to go there after high school; I was heading to the University of Florida like many of my classmmates.

However, things at home were very volatile. My mother and father were splitting up, and my mother needed my encouragement to leave. Being the only child, I felt obligated to be there for her. I think now that perhaps I should've gone off somewhere else, but then I wonder how my mother would've done. It's a long, sad, complicated story. I did the right thing, as during my freshmen year at PBA she finally rallied the courage to flee all of the verbal abuse of my father. But I can't help but wonder how differently life would've turned out if I had flown the coop.

The summer between hs and college I was phoned relentlessly by PBA admissions. One guy in particular, whose name escapes me at the moment, was persistent. I was reluctant, thinking that the school was not prestigious enough, that it would not exactly jump off my resume years later (turns out that was correct, at least initially). I remember sitting in Orientation months later, chuckling with my friend when someone proudly announced that the average ACT score had risen to "12"?! In any event, everything came together for me to attend, and I did. I will devote a few posts to those 4 years between 1987 and 1991.

A few things have prompted this: Dr. Donald Warren's Miracles and Wonders: A Chronicle of Palm Beach Atlantic University, which I'll discuss, and my continuing relationship with one of PBA's founders, Dr. Jess Moody. He was the pastor at First Baptist when PBA first opened in 1968. The above photo is of a statue of Dr. Moody which was uneveiled this past April on the PBA campus. I'll speak of him at length, too, and what an inspiration he's been at various stages of my lifetime. Also, Mr. Donald Harp, Alumni Director at PBA for many years, has been a great friend for a long time. Stay tuned...

Tourista, Book VII

2011-05-07T04:00:00.000-07:00

I felt that our evening visit to the iconic Eiffel Tower in Paris deserved its own entry. We certainly "got an Eiffel of the tower in France" as 10cc sang long ago. It concluded a very busy first day in the City of Lights. My wife was determined to show me all the main points of the city, and as we'll discuss we managed to do many in just 2 days!

There are 4 entrances to the Tower. A surly (the only such kind of chap we encountered in Paris) security guard checked our bag and up the stairs we went. The night views of the city - nothing short of spectacular. Periodically, bulbs flash at various points on the structure, too - a tres cool effect no matter where you are. When you get to the 1/4 way point or so, you have the option to take an elevator. We kept climbing, despite a long day of hiking behind us. The familiar stairwell reminded me of so many films. Finally, by the halfway point, we gave in and rode to the upper levels. The highest possible one had a very long line to the outer vantage points. I recall a group of German teens laughing near us. It was after 11 P.M. on a weeknight, but I guess it was still full tilt tourist season in Europe.

Once we reached the rails, we took several shots that unfortunately came out in messy swirls of light. Kinda cool in a more abstract way. We were trying some special effects that didn't quite work out, but again, amazing views of the city. It's another of those moments you can't quite put into words. Everyone needs to gaze out over Paris from the Eiffel tower before they pass on....