BRIC-A-BRAC: Frackin' Good TV

In the overall scheme of things, I don't watch very much TV. I don't want to get all high-and-mighty about this; if my schedule permitted it, I'd probably watch TV all the time. I know this because of the way I get sucked into those damned Law & Order marathons every time. Mind you, the Dennis Farina episodes aren't really cutting it for me, which only proves what we all already knew: Jerry Orbach was magnificence personified. But the principle still holds.

I bring this up because the end of the year is bringing with it the usual flood of "Best of" and "Top 10" lists, and I'm finding with great satisfaction that the few shows I do take the time to watch are the ones getting the acclaim. It's like redemption, had I only been knocked down so low that I needed to be redeemed.

Take this outstanding list from the TV writers at MSNBC.com. They've very wisely let each of their critics wax rhapsodic about a particular program, and I must admit to being rather pleased as I perused the objects of their affection. To wit:
- Shows I've Already Raved About Here: Arrested Development, Project Runway
- Shows I Watch Pretty Much All The Time: The Daily Show, Lost
- Shows That Are Quickly Becoming My New Law & Order-ish Cable Rerun Fix: CSI, Law & Order: Special Victims Unit
- Shows I Haven't Really Gotten Into Because I'm Not Up For A Medical Drama Right Now: House, Grey's Anatomy (although my wife just added the latter to our Netflix list, so we'll see)
- Shows I Know I'm Supposed To Watch, But Haven't: Veronica Mars

But as I worked my way through, I realized that I was actually hoping against hope for the inclusion of one more show. And at the end, I was rewarded, because one of the best shows on television right now, honestly and truly, really is Battlestar Galactica.

I know, I can't believe that last sentence either. It was about two years ago when the Sci-Fi Channel -- home of such cinematic masterpieces as Cube and Mansquito -- started running promos for a "reimagining" of the source of some of Dirk Benedict's finest work. (Not to slight The A-Team, but...well...) The rumors started flying. Starbuck was a woman. The Cylons look like humans. The Lorne Greene role would be assumed by Edward James Olmos. It did not bode well.

(It is possible to overthink these things, of course. I mean, the original show featured a monkey in an orange bear costume. It had an episode where all the men got some virus or something and the Vipers had to be piloted by -- horror of horrors -- women! It had tight pants and lots of feathered hair -- on the men. This was by no means television's finest achievement. It was pleasantly diverting, the moving red eye was cool, and then it was cancelled and we all got on with our lives, except for Richard Hatch. So it's not like there was this sense of something wonderful being desecrated. It just felt like that strange, Thirtysomethingesque attempt to turn The Brady Bunch into The Bradys. You know. Just a bad idea.)

So the astonishment that accompanied the actual airing of that miniseries cannot be understated. They stripped away everything that was cheesy about the original show and unearthed a haunting story about a civilization that is nearly destroyed and running for its very existence. They the gave up modern-day special effects that downplayed the whiz-bang and instead tried to put a cinema-verité style in space. Finally, they saddled virtually every character with just enough baggage to make you care about their plight, but not so much that you wanted to slap them around. It was like finding a tarnished antique in a junk shop. Clean it up, and it's a centerpiece.

The only thing more amazing than that was that they managed to keep it going when it became a regular series. Plotlines that should have grown tired remained strong. Actors were sometimes annoying, but never grating. And the season finale was genuinely shocking, in a way that they often aren't. My brother-in-law gave me Season 1 for Christmas, and while I didn't even know I wanted it, I think he nailed it. Putting in a disc to see how it looked, I got sucked in once again. Recent TV shows have notoriously poor replay value. (Do I want to own ER? Um, no.) But this show's got it.

I got through four outstanding episodes of Season 2 before the wizards at Comcast decided I had had quite enough of that. They moved Sci-Fi to the premium digital section, replacing it with the Golf Channel. Because they serve the same demographic, you see. Even more annoying, they lied to me about it. They said, "Oh, no, your neighborhood won't be losing that channel." And then they moved it. So I'll say it: Comcast sucks. For anyone who regularly googles that phrase, welcome to my blog.

Other than the personal pleasure I take from ripping on Comcast, I bring that up because it allows me to mention that episodes of Battlestar Galactica are now available for download on iTunes. And new episodes begin in January. And what I'm saying is, this show is good enough that I'm tempted to shell out 2 bucks a pop to watch the episodes I've missed on a tiny, tiny screen.

So thanks for the validation, MSNBC. And Time Magazine, and everyone else who is on the bandwagon. It's good to have everyone staring at the same pretty picture.

RED ENVELOPES: Daggers in the Hizzy House

Say what you will about Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, but it opened up a previously untapped vein for movie that move at a glacial pace, traffic in unrequited love, and have stunning cinematography and fantastic fight scenes. As usual, Ang Lee has much to answer for.

And sure, we all benefitted from this breakthrough. But no one quite so much as director Zhang Yimou, who finally found a way to get the Chinese government off his back for making movies like Ju Dou and Raise the Red Lantern.

"If I make movies with lots of martial arts in them," he reasoned, "they won't bug me about the content, because they won't think there is any."

Thus empowered, Zhang went off to make Hero, which took the Crouching Tiger template a step further by enhancing it with a ravishing color scheme, adding a layer of humorous absurdity to the battle scenes (a shot of one man fighting off tens of thousands of arrows is particularly memorable), and proving definitively that a movie with Jet Li does not have to be crap.

I liked Hero, but didn't love it, so I was all ears when people started telling me that Zhang's next film, House of Flying Daggers, was everything good about Hero and then some. Jason Chin went so far as to lend me his copy (which featured menu screens in Chinese, telling me that he probably picked it up on a street corner in Greenwich Village), which I watched whilst whipping up a delicious batch of Toll House cookies. And now I can say with unwavering certainty and firm conviction: "Eh."

I think there's a law of diminishing returns. Like Crouching Tiger and Hero, Flying Daggers features an apparent criminal (played by Zhang Ziyi, who appears in all three of these films) out to undermine the ruling government. There's someone enraptured by her -- here it's a police spy -- and tries to win her love, all while the government pursues them and attempts to subdue them with hundreds of soldiers. The plots of these three films are not identical, but there is a sameness that makes watching the film frustrating. It would be like making more Matrix movies that were just like the original, but changed ever so slightly. Oh. Wait.

The movie is certainly an accomplished piece of work. Zhang once again has a tremendous sense of the visual, including a stunning fight scene in a bamboo forest that features assailants on every level. More than that, Flying Daggers has a tremendous soundscape, with every movement literally amplified to the height of importance. Nowhere is this more evident than in an early scene in which a dancer has to mimic the sounds of stones being flicked off of a circle of drums. The balance between silence and sound is brilliantly accomplished, and undoubtedly the film's greatest achievement.

But it's just so slow! The discovery of the title organization -- and the subsequent surprise about its membership -- comes so late in the film that it's hard not to question the point. And the final fight scene, set against a transition from autumn to winter, almost feels more ironic than poetic, as I was tempted to look outside and see if the seasons had changed for me as well. I'm all for a patient, thoughtful approach to filmmaking. But the languid rhythm of this movie seemed aimed more at inducing sleep than introspection.

Among my recent Christmas gifts was The Best of Sugar Ray, a band of whom I said many times, "I would never want to own any of their albums, but the moment they come out with a greatest hits CD, that'll be worth having." And while even that has its share of filler, I think I've been proven right. And so it might be with Zhang Yimou. His two recent forays into martial arts love stories have stunning moments, but the whole package doesn't add up to much. But maybe, if they put together a "Best of Zhang Yimou", that'll be something to see.

On an only-slightly related note...
A frequent poster to this site, Mr. Paul Winston, has apparently received a blog for Christmas, and he is using it to review some of his favorite films. (For the record, he seems to be watching a much better class of movie than I.) You can read them yourself at his blog, Film Treats, which I've also added to the newly-updated list of links over there on the left. Mazel tov.

DIAMONDS & HORSEHIDE: Getting Closer(s)

A while back, I promised to get to the other two elections being held for the Baseball Hall of Fame. Since the electors will announce their results on January 10, I'm thinking that now is a pretty good time to talk about that.

The Ballot for the 2006 Election

Fourteen new candidates on the ballot this year, and I'm not at all certain that any of them are going to get the necessary 5% of the vote to make it to 2007. The best of the bunch are guys who had great potential, but never quite realized it. Will Clark was a strong first baseman, but eventually petered out. Orel Hershiser is notable for a scoreless innings streak that boggles the mind, but doesn't have a particularly outstanding career as a whole. Dwight Gooden had such a stellar start, and snorted it all away. For an honor that recognizes a career, I can't really justify voting for any of them.

Possibly my most disappointing non-vote is Albert Belle. As players I actually have seen go, he's one of the few that made me gawk in astonishment. I had the privilege of attending the home run derby as part of the All-Star Game celebration in the Ballpark in Arlington in 1995. We all knew his ability, but we also knew he was a surly jerk. So he did not exactly have us in the palm of his hand. As I recall, he worked himself down to the last possible out, and then proceeded to unleash a series 7 monster shots over the left field wall. With each swing, he hit the ball harder, and the crowd grew increasingly vocal in its amazement. The ovation that followed when he finally ended his turn was immense and truly appreciative. One reason people love sport is for the "Holy Crap!" moments; those brief flashes of brilliance or luck or talent that are so unexpected as to leave you searching for the right words. Albert Belle had just provided a very heat-tired crowd with a good reason to stand up and cheer. He didn't win, but I was delighted and surprised to discover that I wished he had.

Sadly, I doubt Belle had inkling that he'd won us over. If ever there was a man who was angry at the world, it was him. I have to believe that affected his play. Injuries did their part, too. But a man who is always trying to figure out how everyone is trying to screw him now is not going to be at his best. Albert Belle at the top of his game was awesome. But he was so rarely there. He can't be considered for the Hall.

That leaves the returning candidates, and I continue to throw my support behind Bruce Sutter and Goose Gossage. Closers are tough to evaluate statistically, because there's still debate over their most important stat, the save. They were stars in an era when closers came on in the 7th inning, and had to hold off the opposition for the remainder of the game in order to get credit. Nowadays, Eric Gagne can rack up racords for consecutive saves without ever seeing the 8th. There's just no comparison. It's hard to imagine two pitchers who were considered game-enders, season after season, in the way these two were. Fingers and Eckersley, two of the three currently-inducted relievers, had that quality. Today, only Mariano Rivera carries that kind of cachet. Most relievers now are in the vein of Bobby Thigpen: one monster season and little else. I say Sutter and Gossage belong.

Given a ballot, I would also vote for Bert Blyleven. He has staggering career numbers, but few seasons that are outstanding on their own. Still, when you look at his numbers closeup, he does come through when the team needs him most. (His contributions to the 1979 champion Pirates, for example.) And it's very hard to say that a man with 287 wins, over 3700 strikeouts, and 60 shutouts isn't worthy. I'd vote for him, which should please the folks over at BertBelongs. Plus, "The Dutch Master" is an outstanding nickname to put on a plaque.

My other definite vote goes to Andre Dawson. He and Jim Rice have gained attention because of the solid career numbers they put up "before the juice". I lean toward Dawson because he was more consistent throughout his career -- Rice tails off rather quickly -- and because I'm on a mission to stack the Hall with Expos. Tim Raines, I will have your back.

Rice is a borderline candidate, a guy I'm not ruling out but am not totally behind yet. Alan Trammell is another one, and the tragedy is that is his teammate Lou Whitaker had made it to a second year of eligibility, they probably would have been elected in tandem. Lastly, there is Tommy John, whose phoenix-like comeback is the stuff of legend, and who proved astonishingly durable after his career-saving arm surgery. I don't actually know whether that should favor him or not. After all, he underwent the operation; he didn't perform it.

So it's Blyleven, Dawson, Gossage, and Sutter for me, which is a smaller group than I typically endorse. Sutter is within 10% of election, and probably has the best shot of anyone to actually get elected. (Ryne Sandberg jumped 15% to earn his plaque in 2005.) But the talk is that no one will get elected at all. It's happened before, most recently in 1996. But I think that would be a shame. These are four guys who would fit well among the membership of the Hall of Fame.

Of course, there will be inductees. There's one other election to discuss, and that could very easily result in a flood of new Hall of Famers. But that's a discussion for another time.

MY BONNIE: Here We Go Again

If you're going to make a promise in your blog, you really ought to keep it. I mean, even if only three people are reading it, that doesn't make it any less of a public declaration. Do the right thing. Be true to your word.

At least, that's what I keep telling myself.

Which is why I'm here now to be true to my word. I said I was going to finish that book I was writing. I said I was going to start re-printing the first chapters, and then the new material would follow shortly thereafter. Well, dammit, I meant what I said, and I said what I meant. So let's do this thing.

Ladies and gentlemen, I am proud to present Chapter One of Dead Men Are A Girl's Best Friend.

The new page is still under construction, so with any luck, it'll look much better by the time we get to Chapter 2 or 3. But for now, it has all the words, so that ought to be enough.

Bonnie's story originally began unspooling in early 2003. Dave Gilley wanted to create a section of the old ImprovChicago website that was devoted entirely to the creative efforts of members of the Chicago improv community. I volunteered to write a serial novel, similar to the efforts of Charles Dickens or Stephen King's The Green Mile, except that I couldn't guarantee that kind of quality. I'm not sure what I had in mind, but it seemed like a fun challenge to tell a story where I wasn't at all sure of the ending. Dave agreed enthusiastically, and I was off.

The best part about this first chapter was that, among those few people who read it, they were really surprised. I think I achieved one of my goals, which was to write something that didn't seem at all like me. I haven't read nearly enough Hammett or Chandler to have the whole hard-boiled noir thing quite nailed, but I had my own little variation on it, and it worked pretty well.

I will try not to overburden these chapters with comment. After all, I should be spending my time writing them, not writing about them. But I'm proud of what has come so far (which you'll be seeing in the coming weeks), so I feel like I owe it to this story to see it through.

Happy reading.

FINAL CUT: Here Comes the Man in Black

Probably the most bizarre double feature I've ever created for myself at the theater was the one that developed a few years ago, when we followed up a screening of Chicken Run with a viewing of Samuel L. Jackson's take on Shaft. Yes, peas in a pod, those two films. So after that particular brand of cinematic whiplash, there's really nothing all that weird about last Sunday's triple shot of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, a second helping of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, and a chaser of today's discussion topic: Walk the Line.

I don't know if biographical pictures about recently deceased music legends constitutes a trend. Walk the Line, director James Mangold's take on the life of Johnny Cash, follows closely on the heels of last year's hit Ray. In many respects, the two pictures are unsettlingly similar. They begin in the rural South, feature protagonists whose brothers die when they are very young, and introduce the elder versions of their main character waiting for a bus. There's drug abuse, leading to run-ins with the law. There's cheating on a marriage. There's a record label that doesn't want our hero to put out the record they want to make. It's all here. You might be forgiven for thinking that there's a certain Mad Lib quality to this. "Okay, I need the name of a music legend." "Sam Cooke!" "Excellent. Roll cameras!"

Perhaps the most dramatic similarity is the unexpected casting in the crucial lead role. Ray, of course, won Jamie Foxx an Oscar for his uncanny re-creation of Ray Charles. Yet somehow, the makers of Walk the Line have managed to come up with even more unorthodox pick for their version of Johnny Cash: Joaquin Phoenix.

Phoenix is an actor I'm psychologically-pre-disposed to dislike. Ever since his Oscar-nominated (!) performance in Gladiator, in which he utters the most idiotic piece of dialogue in film since the entire script of Basic Instinct (to wit: "He vexes me. I'm very vexed."), my gut reaction is to wince when he comes onscreen. This is terribly unfair, since he has done some fine work, including his lackadaisical brother in Signs and his nicely understand vocal turn in Brother Bear. But casting him as Johnny Cash is another thing entirely. Cash looms large in stature and legend. The memory conjures up a big statue of a man, with a confident swagger, whereas as Phoenix seems small, sometimes even sniveling. How is it possible to find any kind of common ground between these two men?

In The Birdcage, one of that film's more successful jokes lies in Robin Williams' attempt to make Nathan Lane appear more masculine. After suggesting that he walk like John Wayne, Lane responds with an exaggerated lope that suggests a man walking in Jello while twirling a hula hoop. Williams is dumbstruck, saying, "I just never knew he walked like that."

I can think of no better way to describe Phoenix's remarkable performance in this movie. He really doesn't look the part, and almost never makes you forget that you're watching a performance. But there is something unmistakably true about his take on Cash. He's not the statue, and he's not a replica. He's a reminder that Johnny Cash was, after all, a real human being, and Phoenix presents a very believable picture of the flesh & blood version of the icon. It's a very successful dare.

A big factor in his favor is that Phoenix, along with all the other performers, does his own singing. It's not as much of a stretch as it seems; Johnny Cash was not known for his melodious singing voice. Phoenix does a credible interpretation of Cash's cavern-deep voice and its train-track cadence. But the difference is in the acting. Freed from the need to follow a pre-recorded track, Phoenix gets to inhabit the role any way he pleases. This cuts both ways; Sinead O'Connor's lip-synched video for "Nothing Compares 2 U" is legendary for the raw emotion it conveys. But there's no question that allowing the actors in Walk the Line to sing for themselves lends an air of realism and credibility that other musical biographies can't achieve.

In a way, all this talk of Johnny Cash and Joaquin Phoenix is unfair. Although Reese Witherspoon doesn't make her first appearance as June Carter until well into the first hour, her character has already been introduced, and the picture as a whole is chronicling a couple, not just one man. Witherspoon has a stronger part than most of her films allow her, and she takes full advantage of the opportunity. In many respects, she is a more confident than Cash, and even if we're not always sure what she sees in him, there can be no doubt what he sees in her. She's a crucial counterpoint to Phoenix, and unlike many a filmed love story, their relationship seems fated, rather than dictated by the script.

Walk the Line is a very good movie, as these things go. Perhaps the highest praise I can give it is to say that I feel certain it is a better film than Ray. What that film had to sell was the strong performance of Jamie Foxx. Beyond that, it definitely felt like marking milestones in a life, and then looking for a place to stop. By comparison, Walk the Line actually has a story to tell, an arc to chart. It doesn't always avoid cliché, but it makes what might be a familiar story work, and never fails to be convincing. Over the closing credits, we hear the real Johnny and June for the first time, in a performance of "Long-Legged Guitar-Pickin' Man". Many times, when a film shows us "the real people" for the first time, the contrast is shocking, undoing so much of the construction the film has struggled to build for two hours. (The end of Nixon is an excellent example of the phenomenon.) But Mr. & Mrs. Cash don't contradict the film of their lives. If anything, they help bolster the idea that the film got it pretty close to right. Which is appropriate for a film about musicians. It's harmony.

BRIC-A-BRAC: It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Trouble

Christmas is coming. It's going to be here in a little over 10 days. You may have heard about it.

I am so unprepared.

To be honest, getting married has totally thrown off my calendar. At the beginning of October, we had this massive event, where nearly all of our friends and family came to town to see us, and they gave us presents, and it was just tremendous.

Oh, and it was unseasonably warm.

Ever since then, the world has just kept right on going, and I have yet to catch up. We were in Minnesota for Halloween, so we didn't go through my usual exercise of complaining about costumes. My wife and I each had birthdays in November that were real casual and low-key. For my part, my birthday fell on a Sunday, so there weren't even the usual day-of greetings from co-workers or theater folk.

Then came Thanksgiving, which was also pretty quiet, since it was just the two of us, and there seemed to be no need to make a big production out of dinner for two. Not that we didn't have a lovely dinner. It just wasn't a whole turkey-baking fest, you understand.

I don't know why I'm so defensive with you.

So now, here comes Christmas. The city is blanketed with snow, the music is everywhere. (Well, actually, the music's been playing since before Halloween, but that's another rant entirely.) Lights are up all over, and people are throwing Christmas parties left and right.

And me?

I haven't hung one ornament. I haven't bought one present. I haven't even made a single plan for Christmas Day.

What's my deal? I'm not against the holiday. I love Christmas. I'm just utterly unprepared for it. People keep asking me what I want, and I don't have the first clue. I need to make a list of gifts to get for people, but I haven't even made the list of people. I'm supposed to buy a Secret Santa gift for work. I haven't done that. The gift exchange is Friday.

The fact that we're staying in Chicago probably has some bearing on my attitude. It doesn't have the feel of "an event". Frankly, Christmas this year is just going to kind of come and go. There's a lot of excitement that usually builds up to holiday travel, or hosting holiday guests, and we don't have any of that this year. So maybe that's it.

What's really odd is, I know I'm running out of time. I can hear the clock ticking. The future looms. It makes me very nervous. And yet, I'm no closer to doing anything about it than I was before.

Music is actually the one area where we're ahead of the game. Previously, I have relied upon my old friend, the soundtrack to A Charlie Brown Christmas, to provide the proper atmosphere. In recent years, I have thrown in the Now! That's What I Call Christmas collection, even though it totally falls apart by Track 6 of the second disc. (I mean, seriously. "Christmas in the Yard"? Nuh-uh.) But the glorious evil that is iTunes has changed that. Now we can download every manner of musical merriment. And my wife has taken full advantage of this new tool. She has spent at least two nights assembling her perfect Christmas mix CD. She's been listening to snippets of songs, rearranging the order, matching up jingling bells and jolly choruses. Over and over. I've heard the end of Nina Simone's "Feeling Good" approximately 753 times. I don't think I'm exaggerating. It's starting to drive me mad.

It's good, though. It means a least one of us knows what they're giving for Christmas.

FINAL CUT: The Lion, King

Despite my earlier difficulty taking in multiple motion pictures in one day, I'm happy to report that it still possible to maximize your moviegoing experience in the city of Chicago. And given how much it costs to go to the movies in Chicago, I tend to think of it as a moral imperative. I don't want to get anyone into trouble or somehow cause an increase in security measures, but suffice it to say, if you were to go to some sort of multi-cinema -- perhaps an American one -- your chances of enhancing your ticket are very strong.

Part one of our triple feature was The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, which is looking to follow in the footsteps of The Lord of the Rings in both (a) successful adaptation of beloved fantasy series by god-fearing Oxford don and (b) long and unwieldly title. Based on the initial product off the assembly line, the prospects look pretty good.

I just finished reading the Chronicles for the first time a couple weeks ago, so the story was pretty fresh in my mind. In adapting C. S. Lewis, the filmmakers have quite the opposite problem of those attempting to put Tolkein or J. K. Rowling on screen. Instead of trying to condense vast amounts of information into a digestible movie, Lewis is a very economical writer. I don't think a single one of the Narnia books clocks in at more than 220 pages. So the trouble becomes trying to add material without disrupting the delicate balance of the original book or making the whole thing seem overinflated. Given that handicap, it really is high praise to be able to say that the movie has faithfully captured both the story and the spirit of Lewis' book. In fact, when you look at the potential for slavish faithfulness to a source (Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, anybody?), the filmmakers have to be justifiably proud for having captured the original material so thoroughly and honestly.

In many ways, this is the kind of movie that is just asking to be a disaster. With the exception of Tilda Swinton's icy White Witch, it's pretty much children and CGI characters most of the way through. But if you're looking for an example of how far the movies have come in the past 15 years, look no further than any scene with the Pevensie children and a pair of long-married beavers. Not only do the beavers look and feel real, but director Andrew Adamson shows great aptitude in filming them as you would any flesh-and-blood actor. The camera can move fluidly and flexibly, and the vast array of animals and fantasy creatures are ready for their closeup, or to remain safely in the background. This universe, to put it simply, works.

Of course, none of this would matter if the story's most important character didn't work. But from the moment the great lion Aslan first appears, any doubts about the film are utterly erased. In each of the seven Narnia books, Aslan is the most vital, most essential character. But more significant than his role in each plot is the overwhelming impact of his presence on each and every person in the series. Aslan is quite simply awesome. You can't helped but be thrilled with his every appearance, and impressed by his stature and depth. I don't envy the filmmakers the challenge of getting all this across, but they pulled it off. Aslan is a masterful CGI creation, with real heft and a magnificent mane. But he also has the power and grace that he should as a character. I am not totally convinced that Liam Neeson's performance is the best we could have; there's a touch of boredom in his reading. But he does convey both the traits of ferocity and gentleness that make Aslan so potent. To re-iterate: if Aslan doesn't work, nothing else matters. Aslan works.

For those who know Narnia as an allegory, Aslan's importance is even greater. (Hint: He's Jesus.) And that's been a subject of some controversy, as co-producer Disney has been attempting to lure much of the same audience that flocked to see The Passion of the Christ. (What a strange-looking DVD shelf that must be.) I didn't see Mel Gibson's savior-snuff film, so I don't know how much religion is necessary to appease that crowd. But I feel pretty confident in saying that The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe will prove satisfying no matter what your particular slant. The themes of sacrifice and faith resonate clearly, without the need to know the New Testament. And for those who do look for the Christian themes in Lewis' original book, they're still in there. Everybody wins.

I am a little concerned for the future prospects of the series. Lewis is constantly introducing new characters, jumping around in time, telling completely disconnected stories, with only Aslan and the concept of Narnia is constants. Whether audiences will want to follow along, and how much future adapters will have to work to flesh out flesh out the increasingly thin plots, remains to be seen. But even if they can't maintain this level to the end, that should be no reflection on the beginning. The Chronicles of Narnia are off to a fantastic start. And best of all, the figured out how to do Aslan. That makes things a whole lot easier from here on out.

BRIC-A-BRAC: Departing on Runway Two

'Twas a year ago, methinks, when Bravo began a full-fledged commercial assault to promote the newest member of the reality TV family, Project Runway. It combined two things about which I am completely indifferent: high fashion and reality competition shows. I was nonplussed. My then-fiancée, however, was bursting with anticipation.

As is so often the case, she was right. From the first episode, in which twelve designers were called upon to create a party outfit comprised entirely of items bought from a grocery store for 50 bucks, I was unexpectedly drawn in. As a rule, I don't think very much of shows like Survivor or The Mole or others of that ilk. They are, for all intents and purposes, game shows. And not even game shows based on merit, like being able to answer trivia questions or play an elaborate game of hangman. They're endurance contests and tolerance contests. Not very interesting, I find.

I soon realized why this was different. Project Runway did something that is very rarely seen: it managed to show the ins and outs of the creative process. It's a very difficult thing to get across. How do you show someone coming up with an idea. Well, this show found a very elegant way of accomplishing it. By watching a group of artists all trying to accomplish certain tasks in their own way, you actually get a glimpse into how different minds work. It isn't about strategizing; it's about talent. Which, luckily enough, makes for fantastic television.

The breakthrough for me really came in the third episode of Season 1 when the eventual contest winner, Jay McCarroll, truly came into his own. Until that point, he had been bugging the crap out of me. He insisted on proving to everyone who outlandish he was, and he kept calling himself Jesus, and he used to work in the porn industry so Clair and I referred to him as "The Fluffer." But then, in an effort to create a dress that might be sold by Banana Republic, Jay suddenly discovered that his shining personality wasn't going to cut it. And so, using the Chrysler Building as his inspiration, he created what was easily the most beautiful garment produced in the entire series. As a result, Jay realized that he actually had the skills to win this thing, and I realized that I couldn't call him "The Fluffer" anymore.

Well, for the most part, it's about talent. Ironically, the winner of that Banana Republic challenge, the now-infamous Wendy Pepper, seemed convinced that she was on Big Brother, and that strategizing and scheming were the key to victory. So she proceeded to irritate everyone on the show, as well as everybody who watched it, by trying desperately to be more clever than everyone else, and meanwhile consistently coming out as the second-worst designer each week. To her credit, she managed to parlay this into a spot in the show's grand finale, a runway show at New York's Fashion Week. Fortunately, however, her natural inclination to focus on the game and not the art finally did her in. And that, to me, is proof of Project Runway's superiority among reality TV shows. Wendy Pepper might have won Survivor. But there was no way she was winning Project Runway.

All this matters because Season 2 made a smashing debut on Wednesday night, and all the familiar elements were back and as good as ever. There's Heidi Klum, our hostess and the worst dialogue looper ever. At the time of filming, she's very pregnant, and not only is she glowing, but motherhood seems to agree with her backbone. She actually calls some of the designers on their crap. Way to go, Heidi!

And there's Tim Gunn, fashion director of the Parsons School of Design and the roving advisor to all the contestants. Tim is an excellent teacher, but more importantly, he's gentlemanly to a fault, so a great portion of comedy is derived from watching him delicately try to tell a designer that they are creating a disaster. My favorite moment of the premiere episode was when many of the designers were far from finished with two hours to go, and Tim is struggling to find the right word without being discouraging, and he finally says, "I'm alarmed." You had to see it. As much as everyone hated Wendy Pepper, they love Tim Gunn even more.

And our judges are back, and even they've gotten sharper. Fashion designer Michael Kors is on board, and even though I spent the fall looking for the right necktie and Michael's collection didn't even come close to what I was looking for, I still love his ability to get to the point. In the premiere, he succinctly describes everything that is wrong with a dress that looked perfectly fine to me. He points out that if you removed all the trim and lace and frills, all that's left is a boring top and skirt. And I think, "Damn, he's right." Which is why he's a fashion kingpin and I'm not. And Elle editor Nina Garcia is back, too. She hates everybody, but so far, her ire is directed at precisely the right people. It's like coming home.

The producers get major kudos for kicking things off with a magnificent start. Knowing that so much of the show's drama comes from trying to fulfill challenges before a ridiculously short deadline, they began by sending every contestant six yards of muslin and a directive to make a dress exemplifying their design philosophy within a week. So no one could complain that they didn't get a chance to do whatever they wanted, but still had to race the clock. Right from the start, you get a feel for who is going to be good and who might not. Indeed, the first person eliminated admits that he made his dress in eight hours. Hey, no pain, no gain.

Back when I started this blog, I planned to recap this show in the style of one of my favorite websites, Television Without Pity. Project Runway wasn't in their lineup at the time, and they had utterly neglected to hire me to recap one of their existing shows -- an oversight probably attributable to the fact that they've never heard of me. Excuses. Anyway, they recently wised up, and have begun to recap the show in earnest. That's too bad, because I would have enjoyed the task. On the other hand, it's nice to leave it to some other sucker. After all, I'm still trying to get this blog done on a daily basis.

Initial thoughts based on two challenges: Santino is extremely good, but is playing chicken with karma, and looks to be this year's Kara Saun. Chloe is a good dark horse. Zulema thinks a lot more of herself than I think of her. Andrae's crying jag is really annoying, and he can't leave soon enough. Emmett's maturity is refreshing. Diana has stunning ideas, but is so meek that you can easily imagine her dissolving into nothingness. And Nick can tone down the attitude. A lot.

I hate being stuck on a TV show. It becomes a commitment, and it means you lose an hour of your week. But damn...it's nice to have you back, Project Runway.

BRIC-A-BRAC: We All Shine On

One of the easiest, and least informative, kinds of of news stories you can write is the anniversary story. On this date oh so many years ago, such and such happened. Here's some people who were there. Here's what really happened that day. Here's how the world has changed since that momentous event. Of course, it's not news in the sense that news is usually, in the most literal definition of the term, new. It's filler, but it's effective filler. It's filler that tugs at our memories, and makes us think we're learning something. At its best, it's storytelling. At worst, it's salt in a wound.

We've gotten them every year on September 11 for the past four years, and the 5th anniversary should be huge. The further away we get from events, the more likely we are to focus on nice round numbers. So we show up for the 60th anniversary of D-Day, and maybe we'll be back for the 65th...well, maybe we'll hold off until the 70th...of course, the 75th is gonna be gigantic, so we might just want to build up for that.

Anyway, the point of all this is that it's no surprise today's news is filled with remembrances of the murder of John Lennon. It's the 25th anniversary of that hideous event, you see. The die-hards remember it every year, of course. But a big number like 25, well, that's a good time to really remember it.

I certainly understand the impulse to mark milestones in history, as well as in one's own life. It's human nature to take note of each revolution around the sun. Familiar things tend to take us back. So I certainly don't find it surprising.

But at least this time around, I wonder if it isn't time to give the anniversary thing a rest. What exactly are we learning with this particular look back in time? That it was really, really sad? That if he were still here, there still wouldn't be a Beatles? That crazy people shouldn't be able to get handguns? No, what we're doing is trafficking in misery. We're fumbling about for something to make us really sad, and we've found a diamond in this one.

I think what I really object to is the ghoulishness of it all. At one level, there are the people who gather in Central Park, looking off at the Dakota, singing "Give Peace A Chance." I certainly respect the level of their grief. But I don't quite get it. No matter how much this man's art touched you, I'm not sure I can connect with the need to gather and mourn 25 years after the fact. They worry me a little bit. There's a part of the grieving process that they're clinging to, and it's heartbreaking in private, but somehow a little unseemly in public.

And at the other extreme are the exploiters. I'm so glad NBC managed to get hold of interview tapes with the man responsible for all our misery. (I always liked how, in Elton John's song "Empty Garden", he was compared to a ravenous insect.) Why do we need to hear these tapes? Why do we care about why he thinks he did what he did? If ever anyone deserves obscurity, it's this rat. Instead, we choose this occasion to drag him out of the depths and parade him once again. It's cheap, it's offensive, and it has nothing to do with the man we're supposed to be remembering.

John Lennon, sad to say, is an unfinished work. I'm not sure he ever figured out who he wanted to be. In his famed Playboy interview, he talks about going to many different therapies, including est and primal scream, in his words "looking for a daddy." In truth, I don't think he ever stopped doing that, trying to find the place in the world he best fit in. He went from being a rebellious student to a fiery rock-and-roller to a psychedelic poet to a pretentious artist to a peace activist to a heroin addict to a miserable drunk to a stay-at-home dad to a quiet man facing 40 to someone who felt compelled to pick up the guitar once again. He was always movingon to the next thing, never quite comfortable staying in any one place for too long. Being father to his son Sean probably made him the most comfortable, but even that couldn't hold him entirely. And it's this elusive quality that makes attempts to remember John Lennon so irritating. There are so many Johns. If you remember him one way, you haven't gotten the whole picture.

What we're left with, then, is the music. And that doesn't need a date. You can put it in at any time, and John can speak to you, and tell you who he is at that moment. Look, I'm a commemorator. I've got a stack of John Lennon and Beatles CDs that I'm listening to, and I'm doing it because it's December 8, and that's the day John died. But John isn't telling me anything about being dead. He's telling me about his life. Which is infinitely more valuable.

John Lennon sang at my wedding this year. On the album Milk & Honey, Yoko included a demo recording of John singing a song he'd written called "Grow Old With Me." It was inspired by a Robert Browning poem. In Yoko's album notes, she said that John always envisioned an elaborate, syrupy arrangement that would get played at weddings all the time. I don't know if that's true, because Yoko has been known to bowlderize a bit. But I like the story, and I love the song, and I thought the very least I could do would be to help honor that lost vision. So there he was. It was one of the few things that I absolutely was not going to budge on. And it was just beautiful.

I'm angry that a lunatic could murder such a man. I'm sad for his family and his friends and his fans. But I'm not going to dwell on it. I'll stick with remember all the things he made that make me smile, or laugh, or sing along. And I'll think about how he helped make my wedding so wonderful.

That's the John I'm thinking of. He's alive. This day, and every other.

Like the moon, and the stars, and the sun.

DIAMONDS & HORSEHIDE: A Ford Frick Update

Last month, I briefly discussed the online nominating process for the Ford C. Frick Award, honoring a lifetime's achievement in baseball broadcasting. Well, today the Hall of Fame announced the ten finalists, and I'm proud to report that, of three I voted for -- Skip Caray, Mark Holtz, and Jon Miller -- none made the cut. My streak is intact.

Take a look at the Ford C. Frick Award Finalists here.

Three of the final 10 were chosen from the fan vote, and I have to really hand it to the fans. They did their work. One of them, Dave Niehaus, is an announcer I've voted for in the past. He's the only broadcaster in the history of the Seattle Mariners, and his enthusiasm is legendary. If you've every heard him call a Ken Griffey, Jr. home run, or if you heard the final outs of Randy Johnson clinching the Mariners' first playoff spot, you've heard a very excited man. Evidently, he's like that through entire games. Dang.

The second, Bill King, was the Oakland A's play-by-play man for 25 years until he passed away last season. (Another finalist, Toronto Blue Jays mainstay Tom Cheek, also died last season.) The Bay Area is doing well in this award, as Giants announcer Lon Simmons got the prize two years ago. The clincher, though, is that photo the Hall has of King. It's the most frightening, most awesome, most 1970s attire you will ever see. I almost want to see him win just for that.

The fans really showed me something with their final pick, though. It's Jacques Doucet, who spent 34 years as the French play-by-play voice of the Montreal Expos. That's absolutely fantastic. Not only does it pay tribute to a murdered franchise, but it means that out of all the names on that list, the fans lent their support to the one guy calling the game in French. Now that's what I call an international game. Two men -- Jaime Jarrin and Felo Ramirez -- have received the honor for broadcasting baseball in Spanish. I'm all for adding a third language into the mix. Well done, voters.

As for the picks of the professionals, it's hit and miss. Does Dizzy Dean really need to be honored for his broadcasting? Is there really only one active broadcaster (Kansas City's Denny Matthews) deserving of such recognition? Did Graham McNamee call his first games using a megaphone? (How old is that picture of him?) I kind of get the feeling that the fans put more work into it.

I'm totally behind Doucet for the award, and I've got half a mind to write Bob Costas and tell him so. After that, I'd go with Niehaus, and then who knows. Maybe Matthews. Preferably someone alive. It's not fair, but I kind of like to see the recipients show up. Especially since they'll probably be inducting half-a-dozen Negro League stars this year.

Ah, yes. The Negro Leaguers. That's one of the other big elections for 2006. But that's for another time.

RED ENVELOPES: Water Everywhere

The question of whether a movie is any good doesn't seem like it should be particularly difficult to answer. After all, you either like it or you don't. It's either well-made or shoddily constructed. It either leaves you satisfied or wanting. Sometimes it hovers near the line, whihc leaves you using terms like "sorta" and "kinda" and "a little bit." And of course, we reserve the right to change our minds on these things. But on the whole, it's a pretty straightforward question.

So you'd think I'd have an easier time coming up with an answer for Open Water.

When I sent it back to Netflix, I rated it four stars. In their confused parlance, that either means I "really liked" or "loved" the movie. They're not real consistent on the matter. Point being, I think it's a fair rating. For a low-budget, hi-def video creepshow, it's very well-made. The movie parcels out its shocks and thrills very effectively. It achieves a level of horror to which most blood-and-gore pictures can only aspire. It does it's job, and it does it well. Ergo, good movie.

But all I have to do is tell you the basic plot of the movie, and I think you'll start to see my problem. Open Water is the story of an on-the-go couple who take a vacation to the Caribbean to try to re-connect with each other. There, they go on a deep-sea diving trip -- and are accidentally left behind in the ocean, where they attempt to survive the elements, as well as packs of hungry sharks. Whoo hoo! Let's have some fun!

Much was made of Open Water's similarity to The Blair Witch Project, another quickly-made horror movie about people who fear for their lives while trapped in natural settings that prove to be unexpectedly treacherous. The comparisons are apt, in the sense that both are inexpensively shot on video, and use the apparent deficits in big-name stars and large special effects budgets as advantages, stripping away a layer of Hollywood artifice to make a terrifying moment seem real, and thus all the more terrifying. Of course, the comparison falls apart when you consider that Open Water is a superior film in almost every respect. Better acted, shot professionally, with an actual script to guide the proceedings, Open Water takes the gimmick of Blair Witch and gives it a much-needed polish.

Plus, it's not nearly as irritating. Credit for this has to go to writer-director Chris Kentis, who knows his characters have to seem real in order for you to have any identification with their situation, but also knows that realism must be tempered with some dramatic build, lest it be reduced to the hysterics of reality television. My favorite moments involve the couple trying to cope with their situation and reacting in all-too-believable ways, like trying to remember what they learned by watching "Shark Week", or furiously cursing at the heavens just to try and release some of the tension.

Kudos also go to the cast, which is essentially actors Blanchard Ryan and Daniel Travis. It's no secret that the scenes in which the characters are trapped in shark-infested waters were, in fact, shot in shark-infested waters. So everytime a shark's fin appears above the surface mere yards away from them, they're reacting to an actual danger. So the fact that Ryan and Travis create characters who you actually like and want to see get out of their predicament is quite an achievement.

But what I keep coming back to is the basic situation that makes up most of the movie: two people trapped, hoping they don't die, and waiting to see if they do. It is a major bummer. The word I would use to describe the general tone of the film was dread, and this movie does as good a job of capturing that feeling as any ever made. Even for a relatively short film such as this, the feeling starts to weigh heavily after a while. You may be rooting for our heroes, but they can't improve their lot, and you can't either, and so you're just waiting for fate to do whatever it will. It's a horror film made by Albert Camus.

So is it any good? Well-made, yes. Successful on its own terms, absolutely. But I'm not altogether sure it's good for you. It's a drag on the psyche, and while there is a place in art for the gamut of human emotion, it does make it very hard to pass along a recommendation. Because for most people, "Go see the well-crafted movie about the long wait for death" is not a selling point.

PAGE TURNER: 50 Pictures' Worth

"Gail and Nate cried themselves to sleep on Thursday. The rest of his birthday weekend went downhill from there."

Those marvelous opening lines begin the new novel from Matt Larsen, which is either called Gemini Joe or Greater Than, depending on where you look for it.

That kind of confusion would not seem to be ideal for a new book, especially if you don't remember seeing anything about a Matt Larsen in your last issue of Publishers Weekly. Not to worry. Matt -- friend, colleague, and groomsman -- hasn't actually handed his book over to a publisher yet. In fact, he may not even bother. Because his book is the triumphant fruit of his labors as a participant in the 2005 edition of National Novel Writing Month, where it's about the journey, not the destination.

A quick brief for those new to the concept: NaNoWriMo (the preferred abbreviation, although a curiously stingy appellation for a project about accumulating words) posits that everybody has a novel in them, and they would write it if they only had the necessary prodding. So for the month of November, anybody is welcome to accept the challenge of starting from scratch and composing a 50,000-word novel by the end of November 30. You want to write that book? Here's the artificial deadline you need.

Sounds simple enough. Just start typing, and stop occasionally for coffee. Indeed, judging from the list of winners, that is the approach some successful novelists have taken. One winning volume is titled A Month of Random Phlegm Coughed Up By My Brain, a Bastardization of Conventional Novel Writing, in G Minor. I haven't read it, but I have the suspicion that it's not going to be entirely linear.

But 50,000 is a lot of words. For those keeping track at home, that's approximately 1,667 words a day. By the time I reach the end of this sentence, this blog entry will consist of 325 words. So should I decide to write a novel called Shane Writes a Blog, "Chapter One: Shane's Blog Entry for December 1", I'm not even a fifth of the way through Day One.

I have never entered NanoWriMo, choosing instead to live vicariously through others. If I'm not mistaken, this is Matt's second attempt at the literary 1500 meters. Most obvious lesson learned from watching Matt: writing sucks up your life. Several times during the past month, after dinner or in the midst of a game, Matt got to use this awesome-yet-sad exit line: "I'm sorry. I have to go write my book." If you think about it, it's a fantastic way to get out of any situation. It sounds gravely important: "Well, you can't really argue with that. The man has to write his book." And yet it's really cool: "Wow! He's writing a book!" But finally, it's bittersweet, because the darkness of a looming deadline colors the whole enterprise. Do you get to enjoy the process when you're racing through it? It's becomes just one man, slogging away against a tolling clock.

Well, it's not quite that dramatic. But I sounds pretty cool that way, doesn't it? Make a good book, that would.

Choosing November as the month to write a book is really quite cruel. The main reason: Thanksgiving. This 4-5 day holiday sitting right there in the last third of the race, practically daring you to try and finish. It's as though the people running this contest want you to blow off your family and friends. I mean, sure, it could have been worse. They could have picked February. It's the shortest month. But you would get the whole 28 days, because President's Day isn't going to coma-a-callin' right as you're building up to the dramatic climax. Besides, you're going to be stuck inside anyway, waiting for winter to end. But, I suppose that makes completing the challenge in November all the more satisfying. "Look at all the obstacles I've overcome." But you do miss the leaves changing.

This is all very significant to me because we're coming up on the third anniversary of me beginning work on a book of my own. I began writing a serial novel a long while back, that posted on an online literary journal called The Greenroom. (I then became editor of that journal, and then watched it go moribund due to website issues. It will come back, though. I swear it.) In a way, I had a gentler version of NaNoWriMo's artifical deadline in my corner, too. Knowing that I wanted a new chapter to go online every two weeks, I had to chug through the writing and the editing. And for about ten chapters, I was really making a go of it. In fact, as I went along, it seemed to get easier. I was in The Zone (which ESPN has informed me must be capitalized and drenched with reverb when uttered). But I let a deadline slip, and I slipped out of the groove, and the fields eventually went fallow. You see it happen to a lot of NaNoWriMo participants. They get through the first 10,000 words, and then the next 5,000 come much slower, and then you have to go to Ohio to gee Grandma, and you never do see the finish line.

I regret that my story slipped away. And Matt has shown me that I get get it back. I've got 15 chapters written. The construction equipment is on the site; the workers are just waiting for permission to start work.

The word is given.

Awhile back, I mentioned a couple secret projects for this blog which, as the name implied, I kept secret. Now I'll tell you: I'm finishing the book, and I'm doing it here. I'm going to start re-posting the early chapters, and then, starting with Chapter 16, it's all new, baby. And I've got whoever might be reading this site to keep me honest. Let's do this thing.

Dead Me Are A Girl's Best Friend. The re-launch. Chapter 1, coming next week. I'm going to write this book. It'll take more than a month, but I'm gonna do it.

Because right now, Matt can say something I can't. He wrote a book.

Matt's NaNoWriMo Page
An Excerpt from Matt's Novel

FINAL CUT: Que Sera Sarah

For my birthday, my wife and I had some delicious crepes at one of Chicago's finest restaurants, a quiet little French eatery called La Creperie. We opted for the coq au vin dinner crepe, and created our own dessert crepe with a banana filling and chocolate sauce. It's a marvelous little place, and the next time you're in the Windy City, it's definitely worth a visit.

This is not specifically relevant to the issue at hand. It's just a really good restaurant, so I'm happy to share the good word.

Anyway, after dinner, we headed over to the movie theater across the street, where we intended to take in a double feature. Alas, the wise guys at the Landmark Century have figured out that if you space out the films, it's much harder to stick around for anotherflick. A short-sighted policy, if you ask me. Fewer screenings means fewer tickets sold, and no Dots sales. But it's their loss. And ours, since we were not treated to a nightcap of Good Night, and Good Luck, and at to settle for a meal consisting entirely of Sarah Silverman: Jesus Is Magic.

Sarah Silverman is a stand-up comedian with a two-pronged attack: first, she stands there looking absolutely beautiful, with a sweet smile and a faraway glint in her eye. Second, she starts speaking, and the gleeful nastiness of the words coming out of her mouth fully hit you. In the film's prologue, she tells her friends about the show she has written: "It's about the Holocaust...and AIDS...but it's funny." Like the gun that must be fired before the end of the play, she intends to make good on her promise.

Silverman is a refreshing comedian. Even Chris Rock is doing material about the differences between women and men. Meanwhile, Silverman opens with a joke about being raped. It's easy to imagine her sitting around thinking of taboo topics, and then setting out to puncture them. Much of the laughter she earns is at the sheer audacity of her subject matter. A much-quoted joke from the movie goes, "When God gives you AIDS -- and God does give you AIDS -- then I say...make lemonAIDS." She's cute, shocking, and satirical all at once.

The problem with the film is the same with every comedy concert film made since HBO went on the air: why on earth would you go to a movie theater to see it? (Unless you were planning on watching another movie about McCarthyism right afterwards.) We're talking about watching someone talk for an hour and a half. Silverman seems aware of the problem, so to spice things up, she sprinkles in a few amusing musical numbers. The best of these finds Silverman in go-go boots and a That Girl hairdo voicing a series of sweet, racist nothings. "I love you more than black people don't tip," she trills. It's very funny, but it breaks up the flow of the routine. From what can be seen, she's singing these songs as part of her concert, but we're getting the full music-video production. The pieces are artlessly slammed together, without so much as the smoothness you might find in an episode of Pulp Comics.

In the end, that's the real problem with Jesus Is Magic: it doesn't deserve to be a movie. Silverman is very funny, and has genuine screen presence. But the movie turns out to be a lousy vehicle for her talent. More to the point, it's just not something you have to see on a big screen. Some of her colleagues, like Jack Black and David Cross, have found success in the medium. Hopefully, she will too. With a different movie.

RED ENVELOPES: Gumball!

While it is true that Thanksgiving is a time to be thankful for our good fortune, it must be noted that the actual being thankful is usually limited to that moment when you look at the vast spread laid out on the dining room table, lick your lips, and realize that your only regret is that you cannot eat it all. (And you will attempt it anyway.) In most cases, Thanksgiving is usually devoted to the glories of television. Save for an instance around a decade ago when I attempted to help my nephew fly a kite, I have probably spent most of my recent Thanksgivings staring at the flickering box. And while I enjoy a Law & Order marathon as much as the next guy, the beauty of Netflix is that you can personally select the gloriously stupid programming that you allow into your home. Which is why, whilst I assembled the ingredients for a green bean casserole, I reveled in the wonders of that cinematic masterpiece, The Gumball Rally.

I go way back with The Gumball Rally. From what I recall, it's one of the first motion pictures I ever had the privilege to see in a theater. I would have been 5, I think. And that's appropriate, because this is one of the first, best examples of the live-action cartoon. Somebody got the bright idea that you could have an entire movie that consisted of one long car chase. Someone else thought that was brilliant, put up the money, and history was made.

Like the Cannonball Run movies that followed, The Gumball Rally is based on an actual illegal cross-country race. However, where the Cannonball movies felt the need to spice things up with big stars, gratuitous cameos, and blatant attempts at slapstick humor (ladies and gentlemen, I give you Jack Elam), Gumball is based on the premise that the race itself is hilarious. All that's required is to assemble the barely-sketched-out stereotyped participants -- socialite wives, dumb hicks, snooty old guys, lunatic Hungarian motorcyclist -- and start their engines. In fact, it's interesting to see how blatantly Cannonball Run rips off its predecessor. Funny foreigners? Check. Obsessed cop? Check. Racers masquerading as public servants? Check. Hey, it's a race! What's to be creative about?

Michael Bay owes a lot to movies like The Gumball Rally. Consider the merits of the explosive punchline. Van leaking gas? Cute. Van leaking gas careening through traffic? Funny. Van leaking gas, careening through traffic, and crashing into a fireworks factory? Hilarious. It's as though the movie wasn't actually written, but was assembled from flash cards.

Mind you, the race has to do all the work. This is a movie whose idea of star casting is Michael Sarrazin and Tim McIntire. And seriously, a good chunk of the film's "plot" hangs on their good-natured rivalry. A rivalry we care about not one whit, by the way. Which clears the way for such future stars as Gary Busey (in an early appearance as a dim-bulb Southerner) and the magnificent Raul Julia. Ah, Raul. Such a great actor, and such a checkered film career. As an vain, sex-obsessed Italian professional driver, he's clearly understood that it's over the top or bust. When we first meet him, he's making race-car noises while making love. One assumes that the character profile ended right there. It's a magnificent, ridiculous performance, and Julia is undoubtedly setting the pace for everyone else in the film.

Not everything works, of course. The most disastrous side trip is a thoroughly obnoxious central-casting Brooklyn couple, Lázaro Pérez and Tricia O'Neil in a Rolls-Royce. It's important to note: THEY'RE NOT EVEN OFFICIALLY IN THE RACE. Why the hell are we stuck with them, other than to spend a few seconds checking out O'Neil's rack? (Pathetic trivia I know: O'Neil later goes on to play the captain of the Enterprise-C on Star Trek: The Next Generation. So, way to upgrade there, Tricia.) The joke seems to be that the Rolls neatly avoids all manner of disaster, until a very unpleasant run-in with a biker gang that plays like something out of Death Wish. It's extremely unfunny, and like the entire Rolls-Royce subplot, has no place in this movie.

Mentally edit that out, and you're in for a delightful, brainless time. Look, all you need to know about The Gumball Rally is in the trailer. They don't tell you who is in the movie. They tell you the kinds of cars they drive. "Charger! Porsche! Ferrari!" cries the announcer. And then they show you some crashes. That, my friends, is knowing your audience. Make it fast, make it loud, and they'll beat a path to your door.

DIAMONDS & HORSEHIDE: Golden Voices

I'm deeply fascinated with the Baseball Hall of Fame. The process whereby the greatest figures in the game are selected is endlessly fascinating to me. Truth be told, the whole process of anointing greatness intrigues me. I just get a little more involved with the baseball version than I do with, say, the Agricultural Hall of Fame. (Although I'll bet that's pretty interesting, too.)

As a proud member of the Newman Smith High School Debate Hall of Fame, I think I have a certain appreciation for how significant these honors can be.

November is a busy month for Cooperstown. The offical 2006 ballot will be announced in the next couple weeks (although they've already confirmed that Pete Rose won't be on it, so adjust your selections accordingly), and yesterday they came out with a ballot of candidates from the Negro Leagues who will be chosen by a special committee. I'll get to those lists in coming weeks, but for now, my attention is on the only category where everybody -- you and I, included -- get a say.

Along with the plaques to actual inductees, the Hall of Fame gives awards for lifetime achievement in baseball writing and baseball broadcasting. They're sometimes referred to as being in separate wings of the Hall, but really, they just get a scroll and membership in the Veterans' Committee. Writers receive something called the J. G. Taylor Spink Award, while broadcasters get the Ford C. Frick Award. And that's where we come in.

The people who decide on the Frick Award have a list of ten names to choose from. Some special committee picks seven names, but the last three are chosen by a public vote. And the public has a lot to choose from, as you will see here:

Vote for the Ford C. Frick Award

That's a lot of flippin' names. To be honest, I think anyone who has ever sat behind a microphone at a baseball game is on that list. I mean, Norm Hitzges? Hall of Famer? Seriously?

I kind of feel like anyone who already is an actual member of the Hall of Fame should not be eligible to win the broadcasting award. Isn't Dizzy Dean happy with the honor he has? Especially considering he's dead? Ooo, okay, bad example. Substitute Ralph Kiner. Doesn't Ralph have enough? And frankly, most of the former players are not exactly representative of the pinnacle of the sports broadcasting profession. A few have won, like Joe Garagiola and Bob Uecker. But this is an award primarily for broadcasters. So that's how I vote.

You get to vote once a day through the month of November, and each time I vote, I always check off the names of Mark Holtz and Skip Caray.

Holtz was the play-by-play man for the Texas Rangers the entire time I lived in Carrollton, and was a consummate professional. He had a deep voice, with the tiniest hint of a twang to convince you that he was a Texas announcer and not just some hack they imported from out of state. He played off well with his color man, Eric Nadel (who I'm haven't voted for). It's a sentimental choice, compounded by the fact that he died a few years ago. He's the reason I don't have a rule against giving the award posthumously. He has never made the final 10.

Skip Caray is better known here in Chicago as Harry Caray's son, or sometimes as Chip Caray's dad which is a shame. (Chip Caray is on the list, too. The hell?) I know him as the long-time voice of the Atlanta Braves, and like most of the country, I got introduced to his work when WTBS went national. I know many baseball purists complain about him, which I don't get. Part of his appeal is that he doesn't sound like anybody else. His voice is sort of like a poorly-tuned horn. It stays at an unusually high-pitch, which makes him sound perpetually surprised. That's why his great call of the 1991 NLCS ("Slide, Sid!") is so remarkable, because you don't think he can get more excited, and then he does. This is another sentimental choice. He has also never made the final 10.

I don't have a regular choice for my third slot. For a while, I voted for announcers with long, respected careers, like Ken Coleman or Dave Niehaus. But they always make the final 10, so they don't really need my help. So lately, I've been voting for Jon Miller, who is quite active and certainly doesn't need a lifetime achievement award. But he's so good at his job, it seems like it would be the right encouragement to the TV networks to show them what a good announcer should sound like. You dig, Fox? Miller good. Buck-McCarver-Piniella bad.

Ugh. Piniella. Holy cow.

FINAL CUT: Play With Fire

The birthday weekend was celebrated with two voyages to the local cinema, which -- compared with the once in four months that preceded it -- was a veritable bounty of filmed entertainment. The second outing, Sarah Silverman: Jesus is Magic, may be saved for a later discussion. (Or may be forgotten altogether.) The short review was supplied by Edison Girard, who noted that it would make a fine HBO special. Amen to that. But the bigger review goes to the bigger movie. For Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire cannot be sloughed off with a pithy one-liner.

Why not? Because any movie based on a 734-page novel that clocks in a little bit short of three hours merits a little depth in the discussion. (Incidentally, I've completed my review of the original novel, so that'll be going into the queue over at BookADay soon enough.)

The fact that we're even talking about a 734-page novel that didn't require an adaptation the length of War and Remembrance is a real tribute to the red pencil of screenwriter Steve Kloves. He's walking a real tightrope here: Goblet of Fire is a crucial pivot point in J. K. Rowling's saga. It's the book that transitions the story from a schoolboy's magical adventures to a battle between good and evil that threatens a civilization. It draws on characters, situations, and ideas that have been planted in the first three books, and that are essential to a satisfactory resolution of the story in the last three books. Everything seems crucial. To a more literal-minded filmmaker (I'm looking at you, Chris Columbus), it all would have been essential.

Kloves and director Mike Newell have found another way, and I'm still impressed that they managed to jettison so much of the book and still make it work; not just as a self-contained film, but as part of a series that doesn't betray the source novel. It's possible to honor the spirit of a book but change the specifics of the plot dramatically. The film version of John Grisham's The Firm comes to mind, as it completely re-works the troublesome ending of the book, even while it uses the very words of the novel to justify the liberties. Kloves has not so much altered as streamlined Rowling's prose, shaving away every bit of excess weight that he can to make a movie possible. This could be a valuable screenplay to use, if you want to teach a class on film adaptation.

That's not to say nothing is lost. For one thing, the characters who Kloves must include are frequently given short shrift. Alan Rickman's Professor Snape, for example, is essential to the advancement of the story. But in this truncated telling, he barely exists, and doesn't even get a line of dialogue until the two-hour mark. Evidently, he also felt compelled to bring in nosy reporter Rita Skeeter, embodied here by Miranda Richardson. The choice is odd, though, because Rita's ultimate fate in the book is not part of the film, which suggests that it will not factor into the movie of the next book, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, which begs the question why she had to be here in the first place.

Characterization also takes a major hit. Harry's fellow school champions are reduced to the simplest outlines. Viktor Krum is sullen and stuck up, with two lines of dialogue at the most, while Fleur Delacour is pretty, but hardly seems capable of competing in the contest, given the skills we see here. There is an unavoidable sense that you're getting the Cliff's Notes version of the story. If you've read the books, then you can fill in the blanks. But that doesn't make Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire a moviegoing experience -- it makes it a multimedia experience.

I liked the movie a great deal, though. It's quite entertaining, very exciting, and carries the sense of dread that typifies the book. And as much as it races to get from one plot point to the next, it doesn't shirk the other key responsibility of tracking our three heroes' growth as teenagers, which culminates in the charming-yet-painful Yule Ball sequence (which is somewhat more tolerable onscreen than it was on the page, despite Harry and Ron's irritating attitude towards friends and dates).

I have one complaint, and it lies with the casting of Michael Gambon as Dumnbledore. He's not getting it. Part of what makes the Hogwarts headmaster such a compelling figure on the page is that he seems utterly simple, almost addled, yet harbors a deep wisdom and vast emotions well beneath the surface. It makes the moments where his feelings present themselves a great deal more potent. The late Richard Harris touched on this, infusing Dumbledore with a frailty that no doubt could have been cast away at a moment's notice. Gambon, on the other hand, plays everything right on the edge, and he hardly seems the rock in the storm that Harry should be turning to with his troubles. Dumbledore's unhappiness in the scene revealing the school champions is the first sign that something has gone wrong, and the situation does not improve. Gambon is a fine actor. But he's either being mis-directed, or he's failed to understand the dynamics of the character.

I remember reading that Richard Attenborough was campaigning for the part. I think that would have been a good call.

BRIC-A-BRAC: Smile For the Birdie

I'm having to re-evaluate my whole stand on photography.

I despise pictures of myself. I don't like my smile. I don't like my hair. I always look sloppy. It never turns out at all the way I would like. So there came a point many years ago when I decided to avoid being in them. Oh sure, every now and then, I am cajoled into holding still for the camera. But I steadfastly refuse to enjoy it.

Not long after I made that decision, I found that I was also starting to turn against being behind the camera, as well. I think the reason for that is because, if you bring a camera with you, it's inevitable that you will be asked to move to the other side of it before too long. So it's pre-emptive. Don't bring a camera, you can't be photographed with it.

There's also the issue of space. Pictures -- before the advent of pixels -- take up lots of it. So it seemed silly to me to lug around two packs of photos from every trip I've ever taken when I remember the details quite clearly.

I'm not saying it makes any sense. I'm just saying that it did at the time.

This came to a head in the preparations for my wedding. My fiancée and I had decided to rely on amateurs to do the work for us. Bring your own camera, take whatever pictures you like, and that'll be the permanent record. Suited me fine, since I hate pictures.

A few weeks before the big day, the love of my life had a major freakout, and realized that she needed the services of a professional. She would not be deterred. We needed a picture-taker, and a good one. In the proud tradition of grooms with only a matter of weeks to go before the wedding, I said, "Whatever you say, dear."

The point of all this is: we got the pictures last week. There's a box of pictures taken by the professionals, as well as a book of photos snapped by my Aunt Claudia, who is not a photographer by trade but is extremely skilled. And they're sensational. Just truly outstanding. I mean, they're so good, there are actually several where I don't despise the way I look. It's astonishing. And they capture the whole event. Everytime I open the book, I'm reliving the whole day.

In short, I may have been wrong about the whole pictures thing. And that's not a small admission to make. I'm starting to regret not having a better record of many key moments in the past decade, that I don't have more pictures of friends and functions.

Oh, I still look awful in a great many pictures. There's a fine example over at Arnie's blog (see October 15), in which I look like I have a neurological disorder. But I'm beginning to accept that vanity may be getting in the way of future contentment.

Besides, when I have a kid, I'm going to take pictures of that child until my eyes fall out.

DIAMONDS & HORSEHIDE: Merit Badges

Earlier this year, I joined in a project called The Hall of Merit. The HOM was the brainchild of a baseball fan and sabermetrician named Joe Dimino, who got tired of people complaining about the questionable job the Baseball Writers Association of America and the Veterans' Committee had done in selecting members of the Baseball Hall of Fame, and decided to do something about it. So he set up his own hall, and let slip the dogs of war.

The basic concept of the HOM is that we can use statistical analysis to prove who really are the best players in the history of the game. Running counter to this is the attitude of many sportswriters, who believe that statistics are the private domain of mathematicians and they ruin the beauty of the game. As is true in almost any dispute, both sides are a little bit right and a little bit wrong. (And I'm drastically over-simplifying things here. Because we don't need to spend all day on this.) But it's the writers who get to vote for the Hall of Fame in Cooperstown. Well, says the spirit of the Hall of Merit, we'll use cold hard facts to make our picks, and we'll see how things turn out.

Every two weeks, there's a new election. They started in a hypothetical 1898, and each election represents a new year. I waited until 1934 before I submitted my first ballot, because my knowledge about the skills of early players is severely limited. I also waited because it's kind of intimidating. There are some top baseball writers who have participated in this project, like Eric Enders and Dan Greenia. And there are only about 50 voters in any given election, so it's a lot of responsibility for a guy like me, even if nobody outside of the 50 of us knows the thing exists. But it's 1965 now, and I've voted in every year since my first. Evidently, I'm enough of a regular that I was described in the wiki as a "long-time voter." Heh.

The recently-concluded 1964 election is a good representation of how we work (and how I differ from everyone else). We elected Dodger shortstop Pee Wee Reese on the first ballot. He has a nice long career, and it was easy for me to rank him 1st on my ballot. We also elected pitcher Wes Ferrell, who had a short career with a few outstanding seasons. He did not appear on my ballot at all. So I am what you might call a career voter, and I am a dying breed in the HOM electorate. Most voters prefer a player's prime (the best seasons of a player), while a few others look at peak (the best individual season of a player). Prime has garnered more and more success in recent years, with the election of Ferrell and Hughie Jennings (a shortstop with five great years and absolutely nothign else). Meanwhile, I'm in the unusual position of stumping for a reds pitcher named Burleigh Grimes, who threw a legal spitball and had a nice long, durable career with some better-than-average seasons. In the HOM world, I'm the Grimes nut.

Since us commonfolk don't get a say in the official Hall of Fame, I'm enjoying having a voice in the unoffical Hall of Merit. For the coming election, I get to review the careers of Larry Doby, Enos Slaughter, and Mickey Vernon, among others. It keeps baseball alive even when there are no games. And there's always more to learn.

It'll be a pleasant way to spend the winter.

THE DAMNED HUMAN RACE: Flood Warnings in Dover

Pat Robertson is a magnificent son of a bitch.

Before we get too deep into this, "The Damned Human Race" is the umbrella title I've chosen for commentary on current events. Back in college, I had a twice-weekly radio commentary that mined similar territory under the name "The Situation." I contemplated using that again, but that bitch Tucker Carlson stole it for his punk-ass show. So I've decided to start fresh. Besides, I consider it an upgrade. The new title, I stole from Mark Twain. The old? From the Fresh Prince. Movin' on up.

In any event, it's a very apt title, because "The Damned Human Race" is precisely how Reverend Pat thinks of us. He seems to feel that mankind is always just two steps away from being singed to a crisp by an angry and vengeful god. He prays for God to strike down intransigent Supreme Court justices. He draws on God's wisdom to select the world leaders deserving of assassination. And now, he plans to sit back and watch as God's wrath is meted out on the poor, pathetic heathens who go to the ballot box in Dover, Pennsylvania.

Pat Robertson on Dover; MSNBC Lets Reuters Do Their Work For Them

What I think of "intelligent design" is a rant for another time. What's really interesting here is the insight we're getting into the American mind. Here's how the story of Dover has unfolded thus far.

- Members of the Dover school board, possibly concerned that science does not reconcile with the teachings of their faith, but definitely concerned that evolution alone does not satisfactorily answer the question of "what shall we teach our children about how the world came to be," vote to include the notion of an almighty creator (not to be confused with an Almighty Creator, mind you) into the curriculum.
- Parents, thinking that this puts the school system in the position of teaching religious belief as scientific fact, sue the board in federal court for violating the separation of church and state.
- Voters, evidently deciding that their vote really does count, elect replacements for every single member of the board up for election. Eight incumbent. Eight defeats.
- A guy with a TV show, in a fit of pique over the very vocal rejection of this particular brand of activist politics, tells the voters, "Don't be surprised if something really bad happens to you."

It's a beautiful sight to behold. And it's perfectly in keeping with the current national standard of "If you disagree with me, then you are scarcely better than a syphillitic child molester with an Uzi and a seat on the board of Enron." There seems very little room for gray area in public debate. So why should God be particular? As Noah will tell you, God's not exactly particular about who he wipes out.

The thing is, the voters clearly were trying to find some gray area. We believe in God, they said. This just isn't the place for him. And that doesn't sit well with Pat Robertson. If it's not all God, then it must be all Satan.

And that's why Pat Robertson makes me smile. Sure, he got smacked around for saying the president of Venezuela should be murdered. But he just got up, dusted himself off, and went back for more. You really have to admire a guy who is willing to go on national television and joyfully reveal to the masses that he is just be so stupid. So intolerant. So comtemptuous of his fellow man. So very, very un-Christian. It's a bold stance that hardly anyone else would be willing to take. But Pat takes it proudly.

May Zeus bless and keep him.

BRIC-A-BRAC: Put That Useless Knowledge to Good Use

John Glynn has been begging me to join Pub Quiz for almost a year. So naturally, I finally went on the night he didn't need me.

I somehow imagined that Pub Quiz was just one of those things a bar would to do draw customers on a Tuesday night. And it is that. But it's so much more. This thing is serious. There are special pre-printed forms. There's a website. When they show you photos of celebrities, they have photo credits on the side. This is no run-of-the-mill bar game. This is Serious Business.

I initially turned John down for a couple very good reasons. For one thing, I never had Tuesdays free. Either Clair and I had an appointment to keep, or I was rehearsing for my sketch show, or I was appearing in my sketch show...always something. The other reason is, frankly, I don't enjoy hanging out in bars.

But earlier in the day, John had posted to the Chicago improv bulletin board, and he was once calling out to the community to join in the trivial fun. And my Tuesday night was free, and I didn't know when that was going to happen again. And for once, I decided, I wasn't going to let John down.

"Why didn't you tell me you were coming?" John sighed, understandably peeved.

"I didn't know."

He wasn't happy about it, but he offered my services to a charming young lass named Jen Messner, who earned the right (by virtue of paying the entry fee with a $50 bill) to called our team "Mommy Warbuxxx." The x's are key. It was Jen, myself, her chum Len, and his pal Andre. I knew Jen by reputation, but beyond that, I knew nothing about my team. So glory was clearly just around the corner.

If you find yourself in Pub Quiz, prepare yourself, because it's cutthroat. There are seven rounds of questions, for crying out loud. We had three rounds of general knowledge, a round of match-the-gory-movie death, a round of name-the-celebrity-in-the-picture (hence the photo credits), one round of "goodbye" related questions, and one of "sorry" questions. Brutal, I'm telling you. Know any of Robert Scott's companions to the South Pole right off the top of your head? Neither did anyone at the Hidden Shamrock.

I won't bore you with play-by-play, except for these highlights:
- Andre identified Dan Rather as the author of a quote about apologizing for using bad documents at the last possible second. Brilliant save.
- Len didn't even blink in labeling a photo of Lindsay Davenport.
- Jen insisted the picture was Anne Heche. I thought Laura Linney, but didn't feel strongly enough to argue. Good move. Celestia, it was.
- The marathoner who stopped in the middle of the London Marathon to relieve herself, went on to win the race, and apologized to the country afterwards was Paula Radcliffe. And I don't have any idea why I know that.

We ended up finishing second, having blown the tiebreaker that we weaseled our way into. That meant we made back our entry fee, plus a few extra bucks. (I did, anyway. I think the bar makes money off the competitors who drink. Which would be everyone else.) So fun was had by all.

Except for John, who was perturbed. For which I'm sorry.

PAGE TURNER: Sails of Fortune and The Unofficial Guide to Walt Disney World 2005

I'm a regular contributor to the BookADay website, which discusses all things related to the printed word. My latest contributions are now on view in the "Current Reviews" section, so I invite you to stop by. It's a delightful little site, and not merely because it hosts my reviews.

I have been writing book reviews for Bookaday since late last year, and it has been interesting to see how I've become more critical as a reader. Not critical as in adversarial, but critical as in more demanding. It's been fun to read authors with huge reputations in the field and see how they stack up now that I'm actually trying to set the bar. For example, Asimov still does pretty well with me. Philip K. Dick, not quite so good.

I remember the first time I really felt like a movie demanded a review from me. It was Superman IV: The Quest for Peace. Now, this was not the first bad movie I ever saw. It was not the worst movie I had ever seen up to the point. And I certainly did not go in to the movie with high expectations. I mean, it looked bad, and looks were not deceiving. But it's the first time I remember turning a truly critical eye to a movie in an effort to fogure out precisely where it went so wrong. I had always gone with the flow as a moviegoer. But walking out of this particular piece of celluloid effluent, I really felt the need to analyze it in my mind. It wasn't enough that Superman IV was bad. It was the kind of bad that required further study.

This has kind of come to a head with the latest review I have up, because I really didn't care for the book at all. Since I have literary aspirations myself, I thought long and hard about just how inflammatory it was necessary for me to be. I mean, I've never thought a critic should be cruel just to get a chuckle. But a critic has to be honest, and if the book is bad, you have to say it.

So I slammed the book. I didn't find the story very well told, didn't think it did what the author wanted it to do. It's an unquestionable pan, and I didn't enjoy writing it at all. It was much more pleasant to prepare my other new review, a travel guide that I used for my spring vacation. (And the vacation was more pleasant than both of them, but that's another story.) So the intent is not to sound mean. It's just the disappointment of a reader who wishes they'd spent their time with a better book.

And please don't judge me for going to see Superman IV. It was a more innocent time.

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BRIC-A-BRAC: What A Day

Today is my wife's birthday. Whoo hoo!

I'm marking the occasion by attempting my first embedded-link post.

November 4

Of course, I suspect that, if you're reading this on any day other than November 4, the readout will have changed. This is a bit of a flaw in my brilliant plan.

Editor's Note: A more appropriate solution has been found. Many thanks to Mrs. Larsen for the tip.

BRIC-A-BRAC: The Gift Shop at Mecca

I like to think of myself as a fairly progressive guy. I think capitalism is better than communism, but I think Wal-Mart is a force for evil in our society. I like to live in the city, but I enjoy patronizing stores that don't belong to a chain. I would be very happy if I had a lot of money, but I don't believe that money makes you happy.

And yet -- god have mercy on my pitiful soul -- I love the Mall of America.

I lived in Minnesota for a little over a year, and the first time I finally made my way up to the Twin Cities, I did two things: I went to a Twins game, and I went to the Mall of America. (For those who know that the Mall stands on the ground once hallowed by Metropolitan Stadium, this must sound downright blasphemous.) It was love at first overwhelmed-by-mass-consumerism.

Everything about it is just a little ridiculous. The fact that the massive parking ramps have levels named for states, so you can repeatedly make the lousy joke (as I like to do), "Yeah, I'm parked out in California." Or "Everybody remember, we're parked in Texas." The fact that there are multiple Caribou Coffee shops throughout the Mall. And best of all, that there's a frickin' log flume ride in the middle. To say nothing of the fact that they decided to put this momument to spending in Bloomington, Minnesota. It's absurd. But it's just absurd enough to be charming.

My wife and I were in Minnesota this past weekend, so we went. You have to. It's there, and it draws you like a magnet. Plus, the complete lack of a sales tax is too good to pass up. Especially for people like us, who live in Chicago and pay the highest sales tax in the United States. Sure, it's hard to get everything on the plane. But it's so worth it. Even if the Christmas decorations were already up. (This was before Halloween. Maybe we should just never take them down.)

This is utterly embarrassing. I mean, it's a mall. Granted, it's a huge mall. Gi-normous. I explained it once as the equivalent of taking four malls and making them into a square. But that doesn't do it justice, because most malls aren't three stories. It's just huge, and it goes against everything I stand for. But everytime I walk in the doors, I get excited. I don't even buy that much. But just knowing that I could...

I'm so ashamed.

When we go back, we'll definitely ride the Ripsaw.

RED ENVELOPES: Advance Warning

I love hoax movies. You know, the kind where it purports to be a live broadcast or a news broadcast, and of course all kinds of hell breaks loose, and somewhere in America some yahoo tunes in late, and misses all 53 of the warnings that the lawyers made the network put in, and they don't utilize the scientific method at all to figure out why only one network has the biggest story in the history of mankind, and they freak out, and the next day some glory-hog congressman proposes new legislation to control the runaway media. Love those movies.

The grandfather of them all is, of course, The War of the Worlds. I went on at length about the latest movie version yesterday, so I'll try not to spend too much time on this. But it was Orson Welles, in all his prankish glory, who faked out the country in 1938, and created this wonderful notion of using the medium to con the populace. They played it again on Halloween night, and it's funny to think of terrified people staring at their radios. Well, funny now.

In 1988, public radio did an updated version, which I enjoyed so much I bought the CD. It used all the wonderful public radio conventions, including a parody of Stardate which nicely uses some of H. G. Wells' language. This was the first time I ever heard the mellifluous voice of Terry Gross (in her role as vintage radio host Rose Butler), and I suppose if I'd known her as Miss Fresh Air, that might have spoiled it right from the get-go. But I enjoyed it thoroughly, especially as she interjects, in the middle of the chaos, that listeners should remember to mail in those pledges. And it's got Jason Robards and Hector Elizondo, so there's much to love.

Probably the best of the hoax movies is a stellar little piece of TV called Special Bulletin, which does not seem to be available on video, and that's a crying shame. It's a tense film, depicting a group of terrorists threatening to explode an atomic bomb in Charleston, South Carolina. It's very effective, but what's marvelous is the way it criticizes TV news merely by showing it doing its thing. My favorite moment is when the network anchor is interviewing a physician, and the doctor is reviewing tapes of the terrorists to gain some insight into their mindset. And he notices that one of them mentions "white count", which he correctly interprets to be in reference to white blood cells, and a clear indiciation that the terrorist is suffering from radiation poisoning, and that the bomb is most definitely real. And the anchors totally miss it, because they're too busy trying to get to the next item. Marvelous writing, and positively prescient, considering the movie was made in 1983. If they did an update, the news would be even more clueless.

This is what brings me to my recent Netflix rental, Without Warning, a 1994 mock newscast depicting a major asteroid impact on Earth, and the mysterious nature of its true cause. It was kind of fun, watching things go from bad to worse. And it screws with your head, because the cast mixes actors with actual broadcasters. So there's John deLancie (Star Trek's Q) tossing back to the studio and real-life newsman Sander Vanocur. Strange.

If there's a flaw, it's that the film seems too polished. The filmmakers lay out all their cards, so that we can eventually piece it together, even if the media can't. Liek a jigsaw puzzle, we don't see the whole pictures until all the pieces are in place. But it's too polished. It doesn't have the element of chaos, of people trying to keep it together, that makes Special Bulletin such an achievement. In that film, you felt the frustration you often feel with watching the actual news, where you're trying to figure out the story, and you can't get the information you need. Without Warning tells you there's chaos, but it's a very orderly, carefully-controlled sort of chaos.

There has to be a way of transferring the joy of the hoax onto a stage. Must figure that out.