Last Wilson Testaments

LOOKIT, LOOKIT! : 366 Weird Movies presents The Tingler

2011-08-09T14:18:00.000-06:00

(A new feature in which something I wrote gets published somewhere, and I frantically encourage you to go find it. Let's hope this becomes a regular thing. More regular than this blog, anyway.)

A long while back, my wife and I had just finished watching the cinematic brain aneurysm that is Charlie Kaufman's Synecdoche, New York, and were desperately trying to figure out what the hell we had just seen. In trying times such as these, before reaching for the bottle, I turn to the web.

Of all the articles, reviews, and analyses I read (none of which, by the way, mentioned our theory about what really happened to Philip Seymour Hoffman, which actually made me feel smarter, for some reason), the best was the rundown provided by 366 Weird Movies, a website dedicated to the proposition that there is an utterly bizarre movie for every day of the leap year, and somebody ought to get to cataloging just which ones they are. It was interesting enough that I started reading other articles they had printed about strange films, and finally just added it to my RSS feed.

Every now and then, they have a contest to let readers submit their choices for oddball movies. Round about Contest #2, I started working on an idea I had. They're up to Contest #4, and I finally submitted something.

And whaddaya know. They printed it.

I'm absolutely tickled to have my writing up on a website that I enjoy reading, so I heartily encourage you to go read it, and then peruse some of the other reviews and articles there. It's well worth wasting your time.

CANT GET YOU OUT OF MY HEAD: Rehab

2011-07-26T21:40:00.000-06:00

The Song: "Rehab"
The Singer/Songwriter: Amy Winehouse

Amy Winehouse died Saturday. This song has been running around in my head ever since. Maybe that's not surprising, since it was probably her biggest hit, and the one most likely to be on permanent replay when her name was all over the news. But to be more accurate about things, "Rehab" has been in my head from the moment I first heard it. Sometimes, your brain just ticks off the box for "unforgettably great" when you are introduced to a piece of art, and that's what happened here.

You can feel the song's magic right from the very beginning. The low drone of the electric piano paired with the energetic handclaps, that deep, butterscotch voice which has no business coming out of a tiny Jewish girl from London, and of course, that marvelous opening line that conveys a novel's worth of information in 14 words:

They tried to make me go to rehab but I said 'no, no, no'
Yes I've been black but when I come back you'll know know know
I ain't got the time and if my daddy thinks I'm fine
He's tried to make me go to rehab but I won't go go go

If my good friends at Songfacts are to be believed, the lyrics to "Rehab" are as literal as they come. After some public incidents of drunkenness, Winehouse's management company urged her to seek treatment. Her father, however, said she was just depressed following a failed love affair, and that it was more than natural for a sad girl to seek some solace in the bottle. In any event, she went to a clinic, found the whole thing stupid, and left after a few days. And then she wrote a song about it.

It's that last part that leads people to throw around words like "brilliant" and even "genius" when talking about the lost talent of Amy Winehouse. Lots of people follow the old maxim to "write what you know." (Many of them start blogs.) But it's the ability to avoid whiny navel-gazing and instead get people to sing along with your troubles that marks a truly talented individual. Is "daddy" really her father? Is it actually her screwed-up, enabling failure of a husband? Her supplier? Part of what makes this such a great set of lyrics is that you don't really care.

I'd rather be at home with Ray
I ain't got seventeen days
Cause there's nothing
There's nothing you can teach me
That I can't learn from Mr. Hathaway

Case in point: Both Songfacts and Wikipedia insist that "Ray" and "Mr. Hathaway" refer to singers Ray Charles (who battled a serious drug addiction but overcame it) and Donny Hathaway (who battled severe depression and did not overcome it). And I suppose that makes sense. But...why? Does she mean she wants to sit at home and listen to Ray Charles records? Does she feel like, because they're in similar straits, Ray Charles is always with her? Confusing matters is the fact that, in concert, she often replaced "Ray" with "Blake", which is the name of the aforementioned toxic individual she married and maintained a codependent relationship with even as he paved the way for her to deeper levels of alcohol and drug abuse. Maybe "Ray" is just someone who won't judge her. And it's pretty clear that people like that were in short supply for Amy Winehouse.

I didn't get a lot in class
But I know it don't come in a shot glass

They tried to make me go to rehab but I said 'no, no, no'
Yes I've been black but when I come back you'll know know know
I ain't got the time and if my daddy thinks I'm fine
He's tried to make me go to rehab but I won't go go go

I want to take a quick moment to recognize the invaluable contribution of Winehouse's producer, Mark Ronson. I've watched several clips of her performing "Rehab" live, and while some are certainly better than others (and I have no interest in the schadenfreude of viewing her miserable final performance in Belgrade a month ago), I don't think any of them hold a candle to the studio version, and I think Ronson deserves the credit for that. One of the reviews cited in the Wikipedia article says his production "references four decades worth of soul music without once ripping it off". On the recording, Winehouse is backed by the funk/retro-soul combo The Dap-Kings, and Ronson employs them like a caged tiger, using just enough brass hits and honks from a booming baritone sax to demonstrate their potential power, but never quite letting them bust loose. Then he surrounds them with a string section that is also yearning to move beyond the tension of long, repeated notes, and a set of dancing chimes that, considering the eventual fate of the singer, now sound like church bells pealing at a funeral. Winehouse's voice is a fantastic instrument, and the song is undeniably hers, but Ronson gives it a setting that makes the tune transcendent.

The man said "why d'you think you here"
I said "I got no idea
I'm gonna, I'm gonna lose my baby
So I always keep a bottle near"
He said "I just think you're depressed,
Kiss me, yeah baby, and go rest"

Probably the funniest -- and saddest -- lyrics in the whole song. Having never been in a drug rehabilitation clinic myself, I nevertheless have no problem imagining the doctor opening up the interview with that question. It's a classic passive-aggressive, no-good-response-exists kind of question, and if you're feeling like you've been pressured into the situation where you have to answer it, Amy's response -- "Beats me" -- is about the best you can do.

Of course, it's what comes next that changes the whole tone of the conversation, and possibly the song. You go straight from the powerless lament that she's losing the one she loves to the very active response to drink away the problem. Here's where we get a real snapshot of the equation of life that governs Amy Winehouse's brain, and what leads us all to feel fairly certain that her early death was probably inevitable.

(As I write this, the exact cause of death is undetermined, and early reports suggest that no drugs or alcohol were found on the scene, and that she had been very conscientious as of late. On the other hand, I read an article that quoted her father as saying her lungs could not work at full capacity due to her past heavy cocaine use. So drugs may not have killed Amy Winehouse, but it's not a stretch to say that they didn't help.)

They tried to make me go to rehab but I said 'no, no, no'
Yes I've been black but when I come back you'll know know know

I don't ever wanna drink again
I just ooh I just need a friend
I'm not gonna spend ten weeks
Have everyone think I'm on the mend
It's not just my pride
It's just 'til these tears have dried

My initial reaction, upon seeing that Amy Winehouse had died, was that this was about the least surprising thing I could imagine. After all, everything about her suggested she was racing towards a premature end. It's a story I feel like I've seen before. But in the days that followed, I've just felt sad. On a plane flight on Sunday, I listened to Back to Black straight through, and the fact is that it is a damn good album. And regardless of how carelessly and dangerously she lived, setting aside that drug addicts eventually have no one to answer to but themselves, ignoring the way the music business and fame industrial complex just chews up and spits out its stars...it just seems a terrible shame that someone with that much talent couldn't pull it together to share a little more.

Then again, she said herself that we couldn't make her.

They tried to make me go to rehab but I said 'no, no, no'
Yes I've been black but when I come back you'll know know know
I ain't got the time and if my daddy thinks I'm fine
He's tried to make me go to rehab but I won't go go go

Fun Fact: I had a lot of fun ripping on the Grammys when I discussed how "Up, Up and Away" won Record of the Year in 1967, but the voters really got it right when they gave "Rehab" the same award in 2008. (Not so much when they also named her Best New Artist, this after her second album, and about five years after she released her first.) Odd, then, that the Grammys gave us an opportunity to witness what is almost certainly the most emotionally-conflicted -- and possibly the most emblematic -- moment of Amy Winehouse's short life.

For those of you who can't or choose not to watch this clip, know that it's the moment when "Rehab" is announced as the Record of the Year (by recovered drug addicts Tony Bennett and Natalie Cole, interestingly enough). It is heartwrenching to watch as an eternity seems to go by between the moment when Amy Winehouse hears her name and the moment when she finally is able to move. It's reasonable to assume that the time lag between Los Angeles and London (where she was because legal troubles prevented her from entering the United States) is partially responsible for the lapse in recognition, but then you see everyone else in the studio going bonkers while she stares at the monitor, uncomprehending, thoroughly unsure what to feel. She reaches for the microphone stand, can't find it, and for a few seconds, she stands there all alone, surrounded by joy, yet unable to tell the difference between triumph and terror. And I doubt that she ever figured it out.

A Few Words About Twitter, Which I Have Been On For Less Than a Month

2011-07-11T10:57:00.000-06:00

I’m relatively new to Twitter. Still seems a little silly to me, but there is a definite charge from getting an immediate response to whatever random thought you felt like thumbing into your phone.

I do try not to overdo it. The reputation of Twitter users as social hermits who insist on broadcast the result of ever firing neuron is not one I want to embody. So I limit myself. I generally only tweet once a day. Maybe more, if I’m stuck on a bus and bored. I’ll jump in on the occasional hashtag joke, but I usually only contribute one punchline. I have a limited number of people I follow, and I think I’m going to cap that when I get to 50. There’s only so many people you can keep up with, you know. So if by chance you’re one of the people I’m currently following, consider yourself among a privileged few.

(Side note: it is impossible to use the word “tweet” without feeling like a complete idiot.)

Perhaps my most important rule is to not follow every single celebrity who interests me. It’s pretty widely accepted that celebrities have very little to say, and getting that nothing in two-sentence bursts every couple days does not improve the content. For example, I love Paul McCartney, and I’m glad that Paul McCartney (or his press agent) has decided to get with the times, but I’m not following @paulmccartney on Twitter. I’m just not.

(In the middle of typing that last paragraph, Paul singing “Junk” started playing over the loudspeakers in the Starbucks I’m sitting in. Well played, universe. Well played.)

There are exceptions, of course. Two of them are related to my love of baseball. They are sportswriter extraordinaire Joe Posnanski (@JPosnanski), who is probably one of the best working writers in the world today, and Michael Schur (@KenTremendous), who, before all his time was taken up producing Parks & Recreation, ran one of the funniest websites in the tubes, Fire Joe Morgan. Both Posnanski and Schur have interesting and well-parsed thoughts on baseball (and other lesser sports), so I enjoy their Twitter missives.

Happily, these two minds have found each other, and Schur makes a monthly appearance on Posnanski’s cheerfully lo-fi podcast. They enjoy talking to each other, they are enthusiastic fans without being stupid about it, and the fact that they assume no one is listening only makes the show more listenable.

Their commitment to ignoring the needs of the audience is best exemplified by their most recent podcast, which culminated in a draft to select the best all-time balls. No childish jokes please. Posnanski took the football, Schur chose baseball. Posnanski selected the 8 ball, Schur opted for kickball. That kind of ball, thank you.

Anyway, the discussion got so arcane that, at the end of the show, Posnanski was so convinced that any listeners had long since abandoned the show, he encouraged anyone who had persevered this far to send he and Schur a tweet with the hashtag #imadeittotheend.

Well, heck, I made it to the end. And I’m a 21st century kind of guy. So why not? I tweeted as requested. What’s more, I threw in a little note to express my disappointment that no one took racquetball in the draft. It’s got a great bounce, it fits perfectly in the hand, it has a wonderfully pretentious spelling... it felt like a missed opportunity. So that’s what I said. And that was that.

It will now seem like a massive non sequitur to tell you that, later in the day, I received a message telling me, “Dirk Newnam is now following you.”

Dirk Newnam? Who the hell is Dirk Newnam?

Well, actually, Twitter will tell me.

“Follower of Jesus. I write the Racquetball Strategy Blog and still love playing the game. Owned a health club, love baseball, music, and lots of other stuff.”

Shut the front door.

Dirk is following 1,823 other people. The vast majority of his posts seem to be about racquetball. So as best I can figure, Dirk saw my tweet about the racquetball, and immediately decided that anybody who would devote a portion of their precious 180 characters to that beloved rubberized orb is the kind of person who the writer of the Racquetball Strategy Blog needs to follow. To which I can only say... wow.

Really. I mean, wow. I just have a really hard time fathoming devoting what seems like a limited resource (time) to any random person who just happens to mention one of the things I like. I hope I don’t disappoint him. Because I don’t expect to bring up racquetball very often.

So yeah, I still don’t totally get Twitter.

THE HITCHCOCK PROJECT: #6 - The Ring

2011-06-29T23:22:00.000-06:00

In a sense, this is a horror story.

It began innocently enough. Watch every movie Alfred Hitchcock ever directed, in order, in concert with reading a biography of the man. Then write about it.

It's the last one that seems to have tripped me up. The last entry in The Hitchcock Project went live in January 2010. Yeesh.

Believe me, I've got excuses. Had a kid. Lost a job. Occasional family tragedies. A lot of things will throw you off your game. (Case in point: Do NOT ask me how my novel's coming.)

But here's the thing, the key element that wrecks all my protests about how hard it's been.

I kept watching the movies.

As I write this, I've just completed the 40th film from Sir Alfred's list of 52. My blog list goes up to #7. (And that's with three films skipped over.) I'm watching. I'm reading. I'm just not writing.

Boo.

No, really. When my wife discovered that I hadn't blogged for so long about the Hitchcock experience, I thought she was going to brain me with the DVD player. Which would be just desserts for making her sit through Under Capricorn.

The catching up begins now. This will not be easy, as I've honestly forgotten a lot about some of the earlier films. (Particularly the ones I didn't like so much.) But I'll do my best. Because I started this. And by god, I am going to finish it. I just hope I can catch up to myself with the writing before I actually finish all the movies.

We're resuming our catalog in a strange place. Wasn't the last one I posted #7? Yes. Yes, I did. And a funny thing about that. I went on at length in that piece about how I had to skip the sixth entry, Downhill, because I couldn't find it. Which is weird, because that's the exact same thing I said when explaining why I skipped #4. The hell?

Let's clarify: Downhill was #4. The real #6? This flick right here, a movie which can be summarized with the extremely unusual tagline, "Alfred Hitchcock's boxing picture."

Let's embellish that a little though. The Ring is the tale of a boxer known as "One-Round" Jack. Jack (portrayed by the lady-lipped Carl Brisson) works in a circus, where he can knock out any yahoo who challenges him within three minutes. This has earned him the respect of his fellow carnies. You know, like the Negro in the dunking booth. Seriously. (Also, the n-word shows up about halfway through the film. For the love of god, ancestors. Isn't it enough to be racist? Must you be STUPIDLY racist?) It's also won Jack the love of the Mabel, the ticket-taker. The credits identify Lillian Hall-Davis as "Mabel, the Girl." Yes, THE Girl. Because there can only be one.

Complications ensue when Bob Corby, the Australian champ, shows up at the fair incognito, takes the challenge, and survives the round. It's a sad day for Jack, but fate twists early on, when Bob -- so impressed by Jack's stamina and power -- hires him on as a sparring partner. What luck! Jack and Mabel have been saving up to get married, so this is a wonderful turn of events.

Or is it. Turns out the Thunder from Down Under has a yen for Mabel (she is THE Girl, after all), and once she and Jack move into Bob's circle of champagne riches and caviar dreams, it's only a matter of time before Jack's jealousy pushes her into the arms of his rival, leaving Jack desolate. There's only one way to exact revenge and win his girl back. He'll have to go toe-to-toe, in...THE RING.

Does my tone seem overly dismissive? It should. Think about the last movie you saw where the plot seemed contrived, the characters were clichés, and you just weren't impressed. Well, look, they haven't even invented sound yet, and already they're making movies that are hopelessly predictable. Think you know the movie's going to turn out? You're right. The plot's turns are loudly telegraphed, and to make matters worse, this is a silent film, so nothing is played for subtlety. Every emotion is spelled out in capital letters on the actors' faces. Think Bob is a stand-up guy who just can't help himself around the pretty Mabel? Not if you've been watching the movie, you don't. Actor Ian Hunter (decades before fronting Mott the Hoople) broadcasts evil with every raised eyebrow.

A secret joy of the movie, then, is to watch the lead actors trumpet their thoughts like mimes. Hall-Davis is the very picture of dread from the moment Bob Corby begins to put the moves on her. It's kind of weird, because to look at her, you get the sense that Mabel doesn't want to cheat on Jack, doesn't feel especially turned on by Bob, but just feels completely helpless to do anything about it. Like being faithful is completely out of her hands. (It's in the script, after all.) Meanwhile, Brisson is more of an innocent than Oliver Twist. At every turn, he is shocked, SHOCKED by life's twists and turns. He stands proudly his philandering wife, not a clue in the world that she's straying. Then, when he learns the truth, oh, the deep, deep hurt. She could have kicked his dog and not made matters worse.

That leaves Hitchcock, and he's obviously still trying stuff out. He's particularly having fun with multiple exposures. A drunk challenger at the circus sees several Jacks at once. During a wild party, Jack is unable to pay attention to his manager because the image of Mabel and Bob is superimposed. Hitchcock learned a lot from German expressionist filmmakers, and their techniques are definitely being tested out here.

Of course, the real setpiece is the big fight, where Jack and Bob face off at the Albert Hall. In a way, this is Hitchcock's very first Climax at a Famous Location, and he does play it to the hilt. According to my buddy Patrick McGilligan, Hitchcock deliberately shot from above, often at a distance, with only a single light hanging above the boxing ring. He got a relatively big budget, and he decided to make sure the money was all on the screen. No closeups of fight fans to make you think it's a crowded arena. It's a crowded arena.

And it looks like a real fight, too. We get straight-on shots of Jack punching madly at the camera. When he's knocked down, Hitchcock provides an interesting quick montage of lights and ropes. Even if the outcome seems assured, there's real craftsmanship at work trying to convince you otherwise. The path to Rocky and Raging Bull starts here.

I don't know if The Ring is all that good. It's not very surprising. But it is an assured piece of moviemaking, particularly for the time. Clichés aside, it holds up, especially that last reel. Hitchcock's a real director at this point, that's for sure. Now he just needs the right material.

Side note: there's a long and sporadically-funny wedding scene. But may favorite moment comes when the priest recites the vows, and the font on the titles goes from a standard serif to an elaborate calligraphy. Like Garamond just wasn't good enough for anything that important. We don't have that kind of reverence anymore.

CAN'T GET YOU OUT OF MY HEAD: I'm So Excited

2011-02-24T18:48:00.000-06:00

The Song: "I'm So Excited"
The Singers: The Pointer Sisters
The Songwriters: Trevor Lawrence, Anita Pointer, June Pointer, Ruth Pointer

If you ever want to feel super cool -- I mean Hollywood-star level cool -- I highly recommend going to the south of France, renting a convertible, and driving down the Cote d'Azur. I got to do this late last year, and in the idiotic words of Ferris Bueller, "It is so choice." Once I got over my initial terror of the unfamiliar rules of the road and the fear of ending up like Princess Grace, the coolness factor kicked in hard, and I felt like five-and-a-half feet of pure oxygen-breathing awesomeness.

The one thing missing was some excellent driving music. French radio leaves quite a bit to be desired. I mean, you know you're in trouble when the best song you can find is this (which, while admittedly hilarious, is extremely NSFW, a point I cannot emphasize strongly enough, although apparently it's totally okay for blasting out the speakers of your Renault). But fortunately, somewhere on the road to Avignon, classic 80s pop showed up on the radio and rescued us in the form of this:

Tonight's the night we're gonna make it happen,
Tonight we'll put all other things aside.
Give in this time and show me some affection,
We're going for those pleasures in the night.

Fans of our last entry (a mere 11 months ago) may recall that the song in question was just a tiny bit sexual in nature. I trust that is not what Anita is referring to when she talks about "those pleasures in the night."

I want to love you, feel you,
Wrap myself around you.
I want to squeeze you, please you,
I just can't get enough,
And if you move real slow,
I'll let it go.

Aw, come on. Really? Songfacts, help me out here.

The infectious Pop groove of this song disguises the extremely sexual lyrics. The singer is "so excited" because she's looking forward to a sexual encounter.

Well, heck.

I'm so excited,
And I just can't hide it,
I'm about to lose control
And I think I like it.
I'm so excited,
And I just can't hide it,
And I know, I know, I know, I know
I know I want you, want you.

To be fair, Songfacts is absolutely right about the groove masking the message. "I'm So Excited" is one of those songs where you really don't pay any attention to the words except maybe the first couple lines of the chorus there. And then when you actually sit and listen to it -- like my wife and I did, cruising through the French countryside -- you realize it's really dirty.

We shouldn't even think about tomorrow,
Sweet memories will last a long long time.
We'll have a good time baby don't you worry,
And if we're still playing around boy that's just fine.

This is actually pretty funny, because it's clear that the object of these lyrics is desperately concerned that he will not get the maximum enjoyment out of his evening. Above, Anita tells him, "Give in this time and show me some affection," which suggests he has been less than attentive in the past, and now she has to keep him from getting all "What about my needs?" This is not, it would seem, a selfless lover we are dealing with. In fact, if he'd had his druthers, he'd probably have been finished and out the door before the first chorus. So instead, she's the one reassuring him. "No, baby. It's all about you. You just relax." Frankly, he ought to count himself damn lucky this girl is giving him the time of day. She's told her last lover what to do, and expected him to say, "How high!"

I'm so excited,
And I just can't hide it,
I'm about to lose control
And I think I like it.
I'm so excited,
And I just can't hide it,
And I know, I know, I know, I know
I know I want you, want you.

PIANO SOLO

It's fun to imagine the Pointer Sisters all sitting around, laughing, working on this lyric. Fun, and then you remember they're sisters, and then it's a little disturbing.

This really is an excellent piano solo, by the way. And a superb showcase for the dancing waiters in the video, one of whom appears to be Rob Schneider.

Let's get excited,
And we just can't hide it,
I'm about to lose control and I think I like it.
I'm so excited,
And I just can't hide it,
And I know, I know, I know, I know
I know I want you, want you.

Fun Fact: This song was one of five Top 10 hits for the Pointers in 1984, which fits most definitions of "having a good year." For me, though, their best work remains the recordings they made some 12 years before. And my son agrees. You're welcome.

An Open Letter to the Creators of the XP Defender Trojan Horse Malware Program

2010-04-30T14:22:00.000-06:00

You suck, I hate you, and I hope you die from lung syphilis.

I knew your little program was trouble immediately. Warning me that I had virus problems. Urging me that I had to act right away. You weren't McAfee. I wasn't fooled.

And I wasn't worried. Because there were instructions online that told me how to purge you. Delete a file here, change a registry setting there. No problem.

Ah, but you were crafty. You knew that people had figured out how to beat you. So you changed names. You latched on in new places.

So I turned to experts. First, the brain trust at Geek Squad, who offered to take $300 bucks, lock my computer away for 5 days, and see if maybe that didn't fix things. Lacking confidence in their plans, I turned to yelp, found a very reasonable and friendly storefront operation less than a mile away, and placed my computer in their capable hands. All in all, I've got you on the run, you rat.

Sure enough, the computer came back working just fine. Or so I thought.

The first warning sign was that Chrome, my browser of choice, wouldn't open. Puzzled, I did some research and discovered that the programs my repair guy had installed to keep your evil at bay were also preventing Chrome from working right. So I made a couple fixes. But it still wasn't behaving right. So I did a test. Just to see what would happen, I danced with the dark side. I opened Internet Explorer.

And there it was. XP Defender. You rotten bastard.

From that moment, everything has gone to hell. The tech guy said I might as well just reboot the whole system. But we have to save all our documents first, and my wife and I have just had the most delightful argument over how to accomplish that. This will probably culminate in buying a whole new computer, which I hasten to point out we can't really afford right now. But a computer is the only way we can conduct a job search in order to get the money to fix the computer that you broke.

So there. I'm sure you are delighted. You sent this thing out, and the little rogue hunted until it found me and struck. And while you didn't make the money off of me that you hoped to, that's no skin off your nose. Hey, you're just a cankerous criminal, trying to make a living by hurting others. Ain't that America.

You have ruined my computer.

You are destroying my personal economy, which is already a wreck.

You are trying to damage my marriage.

Die.

CANT GET YOU OUT OF MY HEAD: You Shook Me All Night Long

2010-03-26T22:36:00.001-06:00

The Song: "You Shook Me All Night Long"
The Singers: AC/DC
The Songwriters: Brian Johnson, Angus Young, Malcolm Young

Satellite radio has much to recommend it. No commercials, an incredibly wide range of genres, and virtually no hosts (save for the presence of all four surviving MTV VJs on "80s on 8"). But once you get past that, there really aren't a lot of surprises. All the hits gets dragged out for another run. And that includes songs like this.

She was a fast machine
She kept her motor clean
She was the best damn woman that I ever seen

Let's just stop right there, because right off the bat, this is one of the funniest, most epic failures in the history of rock lyrics. We kick off with this ham-handed car metaphor, but then, only two lines in, the guy just gives up. It's like, after he came up with machine and motor, he couldn't think of another entendre to save his life. So he just gave up. "That's it, mates. I'm tapped out." BUT HE KEPT GOING WITH THE SONG! What happened? Did he come up with it in a freestyling throwdown? Did they accidentally record his first draft? I mean, at least TRY to be suggestive.

She had the sightless eyes
Tellin' me no lies
Knockin' me out with those American thighs

Oh, I'm sorry. So the girl is blind. I feel terrible now.

Wait. What?

Takin' more than her share
Had me fighting for air
She told me to come but I was already there

Oh...oh, wait a minute. Hang on just one cotton pickin' minute.

Is this song about sex?

'Cause the walls start shaking
The earth was quakin'
My mind was achin'
And we were makin' it and you -

CHORUS:
Shook me all night long
Yeah you shook me all night long

Look, I realize that 98% of rock songs are about sex. But there's something so basic, so blunt about these lyrics that if you think about them for more than two seconds, you won't be able to stop laughing. It's like the guys from AC/DC just got out of their first day of "Introduction to Metaphor" class, and were so excited that they just couldn't wait to try out their new-found skills.

Workin' double time
On the seduction line
She was one of a kind, she's just mine all mine
Wanted no applause
Just another course
Made a meal out of me, and come back for more

These aren't even actual sentences anymore.

This is normally the point at which I say something about the band. Not gonna happen. I don't give a whit about AC/DC. They specialize in a brand of music that I've sometimes heard called "hard rock" and other times called "metal" but which I know best as "music Shane doesn't particularly care for". Some songs, however, transcend their genre to become truly ubiquitous. And then I hear those songs on satellite radio, and they attach to my brain like remoras, and I have to write about them to get them out. And here we are.

Had to cool me down
To take another round
Now I'm back in the ring to take another swing

And now it's about boxing. Let's see if the folks at Songfacts can help me out.

Johnson came up with the line "She was a fast machine, she kept her motor clean" when he realized that cars and women were very much alike - they go fast, let you down, but then make you happy again when you see the new model. AC/DC has never been known for deep, meaningful lyrics.

Thank you, Songfacts. Thank you so much.

'Cause the walls was shaking
The earth was quakin'
My mind was achin'
And we were makin' it and you -

CHORUS:
Shook me all night long
Yeah you shook me all night long

I wonder what would happen if you didn't try to be coy about it (and I'm being REAL generous describing AC/DC as "coy" here) and just sang what you were actually talking about.

AND WE
WE HAD SEH--EH--EX
YEAH, WE
WE HAD SEH--EH--EX

Knocked me out and then you
Shook me all night long
Then you were shakin' and you
Shook me all night loooong
Yeah you shook me
Well, you took me

(guitar solo)

Speaking of guitar solos, I checked, and this song is available on Rock Band. But here's the thing: aside from the solo, it's a really repetitive song. It must be really tedious to play. And yet AC/DC has to play it at every single show. They can't avoid it. That must drive them nuts. It's like a hard-rockin', chick-bangin' Groundhog Day.

You really took me and you
Shook me all night long
Oaaaaaahhhhhh you shook me all night long
Yeah yeah you
Shook me all... night... long
Ya really took me and you
Shook me all night long

Is that it? Is that everything?

Yeah you shook me, yeah you shook me
All night loooong!

Okay, then.

Fun Fact: This is an actual thing. So is this. Makes you wonder how hard rock fans can live with themselves.

FINAL CUT: In the Big Blue World

2010-03-05T01:20:00.000-06:00

So, I find myself in the awkward position of explaining why I think the highest-grossing film of all time doesn't suck.

(Just so we're clear, Avatar has only the 15th-highest gross when adjusted for inflation, and that's ignoring the huge surcharge attached to the 3-D glasses. No one cares about any of that, of course, but just so we're clear: box office reports? Lies!)

As one of the last 10 people in America to see Avatar (and that should go down to 9 if my wife chooses to see it instead of Cop Out), I'm well aware that I'm very late to the party to say much of anything about the movie. At the same time, that also means that I've had a chance to take in the observations of the rest of the civilized world. So I feel like I get to sit on a jury that is only just now learning the true facts of the case. So let's come to a verdict, shall we?

First off, we need to clarify which of two prevailing arguments about Avatar is true. It is either:

- A stunning achievement, using the most current movie technology to create visions never before seen in the most immersive cinematic environment yet devised.

or

- A tired rehash of hackneyed plots and pilfered set-pieces strapped to boatload of atrocious dialogue that no amount of visual effects can conceal.

Ha ha! I'm kidding! It's both. It is transforming AND unoriginal. It's breathtakingly wonderful AND sadly underwhelming. It's a floor wax AND a dessert topping. It is the London Symphony Orchestra playing "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star." The pros and cons are so clearly split that it is a film almost guaranteed to polarize its audience. Oddly enough, with so many films being made that make you go "eh", I actually think that's kind of a plus.

This dichotomy may make you split your feelings about the movie just as cleanly. I spent a couple hours arguing with one of the proprietors of the Critical End! movie review podcast and blog. He thought the effects were lovely and the story was so rote as to be insulting. So he gave the movie a rating of 5 out of 10. And I guess I get that. 10 for visuals, 0 for story... it averages out.

"But the look and feel of the film is so revolutionary," argues I, "that you have to set petty concerns about clichés and commend the film for its overall impact."

"The scope of the achievement," retorts he, "is exactly why I have to ding it for the crappy plot. With all that power comes great responsibility. It's like getting Renoir and having him draw Marmaduke. If you want pretty visuals without a compelling story, get a screensaver."

(Incidentally, Marmaduke is an actual movie. Coming this summer. With Owen Wilson voicing the title role. So...you know...that blows.)

We went on like this for a while, both of us respecting the other's position while still thinking him to be a raving nutcase. So here's my last stab at making a case for Avatar as worthy of the hype. To him, and to myself.

Is Avatar perfect? Hardly. There's plenty to pick on. The story is pinched from at least a dozen places. The subtitles are in Papyrus font. That song at the end is god-awful. Story non sequiturs abound, like an insubordinate pilot who is never punished for her dereliction. A giant fighting robot that, hilariously, has its own giant knife for up-close fighting. An extremely rare mineral which is given the accurate but still incredibly stupid and unoriginal name of unobtainium. Little things like this still nag at me.

And then there are bigger problems. The acting is mediocre at best. Our hero, played by Sam Worthington, sports an accent I can only describe as Australian-Brooklyn, which robs most of his big speeches of their gravity. Villains Stephen Lang and Giovanni Ribisi conceal their evil in no way whatsoever, depriving the film of potential suspense or character development. (Although Ribisi has several scenes where he appears to be conflicted, but for no obvious reason. It's like they're scenes of him playing a totally different character.) And Sigourney Weaver has it worst, trying mightily to come off convincingly as a peace-loving botanist whose every speech is in the tone of a hard-boiled Marine.

Ah, yes. The speech. Dialogue in this film is like a lead rainstorm. A character actually says "You are not in Kansas anymore." Another rallies the troops by telling them they will be fighting "for our children, and for our children's children." Plenty of people yell "Noooooo!" It is almost awesome to watch the film and see how many opportunities were not taken to find new ways of saying things.

So should we be critical of Avatar? Heck, yeah, and I hope it's clear that I am. But in the end, I am able to brush all that away. The plot, the characters, that stuff is not as good as it could be, but it doesn't ruin the film for me. And why not? Why am I willing to cut Avatar so much slack? The answer is a single word.

Titanic.

I haven't mentioned the name of the Grand Panjandrum responsible for Avatar yet. He's James Cameron, the film's director, writer (and lover of military jargon), editor, cinematographer, production designer, slavedriver, and all-around visionary. And the reason I've waited until now to bring him up is because he did all this exact same stuff on his last movie 12 years ago. A little thing called Titanic. And of course, the bastard's gone and done it again.

It has become fashionable to pick on Titanic for the lame dialogue (Tim Sniffen used to love throwing out the quote "Here's to making it count" at opportune moments), the lame romance ("I love you, Jack." "I love you, Rose." "I love you more, Jack." "Me, too, Rose."), the lame villain (ah, Billy Zane). But it was always clear to me that none of this was the point. James Cameron had one goal with Titanic: to put you on the boat as it sank. He enlisted every special effects trick in the book to bring that ship back to life in a way that made it impossible for you to doubt that you were seeing the real thing. Then he cobbled together a romantic couple that may not have been clever or original, but served the role of taking you to every essential part of the ship as it went down. Jack and Rose weren't characters. They were tour guides for history.

If Cameron is really copying anyone, it's himself. Avatar is all about this remarkable new world and these strange creatures. The Dances With Wolves storyline is good enough to get by. But the real goal is to put you on this planet, as thoroughly and convincingly as possible. Our protagonist, Jake...he doesn't have to be great. Once again, he's a tour giude for the fantasy. He's taking us to everything worth seeing.

I should say a word about the stupendous 3-D technology that makes you feel like you're enveloped in the film. The past few times I've tried to watch 3-D, it hasn't worked for me. I've gotten double-vision or blurring or dimness. Not so here. Cameron has broken the bank creating depth that really works, that is watchable without strain for nearly three hours, and he doesn't have to poke a single stick at the camera to let you know it's working.

So again, you may ask, "Why am I cutting him so much slack? So he makes great visual effects. So what?" And I guess the answer is because, to my mind, he's NOT making great visual effects. He's taking the visions in his head and putting them into ours. Look, a lot of filmmakers can give you special effects. Take hacks like Michael Bay or Roland Emmerich. From what I've seen in the trailers, Transformers 2 and 2012 are just dripping with effects. I can totally picture Emmerich telling a bunch of animators, "I wanna see the Christ the Redeemer statue blow up. Can you do that?" And they say yes, and you've got yourself a movie. You can lump George Lucas in there, too. The Star Wars prequels are bad in their own right, but the bigger issue is that the visuals just share the screen with the story, rather than serving it. Those three movies are essentially promotional reels for ILM. But that's all these directors are really doing: ordering off a menu. They don't have a vision.

James Cameron, God love him, has vision. He has things in his head, and if he has to take 12 years and invent whole new camera systems and push the limits of computer technology way past its limits to get what he wants, he'll damn well do it. He's been pushing the edges for a while now. The water alien in The Abyss took us to the liquid metal killing machine in Terminator 2, which was a short trip to the fully-realized RMS Titanic, which finally took us here. He's redefining the movies, and amazingly, doing it in a way that works.

One last analogy, which I hope will somehow finally illustrate my point. As you may know, George Harrison first discovered the sitar on the set of Help!, where it was included as a funny prop. But he was fascinated by the instrument, so he finally bought one (because he was a Beatle, and that's what you did when you got a little curious about something). And he fiddled with it, trying to play it like a guitar, and the instrument's exotic sound debuted with the Beatles as the perfect accompaniment to John Lennon's tale of infidelity, "Norwegian Wood (This Bird Has Flown)."

But Harrison wanted to know more, and he eventually studied with the world's foremost sitarist, Ravi Shankar. It was from Shankar that he eventually learned the right way to play a sitar. And that led to all kinds of other stuff, like Harrison's growing interest in Hinduism and the Beatles taking up with the Maharishi and whatnot.

But what's interesting here, I think, is that Shankar was never much impressed with Harrison's early dabbling on the instrument. Someone asked him why not, since George's sitar had lent such a stark and lovely counterpoint to the Beatles' music. Shankar replied that, for someone like him who knew the instrument so well, George's playing was still wrong, and it would be like praising a child for banging on a piano.

I guess what I'm saying is, in many respects, what filmmakers have been able to do with visual effects thus far has been very impressive. You need only look at this demo reel to see what visual artists are capable of, and how far-reaching and pervasive their work has become. But Cameron makes them all look like amateurs, dabbling on instruments they don't fully understand. He's Ravi Shankar, and everyone else is just banging on pianos.

I guess that's why I didn't think Avatar sucked.

CAN'T GET YOU OUT OF MY HEAD: Up, Up and Away

2010-02-15T13:17:00.000-06:00

The Song: "Up, Up and Away"
The Singers: The 5th Dimension
The Songwriter: Jimmy Webb

So I'm playing a game called Songburst, wherein you compete against your friends by completing song lyrics. The words are printed on cards which, half the time, give you the wrong year, despite the fact that the correct year is printed on the bottom in really small type in the copyright data. Anyway, I was protesting one of the card's assertion as to how many times the word "balloon" actually appears in the refrain of The 5th Dimension's classic "Up, Up and Away" when I came to a bold realization: "Man, this is a stupid song." Don't misunderstand; I actually kind of like the song, in the way that I enjoy a number of cheesy things. But it's pretty stupid.

(Incidentally, you really must watch the video linked above. I'm not sure if it's more awesome because the costumes are so silly, because they're clearly lip-synching but still have to share microphones, or because the director insists on framing them so that they only fill the bottom half of the screen. It's as though the set designer told him, "I had better see all those giant dots I built, or I will kill you.")

Would you like to ride in my beautiful balloon
Would you like to ride in my beautiful balloon
We could float among the stars together, you and I
For we can fly we can fly
Up, up and away
My beautiful, my beautiful balloon

Brace yourself, folks, because this is pretty much the whole song. If they ever try to make a Mamma Mia-style musical consisting entirely of 5th Dimension songs, this will not be one of the tunes that "advances the plot". It's pretty much: I got a balloon, it's cool, let's ride. Perhaps it will be a seduction scene. A very easy-listening, unsexy seduction scene.

The Songfacts website, which purports to give you facts about songs, contains this gem about this particular tune: "This song, more than any other, is associated with hot air ballooning." Thanks, Songfacts. Way to do your homework there.

The world's a nicer place in my beautiful balloon
It wears a nicer face in my beautiful balloon
We can sing a song and sail along the silver sky
For we can fly we can fly
Up, up and away
My beautiful, my beautiful balloon

It wears a nicer face?

It is almost a truism that white people will always end up trying to sound more black, rather than vice-versa. Proving a bold exception to the rule is The 5th Dimension, a group that boldly stands alongside The Carpenters and The New Christy Minstrels as purveyors of some of the whitest music ever produced. And I say this as a really, really white person. This is mean, what I'm about to say, and I'm just about positive that it isn't true and probably slanderous, but when I listen to The 5th Dimension, I feel like they absolutely would have played Sun City. You wonder how a group like this could happen. Did an all-Motown station accidentally play the Mitch Miller Singers, and these five people exclaimed, "What is that magnificent sound?"

Suspended under a twilight canopy
We'll search the clouds for a star to guide us
If by some chance you find yourself loving me
We'll find a cloud to hide us
We'll keep the moon beside us

Our songwriter here is Jimmy Webb, who is renowned for his, shall we say, unique approach to storytelling in song. Here, I'll give you the titles of a few of his little pop music symphonies and let you do the math -- "Galveston", "Wichita Lineman", and of course, God help me, "MacArthur Park". Yes, the same person responsible for "Someone left the cake out in the rain" also churned out this salute to hot-air ballooning. It all makes sense, really.

Love is waiting there in my beautiful balloon
Way up in the air in my beautiful balloon
If you'll hold my hand we'll chase your dream across the sky
For we can fly we can fly
Up, up and away
My beautiful, my beautiful balloon
Balloon...
Up, up, and away.....

Fun Fact: "Up, Up and Away" won the Grammy for 1967 Record of the Year. That's right. Out of all the music that debuted in that pivotal year, this was the best of the bunch. Here's just a handful of the tunes it was judged superior to:

"I'm a Believer" - The Monkees
"Tell It Like It Is" - Aaron Neville
"Standing in the Shadows of Love" - Four Tops
"Ruby Tuesday" - The Rolling Stones
"Mellow Yellow" - Donovan
"Gimme Some Lovin'" - The Spencer Davis Group
"Happy Together" - The Turtles
"There's a Kind of Hush" - Herman's Hermits
"For What It's Worth" - Buffalo Springfield
"Groovin'" - The Young Rascals
"Respect" - Aretha Franklin
"Windy" - The Association
"Can't Take My Eyes off You" - Frankie Valli
"Light My Fire" - The Doors
"A Whiter Shade of Pale" - Procol Harum
"I Was Made to Love Her" - Stevie Wonder
"White Rabbit" - Jefferson Airplane
"Reflections" - Diana Ross & the Supremes
"The Letter" - Box Tops
"Higher and Higher" - Jackie Wilson
"Brown Eyed Girl" - Van Morrison
"Gimme Little Sign" - Brenton Wood
"Soul Man" - Sam and Dave
"(You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman" - Aretha Franklin
"I Say a Little Prayer" - Dionne Warwick
"I Can See for Miles" - The Who
"I Second That Emotion" - Smokey Robinson & the Miracles
"Judy in Disguise (with Glasses)" - John Fred & His Playboy Band
"Chain of Fools" - Aretha Franklin
"All You Need Is Love" - The Beatles

Think about it. To be better than all those songs? My gosh. I mean, you know what it is? It's humbling.

Yeah, right. Here were the songs actually nominated for the award:

"By the Time I Get to Phoenix" - Glen Campbell (Jimmy Webb!)
"My Cup Runneth Over" - Ed Ames
"Ode to Billie Joe" - Bobbie Gentry
"Somethin' Stupid" - Nancy Sinatra & Frank Sinatra

Just...wow. I've never even heard of "My Cup Runneth Over." But no matter. The next time someone tells you the Grammys have become irrelevant, you say, "What do you mean, become?"

Additional Fun Fact: Dimension-ette Marilyn McCoo would later go on to co-host Solid Gold, the America's Best Dance Crew of the early 80s. The Solid Gold Dancers would, of course, go on to do lots and lots of cocaine.

Hello, Old Friend

2010-01-27T23:54:00.007-06:00

I can't believe, in all this time, I've never given you my Doritos rant. Well, isn't this your lucky day.

In 1964, the Frito-Lay Company introduced a new line of corn tortilla chips called Doritos. Their first flavor was called Toasted Corn, which is a fancy way of saying Plain. I'm telling you this because I suspect that you, like most people, believe that Nacho Cheese was the first flavor, which is wrong, and is quite frankly stupid. (That's right. I called you stupid. No one's actually reading this, so I intend to let 'er rip.)

Don't believe me? Wikipedia totally backs me up. Don't believe Wikipedia? (Well, I suppose that's fair.) Maybe you'll prefer the in-depth company history found at Funding Universe. Still not satisfied? Well, tough. I'm right about this. I mean, honestly, how could the first chip be the flavored one? It makes no sense at all. It's like saying that Mountain Dew Code Red came first. I mean, come on.

And while we're at it, do not go saying that plain Doritos are called Tostitos. First off, you're an idiot. Second, Tostitos came out in 1979, 15 years after their superior big brother. Third, Tostitos are made with white corn and are flaky and flimsy. They can't compare to the bold taste and stronger structural integrity of the yellow-corn Dorito. And finally, shut up. They're totally different chips and you're wrong, Mr. Wrong Guy.

(Incidentally, whatever you do, do NOT go to the Doritos website in search of any kind of information. It's a cacophonous mess, trying desperately to be hip in a way that recalls the character of Poochie being added to "The Itchy and Scratchy Show" on The Simpsons. Believe it or not, you're actually better off with the amusing entry for Doritos at Conservapedia, which even notes popular criticisms of other Doritos flavors. I'm scared to read their entry on Sarah Palin, but a site that lavishes so much attention on snack food deserves at least one tip of the cap.)

To be fair -- which I really don't have to do, this being MY rarely-updated blog and all -- Frito-Lay brought this confusion upon itself. There is no dispute that Nacho Cheese is by far the most popular flavor, with Cool Ranch a very strong second. Toasted Corn, by comparison, doesn't even rank. Of course, it might do better if Frito-Lay would SELL THE DAMN CHIPS EAST OF THE MISSISSIPPI. That's right, the flagship of the line, and you can't get it in half the country. Brilliant.

I love these beautiful chips, and I'm not alone. The blogosphere has several acolytes of the original flavor, and even the prissy experts at America's Test Kitchen rated them best in show. (The results are locked away in this subscriber-only article, but maybe I'll bust out the scanner and copy the page right out of the cookbook, just to prove it.) So the fact that I haven't lived somewhere where you can buy the damn things for almost two decades has really raised my ire on the subject. So much so that I occasionally call up the toll-free number to tell them what I think of their brilliant sales plan.

ME: Why won't you sell me these delicious chips that you make?

FRITO-LAY PERSON: There's not enough demand for it in your area.

ME: THAT'S BECAUSE NO ONE KNOWS THEY EXIST, YOU IMBECILE!

Surprisingly, this approach does not work. And so I have been reduced to the occasional shipment of good ol' Plain Doritos from my father, but otherwise forced to relegate them to the Shelf of Beloved Foodstuffs I Can Get No More, alongside Hydrox cookies, Carnation breakfast bars, and the original five flavors of Life Savers.

Or so I thought.

The stunning happy ending to this story began last Tuesday, when I received a late-night text message from a former co-worker who had endured too many of my rants on this ridiculous subject. The message was a photograph of a pair of Toasted Corn Doritos bags sitting on a grocery store shelf.

I assumed he was in Texas.

To my astonishment, he was in a store right here in Chicago, only a few blocks from my home. After persuading him to sample them for himself (his verdict: "...that's a solid motherf****n corn chip"), I made a beeline to the store the very next day to see things for myself.

There they were. I bought two.

I have been gluttonously enjoying my chips ever since, and my confidence got another boost when I found myself in another supermarket here in Chicago and found them again. I'm a little nervous, because they could always go away again. But I'm starting to let down my guard. I think the Snack Lords have finally granted my wish. Toasted Corn Doritos are back, baby. Go buy some and celebrate.

I think I owe that toll free Frito-Lay person a call.

THE HITCHCOCK PROJECT: #7 - The Farmer's Wife

2010-01-19T22:06:00.001-06:00

Well, this is embarassing. I just finished watching #28 from the Hitchcock oeuvre, and since I haven't updated the project for ages, I wanted to check quickly to see how far I was backed up. And I look to see...5??? I haven't posted an entry since #5? Holy crap.

So anyway, these might get a little shorter for a while.

My endeavors on The Hitchcock Project are unavoidably doomed. We've already had to skip The Mountain Eagle on account of it not existing anymore. Now I've had to bypass #6 on the list, Downhill, because I can't find a copy of the thing anywhere. The closest I've come is a 5-minute clip on YouTube, and that clip doesn't make me very optimistic about the quality of the film as a whole. So I won't see them all. But that's okay. And you know why it's okay? Because I DO get to see movies like The Farmer's Wife, and that's more than enough punishment to make up for what I've missed.

The Farmer's Wife is ostensibly a comedy. It's a very Hitchcock kind of comedy in that it opens with someone on their deathbed. This somebody is the wife of farmer Samuel Sweetland, who urges him, before breathing her last, urges him to remarry. Sweetland, being a taciturn and very country-English sort of fellow, doesn't even want to be in the room, let alone contemplate taking a new bride. But anyway, she dies, and once Sweetland realizes that his wife is really gone, he resigns himself to making the rounds of his small village and hunting up a new wife.

Now, remember that this is supposed to be a comedy. Well, naturally, a sad widower isn't going to do the trick. So in order for this to work, our farmer is going to have to make a complete ass of himself. Well, goal achieved. After a rather charming little piece of filmwork in which Sweetland imagines each of his potential suit-ees sitting in his wife's chair, he rushes off to each of them, pretty much demanding that they marry him on the spot. This, needless to say, does not go the way he anticipates.

So Hitchcock's got a real uphill battle going here. We can't sit around feeling bad for the hero, because then we won't laugh. The flipside, though, is that he turns into a domineering bonehead, which means we end up feeling more sympathy for his dead wife because she doesn't have to deal with him anymore.

There is someone else we feel sympathy for, and that's Sweetland's housekeeper, Minta. It's pretty obvious to anyone watching that these two are meant to be together, but Sweetland can't know this, or else there's no movie. So we have to watch him consistently overlooking what's right in front of him, and once more, it's hard to find it funny.

This is best exemplified by the film's climax, when Sweetland has been rejected by all the women in town, and he finally figures out his maid should be his wife (since she's cooking his food anyway), and he's forced to go to her hat-in-hand, saying that if he he rejects her too, he'll understand. This is our arc: our protagonist starts emotionally-stunted, quickly develops into a big jerk, and finishes pathetic. Comedy, ladies, and gentlemen. Comedy.

The past couple movies serve as a harbinger for things to come in The Hitchcock Project. British cinema of the 1920s and early 30s is obsessed with class, and cheerfully sexist. These are the movies people wanted to make, and evidently that people wanted to see. So it's wrong for me to judge these movies too much on this basis. But I'm going to anyway, because it's an attitude that really makes them -- well, not unwatchable, per see, but definitely tiresome. And if The Farmer's Wife has anything going for it, it's that the movie is trying to have a laugh at attitudes which will soon become outdated. But I still didn't like it, and McGilligan can call it "charming" in his book as many times as he pleases, but he's not changing my mind.

CAN'T GET YOU OUT OF MY HEAD: Judy's Turn to Cry

2010-01-14T22:59:00.004-06:00

We're proud to introduce a new feature today, in which we over-analyze some pop song that we overheard in a 7-Eleven or showed up on the iPod or just randomly got stuck in our head. Because when you haven't posted anything in about a year, they're all new features.

The Song: "Judy's Turn to Cry"
The Singer: Lesley Gore
The Songwriters: Edna Lewis & Beverly "Ruby" Ross

'Cause now, it's Judy's turn to cry
Judy's turn to cry,
Judy's turn to cry
'Cause Johnny's come back (Johnny's come back, come back) to me

It's hard to believe, but in the early days of pop music, the mobsters in charge were even more mercenary than they are today. This manifested itself in the kinds of songs they rushed into the marketplace on a regular basis. Real chintzy, money-grubbing stuff. Gender switches (The Temptations' "My Girl" is actually a response to the charming-but-still-inferior "My Guy" by Mary Wells), answer songs (observe this stupefying reply to Elvis Presley's "Are You Lonesome Tonight?"), and, of course, the sequel song. And that's what we have here.

Oh, when Judy left with Johnny at my party (my party)
And came back wearing his ring,
I sat down and cried my eyes out
Now, that was a foolish thing

In case you're not up to speed, Lesley (our narrator) is recapping the plot of her first hit, the outstanding "It's My Party". The short version: at her own birthday party, she found out her boyfriend was with another chick. So she's sobbing, and clearly people are telling her not to, and she's basically telling them to bite her, which is awesome.

Also, you have to love those dancers in that clip. Hey, let's all do the Weep-Like-A-Little-Girl!

'Cause now, it's Judy's turn to cry
Judy's turn to cry,
Judy's turn to cry
'Cause Johnny's come back (Johnny's come back, come back) to me

That last line in the chorus is our first cause for concern. Johnny's come back, has he? Hey, Lesley? Remember back in Verse 1? When you said all the crying was foolish? I was kinda hoping it was because you figured out what a loser Johnny was. Judy was wearing his ring, honey. He's a dog. You don't take that man back. You move on.

Well, it hurt me so to see them dance together (together)
I felt like making a scene
Then, my tears just fell like raindrops
'Cause Judy's smile was so mean

Oh boy. She feels like she needs to explain the crying. Serious self-esteem issues. Lesley, it's okay. We've all been dumped. It hurts. We sit around feeling sorry for ourselves, we drink too much, we stop posting on the blog that we'd only just promised to start posting on again after a year. It's natural. You don't owe us an explanation.

But now, it's Judy's turn to cry
Judy's turn to cry,
Judy's turn to cry
'Cause Johnny's come back (Johnny's come back, come back) to me

As a general rule, sequels in all formats -- movies, books, carbonated beverages -- blow. And songs are no exception. But there are always exceptions, and from a musical standpoint, "Judy's Turn to Cry" is a sharp piece of pop music. I heard it today while enjoying my first Patty Burger, and was impressed how quickly and deeply it buried itself in my brain. And how I began deconstructing the whole thing while waiting for the damn 146 for forever. And how it made me return here, for god's sake. So kudos, Edna & Beverly "Ruby". I'm back.

(Instrumental Break)

And yes, I am a little link-happy, thank you very much. Sue me, I'm a little out of practice at blogging. Or writing in general.

Oh, one night I saw them kissin' at a party (a party)
So, I kissed some other guy
Johnny jumped up and he hit him
'Cause he still loved me, that's why

Aw. No, no way. Are you serious? This is the reason? Oh, this is wrong on multiple levels:

- So first of all, our Lesley turns out to be a slut. "Oh, you're with Judy now?" she says. "Well, then I'll just kiss this random guy." "Whoa! Well, hey there, Lesley. I'm Chad. Nice to meet you. Say, I know we've only just met -- and exchanged saliva -- but maybe sometime you and me could stop by the soda shop for a cherry phosphate, or even just go to a movOWWWW!"

- Not only that, but evidently she gets turned on by jealous violence. Sure, her boyfriend started passing out jewelry to some broad, but he's willing to start throwing haymakers the moment you try to get on with your life? Oh, yes, take this boy back.

- Why was I never at these parties? Where were MY random hot kisses? Followed by MY painful broken noses?

- What in the hell does Johnny have to be jealous about anyway? JUDY'S WEARING HIS RING! God, I hate Judy!

- He still loves you? Just so I understand: he hit this guy because he still loves you. He, who gave his ring to Judy, still loves you. And assaulted someone to prove it.

There it is, everybody. This is the moment that the Lifetime Movie was born.

- And just what do you think Judy's gonna do now, Lesley? She already stole your boyfriend once. She clearly has unlimited gall. You don't think she's gonna pull this crap again? You are caught in a vicious cycle, and you have to get out.

- Also, the way she has to cram in the last two words at the end is really sloppy, in a funny way.

So now, it's Judy's turn to cry
Judy's turn to cry,
Judy's turn to cry
'Cause Johnny's come back (Johnny's come back, come back) to me

Poor Lesley. She's a classic victim. First, Johnny dumped her -- without even telling her, mind you -- and she blamed herself. Then, even though he was unworthy of her, she schemed to get him back. Her plan worked, in the process revealing her beloved to be a feckless thug. I do not see things working out for Lesley and Johnny. In fact...

Fun fact: Lesley Gore is an out-and-proud lesbian. So there's always hope that she'll record a song about ditching Johnny and putting on Judy's ring.

BRIC-A-BRAC: Poetry in Motion

2009-04-13T20:59:00.005-06:00

One of the more peculiar aspects of travel on Chicago's elevated trail lines is the occasional appearance of solicitors. There you'll be, barely paying attention to your surroundings, hoping against hope that no one will come and claim the seat next to you so you won't have to get into some awkward elbow showdown, and then your reverie will be interrupted by someone announcing, "Ladies and gentlemen, if I could just have a moment of your time..."

This isn't legal, of course. The CTA reserves the right to sell on their trains only to those major corporations who have paid to slap giant ads to the outside of the train car. But these are far from legitimate businessmen flouting the rules. As a rule, these folks are homeless, and the El has become a last refuge.

Typically, the pitch is a flat-out appeal for money, which is the most irritating, because who wants to just give someone money? Often, the panhandler will explain that they are trying to turn their lives around, and that the money is just so they can get a CTA pass (which always brings up the question of how they got on this train), but when you come right down to it, they're just begging. And years in the city make you hard to that sort of thing.

A few hardy souls want to sell you something. Sometimes it's a spiritual trinket, because there's probably a percentage of the population who can't turn down an appeal of a sacred nature. And I guess that's a step up from the Streetwise vendors who used to be a much more common sight on street corners.

(For the uninitiated, Streetwise is a quasi-periodical that homeless people are legitimately hired to hawks on the streets. I bought one the first year I was here, and I found it highly uninteresting. More memorable was the time a Streetwise vendor tried to sell me the latest issue in front of the Field Museum, and I was feeling generous, so I was prepared to hand over my dollar, and the guy tells me that he can't give it to me because it's his only copy. And then I got really annoyed, because I went from doing a good deed to being the victim of a scam in the space of a few seconds, and I guess it was only a dollar, but, you know, come on. So he didn't give me a damn Streetwise, and I didn't give him a dollar, and I've never been persuaded to try and buy one since. So that certainly worked out for everyone.)

The guy on the train today was different. I ignored the first several minutes of his commentary, because, you know, that's what you do. But as we neared the next stop (and probably moments before he switched cars so there was no chance of the authorities coming after him), he finally explained what he was selling.

It was his book of poetry.

His pitch kind of got more pathetic as it went on. Normally, he said, he sells his book for ten dollars. Sometimes, he went on, he marks it down to seven bucks. Today, he would be willing to let it go for a mere five-dollar bill. And if that wasn't low enough, he'd consider selling us a single poem for a dollar.

So there it was. I like to support artists. I like to get something for something. And by gum, I've got a dollar.

"This is called 'Glass Menagerie'," he told me as I dropped four quarters into his palm. "It's one of the first poems I got published."

It's not a great poem, of course, but it's interesting free verse. The poem is printed on nice paper. The poet -- Emmett R. McBain III -- has his e-mail address on the page. It's even got a copyright date on it. How on earth did this man find himself resorting to hawking his poetry on the El? The answer, interestingly enough, is in the poem. Since it's got a copyright on it, I won't share the whole thing with you. But this excerpt provides a surprising solution to my mystery.

Am I sane?
I am here
But
Am I sane?

Hopefully
The doctor
Will believe so

Not a nice place to stay
Not a nice place to visit
For me
At least

I'm glad I bought the poem.

(P.S. Four day gap in posts. Not too shabby. Gettin' back on that horse.)

Oh, Hi! Didn't See You There.

2009-04-09T21:38:00.003-06:00

The text message from my friend hit with the force of a lightning bolt.

If you're no longer blogging (safe to assume) could you at least do Facebook or Twitter so we can see what's up?

Now, we'll be diplomatic and overlook the fact that my friend's own blog lasted approximately two posts, and now looks like this. Because the fact remains that, well, it has been a while. Over 16 months.

16 MONTHS!

A lot can happen in sixteen months:

* America can elect a black man president
* A baseball team from Tampa Bay can win the pennant before the Cubs
* A major motion picture can be released in which Pierce Brosnan sings

These are heady times, to be sure. And not to mention, significant personal life changes can take place, which I'm not going to get into at this juncture. But the point is, a lot of time has gone by, and there is definitely a lot to talk about. But the problem is, who the heck has the time? I don't. I mean, the reason I'm not writing here is largely because of the things that would be most interesting to write about. It is a dilemma.

So, what to do? My friend has made suggestions. However...

I won't Facebook. Don't trust it. More than half the people I work with seem to be on it, and it monopolizes their time, or makes announcements to the world about them which they are not necessarily eager to share, or half a dozen other things that just seem more aggravating than helpful. I know, I am old and curmudgeonly. So be it. I have precious little time as it is, and I will not be tied down to a webpage that demands I update my status.

(Fun fact: this blog engine's spell-checker thinks "Facebook" is misspelled. Ha!)

I also won't Twitter. This seems incomprehensibly stupid to me. It's text messages to the world. Really? Critical need filled? Look, this blog is already about the most navel-gazing thing I could do, and at my peak, I was updating it daily. Is anyone truly clamoring for me to provide new entries by the minute? I can think of no situation in which anybody I know needs to have a blow-by-blow account of anything that I have ever done or will ever do. And if they do, there's probably only one person at a time who needs that information, and I'll call them. Again, the future is not impressing me.

Which brings us back to the blog, which my friend has observed I no longer do. So that's out.

Or is it?

I'm giving me one last shot to make this thing work. I won't lie to you, I'm not optimistic. Life is pretty crazy, and I talk too much. But I've got a lot of things to tell you. Some of it even interesting. Bits and pieces you might actually enjoy.
And besides, as Lyle Lovett said,

Look
I understand too little too late
I realize there are things you say and do
You can never take back
But what would you be if you didn't even try
You have to try

You do, indeed.

So wish me luck. Once more...here we go.

A Break In the Writer's Strike

2007-11-25T20:59:00.000-06:00

He sucks!! I am never reading his stupid blog again. -- Jackie Stout Barrera Oh like he updates his blog. -- Holly Hanchey

There's nothing worse than facing the reality that people have your number.

My last post went up when? August? And the last four topics are two entries on a space shuttle flight (there has been another since), an installment in the ever-floundering Hitchcock Project, and a one-dimensional account of a trip in JUNE. Boy, a person who lets that much time go by must have a really good excuse. Whatcha been up to, Wilson?

The Professional World
I tend to be kind of tight-lipped about my work life (mainly because I always hear stories about people who discuss their jobs in their blogs, and it never turns out well). I think the last time I really discussed what I was up to concerned my departure from Jellyvision almost a year ago. After that, I worked for a little while for a publishing company based in Lincolnwood. That was fun, and I met some really lovely people there, but the job had the great misfortune to be located in Lincolnwood, a town which is not conveniently located (Hello, suburban bus line!) and which was not built for pedestrians (Goodbye, sidewalks!). I was there for the first half of 2007, leaving right before they moved from Lincolnwood to Morton Grove, which is somehow even more remote and walking-unfriendly.

So now? I'm back at Jellyvision! I know! What goes around literally comes around. It's a flattering thing to be asked back. When I stop and think about it, I'm still surprised.

The House
Quite a few changes, foremost among them being a new paint job in the living room. For anyone who had the chance to visit Wilmont Manor, you may recall that our walls were once a distinctive Kermit green. Clair felt like it was toying with our mental well-being. Not anymore. My Dad popped in to help us transform the walls into a beautiful buttery yellow (actual paint name: Warm Cocoon), and the difference is extraordinary. I have never painted my home before -- actually, I haven't painted anything since elementary school. But I can definitely see the appeal.

Also, in an attempt to reduce the staggering amount of clutter in our house, we have divested ourselves of a great many worldly possessions, foremost among them a dining room table. To our overwhelming glee, we managed to persuade our friends Matt & Brandi to accept our furnishing albatross, which they have evidently found to their liking. Two more tables, a host of boxes, guitars, coat racks, Christmas paraphenalia -- I'd guess we've shipped out nearly a third of our possessions. And I don't feel like we've made so much as a dent. Very frustrating.

A Side Note
When my Dad was here, I had the chance to take him to see the resident company of Jersey Boys, the smash hit Four Seasons Broadway musical that, ironically, you can now only see here, since the Broadway company is shuttered owing to a stagehands strike. Dad is a big fan of the band, but I had an additional reason for wanting to see the show: we know someone in the cast. That would be stage star Steven Goldsmith, who regularly plays the role of "Joey", but also understudies for the vocally-challenging role of Frankie Valli, the Seasons' falsetto-crooning lead singer. Now, we only saw him in his usual role, but I can honestly tell you, he and the show are awesome. Thinking of seeing it? You should.

Further anecdote: Steven was at our friend Jessica's wedding in Miami in June, as were we. At one point during the reception, the DJ spun Frankie Valli's "Can't Take My Eyes Off You", and Steven rolled his eyes, having found himself in a weird sort of busman's holiday. I love show business.

The Hitchcock Project
Yeah, yeah. I've actually watched the next film on the list, The Farmer's Wife, and the one after that, The Manxman, has been in my house for weeks. But I've definitely hit a rut, and what worries me is that I've slowed to a halt at about the same point I stopped the first time I tried to read this biography. I'm sure that means something, either about me or Hitchock. I don't know what that is yet.

What's worse is that fate is clearly trying to help me along with the project. AMC has been on a Hitchcock trip as of late, and the art museum up at Northwestern University is featuring an exhibit of storyboards from Hitchcock films. I should have seen that by now. As the old joke goes, they've sent me two boats and a plane. What more could I ask for?

So that's a little of what's been going on. But does that explain the failure to write? Does that justify my complete absence from these pages? What the hell is up?

Jackie and Holly got this entry started, and I think they can reveal my secret far better than I. Here's the extended cut of their conversation:

HOLLY: Oh wait, did Shane not tell you guys that they're expecting? I'm assuming that he didn't because he never tells anyone anything. JACKIE: What?!! Shane Wilson is having a baby? I can’t believe that loser didn’t tell us. He sucks!! I am never reading his stupid blog again.

Jackie, I totally hear you. That Shane is a jerk.

I Touch the Future: Follow-Up

2007-08-21T10:36:00.000-06:00

Just for the sake of closure...

Endeavour is on the ground. Barbara Morgan is back on Earth. Mission complete.

Whew.

THE HITCHCOCK PROJECT: #6 - The Ring

2007-08-14T20:34:00.001-06:00

I made a surprising discovery after finishing this film, when I went back to my Hitchcock biography to read up on it: this was pretty much the same point where I stopped reading the first time around. Clearly, there's something about this period in Hitchcock's career that is deeply uninteresting to me.

I'd like very much to blame that on the stories he's telling. They're not especially, well, Hitchcockian. All the suspense, the intrigue, the dark humor that we expect from one of his films has been missing. And that's certainly true of the latest entry in the oeuvre, The Ring. After all, it's a movie about boxing.

The problem with that theory is this: uniquely among his films, Hitchcock takes a writing credit on The Ring. Unofficially, Hitchcock had a great impact on the story of most of his films, usually through his direct influence on the writers. But to actually slap his name on the title card as writer and director is pretty unusual.

And it's regrettable, because the story of The Ring is pretty simple-minded. Our hero is a carnival attraction by the name of "One Round" Jack Sander (played by the surprisingly stringy Carl Brisson), who earns his nickname by challenging all comers to last more than one round against him in the ring. Of course, since he's a skilled fighter and most of his would-be opponents are either weaker, drunk, or both, "One Round Jack" has things pretty well in hand. He's friends with everyone at the carnival, and he's in love with the ticket girl, whose name is Mabel, or might be Nellie (the character played by Lillian Hall-Davis in the credits as "The Girl", so I was really surprised to find out she might have a name; the IMDb kind of threw things into chaos). For a guy who travels around with circus freaks and makes his living punching people, life is pretty good.

The fly in Jack's ointment is a fellow by the name of Bob Corby (played by Ian Hunter; NOT the MTV VJ). Corby defeats Jack, and then reveals that the whole thing was kind of a cheat; Corby is the world boxing champion, so Jack never had a chance. But Corby is impressed enough to hire Jack as a sparring partner, and to give him a chance to work his way up through the ranks. So things are ever brighter for Jack, except that Corby has an ulterior motive. He's infatuated with Mabel/Nellie/Whatsername, and he's already plying her with trinkets like an arm bracelet. Soon enough, Jack realizes that he's going to have to fight for his girl, both literally and metaphorically.

I have two major gripes with The Ring. The first is the boxing. It looks terrible. The film culminates -- very much like Rocky -- with a lengthy, dramatic battle inside the ropes, and the whole thing falls apart because the boxing is so wussy. Honestly, it looks like a Girl Scout fight. I was inclined to chalk it up to lousy casting, until I read that Carl Brisson got the part because a middleweight boxing champ. Which led to my new theory: that boxing in the 1920s was awful.

But the much bigger grievance, and the one that actually made me angry, involves the central conflict of the film. Jack is losing his girl to Corby, and he feels powerless to stop it. There's a good reason for him to feel this way: his girl is a cheap slut. Seriously. The moment -- I'm telling you, the very moment -- that Corby starts coming on to her, she completely loses interest in Jack. She even marries Jack, and yet hardly gives him the time of day. Most telling is a wild 1920s hullaballoo in their apartment, where Corby fawns all over Mabel/Nellie, and all she does is look contemptuously at Jack. Sweet girl. So knowing that the outcome of the fight depends on her choice of man is infuriating. She's done nothing to deserve it.

And all the while, Jack seems to do nothing but quietly bemoan his fate. When he invites all his old pals from the carnival over to the new home, and The Girl is nowhere to be seen, all they can do is look at each other sadly while he pathetically stews about his delinquent wife. In other words, the man has a backbone made of Jell-O. Oh, he seethes at Corby, destroying a punching bag while watching his wife flirt with the champ. But he doesn't say one word to the woman he presumably loves.

This comes to forefront in a pivotal scene at a nightclub, where Jack has gone looking for his wife. He finds Corby, who cheerfully offers him a glass of champagne. (In a nicely acted moment, Brisson coldly pours it on the floor.) But more importantly, he has a cheerless dance with a pretty reveler (much prettier than Mabel/Nellie, if you ask me) who clearly is smitten with him, but whom he blows off. Now good for him for the sanctity or marriage and all that, but what was clear to me was that Jack's really alright. He's not a total pushover; he's a fighter, and the chicks dig him. But when it comes to The Girl, he's a total pussy. And that's what I was yelling at the screen: "Jack, you idiot! She totally doesn't deserve you! Either confront the ungrateful little tramp or dump her!"

I tried to stop caring about the story, because I felt fairly certain that Hitchcock didn't. The very opening of the film shows the carnival in all its glory. With quick cuts, dissolves, multiple exposures, all the tricks at his disposal, he captures every element of the fairground, all the fun and all the nastiness. Hitchcock the Visualist is in full bloom in The Ring, especially in that big boxing scene I was talking about. The fighting may be lousy, but it's filmed awfully well. He uses shots from the very top of the arena, and he uses shots that get right into the ring with the combatants, which must have been a novel idea in 1927. He even uses a series of point-of-view shots, giving us a look through each boxer's eyes as our opponent comes at us. (Unfortunately, this also serves the highlight the terrible boxing.) In many ways, The Ring feels like an experimental film, as though Hitchcock had all these great ideas for what to do with a camera, and he just made up some silly story as a way to showcase them.

Unfortunately, my other great surprise from Patrick McGilligan's biography was the discovery that The Ring is one of the most acclaimed of Hitchcock's silent movies. I just don't see it. Maybe technically, I suppose. But I can't get past the notion that the whole film falls apart if the hero -- just once -- stops acting like a wet dishrag and stands up for himself. I'm not against passive heroes, and judging from his future output, neither is Hitchcock. But they usually end up earning their triumph, because they overcome their passivity. And "One-Round" Jack really doesn't do enough to earn his way into Round Two.

We're almost done with the silents. And thank goodness, because the randomly inappropriate music these public domain DVD producers are using is driving me batty.

I Touch the Future

2007-08-08T21:46:00.000-06:00

Barbara Morgan is in space.

I've all but given up on the hope that anybody I know -- absolutely anybody -- shares my enthusiasm for the exploration of space (if not the ineptly-run "space program"). But the fact remains that tonight, Barbara Morgan is in space. And I couldn't be happier.

It takes something really unusual to get most people's attention focused on a shuttle launch these days. Either there's someone notable on the flight, or people think it might explode. Otherwise, no one gives it the time of day. Barbara Morgan is, it turns out, one of the more noteworthy shuttle passengers in recent years, and still very few people are paying notice. I admit that even I'm a little attentive to this flight, and Barbara Morgan is the reason.

That's her with Christa McAuliffe. They were the two people selected by NASA's Teacher in Space program over two decades ago. McAuliffe was to fly; Morgan was the backup.

And of course, Christa McAuliffe died when a booster rocket malfunctioned, and burned a hole in an enormous tank of fuel, and her spacecraft was destroyed and she plummeted for two minutes until she smashed into the unforgiving surface of the Atlantic Ocean.

(Thinking back over the list of gross errors NASA made in allowing McAuliffe and her colleagues to perish in that accident still infuriates me. That may have been noticeable just now.)

I was in high school when Challenger was launched for the final time. We weren't avidly following the flight that day, but the Teacher in Space program had not escaped out notice. I learned precious little chemistry in my chemistry class, but I have never forgotten the day our teacher, a small but imposing man named Karl Jones, was asked why he didn't apply. His response seemed, at the time, cynical and cruel: "I'm not really interested in sitting atop a guided missile built by the lowest bidder."

I don't remember where I was headed when Sunny Hsieh stopped me in the hallway and said, "The shuttle blew up." I didn't believe him. It seemed like a bad joke. (Although not nearly as bad as the ones I would hear over the next few weeks. Every dead astronaut joke was like salt in a wound.) But the ugly truth was confirmed when I reached my locker, which was next to a bank of windows looking into the metal shop. There was a television, and in the way that network news does, it played the tragedy on a continuous loop. All through lunch, I stayed in that hallway, staring through the window, watching the television, hoping I wouldn't get in trouble.

Now, for me, the presence of a teacher wasn't necessary to make it more tragic. (The loss of Columbia four years ago was just as much of a sucker punch, although years of NASA aimlessness deadened the pain somewhat.) But for good or ill, Christa McAuliffe is the face of that ill-fated flight. For defenders of the space program, she's a martyr. For opponents, she's a symbol of incompetence turned deadly. For the indifferent, she's just a sad story, someone to put on the cover of People.

For Barbara Morgan, she was something else entirely, and that's why I really like her. For her, Christa McAuliffe was a friend and a co-worker. But even more, she was the embodiment of an idea. She represented the notion that there was a lot to learn from space. And as far as Barbara Morgan was concerned, until someone got up into space and taught the lessons that Christa McAuliffe was supposed to teach, then something very important, very meaningful, remained unfinished. So she lobbied NASA to keep the Teacher in Space program alive. She taught the lessons of her friend, and campaigned to finish her mission. Eventually, she left her teaching job and became a full-fledged astronaut. (She'll operate the robot arm that will install new solar panels on the space station.) She fought and fought to make sure that Christa McAuliffe's sacrifice did not go for naught. And almost 22 years later, she's about to realize that dream.

I get overly emotional about these things, which is why I blogging is a perilous venture for me. But that emotion is why I watched the launch of Endeavour on my computer at work this evening, even though I had work to do. I want to see Barbara Morgan complete this mission, and I'll be watching anxiously until she touches down in two weeks. And right now, she's in orbit. So far, so good.

Godspeed.

WHILE YOU WERE OUT: If You Had Wings

2007-08-06T22:03:00.000-06:00

In an feeble effort to atone for my complete and utter absence for weeks at a time, I'm going to try and catch up on some of what's been going on during all that time. Once I've done that, I'll probably disappear again. I'm awful, you see.

One of the columns that I wrote over and over in my head was the open letter I was composing to the CEOs of United Airlines and US Airways, as a great big thank you for the awesomely incompetent job their companies were foind in the field of getting people from one place to another. Of course, as you know if you've boarded a plane at any time in the past seven months, the entire fracking industry has given the American public the middle finger.

Our June travel extravaganza was particularly ripe for trouble, because we were zig-zagging across the entire continent within a 10-day span, and we had no room for flexibility. Naturally, we were so screwed. And yet I've never felt as screwed in the realm of air travel as I did this time around. Let me take you on a little trip.

Leg 1: ORD->MIA. We flew to Miami for the wedding of our friends Jessica and Jason. This trip would be the last one that wasn't fraught with trouble. We took off on time, we landed on time, and other than a run-in with the world's stupidest Avis counter representative, we had no difficulty at all. Which is astounding, when you consider that we left O'Hare, which has a just reputation as the most irritating airport on earth. But no, we had no problems with O'Hare. No, that was someone else's evil domain. We drove from Miami to North Carolina, having no idea what fresh hell lay in store.

Leg 2: CHA->ORD->YVR. For reasons to complicated to go into, Clair had to attend a conference in Vancouver right in the middle of our trip. But we were rolling with it. I drove Clair to Charlotte with plenty of time to spare. Clair checked her bag, despite her absolute certainty that they were going to lose it. (To be safe, she kept a particular dress in her purse, just in case.) And about two hours later, as I was making my way back across North Carolina, I got the text message: "Computer failure. All flights grounded."

Yes, evidently United Airlines has a single computer that does all of the fuel and weight calculations for every single flight they run. And when some yokel decides to play Minesweeper at the same time, that computer goes down, and the entire system goes into a giant kerfluffle. And from what I understand, THIS IS NOT THE FIRST TIME THAT THIS HAS HAPPENED. United, let's face it: you're idiots. Buy another damn computer, you morons. It's truly a miracle that Clair made it to Vancouver at all, let alone hours late.

Oh, and they lost her luggage.

Leg 3: YVR->LAS->PHI->Whatever the hell the code is for Newburgh, New York
Her return trip was even more brutal. She had to change planes twice, and evidently, they did not go out of their way to make it comfortable. Of course, I wasn't helping matters because of

Leg 4: CHA->EWR. Which is where I was within inches of ripping the larynx out of a USAir lackey's throat just for the pure satisfaction of hearing it crackle. USAir, bless their little incompetent hearts, found that they had scheduled way too many flights into the New York area. Turns out this isn't a surprise, since everyone schedules too many flights into the New York area. But I didn't know that at the time. So I wasn't too worried when I reached the gate and saw that my flight was delayed by two hours. Hey, I was still going to make it in time for the Broadway show I had tickets for.

Still, just out of curiosity, I checked the weather in New York. Crystal clear. Hmm. So I approached the counter, just to clarify the announcement. What's the matter again?

"Air traffic!" the prissy man barked.

Um, okay. So, like, weather patterns between--

"Air traffic!"

Ah, you're so helpful. So is there any chance the plane will be delayed again?

"No!" And he said it with this fey indignance. But, to be fair, he was telling the truth. It wasn't delayed again. Ten minutes later, it was canceled.

Evidently, you can do this. You can promise people something, take their money, and then renege on the promise, and they're not obligated to give a crap. It was breathtaking.

I'm sure I was supposed to be grateful for the fact that the USAir computers or whoever had automatically booked me for another flight -- four hours later. And an hour after my play started. After all, there were people who got bumped even later than that, and probably still more who ended up going nowhere at all. But it's hard no to be bitter. Even more so when I ended up two short on the standby list for another plane. I blame the Lu's for that. Some couple named Lu got paged 38 times, and right as they're about to call my name, this idiot who has been sitting in front of the counter the entire time says, real casual-like, "Oh, we're the Lu's." I didn't want that plane to crash. Just the two seats where the Lu's were sitting.

So what did I do to cope? Two things:
1) Sent pathetic text messages to my wife. The one who was getting on three different planes in a desperate attempt to make it all the way across the country for the second wedding on our itinerary. Classy move, Shane.
2) Read Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, which proved to be most enlightening, as Harry no longer seemed like the whiny, self-absorbed teenager that he had during my first reading, but rather an earnest soul who was unfairly treated by the world, and deserving of some overdue respect. Yes, Harry's anger and mine were flying in close formation.

I couldn't even get much angrier when my new flight, the four-hour later one, and which took off almost a full hour later than that, was forced to fly around for a while because New York was still too crowded and wasn't ready for us. It metasticized into pure surliness by the time I reached the hotel, around the same time my play was ending. Suffice it to say, I had never ordered Johnnie Walker Black before.

Last Leg: LGA->ORD. The fact that it was delayed would be anticlimactic, except for the fact that we were grateful for this delay. Why? Because our TRAIN didn't run on time. In fact, we found out when we got to the station that sometimes, the train we booked to get us back to New York City "doesn't run at all". Isn't that marvelous? Sometimes, there's just no train. That's just how things are. No one's in charge of this, evidently. We had seats on board the Existential Express.

Is there a reason for this? Well, yes, the Transportation Security Administration is borderline retarded, and summer is always busy, and demand is higher than ever, but in the end, don't blame terrorists. No, this is entirely the airlines' doing. As Patrick Smith, an airline pilot himself and one of my favorite writers on the web today, points out, airlines are switching to smaller planes that require the exact same amount of time as a 747 to be cleared by air traffic control. So Mr. Air Traffic! has no one to blame but his own bosses.

We saw clear evidence of this trying to get out of LaGuardia. Once our plane finally pushed away from the gate, disappointing the 97 people onthe standby list who had probably gotten screwed out of their own flights, we taxied beside a very long line of planes. The woman in front of me was counting them out loud. I believe her final tally was 26. And that line was the one we had to join at the end. And after finally reaching the front, we then crossed over three other lines just to get to our takeoff runway. Unbelievable.

And why would the airlines do this? Because they're making tons of money, that's why. I'll mention this again: if a restaurant brings you bad food, they replace it. Frequently, they don't charge you for it. A car dealer might take money off the price if you find a ding on the fender. In most industries, when you get a substandard product, you get compensated for it somehow. But in the wild world of air travel, where every seat costs a different price and where your only demand is that you get pretzels and you gladly punt your civil liberties because someone heard you can blow up a plane with AquaFresh, in this crazy mixed-up world, when the company doesn't give you the service you purchased, or they give you a substandard product, in this world YOU DON'T GET JACK.

This is why Americans love their cars.

Sigh

2007-07-31T20:50:00.000-06:00

In the time since I last posted, I suspect that young Alfred Hitchcock could have made three movies. I however, have watched none.

Not for lack of trying. I've had a disc from Netflix sitting in my house for about two months. I have a videocasette that I've checked out from the library five times in a row; still unwatched. The Project is somewhat stagnant.

It's not as though I've been doing nothing. There was this 10-day trip all across the eastern seaboard. There've been rather significant changes in the employment situation. Even seen a couple movies, read a couple books. Including that one book that everyone on earth is reading. Life has been quite busy.

I'm just not that good at the blogging thing. And I know it. I just thought I should mention that.

If you still check in every now and then, thank you. I appreciate that. I'll try and make it worth your while.

THE HITCHCOCK PROJECT: #5 - Easy Virtue

2007-06-07T20:57:00.000-06:00

(Holy crap. I didn't post this, already? Damn. Okay then, I'll just fall further behind. So be it.)

Yes, I can count. The Project has sailed into some choppy seas.

The next film on the list is supposed to be a little thing called Downhill, which reunited Hitchcock with the star of his huge success, The Lodger. That reunion did not turn out great. As much as critics loved The Lodger, that's how much they hated Downhill.

Still, the purpose of this project is not to watch only the good Hitchcock movies. It's to see all of them. So I hunted high and low for a copy of Downhill...to no avail.

Damn.

Ideally, I intended to watch these movies in chronological order, beginning to end. To skip Downhill would destroy that order. It would also mean that, four films into the Project, I'd be batting .500. Embarrassing. On the other hand, to wait for a copy of Downhill to fall into my hands would mean more delays, and we've reached the point where even I have had it with the big, empty, blog-free gaps.

So I made a choice. Get on with it. Go to the next one on the list. Grab Downhill somewhere down the road. It's not ideal, but there's a project to get through.

Fortunately, I still got to see a bad movie.

Easy Virtue is the tale of Larita (played by another fantastically-named actress, Isabel Jeans), who finds herself in a bit of a pickle. You see, her husband is kind of a drunken jerk who bruises her wrist, and meanwhile there's this painter who is supposed to be painting her portrait but actually tries to seduce her. Well, before you know it, the drunk husband has a gun, the painter ends up dead, and our Larita ends up divorced, with the whole world thinking she's a dirty little slut.

This sounds promising, but you have to look at this through the prism of 1927, when the mere act of being divorced was an unforgivable sin. I suppose at the time, the story's central conceit of making the evil harlot into a sympathetic heroine was quite daring. But today, the whole thing just falls flat. The deck is ridiculously stacked, so instead of Larita's ultimate end being tragic, it just seems silly. Even Hitchcock found the last line of dialogue (in which Larita tells a group of hungry paparazzi, "Shoot! There's nothing left to kill!) to be overly melodramatic.

Speaking of dialogue, want to know what else is wrong with Easy Virtue? How about this credit, which appears on the title screen:

Adapted from the play by Noel Coward

Now, if you're at all familiar with Noel Coward, you know him as a paragon of wicked wit and sophisticated wordplay. So what's the ideal format for his brand of panache? Of course: silent film.

I'm pretty sure we saw more title cards in the first 15 minutes than we saw in The Pleasure Garden and The Lodger combined. The film opens with that perfect action sequence, the courtroom scene. I have to believe Hitchcock was shaking his head in disbelief at his situation.

I'm ripping into this movie, and I have to rise to its defense, mainly because my wife actually kind of liked it, and she has some good points. For one thing, Hitchcock is starting to work symbolism into his story. As Clair noted, Larita spends much of the movie trailing behind some long piece of fabric: a scarf, or a flourish on a hat, or a long train on a dress. This is appropriate, as she is continuing to drag behind her sordid past. This sounds heavy-handed, but it plays in the film as a nicely subconscious effect. Hitchcock will be using more of this kind of character detail as he goes along, so it's nice to see him putting it to use this early in his career.

An even more characteristic shot is the one that opens the film. A bored judge lifts his monocle to his eye, and we see his courtroom become clear. For 1927, the shot is incredibly complex; evidently, Hitchcock had to shoot through a giant magnifying glass to get the effect. What I find remarkable about this is that it's totally a throwaway shot. It's just something he felt like doing, and it leads off the movie. I like to think that Hitchcock knew he didn't have much of a film to work with, so he decided to have a little fun.

In the end, though, Easy Virtue doesn't amount to very much. A woman is unfairly maligned, everybody treats her badly, and she has no hope for the future. The end. It's not much of a movie, and Hitchcock seems to know it. He's probably already looking ahead to the next movie.

I'm just hoping I can find the next movie.

THE HITCHCOCK PROJECT: #3 - The Lodger

2007-05-29T19:02:00.000-06:00

Weissman: It's a detective story... everyone's a suspect. You know, that sort of thing. Constance: How horrid. And who turns out to have done it? Weissman: Oh, I couldn't tell you that. It would spoil it for you. Constance: Oh, but none of us will see it. - Gosford Park screenplay by Julian Fellowes

You are wondering, perhaps, what the heck happened to Alfred.

The answer, of course, is that I happened, and the result was none too good for either of us. You see, I'm just coming off an exciting month-long project to convert a steamer trunk full of videocassettes into DVDs. For those who are interested, the project was mostly successful; I'm down to a banker's box of videocassettes, and very soon, we should have regained several cubic feet of closet space. On the minus side, however, is that this took up a significant portion of my free time, and made me extremely uninterested in watching more movies with what little time I had. My Netflix friends will have noted that I've had Hard Boiled an awfully long time.

But now that this particular endeavor has shuttered for the summer, I find that there's a portly Englishman who has been waiting upon me patiently. Best not to keep him waiting, then. Especially when he's turned out the first film that critics are willing to label "a masterpiece": The Lodger: A Story of the London Fog.

I suppose another thing that might have kept me from jumping right into this film was the lousy quality of the print Netflix had available. The Lodger is actually an extra feature on the DVD of a later Hitchcock film, Sabotage (which we'll get to in it's time). As the disc's ugly stepchild, The Lodger clearly didn't get a lot of love from Laserlight or Vintage Films. The print skips, brightness changes wildly from shot to shot, titles vary so much that it's impossible to tell which ones comes from the original and which ones are more recent substitutes, and most criminally, the opening credits are so butchered that Hitchcock's own credit is cut off before it ever gets the chance to appear. I know it's an 80-year old movie, but this is the best we could do? I've got a project in mind for the film archivists out there.

Get past that, and we're in pretty familiar territory. A serial killer called "The Avenger" is murdering the curly-haired blonde women of London, and a creepy houseguest may be the culprit – or he might just be wrongfully accused. It even has the first Hitchcock MacGuffin, in the form of the hunt for The Avenger. It's almost like a parody of a typical Hitchcock plot. Although if you think about it, for Hitchcock to have found so many variations on this basic story over his career, it makes sense that he would start right at the source.

Hitchcock gets a lot of mileage out of his star. The mysterious tenant is played by Ivor Novello, who was a popular songwriter (Jeremy Northam plays him as the only real-life character in the abovementioned Gosford Park) and actually something of a heartthrob of the era (despite being homosexual; marketing gay men as sex symbols has always been the way of the entertainment industry). According to our old friend Patrick McGilligan, Hitchcock was a little concerned about the casting
of Novello, as the star was renowned for striking over-the-top romantic poses in his stage performances. Whatever his method, Hitchcock clearly found a solution. From the moment he first walks through the door, the mood is not romantic enchantment but extreme unease. Deathly pale, nervous, barely able to carry on a conversation, Novello's Lodger is a remarkable creation, especially knowing that an audience would completely assume he was the hero.

Whether it's Novello's performance or Hitchcock's directing, the character of the Lodger certainly comes out better than his prospective love interest, Daisy, who -- in another ahead-of-its-time gesture -- is played by a woman calling herself June. June doesn't do much in the way of acting. She laughs a lot. I mean a lot. Like a strangely uncomfortable scene wherein her father has fallen off a chair and she continues to laugh and laugh. Mmm, awkward. Every now and then, she's called upon to look vaguely uncertain. That's usually just a segue to a laugh, though. I wasn't a big fan of June's.

I wonder if audiences of the day identified more with Joe, the useless cop portrayed by Malcolm Keen. Quite frankly, Clair and I found him at least as creepy as Novello. With irises so pale as to make his eyes look hollow, a hilariously inept sense of romance (he slaps a pair of handcuffs on Daisy as an expression of interest), and a terrible crime-solving technique, he's just as unsettling as the guy being set up as the potential villain. In a way, the movie puts us in an unusual position from the get-go, with two possible bad guys and a heroine with no range. With no one to necessarily like, this is not a recipe for a great thriller.

This is where Hitchcock really asserts himself. With no vested interest in any of our leads, he still builds the suspense. It's never daytime in The Lodger's London. The populace is following news of the murders with rabid interest. Someone we suspect is actually innocent. Hitch knows how to play to the crowd. Sometimes I got bored during the movie, but I never lost interest in the outcome.

Did I say bored? Yeah, that's the real problem. Perhaps one of the greatest tricks as a viewer today is to get into the mindset of a viewer back then. Because even to an open-minded fellow like myself, The Lodger moves at a positively glacial pace.
There's very little dialogue (and for a silent film, that's saying something) and almost no action, so we're left with a great many static shots of people looking, waiting, building up a sense of importance that doesn't always pay off.

This is what kind of makes me think I enjoyed The Pleasure Garden a little bit more. This story is less melodramatic. The acting -- June aside -- is better. But The Lodger doesn't move. When the climactic chase scene finally comes, it ought to be the culmination. Instead, it's a relief.

Still, he's learning. Hitchcock told the famed director and journalist François Truffaut that he considered The Lodger to be his first movie. If so, it's a very assured debut. And it bodes well for things to come.

Of course, I don't want to give anything away.

Just a Quick Note From the Old Stomping Grounds...

2007-05-15T23:07:00.000-06:00

Every now and then, one of my old You Don't Know Jack questions pops up. I can't help but get a sweet, wistful feeling whenever that happens. Most recently, one of my Jack Attacks was dusted off, updated to include the surviving spawn of Anna Nicole Smith, and slotted to close out the weekly game.

What makes me mention this is that the game has a comment section. And here's some of the warm reception that greeted my work:

"Ok.. the Jack Attack was just frigging cruel." "I was doing pretty good until the Attack. *sigh*" "Damn that Jack Attack." "Wow, I can't believe how badly I sucked on that. It was truly impressive. I've never done that badly on a Jack Attack EVER, home or web versions." "ZERO on the Jack Attack. ZERO!" "This is the first time I haven't aced the Jack Attack... seriously... and I've never felt so happy." "I voluntarily ignored the Jack Attack... I don't give a damn about celebrity gossip." "I didn't even bother to touch the keyboard during the Jack Attack." "That Jack Attack was pretty lame" "I didn't even touch the keyboard during the Jack Attack. Just sat back and watched." "Worst Jack Attack ever . . ."

For some reason, I'm simply overwhelmed with pride.

THE DAMNED HUMAN RACE: When She Says "Fight", She Really Means It

2007-05-04T19:16:00.000-06:00

So I was strolling through the Sports Illustrated website, looking for more overwrought commentary about the Mavericks' miserable collapse at the hands of the Warriors, when I stumbled across this unusual link title:

Army's Meredith is cheerleader of week

Okay, you have my attention. I don't think I've ever seen the words "Army" and "cheerleader" in the same sentence, or at least not in the traditional cheerleading sense. But sure enough, the SI folks took time out to showcase Meredith Walton, cheerleader for the United States Military Academy.

Now we'll set aside the primary issue of whether or not I should be looking at pictures of cheerleaders 14 years younger than I am (or what the heck Sports Illustrated is doing plastering pictures of college cheerleaders all over its website). What really threw me for a loop is the fact that, on game days, she looks like this:

I mean, it makes sense. She's not just a senior. She's a senior at West Point. She's a cadet. So when the game's over, she hangs up the sweater and the tiny skirt and dons her country's uniform. Naturally.

This bugged me a lot, and I spent some time trying to figure out why. And I eventually came down to three faults of my own: arrogance, a lack of imagination, and fear.

I've always been of two minds about cheerleaders: sure, they're pretty. But they're also kind of dumb and pointless. Consider: they dress in uniform, they're relentlessly cheery no matter the situation, and they encourage everyone to think alike and act as a mob. (Actually, this explains a lot about the cheerleader we sent to Washington.) In short, I don't trust them, because I don't think they're capable of thinking for themselves, and they don't want anyone else to, either.

Arrogant, yes? Meredith seems to think so. Apparently, my attitude that bugs her, given her answer to the question, "What's a popular misconception about cheerleaders?"

That we are all dumb and peppy all of the time. I think I am pretty smart, and I have my frustrated, angry moments, too.

I hope she's pretty smart. She's studying to be an intelligence officer, which I realize doesn't merit the kind of respect it used to. But, I mean, the girl got into West Point. Sure, you can have connections, but you don't make it very long in a military academy without being a pretty smart cookie. So she's messing with my stereotypical disdain for cheerleaders. Except for being cute.

There's also the fear that I'm just a sexist pig. Do I have a problem with a pretty girl being in the military? I wouldn't have thought so. I think I'm a fairly pro-equality guy. Heck, I have a standing election policy of "When In Doubt, Vote for Women and Minorities." (Hillary is sorely testing this method.) So why should it bother me that an attractive woman would also want to serve in the military? I think it might be a kind of reverse sexism. Women have only been allowed in to West Point since 1976. It feels like a step backward to spend that opportunity leading cheers. Does MIT have cheerleaders? Why does the Army?

Therein lies my lack of imagination. Nowhere is it written that increased opportunities for women have to have some corresponding decrease in girliness. So Meredith wants to be in the Army. She also likes to wear a short skirt and cheer on the football team. She's an American; she wants it all. Who am I to say she shouldn't have it? She can cheer for her country, and she can die for it.

Ah, I think we've found it. Our armed forces are stretched as thin as can be. We've lost more American soldiers in Iraq than we lost civilians on September 11. The country is exhausted from four years of war, yet fiercely determined to support its troops and avoid the shameful treatment afforded veterans of Vietnam. And here, symbolizing our weakened-yet-resolute Army, is Meredith Walton. A future second lieutenant with pom-poms.

My third flaw: fear. Meredith Walton now stands as the face of the war for me. A sweet young all-American girl who might get shipped off to face death in a couple years, because we'll probably still be stuck in this mess by then. And I don't want her to die. She's a cheerleader, for pete's sake. Cheerleaders don't die in the desert. And frankly, neither should anyone else.

I definitely won't look at Sports Illustrated's Cheerleader of the Week again.

THE HITCHCOCK PROJECT: #2 - The Mountain Eagle... Sort Of

2007-04-23T21:16:00.000-06:00

Two movies in, and the project is already in trouble.

1926 was a big year for Alfred Hitchcock. The Pleasure Garden had been a bit of an ordeal. On the advice of his cinematographer, in order to save money, he hadn't declared the motion picture film upon entering Italy. The customs agents weren't fooled; they confiscated the film, and it cost more money to have new film sent from Germany. He had the aforementioned incident with the actress who refused to go into the water while having her period; Hitchcock was so naive, he didn't know what a period was. He didn't care for the actor playing the villain.

Still, he had already proven to be a resourceful director. He convinced a waitress at a hotel to step in for the reluctant swimmer. He saved time and money by shooting extra material on the boat trip to the location. He finished the movie on time, and got pretty strong reviews. All in all, it was a superb first outing. So the studio was more than happy to hand him the reins for another film. The Mountain Eagle.

I haven't watched The Mountain Eagle. Why not? Well... why don't I let my friends at Wikipedia explain.

This is the only Hitchcock directed feature that is considered lost. No prints have been known to survive.

And boy, is it lost. How lost is it? Okay, you see that dog up there, in the movie poster? To this day, nobody knows what role (if any) the dog plays in the film. (He is clearly neither mountain nor eagle.) As far as I know, no one alive today has seen it. Certainly not our biographer, Patrick McGilligan. Nobody at all. And definitely not me.

So, that's just swell. My quest is stopped in its tracks before it has barely begun.

Except.

Look, it's not as though I was going to abandon the project. I mean, you can't really hold it against me that a movie doesn't exist anymore. And there's 51 movies to go. Besides, Hitchcock himself hated the movie. But it just killed me that I wouldn't be able to truly complete the entire Hitchcock oeuvre.

Cue Dan Aulier.

Stuck in my progress in the biography, I was doing some outside research, thumbing through a copy of Aulier's Hitchcock's Notebooks, when I made the surprising discovery of his surprising discovery. It seems that, although the film is lost, Hitchcock himself had a complete set of production stills. And Aulier was kind enough to reprint them in his book, along with a brief synopsis. So I couldn't watch The Mountain Eagle. But I could do the next best thing.

The story alone would classify this as a weird film. In the snowy mountains of Kentucky (?), we meet our main character: a nasty fellow named Pettigrew, who evidently hates everyone. Pettigrew's wife dies giving birth to a crippled boy. Pettigrew directs most of his anger at this mountain-dwelling hermit named John, who most people call "Fear o' God".

Cut to twenty-some-odd years later, when the son is now putting the moves on the local schoolmarm named Beatrice (played by movie beauty Nita Naldi, who Hitchcock had to browbeat into dressing down). Pettigrew goes to confront her about this, and ends up making advances on her himself. She turns him down, and the son disappears, probably out of embarrassment.

So now, Pettigrew is really angry. He tries to get Beatrice arrested as, and I turn to Wikipedia again for this description, "a wanton harlot." That's Fear o' God's cue to show up, marry Beatrice, take her back to his cabin in the woods, and get her pregnant. Facing these new developments, Pettigrew takes a new tack: he has Fear o' God arrested for murdering his missing son. Yes, this is a guy who loves to hate.

Fear o' God escapes the law, but not for long. He becomes ill, and Beatrice has to drag him into town for treatment. There Pettigrew is about to claim his victory... until his long-lost son suddenly shows up! Yes, the whole murder thing is out the window, and to top it off, somehow (the how is not made at all clear), Pettigrew is accidentally shot. So, truly a happy ending for everyone.

It would be strange enough that Hitchcock & company shot a film set in Kentucky in the mountains of Germany. (The snow was so heavy at one location that Hitch paid the local fire department to hose it away.) But this plot... it's just beyond bizarre. Why does Pettigrew hate so much? Why does Fear o' God rescue Beatrice? Why is everyone in the movie trying to get up her skirts? What is the heck is going on?

Want to see how weird this movie is? Here's your chance to see more of The Mountain Eagle than almost anyone alive. This was the only still I could find in Google Images, but I think it tells the tale.

Who is that handsome fellow? Who knows? Seems like he must be Fear o' God, but who can be sure? The important thing is, whoever that's supposed to be, it's a character in this film. Someone decided that the Cryptkeeper look was ideal for this movie. To which I can merely say, Wow.

I can't assess Hitchcock on this one, not without seeing the movie. But he didn't like the movie, and you kind of have to defer to his judgment on this. But I do know that, no matter how bad the movie may have been, things weren't all bad. It was around this time that he proposed marriage to Alma. And she said yes. (They were on a ship, and she was sick. Hitchcock said it was the only way he could trick her into it.) So he had a steady career, and now he was a newlywed. Good times.

Oh, and he was about to make his first great movie. That one, Netflix has.

RED ENVELOPES: The Future's So Bright, I Gotta Wear Shades

2007-04-19T20:41:00.000-06:00

To explain my relative absence over the past two weeks, I will say something that is technically truthful, although is not strictly speaking accurate, and is therefore an outright lie. That's right. I'm through apologizing to you people.

Anyway, my wife was out of town for a week on business. And with her gone, I had the chance to do what so many men have done, throughout the ages, when their spouses go away for a week: watch as many of the movies on the Netflix queue that she doesn't want to see as is humanly possible.

Yes, it was a manic week of DVD screening, as I raced through the decent (Li'l Abner, the Blue Collar Comedy of its day), the bad (Shadowlands, utterly boring), the curious (a Carmelite nun named Sister Wendy touring the Art Institute), and the unsurpassingly weird (Head, starring the Monkees, about which I really should talk in some future posting because it's just so bizarre). But all of that was just prelude for the crown jewel in my week's viewing: They Live, by far one of the greatest terrible movies I have ever seen.

The premise of They Live is simple: Roddy Piper (in his finest acting performance to date) plays a hard-working guy, a real salt-of-the-earth dude, a decent fellow just trying to get by in life, who stumbles across a pair of sunglasses that reveal America's elite to be pillaging aliens who control the government and the media and conspire to keep humans poor and subservient.

Director/pseudonymous screenwriter John Carpenter is in top form here. This is an 80s movie, and Carpenter's fury at Reagan-era politics is palpable. The scene in which Piper first dons the magical sunglasses is really entertaining, as he discovers that yuppies actually have hideous faces, billboards broadcast the messages "OBEY" and "SUBMIT", and -- most amusingly -- money bears the phrase "THIS IS YOUR GOD." Piper has no real ability to convey shock, but Carpenter's vision is so gloriously over-the-top that he doesn't have to.

Of course, it takes an awfully long time to get there, and while we wait, Carpenter works overtime to convince us of how a swell modern-day Jimmy Stewart Piper really is. I think he even pats an adorable moppet on the head. The deck is seriously stacked.

This wouldn't be such a bad thing, except that -- shock of shocks -- Piper turns to violence to help eradicate the alien hordes. You kind of expect that: he's Roddy Piper, they're aliens, the director also made Halloween. Let the carnage begin. Except... well, they still look like humans. When you see Rowdy Roddy mowing down his enemies, they don't look like mortifying creatures from another galaxy. They look like people. And no matter how much you know that your hero is in the right, the outward appearance is that of so much brutality and senseless killing. I had the same problem with The Matrix. It's human nature to be more comfortable with an enemy you can't identify with. Aliens. Nazis. Frat boys. These look like decent human beings, and it leaves a bad taste.

I know Carpenter's trying to have fun with this. He shows us that Piper isn't killing indiscriminately. He frequently spares his fellow human beings the brunt of his wrath. Consider the films signature quote. It is only after killing two aliens dressed as cops (although it sure looks like he's gunning down two cops in the street) and taking their guns that Piper steps into a building to rest and plan his next move. Alas, that building happens to be a bank. So Piper summons all his confidence and says, hilariously, "I have come here to kick ass and chew bubblegum... and I'm all out of bubblegum." Clearly, Roddy Piper is being groomed to be a sort of liberal Schwarzenegger, firing off bullets and one-liners simultaneously. Okay, I can go with that.

Except I can't, because he's clearly more at home in the film's most memorable scene, and the main reason I wanted to see this movie. It comes 55 minutes in, and it involves Piper's elements to expose his only friend, construction worker Keith David, to the scope of the alien plot by having him put on the sunglasses. And the method of persuasion he chooses? He beats him up.

To be fair, they beat each other up. It's the most ludicrous fight scene ever put on celluoid. They trade punches, attempt to maim each other, and all the whole exchange dialogue like this:
PIPER: Put on the glasses.
DAVID: Never.
BOTH:

This goes on -- I kid you not -- for over six whole minutes. Almost as long as "Hey Jude". And it's a 90 minute movie. It's a jaw-dropping movie experience.

Quite frankly, after that, the movie doesn't have much more to offer. There's more carnage, and more rich people acting insufferable and stereotypically evil. Oh, and there's a subplot involving a woman who works for a UHF station that's as riveting as it sounds, and ends up relating to the movie in the most illogical manner possible. And that's kind of the problem with the movie. Carpenter has an interesting idea, but his film's best moments don't really have anything to do with the main story.

And despite all that, I enjoyed the movie immensely. If I admire John Carpenter for anything, it's his willingness to take his political rage and turn it into an action-horror film. Joe Dante got a lot of praise for turning his anger about the Iraq War into a zombie film in Homecoming. Carpenter did at least as much here. They Live is a Grade Z epic. Roddy Piper is the poor man's Dolph Lundgren. And the six-minute fight scene is a trailer trash Rocky. It's a fantastic, remarkable mess. And it doesn't look like any other movie you'll ever see.

Don't believe me? Here. Put on these sunglasses.

THE HITCHCOCK PROJECT: #1 - The Pleasure Garden

2007-04-13T21:52:00.000-06:00

ME: Hey, Lauren, could I ask you for a favor?
MY NEIGHBOR ACROSS THE HALL: Sure. What do you need?
ME: Could I borrow your home?
MY NEIGHBOR: Uh...

The Wilsons haven't had a videocassette player for almost four years. Frankly, we haven't needed one. Once we went DVD, we never looked back. And other than needing to find a way to transfer some of these old VHS tapes I've got in a steamer trunk, it's worked out just fine. Of course, it figures that when I finally got my hands on a copy of Alfred Hitchcock's directorial debut, it would arrive in tape form. Thanks, Chicago Public Library.

Still, if you can't use your neighbors for things you need, what the heck are they good for? Fortunately, Lauren was game, and I've cat-sat for her enough times that I still have a slight advantage in the getcha-back department. So it was Movie Night at the neighbor's.

The Pleasure Garden is the story of a country girl named Patsy (the lovely Virginia Valli) who comes to the big city to join a chorus line. Of course, she's never set foot on a stage before, but her ability to Charleston on command wows the theater impresario, and a fellow chorus girl named Jill (played by the wonderfully-named Carmelita Geraghty) takes her in as a roommate. So life is pretty good for Patsy.

Naturally, men come along and ruin everything. It seems Jill has a fiancé named Hugh (John Stuart, who looks like Joseph Goebbels). Sadly, Hugh is going off to work on a plantation for the next two years (!?), but Jill has promised to wait for him. Yeah, right. Jill is barely waiting for Hugh to leave, since she's now taking gifts from the producer of the show and soliciting the affections of a German prince and generally acting like a brazen hussy. Poor Patsy can hardly understand what's going on, especially since she's conveniently falling for the affections of Hugh's nasty co-worker, Levett (an appropriately slimy Miles Mander). Is it possible that Levett is also carrying on with some native plantation girl? Oh, this can't go well.

Does this plot sound like a soap opera? It sure is. The Pleasure Garden is pure melodrama. Lauren kept commenting that Patsy was aptly named. True enough: she believes everyone, falls in love out of pure plot contrivance, is just plain nice at every turn, and makes atrocious decisions every step of the way. She's the original insufferable heroine. Most of the characters are straight types, right down to the homosexual costume designer. (I'm not trying to cast aspersions, but it's a silent film, and you could still hear him swish. Gay stereotypes are clearly not a new thing.) In fact, the most likeable character in the movie is Patsy's dog, Cuddles. Believe me, if you ever see this movie -- and I'm reasonably confident that you never will -- remember to trust the dog. He knows all.

Still, I'm not watching this to get a realistic depiction of the lives of chorus girls in the 1920s. No, I'm here for Hitchcock, and I'm happy to report that, despite the thin plot, despite the lack of sound, despite everything, there are touches of the master in place, even at this early stage. The very first scene of the movie, establishing the theater where the chorus girls dance (or, more accurately, do this strange sort of dance-strut-bouncing thing), is an unexpectedly complex shot for 1926. After an amusing setup of a torrent of chorus girls hurrying down a spiral staircase, we get the full stage, shot from way up high, at an angle to capture the adoring audience. I have to think that few directors of the period were attempting anything so advanced. That Hitchcock chose to lead off his first picture with it definitely singles him out as someone looking to get noticed.

I suspect that Hitch had a particular affection for the character of Levett. After all, Levett is completely and utterly amoral. He marries Patsy even though he clearly has no interest in her beyond getting into her bloomers. He goes off to the plantation and immediately becomes a womanizer, a drunk, and unpredictably violent. Also, he has a sinister mustache. Hitchcock also has a special place in his heart for villains, and even though this one has no redeeming quality at all, he gets enough screen time being evil to make you think that Levett is just as beloved.

Levett features in the most Hitchcockian scene of all: our first Hitchcock murder. It's not especially well-filmed. It's an underwater murder, and was evidently very difficult to film. (The actress originally hired refused to go into the water because she was menstruating; medical science has advanced somewhat in 80 years.) But the aftermath, in which the victim's ghost haunts Levett, feels like classic Hitch.

So, Alfred Hitchcock's career is off and rolling. His first film...it's not great. It's hackneyed. It's clichéd. But despite all that, it's not boring. The director has a smart eye, and we're going to see it put to good use.

And if not, I foresee a big future for Cuddles.

RED ENVELOPES: Oh, Ho, Ho, It's Magic

2007-03-29T20:33:00.000-06:00

Every once in a while, the movie business has itself a great idea. Even more infrequently, they have the same idea twice. As a result, we get Capote AND Infamous. We get Mission to Mars AND Red Planet. We get Lambada AND The Forbidden Dance.

As you can see, it doesn't usually work out.

It happened again last fall, when we were treated to a double dose of stories about magicians set over a hundred years ago. The Illusionist and The Prestige battled it out for box office dollars, and what usually happens in these cases is that moviegoers decide to make a choice. They're not going to see the same movie twice. So they pick. That's what happened here. The Illusionist had the advantage of hitting theaters first, but The Prestige responded with the marquee matchup of Batman vs. Wolverine.

Here in the Wilson household, we naturally opted for neither. That's what Netflix is for. All hail the homemade double feature.

Truth be told, take away the magic element and the similar settings and these two movies aren't similar at all. The Prestige, for example, is purely a battle of wills. Christian Bale and Hugh Jackman are magicians who become deadly rivals because they are willing to throw love and decency aside in pursuit of the ultimate illusion. Not only that, but they go after each other with increasing venom, and as the film opens, one of them is in prison, accused of murdering the other.

You can tell how much the stars are enjoying themselves. Jackman gets to play nasty without just snarling for the whole movie. Bale gets to be a star without a mask or an accent. Michael Caine continues to reap the benefits of not taking every part he gets offered. And Scarlett Johanssen didn't even bore me.

I liked this movie, and I think the reason for that was that it didn't really feel like any movie I'd ever seen. The combination of setting and subject evoked a rich novel. It's based on a novel, so that may not seem surprising. But how often do movies get that right? It's hardly a perfect movie (my Whirled News colleague Matt points out that the numerous double-crosses are overly predictable, and the two magicians' disguises are laughable in a bad way), but it just felt kind of refreshing.

The Illusionist felt a little more traditional. Edward Norton is our title character, an unusually gifted magician who uses his skills first to win the love of his childhood sweetheart, and then to seek revenge against the crown prince who stands in the way of that romance. Shot in and around Prague, it's a prettier film. And because it's one man against powerful antagonists, the effect is sort of like a caper. A caper with magic.

Like The Prestige, this film benefits from a good cast that's playing way above its usual skill level. Edward Norton is... well, he's Edward Norton. But just watch the 10-second snippet of him in the behind-the-scenes featurette and you'll see what a complete transformation (from total dweeb to imposing man of mystery) he undertook. Paul Giamatti, for the first time that I can recall, took away the nervous tics and the nasal whine and was absolutely mesmerizing. I would like to formally request that he speak with a deep voice for the rest of his career. And round out the cast was, of all people, Jessica Biel. Turns out the girl can act, and good for her. That's always a pleasant surprise, and maybe means she won't have to make movies like Stealth anymore.

I should also take a moment to comment on the score, which is interesting but strangely overpowering at times, and I made several jokes to my wife about how the composer was ripping off Philip Glass. Of course, I went back and looked at the credits and saw that the composer was Philip Glass. Two lessons I take from this: (1) Evidently, I like Philip Glass more than I thought, although a little goes a long way, and (2) no one sounds like Philip Glass quite like Philip Glass.

Ultimately, there is one very important reason these movies are different from each other, and it has to do with what they have in common. These are each movies about magicians, and they each ask a very crucial question: "How does he do that?" But where The Illusionist wants you to believe that the answer is mystical, The Prestige is firmly rooted in the notion that everything you see can be adequately explained. Even if the solutions to Bale & Jackman's tricks is more outlandish, more outrageous, they remain rooted in the film's inner logic, unlike the tricks of Norton, which are never fully explained. The Illusionist ends in a montage that shamelessly rips off The Usual Suspects, and suggests that there are logical explanations for everything you've seen (although director Neil Burger's boneheaded commentary nearly torpedoes that, as well), but there's too much that is never accounted for. In the end, that's why I think The Prestige is a better film. It's premise is almost ludicrous, and certainly science fiction. But it plays fair. The Illusionist wants to have it both ways. It cheats.

Still, I'm glad I saw them both, and I'd say they were each among the better films of 2006 that I saw. And if all the magician movies were good, I wouldn't mind the glut. Heck, if it were good, I'd even sit through a lambada movie. Moviegoes: we're just that easy.

THE HITCHCOCK PROJECT: Up Through the Ranks

2007-03-27T20:14:00.000-06:00

Sorry. We've kind of left Alfred hanging, haven't we? But don't feel too bad for him. He's doing very well for himself. He's gonna be a director, you know. Very soon.

Perhaps the most interesting observation our biographer has made so far is that most directors come up through the ranks of editors or cinematographers. There are a fair number of actors and writers who also take up the megaphone. And these days, special effects wizards also take a turn fairly often. But directors are almost never former art directors. And yet, that is the path that one of the most acclaimed directors in film history took.

Hitchcock's first jobs are supposed to be strictly art direction and titles, but he knows enough to make himself indispensable. The studio that hired him, Famous Players-Lasky, quickly loses money and starts laying people off. But Hitchcock willingly takes on any task that comes his way. Who will write the script? I will, says Hitch. Can anyone direct these extra scenes? I'm your man, says Hitch. When the film company finaally did fold, new producers swept in to pick up the pieces, and this eager young man was ready and willing to work.

(I had a lot of empathy for Hitch at this point. I did sort of the same thing at Jellyvision. "What do you need me to do? I'm your guy." Being indispensable is the best thing to be.)

Hitchcock starts to make a lot of key contacts at this point. He meets producers who will make some of his first movies. He meets the man who will become his agent. Most importantly, he meets the most important collaborator in his life.

Technically, he met Alma Reville in the last chapter. She was a writer with Famous Players-Lasky, and he was evidently smitten with her at first sight. Of course, being a proper turn-of-the-century English gentleman, he would never make a move above his station. So he doesn't even speak to her. While he's hanging on at the studio, she's let go, and still not a word. In fact, she doesn't even know who he is, until years later, when he's at a new studio and he's permitted to hire a staff, and suddenly she gets a call.

He doesn't just do this for girls he likes, mind you. Hitchock proves to be quite loyal, an unusual trait in the film industry. An actress named Betty Compson was working on a film on which Hitchcock was assistant directing. The film had a cash shortfall, and Compson invested money to keep it going. Years later, when she needed to qualify for benefits, he arranged to get her a small part in one of his movies. One director who Hitchcock worked with extensively even badmouthed him. But when he fell on hard times, Hitch secretly arranged for him to get work.

This kind of hard work and good behavior pays off in spades when Hitchcock goes to work for a new studio called Gainsborough. This studio had just made a deal with a film company in Germany, so Alfred heads to Berlin, where he learns the basics of expressionistic cinema. And then the studio's lead director gets himself in a bit of immigration trouble, and who's standing by to take the reins? That's right. In less than five years, Alfred Hitchcock has risen to the role of director.

And here's where we have to stop. Because you see, one of my rules is that I can't read about the making of one of Hitchcock's movies until I've seen it. So many secrets to give away, you know. So my next posting will be about the movie itself. Just a brief pause in the action.

It's 1925. For the first time, the director's chair will read "Alfred Hitchcock". The movie is called The Pleasure Garden. And the Chicago Public Library is sending it over. 53 movies, and this is Number 1.

Now the project really gets going.

RED ENVELOPES: Popcorn, Coke, and a Deep Sense of Dread

2007-03-21T17:34:00.000-06:00

Not content with the unhappy feelings associated with two funerals and property fallout of a third, I finally sat down to watch The Most Depressing Film Ever Made.

The previous titleholder, 21 Grams, also came very close to holding the record for Longest Time a Netflix Movie Sat In Our House Without Being Watched. (I'm pretty sure Mystic River remains the champion in that particular category.) That film, which has a plotline wherein Sean Penn can receive the gift of life through a heart transplant and still be utterly miserable, is one of those films that just urges you not to watch it, because it relies upon the notion that life is bleak and hopeless, and no matter how good the acting is supposed to be, nobody really wants to see that. And I can promise you, finally subjecting myself to 21 Grams is the reason I may never see Babel.

Yet, none of the movies I've mentioned so far can even hold a candle to the fondue pot of joy that was The Most Depressing Film Ever Made. Oh, I knew it would be bad. I avoided it for a long time. But then it started to get award buzz, and I can never resist the clarion call of award buzz, no matter how soul-destroying the film. (Hello, 21 Grams.) And my colleague John told me about it, and strongly implied that it was a must-see. Most of all, my shameful need to know got the better of me. I went against my instinct. After two months on top of the DVD player, I caved.

I hit play, and began to watch United 93.

I guess the first question is obvious: why would anyone want to watch this? I guess it's human nature to wonder about the darker aspects of existence, particularly the sudden end of that existence. We watch TV shows about forensic investigators, read books about serial killers, drive slowly by car accidents. So there's that, for starters. But there's also an essential mystery of what we now casually refer to as "9/11". Five years on, we know quite a bit about that hideous day. We know the events. We know how those events made us feel. We know who we believe was responsible for those events. (Those of us who happen to be President of the United States seem to have that last part wrong, but there's no changing that.) But no matter how much information we've culled together, we still don't really know what went on in those planes, and we're never going to. People came out of the Towers; no one came out of those planes. We can't know the awful truth.

So we make a guess.

Which I suppose answers the next question: why on earth would you make this movie? I guess you could say that it's an effort to recognize the heroism on that awful day. Indeed, in addition to the passengers of the ill-fated flight, United 93 shows us baffled air traffic controllers, frustrated bureaucrats, and desperate military commanders all struggling to cope with an impossible situation. A lot of people did their best under terrible circumstances, and that is captured in the film.

But the thing is, those intense scenes in the national air traffic control center? We can trust in those scenes, because we can back them up. Several of the people in those scenes are playing themselves. They were actually there. They can testify to what we're seeing. Onboard that plane, all we can do is guess. It's a very educated guess, and it looks real, but it's still a guess, which means it's not real at all. Did a hijacker hesitate to act? Did a passenger try to warn the hijackers about the revolt? Did the passengers break through the cockpit? We don't know, we don't know, and we don't think so but we don't know. So despite everything -- the research, the authenticity, the good intentions -- what we have is a work of fiction. Which begs my final question: what is it exactly we want to see?

Director Paul Greengrass has accomplished a remarkable piece of filmmaking. Possibly more than any movie I've ever scene, I had the sensation of watching something real. The combination of documentary-style cinematography, improvisational acting, and well-known subject matter makes for a very realistic presentation. In particular, the use of real-time is expert. More than ever before, I gained a sense of the speed with which the passengers aboard Flight 93 had to make their ultimate decision. It's a mortifying realization.

It's a measure of the commitment of everyone on this project that I can single out the only actor I recognized, Christian Clemenson, and tell you that I have never seen him do work anything like this. I remember him as a nebbish in The Adventures of Brisco County, Jr., an officious nerd in Apollo 13, and a jittery freakshow in Boston Legal. His performance here as Tom Burnett is a marvel of composure. Everyone associated with this film buried themselves in the task at hand -- honoring this moment in history. And they've succeeded.

But what I keep coming back to is this: I respect this movie. I even have admiration for what it accomplishes. But I really, really hate it. Because it isn't really a movie. There's no suspense; we know every beat of the story. There's no arc. United 93 is essentially a stunt. It's a meticulous re-creation of a mass murder, and it doesn't get me anywhere. Can a movie capture the particulars of a real-life event in such a way that it feels real? So much so that even the moments which are categorically unreal also feel real? Can the finest artists and craftsmen re-create the dread and disgust and horror of one of the defining historical moments of my time for my viewing pleasure?

Yes. Yes, they can. And I feel no better for knowing the answer, and a little worse for having decided to find out.

You Are Unique

2007-03-14T21:00:00.000-06:00

We were visited by sadness again last week, as Clair's grandmother Hazel passed away last Friday. This came only two weeks after the death of her husband. She was 95.

It's not my intention for this to be the most depressing blog on the internet. Sometimes, that's just how it works out. The saying goes that God does not give us more than we handle, but one has to wonder what gave God the idea that the Clairmont family should have to handle so much.

As was true of Clair's grandfather, I did not get to see Hazel Clairmont at the peak of her powers. Evidently, she was very much the driving force in the family. If she said the grandkids were going to put on a Christmas pageant, then by gum, they were. (It seems there were minor skirmishes over who would get to be Mary and who would have to be a shepherd.) I got a small taste of this a few years ago, when we visited Alexandria at Christmastime, and Hazel instructed us to lead off the caroling. Well, we certainly weren't going to say no.

She lost her eyesight about six years ago, which was surely a major blow to someone who prided herself on being in charge. But to the extent that it bothered her, she was determined not to let it show. Clair tells me that she could still remember exactly where everything in her house was, far better than people whose eyesight was as strong as ever. Indeed, next to her chair in her apartment, she had a tray that was divided into many compartments, and each compartment had a very specific purpose. (Several of them had candy. A little bit of a sweet tooth.) In a way, her meticulous mind was well-suited to her failing vision. Being very organized came naturally to her.

My favorite moment with Hazel goes back to that blessing ceremony. Actually, the lunch afterwords. We went to this fancy country club outside Alexandria called Arrowwood, and the restaurant looked out over a lake. The colors were remarkable that day; a mix of yellow and red and gray, and the reflection of the clouds off the lake was very striking. Several people commented on it, but I could tell that Hazel wasn't getting enough information to understand it. She knew Arrowwood. She'd been there plenty of times. But she had no perspective. So, when a break came in the conversation, I spoke up and began to describe her surroundings to her. I explained how the fireplace was behind her, and the kitchen was ahead. I told her how the windows were off to her left, and I did my best to describe the unusual sky. If my journalism degree was going to be worth a penny, I was going to capture this moment in great detail.

Hazel perked up, and she seemed to be able to picture the scene. Except for having our marriage blessed, it was my proudest moment of the day.

Hazel was a schoolteacher, and in his outstanding eulogy, Clair's father read aloud a sort of poem-credo that she wrote for her grandchildren. It was very inspiring, precisely the kind of thing that a good teacher would prepare for her students. It was titled, "You Are Unique". And any woman who would strive to convey that message to her family is a remarkable woman indeed.

Hazel Clairmont

THE HITCHCOCK PROJECT: The Man He Will Become

2007-03-11T21:31:00.000-06:00

Chapter 2 takes us up to Alfred Hitchcock's 21st year, the point at whichwe traditionally think that a person's life really gets going. Our boy Alfred, however, has no intention of sitting around waiting for that to happen.

Aftera several months of higher education, 14-year old Hitch decides he's had just about enough of school life, and lands a job with the W. T. Henley Telegraph Works, where his job is to measure the size and voltage of cables. For those of you considering going to USC Film School to break into the movie business, you may want to consider an alternate route.

Of course, he doesn't stay with this drudgery. He soon moves up through the ranks, and he does three crucial things that will pave the way for his future.

1. He moves into the design department. He ends up working on industrial publications and advertising material, and learns a great deal about how to use layout and imagery to capture people's attention. One of his noteworthy products was an elaborate brochure advertising lighting for churches, which he illustrated with -- in a nice bit of career foreshadowing -- a coffin.
2. He gets along great with everybody. Hitch was very popular at Henley, and people would go to great lengths for him (which will become relevant in a moment). He led many of the company's intramural activities, including sports teams. Most crucially, however, was his role as founder and editor of the Henley Telegraph, the in-house magazine. It was a very popular publication, and for it...
3. He wrote several short stories. This is perhaps the most noteworthy part of this chapter, because McGilligan reprints several of Hitchcock's first published writings. It's our first look at Hitchcock the Storyteller, and as our biographer goes to great pains to point out, these early tales give us a sneal peek at popular Hitchcockian themes. Confinement, voyeurism, twist endings, they're all in here.

This is fascinating, because unlike, say, an M. Night Shyamalan, Hitchcock never wrote his own movies. So it's tempting to say that he was skilled at setting a mood more than telling a story. However, these short stories prove that Hitchcock was quite capable of acting as writer. He clearly just didn't feel the need to spend time writing specific plots and dialogue. Someone else could do that; Hitch would then do the real writing on film.

Speaking of film, the movie business also makes its first appearance here. The Famous Players-Lasky Company announces plans to open up a studio in London, and begins hiring for all positions. Meanwhile, young Alfred Hitchcock, after seven years in the electrical business, has been reading screen trade magazines and writing stories. The next step is obvious.

Hitchcock's actions show a great deal of confidence and chutzpah. Applying for a job as a title card designer (the movies were still silent, you see), Hitch gets word that Famous-Lasky is going to make a certain book into a film. So he buys a copy, reads it cover-to-cover, and proceeds to turn the whole book into a title card script. The movie people admire his spunk, but do not hire him. Undeterred, he does it again for another book. This time, he even convinces several of his co-workers to help him assemble his portfolio. So respected is Alfred Hitchcock among his co-workers that not only do they help him, but management blithely looks the other way. I can hardly imagine a similar scenario today. It definitely pays to be nice.

This second effort persuades Famous-Lasky that they've got a real dedicated fellow on their hands, and this takes us to 1921. Alfred Hitchcock has a new job in the movies. He's going to write title cards. He's only 21. I predict big things for this guy. We may very well be watching a film soon.

Oh, and he might even have his eye on a girl. Stick around.

Fair Warning

2007-03-07T00:24:00.000-06:00

Some people prefer high-stakes poker. Others would rather parachute off the New River Gorge Bridge. Still more like to tempt fate by snorting Diazinon crystals. But for my money, it would be hard to top the adrenaline rush that accompanied the Wilsons’ introduction into the cutthroat, fast-paced world of decorative art auctioneering.

To understand how we found ourselves in a room in Oak Park looking at Shaker duck decoys, it’s necessary to take a quick trip into some ugly family history. Let’s step back a little over a year ago, when Clair’s grandmother passed away. (Yes, my blog is death 24-7 these days.) You see, the Davises, Mary Ellen & Jerry, were very gifted collectors. They ran a department store, (which got a mention in Time when the U. S. Government attempted to destroy it with a nuclear bomb), so they become connoisseurs of modern furniture. In addition, Jerry’s upbringing out west brought him into direct contact with several Native American tribes, so he became an astute collector of baskets and rugs. A visit to the Davis home in Kanab, Utah, was evidently like entering a mashup of the MoMA and the Museum of the American Indian.

When Mary Ellen died, she left all of this stuff that was collected over the years to her son. This became an immediate source of friction, since (a) she left none of it to her daughter, and (b) her kids hate each other. The reasons for this are complicated, and I think there's plenty of blame to go around. Nevertheless, you might imagine that, even in the worst of circumstances, had this happened to you, you would still have to admit that family is family, and you would set aside your petty differences for this one moment, and you might be magnanimous and permit your siblings to choose one or two items to keep, as a remembrance of your parents and to carry on the family's history.

If this sounds like you, then you would have been woefully out-of-place at this funeral. I've never encountered an environment as toxic as this one. Put it this way: there was a security guard at the house after the funeral, presumably to make sure we didn't abscond with anything. This, needless to say, did not clear the air. My advice to you: stay on good terms with your brothers and sisters.

The upshot of all this, after all the finger-pointing and threats of legal action and whatnot subsided, was that Clair's uncle decided to sell everything. Every basket, every chair, even a sculpture signed by Mary Ellen that she might have made herself. No nostalgia. No legacy. All gone. The whole shebang.

The furniture, which featured Herman Miller cabinetry and a Noguchi coffee table, was sold in December. At a really basic level, this is just sad. What kicks it up a notch to annoying is that Clair and I didn't hear about it until January. It's hard to know if that was designed to prevent us from getting anything or just a maneuver to stop any attempt to halt the sale. Doesn't matter now, I guess. But amidst the nastiness, I saw a glimmer of hope.

A second auction. In March.

The baskets.

For the past two weeks, Clair and I have been assembling a package of information and money to try and keep at least a few of these baskets in one branch of the family or another. Between ourselves, Clair's mom, and her brother, we put together a decent little bankroll for heritage reclamation. Charles Manson stole this song from the Beatles. We're stealing it back.

We had actually looked at the whole collection the week before, but Clair was getting a case of the nerves, so on Saturday -- the day before the auction -- we went back to see everything again. There were only a few of us the first time, but the gallery was packed on this day. People pawing over everything, like some upscale garage sale. It was a little unsettling.

Of particular concern was a mousy-looking man who looked like a dorkier version of the father from Cakey! The Cake From Outer Space. He wore a polo shirt that said "National Counterterrorism Center," wielded a digital camera, and hovered over a few of Mary Ellen's baskets with unsettling intensity. I'll just come out and say it: he gave off a strong pedophile vibe.

At one point, Mr. Counterterrorism Pedophile -- who was staring at a particular basket with a diamond pattern like he was taking a color-blindness test -- snapped his fingers melodramatically and announced, "Of course! He'll know!" A security guard and I exchanged glances, as we silently agreed that it was time for the ham to come out of the oven. But there was still overcooking to be done. Later, when the lech answered his cell phone, did a bad-spy glance-around, and stage-whispered into the phone, "Oh, yes, this looks very good," like he was in The Second Thomas Crown Affair. Trust me, if you see this guy around your kid's school, shoot first.

Sunday morning was nervous indeed, as we gathered our wits and our study aids one last time. The large crowd, plus the antics of Agent 00Dork, had made us nervous. Clair warned her family to prepare for the worst. And then, like Dan Aykroyd and Eddie Murphy off to foil the Duke Brothers, we marched into the gallery, ready for battle.

Our first item of interest didn't show up until the late 300s, We arrived a little before #100. So I took this as an opportunity to study. And man, did I get an education. You've heard about auctions. You've seen movies. You've visited eBay. They're fast. But until you're actually in one, you can't possibly know what that means. Let me put it this way: this gallery sold nearly 1200 lots yesterday. They averaged about 100 lots per hour. Sweet jeepers.

Try and imagine something between a genteel auction of some Picasso and a livestock sale. Take the calmness of the former and the speed of the latter and you will sort of get a sense of how this went down. A nice woman would rapidly plow through a series of numbers which turned out to be bids, while people on telephones took orders, and the occasional spectator threw out a bid on a hideous green vase. At the end of each lot, the auctioneer would announce "fair warning" to signal that this was the last chance. But she did it in this high-pitched, sing-song way that, written down, might look like this:

"FAIR war-NEENGGG!"

That still rings in my ears.

Finally, the first item on our list appeared. I consulted our chart. We weren't too interested in it, but I wanted to gauge the market.

It went for $2,300.

That's a lot of money.

Several more lots would go by before I mustered all my courage and raised my paddle for the first time. And then there was a lot of blurry stuff I don't really remember, and there was a "FAIR war-NEENGGG" in there somewhere, and then we had won ourselves a basket. For $1,900.

That's a lot of money.

After that, the adrenalin never really stopped. Items came, items went, won a few, lost a few. Purely from a spectator's point of view, the highlight of the day was this item:

It's a Mission basket with a snake coiling around the bowl and an insect near the top. My mother-in-law didn't think she wanted it, because it creeped her out as a child. Still, it was in very good condition, and looked unusual. It was valued around $3,000, but we kept it in the back of our minds.

In no time, the bids were approaching $4,000, and with several important items still to come, I quickly gave up. But as the price continued to rise, I switched to fascination. And you could tell everyone in the room felt the same way. Two telephone bidders were going at it against each other. After $10,000, a man in front of us turned around with a look a "what-the-hell" expression. And still, the price climbed. And climbed. And climbed.

Final sale price: $25,000. Plus another $5,000 for the house.

We informed Clair's mom by text message, and her response was immediate: "Casino money." It seems that all those Native Americans who deal poker on tribal lands are using their profits to buy back all their treasures. And even though this treasure probably didn't date back more than 50 or 60 years, they wanted it just the same. And I just know that's who the Pedophile Spy was working for.

Fortunately, they didn't want everything. As the day wore on, I clutched our paddle nervously, managed to eke out several victories, including:

A Pima basket with a horse:

A Tlingit basket with lid (at Clair's urging; good call):

An adorable little Shoshoni basket (2 inches high) with a teeny-tiny handle; this picture is pretty close to actual size:

And the only non-basket item on our list, a Navajo rug covered with what the catalog called "a whirling log pattern", and what Clair's mom says the Navajos referred to as "thunderbirds", but which most people will identify as "inappropriate":

Look, they were around long before the Nazis, and meant something totally different to the Navajo people. We're not evil. You really have to trust me on this one.

When the smoke cleared, we had managed to acquire about a third of Mary Ellen's collection, and didn't bankrupt ourselves to do it. We didn't get everything; in particular, an item my mother-in-law wanted dearly went to the casino people for $15,000. But we got a lot, and we got most of the things that we wanted the most.

While checking out, we managed to bethe official auction buzzkill as people learned the reason for our buying spree. (It seems "eager collectors" is a much happier story that "heritage salvagers".) We retrieved our half of our basket bounty (the other half being shipped to Clair's mom), and retreated to a restaurant around the corner for food and drink and decompression.

"We did alright, Clair," I said over a rare glass of wine.

"We did good," she said.

And it felt good. I had successfully bid on valuable items at a live auction. I had confronted an extremely tense situation and emerged victorious. I had helped to restore some of the legacy of my wife's family. It felt real good.

And let's just not have to do that ever again. Okay?

Next Time on Xenora, Queen of Battle...

2007-03-06T12:00:00.000-06:00

The weekly edition of You Don't Know Jack made its debut yesterday. I know how hard they worked on it, and it shows. It's fun, and funny, as you would expect. I assume you've been playing the Daily DisOrDat all along, but this link here should take you straight to the full game. It's called "Episode 1", just in case you get lost.

The first question - the very first regular ol' trivia question to mark the return of Jack - was written by me.

This strikes me as the most perfect definition of the word "bittersweet" that I have ever encountered.

THE HITCHCOCK PROJECT: The Boy Who Would Be King of Scaring the Crap Out of You

2007-03-01T23:47:00.000-06:00

And so it begins.

Starting off a biography is a tricky business. The very beginning of a person's life is usually the least interesting part. There's the being born and the growing up and stuff, but a lot of that is passive, and rarely has anything to do with the reason that this person got a biography written about them. Unless you're someone like Wayne Gretzky, I guess. He pretty much came out of the womb shooting goals.

So, what to do? You could just skip the whole thing entirely, and start out at the cool part. Your quickie biographies, like your Scholastic Books bio of Justin Timberlake, is like this. If your family is famous enough, like a John F. Kennedy, you can let them handle the narrative for a while, until you're grown up enough to start doing things on your own. Or you can always go for the long view. A biography of Neil Armstrong I thumbed through began hundreds of years ago, with some ancestor slogging through France or something.

Patrick McGilligan opts for this approach: everything matters. After a brief introduction, we start in on the very origin of Alfred Hitchcock's name (Hich was a corruption of Rich, as in King Richard the Lionheart), and then get right into the settling of his family on the outskirts of London. Fortunately, Hitchcock himself never strays far from the narrative. No matter how far removed from the man the story goes, he's still very present. Consider the tale McGilligan relates about how Hitchcock would introduce himself. "It's Hitch," the director would drawl, hesitating for the maximum shock value, "without the cock." This punctuates the etymology lesson.

This can get a little extreme. When a favorite aunt travels to Africa, the basket she is carried in is compared to one in Torn Curtain. A favorite author of young Alfred's later turns up as the reading material for a character in Shadow of a Doubt. Hitchcock's home had a staircase, and staircases figure prominently in his movies. It's a little heavy-handed. "Get it? Do you get it? It all started here! It all makes sense now!"

But hey, we all like to play armchair psychiatrist, and is the author didn't make connections, we would. Nowhere is this more evident than in the legendary tale of little Alfred Hitchcock in prison. Alfred's father, so the story goes, caught him doing something bad, and promptly took him down to the police station. There, he made a little arrangement with the local constable, who locked the boy in a bare cell, saying, "This is what we do to boys who've been naughty." After a few minutes, they came and got him out, and his dad told him to learn a lesson from this.

It's an interesting story, because so many of Hitchcock's narratives revolve around a man wrongfully accused of a crime. So he was thrown in jail, you think, and he knew he was innocent, and horror and despair overcame him, and then he turned his childhood terrors into movies. It all makes sense now!

But is it true? Hitchcock himself told the story, and yet his knack for storytelling makes him somewhat unreliable. His sister also confirmed it, but several key facts don't match up. If there's any definitive proof that it's true, it lies in the fact the Hitchcock was petrified of the police all his life. McGilligan hints that this fear stayed with Hitchcock all his life. If you're going to develop a lifelong phobia, this seems like the kind of childhood trauma that would do it.

A reader is probably strongly inclined to believe this story, if only because we need the drama. Alfred's early life is pretty happy. His father, first a greengrocer and then a fishmonger, is reasonably successful, and the family lives well. A devout Catholic family in Protestant England, Alfred goes to several very good private schools. (He was punished once for a minor infraction, and regretted it so deeply, he seems to have gone on the straight-and-narrow ever since. It all makes sense now!) The only dark stories are the ones he reads in Grimm's Fairy Tales, a favorite early book, and the ones he hears in the news, like the Crippen murder. All in all, it's a very happy childhood, and you'd be hard-pressed to find the dark side. Well, actually, Hitchcock could find the dark side. For example, he said, "The Bible can't be bettered for gruesome stories." So maybe this is just a guy who's born to like scary stories.

This last point is very important, because it relates to something McGilligan brings up for the first time (and I'm sure he's not done). An earlier biography about Hitchcock written by a man named Donald Spoto was called The Dark Side of Genius, and apparently portrays the master filmmaker as a monstrous individual, manipulative and cruel. McGilligan is clearly going to spend a lot of time debunking this portrait. The picture we've got so far is of a dutiful and earnest little boy, eager to please, troubled by little, kind of quiet...but with an early taste for things with a hint of the macabre.

Alfred Hitchcock was born in 1899. As we end Chapter 1, it is 1913. Still more education awaits us, as well as early attempts at gainful employment. The movies do not yet beckon...

Working For His Family

2007-02-28T22:36:00.001-06:00

A little over a year ago, I had the misfortune of writing about the passing of my grandmother. It was, as these things always are, incredibly sad, and I debated whether or not it was even worth bringing up. But I'm a talker, and I wanted to take a moment to say how wonderful she was, so I did. And that was that.

Then, a month later, my wife's maternal grandmother died. I never had the chance to meet her, so I didn't have any personal stories I could relate. But family's important, and I felt compelled to mention it. Plus, I was a little spooked about two grandparents dying a month apart, so I wrote with the great hope that I wouldn't have to do that again for a while.

Clair's paternal grandfather died at the beginning of last week. He was a month shy of his 96th birthday, and had been in poor health for quite some time, so this certainly didn't come as a surprise. If anything, knowing he was ailing was a bit of a blessing, because it allowed Clair to take time to be with him in his final days.

Happily, I did meet Ted Clairmont, and while he initially came across as very quiet and a little sullen, I found that if you could engage him in conversation, he had a wealth of stories. He was an educator, teaching science and band. (When I googled him last week, I was surprised and delighted to discover that he was a charter member of the North Dakota Music Educators Association Hall of Fame.) If I understood him correctly, he also served as the rough equivalent of school district superintendent. The twist was that Ted Clairmont was a Catholic, and the community's Catholics and Lutherans were always at odds over who was in charge. So the deal was struck: A Catholic would be in charge one year, then a Lutheran would be in charge the next. I was dumbfounded: Palestine. Northern Ireland. Sarajevo. Walhalla, North Dakota.

Clair's grandparents were not well enough to come to our wedding, so we went to them. Up in Alexandria, Minnesota, we had a short ceremony where a priest blessed our marriage, and then Ted and Hazel did the same. At the time, I thought it was very sweet. Upon reflection, I see that it was very profound. Two people with lifetimes of love and experience bestowing upon us their hopes and their confidence in our ability to live up to them. Kinda humbling. It's the kind of thing we didn't get to do with my grandmother, and while I have no doubt that she would have approved, it's nice that we don't have to assume with Clair's family.

Evidently, it's starting to come out that Ted did a lot of work in his lifetime to provide for his family. In addition to teaching (because there has never been a time when teaching paid all the bills, apparently, he sold shoes. He sold gumball machines. He inspected wheat. As you might expect from a man who came of age during the Great Depression, he never stopped working. So it's perfectly in keeping that he spent his last years caring for his wife, who lost her vision and couldn't get around on her own anymore.

Working for his family. That's what Ted Clairmont did, and he never stopped in 95 years. I'm honored to call him family, and awfully glad I met him.

Theodore "Ted" Clairmont

An Open Letter to Damon Lindelof and Carlton Cuse, Executive Producers of Lost

2007-02-22T11:46:00.000-06:00

Hi, guys. How's Hawaii? Carlton, I loved Brisco County.

So, I watched your most recent episode last night. Among the highlights were a man being savagely beaten on a beach, that same man being locked in a cage for no apparent reason, and a woman being terribly scarred in what was evidently a ritual form of punishment. It was exactly as fun as it sounds.

Look, I want to cut you guys a lot of slack here. For example, I’m not going to hold you for the lies told by the ABC promotions department. “All your questions will be answered,” they said. Well, of course they weren’t. None of them were, and they were never going to be, and ABC lies like a dog, so I won’t hold you responsible for that.

Also, I understand your predicament. You’re telling a mystery story, and that requires you to keep information hidden from the audience. Mystery is a large source of the appeal of your show. I get that. So I’m not going to get bitter over not knowing every single thing about the island and the Others and all that stuff.

But you guys are perilously close to pissing me off. Your show is not fun to watch, and I spend most of the hour rolling my eyes at the television set, and I think you might be responsible for the most irritating programming currently available. And I say that as someone who has seen episodes of Men in Trees. There are some very serious problems with your show, and they are all your fault.

1. Lost is ugly and violent.
If I could sum up this season of Lost so far in one word, that word would be “torture”. People in cages, people being shocked with electricity, people being ordered to remove their clothes, people nearly being drowned, people being shot, people strapped to chairs and forced to watch films just like Billy Joel in the video for “Pressure”…that’s what the most intense show on television has had to offer us so far. You know, there’s a reason I don’t go to see movies like Saw, and why I think Seven is one of the greatest travesties ever foisted upon the American moviegoing public: unrelenting misery mixed with physical abuse is not my idea of a good time. I’m ready for Lost to figure that out.

2. Lost is focused on the most annoying characters.
Season 3 of Lost has provided us with nine episodes thus far. Six of those episodes have been devoted to the angstiest love triangle ever, and the way its participants suffer at the hands of mysterious forces. Two of those other episodes were devoted to characters introduced in Season 2, and in one of those, the character was killed. There are about a dozen other people, introduced to us at the very beginning of the show, who have received less screen time all season than the average guest star on Boston Public receives in a single episode. You guys have gotten way off track, and the tracks you’ve gotten onto are not fruitful.

3. Lost is unbearably, deliberately obtuse.

From Merriam-Webster’s Online Dictionary
ob·tuse
Pronunciation: äb-'tüs, &b-, -'tyüs
Function: adjective
Inflected Form(s): ob·tus·er; -est
Etymology: Middle English, from Latin obtusus blunt, dull, from past participle of obtundere to beat against, blunt, from ob- against + tundere to beat -- more at OB-, CONTUSION
1 a : not pointed or acute : BLUNT b (1) of an angle : exceeding 90 degrees but less than 180 degrees (2) : having an obtuse angle -- see TRIANGLE illustration c of a leaf : rounded at the free end
2 a : lacking sharpness or quickness of sensibility or intellect : INSENSITIVE, STUPID b : difficult to comprehend : not clear or precise in thought or expression
synonym see DULL

Here’s a typical conversation on Lost:
Mysterious Island Denizen: You have to do what I say.
Survivor of Recent Plane Crash: I don’t understand. Why?
Mysterious Island Denizen: I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you that.
Survivor of Recent Plane Crash: Then I won’t help you.
Mysterious Island Denizen: I don’t know why you’re so difficult.

48 minutes of this crap every week. Look, you don’t get to be purposefully mysterious and then complain that nobody understands you. You have to explain yourself. Doesn’t that spoil the mystery? No, it doesn’t. Look at how you handled Locke, the man who seems to have been healed by this weird island. We know something about his past that no one in the show knows, so we understand why he does a lot of what he does, but he’s still a mysterious fellow. Not so with the Others. We don’t know a damn thing about them, but then they have the gall to get offended. And that’s no good. Damon, Carlton, you have reached the point in this show where the only reason people don’t communicate with each other like normal human beings is because it will ruin your surprise. The problem is, once everyone stops acting like normal human beings, you’ve got no show.

Look, I’ve read the interviews. You want it to be very clear that you know where you’re going with all this. You have a plan. You’re not The X-Files. But I’m having a hard time believing you anymore, because you’re just running in place, adding things that are supposed to be mysterious (“We’re here to watch.”) but are really only annoying. Plus, your fellow producer J. J. Abrams has said all these same things before…about his show Alias, which was also supposed to have a plan, but was instead allowed to collapse into a confusing, pathetic mess. In short, I’m losing confidence. And judging from the ratings, a lot of people have given up long before me.

I know you guys listen to the complaints. Last year, there were too many repeats and breaks in the season. So this year, we get 16 episodes in a row. "No repeats," according to ABC promotions. That's all good. So since you're listening, listen to this: at the end of last night’s episode, I turned to my wife and said, “I’m getting a Season 7 of The X-Files vibe.” It was not a compliment. Your show is on the edge, gentlemen. Be very, very afraid.

You know what they say. The truth is out there.

UPDATED: Someone found a way to say everything I tried to say, only more clearly and eloquently than I. Wanna see? Click here and watch the video.

THE HITCHCOCK PROJECT: Good Evening

2007-02-19T00:21:00.000-06:00

Over a year ago, back when this enterprise was still being spawned, I wrote a foolishly hopeful post about my plans for future writings. Oh, I was gonna become my very own New Yorker, from the looks of things. In particular, I made a bold promise about future projects:

...including two that I'm particularly looking forward to starting, but can't just yet. I'm going to be a tease and save a discussion of them for later. When they're ready to go.

Unlike our president, I'm haunted by the stupid things I've said in the past. There's something about your word being your bond that resonates with me. Plus, that comment led to responses like, "Consider me teased," which means that in addition to just failing to keep promises, I'm letting people down. Blogging is great for self-esteem.

I'm not entirely sure, but I think one of the two secret ideas was my much-ballyhooed, now-horribly-embarrassing mystery serial. I'm not embarrassed by the story, mind you. I'm embarrassed by the fact that it just sits there, unfinished, unremembered, unloved. Even worse, I've said more than once that I would be returning to it, and that hasn't happened. So that fits in with the overall blog track record.

But the other one -- and it's taking me way too long to get to this -- I'm sure about, and that's a little something called "The Hitchcock Project". Welcome to it.

The genesis for this idea came in Christmas of 2004. That's when my mother gave me, as a present, a copy of Alfred Hitchcock: A Life in Darkness and Light by Patrick McGilligan. It is, as you might imagine, a biography of the great film director, and it's huge. It's something like 800 pages, so if you choose to read it, you definitely want to settle in to the notion that it's gonna take you a while to get to the end.

So I put it off for a while, but eventually, I got started, and I soon found there was a much bigger obstacle than the length of the book. What was far more interesting was that, as I was reading, I found that I wanted to see the films I was reading about. I own about 10 Hitchcock movies, and I've seen probably a dozen more. But Alfred Hitchcock made 53 feature films, so I haven't even seen half of his career. So as McGilligan was talking about all these films I haven't seen, the urge to see them just got stronger and stronger.

It was just as Hitchcock was preparing to make his first sound movie that I fully committed to The Hitchcock Project. I set the book aside and loaded up my Netflix queue with every one of his films. Of course, that proved to be an early sticking point, since one of them -- The Mountain Eagle -- is apparently lost to history. And several of his early silent films are hard to come by. Particularly his very first movie, The Pleasure Garden. So I bided my time, figuring it would eventually come out. Everything comes out on DVD eventually. I own Krull, for crying out loud.

That was at least two years ago.

By gum, I am going to finish some of the things I set out to do before I leave this earth. And The Hitchcock Project is going to be one of them. Between March 1, 2007 and March 1, 2008, I will read this Alfred Hitchcock biography, and I will watch the available 52 movies directed by Alfred Hitchcock (and I will look at the surviving still frames from the 53rd). I may even watch a couple of the TV episodes he directed. And I will tell you all about it. This can be done; I've checked, and the Chicago Public Library has a copy of The Pleasure Garden. No more excuses; this can be done. I'm staking my dubious honor on this.

And if nothing else, you can be sure I'll be quoting this a year from now to show what a liar I am.

LATER THIS WEEK: Young Alfred's father throws him in jail to prove a point, and the seeds of his affinity for the wrongfully accused take root.

Let Slip the War of Dogs

2007-02-13T20:11:00.000-06:00

It's important that you understand that I'm a fan of the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show.

Back when we got cable, in the mid-70s, the options were few. WTBS had Atlanta Braves baseball and Ozzie & Harriet reruns. HBO had two movies, which they played twice, and the rest of the day showed a scroll listing the two movies they'd be playing that night. And USA had some weird show called Night Flight.

Oh, and they had the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show. We had never seen anything like it. Two nights of nothing but dogs, with each breed's complete history (usually dating back to Scotland or Egypt) recited in the mellifluous tones of Roger Caras. It was the best thing on television, and it reached an all-time high in 1980, when the top prize when to a beautiful Siberian Husky. It became the ultimate appointment television. It's not unusual for January phone conversations with my parents to include the phrase, "So, are you gonna watch the dog show?"

They've tried to wreck it. They brought on David Frei to provide color commentary, which is a disaster, since he seems to think the show is about the dog handlers. They stuck us with Joe Garagiola for a while, which is like having Jeremy Irons narrate a Black History Month documentary. Worst of all, they tried to talk over Roger Caras, which was utterly unacceptable. And I'm not the only one who thought that, because he was eventually restored to his rightful place, which his successor still holds today.

Since I moved to Chicago, it's been harder and harder to catch the dog show. I have frequently had classes or shows or something that got in the way. I've taped it, but you can't watch the dog show on tape, any more than you can skip out on the World Series and expect it to have the same impact weeks later. But this year, my schedule has finally permitted me to watch the entire contest. And it's important you know this, because of the ugly truth I must relate to you.

The Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show is fixed.

No, I can't prove it with evidence or anything. But look at the Day 1 results and tell me the fix isn't in:

Working: The Akita - a precious dog forever ruined for me by Rent
Terrier: The Dandie Dinmont Terrier - with a topknot that resembles a makeup brush, and owned by Bill Cosby, a fact we've been force-fed for years
Toy: The Toy Poodle - because judges seem to love that stupid little eggbeater dog
Non-Sporting: The Standard Poodle

Let's just stop right there. Both poodles? BOTH? Look, the poodle is emblematic of everything that is wrong with dog shows. They shave the dog in weird ways, they stick the dog's hair in bows, and they call that the "breed standard". It would be like requiring Miss America contestants to get breast implants. (As opposed to it being optional like it is now.) And when they walk, they look like eggbeaters. It's a joke. Hundreds of beautiful dogs to choose from, and they consistently select the dog that has been intentionally altered to look like something it's not.

You think I just hate poodles. Not true. I do hate poodles, but I'm not wrong. There is a freaking plot.

You still don't believe me. Fine. Here's a fact. You can look it up: since 1924, either the Standard Poodle or the Miniature Poodle has won the Non-Sporting group 43 times. That's roughly half. The New York Yankees don't have this kind of success. Here's more: know how many Best-In-Shows poodles have won? Six. Know how many have been won by the Labrador Retriever, far and away the most popular dog in America? None. Zero. Zilch. Big fat goose egg.

Someone is trying to warp the taste of America. And not in a good way. Worse than the McGriddle.

I'm telling you, these judges are insular, and they're crazy, and I'm convinced they're being paid off by some coalition to make dogs look stupid. And you think I'm nuts, but I'm okay with that. Because this is important stuff.

As I write this, the prospects aren't getting any better. Our winners tonight include the English Springer Spaniel, which is the kind of dog that supposedly dictated a book to Barbara Bush, and something called a Petit Basset Griffon Vendeen, which is a hound in name only, and somewhat resembles former UN ambassador John Bolton. Only the Herding group can save us now (Go, Border Collie!), and they're the last of the night, so they always get screwed in Best-in-Show.

Fixed, I'm telling you.

Damn poodles.

UPDATE: Well, the powers of evil pushed their luck, handing the Herding group to the Bouvier des Flandres. Awful lot of French in this final 7. But in the end, they had to give the top prize to the English Springer Spaniel. Which was the best we could do. At least it wasn't a poodle.

Damn poodles.

Extreme Makeover: Blog Edition

2007-02-12T11:17:00.000-06:00

Welcome to the new look. For now, anyway. This font is kind of painful to read. It's all compressed, and I haven't yet found the mechanism to fix it. So we're gonna call this a work-in-progress.

Since the last time I made radical changes to my blog, the Blogger people have made all kinds of changes. They've made it a little easier to customize, with color changes and different fonts and whatnot. It was kind of a kick trying out different looks. Of course, I shouldn't be decorating a cake, let alone a piece of HTML. So, if this looks like some kind of color swatch train wreck, that's because I was given free reign.

Something Blogger hasn't changed is the choice of available templates. There still aren't very many of them, they still don't look all that different from each other, and they're all immediately recognizable as Blogger. I wonder if that's something they sit around arguing about. The web is based very heavily on inidividuality, but there's a desperate need to establish brand identity, and look has everything to do with that. As Jay Leno, in his last funny joke, said when he heard a radio commercial inviting people to the new McDonald's in El Segundo, "Gee, I wonder what it's like?"

Am I even allowed to talk about this? I feel like the Blogger police are going to throw me in blog prison for committing blog thoughtcrime.

Most of the blogs I've linked to (and you'll notice that's been updated, as promised) are Brothers in Blogspot, and I guess they show the range of designs available. I mean, in the end, it's a lot of text, and it'll either be a light font on a dark background or vice versa. No one complains about books all looking the same. Of course, since no one reads anymore...

Anyway, I'm still tinkering. I'll stick with the basic design, but colors and fonts will likely change over the next few weeks. Hope that doesn't bug you.

Dead Links Walking

2007-02-07T22:38:00.000-06:00

The last time I let an enormous chunk of time go by without updating the blog, I celebrated the relaunch by picking a different page design. It seems only right that I do that again, especially since I've quickly developed a dislike for this one. I'm not sure what I'm going to go with, since most of Blogger's options are pretty boring. For all I know, I'll end up with the same design I started with. But a change is gonna come. Oh yes, it is.

Another of the things I'm going to be updating is that "Recommended Links" section over there on the right. It's nice to give a shout-out to friends, acquaintances, or blogs you just plain like. However, mine looks like I'm keeping a record of people who are worse at maintaining my blog than I am. Which is kind of amusing, actually, but suggests I'm a member of the Abandoned Blog Web Ring. So I'm going to do a
little housecleaning. If I have any hope of staying current with this thing, I figure I should keep current links, too.

Still, I hate to just send them away, like they're being exiled. They deserve some sort of commemoration, as well as a word of explanation as to how they ended up here in the first place. So I'm linking to them one more time. That way, the links will always live on in this entry. And hey, if any of these folks decides to resume their blogging ways, they're going right back on the list. It's the least I can do.

On Your Mark…Get Set…
By John P. Glynn
Last (and only) Post: April 26, 2006
Around the time this began – and ended – John and I were in a writers group. Now, this entry has the appearance of fiction, so I can theorize that he was dabbling in a number of writings, and this was going to be one of them. Well, okay, I don't have to theorize; I could just ask him. But I'm not planning to work that hard on this. The main point is, after one installment, John's blog petered out, giving painful irony to its title. The writers group also evaporated, so he may have just been demoralized.

Film Treats
By Paul Winston
Last Post: December 29, 2005
Paul (not his real name) was following my lead, so I suppose this is all my fault. He blazed through a week's worth of posts, and then flamed out. Which is a shame, since I was enjoying his take on the Roger Ebert Great Movies column. I know for a fact that he doesn't think it's a shame, since I called him out on it on this blog, and got a response that essentially said, "I regret nothing." He's since had a baby, so I shan't be waiting for his analysis of JFK anytime soon.

Heavy Petting
By Emily & Brian Wilson
Last Post: October 25, 2006
Emily was one of the great discoveries of my tenure editing the late, tragically-unlamented online magazine, The Greenroom. She wrote excruciatingly funny stories of adolescence which would probably make her the next Judy Blume if she would just collect them and get a publisher. So when I saw that she and her husband were writing about their marriage, I was excited. I gather, though, that they've
discovered that writing about a marriage takes away valuable time from being in the marriage. Totally understand. So we can let that fade away gently. Besides, what the world really needs is more Emily Wilson's Weird, Weird World. Maybe I could become an agent…

A Year in Pictures Following the Breakup
By Arnie Niekamp
Last Post: August 2, 2006 (with a follow-up on the 23rd)
Including this here is woefully inaccurate on my part. After all, this blog actually came to an intentional, self-declared end. What's more, Arnie is responsible for an entirely new blog, on which I have made a number of cameo appearances, and which is continuing to solidify his status as the best blogger ever. Really, I'm just updating. Finally acknowledging a change-of-address form, if you will. But let's hear it for the original: often imitated, never duplicated. And now removed.

BookADay
By Brandi Larsen
Last Post: June 3, 2006 (with a follow-up on January 7, 2007)
This is possibly the most unfair cut. I mean, look: there's an entry from this year. How can that be out of date? Well, since I work with Brandi now, I know that her attentions are focused elsewhere. In fact, I happen to know that this last entry is intended to help assuage the guilt that comes from everyone failing to figure out that she had quit the blog. Which is not so surprising, when you consider that the last line of what she thought would be understood as her valedictory was, "BookADay will be right back." The confusion is, perhaps, understandable. But if she meant goodbye, then who am I to argue? And anyway, this isn't so much a goodbye as it is an au revoir, since she has another blog to occupy her. So since she's shifted her efforts, I will, too. Like Arnie, she'll be getting a new link momentarily.

There are a couple that could easily have been dismissed for delinquency. Charlotte Nieburg's A Few Words hasn't been updated since September. But I'm such a big fan of her writing, I still click the link regularly in hopes that she's awoken from her slumber. And the Whirled News Tonight site is so outdated, it's actually been taken down for upgrading. But I have reasonable assurances that it'll be back soon, so I'm holding out.

Well, that's a load off my mind. So, I'll just update the links, change this layout, and this blog'll be back in business. Yes, sir.

Hmm, three postings, and I haven't actually written about anything. I think I've got the blogging mojo back.

Hmm. Sunday Afternoon. Wonder What's on TV.

2007-02-05T23:22:00.000-06:00

I won't be dwelling on the subject of the Super Bowl for very long, primarily because:
(a) it's depressing, and
(b) it's football.

Suffice it to say, the first 14 seconds of the game were just transcendentally wonderful, with the crowd at the party we attended on its feet and positively reveling in the glories of life. And that was about as good as it got.

I do want to point out that Peyton Manning had no more business being MVP than I did. The man was competent. Which, admittedly, was all we hoped Rex Grossman would be, so it's not like "competent" is that easily achieved, I guess. It was just the final element in the NFL's conspiracy to shove Peyton Manning down our collective throats. I'm reminded of many years ago, when I was working in the library at DeWitt Perry Jr. High. This particular year, Sports Illustrated had named Kareem Abdul-Jabbar their Sportsman of the Year. Shortly after putting out the magazine, I was fortunate enough to overhear this conversation:
GUY #1: Who's the man of the year?
GUY #2: Kareem.
GUY #1: What for?
GUY #2: (brief pause for reflection, then:) Being Kareem.
That, to me, sums up this year's Super Bowl MVP.

I also want to take a moment to congratulate the most evil family in all of sports on their victory. I'm talking about the Irsays, who were once the owners of a proud football franchise called the Baltimore Colts. Then, back in 1984, the Irsays hired a bunch of Mayflower trucks, backed them up to the Colts offices, packed up everything and moved the entire franchise to Indianapolis. Oh, I almost forgot to mention -- they did all this in the middle of the night. Under cover of darkness. It's possibly the most cowardly, despicable act in the history of American sports, and it's why I wouldn't care if the Colts fell into a tar pit, let alone win the Super Bowl. Even Art Modell, who is his own brand of puppy killer, at least had the courtesy to stick around and listen to the boos before he hauled his team out of Cleveland. (To Baltimore, charmingly enough.) So congratulations, Irsays. You won the Vince Lombardi trophy. See if they let you take it with you to hell.

What I really want to talk about is the commercials, and this notion that the ads are the real reason to tune in to the game. Let's just stop that nonsense, because the ads were atrocious. Among the delightful treats that came our way:
- Two men kissing each other, then yanking out their chest hair to prove that they're not luv-ahs.
- An unattractive stripper being sprayed with water to promote a website.
- A person throwing a rock at a friend.
- Talking lions, talking gorillas, and a cult of crabs.
- My personal favorite, an auto assembly line robot -- who presumably put several humans out of work -- becoming depressed because the car it made is too good, and hurling itself off a bridge. I think this was supposed to be "sad".
- Norbit.

The best commercial of the entire day was a ten-second spot involving David Letterman and Oprah Winfrey pretending to be a couple watching the game. It was funny. It was clever. And it was ten seconds long. It had everything going for it.

People, the commercials aren't good. Stop tuning in for the ads. If you're at home, don't watch. If you're at a party, have a conversation. If you're at a bar, call the Doritos ad people something vulgar. Whatever it takes. If we keep encouraging them like this, they're never going to learn. We can do this. We got rid of Bud Bowl. Let's keep it going.

I know, there's a lot of anger in here. But that's okay. It's all gonna go away. You know why? Because of the very best thing about the Super Bowl. My favorite thing of all.

Now it's time for baseball season.

When I Run For Office Someday, My Failed Blog Promises Will Come Back to Haunt Me

2007-01-31T22:25:00.000-06:00

You see, by posting today, it looks like I'm getting in at least a post a month, and not that I've let almost two whole months go by. We'll call that creative timekeeping.

Hi. I'm sorry. I officially stink at this. By my estimate, there are about 14 people who read this thing on a regular basis. That should be read-like-red, but it turns out to be read-like-reed, since my last post, managed to pick up two additional comments weeks after the fact. That's embarrassing. If you can't keep the 14 happy, you're just no good at what you do.

I could make some excuses. I've got good ones. Legitimate ones, even. There was Christmas, for example. That was busy. The Wilsons had their first ever Christmas tree, and at the risk of sounding really smug, it looked really nice. So much so that we didn't get around to taking it down until Monday. Yes, Monday the 29th of January. Hey, what do you expect? If I can't blog consistently, you think I'm gonna strike the tree in a timely fashion? So, yeah, there's the Christmas thing.

And then there's the job situation. As I mentioned way back last time, my time with Jellyvision came to an end. Just over a month ago, now that I think about it. That was obviously sad, although the final nail in the coffin was when Arnie posted a picture on his blog that revealed Michele, the producer, had taken over my old desk. Didn't even wait for the monitor to get cold. Ah, c'est la vie.

But that's not a legitimate complaint, since I was able to acquire new employment almost immediately. As per the norm, I don't feel entirely comfortable talking about what I'm doing right this second. But I think I can safely say that I'm editing material for a website that explains how to do various things. And since I'm only editing the doing-things material, and not actually doing any of the things, that probably doesn't explain away the blog thing. Rats.

There was quite a bit of activity when Whirled News Tonight made a movie. Or, to be more accurate, a pilot for a prospective web series. The show is called "Kyle's In a Coma," and I think is a real tribute to the talent of my colleagues, because even though the type of humor displayed in the show is far different from what we usually showcase, and even though the process of making the show as a work-for-hire by a major entertainment entity was -- and I'm really choosing my words carefully here -- unexpectedly challenging, in spite of everything, it still turned out pretty funny. Our all-powerful overlords liked it enough that they're looking for other projects for us to work on, so we've got that going for us. Unfortunately, my involvement in this particular project was fairly limited, so it's no excuse for not blogging. Still, it's ours, so it might be worth a watch. The content is very PG-13, so if you take offense at things, you might want to give it a pass. Otherwise, you can see it here.

So really, what excuse do I have? None. I'm just a bad blogger. But it's a new year. In fact, it's about 1/12 of the way into a new year. So I'm going to give this one more try. I've seen lots of movies. Read lots of books. Generated all kinds of opinions. There's got to be something to write about in there. So let's give it a shot.

My former boss, Amanda, suggested that my blog entries were too long. Nobody wants to read all that, she said. And she may be on to something. I should try shorter entries. That might get me to write more, and get more people to read the blog. Hey, I should try that. Short articles.

Ah. Okay, maybe the next one.

Get Ready For Some Fun, It's Question Number One

2006-12-05T11:09:00.000-06:00

When I started this blog, I had a job that I found less than enchanting. My on-the-job satisfaction is reflected in the fact that I was writing three or four blog posts a week. Then I got a new job, the the posting all but dried up. Perhaps that will tell you how much I've enjoyed my work.

For the past six months, I've been working for a company called Jellyvision. Those of you with computers might be familiar with Jellyvision's best-known product, a snarky CD-ROM trivia game called You Don't Know Jack. Ring a bell?

It's been years since the last You Don't Know Jack game was released, in part because the bottom dropped out of the CD-ROM market, and in part because that wasn't really the business they wanted to be in. They're pushing an interface that creates a simulated conversation between the computer and the user. So while the Jack games do that, they're looking to find more applications of the technology.

What brought me to Jellyvision was an effort to put this system to work in teaching reading comprehension. It was a very exciting project; first and foremost, I got to write passages that students would then be quizzed about. Then I wrote the quizzes. Somewhere, somehow, a 6th-grader might end up reading something I wrote, and learn how to draw inferences from the text. I feel ennobled.

When that project finally wrapped up, I kinda figured my days were numbered. But they continued to find tasks for me (especially in September, when everyone was on vacation and I practically had the place to myself for a month), and I was happy to do them. Which is how I ended becoming a part of an even more interesting project: the resurrection of Jack.

Jellyvision is still trying to figure out how best to re-think Jack for the wired world of the 21st century. We've come up with all kinds of ideas. At least one of them landed me on Arnie's blog, with sock puppets on my hands. I still can't really explain that.

But all of our work came to a head yesterday with the unveiling of the first manifestation of the new Jack: The Daily DisOrDat. It takes the familiar question type from the old game and, as often as possible, ties it in to current events. We're still working out some of the bugs, so you might call this a live beta test (ooo, computer lingo), but on the whole, it's pretty much ready to be seen.

I'm especially proud, because I wrote the question that's up today (regrettably, I can't take credit for the brilliant visual joke that accompanies it). So I have now, officially, contributed to the world of You Don't Know Jack. About the only thing that might be more surreal to me would be writing a Star Trek episode. I've gone through the looking glass.

This is all very bittersweet, because I'm going to have to leave Jellyvision at the end of the year. I'll get into details some other time, except to say that I now hate Reader's Digest with an irrational passion. So just as I started to contribute to this thing I've always been a fan of, I have to quit. It has been occasionally depressing, so I try not to think about it too much. Instead, I try and write more questions, so that I'll still be around, even after I've left.

Anyway, it's nice to be able to show people what I've been doing all this time, and where the blogging went. I gave it up for Jack. So please visit the new website, and play the game, and tell everyone you know to do the same. It's fun, and Jellyvision will be watching closely to see how many people are stopping by. We need hits, people. And when the smart-ass host makes fun of you, that might just be my handiwork.

In the meantime, I've got to find another job that will keep me from blogging.

LONDON CALLING: The Glories of British Cuisine

2006-11-14T22:13:00.000-06:00

My grandmother tells the story of being in Munich in 1972, attending the Olympics in the company of my aunt, who was an alternate to the U.S. gymnastics team. (For that reason, I will always hold a grudge against Cathy Rigby.) While there, they met a charming gentleman from England. Since they would be stopping in London on the way home, he offered to take them to dinner in his town.

Anyone out there who has even heard the tales of British dining will know what's coming next. My grandmother, however, had evidently never heard such stories, for she was astonished when the man took them to a Chinese restaurant. Like a perfect straight man, she complained that she expected to sample the local cuisine, and asked why he had chosen to show off a Chinese eatery. Right on cue, he replied, "Well, I certainly don't want to give you British food."

This story stayed in my mind every single time I sat down at a dining table during our London sojourn. British food is bad; everyone knows it. The British know it. It's why everybody recommends you go and get Indian food. The curries are supposed to be sensational.

I don't care for curry, and I grew up with the blandest taste buds within a 90-mile radius, so I figured that I was prepared for whatever London could throw at me.

Pub food is what most people are thinking of when they talk about British food, and we definitely got our share. Roasting is clearly big in pub cooking. We had roast beef one day, roast chicken the next. Along with the familiar fish & chips, you'll find these dishes at practically every pub on the island. But it's not just these items. Every pub seems to have the exact same menu. What is salmon pie? No idea, but it was on every bill of fare. Does every pub serve lasagna? Yes, I think so. It's almost as if there's a commission overseeing the kitchen of every pub in England. The consistency is a little disturbing.

I did discover the glories of Yorkshire pudding this way. I'm not such a stupid American that I thought all pudding should be like Jell-O. But I was sufficiently unfamiliar that I expected it to be more like bread pudding. Or I think that's what I thought. When I was actually served Yorkshire pudding, I was really delighted, and I realized that I had no idea what I thought Yorkshire pudding would be. Clair says it's like a popover, which doesn't actually help me much. It's really like a light, airy dinner roll. It sops up gravy and dissolves in your mouth, and one of the first things I did when I got home was to look up Yorkshire pudding in my copy of How to Cook Everything. I have big plans for myself.

Of course, we weren't confined exclusively to pubs. We worked in some fine dining as well. Usually, we ate depending on where we were when we actually got hungry. Between the racing around and the jet lag, our schedule was completely whacked, so it's not like we had a strict eating rhythm going. But on reflection, that worked to our advantage. If we hadn't been trying (and failing) to find something worth seeing in the West End, we wouldn't have enjoyed the porcini mushroom specials at Galileo's, right across the street from the theatre housing Phantom of the Opera. If I hadn't gotten us lost in the South Bank, then we wouldn't have ended up at an Italian restaurant nestled in the vaults underneath the Waterloo Bridge. The food in these locations was not necessarily the finest I've ever consumed. But they were experiences, unique experiences. Happenstance worked out well.

There's one other experience that has to be noted. Our first hotel was in The City, London's financial district. First thing Monday morning, it was overrun with harried, horribly-dressed business people. Like rats in wrinkly suits and ill-knotted ties, they were. So it's in this environment that we decided to grab breakfast at a place called Fuzzy's Grub, which advertised itself as the home of the only true down-home breakfast in town. For the record, in London, that means a toasted egg sandwich. My father introduced me to the fried egg sandwich, but he never made it with inch-thick toast. Proof of British insanity can be found exclusively in this sandwich. I don't think I ate again for 14 hours, so stuffed was I by this one egg sandwich. Sometimes, you realize you should have just had fruit, and this was one of those times.

But I haven't described the best food in all of London. It's embarrassing, frankly. In an entire country, the finest single thing we consumed... was at McDonald's.

Here in the United States, the Fun Police somehow persuaded the McDonald's Corporation to destroy the two finest things on their menu: greasy, salty French fries, and a hot, scalding, fried apple pie. The fries are mealy now, usually cold, and without flavor. And the pies are a complete joke. They are baked, with a powdery surface and a powdery taste. Two years ago, after seeing Super Size Me, I vowed not to eat at McDonald's again, and the blow was cushioned by the knowledge that the really good food was long gone anyway.

Well, except for England.

McDonald's never felt the pressure overseas to ruin a good thing. So if you decide to throw away your hard-earned pounds at the Golden Arches, you can get yourself a genuine deep-fried apple pie. Clair knew this, and on our first night, somewhere on on the Brompton Road, we beat the rush of inebriated Britons and ordered ourselves a pair of genuine McDonald's apple pies. The crust is crunchy and salty and covered in batter bubbles that crumble in your mouth. The interior is just the right blend of sweet and cinnamon, and is hotter than the hottest, lawsuit-meriting coffee. As soon as you take a bite, your tongue is torched by the scalding juicy apple jelly, and your hands are burned by the same as it bursts out of the crust. It's unavoidably messy, unquestionably bad for you, and potentially permanently disabling. We each had three. A definite highlight of five days in London was the realization that someone still knew how to make it right.

In that respect, I'm glad to be back in America. Now I can go back to avoiding McDonald's all the time.

THE DAMNED HUMAN RACE: Vote or Diet

2006-11-07T22:04:00.000-06:00

I voted today. There really weren't any compelling races in my part of the country, and none at all with significance for the American political scene. But I voted anyway. I waited a long time to get the franchise, and I'm not letting it go to waste just because MSNBC doesn't give a crap.

To clarify, my 18th birthday fell two weeks after Election Day. On a campus of tens of thousands of students whose biggest choice was Coors or Shiner, I was not permitted to cast a ballot. The 26th Amendment didn't do me a whole lot of good. So I really make it a point to vote whenever I get the chance. I'm a political nerd, and I might as well commit to that.

As I said, the races on my ballot were fairly inconsequential. We had a race for governor, which featured the incumbent, who is patently corrupt, and the state treasurer, who has great potential for corruption. Naturally, I voted for the Green Party candidate. I'm always happy to scream impotently into the darkness. (I voted for Howard Dean in 2004 a month after he dropped out of the race.) I think the existing corrupt guy is going to win, but at least I don't have to take responsibility for it.

There were also approximately 963 pages of judicial retention votes, which I maintain is the single biggest reason for voter apathy in this country. Is this the case everywhere? I don't remember seeing all these damn judges when I voted in three other states. This has to be completely unnecessary, especially since they're all going to get retained. I took the trouble to actually do five minutes of research on them (including the write-in vote I cast for my alderman in the vain hope that she would take the hint and stop being my alderman), but I promise you almost no one else did. There are incompetent judges, and I'm not entirely convinced that the electorate is the right group to fix that.

The really big deal was that the touch-screen voting machines made their debut. Here in Illinois, we have the touch screens, and we have this system where you draw a line to complete the arrow of your choice. Bo-ring. Also, we had more problems with the arrow system, because polling places ran out of the special pens. Brilliant.

There's all kinds of complaint about the touch screens and how they're rigged or broken or whatever. I don't totally buy this, since we seem to have absolutely no problem using them to handle our money. But I do see how the stakes are a little higher with an election. So I think the biggest question is, do the things work?

I was prepared to ask for the touch screen, but there was practically no one voting, so they handed me my little voting ATM card without a word. Also, I was the youngest person there, so I think maybe they figured I'd give them the least amount of difficulty in figuring it out.

Honestly, I thought it worked swell. I could review all the categories at any time, and when I was done, a paper printout of my choices scrolled by, just so I could be sure that I got the vote I wanted. Admittedly, most of them were those damn judicial retentions, so I nearly passed out somewhere during Minute 15 of the scroll. But from my limited viewpoint, it all worked just fine. Then again, I always used to check my ballot for hanging chads.

As I write this, they're projecting that the Democrats will take over the House of Representatives, while retaining control of the Senate. I find this very exciting, since it means we could very well have our very first shrill Speaker of the House. (That's not a political slam. I just find Nancy Pelosi unbearable to listen to.) It also means that our government might have a check-and-balance system for the first time in six years. Call me nutty, but I think that's a good thing.

I take what I can get.

LONDON CALLING: It's Actually the Bell

2006-11-02T22:50:00.000-06:00

You can't build a landmark. I mean, you can't build something expecting it to be a landmark. The reason buildings get to be landmarks is because they work. They fit the skyline, they ingratiate themselves into their surroundings, their greatness becomes evident over time. You can build something innovative. You can build something beautiful. You can build something popular. But "landmark" takes a little extra.

The real test of a landmark is that when you see it, you immediately understand. Several years ago, I was standing up in a wedding in St. Louis, and I made a point of getting up early the morning of the ceremony, taking the hotel shuttle downtown, and visiting the Gateway Arch. It's an engineering marvel, and it's a historic monument. But more than that, it's a landmark. I knew that the moment I walked up to the base. Which is enormous and triangular. But you sense the majesty of it immediately. And it doesn't matter that St. Louis isn't a very beautiful city, or that East St. Louis and the banks of the Mississippi below are even less beautiful. It's a powerful structure, and it ennobles that city. It lived up to the hype. That's a landmark.

Big Ben is a fantastic landmark.

Our first full morning in London was spent in Westminster Abbey, which is a discussion for a later date. Westminster Abbey just happens to be, literally, next door to the Houses of Parliament. It's as though they're in Britainland in a world-themed amusement park, they're so close together. So my first glimpse of Big Ben was out the window of one of London's fabulous taxicabs, rolling along the banks of the Thames. Perfect setup.

And I kept getting closer and closer to it throughout the day. Here it is nicely framed by the trees. There it is from across Parliament Square, which is nearly impossible to get to. Bit by bit, I got nearer to it, and it still managed to look as impressive as it has in every photo I've ever seen of London.

Why does Big Ben (which, as the title indicates, is actually the largest bell inside the clock tower, not the tower itself, but let's just overlook that) impress me so much? It's hard to say. It's obviously not the biggest structure I've ever seen. I can see the Sears Tower from the end of my block. But to stand underneath it, and look up at it and see that immense clock face, the gold glistening in the grayest sky, is not something I can easily describe. All I can really say is that it lives up to the hype. It's everything that Big Ben is supposed to be.

I don't know enough of the history of Big Ben to know what they were going for when they built it. But I know what they got. They got a structure that singularly says "London" when you see it. And it carries that weight effortlessly. It's a landmark.

And right now, when people are asking me my favorite thing about London, I'm saying Big Ben.

LONDON CALLING: Talkin' Funny

2006-11-01T20:15:00.000-06:00

I understand Madonna a little better now.

Not totally, you understand. The Sex book, the conical bras, the fine line between adoption and discount shopping, those things all still elude me. She's kind of a weird one, that Madonna.

But her tendency to slip into an English accent, in spite of her upbringing in the greater Detroit metropolitan area, that I kinda get.

It's widely accepted here in the States that you can say almost anything in an English accent, and it will sound better. Give Patrick Stewart a copy of The Five People You Meet in Heaven, and I promise you he will make it sound like an Edwardian classic.

I'm not sure if they have the same feeling in Great Britain, where they all by and large talk like that. I mean, they can buy their own copies of The Five People You Meet in Heaven, and the fact that they're reading it themselves in their own accents probably doesn't make the book any better. What I do know is that nobody in England is imagining how much cooler something would sound if it was read with an American accent.

(Well, except maybe rock 'n' roll songs. A lot of British bands try to sound American when they sing. But I'm getting off point here.)

The thing is, there's a real charge from being in a place where there's not just an occasional accent around me, but exclusively accents. Which means, of course, that I'm the one with the accent. Again, I'm getting sidetracked. It's just such a thrill. It sounds incredibly stupid, but I had this ongoing sensation, this repeating thought: "I'm surrounded by British people!" Like I said, it sounds ridiculous. But for someone who has spent over three decades in the same country, it was very exciting.

And then the desire to fit in takes over.

Once, many years ago, my grandfather and I were at Walt Disney World, and we decided to speak with British accents for a while. We didn't declare this out loud. There was just this tacit understanding that we were playing a little prank on the world. And we did a pretty good job, if I do say so myself.

Now, at cash registers and on trains and running down streets, I was confronted with the real thing. And I wanted to fit in. Again, not a conscious decision. But every now and then, I adopted an accent of my own.

This sounds incredibly childish. I accept that. But believe me, it's a little beyond self-control. When you head this accent that you've grown up to believe is the essence of cool, how can you help but play along? Sometimes it would happen before I'd realized it. It probably drove Clair nuts. But I won't apologize. It just felt like the right thing to do.

So Madonna and the accent? I get it. It's not right. But it makes sense.

LONDON CALLING: Cheerio, Pip Pip

2006-10-26T21:34:00.000-06:00

(I had considered recapping my recent trip to London in a straightforward, chronological fashion. There are two reasons I'm not going to do that: (1) it would have made more sense if I'd composed the entries during the actual trip, which I did not, and (2) that would be so boring. Then it would just be a diary. So instead, I'm going to break up my thoughts into several posts, and try and sort them into topics. Or at least, that's the idea. We'll see how that goes. For now, let's open with some initial musings.)

The first thing you do when someone comes back from a trip is to ask a simple question: "How was your trip?" So when you go on a trip, you've got no excuse for not anticipating the question. You'd better have a pretty good answer.

Right now, I've got three.

- "My trip was wet." The raininess of England is not only true. It is completely without exaggeration. Our first day in London was surprisingly clear. Even sunny. By the next morning, the grey had started to seep in. By the time we reached Stonehenge on Day 3, the rain was out in full force, and had no intention of leaving.

It was raining today in Chicago, and that helped me figure out what was so different about London rain. London had very little wind. Chicago, of course, has a reputation built upon wind. And therein lies the difference. In London, the rain just falls on you. It starts in the sky, lands on you, and there you go. The rain doesn't get thrown at you like little hailstones, the way it does in Chicago. Here, the rain beats you up. Not fun. I think I prefer the London version.

It's certainly not a torrential rain. We only heard thunder once. I can only describe it as steady. Constant. It falls and falls and there's not much you can do about it because it's not leaving anytime soon. (I suggest you bring an umbrella to the 2012 Olympics.) You won't drown in it, but you'll be damp a good portion of the time. I can see how it might get a little wearying after a while. Personally, I was just glad to experience the true Britain.

- "My trip was short." I've lived in Chicago for ten years now, and I don't totally feel like I've even fully explored my own neighborhood. Let's not even get into the South Side, which, I'm sorry to say, I haven't really gotten into. So the idea of trying to explore a foreign country for the very first time in only five days is patently ridiculous. It was never going to happen.

That said, London is absolutely huge, and I don't think there's any way on earth I could have appreciated just how outmatched I was going to be. Of the places we did get to, almost any one of them could have occupied an entire day on my itinerary. It was kind of frustrating. (Although it did inspire my brilliant idea for a travel guide series, Shane Wilson's 30 Days, 30 Ways, in which I visit a city for a month, and spend each day exploring one particular historical attraction or museum or whatever. It would be thoroughly impractical as a travel guide, but a lot of fun to research.)

What we ended up doing was what I call a checklist tour. This is where you mentally tick off all the things you actually see from a list of things you could have seen. This is a variation on what happened the very first time I came to Chicago, as the guest of my old school chum Laura Niesman, and we went to the Art Institute with very little time to spare, so we ended up racing through the museum, stopping only long enough to glance at paintings we recognized. Change the museum to one of the largest cities in the world and a couple hours to five days, and it's practically the same thing. In that sense, we did very well. Saw a lot of big London sights. Only now I have to go back to see what I missed. Which is unfortunate, because I still have the rest of Europe to race through and only scratch the surface.

- "My trip was comfortable." This was the biggest surprise, because I couldn't help but expect to find England...well, foreign. I mean, sure, they speak the same language, and sure, the bulk of my heritage comes from the British Isles. But still, it's another country. I needed a passport and everything. And yet...

You can put the cars on the other side of the street, but big cities are still big cities. I think I had this notion that I would be completely unable to get my bearings. I would be utterly lost, and everyone would recognize me as an alien, and point at me like Donald Sutherland in Invasion of the Body Snatchers and screech. And that didn't happen. From the moment I stepped off the plane, it felt like a place I could understand, that I could get along in.

I'm not explaining this well, because reading this part back, I sound like a complete idiot. But I guess I was prepared for it to feel weird. Different. Foreign. And it wasn't. Clair asked me if I thought I could live in London, and in the sense that it could be overwhelming like New York, I'd probably have to think about it. But in the sense of being comfortable? Feeling natural? Yeah, I could do it easily. And that was a pleasant surprise.

And that's how my trip was. For starters.

A Quick One While He's Away

2006-10-19T16:21:00.000-06:00

Clair and I leave for London today.

I've never been to London. Or Europe. Or out of the country, in the true sense of travel. Here's a quick summary of my global exploits:

- Banff, Alberta, Canada - one week
- Niagara Falls, Ontario, Canada - a few hours
- Tijuana, Mexico - a couple hours, mostly spent in line to get back into the U.S.
- Fajardo, Puerto Rico - one week, which either is (according to the Olympics) or isn't (according to the Democratic and Republican presidential primaries) part of the United States

It's not an impressive list, especially when you consider that my grandparents have visited the Great Wall of China, my dark-haired friend Holly became the hottest thing to hit blond Stockholm, and my wife once went on a pilgrimage to Yugoslavia. The Banff Springs Hotel is nice, but doesn't quite compete.

I have this notion that I'm going to blog from London. That I'm going to keep track of my journeys in that fashion. But since I can't manage to do that here at home, the odds are probably against me. Still, you never know.

I'm going to London. That's incredibly cool.

Cheerio.

RED ENVELOPES / FINAL CUT: All Praise the Pixels

2006-10-17T21:21:00.000-06:00

Of the approximately 436 animated movies to come out in the past 12 months, roughly 93% have been CGI epics about wild creatures coming into hilarious conflict with the modern world. I even ended up watching one of them, while trapped in a steel tube hurtling towards in an island in the middle of the Pacific. (That would be Over the Hedge, about which all the newspapers ads have quoted me as saying, "Not as bad as you'd think.") But the news is not all giggles and digital bears. Only a handful of these movies are being considered financial hits. This, thanks to the peculiar world of Wall Street, where a film like Cars can make over a half a billion dollars at the global box office, and still be considered to have "underperformed". But there's a much bigger problem. Many of these films are not especially good.

Perhaps you're thinking the solution here is obvious: make better movies. This is why you most likely do not work in Hollywood, or if you do, investors will never trust you to make the right movies. No, according to one source, the powers that be have decided that there are just too many CGI movies, and they need to make less of those and more hand-drawn films. This is a marvelous theory, especially since only a couple years ago, those same geniuses shut down their traditional animation units because they'd determined that people didn't like hand-drawn movies anymore. I mean, why else didn't they flock in droves to see Home on the Range?

Anyway, they're not going to listen to me and just make better movies. After all, the live-action films are largely crap, so why wouldn't the animated ones follow suit? So let me speak to Hollywood executives in a language they understand: utter illogic. Here's my proposal to you, Hollywood. Maybe the reason moviegoers don't go to see your movies is because...wait for it...they're too long. That's right, it's those darned attention spans that kept everyone from going to see The Wild. You need to make short films. Look at YouTube! Yes, short CGI animated films are the key to economic success.

Of course, I don't believe this for a second. But the short masterpieces I watched this weekend could very easily prove the point. In less than 15 minutes, I saw movies that managed to have more humor and more emotion than any 15 minutes of Open Season.

It began with the Academy Award-winning Ryan, courtesy of our friends at Netflix. (Who only had a broken copy here in Chicago, so they had to send me a copy from the San Jose warehouse, which just fascinates me.) Ryan is, of all things, a documentary. It's the story of an animator, oddly enough, by the name of Ryan Larkin. He made a few remarkable shorts under the auspices of the National Film Board of Canada, and got an Oscar nomination himself. This was in the early 70s, and the prevalence of drugs and alcohol combined with an already fragile psyche to completely unhinge Larkin, and he eventually wound up as a panhandler on the streets of Montreal.

It's kind of a downer, no? But in the hands of director Chris Landreth, it becomes something else entirely. This isn't just Ryan's story in CGI form. No, Landreth has used the animation form to reveal the psychological truth of the tale. So Ryan's appearance, as befits a man with a shattered ego, is that of a broken shell. His face is incomplete, his skin doesn't entirely cover his body. In short, he now looks in physical form the way he does emotionally. It sounds grotesque, but it's riveting to watch.

Other participants appear a sketches drawn by Larkin. And Landreth doesn't spare himself. As an active character in the piece, he comes off as plenty screwed up in his own way. At one point, when he makes a stab at intervention, a round flourescent bulb projects from his head, creating a halo just as false as his intentions. (Indeed, in a documentary on the DVD, when Landreth shows Larkin the film for the first time, it's hard to tell who is more uncomfortable: Ryan for seeing how he appears to the world, or Chris for trying to convince himself he's not exploiting a defenseless man.) And later, when a possible reason for Landreth's interest in Ryan surfaces, the animation tells you all you need to know in a matter of seconds. It's a devastating finale, and it shows the raw power that animation can have, if put to a higher purpose.

For good measure, two of Landreth's earlier works, the knowingly-pretentious the end and the creepy Bingo, are included. They help to demonstrate how much Landreth advanced when it came to Ryan. What's more, three of Larkin's films are available for viewing. Walking and Street Musique get all the attention in Ryan, and they are remarkable works, which play endlessly with the morphing abilities of animation. But it's an earlier piece, a wordless fable in charcoal called Syrinx, that was most captivating. Somehow, the pictures seemed to re-draw themselves. Like, I actually felt that the drawing was happening there on the screen, not on some animation table.

In a way, this was a perfect set-up for the Chicago International Film Festival's presentation of Pixar short films. For as much as Cars was a disappointment (in a "yeah, it was good, but it just wasn't the kind of great that it needed to be" kind of way), Pixar remains the foremost practitioner of making dots of light show emotion. That's still evident in their smash debut, Luxo Jr. The tale of two desk lamps, Luxo Jr. shows that you don't even need to change the set, let alone have dialogue or facial expression, to tell a story. The two lamps never leave the desk. They just play with a ball, never straying further than the end of their plugs.

All this was really the set-up for the maiden directorial effort for seven-time Academy Award-winning sound designer Gary Rydstrom. He came to Chicago to present the first ever public screening of a five-minute masterpiece called Lifted. I really can't tell you what it's about. (It will come out next summer, as the appetizer for Ratatouille, and I don't want to spoil any of it for you.) What I can tell you is that we asked to see it again. Rydstrom's a hit. Like the best of these movies, Lifted was funny, it did what only animation can do, and it did it without famous celebrity voices. It didn't work just because it was CGI. It didn't even work just because it was short.

It worked because it was really, really good.

BRIC-A-BRAC: The Rodent and the Great Emancipator? They Miss You

2006-10-12T20:21:00.001-06:00

This has been nagging at me for a while. It's time to get it out in the open. Ease my psychic burden once and for all.

It started innocently enough. The commercial opened with a sleepy man walking into a kitchen, where he finds Abraham Lincoln and a beaver sitting at the dinner table. Behind them, an aquanaut is doing the dishes.

The ad, for a sleep drug which shall go nameless because they're not paying me a dime to talk about this, is silly. Why is this guy dreaming about Lincoln and a beaver playing chess? Who knows? You're just supposed to take it on faith that all these things are floating through his head at night. Whatever. It's no neon butterfly soaring across America, dispensing slumber at every turn, but if they think it will sell beaucoups of sleeping pills, then more power to them. I even got a chuckle out of it. The guy apologizes to the figments of his imagination for not sleeping much, and Lincoln replies, "Hey, it's cool." Lincoln says "cool". I'm down with it.

Then I started seeing the bus ads. Empty fields, filled only with a forlorn Lincoln and beaver. A teeter-totter, empty on one side, Lincoln and beaver on the other. A motorcycle, with an abandoned 16th President and his dam-building companion stranded in the sidecar. (Evidently they couldn't get the aquanaut to commit to the print campaign.) And the only thing explaining these bizarre tableaux is a URL, conveying the cryptic message, "They Miss You."

I've seen the commercial. I know what they're trying to sell. I can't begin to fathom what someone who hasn't seen it is thinking. I know ads are getting really obscure these days. But these posters on the side of the el are so utterly devoid of context, all I can envision is brain-freezes throughout the city. They're just so freakin' weird. What should a person think when the train pulls up and there, on the side, is a despondent-looking Abraham Lincoln. Why Lincoln? Why a beaver? WHY?

(To make matters worse, I'm currently tryring to get through the very-compelling-but-exceedingly-long Team of Rivals, an account of the rise to power and presidency of, yes, Abraham Lincoln. So there I am, reading about how Lincoln is trying to compose his first inaugural address, and the Purple line to Evanston comes rolling by, and I look up to see Lincoln, visibly sighing as he holds one end of an unused jump rope. With the beaver on the opposite end. And they miss me. Very disconcerting.)

Personally, I have this additional level of confusion attached to the making of the ads. I'm imagining this guy getting the call from his agent, learning that he's going to be playing the part of Abraham Lincoln. Finally, all those years of acting classes and playing Editor Webb in countless community theater productions of Our Town and working as the assistant controller for the AAMCO Southwest Regional office are paying off. He's going to play the man who saved the Union. And then the agent goes on.

Abraham Lincoln. In a commercial for sleeping pills.

With a CGI beaver.

Saying, "Hey, it's cool."

How weird must this guy feel shooting the pictures for these ads? "Okay, Abe, just hold the jump rope, and look sad about the fact that the guy whose dreams you haunt isn't catching any z's tonight. Oh, and try not to drop the beaver." Or is the beaver even there? Is he completely CGI? Does Lincoln have to stand there all by himself? Is he method? Is he picturing his little co-star being there?

There are a lot of perplexing ads battling for my attention these days. I don't know if I'm more puzzled by the SUV commercial that depicts a divorced dad getting to spend an extra weekend with his kids or the spot that uses images of Rosa Parks, Martin Luther King, Jr. and the World Trade Center Towers of Light memorial to sell trucks. There are multiple commercials involving cars getting into massive traffic accidents. Hardly a day has gone by in the past five years where I haven't seen a Geico ad. Madison Avenue has a lot to answer for. So it's a real tribute to these damn sleep aid commercials that they've managed to cut through the clutter and emerge as the weirdest ads around.

I think I'm losing more sleep because of these ads.

DIAMONDS & HORSEHIDE: Rooting Interests

2006-10-11T20:29:00.000-06:00

I'm pretty proud of my hatred of the New York Yankees.

The Yankees are the most successful team in the history of baseball. They have won 26 World Championships, roughly a quarter of all those awarded. Many of the greatest players ever to take the field have worn Yankee pinstripes. The team plays in the most lucrative market in America, and consistently fields the highest payroll in the sport. The owner is obnoxious, the press is abusive, the fans feel entitled. Sportswriter Red Smith famously commented, "Rooting for the Yankees is like rooting for U.S. Steel." I contend that if he were making the comparison today, he would equate them with Starbucks. Hating them is really a breeze.

Of course, in recent years, it's been harder to hate them, for the simple reason that the players really aren't hateful people. How do you hate Hideki Matsui? What's really that offensive about Jorge Posada? And Joe Torre? I gained an appreciation for his skill as a manager when he turned the hapless Dale Murphy-era Atlanta Braves into a playoff team in the early 80s. A swell guy. Hate him?

But the fact remains, they're the Yankees. As Jerry Seinfeld might say, I'm rooting against laundry. More accurately, I'm rooting against Yankee fans. There are 30 teams in baseball. I don't subscribe to the view that one of them should start every season with an advantage, and only that team should end up victorious. I like everyone to share in the fun.

So I root against the Yankees. It's pure instinct. In November of 2001, when New York was recovering in the aftermath of you-know-what, a lot of people felt like for once, New York really deserved to win. They needed the psychic boost. I could understand that. And you know what? I was still pulling with all my might for the Arizona Diamondbacks. I just couldn't pull for the Yannkees. Couldn't do it. Still can't.

So I have thoroughly enjoyed the past six years of baseball. The Yankees haven't won in all that time. Oh, they've won a lot of games. Even a couple pennants. But not the game they really want to win. Good times.

Last week, it happened again. The upstart Detroit Tigers knocked them off in four games. In the space of a few years, they went from being the worst team in baseball to knocking off the vaunted New York Yankees. Deeply satisfying. My wife will confirm that I sat in front of the television reveling in the misfortune of the Bronx Bombers. They were going home earlier than they intended.

One of those going home was a pitcher by the name of Cory Lidle.

In nine seasons, Lidle played for seven teams. He came to the Yankees this summer in a trade whose real attraction was slugger Bobby Abreu. It must have felt like quite a fortunate turn. A decade ago, he was a pariah for crossing the picket line. Now he was taking the mound for one of the most legendary teams in sport, and a team almost destined fro the playoffs.

This afternoon, mere days after his season ended, Cory Lidle piloted a single-engine into a skyscraper on the upper east side of Manhattan. He was a major league baseball player with a wife and a son, and he was a year and a half younger than I am.

Also, he was a New York Yankee.

I don't regret rooting against the Yankees. I don't regret Detroit beating them, and I don't regret that Cory Lidle's season ended with the fourth game of the American League Division Series.

I regret that his life ended with the fourth game of the American League Division Series.

I'm working on making all that work out in my mind.

Keeping the Doctor Far, Far Away

2006-10-10T19:47:00.000-06:00

I picked an apple this weekend.

Actually, I picked several. I'd never done that before. Pretty cool.

My close encounter with farming came courtesy of our friends the Larsens, who located an orchard in some future ex-urb called Homer Glen, which sounds like the real name of a relief pitcher who goes by the name "Slick." The giant suburban houses with the mammoth lawns and the artificial lakes are just the other side of the fence; in any other neighborhood, the orchard would be a golf course. In fact, it's not really accurate to call it an orchard. They clearly grew all manner of foodstuffs: pears, peaches, sweet corn, raspberries (which they spelled without the p), grapes, pumpkins, trees and vines and fields of every sort. (I'm just going to pretend that the chickens were there strictly for the eggs.) Of course, most of those crops had already been picked over. But there were still apples. Juicy, fresh, honest-to-goodness apples.

I will admit that I've always been a pretty urban fellow. My parents loved to hop in the car and drive for hours and hours, with no real destination in mind, which to an adolescent is like being in a rolling prison. So I've never been the kind of person who's itching to get in touch with nature.

Still, I'm only human. I like trees and mountains and starry skies and all that stuff. So when I found myself standing next to a tiny tree with little honeycrisp apples hanging from the branches, even a self-professed urbanite such as myself had to appreciate the moment.

There is something truly satisfying about plucking an apple from a tree and immediately taking a bite out of it. You can't eat a steak fresh off the cow. So we really got into the swing of things, marching up and down the rows of trees with a little wagon, tracking down the finest specimens of apples we could. It was a beautiful sunny day, we were in the middle or nature, and we weren't underpaid immigrants picking apples because it was the only way we could support our families. Life was good.

My wife and I ended up collecting 20 apples. Several fujis, a couple honeycrisps, at least one giant golden delicious. The Larsens claimed about three times as many. I believe they plan to give some as gifts; I'm guessing the rest they will serve with every meal they eat for the next three weeks. I mean, that's a lot of apples. But that's okay. We were caught up in the spirit of apples.

It was almost uncanny to click over to my friends at Slate and find a diatribe against pick-your-own-apple orchards. The worst was the comparison of the dwarf trees to fattened veal. Thanks for spoiling my fun, guys. Seriously, two days later. I expect a Slate article about blogging on Thursday.

I'm not going to let it get me down. Not anytime soon, anyway. I got out of the house. I talked to the trees. I have apples to last me through next week. I'm a nature-lovin' guy.

I'm not camping or anything, but it's a start.

They're Gonna Put Me In the Movies

2006-10-04T10:15:00.000-06:00

I have made my YouTube debut.

I had not discovered the glories of YouTube until I came to Jellyvision. Was it around before then? It must have been, but who knows? What I do know is, now that I've found it, my time has never been in more danger.

I think it started when Thea, one of the other writers, sent around a link to this bizarre Japanese TV show, which evidently attempts to combine increasingly disturbing English lessons with low-impact aerobics. From there, I was directed by another writer, Andy, to enjoy Mr. T's very 80s fashion tips. From there, it was a steep decline.

It's an amazing repository of stuff. Want to embarrass both Jason Alexander AND the McDonald's Corporation? No problem. Miss a favorite segment of The Daily Show? Easily fixed. (Hey, Dan!) Want to see two teenagers make a better Star Wars movie than George Lucas? Coming right up.

One of the greatest benefits has been the ability to rediscover old music videos. I've long contended that there ought to be some sort of channel that played music videos. A Music Television network, if you will, or at least One that played Video Hits. But alas, no such creature exists. Fortunately, YouTube and a blatant disregard for copyright laws has brought them back. In recent weeks, I've enjoyed the Squueze video for "Hourglass" that I only got to see once back in 1987, a Paul McCartney video for "Beautiful Night" that I didn't even know existed, and Weezer's appearance on The Muppet Show in "Keep Fishin'". Take that, Laguna Beach.

My personal favorite re-discovery was a montage that ESPN made years ago for the end of the year. I remember watching this and being reduced to a blubbering idiot by the perfectly-edited collection of sports clips, even to the point of being suckered in by Aerosmith's "Dream On". So one day, while getting way too lost in the YouTube world, I remembered that montage, and searched to see if they had it. Of course they did.

So I'm kind of excited to be joining such august company. I remain proud of the film, which my friend Matt shot and edited in a four-day sprint, and which involved us and my co-star Meridith being kicked off of multiple el platforms, presumably because of the grave threat to national security we represented. But I have to remind myself that we share that space with endless footage of adolescents lip-synching to Kelly Clarkson songs. In a true democracy, there is no distinction between videos. Welcome to democracy.

But more than that, I've had my time thoroughly wasted by YouTube. It's high time I started wasting someone else's.

Like yours, for example.

One Year...and Counting

2006-10-03T09:51:00.000-06:00

Yesterday marked the first anniversary of my marriage to Clair. Yes, we're pretty proud of ourselves.

At a different function a week ago, my friend Kat asked me what was different about being married. And it's an interesting question, because there's clearly something that separates the Institution of Marriage from the Institution of Remaining Unattached. If marriage didn't mean more, if it didn't have so much significance, then no one would do it. You wouldn't celebrate the occasion with such huge events. Homosexuals wouldn't be working so hard to destroy it. Marriage means something.

My reply to Kat was, "I get to use the phrase 'my wife'."

This sounds glib. But I really don't mean it to be. What I mean is, there is this person who means a great deal to me, and for a year, I've had permission to use a descriptive term that carries extraordinary weight with the world. Wife. That's the really big deal. Checking in to a hotel? "I'll need keys for me and my wife." Being bothered by a salesperson at a department store? "I really can't make any decisions without my wife." It's the ultimate in heightening.

To a certain extent, we've been celebrating the first anniversary of the wedding as much as the first anniversary of the marriage. Our friends Eddie, Diane, and Padraic joined us on Sunday at The Green, which was the site of our reception. It was a glorious, sunny day. The sangria was flowing freely. And for some reason, there was a man in what I can only describe as a subdued zoot suit singing karaoke tunes that had a Latin flavor. "Hey, see if you can remember this one from Mr. Marc Anthony," he would say. Diane says at one point, he even made a little "hep-hep", raise-the-roof gesture with his hand. It was bizarre.

But we didn't care, because a year ago, we had a wedding, and it went perfectly. You plan and plan for these things, and you do so with the understanding that something is going to go wrong, so you had better just deal with it, because that's life. And yet our wedding was about as flawless as you can imagine. I don't think either of us can believe it still. We go back and look at the photos all the time, trying to convince ourselves that it really did happen, and it really was wonderful, and there really weren't any drunken rants or major injuries. It's the most successful thing we've ever done. That's worthy of a raised glass right there.

At some point today, we will finally cut into the cake that officially commemorates the occasion. We have the proper tradition, of course. Cake from a year ago. For the record, this stuff really doesn't keep. In short: ew. But we have it, and we took a bite, and it was pretty awful. Knowing that, we also ordered a new cake, and it promises to be delicious. But we had stuff all weekend, and a huge dinner last night, and there just hasn't been room for cake. But tonight, we're having cake, dammit. Because we've been married for a year, and we plan to celebrate with something just as sweet.

Mmm. Cake.

Okay, That Is Just About Enough Of That

2006-10-01T20:48:00.000-06:00

It's October.

My last blog posting was in July.

That's three months.

In all fairness, it's been a busy summer. Saw some movies (like Superman Returns, which actually seems to get worse in my memory as time passes). Read some books (like finally making it through John Adams, which is enlightening yet an epic struggle). Went to Hawaii (which we're evidently supposed to be spelling "Hawai'i" now). Yes, keeping busy.

Of course, some people seem to have no problems with busy summers. Take the case of the fellow who managed to finish one blog and start another one. Kind of makes me look like I have little excuse.

I've picked up subtle hints from the world that it was time to get typing again. Several people have said to me, "Yeah, I read your blog." Then I point out that it's been a while since I wrote it, and they nod.

It kind of came to a head while I was watching Arnie, the aforementioned serial blogger, posting an image to his new digital diary, and I said, "Yeah, I really need to start blogging again." And there I let the matter sit...until Chris, a fellow writer of mine, started setting up a new blog of his own. To which Arnie casually observed, "Shane, I thought you were going to work on your blog again."

Busted.

Well, dammit, I'm gonna try. I made promises before, and those didn't hold up, so I'm not going to do that again. But I am defintely gonna try. I've got material, and rumor has it I have readers. So I just have to write the thing.

It's October.

Let's try this again.

BRIC-A-BRAC: Well, This Is Embarrassing

2006-07-06T21:25:00.000-06:00

Last week, I got a charming little note from my old Second Floor Adriana castmate Mike Otto.

Hey, Shane, long time no see. Just wanted to let you know I was reading the 'oy, the cubs' thread, saw your blog in your sig, clicked on it as invited, and enjoyed it quite a lot Hope all's well.

Now, I'm always a sucker for a kind word. But two things about this gave me pause:

1) I haven't posted on this blog in a month.
2) Mike has a baby.

Some things make you feel like you're not accomplishing everything you could be.

This won't be much consolation, but hardly a day has gone by where I haven't said to myself, "When you get home, you have GOT to write a new entry." And then I get home and, frankly, find there's something else I have to do.

I'm sure I knew this subconsciously, but I think I used to post most of my blog entries from work. This is not exactly a ringing endorsement for my previous stint in the hospitality industry, but it was really good for the blogging.

I find this is not so much the case in my current line of employment. The fact is, I actually like what I'm doing during the day. (Boy, that's weird.) So I suppose my old blogging habits don't really apply here. And the result is, I haven't quite adapted.

This is all excuses, I know. I honestly do feel bad about it. Because I have stuff to write about. I've seen movies, I've read books, I even got to the ballpark a couple weeks ago. (Tadahito Iguchi? Yes. Losing in the 13th? Not so much.) So I've got material. I just haven't found the time.

Do other bloggers care about this? I'm linked to a movie review site that hasn't posted since 2005, and I'm sure he's doesn't feel guilty. But I do. So this is just a note to assure you that I'm going to try and improve. I've said it before. I'll probably say it again. But I'm committed to this blog thing. And I'm gonna see it through. And if Mike Otto can find the time to read it, even while he's got a screaming infant, then the least I can do is try writing it.

At least, until I actually don't want to do it anymore. Then all bets are off.

FINAL CUT: Wolverine Spins Plates For Your Amusement

2006-06-05T20:23:00.000-06:00

To cap off my week-long vacation from the blog (and I'm sorry I didn't warn you about that; I didn't know it would get away from me that long, to be honest), me and the missus took in one of those delightful Hollywood blockbusters that they're always throwing so much money and so many screenwriters at. In this case, the flick of choice was the ominously titled X-Men: The Last Stand. Oh, we heard the verdict of the naysayers. Even my colleague Padriac, who usually opts for brilliant eruditon in his analysis of current popular culture, began his commentary with the august words, "What a turd." But I said, "What the hell? I paid for the first two."

As I write those words, it occurs to me that this same logic did not persuade me to see either Lethal Weapon 3 or 4. So you could argue that I apply my standards inconsistently. The defense stipulates.

I had to consider the possibility that my friends were just too deep into the world of comic book geekdom to appreciate the movie on its own merits. I have never cracked an X-Men comic book (does one crack open comic books), so I consider myself relatively free of preconceived notions. Ah, how good it is to have an open mind.

But no. It just wasn't a very good movie.

It started out promisingly enough. The film begins with a flashback, and the most subtle and remarkable use of special effects I've encountered in quite some time. The story takes us back 20 years, so the visual effects gurus cooked up some nifty age-reducing software to make the film's stars look two decades younger. And damn if the program doesn't work. My jaw dropped when Patrick Stewart stepped out of a car and looked like he was fresh off the set of Season 1 of Star Trek: The Next Generation. And beside him, Ian McKellen, looking like...um, Yul Brynner from Westworld. Okay, Ian looked kind of weird. What the heck was on his head? But okay, whatever. I'm with you, movie.

The reason we've taken this little trip back in time is to meet a young Jean Grey, the enormously talented mutant who, when all grown up and inhabited by Famke Janssen, gave her life for her comrades at the end of the second film. So you can bet they're setting up something really big for her character. Oh, boy, this is gonna be good.

Um.

So then we get another flashback, this only 10 years ago, to an adolescent boy who is horribly maiming himself because of his own mutancy. Ah, okay, another crucial character whose backstory we need to know to understand the momentous events about to unfold. I gotcha, movie. Thinking cap is on. I'm ready to follow.

Uh.

I could easily go through the introduction of every character in the film and pull this same gag. It doesn't take long to realize that director Brett Ratner and screenwriters Simon Kinberg & Zak Penn have more story than they know how to tell. Granted, it's a lot of story. And there's a lot of characters, many very compelling. But I believe, in my heart of hearts, that it can be done. These guys just aren't up to it.

Let me try and give you an example to make my point. I don't think it's too big a spoiler to say that Jean Grey is not, in fact, dead. There's a tiny piece of technobabble exposition to explain away her resurrection, which is really all I need. So she's back, but we discover that she had extraordinary powers heretofore unknown to us. She is potentially very dangerous. And it is quite possible that there is nobody on earth who can stop her.

Wow. That's heavy stuff. I mean, we've always thought that Professor Xavier (Stewart) had the strongest mental powers of any mutant. Or that Magneto (McKellen) was stronger than everyone. So Jean Grey is more powerful than them? Than anyone? Damn, that's gonna be some fireworks. Can't wait to see how that's dramatized onscreen.

Will it shock you to discover that this isn't really dramatized onscreen at all? In fact, a huge battle will come and go before we see Jean Grey do much of anything. There's an old maxim of dramatic writing that a gun shown to the audience in Act I must be fired before the end of Act II. It's a simple matter of expectations raised. Kinberg & Penn evidently never got the memo on that old maxim.

And so it goes with nearly every character in the story: interesting plotlines are introduced, only to be cast aside to set up more interesting plotlines. Essentially, Ratner & Co. are like really bad plate spinners on the Ed Sullivan Show, and they're really proud of the two plates they can keep going, and then somebody points out that several more of their plates are falling, and they freak out and rush to keep one of the other plates aloft.

To carry that analogy further, every now and then Kinberg & Penn will purposely break a plate, just because they're so overburdened with characters. Several characters are killed, others are neutered, and maybe we're supposed to have a sense of the gravity of the situation because of all the death and stuff. But all I really felt was that they were killing characters just to get them out of the way. Either that or there's gonna be three discs of deleted scenes on the DVD.

The real tragedy of X-Men: The Last Stand is that they still managed to affect me, despite all their best efforts. The fulcrum of the story balances on a "cure" for mutants, which suits unaffected humans just fine, but is a true quandary for mutants, for whom their oddness has become their true selves. This is rich, emotional ground, and when contrasted with one character's background as a Holocaust survivor, threatens to delve into hard issues of morality. But the filmmakers can never commit to it. Or won't. You can see that the actors are playing the subtext, but the story can't give them the time.

It's silly to judge the acting in a film like this, but it should be said that the cast really outdid themselves. Consider that Hugh Jackman and Anna Paquin really only have one scene to convey the nature of their relationship, and aside from one dud of a line, the scene turns out really sweet. Give it up for Ellen Page, whose character is crammed into the film like a sperm whale into a coach airline seat, and still comes across as charming and delightful. Kelsey Grammer is...well, he's Kelsey Grammer in blue makeup, but why not? Ian McKellen does his usual fine work with bad dialogue, but is unsurpassed in his quiet scenes, particularly the shot that ends the film, which does so much to convey the loss of his character. And who knew that Rebecca Romijn could be so moving, in a powerful scene of pain and betrayal. The cast brought their A-game. Their script and their director let them down.

Is all the acting good? Hmm. Well, let's just say that when you have two Academy Award-winning actresses in your movie, please choose carefully which one you choose to give all the lines to. If you're not careful, you could end up nearly cutting Anna Paquin out of your movie entirely, while you end up with Halle Berry delivering your "moving" eulogy. Ugh.

So does it work as an action film? I guess. Everything is competent, well-produced. But it's like a circus: one act is rolled out after another. Roger Ebert used to complain about Steven Seagal movies because a group of ten thugs would approach Seagal, but then they'd each attack him one at a time. X-Men 3 is staged like a Steven Seagal film: one set piece at a time. That is most definitely not a compliment.

Note: if you go, you must stay after the credits. The movie pulls off a very audacious stunt at the end, and while not everyone I've talked to is that impressed with it, I thought it was fantastic. If the whole film had demonstrated that kind of spunk, the moviegoing world would be a much happier place.

BRIC-A-BRAC: You Can Check Out Anytime You Like

2006-05-26T02:59:00.000-06:00

Today is my last day in the hotel industry.

I got into this business by accident. The Cliff Notes version goes like this:

- I moved to Chicago.
- I became a temp, partially because I need the money, partially because I wasn't ready to get tied down, and partially because this is how the new American economy works.
- After stints in the medical and public opinion fields, I found myself in hospitality.
- A few months later, they asked me if I'd stick around.
- I thought long and hard about the prospect of having medical care and a retirement plan.
- I shook the devil's hand.

My language probably tells you all you need to know about my ambivalence over this unexpected turn in my employment history. I was never thrilled to be in the hotel business, and was probably not all too proud to tell people what I did. The fact is, there's nothing inherently wrong with hotels. We've all stayed in them. And I've actually learned quite a lot about the mysterious world of spending the night in a strange place. The thing is, it was never my goal. I always hoped to be somewhere else. Hotels were just...a stop on the way.

That was a very long stop.

To be fair, I've milked this for all it was worth:
- I've spent several nights in four-star hotels for little or no money. The pinnacle of this kind of high living was a week-long stay at one of the finest beach resorts in Puerto Rico, for which my girlfriend and I paid for nothing but food and sundries.
- I've had strange run-ins with quasi-celebrities, including delivering a fax to Christie Hefner, helping Tim Meadows send his Emmy ballot via FedEx, and completely failing to realize that I was on an elevator with Tony Gwynn. I complimented his luggage, which was made of baseball glove leather. I'm still incredibly embarassed.
- I was the liaison when The Tonight Show wanted to film a hilarious comedy segment with Oprah Winfrey. For my trouble, I was captured on camera being manhandled by The Most Powerful Woman in America and wearing a latex Jay Leno chin.
- I had the unique privilege of actually helping people on September 11. Owing to the shutdown of the nation's skies, there were guests who were stuck in Chicago, unable to get home. I had the opportunity to help these people extend their stay at the hotel, or get them directions to other hotels or even to the homes of friends. Part of the misery of that day was the overwhelming sense of helplessness. I'm grateful that I was in a position to actually be useful.

The most important benefit to this job was that it gave me flexibility. Whenever I said I had to go an an audition or do a show out of town, I got the time. Employers are not always so forgiving, but I got pretty lucky. (Especially since I never got called back on these damn auditions. Yes, I'm looking at you, Second City. NOT ONE CALLBACK!) And it was my father who told me of his simple explanation for my odd career path: "Shane has this job he's not thrilled about, but what it does is pay for the stuff that he really likes to do." Nicely put. I know a lot of people who have waited tables or done any manner of grunt work while hoping for a break in the world of theater. I think I not only got to keep my dignity, but the chance to live reasonably well, too.

So the hotel business has been pretty decent to me.

I'm glad to be leaving.

You'll notice that I haven't named my places of employment. (There have been two.) I want to be fair to the people who I respect. But the truth is, there are other who I don't, and I'm continually surprised at the business decisions that are made on a daily basis. I watched this hotel opened for the first time, and it was primed to be great. In recent years, and especially in recent months, people have come on board whose interests do not seem to dovetail with those of a great hotel. Work should not disappoint you. It's time to go.

But there's a more important reason, to me.

If you saw the film Big Fish, you'll remember that Ewan McGregor's character gets sidelined at this fantastic little oasis in the middle of a thicket. He's there for a long time, but he has a goal. There's a girl he's after, and he has to go get her. So even though he's in paradise, it's time to move on.

My life in hotels has been paradise by no means. But I've been away from the road I ought to be on. I want to be a writer. I should be writing. And that's what I'm going to do. A company has hired me to write for them. The new journey starts Tuesday. I don't know how long it will last. But I'm excited, and nervous, and expectant.

I'm back on the road.

I'm checking out.

PAGE TURNER / FINAL CUT: Cryptic Smile

2006-05-24T14:16:00.000-06:00

When hearing that someone has read the international bestseller The DaVinci Code, my first reaction is usually, "How interesting. What airport were you in?"

For the residents of Wil-Mont Manor, the answer turned out to be Reagan National. Clair had assiduously resisted the siren call of the popular thriller, despite her eagerness to know what all the fuss was about. However, once the publisher had determined they'd wrung all the cash they could out of hardback sales, the paperback edition came out, and my wife no longer had any excuse. And of course, once she had read it, I was going to have to read it as well, for the sake of coherent conversation. Fortunately, I knew it would be a quick read, and it seemed best to get it in my brain before I was exposed to the screenplay penned by Grand Imperial Hack Akiva Goldsman. So I bumped it to the top of the list.

There's not much point in critiquing The DaVinci Code. Is it well-written? Lord, no. Brown provides only the most cursory characterization, making his hero fearless one moment and petrified the next. I can't tell you how irritating it got to be, watching Robert Langdon go from knowing everything in the universe to being utterly baffled in a split-second. Emotions are matters of convenience for Brown.

In fact, almost every plot machination is doled out only when it suits the author. More than any book I can remember reading, you can see the scaffolding in The DaVinci Code. Characters are introduced either to be distractions or to serve as plot devices that never came to fruition. Brown seems to be re-enacting The Great Escape, digging multiple tunnels in hopes that one of them will eventually lead out. This is where a second draft really would have come in handy.

And yet, he really has stumbled upon a blockbuster of a plot. A massive coverup to hide the true nature of Jesus Christ and the corrupt power of the church built to worship him...that's incredible stuff.

Much has been made in the media about the true nature of the history upon which The Davinci Code is based. The short version: it's rooted in truth, but mostly bunk. Just like JFK. To which I have to say, "Well, duh." Anyone who reads this book thinking they're getting the gospel truth (please forgive the pun) is a pretty simple-minded individual. It's a story, and for all his shortcomings as a writer, Dan Brown is a gifted puzzlemaker. Like the demented wit who scoured album covers and translated bizarre backwards messages to concoct the Paul McCartney-is-dead theory, Brown is taking available information and exploiting the world's general ignorance about the founding and propagation of Christianity, and he's using it as the backdrop for his formula potboiler. And dammit, it works. (Well, everything except the part about Walt Disney. That was just stupid.) I was certainly eager to see what would happen next, even as I was openly scorning his hackneyed dialogue. I plowed through The DaVinci Code in less than a week; in part because it's not really challenging reading, but also because I was genuinely interested in Brown's fascinating, if poorly-told, tale.

To sum up: it's a story. It's clearly such. So I'm not sure I understand all the ruckus about using the Vatican as the all-powerful keeper of secrets, instead of the Pentagon or the Kremlin or the usual monolithic villains. And I suppose that demonstrates what a godless heathen I truly am.

Which brings us to the movie adaptation, an enterprise that has the initial benefit of not being written by Dan Brown. I actually had high hopes for the film, because I figured it could streamline a lot of the excess, improve the dialogue, and provide visual information that was hard to decipher on the page. To a certain extent, the film succeeds in each of these areas. However, it's not enough. The DaVinci Code The Movie is tied too inseparably to The Book. Like the first Harry Potter movie, the filmmakers are trying to hard to re-create the book, and are unavoidably weighted down.

The blame for this has to lie with screenwriter Goldsman and director Ron Howard. The best moments in the film come in the form of explanations of all the arcane history and fun with anagrams that are essential to the central plot. When Langdon -- an uncomfortably reserved Tom Hanks -- is deciphering a code, we get to see his mind working in the form of letters jumping out of a word, or planets orbiting in his imagination. It's a neat technique, quite apropos to the setting, and if you ignore the fact that Howard and Goldsman are cribbing from their own work in A Beautiful Mind, then it's inventive, too.

The best scene in the film is the lecture given by Sir Leigh Teabing (Ian McKellen, in his part as the only person in the story with personality) to explain the clues left by DaVinci in The Last Supper to reveal the true nature of the Holy Grail. It's combines clever visuals with a rather concise and effective verbal summary. Just one problem: it stops the film cold. Remember, while you're sitting here learning about chalices and blades, the clock is ticking. Howard and Goldsman have found a way to convey the information. They just haven't figured out how to make it move.

A lot of talent shuffles through this movie without getting to do very much. Audrey Tautou has a beautiful smile, but she doesn't get much use out of it, as she spends most of her time trying to figure out what's going on. Paul Bettany is driven, and little else. Alfred Molina has what amounts to a walk-on as a top church figure whose actual goals are never quite clear. And most tragic is Jean Reno, who doesn't get to be anything but gruff. Reno is good enough that he gets one of the film's few solid laughs out of his intensity, but he remains without dimension. Supposedly, Dan Brown had Reno in mind when he wrote the character, which begs the question: why?

I'm a big believer in suspending disbelief. Heck, I liked Independence Day when it came out, which is the gold standard for suspending disbelief. And The DaVinci Code, like the book upon which it is based, is an effective piece of simple entertainment. I think it could have aspired to more, given the fascinating subject at its core. But it doesn't. It acts big, but is really very small.

A comparison comes to mind, and it's a weird one. Of all the bizarre things for me to think of, I think The DaVinci Code compares unfavorably with the cinemataic classic Dracula 2000. No, stick with me for a second. It's not a good movie, but after you get through all the talk of Van Helsing surviving for hundreds of years and the unending tease of sex and harping on the decadence of New Orleans, you get to the one real flash of brilliance: Dracula is actually Judas Iscariot. Like Dan Brown, screenwriters Joel Soisson & Patrick Lussier have taken the existing data (silver, crosses, stakes, damnation) and plugged it the vampire mythology, and damn if it doesn't all start to make sense. It's hogwash, but it's the very same sense of cleverness and discovery -- the reinvention of religious dogma in pursuit of popular entertainment -- that Dan Brown exploited to make people buy his book in droves.

So yes, what I'm saying is that Ron Howard needs to make more movies like Dracula 2000. And I'll say it again.

DIAMONDS & HORSEHIDE: Solid Hit

2006-05-23T11:42:00.000-06:00

I would be remiss if I did not comment on the most amazing thing I saw all weekend. I don't want to be a rubbernecker or anything, but sometimes you see something that is just wrong in every way, and you're immediately grateful that you're alive, and that your impulses sometimes compel you to enjoy a thing that is bad and wrong and just utterly immoral in every way.

Having spent Saturday tooling around town trying to unload some of the enormous amount of stuff that we have been keeping, my wife went to return the car, whilst I checked the news I had missed during the day. And for news, read: the Preakness. Very sad about that. (He's doing better, so far. Let's all pull for a happy life of trotting and inseminating prize mares, shall we?)

When you go to ESPN.com, they sometimes pop up with little video packages on the side. Usually, this is irritating, since they invariably involve either the Mets, Yankees, or Stuart Scott, and I can do without all of the above. But this time, my attention, she was grabbed, because there were highlights of the afternoon matchup twixt the Cubs and White Sox.

When baseball instituted interleague play several years ago, it was really for the sole purpose of pitting storied rivalries against each other. The aforementioned Mets & Yankees, squaring off the the soul of New York. Reds & Indians, battling for Buckeye bragging rights. Marlins & Devil Rays, locked in combat for...um...well, anyway. You see, honestly, no one really cares if the Mariners and Phillies finally get to meet for the first time. No, it's all about these fantasy showdowns. So even though most teams rotate their opponents (witching divisions annually), the schedule makers are always careful to set aside time for the real jackpot matchups. And one of those is Cubs & White Sox.

Well, it was, anyway. This year, the Battle of the Red Line has proven to be the first casualty of the Sox World Series victory last year. For the first few years of interleague baseball, Cubs-White Sox was a faceoff between two teams with a long history of losing. Nearly a century without a championship, so this was all they really had: bragging rights over Chicago. "Sure, we can't beat the Twins, but we can beat the Cubs, dammit." But now, the Sox have nothing to prove. It's kind of weird.

Compounding matters is the fact that the Sox are playing quite well right now (that Thome-for-Thomas swap seems to be working out quite nicely, thank you), whereas the Cubs are downright atrocious. Even if Derrek Lee weren't injured, he couldn't shore up a porous pitching staff (floundering without perennial hospital patients Kerry Wood and Mark Prior) that coughed up a 3-0 lead in the eighth against the Padres. THE PADRES! Meanwhile, Dusty Baker is in a race with Buddy Bell to see who can get fired first this season. Cubs-White Sox has lost a little cachet.

With this in mind, I'm still curious to see how things are panning out at Sox Park. The Sox whomped on the Cubs in Game 1; would they do it again? The headline mentioned something about a dustup. Let's roll that puppy.

What followed was a truly glorious video clip indeed. It's the second inning, there's a line drive to left, and here, rounding third, comes Sox catcher A. J. Pierzynski. The throw is off, for Cubs catcher Michael Barrett is still standing right in the basepath, so Pierzynski does what you do in this situation: he barrels into Barrett, sending him flying.

It's quite a blow, but it's a clean play, and Pierzynski seems pretty pleased with himself. He slaps home plate, confirming that he did indeed score the run. Then he sort of staggers to his feet, and Barrett catches him. In fact, it looks like he's trying to stop him, like a bouncer working the line at a club.

Then there's this brief moment, where they're looking at each other. I told my friend Ted that it looked like Barrett was thinking, "I don't know whether to hit you or kiss you."

That's when Barrett hits him.

I can't tell you how glorious this moment was. I'm not a fan of violence. It accomplishes little, and hurts many. I also bear no ill will against A. J. Pierzynski. A lot of poeple dislike him, but he was a key element of the Sox playoff run last year, and seemed like a genuinely fun, irreverent fellow. And I've always like Barrett, going back to when he was about the only thing the Expos had going for them. Nevertheless, this was amazing video.

Consider the average baseball fight. It's usually pretty pathetic. One guy glares, the other guy glares back, and then they run at each other, the benches clear, and there's just a bunch of pushing and shoving. Jim Bouton has a nice passage in Ball Four about looking for someone he knows during a brawl, so he can look like he's supporting the fight, but not actually get himself in harm's way.

Probably the finest specimen of the bench-clearing brawl is the legendary charge of Robin Ventura against 46-year old Nolan Ryan. If I recall correctly, Ryan plunks him, Ventura storms the mound in a rage, and Ryan coolly grabs him in a headlock and starts bonking him on the head. It's a fantastic image.

When he retired at the end of that season, the Rangers game him a pair of steers for his ranch. Named Ryan and Ventura.

And that's what makes Barrett punching Pierzynski so remarkable. This was a real, fist-pulled-back, Hollywood-style punch. More than one commentator said he coldcocked him, which doesn't seem quite right to me, since coldcocking ought to involve the butt of a gun or a candlestick or something. But by god, this was a genuine, no-doubt-about-it punch.

I watched the clip several times, in part for the sheer enjoyment of seeing something so completely unexpected, but also to watch the astonishment of other people. There was a couple behind home plate who sat impassively, even after Pierzynski had scored and the crowd was cheering, right up until the moment that Barrett hit Pierzynski. Then their hands rose to their dropping jaws, and you just know they were saying in unison, "Holy crap!"

The best has to be Scott Podsednik, the Sox on-deck batter. There's no doubt he's stunned when Barrett launches his punch, and as soon as Pierzynski goes down, he takes the Cubs catcher down like a lineman. He was like a Secret Service agent, springing into action at the sign of trouble. This is as close as we are ever likely to get to the seminal moment in The Naked Gun when Detective Frank Drebin, in disguise as an umpire, leaps upon a hypnotized Reggie Jackson to prevent him from assassinating the Queen of England. In the dugout, the players go nuts, screaming, "He got Reggie!" I like to think that the reaction in the White Sox dugout to Barrett's punch was almost identical.

Cubs pitcher Rich Hill called Pierzynski "gutless", which would be comical if it were Hill's biggest blunder of the day. Of course, giving up two homers to Tadahito Iguchi was far more atrocious. When my friend Padraic questioned why Hill didn't get yanked immediately, I had to admit that it showed remarkable restraint on the part of Dusty "Goin' to the Bullpen" Baker. And anyway, Hill got sent back down to the minors on Sunday, where the guts are plentiful. So I would have to say to Padraic that Dusty was merely biding his time.

I think what made this so much shameful fun was that it was pure. Recent on-field scuffles have largely been ugly. Roberto Alomar spitting on an umpire. Drunk fans beating up a first-base coach. Delmon Young throwing his bat. Distasteful to the extreme.

But this had no pretension about it. Barrett just let his brain go to screen saver, wheeled back, and popped a guy on the jaw. The reaction of everyone around was pure shock, the kind we so rarely get anymore; it was a moment of truth. And it was unadorned beauty, and I loved it, and for that I am truly sorry.

I shouldn't still be talking about this. Everyone has moved on. Pierzynski homered in the third game, but Barrett got the game-winning hit, so everybody's focused on baseball again. And Barrett has repeatedly said that he has no idea why he opted for a haymaker, and that he's really embarassed. So, that's cool. Bygones.

So, just to recap the important lessons we've learned from this column:
1) Violence doesn't solve anything.
2) It is possible to move beyond shocking events.
3) This was really cool.

RED ENVELOPES: A Moon for the Misbegotten

2006-05-22T10:23:00.000-06:00

I rented June Moon for one reason. Thank heavens it turned out to be the right one. Because anything else would have been wrong wrong wrong.

Something called the Broadway Theater Archive has been putting out DVDs of old plays that were videotaped sometime in the 1960s and 70s. If you've ever seen old videotapes from the early 1970s, you know that we're not talking about the height of video production technique. Lighting is poor, editing is awkward, sound is muddy. Think of soap operas, only without the commitment to quality.

Compounding the matter is that we're talking about entire plays, pieces that are intended for a stage, with the inherent thrills of a live audience and the potential for utter disaster looming at every turn. And we're transferring this experience to a TV soundstage, with no audience and only the best production values of public television at our disposal. In short, that dog don't hunt.

Part of the real value of the series is seeing young actors before they really hit it big, performing in plays that provide maybe a glimmer of their potential talent. Here's Dustin Hoffman playing opposite future Facts of Life legend Charlotte Rae in Journey of the Fifth Horse. There's the Beastmaster himself, Marc Singer, essaying Petruchio in The Taming of the Shrew. And if you ever longed to see Andy Griffith acting alongside John Houseman, then this version of Pirandello's Six Characters in Search of an Author represents your best chance. And stars galore: Meryl Streep, William Hurt, Sigourney Weaver, George Takei...they're all here. And there's lots more where that came from.

Susan Sarandon is the big name in June Moon, batting a pair of gigantic eyelashes as a shrewish gold-digger in this 1920s comedy about a naive songwriter who comes to New York to make his name. People who like to browse the IMDb might also recognize Jack Cassidy (father of David and Shaun), Estelle Parsons, or Hall of Fame That Guy Kevin McCarthy. It's an impressive cast. And they are in service of an atrocious script.

The play does not loom large in the legends of the two acclaimed writers who churned it out, Ring Lardner & George S. Kaufman. With a tedious romantic plot about to simple-minded kids being pushed around by the big city, a couple of additional relationships that aren't explored and aren't especially interesting, and several mediocre songs to stop the action, June Moon is the very definition of a hoary chestnut. It plods along, resting heavily on the performance of Tom Fitzsimmons as the songwriter. Fitzsimmons goes way beyond being merely inexperienced, and pushes the character well into the realm of stupid, and possibly even mentally challenged.

As far as I can tell, the only reason to revive June Moon is because of the pedigree of the authors. There are some decent lines, especially the zingers thrown out by a professional piano player named Maxie. But the story is awkwardly developed, with a boring prologue that introduces our main couple without benefit of chemistry, followed by a first act that doesn't seem to have anything to do with the prologue for at least 15 minutes. A streamlined version of the play might run half-an-hour, meaning the Lardner & Kaufman lack the dramatic skill to be found in any given episode of Two and a Half Men. Clearly, they had nowhere to go but up. June Moon is 90 minutes that drag on for an eternity.

So why did I watch this? Because I am overzealous when pursuing my interests. You see, in the role of Maxie, director Burt Shevelove cast someone he had worked with before. One of his collaborators, a fellow with who he co-wrote the musical A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum and a version of Aristophanes' The Frogs. Yes, the musical theater aficionados among you will have figured out that June Moon stars none other than Stephen Sondheim, the legendary composer, lyricist, and puzzle maker who occupies a privileged space in Shane's Pantheon of Greats. (Other enshrinees include Jim Henson, Roberto Clemente, and Frank Lloyd Wright. Dinner at the Pantheon is interesting, to say the least.) You might see Sondheim's role listed as a cameo. Don't believe it. Maxie is a huge part, and ends up machinating the reunion of our two heroes. He's essentially the only sane character in the play, which is why he gets all the good lines.

As an actor, Sondheim is an outstanding composer. But in a way, his understated, uncertain performance makes a nice counterpoint to the tremendous overacting of his co-stars. In particular, a long scene where he is forced into conversation with the dim Fitzsimmons is quite entertaining, and hints at the kind of writing for which Kaufman would later earn acclaim. Sondheim isn't good enough to redeem June Moon which is a wreck. But he certainly validated my rental. In particular, one line of dialogue made the whole endeavor worthwhile. When an announcement is made that George Gershwin is in the next room, most of the cast rushes out to catch a glimpse. Maxie, however, ambles across the stage, disinterested. A character asks if he isn't going to go see Gershwin himself. Maxie replies, "He can come to me."

Knowing the chaos he was wreaking on Broadway musicals, you can honestly believe that Sondheim means it.

FINAL CUT: There's This Movie, See? And It's About Teenagers, See?

2006-05-19T12:24:00.000-06:00

The summer blockbuster season has begun in earnest on Friday. The release of Mission: Impossible III heralded the arrival of all the things Hollywood holds so dear: big stars, outrageous stunts, mammoth explosions, the works. Poseidon followed closely on its heels, promising huge stunts, loud noise, and the introduction and eventual death of hundreds of fictional characters. After that, we've got arcane religious mysteries this week, followed by a mutant war next week. Thrills and chills, excitement and escape...it's the time moviegoers live for.

So naturally, me and the wife went to see Brick.

I have been trying for a couple weeks now to think of how to sum up the pleasures of this charming little film. Evidently, I've come up dry, because I've decided to lead with the same thing that every review has: the premise. It's a lame start, but it's essential to understanding what makes Brick so unusual and so delightful. But here it is: Brick is a film noir, complete with swift and brutal violence, a dangerous femme fatale, and the requisite smart, rapid-fire dialogue.

Oh, and it's set in a modern-day high school in Southern California.

That setup has the word "gimmick" written on it in 30-foot-high letters. And I suppose, in the final analysis, it is. No one makes movies like the noir classics of the 1940s, and certainly nobody talks anymore like the characters in those movies, especially not in high school. (Probably no one really talked like that then, either.) So the whole movie is dependent on an audience's willingness to accept what on face value looks more absurd than the most outlandish fantasy film.

But the true test of a gimmick is what you do with it. If all you have is the gimmick, you aren't going to get very far. I'm reminded of the weird thriller Suture, which is predicated upon your willingness to accept that a large black man and a thin white man look nearly identical to every other character in the film. It's a leap that's hard to make. Or the charming obscurity my wife discovered, Man of the Century, whose lead character speaks in the patter of a 1920s dandy, despite the fact that he is surrounded by a very real, turn-of-the-millennium New York City. It's silly, but the disparity between the two worlds is more distancing than absorbing. The whole movie is in irony quotes.

Herein lies the glory of Brick: you recognize the gimmick, but even at its most obvious, you don't question the integrity of the story. All the credit for this achievement deservedly goes to writer-director Rian Johnson, who chose a remarkably difficult task for his first film, and pulled it off. The movie sounds and feels just like it stepped out of a Dashiell Hammett novel, and hits with the same wallop.

Perhaps the movie's finest scene is the one the best illustrates the conceit of the film: our hero, a slacker named Brendan (in the person of Joseph Gordon-Levitt, who truly deserves to have reviewers stop mentioning his old TV credits), is dragged away from his investigation of the diaappearance of his ex-girlfriend to take a meeting with the vice-principal (Richard Roundtree, channelling every gruff-black-police-chief character of the past 25 years). What follows the classic verbal showdown between detective and cop, a fast-talking battle of words that goes beyond parody and manages to measure up to the real thing. I was laughing out loud at this point, a little bit because it was funny, but mostly because it was just fun. It's been a long time since I watched a movie where you could actually tell that the people making the movie were enjoying themselves. Brick is filled with that sense of joy.

A little further mention of Gordon-Levitt is in order. The cast takes to the tricky language with varying degrees of success. On the plus side is Matt O'Leary as the requisite source of information. Less successful is Nora Zehetner, who doesn't quite give off the sense of danger that the script ascribes to her. But the whole movie really rests on Gordon-Levitt's shoulders, and he's completely worthy of the task. I'm reminded of Johnny Depp's unsavory origins on television, and how he overcame them by choosing projects to his liking and basically satisfying his own muse. Gordon-Levitt seems to be picking roles in a similar manner, and if he sticks to it, and if Hollywood can figure out how to make use of that, he could eventually be just as big as Depp, and certainly as good an actor. Just a little prediction for you to check up on in 15 years.

Brick did something relatively unusual in movies these days. Lots of movies make me laugh. A few make me cry. A surprising number make me think. Brick, however, made me satisfied. I had an experience, and though the film (in true nor fashion) does not tell a happy tale, I walked out of the theater very pleased.

That's a lot to ask for these days.

BRIC-A-BRAC: Break's Over

2006-05-18T10:00:00.000-06:00

I haven't posted in a while. The three of you who read this thing regularly may have noticed.

In truth, the past couple weeks have been awfully hectic. Much to my surprise and delight, I have obtained a new job. This is an unexpected development, to say the least, and the whole experience has left me a little off-balance. So blogging has not been my top priority.

I'm a little reluctant to go into too much detail That's partially because I'm still finishing out my time at the previous job, and there's something a little unseemly about discussing a new job while you're still at the old one. Also, since I don't officially start my new employment until after Memorial Day, I maintain the irrational fear that they will come to their senses and take it all back. It's like the way you don't want to think about going on vacation until you're actually out of the office, because some bit of hubris is going to come along and ruin everything. Or maybe I'm the only one who thinks that way. It's not so much that my glass is half-full, as it is that I never expect the waterline to get above the halfway mark.

Running through the mental archives, I realize that I've actually had very few jobs in my life, so my experience with the whole leaving/starting fresh thing is very limited. Actually, I can't think of very many people who do, except maybe Larry Brown. My friend Ted probably underwent the most radical shift I know of, leaving the world of TV news for the friendlier confines of promotions for some Silicon Valley upstart. On the other hand, my other friend Holly (look at all these friends!) has been with the same company since we got out of college. So I'm guessing her 401(k) is well-vested by now.

But the move is pretty exhilirating. I'm kind of screwed up about the radical change in my routine, but it's good to do knew and challenging things. So this has lots of upside. And I can't emphasize strongly enough how unexpected this turn of events has been. As it happens, I really went beyond my usual comfort zone to get this job. As the repeated words of one episode of Sports Night, "Did you know we could do that?" I didn't know I could do this.

Alright, I'll tempt a little bit of fate (while scrupulously adhering to the confidentiality agreement). I'll be doing creative writing for an interactive software company. Technically, I'll be an independent contractor, which means I've finally gotten the man off my back (until next April, when the man comes around to explain that I'm not really in the right bracket to qualify for all those deficit-gorging tax cuts). And -- this bears repeating -- I'll be writing. For a living.

This is very exciting. Like first-hill-on-a-rollercoaster exciting.

Gotta go. That phone call will be my mother wanting to know why I didn't tell her about this sooner. I'm avoiding the jinx, Mom. Not you.

RED ENVELOPES: Many Weddings and a Funeral...and a Random Body-Dump

2006-05-05T10:10:00.000-06:00

Lately, my approach to Netflix has been to set aside one slot for my wife. There are some movies that she wants to see that just don't interest me in the least. (The infamous Catwoman debacle is a prime example.) But there's no reason she should suffer just because we don't see eye-to-eye on every movie. After all, I know she's not going to join me when Red River finally comes.

Unfortunately, my wife is not the kind of person who likes to sit down and watch a movie. As she herself admitted, you kind of have to trick her into it. "Oh, is there a movie on?" As a result, Morvern Callar sat around our house for several weeks before I finally plopped the disc in the player. It was just time.

The plot: Morvern (played by Samantha Morton with considerably more hair than she featured in either In America or Minority Report) is a Scottish stockgirl in a grocery store whose boyfriend kills himself in the middle of their apartment because "it seemed like the right thing to do". He leaves behind a novel he has written, and asks her to submit it to publishers. He also leaves her money in the bank to pay for his funeral. Morvern, however, submits the book under her own name, dumps his body in the moors, and spends the money on a holiday in Spain.

It's a start, right? Kind of a downer, but an intriguing premise. No. It's not a premise. It's the entire film. I've just told you pretty much everything that happens. This story seems like it could pick any of these threads and follow it to an interesting conclusion. But it really isn't interested in any of them. And that's reflected in the film itself. The first 20 minutes are devoted to Morvern having absolutely no visible reaction to the corpse she has to step over to get to the kitchen.

Let's think about that last sentence for a moment. Dead body in the hallway. No crying or cheering or anything. Morvern seems like a pretty detached soul. Well, she's not alone. Virtually everyone in the film is riding a major wave of ennui. Guests at a New Year's party mindlessly ransack a house. Vacationers in Spain never bother to go out and see Spaniards, instead participating in mindless sex games. (A man and woman called upon to swap swimsuits in a bag couldn't look more dour if they were in a Soviet breadline.) Among the only mildly happy people are Morvern's new book agents, who are too vapid to be depressed.

It's hard to imagine a more pointless movie than Morvern Callar. Not poorly made, but with no particular place to go and no real idea how to get there. It's like a vacation slideshow that focuses entirely on the packing. And nobody's especially happy, so you're not really sure why any of them are there. The Scottish Tourism Board must be thrilled.

Needing an immediate antidote, I broke open another envelope and threw on Wedding Crashers. It did it's job: it made me smile. This is owing almost entirely to the efforts of stars Owen Wilson and Vince Vaughan, opposites who complement each other perfectly. Wilson's laconic drawl is wonderfully dry when paired with someone hyperkinetic, and Vaughan's second-before-the-explision personality shines next to someone moving at a slower pace. And for one of the films from the same core cast (following in the footsteps of Old School, Anchorman, and Starsky & Hutch), it has an unusually strong supporting cast, led by a friendly but still way-too-intense Christopher Walken. There's also a fetching Rachel McAdams (who, for the two people who will understand this, is in full Carrie Barrett mode), the amusingly nutzoid Isla Fisher, and a criminally-underused Jane Seymour. No doubt her thread was much longer in the original script, which was probably 300 pages. Throw in the obligatory Will Ferrell cameo, and you've got a film that's working a lot harder than you'd expect it to.

Because when it comes right down to it, Wedding Crashers is really a trifle. The plot is predictable, the outcome is pre-ordained, and you never take the really serious moments half as seriously as the people onscreen do. It's a confection. Like the old Bob Hope-Bing Crosby road movies, you don't really care about the details. You just want to see two pros do their thing. Wilson and Vaughan are the pros, and they do their thing very, very well.

Now if they made a movie about someone putting their name on the novel of a dead guy, I'll bet it would go somewhere.

BRIC-A-BRAC: Your Journey Towards the Dark Side Will Be Complete

2006-05-04T10:07:00.000-06:00

Princess Leia: But Alderaan is peaceful! We have no weapons, you can't possibly... Governor Tarkin: Would you prefer another target, a military target? Then name the system! I grow tired of asking this so it'll be the last time: Where is the rebel base? Princess Leia: ...Dantooine. They're on Dantooine. Governor Tarkin: There. See, Lord Vader, she can be reasonable. Continue with the operation; you may fire when ready. Princess Leia: WHAT? Governor Tarkin: You're far too trusting. Dantooine is too remote to make an effective demonstration - but don't worry; we'll deal with your rebel friends soon enough.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When George Lucas finally authorized the release of his original Star Wars trilogy on DVD back in 2004, he did it with the understanding that we would have to accept his many changes to the movies since their original release. Remember the films you saw in a movie theater? Well, those memories had better be good, because you'll never get them again. Now and forever more, Sy Snootles would sing "Jedi Rocks" instead of "Lapti Nek". Luke Skywalker would see the ghostly image of Hayden Christensen at the Ewok celebration. Han Solo would kill Greedo in response to a laser bolt fired just over his head.

Why did I believe this to be true? Why did I assume George Lucas would be so cruel as to deny me a return visit to my childhood memories? Because he said so. In the September 24, 2004 issue of Entertainment Weekly, he said exactly that:

I've been lucky enough to be able to go back and say ''No, I'm going to finish this the way it was meant to be finished.'' When Star Wars came out, I said it didn't turn out the way I wanted -- it's 25 percent of what I wanted it to be. It was very painful for me. So the choice came down to, do I please myself and [finally] make the movie that I wanted, or do I allow the audience to see the half-finished version that they fell in love with? If you really look at it, there's hardly any changes at all. The thing that really caused the trouble on Star Wars is the whole question of whether Han Solo or Greedo shoots first. The way it got cobbled together at the time, it came off that [Han] fired first. He didn't fire first.

So I sighed heavily. I sucked it up, agreed to take what I could get, dusted off a Virgin Megastore coupon, and took home my own copy of the Original Star Wars Trilogy, Super Deluxe Mega-Updated Special Effects Blowout Edition. It wasn't perfect by any means, but it was crisp and clear and 80% of the movies were unmolested, so it would do.

Today, I saw read an article that linked me to this:

This September: Original Unaltered Trilogy on DVD

As if to underline the point, the image on the front page was cleverly subtitled, "See Han Solo shoot first."

I suppose in some respect, this should be considered a victory. For all his rhetoric -- that they were his films, and he could do whatever he damn well pleased with them, and if he wanted Darth Vader to be the Girl in the Thunderbird from American Graffiti then that was his right, and what the hell do the fans know anyway, so they're not getting the original films, nuh uh, never ever ever -- for all that, Lucas caved. He's putting them out in all their pre-VIC-20 glory. Does he need the money? Did he see the light? Was this his craven plan all along? Who cares? We win. We get the movies we love, he gets his bonus Wampa footage, and everybody goes home happy. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth. Take the cannoli.

But it's impossible to overlook the utter comtemptuousness of the gesture. Whether it was his plan or not, George Lucas built up a tremendous amount of goodwill with Star Wars. The movie was all-consumingly entertaining, so staggeringly popular, Lucas could really do whatever he liked. And he did. He made the other two Star Wars movies, and most of us were willing to forgive the Ewoks. He got the Indiana Jones movies going. He oversaw some treacle like Willow. And he set up Industrial Light & Magic and let them do their thing. And then he just sat back and coasted on a sea of adoration. Like Barry Sanders walking away from the gridiron, George Lucas took his laurels and rested.

And then he took all that capital and spent it like a madman. He started authorizing more merchandise. Star Tours was great. Droids, the cartoon series...not as great. And books. Oh, I read those first books. Those damn Timothy Zahn books, and then the few that came next. I read them until I awoke to the fact that my life was far to precious to me to waste on the Solo twins.

And then came Jar-Jar. Yes, the cheapening of the Star Wars brand began in earnest with the release of The Phantom Menace. Now, of course, we all recognize that movie for the weird mess that it is. But you have to remember, back in 1999, how much we all wanted to like it. I proclaimed myself pleased with the film, except that the doubts kept nagging at me, like a delicious steak dinner that I started to realize was actually Spam. Of course, the spin machine said Attack of the Clones was better, but my guy told me otherwise. By this time last year, I was just ready for the whole thing to be over. The disappointment was too much. The original films had been good, I told myself. They must have been. That Lucas didn't want us to see them anymore only proved the point.

I guess what I'm saying is, I don't trust George Lucas anymore. ("Dantooine is far too remote...") Maybe he really does want to connect with the original fan base. Maybe he's able to see his original work in a new light. But I doubt it. My cynical side has the upper hand. I'm glad I'll be able to get the undoctored movies, but I'm annoyed at the gauntlet I had to run to get them.

So, this is it. I'll buy this damn set, alright. I'll get my original movies. And then I'm done. Star Wars is over. I'll watch it with the kids, and we might have Lego Star Wars for the PS6, and maybe I'll even have the ol' Millennium Falcon up on the bookshelf. But that's it. No expanded universe, no trading card games, no C3PO's cereal. None. Finito.

Except.

A long time ago, there was this notion that there were to be 9 movies. Supposedly, once I, II, and III were in the can, attention would turn to VII, VIII, and IX. And oh, what a grand epic it would be. But eventually, someone would come along and claim that this was never true, and that it was only supposed to be two trilogies in the first place, and any talk of a third trilogy was sheer poppycock.

And who was the unassailable source for this? Why, it was none other than George "Mr. Revisionist History" Lucas himself. Here he is in that same Entertainment Weekly article.

EW: You're pretty definitive about not making the once-rumored third Star Wars trilogy -- episodes VII, VIII, and IX. GL: I'm not going to do it. I'm too old. I've got other movies I want to do. And I don't want anybody else to do it, so I've locked it up so nobody can ever do it. There may be TV offshoots from people, but the saga itself, the story of the Skywalker family, is over.

So there you have it. All done.

Mm hmm. Yup.

Riiiiiiiight.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Officer Cass: Our scout ships have reached Dantooine. They found the remains of a Rebel base, but they estimate that it has been deserted for some time. They are now conducting an extensive search of the surrounding systems. Governor Tarkin: She lied. She lied to us. Darth Vader: I told you she would never consciously betray the Rebellion. Governor Tarkin: Terminate her. Immediately.

BRIC-A-BRAC: The Laugh Track Will Tell You When to Be Amused

2006-05-03T09:20:00.000-06:00

Sometimes, I'm dead certain that I'm not particularly funny.

A lot of people can say this, but they don't necessarily feel the pressure to be funny. I, on the other hand, have placed a lot of pressure on myself to be amusing. So to not be funny is a pretty large shortcoming. Like a tone-deaf opera singer.

I made the decision to be a funny person back in high school, when I had the sudden realization that my original approach -- to be insufferably earnest to the point of righteous anger -- wasn't working. Every now and then, I break out that old people-pleasing technique, and I'm immediately reminded what an epic disaster it was. So I had a road-to-Damascus moment in the 10th grade, and decided that I was going to get a lot further in life if I tried to be funny, with a healthy dose of self-deprecation for seasoning. (I still vividly remember Steven Shiflett's contempt when I announced that I was going to be "self-depreciating". Details matter.) The effect was almost instantaneous.

I've ridden the funny-guy thing for a long time, but it definitely came to a boil when I got into the world of improvisation. Too many people still make the mistake of calling it "comedy", which I would argue is unfair, since it limits the potential to make true theater in an instant. But the fact is, comedy is harder. Anyone can make instant anguish, but it takes real talent to compel an audience to laugh with something you just made up. Remember, there was never a game show called "Make Me Cry". (Although if there was, you could definitely catch reruns on Lifetime.)

The thing about being in the world of improv is that you run up against people who are unquestionably funnier that you are. People for whom the ability to create comedy is more innate, more readily accessible. One of my colleagues, Jordan, is funny with staggering ease. I'm almost positive that he's not even trying. One of his lines that I quote most frequently ("Get to the point!") is not funny in any sense of the term. In fact, it was genuine exasperation. But in that situation, with his timing and level of frustration, it was downright hilarious. He's got a gift. Maybe it would backfire if he were testifying in court, but on a stage, it's the real deal.

My approach is quite different. I seem to specialize in jokes that are greeted with a puzzled silence, only to be followed about two minutes later by closed eyes and a mournful nod. My jokes are slow burn. I've mastered the craft of time bomb comedy. I've mostly come to accept this, although I still pine for the laugh. Imagine telling a rock band that the moshing will really get going once the set is over.

Spending almost 48 straight hours with the members of my improv troupe, Whirled News Tonight, was a stark reminder of something that I know deep down, but often hate to acknowledge: these people are a damn sight funnier than I am. Particularly during the 12 hours we spent in the confines of a converted FedEx delivery van (the rental car company obviously thought we wouldn't notice the old paint job), I laughed myself silly at the witticisms of fellow performers. My triumph, on the other hand, came in a challenge to name all the films of a given actor. And that's the comparison: Shane knowing obscure Joe Pesci films? Impressive but freakish. Alex every single time he said the words Sense and Sensibility? Comedy gold.

It was in the presence of these comedy legends that I got the latest proof of my non-funniness, in the form of a podcast. It goes something like this:

- The Chicago improv community has a bulletin board to exchange messages and whatnot. (This board screwed me over bigtime, but that's another story.)
- One of the board administrators set up a toll-free number where people can call in and leave random messages.
- These messages are then stitched together and posted on the web as a weekly podcast.
- I don't know why. Just because.
- At dinner on Friday night in Cincinnati, Steve got the idea leave a message that sounded like we were calling someone who couldn't join us. So we literally passed a cell phone around the table.
- You can hear the finished product yourself. The podcast in question is right here. We start at 11:45 into the program.

I played it for my wife last night, because I remembered being quite amused by the whole thing. And indeed, it's pretty funny, considering the humor consists of saying non sequiturs into a cell phone. I could list all the highlights, but then I'd really just be listing everyone.

Except me. I'm the third voice, and I've got nothing to say. I mean, I can tell what I was going for. I'm obviously trying to be unintentionally insulting. But it's just not funny. We're all doing the same bit. We're all going for a dry, underplayed, Gould-and-Sutherland-in-M*A*S*H delivery. And everyone pulls it off, except me. I've suspected this for a while, but now there's actual recorded proof. That's a little disappointing.

I may have to rethink my whole approach, because as much as I enjoy trying to be a humorous individual, I don't have enough self-confidence to accept that I'm not actually achieving the desired end. So I either need to get funnier, deal with my unfunniness better, or channel my efforts differently. Fozzie Bear, I cannot be.

The punchline should go here. Dammit.

BRIC-A-BRAC: I'm Flyin' Cross the Land, Tryin' to Get a Hand

2006-04-27T09:31:00.000-06:00

My improv troupe, Whirled News Tonight, sets out tomorrow for its third ever out-of-state appearance, entertaining the kids at Xavier University in Cincinnati. It's part of what we're all calling "Whirled News Week", featuring a very brief appearance on the local news on Sunday (as chronicled in Arnie's blog), and peaking with tonight's performance on the mainstage of the Chicago Improv Festival. Either tonight's show or tomorrow's will probably be the biggest audience we've ever had.

As improvisers, we like to tell ourselves that we can perform anytime, anywhere. Clair's ensemble, Bevy, once had a show in a city park. As you might imagine, this made for a distracted audience. Nevertheless, the show's finest moment came when a toddler happily ran right through the "stage", blissfully ignorant of the show in progress. One of the performers noticed this, and also chose to run around willy-nilly. Soon, the entire group was running carefree. It was a delightful moment. So improvisation can work in any setting.

Still, it's better to have an audience, and better still to have an audience that loves you. The most memorable shows tend to be the ones where the audience is just beside themselves with enjoyment. I still have vivid memories of our 2nd anniversary show last September, where we had a house packed to the rafters that loved everything we did. (I'm so glad we got that on tape.) It's a fact of life: people telling you they love you through laughter and applause...it's pretty satisfying.

Our previous out-of-state appearances have been a mixed bag. One was at the annual Del Close Marathon in New York City. As the presence of the world "marathon" would imply, it's an onslaught of improv, with back-to-back shows running for two solid days. Sometimes it can be great (the first time I ever saw the group American Dream was very memorable), sometimes it can be atrocious (something called Southern Fried Cagematch, which is possibly the worst thing I've ever seen on a stage, and that's coming from a guy who saw Juliet Prowse in Mame). So it's into this crucible that we descended, twice. Tough crowd, considering they've been looking at an awful lot of improv. (The people who watch more than four hours in a row are insane.) But we won them over. That felt good, knowing that we'd chamred a very jaded crowd. It's also great to say, "We were a hit in New York."

The other touring experience was a week-long stint at the Piccolo Fringe in Charleston, South Carolina. That was probably the exact opposite of New York, since this audience had hardly watched any improv at all. We hard to revert to our longer introduction, since the very concept of "we're making this all up right now" was a little foreign to them. And we were out of sorts, too. The stage was quite different: it was high above the audience, and much more narrow and shallow than the one to which we were accustomed. It was also decorated with large paintings of meat. (Long story.) Most importantly, it was the first time we had ever attempted shows on multiple consecutive nights. It was an actual run.

One thing that made Charleston a very unique experience was that the group was housed together. In New York, it was every man for himself, but in Charleston, we all shacked up in a hostel in what was not an especially nice part of town. As a result, there was a little more of a sense of unity. We were a unit, marching through town like the opening shot of Reservoir Dogs. Like some sort of comedy platoon, we descended on the theater.

My memory tells me that we got off to a shaky start. The crowds were appreciative, and particularly seemed to enjoy John Glynn's portrayl of Governor Mark Sanford in the guise of Redd Foxx. But they weren't screaming for more, and even a half-full house tended to feel cavernously empty. I think it was our third show of the run when, after an especially unsatisfying show, we went backstage (an alley) and immediately jumped into an aggressive post-mortem. It was the first time I could remember where we'd had what could honestly be called a bad show, and no one liked it.

Fortunately, we didn't wallow. We got better. And the houses got better, really digging our stuff by the end. (A personal highlight for me was getting a huge response for a bar that I'd built on a railroad trestle. It made sense at the time.) I understand the final show, which I missed -- and boy, do I regret that now -- was the best of all. So if the evidence is to be believed, we really can play anywhere, anytime. Maybe not at first, but give is a day or two, and we'll have it nailed.

I don't know what Cincinnati will be like. The audience should be mostly college students, and they seem to like us. And if we can score with them early on, we should roll toward a big finish. We're big on momentum. But I do know that there'll be a little bit of Charleston for this trip, as we're piling into a van for the trek. A road trip. I haven't done one of those since my high school debate days. ("Take it, Hirtzan!") There'll definitely be some camaraderie at the end of this trip.

Either that, or we'll all just kill Matt.

PAGE TURNER: The Party of the First Part

2006-04-26T10:39:00.000-06:00

BookADay has once again seen fit to do me the great honor of publishing one of my book reviews. This time around, it's Love, Groucho, a collection of letters from Groucho Marx to his daughter.

As I mention in the review, I have a standing agreement with my friend Holly that, after I become insanely famous, she has permission to auction off all the letters I've sent her over the years, and use the proceeds to finance her children's education. That agreement still stands, although at present, I am not insanely famous, and she is not currently with child, so that represents a bit of a push. Still, at least we have the agreement. I don't suspect that Groucho made any such deal with his daughter.

Things like that trouble me.

RED ENVELOPES: Lost in the Dark

2006-04-25T12:30:00.000-06:00

Aside from being unexpectedly entertaining, our copy of SceneIt! Turner Classic Movies Edition has proven to be quite informative. We received this two Christmases ago, and in the course of playing the game, have been treated to clips from films that we really ought to have seen. The most egregious example of this is the first onscreen collaboration of Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall, To Have and Have Not. In a single two-minute clip, the romantic attraction between the couple comes searing through the screen. It's the famous "You know how to whistle" scene, and at the end, Bogie has a look on his face like he just survived the biggest, hottest hurricane ever recorded. It's sensational, and that went right on to the Netflix queue the second we got home.

Being the hopeless completist that I am, I also added the rest of their films together. We already had The Big Sleep in our possession, leaving only Key Largo and our Sunday night feature, Dark Passage. Through all three films so far, the chemistry between Bogie and Bacall is unmistakable. Dark Passage, however, adds a new wrinkle to their oeuvre, in that it is one of the weirdest motion pictures ever made.

Our plot: Vincent Parry, convicted of murdering his wife, makes a dramatic escape from San Quentin, seeking redeption and justice. But with a face easily recognizable as that of a convicted killer, Parry must rely on his wits, the help of a mysterious woman, and some plastic surgery if he's going to find the real killer. Got all that? Good, because it's the last thing that's going to make any sense.

What I'm about to tell you is the kind of thing that might be considered a spoiler, but it amounts to absolutely no surprise whatsoever if you watched the opening credits or even read the movie poster, so I'm going to let it slip. That plastic surgery I mentioned? It makes our hero look like Humphrey Bogart. (Not literally. Rather, Vincent Parry emerges from the surgery with new facial features, as portrayed by Humphrey Bogart. The movie doesn't get all Ocean's Twelve on us.) What this means is, until the plastic surgery is performed, Vincent Parry must look like someone else. Not Bogart. So how is this accomplished? Another actor? Extensive makeup. Nope. Instead, director Delmer Daves chooses to shoot most of the first half of the film in first-person. Bogart can be heard in voice-over, but aside from a photo in the newspaper, we don't actually lay eyes on our hero for about an hour. It's a lot like the Christopher Walken sketches on SNL where he plays The Continental. So let me emphasize this point once more, because it's really extraordinary: for the first hour of the film, we don't see Humphrey Bogart. International star of screen Humphrey Bogart. Unseen.

A documentary on the disc indicates that producer Jack Warner was less than pleased that his big box office draw was not getting much screen time in the film in which he was the ostensible star. I'll bet he was.

It gets better. He emerges from plastic surgery covered in bandages. Those unmistakable Bogart eyes are visible, but the rest of his head is swaddled in gauze, so now he can't talk. Incredible. First we couldn't see Bogart. Now we can slightly see him, but we can't hear him. Dark Passage is quickly becoming the greatest tease in movie history. Imagine that they'd cast Brad Pitt is the title character in V for Vendetta, and you get a taste of the sadism being perpetrated by the filmmakers.

Fortunately, there's plenty of confusing and inexplicable plot points to distract you. The biggest has to be the entire part played by Bacall. She's Bogie's rescuer, picking him up off the road after his escape from prison. But it turns out that she has followed his case from the start, moved by similarities with the unjust conviction and execution of her father. (Were this film made today, there might be some discussion of an inept criminal justice system. But here, it's just bad luck.) And yet, we're somehow supposed to just accept it on faith that she basically camped out near San Quentin at the exact moment Bogie is breaking out.

Of course, Bacall's unwavering support for a person convicted of murder is only in keeping with the attitude of the film's San Francisco. Everybody in this town is happy to help out. Parry's best friend happily agrees to put him up. A short-order cook laments asking a question that gives Parry away. Best of all, a cab driver makes all the arrangements for Parry's surgery, unsolicited, purely out of the kindness of his heart, and doesn't expect a dime in payment. Why? Who knows? The point is, Bacall's altruism is one of those things you're just supposed to accept. That's the way we do things in San Francisco.

(By the way, Dark Passage features a lot of location shooting in the City By the Bay, and it's totally worth it. In many respects, San Francisco looks much as it does today, minus some skyscrapers and an unnaturally-tall pyramid. But Bogart's long walks up ridiculous hills are perfect mise-en-scene, and there's not a film in existence that hasn't been helped by the Golden Gate Bridge looming in the background. Vertigo, Magnum Force, Star Trek IV...

What's not so easy to accept is the central role Bacall's character plays in the story. We're told she's a person who has followed Bogie's case. He doesn't know her, and only stumbles back to her apartment because he has nowhere else to go. Again, they don't know each other. But when the woman -- a pre-Endora Agnes Moorehead -- whose testimony sent Bogart to prison goes looking for help, where does she go? To Bacall. And who is Bacall's occasional boyfriend? Why it's Moorehead's ex. In short, WHAT? How the hell do these people know each other? What are they doing together? Let the hair-ripping commence. Dark Passage, when it comes right down to it, doesn't make any sense.

I liked it, though. I laughed out loud at the plot inconsistencies and the really stupid things characters did and the silly machinations of a plot that just does what it's told. And the reason I liked it is pretty simple: Humphrey Bogart. Even in voice alone, the man is the same entertaining icon we know and love. My wife commented during the movie that he's not especially attractive, not in a pretty-boy sense. But he's definitely handsome, alluring in his charisma and demeanor. You like Bogie. In To Have and Have Not, you understand his attraction to Bacall. She's magnetic. In Dark Passage, you get a sense of how it worked the other way. He's accused of murder, he's wrapped in bandages and takes all his food through a straw, he's always trying to look out for her welfare by leaving her behind. And she wants him all the more. So the film's end is really the only direction the film can take.

(About that film's ending, see if you don't find yourself muttering the words, "I hope I can make it across the border. I hope to see my friend, and shake his hand. I hope the Pacific is as blue as it has been in my dreams. I hope.")

Dark Passage is a tribute to the power of stars. It's a movie that succeeds entirely based on the goodwill engendered by Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall, and their luminiscent on-screen attraction. You don't need to see it. But if you do, Bogie will get you through.

I feel like the cab driver. I'm just happy to help.

MY BONNIE: Chance of Thundershowers

2006-04-21T09:01:00.000-06:00

My savagery of public monuments is garnering much acclaim, and I could certainly give the Signers of the Declaration of Independence Memorial at Constitution Gardens the reaming it so richly deserves, but I'm going to mix things up instead, and continue with the ongoing saga of Dead Men Are a Girl's Best Friend, now checking in with Chapter V.

I'm pretty fond of this chapter, in that it provides some background on how Bonnie got into this line of work in the first place. Eddie's full name is a bit anvilicious, and I thought about changing it here. But I don't feel like it. It's what I wrote and posted the first time around, so that's just what it's gonna be.

What is interesting is that I really take time to attack targets that are pretty harmless and certainly unable to defend themselves. In particular, the Lux Radio Hour takes it on the chin. Hardly seems fair. On the other hand, have you ever heard one of these shows? They're awful. Criterion loves to put them on their DVDs, and they are just atrocious. They made them for years, so people obviously weren't complaining loudly enough. I thought Bonnie should.

As you can see, I'm not afraid to take on the the big targets.

BRIC-A-BRAC: We Have Nothing to Fear But Bad Memorials

2006-04-20T12:13:00.000-06:00

Franklin D. Roosevelt was our longest serving president. The only man elected to four terms, he led our nation through two of its greatest crises, the Great Depression and World War II. He did all this despite having been crippled by polio. A blueblood taken into the hearts of the common man, Roosevelt is certainly a figure who deserves to be memorialized by the nation.

We have chosen to do so with the most rambling, nonsensical monument ever devised by the mind of man.

The marvel of our nation's monuments to men like Lincoln, Jefferson, and Washington is that they accomplish so much with so little. Consider the stunning simplicity of the Washington Monument. Here's a person known as the Father of our Country. Leader of the victorious Colonial Army. Shaper of the Constitution. Creator of the Presidency. Namesake of city, state, and countless town squares. Most beloved figure in our nation's history. How do you memorialize all that?

The geniuses who came up with "an enormous unadorned obelisk" are owed a great debt. (In fact, the original design called for a grandiose base with a huge statue of Washington on horseback. That was too expensive. So we also owe a debt to debt.) The Washington Monument is a marvel, and the sheer scope of the building tells you something about the man it's named for: he was really important. It can't get all the details in, so it doesn't try.

The Roosevelt Memorial, on the other hand, is obsessed with the details. At every step of the way, we're being reminded of something he did or something he said or someone he affected, the result being that we can never get a single picture of the man. He's been dissected for our examination.

The very layout of the memorial illustrates the problem. Granite walls and waterfalls -- so many waterfalls -- are arranged to form "rooms" corresponding to each of Roosevelt's four terms. So right from the start, we've decided to break up his life into sections. There is no one consistent theme. If we're lucky, there will be four.

But even that's not so simple. You see, early on in the planning stages, plans for the monument got out, and it became clear that the designers were not focusing heavily on the fact that Roosevelt was paralyzed, crippled by polio. FDR took great pains to conceal his condition from the public, and the creators of his memorial probably thought they were being really clever when it came to a statue of the president, where they snuck in a wheel on the leg of a chair in which Roosevelt sits. That way, they acknowledged his ailment, but also stayed true to the character and desires of the man. Well, activists for the disabled raised holy hell, claiming that there was an effort to whitewash the truth, to hide the handicapped. And the designers capitulated instantly.

So now the memorial begins with a "Prologue". It's a single life-size sculpture of Roosevelt in a wheelchair. A wheelchair, we are told, "similar to one he actually designed and used himself." He's all alone in this plaza, with nothing but a quote from his wife, Eleanor, about how he overcame his handicap. (The quote is adorned with comically large Braille translations under each letter.) It's the most minimizing "tribute" I've ever seen. I'm not saying they shouldn't portray the president's life accurately and completely. But there's no context for this. It has nothing to do with any of the many random stories they plan to tell later on. And more importantly, IT'S BESIDE THE POINT. The Washington Monument doesn't spend time on false teeth. The Jefferson Memorial doesn't have a section about fathering children with slaves. If you plan to write a biography, all this stuff matters. Otherwise, stick to the point. The point here ought to be: Roosevelt was a great man. He saved our nation at its lowest ebb. And this doesn't help us make that point. As it is now, it's the central attraction at Handicappedland in Rooseveltworld, which doesn't help anyone; not the disabled, not Roosevelt, and certainly not the visitor trying to sort all this crap out.

Leaving Handicappedland behind, we enter our first room, Inauguration Square. There's a bronze Presidential seal on one wall, a bas-relief (very hard to make out) of a Roosevelt parade on another. And quotes. The first of so many quotes. Roosevelt was always saying something, evidently. And we're off and running.

Rounding the corner, we hit a whole slew of sculpture. Here's a bare-footed man listening to a radio. (The brochure says he's listening to a fireside chat, but there's no way to know that. And anyway, why does he have no socks? He's clearly supposed to be an unwashed hick.) There's a couple, just sitting...um, there. (Again, the brochure tells me it's a rural couple. I guess that's because they have a Dutch door.) And right next to them is a group of men standing in a breadline. The breadline is clearly the favorite of tourists, because they get in line for pictures. "Hey, look at me! I'm unemployed and hungry!" Hilarious.

On the other side of the breadline is more discontinuity, as we come upon four round columns with handprints and Braille writing on them. No explanation whatsoever. Is this the original tribute to the disabled? What the hell is it? It's weird. I stood around for several minutes, vainly searching for the explanation. Finally I gave up, and turned around to the waterfall dedicated to the Tennessee Valley Authority, which I know had nothing to do with those handprints.

Water is absolutely all over the place at the Roosevelt Memorial. I racked my brain trying to think why, and the best I could come up with was his many retreats to the recuperative waters at Warm Springs, Georgia. Then again, it was while swimming that he contracted polio in the first place, so this could be kind of a mixed bag for the President. (Imagine a Reagan memorial that had a continuous loop of Bedtime for Bonzo.) Really, though, it's just because water makes for a neat effect. I'm reading more quotes (it's a David Foster Wallace book, this memorial), but I'm really just thinking about the physical plant that must be running all this water. And even better, the Park Service has had to put up signs asking people not to throw coins into the various water elements. Naturally, there are coins everywhere.

Room Three manages to kick to weirdness up yet another notch. This is the War section of the memorial, and right off the bat we get a great big quote from Roosevelt: "I HATE WAR." The layout of the quote is interesting: it's been arranged so that the quote...frames another quote. ENOUGH WITH THE QUOTING!

And my wish is granted, because in the center of this plaza are piles of granite blocks. I think I get it -- the destructiveness of war -- until I look and see that the words "I HATE" are inscribed on some of the blocks. And my brain clouds over once again. I'm guessing it relates to the quote, but it looks like Roosevelt's words have been reduced to rubble. So what does that mean? That he hates war, but went anyway? That his words won't hold up? That we had some extra granite? What? WHAT?!?

Fortunately, we are saved once again by sculpture. It's Roosevelt again, but a lot bigger now. You could stand alongside him in the Prologue, but here, even seated, he's towering. You'll only come up to his lap. So that's heroic. Except that the image they've chosen to replicate is that of Roosevelt at the Yalta Conference, where he, Churchill, and Stalin divvied up Europe. At that point in history, Roosevelt is sick, only a few months from death, and is clutching a blanket wrapped around him for warmth. So to portray our heroic, triumphant, world-saving president, we've chosen the image that makes him look the weakest. This is truly the most sadistic memorial ever built.

Just to ensure that your brain never gets solid footing, next to this oversized sick Roosevelt is an equally-scaled representation of his dog, Fala. I'll say that again. There's a bronze statue of his Scottish terrier, cast chest-high to a human. Why? Because he had a dog, I guess, and absolutely everything is going into this memorial bouillabaisse. Sigh.

We're on to the last term, which only lasted three months, so it's time to bring this sucker home now. There's another bas-relief, this time mourners at Roosevelt's funeral. (It looks like the advertising from the musical Ragtime.) And more quotes, including his famous "Four Freedoms", which are not identified as such. And hey, look! It's a statue of Eleanor Roosevelt! Says here she was the first U.S. delegate to the United Nations. That's neat. I'm guessing from the name that she's related to FDR somehow. Maybe he appointed her. It's hard to say, based on the complete and utter lack of context, or any reason whatsoever for Eleanor Roosevelt to get her own statue in the FRICKIN' FRANKLIN DELANO ROOSEVELT MEMORIAL! For crying out loud. The wife, the dog, the wheelchair...where the hell is the cigarette holder? We get everything else, but not that? Where's his attempt to pack the Supreme Court? Where's his mistress? How about the time where he led the entire cabinet in singing "Tomorrow"? Let's get it all!

The memorial seems to go on a little further. More granite, more water. So I follow along, and I end up...at restrooms. Yes, the loo has been incorporated seamlessly into the monument, so that you can't actually tell that the memorial has ended. Magnificent. A perfect finish to an utterly ridiculous monument. I'm a little surprised how infuriating I find the whole thing. But it's the perfect example of art-by-committee, and shows how you can throw hundreds of millions of dollars into a blender and come out with puréed crap. It doesn't glorify Roosevelt. It doesn't explain Roosevelt. At best, it belittles him. All told, it's just a little bit of everything, which adds up to a whole lot of nothing.

Franklin Roosevelt himself said he wanted no memorial. If you must, he said, then make it a block of marble the size of my desk with my name on it. And just such a monument was built; it's in front of the National Archives. You should go visit that. It's easier to get to, shorter, and has no water or quotes whatsoever.

Most importantly, it makes sense.

BRIC-A-BRAC: Tribute By Committee

2006-04-19T08:52:00.000-06:00

I went to Washington, DC having watched a bad movie about memorials. I return having seen bad memorials. The fresh air makes visiting the memorials a preferable experience, but their permanence ultimately makes them more infuriating.

To be fair, the subjects of my ire are the three major memorials on and near the Mall that have blossomed since my last visit to our nation's capital two decades ago. The existing monuments, like the Lincoln Memorial or the Washington Monument, still work for me. They create a satisfying, even moving experience. Of course, they're very simple. They have clear objectives, and they accomplish them. For example, Lincoln is enshrined in a temple, and yet his enormous likeness is weary, drained by years of struggle. The message is pretty straightforward: this is a real human being, and we was so great that we honor him as if he were one of the gods. It's very noble, and very powerful.

Contrast that with the trainwreck that is the new National World War II Memorial (or, as my wife insists on calling it, the Tom Hanks Memorial), which has more messages to send than a telegraph operator, tries to be all things to all people, and ends up accomplishing nothing. It's a enormous mollybang of ideas, from the two enormous towers proclaiming the two theaters of the war, to the pillars bearing the names of states and territories (and, curiously, the Phillipines) and enormous bronze wreaths, to the truncated lists of places where American soldiers fought, to the random bas-relief sculpture of generic wartime scenes, to the most idiotic of features: a tiny wall of 400 gold stars crammed close together with a cascading waterfall nearby. It's a triumphant clump; Albert Speer by way of Hollywood executives. You almost imagine that the designers got ten different ideas, and couldn't bear to tell anyone their idea didn't get picked, so they used them all.

And everything has meaning. Every element is about something. Those aren't just wreaths. They're wreaths of wheat. They symbolize the contributions of the American heartland. And those aren't just gold stars. They're our dead heroes. Each star represents 100 dead soldiers. (It isn't explained which star your great-grandfather is represented by.) And the fact that the stars are so close to each other, created a bizarre gold-leaf mishmash, is probably meaningful, too. It symbolizes our closeness, or the camaraderie of men in uniform, or the ineptitude of the designers, most likely. It's like bad poetry.

And worst of all, it never gets across the single most important message of World War II: this was a war for the soul of the human race. I will never forget Bill Clinton's words when he spoke in Normandy on the 50th anniversary of D-Day. Of the young, fresh-faced troops who stormed the beaches and initiated the liberation of Europe, he said simply, "These men saved the world." And they did. And very little about this memorial gets that point across. All it really does is cater to special interest groups. And that's what we have Tom Brokaw for.

And yet that's still preferable to the Korean War Memorial. While the World War II piece may have tried to say everything but missed the point, the Korean War Memorial somehow manages to be white noise; a long speech that never actually says anything at all. The centerpiece is a collection of 19 sculptures of soldiers on patrol. They wear ponchos, carry gigantic machine guns, and look perpetualy terrified. So perhaps the idea is to remember the emotional toll of war. But..no. No, that's not it, because they walk alongside a granite wall with smiling faces of troops etched in the surface, along with random images of battle scenes and ambulances and whatnot. They kind of seem to be trying for the effect of the Vietnam Wall, which reflects the observer back through the names of the lost, but the Korean War designers apparently didn't trust that to work, so they made the reflections for you. You can't see your reflection, because this isn't about you, you selfish bastard. Unlike the Wall, this memorial has nothing to do with you.

So it's about the soldiers, then...except for the list of the nations that participated in the conflict, which are inscribed along the walk. So it's about the UN...except that the reflecting pool takes care to separate out the American dead and wounded from the totals of all forces. As for that pool, it's next to the obligatory flagpole, and once you get to it, you have to turn around and go back to the beginning because there's nowhere else to go. Random elements thrown together because they worked somewhere else, but don't work as a whole. It's a Mad Lib Memorial.

I think what disturbed me most about the Korean War Memorial was the guns. I understand that guns and war are, kind of like, connected and all. And I don't seem to mind the M-1's being carried by the soldiers in the statue near the Wall. But those guns aren't in use. They're at rest. They've been set aside to contemplate the memorial across the way. Here, they're in use, toted by men who evidently are going to get ambushed. This is the one war memorial that actually looks like the war is still going on in front of you. That's a little disconcerting. Imagine the World War II Memorial with a running tank, complete with revolving turret. It's creepy. And nothing kills the mood of a memorial quite like creepy.

There seems little doubt that Maya Lin redefined the whole idea of memorials with her Vietnam Memorial Wall. What no one realized, I think, was that she wasn't leading the way for others, but was in a class all by herself. These new memorials are a bad sort of Lin-lite, taking elements of hers and packaging them into something more palatable for the people in charge. She's Nirvana; they're Candlebox.

It's good to know that the movies aren't the only art form lacking in new ideas.

There is one more memorial to discuss. It's possibly the most irritating of the three. That's the Franklin Delano Roosevelt Memorial, and it's a disaster. I can' barely contain myself. We'll rip that apart tomorrow.

RED ENVELOPES: The Work Speaks For Itself

2006-04-13T12:48:00.000-06:00

My wife is heading off to Washington, D.C. for a few days on business, so I thought it might be fun to tag along. I haven't roamed the streets of our nation's capital for, oh, coming up on 20 years. It's a town I enjoy a lot. There's all those museums, and all those monuments. It's like they built a city just for someone as geeky as me. And then denied it representation in Congress, which for some reason I tend to take personally. I have issues.

In preparation for my trip, I juggled the old Netflix queue and moved Maya Lin: A Strong, Clear Vision to the head of the line. Lin is the woman who, while still an architecture student at Yale, designed the stunning Vietnam Veterans' Memorial, which turned out to be one of the signature architectural statements of the 20th century. The movie about her made its own splash when it won the Oscar for Best Documentary Feature. This was only a signature event in the sense that it won in a year in which the Documentary Committee failed to nominate the brilliant Hoop Dreams, an oversight that permanently besmirches the credibility of the Academy. Complicating matters was that the film's director, Frieda Lee Mock, was a former leader of that committee. Oops. Basically, Mock was the Katharine Harris of the Academy. Awkward.

But I'm willing to set all that aside. I'm a huge admirer of Lin's work (among her other pieces are a Civil Rights Memorial in Birmingham, Alabama, and a salute to women at Yale), and I'm eager to take a look at the artistic process that informs her creations. I'm also up for any additional insight I can get before I lay eyes on The Wall once more. A film that can provide that will be right up my alley.

I hope somebody makes that film someday.

Architecture is a difficult thing to capture on film. After all, pictures rarely do justice to the sensory experience of being in a place. And architecture is all about place. So how do you get that across? Well, you can take any of the approaches used by Nathaniel Kahn in My Architect, his tribute to the works of his father. Kahn relies heavily upon slow, loving pans across buildings, showing them in their environment. Then, he lets people who use these buildings, or interact with these buildings, to have their say. And for good measure, he brings in some talking heads, other architects and critics to comment on why these buildings are successful. Any of these is a worthwhile approach to conveying the power of architecture in a medium that distances you from an actual place.

Mock opts for a very different approach: Maya Lin talking. Other than a few brief interview clips from people connected with Lin's selection for the Vietnam Memorial project, it's nothing but Lin talking about her work. This doesn't sound like such a bad thing. But Mock seems to think that's what the film is about: Maya Lin's words. And the truth is, Maya Lin has nothing to say. Not with words, anyway. Her works speak volumes, but Mock doesn't care about those. We keep cutting away from visions of a completed Lin work to see her give an entire speech in which she says nothing memorable. In the film, Lin openly admits that she's not good at speeches, and she doesn't have to be, since her designs convey far more than any speech. Maybe, just maybe, a picture could be worth all those words. I'm just speculating.

A lot of documentaries are filled with what you'd call "talking heads". Just expert after expert telling you why you ought to care. That can be very dry and uninteresting. But here's a documentary that shows why some outside perspective can be helpful. For example, we get short snippets from Jan Scruggs, leader of the movement to build a Vietnam memorial, explaining why his idea for a monument was unworkable, and why Lin's vision was so successful. We also get a little bit of her Yale professor, the architecture critic Vincent Scully, commenting on the purity of Lin's work process. In those brief moments, we learn far more about the scope of Lin's achievement than we do from half-an-hour of Lin talking. And we will never hear an outside voice again for the rest of the film. Birmingham, Yale, an art commission in Ohio, an African art museum in New York, all completely without external analysis, all devoid of meaning. Not even a random passerby to say whether she liked it or not. Just Lin, blah blah blah.
We never get to see the subject of all this talking.

And we know that people have opinions. Mock toploads the Vietnam Memorial section of the film with talk of virulent opposition, with idiot bureaucrats like James Watt and ultraconservative blowhards like Pat Buchanan trying to derail the entire project. We get to see this best in the personage of Tom Carhart, a passionately angry veteran, rails against Lin's design, comparing it bluntly to being spat upon by an anti-war protester. Well, that's certainly harsh. I wonder how he feels now, with the thing built and the worldwide consensus being that the memorial is one of the most eloquent representations of loss and honor ever constructed. Evidently, Frieda Lee Mock doesn't wonder. We only have Carhart because of Mock's true guft: finding archival news footage. I'm guessing Carhart never spoke publicly on the issue again, because we don't get one drop of a mea culpa from him or anybody else who thought Lin's vision was inadequate.

In fact, other than the throngs of people who she has filmed milling around Lin's work, we have absolutely no sense of what the public thinks. Lin's Civil Rights Memorial is pointedly in view of the Alabama state capitol, proudly flying the Confederate flag atop its dome. What do the black and white people of Birmingham think about this juxtaposition? No idea. We don't hear from any of them. Only the people who make speeches at the dedication are heard. How about the female students at Yale, to whom Lin's campus fountain is dedicated? Not a clue. The only ones we hear from are the ones in the choir singing at the dedication. In fact, time and time again, all we get from Mock are Lin's words and stock footage of public events. Mock hasn't done a lick of work, hasn't probed an inch into her subject. In her view, the very being of Maya Lin is enough. No further analysis is necessary.

This becomes most damaging when the film turns its attention to works we're not familiar with. Lin says she's very pleased with the Weber house, a structure somewhere in western Massachusetts with a large roof that arcs and slopes gently like rolling fields. Which is great, except, WHAT THE HELL IS THE WEBER HOUSE? Would a little context have killed us? I'm guessing it's a residence. But I'm honestly not sure. With all this talking, you'd think somebody could at least explain what the damn project is.

Or consider her foray into art. Lin evidently likes to work with broken glass (we're not told why), and she makes huge dunes comprised entirely of glass, blended specifically to take on a cool blue tint. We get several minutes of construction workers supervising the delivery, hoisting, and dumping of tons of broken glass. And we see Lin dutifully shoveling piles of glass, shaping it into mounds and plains, like some alien pasture. And how does it look? I couldn't tell you. Mock gives us a five-second shot of one installation, shot from above so that you have no concept of what this must look like to a viewer. Time and time again, the director shows that she doesn't care one little bit about the art. She thinks the story is Maya Lin, and it's not. The story is what Maya Lin makes.

This cannot be the last word on the designs of Maya Lin, because they are too moving, too powerful, too unified with their surroundings, too brilliant to be ignored. And that's why this film really irritated me. The opportunity was there, and the filmmaker didn't even care. I don't like to blame a film for what it's not, so I don't slam A Strong, Clear Vision for failing to be about what I wanted it to be about. However, I can criticize a film for what it is, and this one is useless. Mock has not failed to see the forest for the trees. She's too focused on the ground.

Boy, now I'm really angry about Hoop Dreams.