Galactus Intolerant Well, first, a confession: I'm not a fan of Jack Kirby, the artist who collaborated with Stan Lee to produce the Fantastic Four comic, the self-described "World's Greatest Comic Magazine!!" In some circles, this is considered blasphemy. I find Kirby's work good in the macro--he knew how to design a page to draw the eye--but cringe-inducing in the micro--he had very creative ways to convey human anatomy, for which he is given a pass from the folks who usually complain about those things.* He would occasionally hit on a good idea, but usually the stuff he created was really "out there," if not downright juvenile. For every "Silver Surfer," (which is a pretty silly concept, let's face it, though it "worked."), there was his Apokolips Figure of Death, "The Black Racer," who was an armored black guy...on skis. The guy flew through the air...on skis...with poles...and would appear right before you died. If I was dying, I'd could buy my life passing before my eyes, or a winged angel, or Neil Gaiman's little Goth-girl. But, a flying guy on skis? Pretty stupid. At least I'd get a good laugh before I kicked the bucket.
But I was a big fan of the old Hanna-Barbera "Fantastic Four" cartoon in the 60's, so I've always been a little nostalgic (which means, I look at it with blinders on) for the FF, no matter how wide Kirby drew their fore-heads. I didn't see the first FF movie because the trailer looked atrociously cheesey. I just didn't bother. I figured I'd catch up with it on video (which I never did). But I did want to see "The Rise of the Silver Surfer," because if its one thing those early Fantastic Four stories did well, they produced a truly imaginative cosmic scope. I wanted to see how it re-produced on the Big Screen.
The answer: not bad. When FF2:TROTSS (what an unfortunate acronym!) concentrates on the heinous exploits of The Silver Surfer--the name says all you need to know, and as you might guess, he talks profoundly as if he was preaching Shakespeare--and the approach of its Master, the planet-consuming Galactus, it does a fine job, recreating that iconic Marvel sense of "I don't know what it IS, but it sure is BIG!" In fact, the climactic battle for this film is more focussed and a considerably better set-piece than the Big Events of the latest Superman, Batman, X-men and Spiderman films, which all tended to over-complicate things and fall apart at the end.There are shots that stay with you, like the one where The Surfer parts trees in a forest, and is, suddenly appears, incongruously non-organic in the natural setting. The Galactus-like shadow passing over and disrupting the rings of Saturn.
Where the thing (not "The Thing") falls flat is in the other 90% of the movie, and a lot of it is just inexplicable. The acting is...troubling. Andre Braugher's in this, and he commands the screen by holding back, while everybody else is busy flailing. Michael Chiklis' "Thing"/Ben Grimm is terrific, but the considerable make-up work doesn't suggest rock so much as the cracked surface of a chocolate cookie. I expected to hate Chris Evan's Johnny Storm, aka "The Human Torch," but I found the actor's take on the character fun and his portrayal of it very assured (and Johnny has the dramatic character arc in this one). But who told Julian McMahon that arch-villain Dr. Doom should be portrayed like an ineffectual Euro-trash fashion designer? And with all the blonde actresses in the world, whose bright idea was it to cast Jessica Alba who 1) can't act--her best scenes in this are when she's...unconscious--and 2) isn't remotely someone who could pass for a) blonde, or b) Johnny Storm's sister. And Ioan Gruffud just doesn't have the gravitas needed to pull off the role of uber-genius Reed Richards (he has hair problems, too--the grey at his temples comes and goes) and, if anything, he suggests the bland heroes that inhabited the Gerry Anderson puppet shows.
Director Tim Story keeps everything brightly lit, and it hums along editorially, but there are lots of things that just make ya wince--the usual Soap Opera, Marvel-style, here represented by Reed and Sue's difficulties dealing with fame and a celebrity wedding, an inexplicable and underdeveloped "Wedding Bells are Breakin' Up that Old Gang o' Mine" dead-end that makes a Big Unintended Statement against Diversity before it's abandoned, and another dance routine with Mr. Fantastic dancing his own version of the Funky Chicken, or is that the Rubber Chicken (Story does give him a wierdly apt Gene Kelly "Gotta Dance!" moment). And, again, too much with the Stan Lee cameo! For any future Marvel movie, can we just give him a sign to hang around his neck that says "I USED TO BE STAN LEE," and place him randomly in crowd scenes? I think that would be more effective than stopping the movie cold so we can have an uniterrupted scene of Stan.
So, bad movie...with some good aspects to it. But if there's an FF3, they need to go back to the casting stage if there's going to be any improvement.
"Fantastic Four 2: The Rise of the Silver Surfer" is a cheap rental.
* I remember reading a letter in some comics magazine written by Bill Mumy (as "Billy" Mumy, he played Will Robinson on "Lost in Space"). He was responding to an interview with Carmine Infantino, who was editor-in-chief at DC when Kirby was working there, and Infantino had some critical things to say about Kirby's work, to which Mr. Mumy took great umbrage, and declared that he was going to have to re-evaluate Infantino's own artwork, given his words regarding "The King." I would say that my opinion of Mr. Mumy's work might have been influenced by his letter, but it wasn't--I've always thought he was a talentless hack.
---------------------------------------------------------------------- Congratulations to my neighbors, the bald eagles. Thursday saw them being taken off the Endangered Species List. Still watching the nest through the binoculars--haven't seen the latest additions to the group yet. Give it time.
---------------------------------------------------------------------- If you want to see the Hewlett-Packard "DisasterProof" video I worked on last week, it's already on the web. Just follow this link. You should know that the actual explosion noise was a wee bit unimpressive--just as KANK!, and as one of the producers said, "Then it was all over..." The Wishupon-made explosion is considerably longer and has some nice slowed-down elements (and shock-wave) added.
There once was a man from Japan, Whose poetry never did scan. When told this was so, the man said, "I know, But I always try to fit as many words into the last line as I possibly can."
I've found two variations of this, though the changes are subtle:
There once was a man from Japan, Whose limericks never did scan. When asked why it was, He said, "It's because I always try to fit as many words in the last line as I possibly can."
And:
There was a young man of Japan Whose limericks never would scan. When they asked him, Why? He said, with a sigh, "It's because I always try to get as many words into the last line as I possibly can."
And while doing that research, I found this one:
A poet who lived in Peru, wrote limericks that stopped at line two
Hmmm. Looking at this, 36 hours after writing it, I've always suspected I liked that "Japan" limerick because I struggle with "writing too much" (as anyone who's visited here can attest). One of the bromides that has haunted me in life is "Brevity is the soul of wit," and I've always wanted to achieve that balance where I can convey the most information in as concise a form as possible, and I suspect that's why, of all the limericks I looked at on the web, the one that caught my eye is the "Peru" one. Of course, it's truncated, but it does convey all the information it needs to. That's the joke.
Then I look at my career path. I started out writing in a forum that demands getting as much information into a limited time-frame (30 second and 60 second commercials) which I found frustrating, abandoned that, and went into a discipline where 70% of the job was editing.
Now, here I am, writing to my heart's content, and I find that I'm suffering, to carry the metaphor, from an enlarged heart. And I continue with the quest to write more, while writing less.
The punchline? If my last words are "Well, that's it."
Ba-dump-bump ------------------------------------------------------------------------ ALERT ALERT! Next week, I'm going to do another week-long look at one song-writer's lyrics, but I've only got four of the five days covered. So, I'm taking requests--Anybody got a Leonard Cohen song they'd like put up? Better give me two, just in case I'm already using your suggestion (which I probably am). ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Meanwhile, this week another review--maybe two, a couple Netflix came in, a second batch of Spam-Poetry, and either something about the current state of comics criticism, or immigration, whichever crosses the finish line first.
This is Paris Hilton's mug-shot. No, really. It is.
"Our long national nightmare is over. Paris Hilton is free at last, free at last, thank God almighty, she is free at last!" In a sense, we are all released. *
Far be it from me to drink from the "William Bennett" Kool-Aid (which recognizes every vice except gambling, supposedly), but there are times I succumb to "old geezer's disease" and just shake my extensions-less head and decry what the world is coming to. Lately there has been a spate of deb-celebs barely out of their teens crashing and burning. Britney Spears plunges into a bald-headed meltdown so complete it makes her ex, Kevin Federline, look like a pillar of stability (Exhibit A. Be afraid. Be very Afraid). And Lindsey Lohan is taking Britney's bunk in rehab when she's not using it. Then we have the ultimate example of "null-set" celebrity: Paris Hilton. Famous for standing in flashing light-bulbs and having a brand-name. Another in a long line of Vanderbilt's and Kennedy's and...Bush's, (do you think Billy Bush would have a job if it weren't for the name...Really?). No talent and no shame. Anna Nicole's lady-in-waiting. And this month, she seemed to be "peaking," making more mis-steps than anyone since Dick Van Dyke fell over the ottoman, getting herself sent to the slammer. The drama. The tears. The Sweeps. The talk with Barbara Walters. Even finding God (This happens so frequently in prison, I think for churches to be more effective they should have iron bars in their windows instead of stained glass). It may be a ratings period and all, but c'mo-oon! Do we have to go this far to get a spike in our cume's?
Call me cynical, but part of me sees all this activity as the ultimate carrying over of the new adage: "There is no such thing as bad publicity." Well, unless you use one of the "alphabet-words" or you're caught lip-syncing (Come to think of it where's Jessica Simpson's breakdown? Could we even tell?). Everything is fair game and whoever's on-top at the end of the news-cycle wins. At least, I hope these are all bids for attention for the media, because if they're not, then they are really, really "bids for attention"--cries for help of the highest screeching decibel. The extreme behavior and hysterics are not exactly what you would call good "role-model" behavior, and I'm not looking forward to the societal fall-out. I mean, when the rich-and-famous fall apart in a crisis with all the advantages at their disposal, what are the kids of us poor slobs supposed to do?
Part of me goes: "Yeah! Please! Dominate the news-cycle! "Breakdown 24/7" and blog the apology!" Because if there's enough exposure, there'll be the inevitable over-exposure, and at that point the ultimate sin will be committed: they'll become commonplace, as boring as the tabloid on the rack. And then there'll be no influence, except for the poredictable back-lash. How long before we go from "We'll always have Paris" to "Eeeuh! She skeeves me out!" Will the wash of material inspire this generation of women (or anyone, for that matter) to reject the slings and arrows (and Spears) of the worthless, hedonistic lifestyle, seeing it as a path to destruction? Will they take the high road, or the Lohan road? Will they see the consequences suffered as inevitable for the choices made from a life in the klieg-lights and heed the warnings, or run like moths to the filament, attracted to the tragedy like the cult of Judy Garland? I don't know. Part of me says these people aren't important, but anything so dominating the new-cycle has to have an impact.
Marlon Brando was constantly shocked at how the brutes he played on-screen (Stanley in "Streetcar..." and Johnny in "The Wild One"), try as he might to make them repugnant, still became pop-culture icons. I suppose that's what comes from having your face blown up to 40 feet across. Even "Frankenstein's Monster" became iconic. And Freddy Krueger. And Hannibal Lecter. People still grow up and make their own choices and navigate Life's mine-field. And sometimes they're attracted to what repels them.
But I look at those pictures and wonder: forward mug-shot, she flipped her hair to the side, and for the profile, she "allowed" a 3/4 view. To show her "good side," supposedly. The woman is being booked. Whatever is there in those photos (and one gets the impression that she saw it as "just another" photo-op), what is absent is any sense of shame. Did she look at this first step in the criminal justice system process and see it with no threat of punishment? Did she just assume she'd skate by without consequence? Whatever illusions she had at that point (and Ms. Hilton is all about illusion), it seems to have been shattered now (we'll see how long that lasts), but at the time the biggest illusion was the assumption that one can show a "good side" when it's a mug-shot.
* I wrote HTML code that bracketed the opening line with this: [sarcasm] [/sarcasm]. Interestingly enough, it translated into the blog, so you can't see it. So, Is it just me, or does sarcasm look exactly the same as my regular writing?
I've been stalking them for days, getting up at dawn to catch a glimpse, but they have no schedule, no time-table.
Then, sudenly, out of the corner of my ear I'll hear one...BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR--a biker-bird is revving its Harley, but I can't see them. They're perpetually "over there," out of sight and out of the range of my camera. We have two hanging fuchsia plants to tempt them and they frequently stop and sip. But not when I'm there. I'll hear a "WHOOSH" as they change course away from the plants when they see me.
They're perfectly content to hover tantalizingly in front of me when I'm behind glass; I always have the impression they're appraising me, trying to figure me out, as I am, them. Then, they hover away, the VTOL-jets of birds--skittish, shy, unapproachable.
And when I finally give up and go outside, I hesitate over the door jam and listen for the sound of their wings. I know that as soon as I'm in the house they'll swarm, the teasing little devils.
Damn them.
I hope they come back soon.
It's a tentative relationship.
When James Lipton asks his ten questions at the end of "Inside the Actor's Studio," I perk up for the "sound" questions: "What sound or noise do you hate?;" "What sound or noise do you love?" I have a few choices for the latter* One of them is the sound of hummingbirds in flight, and I love that particular sound because it initially scared the crap out of me.
I was somewhere...not sure where...and a loud, low buzz crept up behind me. I became alarmed, thinking it was the biggest bee in the world (it had to be to generate such a commotion), only to turn around to see this delicate little bird do a double-take at my turning and then hit its after-jets to "vroom" out of there. It was a pleasant surprise, one of those moments of nature-wonder ** It made me suspect how people came to believe in faeries.
Since then, I've recorded hummingbirds. I have a nice, scary recording of a feeder outside a Lake Quinalt restaurant. At Normnady Park, I kept tabs on a lone hummingbird who kept a year-long vigil in the park, emitting a very loud version of the typical hummingbird chirps, but I never saw another bird answer its call and inevitably around 11:30 am it would take off to go eat.
I can't tell the local three hummingbirds apart by their coats, although two of them have alarming green back feathers and one of them, an orange back. But I can tell them apart by the sound of their flying. Hummingbirds' wings beat 70 times a second, but that still allows enough wiggle-room to make each sound distinctive. One of them sounds like a lawn-mower, loud and aggressive--this one you can hear approach the porch through the windows. The other two are quieter, more delicate: one stays awhile and does a circuit around each plant, then goes over to our yellow thermometer hanging on the shed door--no doubt confusing it for a flower, but I like to think it's checking the temperature; the other sounds like the Jetson's car, a combination of a low throb with a high-toned razor-like edge to it.
Once, while sitting near an open window I heard "The Rock's" equivalent of NASCAR--one hummingbird flew by (veeeee-oooh) followed a half-second later by another (vroooom). Five seconds later, the other direction (veeoooh, vroom). Five seconds later, back, the other way (veeooh, vrooom). I thought, "What are they doing, taking laps?" Just another day at the races.
Humminbirds fascinate me. The skeletal structure that can move that fast and be so delicate is astonishing. I once had occasion to capture a seagull that had been injured on a street in Seattle. The studio's accounts person and I trapped the frightened bird, and coaxed it into a box to take to an animal shelter/clinic. But when I picked up the boxed bird, I was amazed at how incredibly, unbelievably light it was--like no weight at all, and it was a large bird. What must a hummingbird weigh? What is less than nothing? And yet it beats its wings seventy times a second and achieves great speed in its hovering, helicoptering way.
I don't know what it is about hummingbirds that fascinate me so--that makes me rush to the window to catch a glimpse in the same way the more rare occasion of whales did. It could be the sound of their wings, and that uncomprehensible statistic that causes it. It might be their ungainly appearance--the fat little bodies and the smooth head and the improbable sipping straw that precedes all. It might be the personality of their flying; they're fast enough that they can afford to wait--and observe and appraise, maybe judge. I find it incredibly moving to be observed by Nature, rather than vice versa. Usually Nature is too busy running away. Maybe it's that they're a complete mystery to me. The scientists say that bees shouldn't be able to fly, yet they do. It must be the same for the hummingbird. How do they do it? Despite theory and math and engineering, the fact of the matter is...they do...without a second thought, in defiance of all the sciences and disciplines.
I suppose they fascinate me for the same reason, as the joke goes, that hummingbirds hum. We don't have the words.
This is the closest I came to photographing one of the hummingbirds, the swine.
* For the record, the sound I hate: the sudden screech of car-brakes, with or without a subsequent thud. The sounds I love: thunder, the distant horn of a train, that transition sound when rain becomes a shower, and the wings of hummingbirds. Oh! and that "woggedy-woggedy" sound cartoon characters make when they shake their heads.
** Nature doesn't astonish me much. But every so often it can knock me on my ass. I've mentioned my "religious experience" seeing the Grand Canyon at dusk. But the older I get, Nature can still pack a wallop. When K. and I took her mother to see friends in her home-state of Missouri, it was the first time I encountered fireflies. I always remembered a "Beetle Bailey" comic where the platoon "brain" turned a bivouac into what one character called "Shangri-la." They provided light to the soldiers by catching fireflies in containers--"Do you want a 70 firefly or 100 firefly bulb?" they would ask. Great idea, that. But it didn't prepare me for the glowing motes I saw that August evening that winked on and off floating in the dark. It was surreal and comforting, all in the same vision.
So, K. is gone for a couple weeks property-scouting and in Eugene looking over a few things. That means it's just me and Smokey. With Mrs. Fu gone, it's just "us boys" and we're doing what we can to keep ourselves busy using our testosterone. Mowing the lawn, edging, cleaning the gutters, getting rid of those dead grass-plants on the front lawn, chopping wood and eliminating the wood pile on the east corner of the property, watering the plants. Then there's the stuff I'm doing: trying to get a shot of those hungry hummingbirds, making phone-calls and checking the internet for work, doing that freelance stuff, donating the "cat stuff" we don't need anymore (this is the first time I haven't lived with a litter box in my house in 30 years!), smokin' cigarettes and watchin' Captain (Kang) Kangaroo, now don't tell us, we've nothin' to do. Tuesday, we went to the mainland to get some supplies (and met up with FarmerScott at Costco). Then there are those Emmy video's piled up on Smokey's crate. We've gone through all the Animal Planet and True-Life Adventure stuff on the Discovery Channel DVD's. Smokey falls asleep on the stuff I've been watching--which includes a couple of Netflix, the reviews of which are below. He went to the vet earlier this week. Sunday in a fetching-frenzy, he ran into a bush with his mouth open and got a stick jammed in the roof of his mouth. There was some bleeding, but no slivers, so he's on an anti-biotics regimen for a week (they go down mighty smooth coated in peanut butter and it's alwaysfun to watch your pet eat peanut butter).He's kinda bugging me about seeing the live-action "Underdog" movie. I'm thinking about teaching him to play poker.
There's a sub-category of movies that always sends K. and I into fits of giggles. It started when we saw (take a breath) Kenneth Branagh'sfilm of Francis Ford Coppola's production of "Mary Shelley's 'Frankenstein.'" (whew!) We'd enjoyed Coppola's "Bram Stoker's 'Dracula,'" and liked Branagh's earlier films. But something about this "Frankenstein" went seriously off-the-rails. It seemed like every performance was delivered at fever-pitch (except for John Cleese, who drastically underplayed to avoid Python-esque associations), Branagh's direction was a combination of Brian DePalma swoop-and-carousel moves and Michael Bay "shudder-shots," and Brian Doyle's score was dialed up "to 11." After awhile, she and I turned to each other with our eyes wide, and I said "I think everybody in this movie needs a good night's sleep!" and from then on, we couldn't take the movie seriously anymore.
Everybody in "Notes on a Scandal" needs a good night's sleep. It's a bit like "Snow White" done as an urban British drama. Except "Snow" isn't quite as pure. Here's the gist: Judi Dench plays Barbara, an embittered veteran school teacher, who develops a fixation on Bathsheba (Cate Blanchett), a new art-teacher in school. Sheba, as she's know, begins an affair with one of her young students, which becomes known to Barbara quite early on. Barbara then devises a scheme to blackmail a relationship with Sheba and drive a wedge between her and her family, with the aim of having Sheba for herself. It's a joy (and a scary thing) to see Judi Dench turn on the after-burners and go into full "battle-axe" mode. Her Barbara is the creepiest creation since Anthony Hopkins' Hannibal Lecter, with the added element of a pathetic (calculated?) vulnerability, and she's matched by Blanchett's distracted portrayal of the flibbertigibbet Sheba. There's one scene where both women go into an acting fever-pitch and its a bit like watching the performances fuse into one that's fascinating to watch, but makes you want to pull the "Emergency Stop" cord. And the hysteria is pushed at every hint of motion by Philip Glass' galloping score, even when it seems entirely gratuitous. It makes you want to back away slowly, get behind a locked door...and get a good night's sleep.
This was the second of Blanchett's (erk!) "Christmas" movies. And it's a fascinating little experiment, but not a satisfying movie. In it, Steve Soderbergh attempted to do a film in the old "Warner Brothers" style. It's in black and white, done on back-lots with incandescent lights, and tube microphones and back-projection. Stylistcally, it looks a lot like Michael Curtiz's staging of "Casablanca," while in the many instances of conflict it resembles Orson Welles' in-your-face direction. The story, which takes place in a divided post-war Berlin is a bit like the cynical "Third Man" crossed with the more romantic "Casablanca." But it has the modern sensibility of more natural acting, language, nudity and hyper-cynicism. And it's like the two don't go together, there's such a cultural disconnect between the "silver-screen presentation" and the story that ultimately they're working at cross-purposes. It's tough to care about the machinations of the script when you're admiring the technique, and playing "identify that shot." Plus, the stars are ill-served by the conceits. Clooney is forced to be a bit more broad, which has never been his strength, and poor Tobey McGuire just can't cope--it doesn't help that he's playing drastically against type. The character actors fare better with more theatrical performances, and Cate Blanchett channels the languid sensibilities of Dietrich and Bergman to get by. Still, it's not an incompetent film--it's very accomplished. But the directorial decisions undercut the story, and one wonders why Soderbergh decided to pull off these stunts (which couldn't have been easy and certainly flew in the face of what studios think generate box-office) when a more straight-forward presentation might have served the story better. Whatever joys the old techniques generate (one of which is hearing Thomas Newman score a movie in the style of his father, Alfred) aren't worth torpedoing the film.
"Oceans Eleven" was an enjoyable, breezy updating of a not-very-good "Rat Pack" movie with a nicely eclectic cast from many walks of the entertainment industry. It was a lark, with no real sense of any danger or risk. It just seemed like director Steve Soderbergh and star George Clooney (partners in the production company, Section 8)were getting free rein of Vegas and dragging along a bunch of pals along with them.
"Oceans Twelve" showed signs of fatigue. Instead of Vegas, it was filmed in Europe. The large majority of the cast was arranged to "rot in jail" for most of its running time, while Matt Damon and Julia Roberts carried the weight of the plot, storyline and ad-libbed dialogue to sometimes excruciating effect (Okay, so Roberts played Tess Ocean, the wife of George Clooney's character, and when he gets way-laid, she flies to Europe where she's recruited to pass herself off as...Julia Roberts, and hilarity ensues when *gasp* Bruce Willis "cameos in" to complicate matters!!) Not much worthwhile there, but Clooney got to write off his Lake Como estate, so I guess that's something.
So, now it's the third go-'round, the unlucky "13" and to "play it safe" and "cover all bets," the crew goes back to Vegas to avenge another hoodwinking of deep-pockets gang member Reuben (Elliott Gould) by another puffed-ego Vegas properties owner, one Willie Bank, played by Al Pacino on cruise control. Once again, it's a con of "Mission: Impossible" proportions involving false identities and acoutrements, loaded dice, coins and roulette balls and the use of not one, but two large tunnelers (that were used to dig the Chunnel we're told) to carry out the various schemes. While it's true you have to spend money to make money this movie takes it to new extremes. Along the way there are pleasant cameos by Julian Sands and Eddie Izzard (Roberts and Catherine Zeta-Jones' absences are explained away quickly--"it's not their fight"), Vincent Cassel (from "12") and even Exec. Producer Jerry Weintraub. Everything's in place--everybody's a wise-acre, Clooney makers a tuxedo look like casual wear, Pitt's wardrobe is still horrendous, and they even manage to work in Andy Garcia's rival casino owner in on the plot--though fortunately, they don't turn him into a suddenly reformed "good guy." Because Pacino's on board, there's a couple sneaky "Godfather" references in the dialog--one to Pacino's face, but like most of the in-jokes (right down to the last lines) they're so "inside" that they'll probably go over a large portion of heads. But despite these minute differences, it's the first movie all over again--like "Return of the Jedi," the third in the "Star Wars" series and "Last Crusade," in the "Indiana Jones" cycle--but as with those films, the ingredients making up "Ocean's 13" have been left out to curdle a bit. It's fun and all, with a couple of laugh-out-loud moments involving Oprah Winfrey, and Soderbergh directed, shot and edited the thing himself, but is it too much to ask for something a bit more original? One gets the impression that if not for the perks to cast and crew, they would have done well to have left the table and cashed out a little earlier.
"Oceans" 13 is a cable watcher for a rainy Sunday afternoon
It’s voting season on the Emmy’s, and this year I thought I’d try an experiment—I went to a particularly bitchy message board where opinions were mostly negative and filled with caveats, and offered a chance to vote for what they considered the best comedy series and drama series. I figured this was a chance to “democratize the process,” and to at least have one ballot representing the “masses.”
The result? One reply. One.
Maybe it was because I asked that they say something positive about something, rather than kvetch, but I found the lack of response interesting. In its own unscientific way it says a lot about the non-participatory nature of our electorate. As a result, I’ll take any criticism of the Emmy voting with a grain of salt this year, because in the end it’s done by the people who care enough to participate. Vested interest or no, it’s the folks who show up that matter.
The opportunity gave me a chance to catch with some excellent shows like Discovery’s “Planet Earth,” and NBC’s “Friday Night Lights,” and the goofy “Heroes.” I was disappointed not to get a chance to catch “Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip,” but for some reason the producing studio and network chose not to send a sample…or campaign for it. Was it because the show didn’t have “legs,” ratings-wise or that it was so critical of television?
Or are folks just sick of Aaron Sorkin writing self-referential (and reverential) material? Anyway, it was disappointing not to catch a glimpse of it.
Didja hear the latest Bush boner? He went out to the Brown’s Ferry, Alabama nuclear reservation to promote “nukular” power as a safe energy alternative. “I wish people would keep an open mind about it.” Well, there’s keeping an open mind and then there’s having a hole in your head; Brown’s Ferry's Number 1 reactor was just brought back on-line after being shut down for technical problems and safety violations FOR 22 YEARS!!! Don’t you think Karl Rove would have vetted that location a bit better? I mean, shouldn't he have done the tiniest bit of research (Research—that would be nice for this administration)? What’s he doing? Sitting in his office pulling on a fifth? And where are those cute little stage backgrounds he used to paint for Bush speeches that would summarize the speech for those who couldn’t follow his ramblings and stumblings (CLEAN, SAFE NUKULAR POWER)
I've been enjoying the heck out of Brad Meltzer's run on "Justice League of America." There have been gripes that it's too arcane..too dense...can't follow it. Sure, sure. But if you've had any history with the characters before, it's a wonderful ride, with a wide variety of characters all with their different interpretation of what doing the job of "hero" is all about. Plus, Meltzer gives a nice free-hand to his artists to allow them to have "moments" that communicate only through the art. Pretty generous, that. There may be too many captions, but once the story is over you can go back and see the scrupulous path taken to get to those end-points. And, like my favorite comic-book writers (Fox and Gaiman and Moore and Morrison) he has a wonderful imagination that presents a logical extension of powers ("If he can do this, then he should be able to do this!") that make you smack yourself upside the skull and go "Why didn't I think of that?"
For instance, here's one of my favorite pages--art by Ed Benes--in which various members of the JLA, and their predecessor-group, the Justice Society of America, have teamed up to investigate the appearance of members from another super-group from the 30th century. Arcane, yes. In this page, one of the conjoined supergroups' sub-group investigative teams is featured. Here are four minor characters in the scheme of things--Red Arrow, Power Girl, Hawkgirl and Hawkman. Red Arrow has been a super-hero since he was the kid sidekick of Green Arrow, so he's been around the block. As he sits in a spaceship headed to the Hawk-pair's home-world, he ruminates on why these kids from the 30th century might be there...and thinking strategically, warns the strongest person on the ship...Power-Girl...about his fears. P-G (who may be Kryptonian, like Superman) has no firm history--she doesn't know where she's from--so she has no logo on her chest, all the better to see her cleavage (which is why she's one of Walaka's favorite characters). She ponders the upcoming fight, and her first dibs on who to take out is the character from the 30th century who is also blonde and pretty, but psychic. And Red Arrow's assumptions are confirmed by the pair in the drivers' seats--who are both products of reincarnation--they only go forward in time, not back. There's a lot to cover in six panels--two of which are exactly the same, with a slight variation to the third. That's some good economic stuff right there. Clever ideas. Nice charcterizations born out of history.
So, I was anxious to read some of Meltzer's non-comics fiction. I heard a radio interview about his latest, "The Book of Fate," and picked it up when it came out in paperback. I was attracted to his extensive research for the book, interviewing Presidents George HW Bush, and Clinton, as well as looking into the history of the Freemasons. I figured it might have a similar depth of material as "The DaVinci Code," which, though a terrible read, had a lot of neat arcana in it.
Alas, "The Book of Fate" reads more like those psuedonymous Michael Crichton books that author ground out during his medical school days--stories that moved quickly, sometimes for no apparent reason, and with enough action and/or violence to increase the page-turning along the way ("Popsicles" a college room-mate called them--forgettable and without much value, other than the descriptions of weaponry and fighting techniques). The Freemasonry? For all the claims of extensive research (and that is certainly evident in his writing about life in the White House's "inner circle") there's precious little about the Masons other than some name-dropping, and the curious configuration of the layout of Washington D.C.--which is, to say the least, interesting.
But it does share one aspect with "DaVinci." It is meant to be read in short sittings. the chapters are abnormally short--just enough to cover a series of events in one location--then once a cliff-hanger is achieved, or about to be achieved, the next chapter focusses on something many miles away, just enough to sustain interest, or frustrate that interest. I found myself frustrated more often than not, and a bit irritated that Meltzer used two narration styles: one, a first-person narrative, all the better to explain the intricacies of life in the White House, and build suspense/identification with the narrator; then, an omniscient view where events are described but information withheld to keep the suspense going. You can't be personable AND ominiscient--you have to make a choice. One's useful--the other's a cheat--like one of those "serial killer" POV shots inserted into a straight narrative. One has to think: "Okay, Who am I now?"
So, if you're looking for the Mason hook to be delved into, it's not here. It's a simple thriller about who trusts whom in the White House--or rather the Presidential Retreat. And how much trust that entails. Like the quality of the book itself--Not so much. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Now, on the other hand, there was the problematic "All-Star Batman and Robin," written by the hyper-ventilating Frank Miller. Maybe Miller's been distracted putting together a film version of "The Spirit," but his writing has been more heavy-breathing than usual. For instance, in the latest issue Wonder Woman is portrayed as a man-hating demon-warrior. And if this wasn't born out by the many repetitions of "Men! I HATE them!," there are the sound-blurbs Miller chooses for the sound of WW walking "TANK-TANK-TANK-TANK." Yeee-ees.
But just when one is about to lose all hope, Miller nearly ends it with this two-page spread, featuring faithful servant, Alfred, taking out his frustrations on a weight-bag. Miller always wrote best for Alfred, but here something is added to the character than deconstructed--the power of the one man who can persuade Bruce Wayne, and the restraint with which he must endure. And while he's at it, Miller adds one more haunting aspect to an origin story that has lately creaked with the weight of additional details. But here, the tragedy is deepened. Nice work. It lets you see how great Miller could be.
"So, besides that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?"
After a day where I was sick and tired--not in the "very frustrated" sense but in the "food poisoning"-sick and "got home late, slept for four hours, then had to get up early to euthanize my cat"-tired--Walaka and I made it to The Crest Theater for the 7:00pm showing of "Star Wars" as de-constructed and re-post-produced by Steve M.'s "Post" class (MT 248) at Shoreline Community College. I had co-taught with him a couple years ago (which I found entirely rewarding--here's a story about it). This year he asked me to talk to the class about "foley," which I did in an amiable, rambling kind of way. Steve had called me last Friday to say that I HAD to come to the screening. He was very excited, so that meant his students had done a really good job. I couldn't refuse. First, Steve's a very good friend, and when he's excited about something you want to share in his joy, and second, this was "Star Wars" and I was more than interested in seeing what they had come up with. "Star Wars" is something of a "Holy Grail" film in sound design--but it was done 30 years ago* What you could do with it--the possibilities, the directions, well, you could make a very different "Star Wars"
When I talked to the class, I told them what a touch-stone "Star Wars" was for movie sound. Not so much in technique--certain producers and directors had been paying attention to the importance of sound for some time. But it was the first time audiences noticed and appreciated the sound of a film--the most imaginative sound work had been up to this time for sci-fi, fantasy and animation films because....the sounds weren't there on the set...never were...they had to be created out of whole cloth...frequently WITH whole cloth, substituting for clothes rustle. And folks like Jack Foley (a sound-man at Universal Pictures who thought it would be easier to perform effects on a sound-stage as they did in radio dramas, rather than cut it optically into the picture...and yes, that's where the term "foley" comes from) and the other pioneers who sonically imagined these worlds, and completed them in the dubbing rooms were miles ahead of the studio-norm, like replacing the half-hearted sound blank cartridges make with dubbed in gun-shots. But "Star Wars" raised the bar of audience expectations....for effects, both visual and sonic. To take on "Star Wars" was to take on a "Big Gun."
And what they did was amazing--so much so, that it pointed out lots of flaws with the film's pacing, which is so dependent on John Williams' music,** that, with another approach to the score in place, shows how draggy the film, in and of itself, is. Was the student score bad? No, not at all. In fact, it was superb in places, and overall, gave the film a darker tone than Williams' major key swash-buckler. The dubbing was nearly flawless. A couple of Imperial lackeys had less-than-inspired performances, but they were in the minority. The guy who did Darth Vader was bang-on good, convincingly matching James Earl Jones in brio (YOU try to do that!) and particularly good at lip-syncing (...that's a joke, son!). The guy who dubbed Luke Skywalker was BETTER than Mark Hamill-more mature and earnest...and I don't think he called Leia "Carrie."*** A particularly good bunch of work was done by the ESL students playing the Jawa's...one can only imagine what they were really saying. There were so many great performances in that (as well as in the second feature, "Spaceballs") that, after awhile, you just stopped noticing the difference and settled into the drama. That is a triumph.
The sound effects work was VERY good--not going the same direction as the original, but deliberately trying new things--although they did fall back on the same light-saber sounds (if they weren't the same, it was a damned impressive mimicry), and their placement of the "Wilhelm" was in the exact same place as the original. Yes, there were missed things, and some things didn't jibe--teams of people did different sections of the show, so there was some difference in how things sounded from section to section, but for the most part it was a triumph. Consider this: these students had less than three months to pull together the script, re-voice it entirely, do the score, and all the effects and mix it. Ben Burtt and his team had more than two years to just do the sound design. John Williams did his score in six months. Did I mention that R2-D2, the toughest job in the show, was entirely original, performed on a synthesizer? That, alone, is a major accomplishment.
If I had any qualms, it was in the mix, which favored the voices over music and effects...sometimes the foley was just lost in the shuffle. But, even there, the work was sometimes exemplary--in the final Death Star Battle, there wasn't a single flaw in transitions from radio chatter to live sound. Amazing, in and of itself. The mix for "Spaceballs" was much ballsier and more effective. That was a terrific mix throughout...well, what I stayed for. I stumbled out of there at 10:40pm, without saying good-bye to Steve (We had talked extensively through the evening--he was beaming, he was proud, justifiably, it was his night and I didn't want to interrupt it) hoping against hope to make the 11:00pm boat. I did, and I got home and collapsed on the couch at midnight, totally exhausted, stomach empty and hurting, and feeling very sick.
K. took care of me with some soup, which I couldn't finish, a vitamin-cocktail with I downed with some Emergen-C, mixed with three kinds of fruit juice. It was good to be home with my family, though, now, we were minus one member. The three survivors, man, woman, and dog, went to bed (Smokey hadn't slept on our bed for a couple weeks--a tale for another time) sad for our loss, wounded by our exertions, and unsure what tomorrow would bring. We vowed to sleep in late the next day...hell, maybe we'd stay there through the weekend. We all needed some down-time to heal.
We did sleep in. Katheryn got up and tended to the dog, then came back to bed to read. I stayed unconscious until 2pm. And I awoke feeling much better. Checking my e-mail, I found an ecstatic note from the client about the video I'd worked on this week. Icing on the cake.
Quite a lot happened. But if I were to sum it all up, I'd just say "Homework sucks, and I slept until 2 today."****Heh. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Now, some additional thoughts on "Star Wars," prompted by the first words out of Walaka's mouth post-screening. "Man, I forgot what a cheese-fest that movie is!" Yes, one has to get past Luke's Leif Garrett hair-cut, the dialogue that goes from arch ("Don't be too proud of this technological terror you've created...") to camp ("Mos Eisley Space-port. You will never find a more retched hive of scum and villainy.") The bickering-bantering of the leads in the Death Star.
As Walaka said, it is a cheese-fest. But in the same way that "The Wizard of Oz" is a cheese-fest (and that's appropriate as I think I still have the "Psychology Today" article drawing parallels between "Wars" and "Oz," the most telling being that Darth Vader is "some sort of threatening father-figure." Yeah, Scientology's right! Those shrinks don't know nuthin'!). It was, after all, Lucas' attempt to make a newer version of those D-level Buck Rogers/Flash Gordon serials. But, (and this is probably more appropriate to the Lucas "Now I've Seen Everything" article) the best thing that happened to "Star Wars" (its popularity) is what ultimately destroyed that goofy Saturday-matinee concept. People...and by that, I don't mean Lucas, started to take the things seriously...not the enjoyable lark they were supposed to be--a strange amalgam of sci-fi/fantasy/samurai/western genres.
The same thing happened with the "Star Trek" movies. It didn't seem to bother folks that the movies in no way resembled the series. They instead became a protracted story-line featuring the crew-characters as the prominent feature--as opposed to some esoteric "what if" concept that would drive the story-arc. Like most series, both became so popular that folks were only satisfied if the elements of the first one were re-juggled to form the second and third ones, compounded with the difficulties of finding ways of enticing franchise-actors back (and the failure of THAT concept is more than evident with this Summer of the Killer-Three's).
Then, while the happy glow of "Star Wars" slowly turned into a calcified false-memory (isn't that what's happening in the "Lucasfilm, Ltd" logo?), Lucas decided he was going to make "Star Wars" the way he wanted it--with all the drama-sensibilities of bad movies, but delivered with the techniques that ALL THE MONEY IN THE WORLD COULD BUY.
But, the fact that the original, original "Star Wars" felt like it had been cooked up in somebody's garage was one of the appeals of it. That he had a limited budget meant he had to concentrate on getting it right the first time, as opposed to constantly tinkering the digital life out of it and getting everything he so badly wanted...no matter how badly it turned out.
Speaking of the enjoyability of cheese-fests, that point is particularly well-served by one that is clever and reverential to both it's sources--Walaka and I were chortling about it post-screening. Here is: "Steam Trek: The Moving Picture"
------------------------------------------------------------------------ Finally, thank you all for your kind thoughts onFu's passing. FarmerScott phoned condolences. Walaka, a pat on the back. The two Dan's ("The Man" and "Burnished Oak") shared their thoughts and memories of her, while Kath-11(who may be the voice of your voice-mail!) had this to say: "...congratulations to Mrs. Fu for a long, successful life of self-interest." Perfectly said. Steve M. expressed concern that I attended his event after such trauma, but he knows why I did it. As for the notice, Willow on Vashon formally asked me to write her eulogy, which was a sweet thing to say, and I made my sister cry at her desk at work. Sorry, sis. Vinnie of C&D, Inc. offered his condolences, but also congratulations to Smokey. Indeed, he moved up one rung in the pack order, and is eyeing my spot. Actually, he's a bit intimidated with the responsibility of being "the only pet." We're trying very hard to not express our grief by smothering him with affection, which is our impulse. If we did, we know we'd create a needy little monster. But, we are all doing fine knowing the support that we have. Thank you.
Other counties heard from: SteveBwas the first to offer condolences up on the blog, and Otis chimed in, as well. Two sisters-in-law (Sherry and Jane) had differing views on Fu: one remembered her fondly, the other—well, there was never a lot of love there, though she did offer a grudging “miss her” after-thought. Room-mate Randy reminisced that “she warmed my feet on many a night” and Jeannie, though having never met the animal was happy with the stories.
** A little known characteristic of Williams' craft is that his music can be so dominant that it focus your attention (some would say distract) and thus, cover all sorts of film-making sins, somethingthat makes Williams' work so technically brilliant--he's not just a "March King")
* * * One of the more famous flubs from the movie. At my lecture, I told the class that if Luke was properly "whiney" on the line "But I was going to Tashi Station to pick up some power converters," that that was half the battle, which got a knowing laugh...and at the screening last night the line got big laughs from the students. It wasn't whiney...which was a big improvement. One of the many joys. Bravo on that.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Coming up: I HAD planned to do another week of song-lyrics, but stuff just keeps HAPPENING!! So there will be a book review, a movie review (maybe two), another True-Life Adventure on "The Rock" (one that really sucks!), and (coincidentally), if there's time and/or I finish writing it, I'll share some thoughts about Paris Hilton...because, like it or not, we'll always have Paris.
Galactus Intolerant
, 
