Ghost Story

Happy Hallowe'en!

I'm a "recovering" Catholic. I don't believe much (but, I do believe I'll have another beer ), so Hallowe'en does nothing for me except raise my blood-sugar. I don't believe in God and Heaven. But angels? I don't know. Satan? Well, I told that story here, here and here. Again, I don't know. I need to see it with my own psychic orb. But nothing is black and white. I know people who've seen spirits. I know people who've seen Jesus.

I know people who've seen my dad.

The day my dad died was a traumatic, nearly incomprehensible thing. One minute I was sitting on his bed, talking stuff inconsequential and consequential; "Don't worry about stuff. It's just a waste of time..." Two hours later he proved the point by dying.

One minute he was there, and the next--no dad. All or nothing. 24 grams of difference, they say.

When the doctor came in and told us he did all he could do, my mom collapsed into my brother's arms and wept. It's one of the few times I've ever seen him cry. My sister grabbed onto me, and me? All I could do was not believe it. It was inconceivable that my father could die, and I couldn't imagine what life, for us, on the other side of that event, would be like. It didn't occur to me to think about him. He was dead, and that was it. His troubles had ceased. I remember crying violently and pounding on my leg in disbelief, like it would wake me from a nightmare. Pound pound pound. For all the good it did. Dad was just as dead.

And life was just as changed. It would never go back. My family went in to see Dad's body to see him at rest. I demurred. Mom told me it would reassure me, but I said no. I've never regretted that decision. My memories of my father are only of him alive. *

We went back to our house, stunned. No more Dad. We were cried out, in shock; not much to say, not much to be said, really. And then the relatives started showing up, with casseroles, with sympathy, and with stories...and a miracle. Within two hours, my morbid Uncle Rob and his brother-in-hijinks, Uncle Bill, had us laughing hysterically--my Mom, too, laughing gratefully at their jokes and cutting up. It's my fondest memory of my uncles, and whenever I see their kids I remind them of it.

But at some point, everyone had to leave. We were exhausted. I had a date that night, and I cancelled. I stayed at home with sister and Mom and tried to make sense of it all. Failing that, we all went to bed early....

I was the last to get up. I hadn't slept well and was restless all night. I groggily made my way to the kitchen, noting that coffee would be nothing like my father had made it--thick, black and slightly chewy. He'd learned to make coffee in the Navy. Both my mother and sister were up. They looked at me. My mother looked at me gravely.

"Did you see Dad?"

HUH?!

"I saw dad last night," my mother said. "So did I," said my sister.

What'd you see? Are you sure it was him?

"Yes. I saw a flashlight first, like when your dad would get up in the middle of the night. I looked at him and I said 'John?' He told me not to be afraid--that everything was going to be alright."

What'd he look like, mom?

"He was beautiful. He seemed so at peace. He said not to worry about him, he was alright, and everything was going to be fine. Then he walked away. I got up to follow him, but he was gone. So I went to your sister's room, and she was sitting up in bed." My sister nodded. "She looked at me and said, "Did you see him?"

I looked at my sister. "You saw him, too?"

"Yeah. I saw a light, and I saw him. He said he was alright, and everything would be fine. The mom showed up."

"Did you see him?"

No. (But that doesn't mean anything--I'm as psychic as a brick.)

Both my sister and my mother I consider rational people. This was twenty years before my mother's Alzheimer's diagnosis. After my father's death, she would go to work at a mall bookstore, and for the majority of the time before her retirement, worked the mall Information Booth--ironic, as that's the least-likely job for someone who would suffer from short-term memory loss. I could argue that the shock of my father's death triggered some chemical spurt in their brains to manifest his image (the way they say that those stories of "life flashing before your eyes" is caused by strength-producing adrenaline being released through your system). I don't know, but I suspect not. In the subsequent years, when I've heard similar stories--many of which came from an all-day session recording people's near-death experiences--I've been alert to the similarities between those stories and my mother and sister's. For instance, the phrase that seems to be a lulling mantra--"Don't worry about me, I'm alright and everything is going to be fine"--is common in the majority of these stories. The similarities are striking--unnervingly so.

But is that real or the imagination? Are we consoling ourselves through brain chemistry, or does St. Peter allow a free phone-call at check-in? Either way, I find myself marvelling at the mechanics of the Universe that would provide such comfort. Does it work for everybody? How about when everything isn't okay, and not fine?? Do the dead return to console in war? How about a death by violence? Are those the ghosts who wander the Earth as wraiths, poltergeists and banshees?** In death, apparently, one size does not fit all.***

We will all die (Garrison Keillor says that "Nature doesn't care about your golden years--it's aiming for turnover" and that's exactly right). But some of us could die "better" than others. One hopes that when The End comes for us, we can have the opportunity to reassure those we love...one way or another. It's the unfinished business of a finished life. The opportunity of a lifetime.

"Don't worry about me. Everything's going to be alright."

Reading over this, I'm a bit frustrated that there are far too many questions and not enough answers, but I suppose I won't know those answers until I cross-over, with the possibility of discovering The Big Picture.

When I do, I'll get back to ya.

*Subsequently, when my Mom died, I was the one to go make sure the funeral arrangements had been met, so I elected to view the body. My brother and sister did not. My sister-in-law, Jane, went with me. I've never regretted that decision, either, relieving them of that task.

** I'm sure I mentioned my psychic-friend. On this subject he was blunt: "Ghosts are ass-holes!" he said. He was very contemptuous of them.

*** I remember reading that Stanley Kubrick thought his film of "The Shining" was, actually, quite hopeful. "Isn't anything that implies life after death?" But Kubrick gave death his own spin by implying that it could be just another trap, waiting to make life...or death...hell.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bumper-sticker of the day: "Yes! This is my truck and NO! I won't help you move"

Song in me head: "Mrs. Robinson" (Simon and Garfunkle)

The Political Haunted House

It's not too late. We can still do this for Hallowe'en.

I was reading Stephen Colbert's guest editorial in the New York Times,* (here's the link to it, it's hilarious), and the image that stuck with me the longest was his vision of Dick Cheney driving a tractor through the Times newsroom while drinking sweet crude oil from Keith Olbermann's skull. That stayed with me for days, and though I'm a flaming liberal, not only could I imagine it, it was something I'd like to see. It got me to thinking: here it is the time of year every radio station and/or charity group--wait a minute, aren't they the same thing?--trots out any old abandoned warehouse/church/crack-house** and turn it into a "Haunted House." (OoooOOOOoo, spoo-oo-ooky!) The only people who like these paper-mache nightmares are kids in the narrow slice of life from 8 to12, and frat-boys who can get a cheap feel and blame it on the volunteers dressed half-heartedly as ghouls and trasvestite vampires.

And seeing as it's the start of a new political season, AND Hallowe'en season--wait a minute, aren't they the same thing?--why not COMBINE the two into your very own

POLITICAL HAUNTED HOUSE!! (thundercrack!)

a concept that just drips insincerity

But what (I hear you cry) WHAT would you PUT into the Political Haunted House (tc)? Bwa-ha-haa! Funny you should ask...Step this way..lead with your left or your right, it doesn't matter...and mind the broken step, the troll might grab you.. (Back off, Ron Paul! Put down that torch!!) Now we'll start in the foyer (yes, there's lots of cob-webs which indicates inactivity, but we're trying to make this an exact replica of a legislative chamber!). Any direction you go is better than no direction at all, and if you know that, why aren't YOU running for office? Oh, you hear screaming? Pay it no mind. That's Howard Dean.

Off with you now.

The Dick Cheney Halliburton Bunker Maze (and Shooting Gallery)- It's a House of Mirrors buried deep underground in the moral and physical swamp-land that was Washington, D.C., but now more resembles a quick-sand field. Good! It can't go to Hell fast enough. Step inside the distorting House of Mirrors, 'cause if you happen to shoot somebody, you'll only be shooting yourself. And if you don't like what you see in one mirror, there'll be one you like somewhere down the line. See how many dead-ends you can hit and still bluster that it's the way to go, anyway. There's a time-limit, but don't get the clock-ticking confused with your pace-maker. Either way, time is limited, so spend your capital--political and financial--as fast you possibly can. Who knew that when you said you weren't going to go to Viet-Nam because you had "better things to do," it was planning how to destroy THIS country, instead! Good job....Dick.

The Emperor George W. Bush Quo Vadis Vault- A man of many talents, "W." fiddles while effigies of American landmarks, made up of bricks of cash, go up in flames. One can't help wonder that, though he takes his marching orders from the "Other Father," the tableau looks more like the Other Place, with the Commander-in-Cheat as it's...Commander-in-Cheat. It's actually a good thing that if we're going to go to Hell as a Nation, his tax-cuts were just enough that we can buy a hand-basket to go in. And they're flammable. The only thing that could douse the all-consuming flames would be a level-5 hurricane--and we know how effective he is against those.

The Condy Rice Ti-tanker Room - If you're going to be on a sinking ship, it might as well bear your own name. The oil-tanker Condoleeza Rice (I'm not making that up) is seen going down for the first and last time, while on the prow Condy, Rummy and Paul Wolfowitz, their arms extended, scream "We're Queen of the World!" And when they go under, the only open arms they'll find will be their own. But of course, I'm being facetious--they''ll be on the board of directors of an oil company in the very near-future. Trouble is, with their wrong-way of looking at the world, they see a sinking-ship as a prelude to deep-ocean drilling.

Rudy Giuliani's House of Rubble: Six years after 9-11, the only thing that's been built on the site is a clueless campaign for President by the Mayor who thought the best place to put a disaster center was the place that had been bombed years before, and would be a crater years later. We won't even bring up the cross-dressing, the shameless exploitation of a national tragedy, or the rotating mistresses. The only reason he's running for President is no one'll give him a job in New York. And if the best thing you can say about him is "He went to a lot of funerals," it makes you think. But this room does exactly the same thing its namesake does--blow a lot of smoke.

The Hillary Rodham Temple of Dominazons: Every Haunted House should have something REALLY scary, kids. And nothing scares males (and some females) more than a woman with power over your life...or your career...or your government. In this little tableau, all the deep-seated insecurities from Mommy-fixations and parent domination are given a damn good prodding--This will HURT! (Whack!) But it's GOOD for you! (Whack!) And my health-care will cover any permanent DAMAGE (WHACK!)--your life will be regulated, curfews fixed, and you'll be "carded" for everything, while personal information is gathered and distributed. Sort of like now, but with a really bitter den-mother where an "all-hat-no-cattle" cowboy used to be. Four years of "Mommy, may I..." sounds bad, but think of the First Husband (which implies there could be a second!)--he gets the karmic experience of finding out what it's like to be on your knees in the Oval Office. Payback is a bitch!

The John McCain Tilting Balance Room--It's tough to keep your balance when the room turns on a whim--lurching to the left--lurching to the right. You begin to think that the best position to take is low to the ground...but WHOOPS!..there goes your balance off in another direction. But see, that's the funny thing about tilting rooms. They start off balanced, but if you make a move, everything shifts with you, and you usually end up over-compensating and looking like a fool...or flat on your ass. Whoops! Off to the right, again! Not to worry. This installation is temporary, at best.

The Alberto Gonzales Memorial "Crafts" Room: The only thing different from when he was A.G. are a few more cob-webs, not only on that unused Constitution, but high up in the rafters. But don't worry, the place is still doing a cracking business, just not with the same "fresh zeal" when everything was a new experience. Why, the world was your gulag with everything from psychological brow-beating in a hospital room to full-on electrified alligator clips. Come on in and desecrate a sacred text, play with the dogs (or their feces) or practice your simulated sexual positions. It's a party, and the music is loud and 24/7! Need a break? Step into the relaxing water-boarding room (it's like bobbing for apples, only you're the apple!) Be sure to get directions to this one, because the location is a secret. It's quick! It's painful! It's unconstitutional! (And as a parting gift, you get a web-page of black-hooded memories). The Alberto Gonzales Memorial "Crafts" Room: He may be gone, but his legacy lingers on--you know how slow the kangaroo-court system is!

The Al Gore Conversation Pit and Aquarium (Sunken)--Yes, it's underwater. Yes, you have to go in there. But at least, you don't have to LIVE in there...not for forty years, anyway. Yes, the price of global warming will be lots of developments that might as well go by the name of "Atlantis," for all the good it'll do ya. You think those climatologists who doubt the ice caps are melting are all wet? Wait a year, they WILL be! But you can help stop it by buying "carbon credits." After you've bought all those carbon credits, all you'll afford for Christmas is a lump of coal in your stocking. Carbon Credits is a lot like buying insurance. You throw a lot of money you may never see again, even if you do get sick. Don't worry, though, you've got a choice: Take the moral high ground now, or scramble for high ground later. In the meantime, I've got some swamp-land to sell ya.

Actually, Swamp-land futures.

Actually, Texas.

Hope you enjoyed your visit to the

POLITICAL HAUNTED HOUSE (thundercrack)

Just remember--it's only for Hallowe'en! What? It's just the same outside the Haunted House?

Ooooooh---SCA-RYY!!

*He was subbing for Maureen Dowd--a writer I just can't get behind. For all her crowing and lambasting of the Bush Administration these days, back during 2000 -election-time, she was one of the lazy reporting bunch who would parrot back the latest mis-characterization of Al Gore's speeches portraying him as an ego that invented everything, when a simple reading of his words--or...you know, research?--would have revealed that it was merely niche-reporting by the scribblen-lumpen, that Dowd and her ilk would just parrot back and howl about over their gin-and-tonics. Meanwhile they kept giving Bush the benefit of the doubt when he proved to be not as stupid as they assumed--and they had a grudging admiration for the unapologetic craveness of his campaign. After he was elected, these reporters were stumbling all over themselves with sober pontifications of "He's very smart--He's smarter than we thought he was--Smart, Verrrry smart!" Now, he's been proven to be the incompetent boob anyone who looked at his record as a businessman knew he would be, and these bandwagon reporters, who a few months ago were still fawning for press credentials and White House Invites have decided that they're now working for the Good of the Nation. Wrong, as always. She may be a leader in the Press Corps, but it's a Corps of lemmings, and chickens. If you want to lead a stampede in no particular direction, send the Maureen's.

** For years, I lived across from the building that was the traditional "haunted house" for one particular Seattle radio station (couKJRgh!). It was originally the site of Children's Hospital. Then The Seattle Police Department turned it into The City Morgue (talk about "cradle to the grave!"). Then, after the Morgue moved (and became a part-time Haunted House), someone got the bright idea to make it an assisted living facility. Someone with a short-term memory problem, no doubt. In fact, they're probably living there now.

"A Soft Lilac"

"All the while, in the sky above, where the sun is about to set, clouds are massing. One resembles a triumphal arch. Another, a lion. A third, a pair of scissors. A broad shaft of green light breaks through the clouds. Then, a violet ray. Then, one of gold. Then, pink. The sky turns a soft lilac. Gazing at this sky--so glorious, so magical--the ocean scowls at first. But soon it, too, takes on tender, joyous, passionate colors for which it is hard to find a name in human speech."

"Gusev" Anton Chekhov

A Thousand Words

Feeding Frenzy

This has, I am told, been happening every day. Usually in the morning, or near sunset, the madrona in our yard is beset by swarms of birds diving into the tree and swooping out, several at a time, and in all manner of variety (although anything crow-sized or larger stays away). The reason: the berries in the madrona are fermenting, and the birds are getting their fill and then (s)tumbling, drunk as a city council candidate, back to their nests, to work off the hang-over.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Song in me head: "I Am the Walrus" (Googoogajoob): "See what taking acid does for you?" says K.

Movie Review - "Michael Clayton"

"This keeps getting better and better"

Michael Clayton is not himself today. A lawyer for the firm of Kenner, Bach and Ledeen, he finds himself at 45 and the end of his rope without a knot, deep in debt, estranged from family, and very aware that that whooshing going by his Mercedes window is his life and he doesn't have much to show for it. Then he gets a phone call. "Arthur Edens just stripped down naked in a deposition room in Milwaukee." As its the firm's biggest case at the moment with billions on the line, he has to go fix it.

That's what Michael Clayton does. He has little to do with the law. He's a fixer. Need a fast consult? He does it. Need palms greased? He does that. Tickets to the big game? Scored. A leaning story in the press? Not worth a thought. "I'm not a miracle worker," he says to a rich client who's just run over a jogger in one of his cars. "I'm a janitor." And his territory is the moral sludge that he must wade through on a daily basis

"I'm not the enemy here" he tells his friend Edens, who's off his meds and has broken down to a Howard Beale-ish moral clarity that is legally inconvenient. The madness drops from Edens' eyes. "Then who are you?"

That's the question. And at that point, to say any more would be spoiling one of the best, deepest and engaging drama-thrillers to come down the aisle in a long time. Supposedly, when Clooney saw this script by Tony Gilroy he wanted to direct it, but deferred to Gilroy who probably saved this screenplay for himself. One of the better script doctors, it was his work on the "Bourne" series of films that made his name, and his directorial debut crackles with the same precision he brings to one of his unaltered screenplays. Just to allay Warner Bros. fears, the film is top-heavy with directing talent: Clooney stars and produces, Steve Soderbergh and Anthony Minghella are on the production side, as well as Sydney Pollack (the film feels like a Pollack project) who pulls off a career-best performance as the law partner on top of all the chaos. Michael O'Keefe makes a welcome return to films as the firm's "asshole" (I wonder if its on his business cards), and Tom Wilkinson's Edens--babbling, disheveled, isolated, walking around in a pure light that only he knows is there--is the showiest part, has the best lines and the actor throws off his customary restraint and relishes the opportunity. Tilda Swinton is all contained paroxysm as an outwardly smooth CEO whose veneer of respectability is as thin as that of the chemical company she heads. Then there's the Clooney, all-furrowed, with a Raymond Burr hood over his eyes, hating himself and everything he's doing. His one moment of respite has all the subtlety of a burning bush.

And then, things get interesting.

"Michael Clayton" is a full-price ticket.

Movie Review - "Across the Universe"

"Beatles For Sale"

I'm not a fan of musicals. So many of them are so damned giddy, and take for granted the contrivance that at any given moment someone is going to go from simple conversation to aria in no time flat...and hopefully not flat! And for me, a musical depends on the ability of the libretto to carry the narrative along cleverly, rather than stopping the show--which given the term "show-stopper" apparently is thought of as a good thing.

So a musical made of Lennon-McCartney (and George and Ringo) songs? That's pretty strong material! And God knows we need another Beatles musical since the film of "Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band" (featuring the BeeGees and Peter Frampton) was done so damned well (unfortunately there is no HTML code for "sarcasm" that reads).

Now I'm one of those people who thinks that Julie Taymor is an interesting director--one of those that swings for the fences and misses disastrously as much as she hits. I also liked "Moulin Rouge" (directed by Baz Luhrmann) which as this movie does, takes fragments of songs to build a narrative, which to some rock-devotees must seem like sacrilige. That's fine, though it struggles mightily to build a story with characters like Jojo ("Get Back"), Jude ("Hey,..."), Lucy ("in the Sky with..."), Prudence ("Dear.."), Sadie ("Sexy..."), and Max ("well's Silver Hammer").

"Moulin Rouge" worked because its fast pace and florid design hid the slimness of the plot. "Across.." is just as thin. Dick Clement and Ian LeFresnais have checked off all the lowest-common denominator elements that chant "60's" to an audience unfamiliar with it--VietNam war, race riots, psychedelia, rock n' roll, protesting--you know, the highlights. But where Luhrmann kept "Rouge" from dragging, Taymor does whole set-pieces of songs and when they end, the movie stops dead--wait a couple of beats--and the next song intro begins. While some of the songs make a nice plot-point with dramatic weight given to the lyrics, a lot of the songs just reiterate where we know the movie's already going, and all one can do is sit back and enjoy the music that you already know the lyrics to--no surprises.

How is the music? Nothing tops the originals, but the work that's done with these songs is impressive, and sometimes there are a few surprises. During the opening innocent songs, there's a sequence that's a slow version of "I Want to Hold Your Hand," sung by a wistful cheerleader sitting in the bleachers to the object of her affections--only a careful camera move reveals it's not the hunky quarterback--it's another cheerleader! Taymor then cuts to a slowed down, dreamy shot of the singer, lost in her obsession, walking through the football field, barely missing being blitzed by a practice going on all around her. It's a wierdly effective funny shot that tells you everything you want to know. After a dual funeral with a choir-sung "Let It Be," a guitarist decides to move to New York to the tune of "Come Together..." He wanders down the train station stairs, where at the bottom a street-person is singing the nonsense lyrics...and it's Joe Cocker! That guest appearance plays like gang-busters, less so are Bono mugging incessantly through a version of "I am the Walrus," and Eddie Izzard making mince-meat of "Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite," the main songs in a protracted psychedelic road-trip (which only brought back bad flashbacks of "Magical Mystery Tour"). Taymor is much more successful with an elaborately surreal army recruitment segment ("I Want You"/"She's So Heavy") and a bizarre VA hospital sequence to the song of "Happiness is a Warm Gun" (with a cameo by nurse Salma Hayek).

But it's all paper-thin, to the point where any parallels to the protest of that war, and the seeming acceptance of the Iraq War only barely register. If the film-makers are trying to stir hearts and minds they've blown the opportunity. And although there are some good sequences and the performances are game, the result is lame.

"Across the Universe" is a cable-watcher

Happy Birthday, Steve M

I'm not "mic-shy" because of this man.

I've told this story before, including his classes because he teaches, and I've co-taught with him and guest-lectured, he's gotten me work, I've gotten him work. We've shared a lot of joy and pain together, and we've run parallel lives since we first met.

Which was college. 1975, right before Fall Quarter, I believe.

I was going to be taking a Communications 360 , which was billed "Introduction to Broadcast Writing and Production." In it, we were going to be working at the radio station on the UW campus, KCMU (90.5 FM--10 watts of POWER! It's now KEXP, at a new place, a new frequency). I walked into the station, which was a bit disshevelled--there was a couple of long tables, with strong oak wood-chairs--all strewn with newspapers and ripped, curling pieces of paper, a wall of cabinets, an ancient AP news-ticker, and the studio, which was two rooms, separated by a double-paned glass window.

I would spend an inordinate amount of time in those two rooms over the next two years.

I had scanned the room, and a head popped out of what I would learn was the Control Room.

"Who are you and what do you want?" asked the head with large glasses, black curly hair, and a Groucho-esque moustache.

"I'm going to be taking this class in the Fall..."

"Y'are? Good! I need a news-cast at the bottom of the hour."

"Now?"

"No, in ten minutes. I need a news-cast five minutes long and you're going to do it. Go gather the news, put it together, and I'll point to you at half-past."

".......where do I get the news?"

"That AP machine by the wall. Just 'rip and read.'"

So, I got to work. I didn't know if he was a teacher, a student, or what...but he needed a news-cast and he asked me, so I was going to give him a news-cast. I went to the AP machine that chattered away, the first of many in my career. That machine would spit out a bulletin that Elvis had died during one of my music-shifts, and I immediately switch-backed the show, and turned it into an Elvis tribute, and before I knew it, the studio was filled with Communications students who just wanted to hang out, and talk Elvis and play records and be a part of a small acknowledgement of the passing of History. I'll always remember the looks on their faces--confused, sad, not entirely believing it, working through it. Elvis was dead. Man, that was big!

I was reading news blurbs, found the latest weather report, some slugs on sports, went through and pre-read everything a few times over, checked names and what was easy to say and what wasn't--made corrections. I think I was ready. I went into the booth, still reading over things. Steve was behind the glass, filling out the "log" for the FCC, pulling out records for after The News (with Me). I didn't pay much attention--I had a news-cast to do!

Another thing: I almost took a radio class in High School. But, I quit after the first day. Too much work! Jeez, I needed to graduate, I couldn't spend all my time doing that! So, now, here I was, again. If I could travel through time I'd tell 1975 Yojimbo, "Hey, kid! You were right the first time! But do it anyway, it's a lot of fun."

Plus, you'll have a friend for life.

Steve came out of a song, talking over it as it faded away. I put on a pair of big, clunky hard-plastic gray head-phones, and watched him turn it over to me, and I started reading. There was no "Here's the News!" No "Hi everybody, I thought maybe you'd uh...want to hear what..uh..was going on..." No "Good evening Mr. and Mrs. North and South America and All the Ships at Sea, Let's Go to Press! FLASH!" No preamble. News. For five minutes. I looked up at one point and Steve had left, probably to grab a cigarette. I was all alone. Just me, and absolutely no listeners. I read for five minutes, with I'm sure a few stumbles which I don't remember, but I kept going and about 20 seconds from the end started giving the forecast for "Seattle, Tacoma and vicinity" and I was off. Before I could say anything else, Steve was back on mic, thanking me and we were back into records. "Nice job!" I looked at him, like he was crazy. "I didn't have a chance to be nervous!" "No!" "I wanted to do a good news-cast." "Good!"

That's how Steve does things. No fear. No doubt. Throw you in, both feet. He still teaches that way. "We learn by doing." Not by talking about it. Do it.

I've never been "mic-shy," ever. But I've recorded hundreds of people who are, some of whom you'd think shouldn't be. I've seen people freeze in front of the microphone, paralyzed. I've seen them staring at the thing and babbling, unable to put two words together. But not me. Hit the mic switch and I cool down. I can talk, ad-lib, get comfortable--I'll freeze in front of a camera, but never a microphone.

Because of Steve.

It's his birthday today--what is it, 53? That's his wife Nancy, who's nowhere near 50, affectionately crowding into the picture, although at the time they were still BF-GF. They have a smart, devoted son named Kenneth, who seems to be wiser every time I see him.

Nice job!

Happy Birthday, Steve! And thanks! This is the only microphone available to me to broadcast this.

Strawberry Fields Forever

It's technically Day 3 in Portland. I feel comfortable in the city now, making my way around. It was another day of talking and building infrastructure. I don't feel like such a stranger, and even getting lost provides an education.

Driving into town Tuesday, I kept seeing enigmatic signs along the side of the road with juxtaposed images, like "Strip-Malls or Strawberry Fields?" Even though spending more time in strip-malls, I was thinking I'd prefer the latter, but threw the phrase out of my head.

Yesterday, I missed a turn and never made it onto 405 back to Beaverton, so I took the surface streets, taking Burnside--a road I remember travelling back in the day when I would escape the town of Longview for movie excursions to Portland. I had no idea where I was in relation to where I should have been, so I drove...just to see where...oh, let's say THIS road, would take me.

Within ten minutes I was out of the city and into farm-land....long expanses of farmland, rolling fields that extended as far as the eye could see, with produce set-ups and horse ranches, but I thought I must have really gotten off my path to get there. I made my way back, and within a very short time I was in a neighborhood development nearly identical to the one from where I'm writing now. Two more of those developments with their McMansions and cul-de-sacs and I was back to the Main Drag that marks the turn-off to where I'm staying. There is still hundreds, thousands of acres of farm-land within a ten-minute drive of where I sit tonight typing. And those signs I mentioned? They're campaign signs for Prop 49, trying to staunch the kind of development that's shortening that ten minutes. But I found the nearness of rural to urban truly amazing. Stunning, in fact.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
My disorientation prompted me to buy a Thomas Guide for Portland at the nearby Costco, and the scales fell from my eyes about street relationships and such, and today I made a sojourn into town to see a movie at The Lloyd Center--Portland's not as-sprawling-as-you-might-expect mall on the Eastside of the river. Quite a few theaters are stacked up there, so I left early anticipating some wandering in the desert. Nope. Got there, with not the most efficient path, but got there within a short walk to the theater. There was some police action going on--an anti-terror drill turned real when a bomb-threat was called in nearby--there was still the same amount of police presence after the movie as before, with a nearby park completely cordoned off with yellow police tape. Interesting.

I met up with the Day's afterward and we went to the Russell Street Barbecue, where the food was plentiful and delicious, the wait-staff grateful for friendly joshing customers, and we talked strategy, movies, animals and television--they recommend checking out "Damages," "Weeds," "The Wire," and...thankfully, "Dexter." "Dexter" was starting to worry me--I got the full first season of "Dexter" from the production company as an enticement to watch the show for Emmy consideration, and I found it totally compelling, and extraordinarily well-done. I watched every episode in three marathon sittings. But I haven't been able to get anybody else to watch it. "Too creepy!" Well, yes, it's about a young man with homicidal instincts tracking down serial killers the law hasn't been able to touch, and...disposing of them...violently, but not before confronting them with their crimes. Extraordinarily well-written and played, especially by Michael C. Hall, late (no pun intended...much) of "Six Feet Under." But as much as I praise the show to the skies, no one will watch it. I even gave the series to a friend with one of the sickest senses of humor I know, and he couldn't get through the first episode. "Too squeamish," he said. "And could you get it out of my house?" I was starting to think there was something wrong with me, but no...it's been confirmed that, yes, it's that good.

They also recommended that I watch PBS' "American Masters" episode on Tony Bennett, and, luckily, I was able to do that tonight. What a wonderful program, done in a fast breezy, jazzy style, with Bennett among the many interviewees, as well as lots of clips, with the wonderful conceit of inter-cutting Bennett through the years singing the same songs (remarkably consistently) as well as early appearances of those songs in film. The man's been singing for 60 years, and is still going strong, and has maintained a following through the MTV generation. They even showed the "Saturday Night Live" clip of Alec Baldwin doing a wicked send-up of Bennett hosting a talk-show, with his guest...Bennett impersonator...Tony Bennett. One of the most hilarious things on that show in, well, decades...spurred on by Bennett's trademark delight participating in it. Glad I caught up with it--check it out. Brilliantly pulled off by writer-director Bruce Ricker, editor Joe Cox, and producer...Clint Eastwood. Zoink!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Friday, I go home. I've got stuff to do, and a game-plan to pursue. I may return as early as next week, but we'll see what the freelance game has in store. Got a review to write, but just a quick recommendation--go see "Michael Clayton." You won't regret it.

The View from Portland

New city. Strange computer. Tuesday night, staying at the "boarding house," depending on the (not inconsiderable) kindness of strangers. Drove down (after two nights of five hours sleep due to, and a day of, freelance. Got in around six. Fading. Nothing good on TV. Jane, the house-mother, and I watched "Cavemen," and we kept exchanging mutual eye-rollings of disgust, so we decided to see if we could improve the picture she was getting on cable. I moved her 50-ton TV and went spelunking amongst the cables, cutting the umbilicals of some (Rabbit-ears? Really? No, no, no, that's like belt and suspenders!) and reconnecting others (the VHS is good to go!) Now, I'm sitting here at her wide-screen Compaq blogging with my final ergs of energy.

Stopped by the Beaverton Costco, and bought a new shirt, slacks and jeans. Me, buying clothes. Haven't done that since...well, I haven't done that. Everything I've got at the Cabin on the Rock has worn thinner than Larry Craig's excuses, and would not "do" for an interview-lunch Wednesday, and dinner with sponsors ("If you have fingers, prepare to cross them now"). "Happy"Day and his bewitching bride have done an awful lot for me to get to this moment and I want to thank them, but I can't do that looking like...one of the Geico spokes-neanderthals.

While I was marathoning the Costco aisles (no videos, no toys--noticed they're selling "Lincoln Logs" again!--just clothes--sounds like a bad Christmas). I stopped by the book counter, and was immediately intrigued by one title--Patti Boyd has written an autobiography.

Who's Patti Boyd? She was a British "bird"-model when she was hired to be one of the "school-girls-on-the-train" in "A Hard Day's Night," where she met and fell into madly-mutual love with George Harrison. They married, but things hit the skids--one of George's best friends was hopelessly, madly in love with her, too--Eric Clapton, whose love burned as much as his veins did full of heroin. "Layla" is the song he wrote of his passion for Patti. George loved her, but Eric needed her. I don't know how it happened,* but soon Eric and Patti were married, with George's blessing and divorce. George married Olivia, mother of Dhanni. Patti Boyd: Musical Muse to Two Geniuses. Now there's an autobio' I'd want to read! I moved down the book aisle. Oh! Eric Clapton has an autobiography out, too! The dinks couldn't be more coinc-ier!

I'm making up silly phrases now. Time to get some shut-eye--though, since my eyes have a tendency to stay open when I sleep, that doesn't really apply.

Speaking of "apply," wish me luck tomorrow.


* Well, if you go to Patti's place on Wikipedia, you'll see much more--that she was also the inspiration for "Something," (natch!), and "(You Look)Wonderful Tonight"(Geez!), as well as several other songs. That it was her interest in Eastern philosophy that inspired the Beatles trip to India to see the Maharishi, and that it was Harrison's continual infidelity that caused their break-up (PB finally got fed up when GH had an affair with Maureen Starkey--Ringo's wife--and you thought the cross-breedings of The Mommas and the Poppas and Fleetwood Mac were convoluted!) But Clapton kept cheating on her, too, which led to alcoholism (for both of them) and divorce. Man! And after all this, everybody's still friends!

Tobacco is a dirty weed. I like it.

K has been counting down all week.

One dead soldier. Two dead soldiers.

She's quitting smoking. And it's hard. I know (I've done it dozens of times).

But she's been taking a class at the Hospital, and now its become a Personal Challenge, so its "buh-bye smokes."

But it's tough, despite all the stuff she's been learning in the class.

Did you know it's safer to smoke cigars than cigarettes these days? Because with cigars you get tobacco, tar--the usual things we've been warned about. But the tobacco companies lace their modern cigarettes with all sorts (up to 600) of chemical additives, like (wait for it) benzene, freon, ammonia, as well as extra nicotine...oh, and chocolate. And they put all these chemicals into the trash tobacco (mostly garbage like stems that aren't as valuable) they mash into cigarettes to make it more addictive faster. So when you take those first couple of puffs that rush you feel is your capillaries constricting from all the chemistry going into your blood-stream.

Suh-weet!

I've been off smokes for five years about. I smoked some in college. Resisted when my first wife smoked, and our best friends smoked. But when I started doing sessions where the producer-writer, all the talent and everybody smoked, I couldn't avoid it anymore. So I started again. And BOOM! it was like I never stopped. One of the reasons it's tough to quit is because you don't WANT to quit! It feels good. It feels cool! It gives you a chance to sneak outside from work and take a break. Time becomes measured in the length of a cigarette, the number of cigarettes in a pack. It becomes a favorite part of your life. You don't WANT to give that up.

But you have to. It's unnatural to inhale all that smoke--your body can't process it fast enough. It's not natural to lose your taste, or to walk around in a tobacco cloud that only you are not aware of. And you fool yourself into thinking nobody notices. But people do. Because your clothes stink of it.

How'd I quit? I stopped buying 'em. Then I'd have to bum them off people, which is embarrassing, AND it throws off your comfort cycle. Sometimes you have to smoke when its not convenient, and you can't finish that precious cigarette. The rhythm gets thrown off--you can't have a cigarette any time you want any more, and that just throws everything out of joint.

Sean Connery helped me stop smoking, too. In "Never Say Never Again," the villain offers him packs of cigarettes to smoke, and the reply is "Not today..." "Not today" is a great way to stop smoking. Pretty soon, "Not today's" start piling up, and you don't even know when the last time you've smoked was. That's the other thing--I try not to think of it as a life-sentence. "Not today" makes it seem casual, and not absolute. "Some day I might have a cigarette, if I really want it, and am weak enough to go through with it."

Just not today. Maybe not ever. But not today, for sure.

When I was stopping, the toughest thing was to watch people smoke in movies. I can see why they want to slap "R" ratings on movies with smoking. I never wanted a cigarette so bad as coming out of "Good Night and Good Luck."

Which reminds me, right after CBS News announced the real Ed Murrow's death from cancer, they cut away to a cigarette ad (back in the day).

Tobacco is a dirty weed. I like it.

It satisfies no normal need. I like it.

It makes you thin, it makes you lean,

It takes the hair right off your bean

It's the worst darn stuff I've ever seen.

I like it.

Graham Lee Hemminger, "Tobacco"

Love you K. Snuff it out. You can do it.

Tales from the Red Envelope

"The Interpreter" (Sydney Pollack, 2005) A lot of "firsts" in this movie: the intriguing pairing of Sean Penn and Nicole Kidman--she, in a role tailor-made for Charlize Theron, and he, basically making money for the production of "Into the Wild;"* it's the first time the United Nations has allowed filming on its premises (a wise move to dispel some of the recent "Secret Society" rantings about the U.N. among the Red States), showing the inner workings and the awe-inspiring chambers inside; it's Sydney Pollack's first film designed for wide-screen since his work in the 60's**--his compositions are far more elegant and complex than the kind of attention he paid to, say, "The Electric Horseman," or "Tootsie," or sadly, "Out of Africa." The wide-screen compositions give the impression that the film is more complex than it actually is. As it stands it follows the Pollack formula ("Person of Mystery investigated by another until all is revealed in a pro-forma setting," in this case, the general assembly of the U.N.) The Person of Mystery is Kidman's Sylvia Broome, an interpreter at the U.N. with a burning secret. The investigator is Penn's Tobin Keller with the Secret Service, charged with protecting the despotic President of an African nation--where Ms. Broome's dissident parents, sister, and most recently, brother were killed. Only he doesn't know that. Why wouldn't he know that, you may ask? So do I, as a background check might--just might--turn up that information. But, he's distracted because 1) you know how investigations involving information from third world countries go, 2) Broome is very good at not volunteering any information, 3) she's being stalked, so now he's involved in protecting the potentate and her for what she might know, and 4) oh yeah, his wife just died.

I guess 1-3 weren't dramatic enough reasons.

There are plots, counter-plots and even bogus plots falling all over each other, one particularly nasty explosion (that violates the "Hitchcock rule"***), and some such nonsense about Truth being better than Lying. It's a lot of drama built over one of those Messages that is so Simplistic, Nobody's going to be Offended. I guess you have to do that when you film at the U.N.

Seeing the magnificent cathedrals to world peace is the best reason to see this movie. Kidman and Penn are very good, but wasted (but not as "criminally" wasted as Catherine Keener is as Penn's partner-agent), and Pollack's eye for composition has never been better. If those particulars are of interest it's a movie to see. If things like story matter, best to give it a pass.



"Garden State" (Zack Braff, 2004) A delightful little film, rude with detail, about a young aspiring actor who takes the occassion of a trip back home to attend his mother's funeral to stop taking anti-depressants. Zack Braff ("Scrubs") writes, acts and stars in "Garden State," and he's got to be pretty good, but he pulls off a perfect hat-trick without slighting any of those functions. Plus, he has a pretty good eye for camera-work, too, as his medicated section plays austere and sterile, but gradually becomes freer with subject matter and composition right to the last shot. Good cast, too. Natalie Portman is all charming neurotic tic as a Jersey girl, and Peter Sarsgaard turns in another seemingly effortless performance as the best of Braff's stoner-friends. Ian Holm is the tightest-wound of control-freak dad-shrinks, and there's a wonderful cameo by Jean Smart. The film loses its way briefly in the third act on a prolonged scavenger hunt, but wraps up nicely. Pretty damned good for somebody's first film!****


"The Last King of Scotland" (Kevin Macdonald, 2006) Talk about lucky guys--at last year's Oscars, Peter Morgan was nominated for his screenplay for "The Queen," and the two leading actors of his screenplays won both Best Performance Awards: Helen Mirren for "The Queen," and Forrest Whitaker for this film. They both had great material to work with. Morgan's talents for breathing life and personality into history (catch his HBO film, "Longford," while you're at it) puts to shame the recent spate of "highlights-biographies" ("Ali," "Nixon," "Man on the Moon," "Chaplin," "Ray") that are like filmed Cliff Notes. And Whittaker is amazing in the film ("How'd they get him?" K. asked when he was first on screen. No, it's Forrest Whittaker), projecting the half-baked soul of Idi Amin Dada. It's a Supporting-sized role, but so large does Whittaker's portrayal loom over the movie that he dwarfs everyone else, even James McAvoy's starring performance as cocky Scotts physician Nicholas Garrigan, who goes looking for some selfish adventures and winds up being The Devil's Internist in Uganda. And what starts as lucky breaks for a kid out of medical school turns into a nightmare of bad choices as the wildly paranoid Amin sinks deeper into madness, torturing first his enemies, and then those in his circle of confidence. In a country run by a lunatic, its a short trip from adviser to being strung up from a meat-hook (lest you think, "Last King..." is as genteel as "The Queen," think again, the violence is bloody, and the torture is dwelled upon).

The director is Kevin Macdonald, a former documentarian, and he seems to have a problem with pace. "Last King" feels drawn out, and in need of additional editing (as did his previous film, the interminable "Touching the Void," which managed to make an incredible story something of a drag). But the sense of place and time feels genuine--you might not believe afterwards that the story is actually fictitious.

*More and more, Penn is looking like this generation's George C. Scott, in the literal and spiritual sense.

*** Pollack stopped doing wide-screen composition for films because the only other market for films was airings on television--full-screen, which would take wide-screen films and electronically shift them to the area of the screen where the center of attention was, a process perjoratively called "pan-and-scan." So, Pollack made movies where most of the "action" was going on in the middle of the screen in a barely elongated square, like your television screen. Now, that the technology has advanced with wide-screen TV, and DVD's eclipsing TV broadcasting (the "major" networks don't show movies anymore), and the cable channels mix wide-screen with "pan-and-scan." Movie channels devoted to films (like TCM) show films wide-screen. Movie channels that only SAY they're devoted to films like AMC) pan and scan--and insert interruptions, like commercials and promos. Stanley Kubrick composed for television, as well. that's why there's such a stink about his DVD's (except for the early films through "Clockwork Orange") not being wide-screen. They supposedly weren't intended to be.

*** Before you set off a bomb, tell people there is a bomb, and where it is, and when it will go off, to build suspense. That's why a lot of movie-bombs have superfluous LED screens.

**** The topic of "Garden State" came up at a party recently and the reactions to it were extreme--love it or hate it. But the most vehemence--and a large reason to hate the movie was Natalie Portman. I thought she was great, more than redeeming herself for the "Star Wars" prequels, but a couple of women in the room not only thought she was horrible, but ruined the movie. ??? Really? RUINED the entire movie? In my opinion, they couldn't be more wrong. But, why would they think that? I think it's because she wasn't wearing the right kind of make-up. No, not Maybelline. Something like the make-up Charlize Theron wore to win the Oscar in "Monster," (besides the truly amazing performance, that is), or the false nose Nicole Kidman wore in "The Hours." And let's be fair here, the transformation of Daniel Day Lewis for his award-winning performance in "My Left Foot," or the weight and schlumpf George Clooney burdened himself with for "Syriana." So, word of advice, Nat', if you're ever gonna be taken seriously, think something disfiguring.

Up-dates!

First off, Happy Birthday to John-Bai. He's already gotten his heart's desire (the Yankees are out of the World Series), so everything else is just vegan gravy.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Working on a bunch of stuff that need more percolation, so in lieu of talking about my dog's Eating Disorder (He wants to eat ALL THE TIME!!!), I'll just do some house-keeping on recent hidden little additions to the site that you might want to check out:

-Many additions to the Chuck Jones Tribute, including making sure that appearing, disappearing videos are stabilized (for today). You can check out "Duck Dodgers in the 24 1/2 CENTURY," "One Froggy Evening," AND "Duck Amuck," what I think is Jones' masterpiece--a surrealistic exercise in cartooning--playing with the genre, while also entertainingly putting Daffy Duck through a Kafka-esque series of tortures. Good punch-line, too.

-A couple more things added to the Stanley Kubrick Tribute, including an entire 1 hour episode of Charlie Rose interviewing Kubrick's widow, producer brother-in-law and Martin Scorsese which is a great discussion of the guy and his work. Re-established a link to Kubrick's Director's Guild acceptance speech. And added the terrific overview at the beginning of "Stanley Kubrick: A Life in Pictures," (which is repeated in the Charlie Rose show, but what can you do?).

-Added a link to Bill Watterson's ("Calvin and Hobbes") review of the new Charles Schulz biography that draws some interesting connections between Schulz's work and his life. The analyisis of the Lucy-Schroeder interplay is a rock-solid revelation into Schulz's personality, while also showing how he would work out his pain through his work. Still waters...

-Not much, but while reading "This is Orson Welles" I came across a quote I'd always wanted to use in the Orson Welles Tribute, but could never locate for the exact wording. It's there now, and shows that however enlarged Welles' ego was, he had no illusions about a director's function or his control over the work done.

- The Jerry Goldsmith Tribute--one clip disappeared--a discussion of the behind-the-scenes-ferfluffle scoring "Star Trek: The Motion Picture" has replaced it.

- A better version of the Jeno's Pizza-Roll commercial is in the Stan Freberg tribute (he just turned 81!).

-In the Walter Murch Tribute--two video's about Murch mixing the helicopters in "Apocalypse Now" in surround (with a nifty little speaker-chart!), and Murch talking about the whole concept of "World-izing" sound effects.

-While doing some clean-up of photo resources, the computer (or Blogger) started eating one of the Hitchcock "Now I've Seen Everything" segments (III- "A Period of Grace"), so it's substantially re-written. Still haven't figured out how things just started disappearing (No, I didn't have the "Insert" key--a computer's version of a "black hole"--depressed) I think the Universe is against me. Maybe I should draw a comic strip.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Gotta go. Ferry to catch....

Tales from the Socialist Literary Collective*

The Painted Veil (John Curran, 2006) Maugham's tough. A restrained writer of underlying passions and the complications of class and personality, he has had little luck in adaptations for the screen, which when separated from the civility of his tone, tend to look all the more melodramatic. Filmmakers have combated this in a number of ways when adapting works by Maugham. They either are as dry as dust, the juice sucked right out of them (The Razor's Edge, 1947), played to hysterics, overcompensating for the former (The Razor's Edge, 1987...with a "jokey" Bill Murray performance), or just the basic idea used and the rest transmuted to some other end (Hitchcock's "Secret Agent"). However, we're gradually catching up to him. With time, his themes have seen better, more fulfilling adaptations, but Maugham needs a director like Elia Kazan, who wasn't afraid to walk the fine line of good/bad taste. "The Painted Veil" has been lensed twice before--once with Garbo in 1937, and, as "The Seventh Sin" (more box-officey title) with Bill Travers and Elanor Parker in 1957. Both films emphasized the soap-ish, melodramatic aspects of the story, but this one is a huge improvement. It's obviously a labor of love, because it cost $17 million to produce and it looks like three times that much, at least. Filmed mostly in China, "The Painted Veil" tells the story of a spiteful marriage between a cold physician, and a spoiled society girl, who must adapt to a life of sacrifice and want in the Far East, and in the process find their priorities shift and their expectations shattered. It's one of Maugham's "too little, too late" stories, but I've rarely seen one better acted (the cast includes Naomi Watts, Edward Norton--sacrificing salaries as producers--Liev Schrieber, Toby Jones, and Dame Diana Rigg) or realized so well. This may be the best movie deal in years from a production and audience stand-point.

An Unfinished Life (Lasse Hallström, 2005) There may be no director more genteel than Lasse Hallström. Whether his subject is incest, abortion (The Cider House Rules), depression (The Shipping News), disassociation (What's Eating Gilbert Grape?), he manages to sap any dramatic life right out of it, even beating out the Merchant/Ivory films for taking drama and making it blandly digestible. Hallström is a director for the blue-haired old ladies who attend matinees who like to be titilated with racey subject matter, but not shocked. Never shocked. What's Hallström's social drama of the week? It's family abuse. Jennifer Lopez grabs her daughter and flees her abusive husband (the always reliable Damian Lewis, who seems stuck playing heavies now), to her verbally abusive father-in-law (from her previous, child-bearing marriage). He's an old coot (Robert Redford, mussed up) crusty with scabs of bitterness from the death of his only son/her first husband, blaming her for the drunken car accident that killed him. Heaped onto that guilt is his own for being too in his cups to keep friend Mitch (Morgan Freeman) from being mauled by a bear (no, really, that's the story). It's all about taking reponsibilty and letting go of recrimination. By the end, even the bear has a change of heart and is forgiven his trespassings. It's all very neat, and very tidy and well-played by all. All it seems to lack is "Hallmark" watermarked on it. Still, one could do worse watching it.


The Testament of Dr. Mabuse (Fritz Lang, 1933) Professor Moriarty, Fu Manchu, Ernst Stavro Blofeld, Hugo Strange, Hannibal Lecter--all master-minds of crime. But they don't hold a suddenly-snuffed-out candle to Dr. Mabuse, Fritz Lang's "man behind the curtain," so powerful he can control his vast drug, counterfeiting, terrorism, assassination and extortion rings from his near catatonic state inside a Berlin mental institution. Lang made three movies about Mabuse--one in 1922 "Mabuse, Der Spieler," and in 1960, "The Thousand Eyes of Dr. Mabuse," his last film. This one, the middle of the trilogy (or actually tetrology if you count "Inferno") , was made under the unapproving gaze of the Nazis, and subsequently banned by Goebbels, prompting Lang, one of the stellar visionaries of German cinema ("M," "Metropolis") to flee the country for Hollywood. And what a vision it is, reflecting the paranoia of National Socialist Germany. Men are sniped while trapped in traffic jams, or nearly blown to bits with barrels of gasoline. Lang even uses the limitations of film to keep you on edge, as lethal chunks of concrete fall from out of frame to threaten those trapped inside. No one is safe, and little is what it seems in the web that Mabuse spins, even unconsciously. One sees in this, the inspirations for Hitchcock and 007** (the film ends with an impressive series of chain-explosions), that not only evolved the thriller genre, but the action film as well. But leave it to Lang to take Mabuse's evil and take it to a supernatural level, as well. No one's safe, in reality or beyond. Now, that is genuine creepiness.


And Then There Were None (René Clair, 1945) Agatha Christie's classic (despite its racist name "Ten Little Indians" or its even more racist original name!) about a collection of disparate people gathered in a remote location and then picked off one by one is a staple of the mystery format. It's been directly adapted for the screen no less than nine times, and homaged endlessly on television (I can recall variations on "The Avengers" and "The Twilight Zone") as well as Neil Simon's encyclopedic send-up of the mystery genre "Murder By Death." This one precedes them all, and is probably the best of the bunch. With an all-star cast (for the 30's) and the nimble direction of René Clair (sadly unacknowldged these days, but he was a crafty film-maker--check out the sequence where some suspicious males start to eaves-drop on each other for clues that is as witty as it is intriguing) this adaptation of Christie's play (with an ending amended by Christie to make it more of a crowd-pleaser) is a fine study of upper class paranoia, with stand-out performances by Barry Fitzgerald, Walter Huston, Dame Judith Anderson and Mischa Auer.


The Devil and Daniel Webster (William Dieterle, 1941) I've known about this film for years, because it was the film that won Bernard Herrmann his only Oscar for Best Score, over his other score that year, "Citizen Kane." It's had a checkered history, though, after a less than blockbuster business it was cut by 20 minutes and released with a sexier, less folksy ad campaign (see right) under the name "All That Money Can Buy," which seems to celebrate the profilgate life-style, rather than the altruistic, socialist one espoused by the film. It seems that Jabez Stone only really finds redemption until he's joined the Grange. I may be revealing the ending here, but, really, the outcome is inevitable considering the extraordinarily heavy hand that is used to show the tyrannies of wealth, lust, and greed that are the by-products of selling your soul to the Devil. Fortunately, the great orator Daniel Webster is around to plead the case for the defense when a breach of contract occurs. Usually these scenes are the highlights, but in this film it's a disappointment. Even though played vigorously (by the least likely actor, Edward Arnold, well-known for playing power-brokers and fascists in many a movie) the Webster homilies that are spun are so much sentimental goo and would curl the lip of Aimee Semple McPherson, much less the hardened denizens of Hell that make up the jury in the matter. Even Frank Capra must have rolled his eyes. But Dieterle seems to have shurked those sections to go all-out for his scenes with The Devil. Mr. Scratch's entrances are extravaganzas with light and smoke, he has the best lines (of course), and a truly creepy performance by Walter Huston (John's dad) with maliciously twinkling eyes, and a smile that's so broad that it may turn feral at any moment. Huston is the thing to see in this film, although Jane Darwell (Ma Joad from "The Grapes of Wrath") and Simone Simon (just before she became big with "Cat-People") do wonders with their material as well.


Deliver Us from Evil (Amy Berg, 2006)
screed n. 1. a long monotonous harangue
The recent spate of scandals in the Catholic Church finally put the last nail in the crucifix of my faith. I've long considered that Organized Religion is just another way for a self-appointed select few to exercise (or exorcise) power over individuals all-too-willing to buy what they're selling. Combine it with a tax dodge (from a government that only talks separation of Church and State), and all sorts of scum will crawl out of the woodwork claiming the Ear of God, especially when they can hide behind the guise of sanctimony. "Deliver Us From Evil" puts faces on the headlines and the money settlements, of people of faith victimized not only by priest-predators, but by the hierarchy of the Church that condoned the actions by playing a shell-game relocating the offenders, rather than punishing them, making the Church no better than a pederasty ring. At the black heart of the documentary is Father Oliver O'Grady, the very epitome of the stereotypical Catholic Priest: folksy, black Irish with enough accent and blarney to charm his way into the hearts of his flock, and used them to charm his way into trusting households and molest the children inside, male or female--O'Grady didn't discriminate. One wonders why he would
consent to an interview. To clear the air? Penance of a twisted sort? Whatever the reasons the man is so clueless and mired in the cess-pool of his own rationalizations that he seems to have made a sort of peace with what he's done, a sociopathic self-satisfaction that one can only observe with disbelieving shock. Perhaps it has something to do with his faith. He's done his Penance, and so he must be forgiven, right? That's the very heart of the Church's Sacrament of confession. But it's a dogma that falls short for those victims still haunted by his actions, and are having a hard time forgiving themselves, though their only failing is to trust someone, who is supposed to be trustworthy. That trust has been shattered not only by a family friend and "God's disciple," but also by the Church hierarchy that hid the crimes, and allowed them to be repeated in other counties (The Pope, as the head of state of the Holy See has immunity from prosecution in this country).

One of the parents breaks down and says that the whole experience has made him no longer believe in God. I'm with him. If God existed, these bastards would have been turned into pillars of salt by now. Still, the film, though wrenching, carries with it some hope in the form of Fr. Thomas Doyle, an advocate for the victims who has run afoul of the Church for his stand. His compassion, and the strength of the faith of two of the victims featured are testaments (if you will) to the good of their belief system. And the ability to heal.

* Your Public Library

** For those of the comic set, one can look at Steve Englehart's collaborations with Marshall Rogers in "Detective Comics" and see that he drew the inspiration for the supernatural abilities of Dr. Hugo Strange from this very Mabuse film.