"Lone Wolf and Cub" have made their way home after two and a half weeks in Eugene ("And there was much rejoicing..." "YAY!"). And, as predicted, they were exhausted. Smokey was sacked out in no time (see left), and K busied herself around the house, until presented with a hot Yakisoba meal, which knocked her out. I stayed up, doing this (this) and that (tending the fire, and trying to watch "The Testament of Dr. Mabuse") until finally shuffling off to bed--it was a full day of chores, including cleaning the gutters ahead of the incipient inclemency, and chopping a nice supply of dry kindling for the wood-stove. Sunday, we're in "ski-lodge mode" with the stove blazing, books (and lots-a-mail) read, and one badly needed haircut acquired. Back to work tomorrow: me, back to The Agents, K, looking for new curtains. We've settled into routines pretty quickly. K. thinks she might have to go back in three weeks. (Oog). ------------------------------------------------------------------------- Bird Architecture 101
In my chores for Spring yesterday, I discovered a couple of items that fall into the "True-Life Adventures on the Rock" category: two bird's nests, which I found fascinating. Bird's nest #1 was built inside a basket of Smokey's toys hanging on a hook on our porch. The nest was actually built INSIDE his small red kick-ball.
We disturbed it too many times, and so said nester (a robin) moved upstairs to the rafters and built its nest around spikes to discourage birds. I wrote about it here. Now, having long been an empty-nest, here's what it looks like--Bird's Nest #2. I find both little marvels of engineering.
------------------------------------------------------------------------- Say, wouldn't you Rather?
As they used to say in Esquire: Why is this man smiling?
As a judgement, could it be asked that those embedded journalists who were more concerned with their invites to K Street parties, with currying favor with White House bullies, with spewing the party line and completely reneging on their duties as the Fourth Estate, have their heads shaved like those folks who had collaborated (or slept) with occupying forces during WWII?
----------------------------------------------------------------------- The Party Abstained
Owing to the early arrival of K, I missed the Walaka-palooza (a satisfyingly full report can be found here), though I was in attendance on Friday for the screening of "Tongan Ninja," which I found hilarious. Inept, but knowingly inept which is important. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- "Miss Moneypenny, what would I do without you?"
Sadly, we're about to find out. The gal who played Miss Moneypenny from Sean Connery through George Lazenby to Roger Moore, Lois Maxwell, has died at the age of 80. She was the last survivor of the Big 3 of "Universal Exports," who were regulars of the Bond series, and she appeared in more of them than only one other person. Know who that thespian is?
Flirting with Connery in "Goldfinger"
Posing with Brosnan's "Moneypenny," Samantha Bond, and "that car" at Stoke Poges golf course (from "Goldfinger")
"...a nice touch"-Al Bean's opinion of Apollo 8's lunar reading of Genesis
"As many stars as there are in the heavens," that's how many documentaries there've been about the Apollo moon landings: The officially propagandistic NASA exercises, full of facts and jargon and about as exciting as a shareholders' report (which, in fact, they are); the private documentaries that re-use the same footage and cliches over again; the ones produced by the news conglomerates, with anchor-people front and center (we're not even considering the garage-produced "Capricorn One" conspiracy lunacies)*; then there's "For All Mankind," which artfully combined NASA footage (taken from the original negatives), narrated by unseen and anonymous astronauts.
Now, along comes "In the Shadow of the Moon," and it tries to do something different. Of course, there's the basic overview: Kennedy, Apollo 1, turmoil, Apollo 8, "one small step for a man...," but where "For All Mankind" emphasized a cosmic timelessness, "Shadow" leaves you with the impression that time is passing quickly, especially in that tiny sliver of the cosmic clock when a small fraternity of men walked two worlds. It's been 35 years since someone trod the moon and those men are now retired, from the military and their business interests. So, the filmmakers gathered together most of the surviving Apollo-nauts** (the one hold-out being the reclusive Neil Armstrong, who might have overshadowed--no pun intended--the others), and instead of asking the basic "tell us what it was like," the question is: "How did you feel?" How did you feel training for years for a mission before millions of people, being shoved into space on the point of a 36 story pencil, performing the thousands of items on a check-list to become the single most isolated men in recorded history. How did you feel walking on the moon? What was it like to look up and see your Earth hanging above you?
These and other questions are answered, like Al Bean (Apollo 12) saying that as a test-pilot he resented Alan Shepard flying "faster, higher, louder than me and doing it in front of millions of people," so he signed up for astronaut duty. Mike Collins (Apollo 11) talks about how his hours spent alone behind the moon out of communication with anybody, made him think about the millions of people on the other side of the moon, and whether he might actually BE alone on his side of space. Eugene Cernan (Apollo 17) talks about the fireball generated at stage separations and how each stage kicks them through it. They all talk about the pangs they felt seeing the Earth in space. Ed Mitchell (Apollo 14) comes to an epiphany that everything in his sightline is born of the same star-stuff. Collins, Buzz Aldrin--they don't even acknowledge his real first name "Edwin"--and Capcom Charlie Duke all talk about the tension of the first lunar landing by Apollo 11 (Cernan makes the comment that Armstrong has "cool stones"). Bean talks about why you never wanted to sit next to Aldrin at a party (he'd want to talk about orbital mechanics), and Aldrin reveals his own personal "first on the moon" story.
They are old men now, not the brash test-pilots in their 30's, and with twinkles in their eyes and the freedom of not having to answer to anybody, their answers are reflective, humorous, slightly "gee-whizzy" at their own accomplishments and all too human. It's like listening to grand-paw talk about the days living in a log cabin. Cernan leans back effusively and relaxed, like he's taking in the world. Aldrin sits forward, hunched, telling secrets. Collins sits stock still, but his head bobs and ducks and weaves like an elder Jimmy Stewart.
The images are startling too. A lone worker working on a Saturn-5 rocket nozzle becomes dwarfed by the sheer magnitude of the booster as the camera slides back. The launch footage from the gantry POV is from the one Apollo mission that took off at night. There are long takes of the dance of fire and ice at lift-off. And there is the footage of booster separation from a camera located inside the discarded booster, but "Shadow" lets the film continue as, falling back, the Earth heaves into view. In fact, many of the best moments of the film are because the film-makers took the risk of showing the film to the end of each roll. And there is one amazing find. A 1962 episode of "To Tell the Truth," with Neil Armstrong's parents as guests. Their secret? "Our son became an astronaut today!" Cut to Garry Moore asking Mrs. Armstrong: "And what would you say to your son if he became the first man on the moon?" That she loves him and to be careful, of course. "In the Shadow of the Moon" is full of such moments of discovery and homespun wisdom.
"In the Shadow of the Moon" is a matinee. * The End Credits have the astronauts commenting on the conspiracy theories about staged moon landings in hangars. Cernan gets defensive-"Nobody is going to take those footsteps on the Moon away from me!" Charlie Duke's response is the best: "I can see faking it once, but why in the world would you do it NINE TIMES!!" ** The deceased Apollo astronauts are Pete Conrad (Apollo 12), Fred Haise and Jack Swigert (Apollo 13), Alan Shepard (Apollo 14), and Jim Irwin (Apollo 15).
Well, obviously, I've been seeing a lot of movies--good, bad, and ugly. That's been on top of working every day on some audio project or another--two weeks of foley in the evening for one film and one video, doing some audio work for "The Agents" (one a documentary on an earlier project, if anybody doubts the value of meta to real life situations), some freelance stuff (more than ever!) for an old client. I'm trying to fill my days, so I don't have to spend a lot of time on "The Rock." I'm there to eat, sleep, and blog, but that's about it.
K and Smokey have been gone since a week ago Tuesday, and I was fully expecting them to come home this weekend to my open arms, but I got a phone call Thursday saying the project is taking longer--it's going to be another week.
"Another Week."
That phrase has been echoing in my mind ever since and has shoved any song out of my head (at the time it was "Spirit in the Sky"). Another Week. I miss them horribly, and think about them and worry about them and obsess over them. Poor K is having to work another week on this project--which will be draining and I know that at the end of the day, her eyes will be spinning in her head from looking at computer screens, and ledger entries. The dog has a support system down there, so he's fine and won't tax K (as he might me were he here). Still I miss them. And my recent spate of film-going (and the slew of video's from the library--see below for just the tip of the iceberg) has been a way of occupying and distracting me, and engaging my mind that raking leaves, chopping wood, recycling and cleaning gutters --or doing the dishes (gotta get to that) hasn't.
I went to see Dan "The Man" and his circus of cats for a visit this week, Friday The Nephew is in town, so with The Niece and Sister we all went out to a fine dinner of collegiality, and cracking each other up. Hopefully they'll come out to the Rock, but everybody's got schedules (Addendum: They came out Sunday for a very fun time--they're great kids). Saturday, I'm meeting up with FarmerScott just because we can and it's been too long...for any of the Gang of Four. More work for this, another week. I'll be busy, and more grateful than most for Friday to come around.
Here are some things to occupy your time: --------------------------------------------------------------------------- I mentioned a sad story a while back about Walt Crowley, which a lot of people mentioned made them very sad. Time to be sadder. A good man has passed.
Interesting to read the comments of John Carlson, who was there at his death-bed. Polar opposite politically, but good friends nonetheless. That's how to do it right. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Marcel Marceau has died. Can we have a moment of cacophony? (Expect a flood of variations of that joke today).*
I don't know if the obits will mention this, but Marceau was the only person who had a line in Mel Brooks' "Silent Movie." After miming a minute of trying to rush to the phone in a wind-storm, he's asked by director Mel to be in his silent movie. Marceau says, "NON!" and hangs up.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------- You want to see a man wrestling with his conscience on live tv? Here is San Diego Mayor Jerry Sanders, Republican, forgoing the ideology and "going with his heart."
You can practically see the angel and devil on his shoulder wrestling. He's probably going to catch hell from "his base." I hope he finds new supporters. This took courage, and that's something you don't see too much in politicians (like last week's oh-so-"brave" condemnation of the moveon.org "General Betray-us" ad. There IS a war going on, ladies and gentlemen. Do something about that, instead. The ad isn't killing anybody).
Might be nice to send him an e-mail, a card...a couple bucks. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Here's an article I found facinating from Newsweek--this fellow followed the dictates of the Bible for a year, and found some joy in it (although the stoning part he had to work around):
"Millions" (Danny Boyle, 2004)One of those ones I missed in the theater, and one I deeply regret. It's a little gem of a movie Boyle made between his zombie-film "28 Days Later" and this year's sci-fi film "Sunshine," about a saint-obsessed child who finds a large duffel-bag of pound notes, seemingly from heaven, in the days before the change-over to the Euro. His older brother uses it to gain influence in his new school quickly becoming BMOC (Dad, a recent widower, has just moved his family to a new development by the train-tracks), but Damian wants to give it to the poor. He is visited by numerous saints to guide him along on his spiritual quest (and quite perkily announces their names and birth to death dates and how they died at each arrival). It's a highly charming movie, while avoiding the usual cute kid cliches, and maintaining a quite sophisticated tone of drama and off-the-wall comedy. That was a trick even Disney found hard to pull off. It gets a very high recommendation from me. **
"The Notorious Bettie Page"(Mary Harron, 2006) If MarilynMonroewas the blonde goddess of sex in the 1950's, Bettie Page was her player on the other side. Marilyn was blonde, Bettie, brunette. Where Marilyn had success in Hollywood, Bettie never got beyond stag reels. Where Marilyn's sexuality was paired with a psychic pain, Bettie was exuberant. Marilyn had booze and pills for sanctuary. Bettie had Jesus. Marilyn died fairly young. Bettie's still alive and kicking*** and getting royalties from the continuing interest in her, thanks to devotees such as artist Dave Stevens, who used her as the model for the girlfriend of "The Rocketeer." Both Marilyn and Bettie appeared as centerfolds within the first year of the publication of Playboy Magazine. And this has to be said--Marilyn had talent. Bettie... wasn't much of a dancer. Marilyn was the epitome of sex in Tinseltown, while Bettie worked in the squalid back-rooms of seamy pornographers, and panting "photo clubs."
Bettie's story mirrors Marilyn's: Pretty girl, growing up dirt-poor and abused, an early marriage that doesn't work out, and heading to the Big City to get into acting. There they diverge: Marilyn to fame and early death; Bettie to obscurity, long life and delayed fame. Bettie quit modeling in the 50's after she was hauled to DC to testify in Estes Kefauver's pornography hearings (she was never called in to the hearing room), and so both Marilyn and Bettie are frozen, existing in images of their prime.
Does Mary Harron's film explain Bettie Page and her circumstances and times? Not at all. The facts are laid out, stopping precisely at the hearings that ended Bettie's modeling days and goes no further. The closest it comes is her repeated defense for her nude modeling: "Well, I figure Adam and Eve were naked in the Garden of Eden." Point taken, but it doesn't explain the spike heels, whips, spanking and ball-gags (The real Bettie always dismissed her bondage photos as being "silly" and paying the bills). Considering that most people only know her through her looks, Gretchen Mol does an amazing impersonation, right down to a clumsy dance in the end credits, that has just the right touch of amateur clunkiness. In fact, it's downright eerie. Still, it's nice to see this story have a happy ending. I think Bettie would be pleased to know that the copy I watched was from the Public Library. If that's not vindication, I don't know what is.
"The High and the Mighty" (William Wellman, 1954)One of the few John Wayne pictures that he produced himself, and one of his best-known and respected films outside of his Westerns, I had never sat through "The High and the Mighty." Oh, I could whistle the vague Dimitri Tiomkin theme, but I'd never seen it. William Wellman was a no-nonsense director and flyer, who no doubt seized the opportunity to do a dramatic film about the then-tony luxury of flying transcontinentally, and turned it into one of the first "disaster" films involving flying (Hello, "Airport!"). Wayne's character was meant for an older Spencer Tracy, but after Tracy left the project, Wayne stepped in to take the role of the haunted co-pilot, who has to fight his past and the demons of his pilot (Robert Stack) to "get this baby on the ground." With an international cast of passengers, all with stories to tell, it's a bit like "Grand Hotel" in the sky with its engines on fire (or "Stagecoach"). The emphasis is on character as there's only so much rollickin' Wayne can do in a plane cabin, though there is an over-the top scene where Wayne decks his pilot to keep him from ditching the plane in the drink...with his hands on the controls! It's also a bit dated in the need to explain every little detail about "plane travel," but not at all in how, at that early stage before rolling luggage, airline personnel were still griping about the passengers.
"Bananas"(Woody Allen, 1971) One of "his earlier, funnier ones," as he so famously spoofed them in "Stardust Memories." It is early, and Howard Cosell giving play-by-play on a military coup contains a movie full of belly-laughs. But I'm not so sure you could call it a film, so much as a collection of black-out sketches tied together with a burrito-thin junta-based plot. Yes, you can see early roles of Conrad Bain and Sylvester Stallone. And Allen's comedy still had that nasty streak of bad-taste sexual humor (in a porn shop that also carries "The National Review," he tells the counter-guy he's "doing a sociological study on perversion. I'm up to Advanced Child Molesting"), and his performances were like Harold Lloyd on benzedrine. It sometimes hard to tell if the Woodman is performing or going into a sneezing fit. But a lot of the ideas are choice: the dream of the two guys being carried on crucifixes...until a fight breaks out for a lone, remaining parking space, the commercial for "New Testament" cigarettes (Priest: "I smoke them. He smokes them."), the helpful instructions Allen gives to a person trying to park, and the line "If you're gonna fool around with women's lib, you're gonna need somebody to support you."
* Okay, how about this one: France is giving him a 21-gun salute--with silencers.
** Dan "The Man" told me a funny story about Danny Boyle at our last visit. He went to see a preview of "Millions" and there was a Q & A with Boyle afterwards. After the obligatory three questions about video cameras from techies and director-wannabes, Dan stood up and asked, "Mr. Boyle, as a recovering Catholic, do you have a love-hate relationship with your success, and do you feel redeemed?" This question so flummoxed Boyle that he couldn't answer and couldn't focus on anything else, ending the Q & A. I would liked to have heard the answer, frankly.
*** Bettie has been publicly reluctant to be photographed, preferring that people remember how she looked "in her prime." Still, an Image search for "Bettie Page" will reveal rare recent photos of her, and she looks GREAT! The woman's over 80! -------------------------------------------------------------------- Finally as a way of signing off, here is a video of Smokey saying "Hello, I must be going." (Thought I'd better use this "widget" before the novelty wore off).
This is Paul Haggis' first directorial effort since "Crash." In the meantime he wrote threefilms for Clint Eastwood, "The Last Kiss" and "Casino Royale." He wrote this one for Eastwood, too, but to star in, not direct, which Clintus declined, saying that he's retired from acting. Too bad. This one might have gotten him that Best Actor Oscar. As it is, Tommy Lee Jones has the role, probably does a better job of it, and is certainly deserving of an Oscar. His Hank Deerfield, ex-Army investigator, is a portrait of a guy so meticulous, so disciplined that you wait for him to crack the whole film. It's one of the joys of the film, along with another of Charlize Theron's fine "de-glammed" performances, and Susan Sarandon bringing maximum effort to a small but vital role, all doing great work in a film that tries to be too many things, though it does succeed in many of them.
Part mystery, part war-story, part psychological drama, "Elah," punctuates its story with fragments of media recovered from a cell-phone that, like "Blow-Up" and "The Conversation," give tantalizingly legible glimpses into Deerfield's son's tour in Iraq, and frustratingly opaque clues into his post-Iraq behavior. He's gone AWOL, and Dad Deerfield goes to New Mexico to get to the bottom of it, because that's what he does. Once there, he and a detective try to piece together the evidence, and fight the bureaucratic red tape that hinders their work. Just as "Crash" owes so much to "La Ronde," "Elah" calls to mind "Courage Under Fire," about the death of a Persian Gulf War veteran, where conflicting stories and the subject of post-traumatic stress disorder are dealt with tangentially. Here, it's more overt, but there is an underlying message of the power of doing nothing, or of passing the buck, even ignoring the buck, taking the easy way out, or as the phrase went in "Chinatown," the futility of good intentions, when not backed with action. The characters of "In the Valley of Elah" do "as little as possible" until provoked, challenged and threatened, and its reach is all-pervasive. In the end there is no one perpetrator, but a constant thread of sins of omission, and therein lies the tragedy.
As he did so much in "Crash," Haggis telegraphs too many things, with some pretty obvious set-ups that are none too subtle.** The man just doesn't believe in red herrings, and everything gets used. Maybe that's his buttoned-up-in-25-minutes television writing showing. He's become better at cloaking some, though, hiding them in plain sight until they're trotted out for weighty significance. Some will see his final statement as un-American (which they're looking for, I expect), but a careful reading of what's gone before* reveals exactly what he's saying, and its entirely appropriate and, frankly, completely non-controversial. But Haggis seems to invite mis-interpretation. It's what makes him interesting. On top of that, you'll never see better work out of Tommy Lee Jones and Susan Sarandon and their scenes together have a lived-in familiarity and friction that speaks volumes of history and experience. There's some awfully good work in this.
"In the Valley of Elah" is a solid matinee.
* Easy for me to say, I take notes!
** According to the Addictionary, this is called "five-shadowing"
"Guns Don't Kill People....But It Sure Does Help!"
"The Angriest Man in the World," Mr. Smith is sitting on a street bench in a squalid part of town. He's inrtoduced with a Leone-style close-up of only his eyes. Then, cut to his face. It's Clive Owen in full wide-eyed coma look. He brings a carrot up to his face and loudly crunches into it.
What's Up, Doc?
Well, it's certainly not anybody's IQ.
Next, a very pregnant woman runs past him (shot none too elegantly), followed by a speeding car that noisily and gratuitously slams into another car, trapping the driver. He gets out the passenger door, spewing paper and fast-food bags and garbage out of his car onto the street.
There..right there...maybe two minutes into the film is the only amusing idea in the whole movie. And it was only amusing to me because it reminded me of my car.
But that's it--the only thing I enjoyed in the entire film, no help from director Michael Davis. In the sums-it-up "Shoot 'Em Up," Clive Owen's "Mr. Smith" finds himself charged with protecting a baby, just like "Children of Men," but without all that boring social commentary and stuff. With the help of a lactating prostitute (Monica Belluci, shot through a vaseline-greased lens, and utilizing the time-honored 60's-style "Bad Italian Actress" technique), Smith and child evade Mr. Hertz (a bug-eyed Paul Giamatti, reminding me that it was only a few years ago that he starred in stuff "Big, Fat Liar") who has an infinite number of disposable goons, with an infinite number of bullets that seem predisposed to not hit anything, while Smith's gun hits something (usually lethally) every time. "Shoot 'Em Up" tries to align itself with the Warner Bros. cartoons of Bugs and Elmer but has not the wit, the style or the precise timing (Giamatti starts the movie with a Merrie Melodies lisp, but inexplicably drops it a few minutes in). I was really hoping that at some point Owen would hit him in the face with a frying pan, so we'd see Mr. Hertz's face flatten out, but no such luck. And, of course, after every set-piece or innovative killing technique (Smith kills with a carrot--twice) there are the inevitable one-liners that haven't been so eye-rollingly bad since Roger Moorewas James Bond, with all the sophistication of the chat-room droolings of pre-teens. After a simultaneous shoot-out and screw where both participants reach their ...climax, Owen turns to the camera and in his best Terminator-in-Chief drone says, "That's what I call shooting your wad." But then there's "Eat Your Vegetables.." (after a carrot-killing), "That's what I call a hand-job," and the immortal "Fuck you, you fuckin' fuckers!" That kind of lummoxy aside reached its satiric punch-line with the antics of "McBain" on "The Simpsons," but it gives me hope that someday I can get just such a writing job. At the end, Belluci looks at Owen and says "What took you so long?" I half expected the lame-ass line that ended Robert Altman's "The Player:" "Traffic was a bitch."
According to this flick, there's nothing worse than "a pussy with a gun." I dunno, how about "a pussy with a movie camera but without an original idea in his head, a lick of talent, or the smarts God gave a radish?" Yeah. That's worse. A lot worse.
"Shoot "em Up" is a complete Waste of Time. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- Oof. Talk about your awkward segues.
"The Angriest Woman in the World" Erica Bain by the end of "The Brave One" is in the same mode: "Who's the Bitch now?" she screams as she mows down one of the men who beat her into a coma, killed her fiancee...and stole her dog. Not only does she get her revenge, but she gets her dog back (oh...spoiler alert!), so everything's all right, right?
Never mind that for the preceding two hours--that feel like four--she's bided her time by capping the asses of whatever scum of the earth crossed her path. At least she's an equal opportunity vigilante: one group's Latino, another is black, and three separate white guys--bonus points for the rich one.
The critical rags are calling this "Dirty Harriet,"* but that's all wrong. Its the daughter of "Death Wish," the Charles Bronson viscerally charged revenge-actioner with the same formula and practically the same resolution--except with a gun rather than the earlier film's non-cinematic plea-bargaining. Erica is a radio-journalist--well, an audio-documentarian, whose love affair (and experience) with New York extends as far as her ear-buds, spinning chatty little stories about the "myth" of old New York, and what gentrification is taking away. Tellingly, one of the first things we see her doing is recording her own foot-steps as she walks the city streets. From there, she goes to her little iso-booths and spins her valentines to "the safest big city in the world" (except it's missing a couple of buildings downtown, and not to gentrification). After the attack, she's even more isolating, and butches up her wardrobe, symbolically shedding her skin to become a new person that she doesn't know or understand. Oh, and there's that shooting-people-in-subways thing. "Inside you is a stranger," she narrates to herself. "Why don't my hands shake? Why doesn't anyone stop me?" Pretty soon she's doing it not because she's threatened, but because she can, and in a perverse cat-and-mouse game strikes up a friendship with detective Terrence Howard, who is feeling increasingly powerless to stop the newly-empowered vigilante messing up his mean streets. I came away thinking "never give Terry Gross a gun."
Of all people, Neil Jordan ("The Crying Game," "Interview with a Vampire") directs this,**and his way of showing fear and Erica's world out of whack is with slowly tilting shots with a steadicam (with its gyroscope knocked out), which made me think we were heading for the Penguin's dastardly bird-themed lair. It's a little tough to take this stuff seriously when it reminds you of the old "Batman" show. About the only pleasure in the film is the beyond-cynical banter of Howard and his partner investigating the crime scenes (My favorites: "Guy had a rap sheet longer than my dick" "No priors?" and "Any idea what killed him?" "Could be the fall--could be the crowbar stuck in his head--I'm thinkin' 70/30, maybe 50/50"). And a tiny scene with a police desk-clerk who routinely mantras "I know how difficult it can be, but if you will be patient and have a seat an officer will be down shortly to help you." It makes the same point about institutional disinterest in 20 seconds that it takes the whole of "In the Valley of Elah" to make.
And the acting. Even with this type of material, Foster takes it right down to her marrow, until she no longer looks like the same person. There is a terrific scene of her and Howard in a diner not talking about what they're talking about while "You Don't Know Me" echoes over the PA that's very well done.
Wish it were in another movie.
"The Brave One" is a cable-flick.
* "Dirty Harry," the police-as-vigilante movie was co-written by Rita Fink. ** Yes, but Joel Silver produces. That might be the answer.
"Eastern Promises" is the latest film by David Cronenberg, Master of the Uncomfortable, Enemy to the Squeamish. As with "A History of Violence" his star of choice is Viggo Mortenson, who after years of "body in a suit" roles where he barely registered, became a star with the "Lord of the Rings" trilogy. His post-"Ring" choices have been interesting, including two films by Cronenberg where he could use his inscrutable demeanor to maximum advantage. His Nikolai--ostensibly "The Driver," but to others, "The Undertaker"--is a lieutenant in the Russian mob in contemporary London. His boss is Kirill (Vincent Cassell), the unreliable son of Semyon (Armin Mueller-Stahl), owner of the Trans-Siberian supper club, and "King" of the mob. There are many facades in "Eastern Promises," whether they're legitimate businesses that front prostitution, or the quaint grandfatherly demeanor that Semyon presents. *
Into this world of death comes mid-wife Anna (Anna Ivanovna as Semyon, from the old country, calls her) who oversees the birth of a baby girl to a heroin addict who dies in childbirth. Trying to return the child to relatives, Anna takes the girl's diary to try and gleen any information from it. As it's written in Russian, she turns to the Russian community for help. Her timing couldn't be worse as warring factions are busy slitting the throats of their enemies and it's a world where innocence can be completely subsumed in everyone's search for "a better life."
Cronenberg doesn't make "feel-good" movies, and all of his films take you places you don't want to go. Fans of Viggo Mortenson will see this film and be nicely rewarded with a finely layered, laid-back performance using an accent that approaches parody. But be warned: It's a violent flick with two graphic throat-cuttings, a scene where a dead man's fingers are snipped off to prevent identification, and in the major set-piece of the film, Mortenson's Nikolai is attacked in a bathhouse by two toughs with box-cutters. Yes, ladies (and gentlemen), you get to see his package, but the price you pay is sitting through one of the crunchiest, gristleiest, gooiest fights in a long, long time.
But that's the price you pay.
"Eastern Promises" is a full price ticket
*The only truths are those tatooes into the bodies of the mobsters, from their days in the Russian work-camps--their lives, their stories are burned into their skin for all to see.
It's a truly fascinating experience to revisit Delmer Daves' strange little 1957 "oater" "3:10 to Yuma," and look at what James Mangold ("Walk The Line") has done with it 50 years later. The original was a tight little psychological western based on an Elmore Leonard short story, but, as with his latter urban capers, character informs action. And it provided Van Heflin and Glenn Ford two of the finest roles of their careers. Ford, never the most inspired of actors, does wonders with the role of rogue-bandit Ben Wade, who's just as handy with his words as a gun, and is just as dangerous hand-cuffed and guarded as he is on the loose. No one is safe in his sphere and he rules a band of outlaws on sheer force of personality. And Ford ekes out every subtlety, every nuance of his clever dialog and makes it look easy as taking a nap. His is a villain that never admits he's not in control of the situation. He's evenly matched by Van Heflin, looking haggard and down-trodden as a desert-farmer, who takes on a prisoner-transfer to save his farm, and maybe a touch of glory. Such a man is constantly in threat of temptation from the devil, and it's only his cussed stubborness that makes him see through a job when other men give up. Heflin has the less fun role, but gives it his all, and is rewarded by a Divine Intervention that is announced by a choir of angels (who are backing Frankie Laine singing the inevitable Title Song).
So, 50 years on, what can Mangold bring to the material? Well, not much really. It's puffed up with some more action and the dialogue is retained (at least in spirit) a surprising amount of the time (original screenplay writer Hallstead Welles gets the lead screenplay credit). What new things are added are informed by earlier instances in the original and made explicit, some times thuddingly, and everything is tamped down in a nihilistic amoral rasp as is expected of a western post-Leone/Eastwood (but with none of the wit or stylism). More explosions (Two, instead of the none in the first), one in an unnecessary story-detour through a railroad camp. The one opportunity the modern makers had--that of fleshing out the denouement in terms of character, they manage to make even more false, by pumping up the action and circumstances, straining credibility to the snapping point. Crowe's Ben Wade has the same dialogue, but none of the swagger, and enough skills that one wonders just what he's doing staying around the whole movie. Christian Bale's Dan Evans has the same motivations as the original, but his circumstances are worse, and to make his family connection explicit and situations more dire, his son sneaks along on the expedition. Still, its pretty obvious how much Mangold loves the original, seeing how much is retained, but the expansion of the story works against it, and we are left with what's good in the new one...being the old one.
But there are things missing, too. Besides the more colorful straight-ahead performances of Ford and Heflin, there is a marvelous one by the fine character-actor Richard Jaeckel, who makes Wade's lieutenant, Charlie Prince, a craftily-goofy rooster of a character. Ben Foster's performance has some of the characteristics, but is a stone-cold psycho (no doubt written that way) and pales by comparson.
I listen to "KIRO Newsradio"...oh no, sorry...now it's"KIRO 710 News-Talk"...a lot in my car. It's the Number One Pre-Set on my car-radio. If I hit the "Band" button to the Frequency Modulation side of the spectrum, then KUOW is the Number One Pre-Set. The ironic thing is I worked for both of these stations at one time, and after working each place, they were the last stations I'd want to listen to. Familiarity breeds contempt, but absence makes the heart grow fonder, so they're both at the places they are now. I can listen to anything on KUOW, but KIRO I'm a bit more selective. I like the Morning News, Dave Ross, Ron and Don and the 6 o'clock News (which is a welcome addition), but I'm not a fan of Dori Monson or Frank Shiers' shows...the latter I've had dealings with, and have the choice not to. But what's more irritating than those shows are the folks who call their programs...and, frankly, everybody's programs on every station that does a call-in show...and waste the valuable discussion time in-between the "dead-air" of the various "trade-out" commercials. *
As I said , I used to work in radio, but I don't now. I always found it easy to talk on the air (that's a story for another time), but if I had the wherewithal (or just the lowered standards) to permit such a travesty to happen again, I would probably jump down the throat of anybody who did any of the following nine examples of "foot-in-mouth" disease for calling-in on a "talk-show." These things drive me nuts. They don't add anything to a show. In fact, they take away and distract from any succinct discussion that might occur (should it occur). My solution to any of these would be to pull a "Larry King" (no, not jabber incoherently...the old Larry King) and just cut them off...fast. Here are my rules of thumb, if I ruled a talk-show. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------
1. Get to the point. Just say it. 2. Do NOT say, "Hi, this is Joe from Steilacoom," right after the host has said, "Let's hear from Joe in Steilacoom." It establishes that a) you're an idiot and b) you don't listen. See 1. 3. Do NOT try and listen to yourself on the radio. Most talk-shows are on a seven second delay so they can anticipate and cut off any obscene remarks. Listen through your phone. That way we're all spared the long delay as you're listening for the question that will show up seven seconds later on your radio. If the talk-show host is smart, they'll just hang up on you when you don't respond after a second or two. Most often when someone doesn't answer their initial welcome, it's because they're listening to their radio, rather than through their phone. The other reason to not listen is the replay of the show delayed seven seconds bleeding into the phone which is very distracting, hence the usual call to "Turn down your radio!" And see No. 1. 4. Nobody cares if you're a "Long-Time Listener/First-Time Caller." So what? See 1.** 5. Don't waste time by thanking the host for taking your call. Of COURSE, they're going to take your call! It is their Job! See also 1. 6. Don't waste time asking how the host "is" or how they're "doing." They have a job. They made it to work. Anything else is a) not your business and b) irrelevent. See also 1. 7. Don't waste time with long ego-fulfilling preambles ("Yes, I've been a small-business-owning-veteran Muslim for twenty years now...and that gives me a unique...") It's only interesting to YOU, and deadly dull for the listener. See also 1. 8. Don't say "like I told your screener"--we haven't been privy to this conversation, nor are we supposed to know there IS a screener. Just say your piece even if, god forbid, you have to say it twice in 20 minutes! See also 1. 9. Don't call drunk--not even if it's only sports talk. Believe me, you may think you sound articulate in this condition, but you're not. See also both 1's. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Clip and Save: Cut along dotted line, and tape to your cell-phone for instant reminders!!
The best call-in talk show I heard came, surprisingly, when Ron Upshaw of "Ron and Don" was doing a talk-show solo. I don't know how he did this, but it had to have been well-coordinated with the producer, and the callers had to have been alert. He'd bring up a topic, and go to his first caller. Then he'd sum up what they said, and go to the next call by sequeing from that wrap-up to "what do you think about that, Joe from Steilacoom," who, amazingly, started to answer the question, and he just followed up a string of five phone-calls that were diverse, had a fascinating dialogue quality, and it just flew by seamlessly. It was the talk-show equivalent of balancing spinning plates, and one of the most thrilling examples of "Live and Lively" talk I've ever heard.Wish there was more of that.
* In "the biz," a "trade-out" is a commercial that is paid for, not by cash but in return for services--tickets to games, giveaways, promotions or 3/4 of Dori Monson's new house... ** I think people say this a) because they don't want the host to be "mean" to them, b) cover their nervousness or ineptitude, or c) they really don't have anything better to say. Just once I'd like to hear someone say, "Long-Time Caller/First-Time Listener" just to see what the host says.
Yojimbo, calling the race from Niece K.'s computer in T-town, where Wife K. and Niece K. are marathoning a 6.25 mile run. Dropped them off at 9:00 for the start and I'm doing my own marathon with the dog, trying to squeeze in a shower (not with the dog), a computer session, a frisbee toss, a Gatorade-split (for the dehydrated gals), and shopping for the stir-fry concoction I promised to make (lost a bet with K.--NOTE: never wager with my wife), all before I pick them up @ 11:00 am by the Washington State History Museum.
Gleeps! It's 9:41! (or 0941 hours!!) !! Must dash! ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- (dashes, get it? Sorry, didn't sleep well last night...)
The week started out with a visit to "Dan the Man," which featured a fine grilled salmon dinner with a side of charred conversation, roasting our life-situations and job-status until it was seared and blackened.I gave him the first season of "Dexter" to cheer him up, that's how bad we are. But we always have fun times, and as I was leaving, K. called to say she was on the ferry coming home from camping a day early, which was a treat.
Whoah!(brake squeal) I've neglected to say that after an exhausting day of foley the previous Friday, I joined Walaka and Otis and Dingo and John and Olaiya and Wheylona and Silvio for a fine Vieg dinner where we threw ideas at each other across tables and steamed rice, and did a gang-crossword puzzle of John's construction. Dingo hit me with a movie question from it, and, without thinking, blurted out the answer, which made John blink in mild consternation--she was supposed to be doing it herself (and it was one of the ones he thought she wouldn't get). Note to self: curb instinctive response/turn movie-trivia speed down to 5, maybe 4.5. We then hied over to Dingo's for board-gamage, which produced much hilarity and controversy. Wheylona won, and became the "Privateer." (Which reminds me--know what a pirate's favorite letter of the alphabet is? *) We broke up around 0100, John and I walked back to my car, I drove him home and still made it on to the last ferry at 0200, without raising my blood pressure a notch.
Saturday, I was so exhausted from a week of evening foley and staying out late, I was good for nothing. So that's what I did.
Labor day came and went with little jobs taken care of, and reacquainting myself to life with K. and Smokey. It was a rough camping trip for them both, and Smokey was still suffering the effects. I took him for a long walk and frisbee-playing and he snapped right out of it. Tuesday, I developed a bad cold, which was doubly bad because the next day, Wednesday, I drove down to Portland to pick up keys, and arrange for Internet service and check things out down South. I drove down and back up in one day but, feeling too exhausted to make it up to "The Rock," stayed in T-town at the Duplex--got in about 2100, and Niece Kayla was already asleep. I didn't stop for dinner, I just crawled up to the guestroom and went to bed. I had a fitful night of sick-sleep accompanied by the sounds of jet-transports and a late-night neighborhood smoker who had one of the worst phlegmmish cigarette-hacks I've ever heard, that was only relieved about 0500, at which point I went, mercifully, to sleep. Never saw Kayla, as she went to work while I was out-conked.
Next day, feeling 30% better, I spent some time back-filling the blog, and went to work at The Agents, where I punched up and mixed one industrial and re-did the "Disaster-Proof" video with a new, improved German translation. Good work. Today, I just finished a session that I'll start editing in a few minutes, and tomorrow, K. and I drive back down to the Duplex and spend the weekend, where K. and Kayla are marathoning. I get to cook, watch the dog, and, best of all, not participate in the marathon! Suh-weet! Starting Monday, I start a week of foley on an animation project, and K. and Smokey head South to Eugene (eventually) for some work and family check-up.
Sounds a lot like past weeks of activity. Maybe I should just "Ctrl-C" this and make it a "Quick-key." There are new movies in town, and I'll have a chance to catch some matinees, plus there are some things sitting in the "draft" to post.
All in good time. All in good time. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- * "P." Add a peg-leg to it and it becomes "RRRRRRRRRR" ----------------------------------------------------------------------- Seen bumper sticker: "Don't always believe what you're thinking."
Looked in the mirror lately? What do you see? Here are four stories about mirrors.
1) As a puppy, Smokey used to live in a house that had full-length mirrors covering closets and over chests. On our bed, he regularly used to check himself out, see what he looked like, or see what we were doing without having to turn his head from that comfortable position he was lying in (Dogs are practical). He knew at a very early age that the dog in the mirror was him. When he looked "over there" he saw himself, that it was an image, a reflection and not an actual object. Pretty big leap for a dog.
The other day, he hopped up on the bed and was startled by his own reflection in the mirror. He bounced over to it and went nose to nose with his reflection, sniffing (no doubt) to ascertain if it was real, then looked intently at it, turning his head from side to side, getting the details. He hasn't done that (that we know) since we've moved over a year ago. Was he seeing what had changed--that missing tooth, the few more gray hairs?
2) They do a lot of experimentation on primates-some benign, some not so much. One benign one that interested me was a rudimentary intelligence test (that is, the test was rudimentary). The researchers would put a mirror into the apes' play area--like a reflective monolith--and see what their reactions would be. The less socialized primates, the less intelligent, would look at the mirror, and interpret it as a window and go around it to meet the other ape. But there wouldn't be one, which would vex the ape, bum him out, whatever.
The more confident, socialized intelligent apes-the "self-actualized" apes, if you will-would look at the image in the mirror, look at themselves and then flop over and look at it upside down. This threw the researchers for a loop: "What are they doing? Performing? Going crazy?"
No. They recognized themselves immediately, and then having checked themselves out, bounced around to look at that side they'd never seen before--their butts ("Oh, so that's what that looks like!").
Then, curiosity satisfied, they'd go off to the nearest typewriter and write Shakespeare.
3) Before my Mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer's, she would say some curious things that were troubling. She would tell us about a neighborhood woman who would walk in and spend time in the house. Who was it, we asked. She didn't know, but she came by "a lot." As I said, troubling.
Alzheimer's patients regress. Their short-term memory is like swiss cheese and their long-term memory comes to the fore.
The entrance to her house had two full-length mirrors in the entry-way that stood side by side, floor to ceiling to give the illusion of more space. As Mom passed those mirrors (or any mirror) she would catch a glimpse of this old woman who was walking by that she didn't recognize, certainly not as herself. Her long-term memory held the self-image of a much younger person. This person in the mirror was 80+ years old. It had to be someone else.
In the years since, I wonder about that. Did she try to have conversations? Did she just assume the other woman moved in and made her peace with it? When she left the house to get the mail, would she not lock the door in consideration of her "room-mate?" Did this other woman give her comfort, or distress? I never feel comfortable with these thoughts, but curiosity and the strange-ness of it keep taking me there.
4) K. told me a story about the mother of a friend who went to the mirror one day to check her hair, and couldn't see herself. There was no reflection in the mirror. Nothing. Unless she'd had an abrupt on-set of vampirism, it was very unusual. And either way, it was pretty damned scary. So, she went to a doctor.
The doctor, surprisingly, wasn't surprised. In fact, he was very casual about it. He told her she was suffering from "disassociation," or "dissociation," prescribed some medication and sent her on her way. After a few days of popping pills, she again saw her reflection in the mirror.
"Lone Wolf and Cub" have made their way home after two and a half weeks in Eugene ("And there was much rejoicing..." "YAY!"). And, as predicted, they were exhausted. Smokey was sacked out in no time (see left), and K busied herself around the house, until presented with a hot Yakisoba meal, which knocked her out. I stayed up, doing this (this) and that (tending the fire, and trying to watch "The Testament of Dr. Mabuse") until finally shuffling off to bed--it was a full day of chores, including cleaning the gutters ahead of the incipient inclemency, and chopping a nice supply of dry kindling for the wood-stove. Sunday, we're in "ski-lodge mode" with the stove blazing, books (and lots-a-mail) read, and one badly needed haircut acquired. Back to work tomorrow: me, back to The Agents, K, looking for new curtains. We've settled into routines pretty quickly. K. thinks she might have to go back in three weeks. (Oog).
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As they used to say in Esquire: Why is this man smiling?
