Seeing Satan: Or, the Second-Hand Mantra, Part 3

In Parts 1 and 2: I had been meditating quite successfully to relieve stress at work. Now, I was meditating while at work--twenty minutes or so before a session. Things were fine, but I suddenly had this feeling I was being watched.....

It was a vague, background-noise kind of feeling, like a movement of air...a slight pressure change...the faintest of shadows over my shoulder.

And when I say I was "being watched" it had nothing to do with the physical world where I was sitting in a chair in the back store-room at my work. I was "being watched" in the spiritual void into which I dropped every time I meditated. Every time I meditated before, I dropped into a void where I was the only thing in a vast blackness. But now, that didn't seem so certain.

I could control my movement as I floated as gently as a soap bubble, so I slowly twisted to the left and began to see what I had sensed.

It was a face.A face as big and as obvious as it could be in the dark (as Raymond Chandler put it "like a tarantula on an angel-food cake"). It didn't look anything like "Ming the Merciless" floating up there in the corner. It was old...ancient..."wizened" is the way I've always described it. An old, old man's face, lined with deep wrinkles that spoke of centuries of time. No facial hair. No ears that I could see. Just the head.

And it was watching me.

There was no expression on its face, but it's eyes were focussed on me. They were passive eyes, not angry or evil. Patient eyes. Eyes that could bide their time, that had a sense of inevitability about them. All it had to do was wait. Like a spider watching a fly caught in a web.

I've called this "Seeing Satan," but that's a bit of hucksterism--a good title designed to draw you in and get you to read. But I didn't get a sense that this was "Satan" or "The Devil" or whatever folk-tale name you want to apply to the "fallen one."

But it was evil. I knew it down to my bones.

Evil--pure and simple.*

And it was after me.

I went into a panic. I determined to get out of there as fast as I could. I pulled myself out of my meditation fast--my heart pumping in my chest--without regard to any twenty minute limit. Without any sort of gradual ascent.

I wanted out of there...now.

I opened my eyes...and was hit by a blinding pain, like I was hit by a sledge-hammer. I have a wierd reaction to pain...I laugh. When I start laughing, it's time to get serious and take me to an emergency room. But this was more. This was like the pain I felt when I left my hard contact lenses in my eyes for forty-eight hours straight without any sleep...took them out...and within a half-hour, after the cells on the surface of my cornea died and were hit by air...well, it was like someone raked a buzz-saw on the inside of my eye-ball. This was like that. Laugh? I couldn't even breathe. I laid on the floor, panting, scared shitless, head pounding and knowing that I needed to work in less than half an hour.

I went up front. "Shit, Jim!" said Gayle, the receptionist. "What happened to you?"

"Mmokay" I mumbled. "You got asp'rn?"

I took three.

I made it through. But that face stayed with me constantly. I still remember it...floating in the blackness, and I'm sure it's still waiting.

And I've never meditated again.

True story.

Another true story: Years later, I struck up an acquaintance with a guy named "Todd." Very smart. Very witty. A radio guy. "Todd" dropped out of sight for awhile, and when he resurfaced, I asked him where he'd been. "You won't believe it," he said. And I kinda don't, but it makes a good story. As he told it, one day he walked into work, and he was able to read the thoughts of all of his co-workers. Rather odd, that. He went into a bit of a panic, and went through a battery of tests to determine if he was having a seizure, or had a tumor on the brain, or something. They found nothing unusual, other than the fact that he could read people's minds...diagnose ailments without any medical background. After resisting, he embraced this little ability, writing a column about it in a local daily as "Psychic Guy." "Todd" is a writer by trade, and if the "Psychic Guy" bit is a fake, he did a wonderful job spinning the tale. I went to a speaking engagement he did and his descriptions of his exploits didn't deviate from what he told me one iota. This is a long way of getting to the punch-line, but I told "Todd" about this TM experience of mine with the face, and he said, in a way like it was the most obvious thing on Earth, "Oh! Well, you just didn't know how to protect yourself!"

"I just didn't know how to protect myself." Hmmm.

It falls in line with one of my basic rules of thumb: "When all else fails, read the instructions." Or, take a class. Someday I may drop into that little world again...but if I do, it's because I'm taking a class or learning how to do things the proper way. Don't do stuff unprepared.

And watch out for those faces in the dark....

Boo!

Happy Halloween!!

One of the best Halloween pranks ever foisted on the woefully-gullible American public (that had nothing to do with an election) occurred 68 years ago tonight, when the Martians attacked New Jersey, led by Orson Welles. WNYC's "Radio Lab" did a terrific episode about it a few years back, and you can link to it here.

* "What is it, Buckaroo?" "EVIL! Evil, pure and simple from the eighth dimension!!"--lines from "The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai: Across the Eighth Dimension"--supposed th be the first film in a series that never got past the first installment. A wacky mess of a film about a 20th century Renaissance man, who's a cross between Dr. Who and Doc Savage--a paradox, if ever there was one (eh-heh!). That "Evil, pure and simple line" comes up in it and I still laugh, even while the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

Seeing Satan: or, the Second-Hand Mantra, Part 2

In Part 1, I was trying Transcendental Meditation as a form of relaxation. "Lisa," the wife of a good friend, was taking TM instruction and offered to show me the technique of relaxation and the internal repetition of simple syllables. "Lisa" let me use the ones she was given by her instructor -- "Har-ring"--my second-hand mantra. "Lisa" was talking me through the procedure when all of a sudden, I had an odd sensation.........

I dropped.

Suddenly. Forcefully. It was like a trap-door was released underneath me.

Now, bear in mind, I was still sitting in a chair in my dining room. But, in my mind, my sense of my surroundings changed. I was sitting, still, or rather, I was still sitting. But the sensation was like I was floating in space. With my eyes shut and no sense of my real-world surroundings--I floated in a black void, still sitting, balanced precariously upright, but with the feeling that, at will I could change that position. The picture above explains it better. It shows an astronaut-in-training suspended in a device that can spin in any of the three axes: roll, pitch or yaw. They'd sit, suspended, and the device would flip them, spinning, and it was up to them to get themselves vertical, or upright, again. It tests your ability to work while disoriented and also to counteract the forces that are working against you. I've also seen contraptions like this at County Fairs. This is what my meditation felt like: sitting, floating in a void. I felt my "attitude" begin to tip to the left--the axis of rotation being at my waist. I compensated, and "righted" myself. I let myself rock back so I was "prone." Then I brought myself back upright. It all happened with a slow movement like I was underwater, but with no sense of buoyancy and no pressure. I was perfectly content in this void. This little space all my own, where I floated, happy and relaxed.

All too soon I heard a voice. "Okay, Jim. Come back."

Slowly...ever so slowly, I started to bring myself back up...to become aware of my surroundings and sensations...but gently, fearing the warnings of a "head-ache" if I was too hasty.

"Okay, open your eyes."

I opened them and I was back in the world.

There was a lot of of post-interviewing, with my describing what happened, and some surprise that I was able to do what I'd done the first time out...or in. But what lingered with me was the sense that just on the edge of consciousness was a "Twilight Zone," if you will (or Steven King's "Dead Zone"), somewhere between relaxation and sleep, like another dimension...a vast, empty nether-world where I could go and just "be." Even the thought of it was relaxing...and encouraging...and mystifying. What else is out there? In there? Where did I go? Was it mental? Spiritual? Or was it simply my imagination? Had I willed myself to believe I'd get someplace else? Was it some sort of mental con? What WAS this? Was it real? Others had obviously done the same, and had been doing so for a very long time. It couldn't not be real, could it?

I felt like I had tapped into something wonderful.

And I wanted to go back.

So, I did.

Having this little knowledge, I did it a few more times. When things were quiet and no one was around, I'd sit, get comfortable, relax and tumble the words. The second time, I dropped with less effort and in less time. I floated and let my self slowly tumble in the ether. There was no sense of quick movement...I didn't spin like a dervish...in my mind's eye, I just floated and hung in space, still in a seated position, but with no chair. My image of myself was of a seated person, suspended in the void. I'd feel the ebb and flow of my surroundings nudge me in one direction or another, and rather than attempt to right myself, I'd let it happen, and with no sense of up and down being the correct attitude, I'd maintain a happy "float." I look back on it, and I can give you an approximation. Think of yourself as a soap bubble. That's the feeling...the sensation.

During one of those forays, one of my cats jumped on my lap and snuggled, purring. I was aware of it, in my little world. I heard everything--traffic outside, movement in the house, the occasional fly-over of aircraft--but it was just information...input. It had no effect on me where I was, and no feline image appeared on my lap in that world.

My timing of my excursions got good. In my job, I was very aware of time--I was working with parameters of 30 seconds or a minute, no more and no less. And those nuggets of time had to be achieved with a set boundary of studio-time. Studio engineers are always watching the clock. So, I had a good sense of how long 20 minutes was, but in those first couple of "trips," I would open an eye (carefully), cock my head slightly and glance at my watch. "Another five minutes." Eyes close. Adjust head. No interruptions.

I came home stressed one evening, and sat down and told my wife that I was going to meditate for awhile and I'd be "out" for about 20 minutes.

"Uh...okay..."

I sat...relaxed...looked at my watch and noted the time...I meditated, as per normal, and brought myself out. I looked at my watch. 20 minutes on the dot. I was getting good at this!

I began to feel much more confident with TM...maybe just a little cocky, and I'm sure that's something the swami's or maharishi's warn you against were I to take a course in it at my local community college or YMCA. But I felt good about TM, and TM made me feel good. Location didn't seem to matter.

So, one particularly stressful day at the studio,I had about 30 minutes before a session. "Just enough time to meditate," I thought. So, I made my way to the back-room, which was basically a storage area, and sat down. I made myself comfortable and started the process.

I floated. I relaxed. But something seemed different. There was a nagging background feeling that I hadn't experienced before. Actually, it was a familiar feeling, I'd just never had it while meditating before.

I felt like I was being watched....

Part 3 Tomorrow

Seeing Satan: or, The Second-Hand Mantra, Part 1

I do not believe in God.

I do not believe in Heaven. I do not believe in Hell.

But I do believe spirits walk the Earth. Too many people I know and love and trust have seen them.

And I do believe in Evil.

And he waits...patiently...for me. And for you.

Why do I believe in Evil?

Because I've seen him. With my own eyes.

But, I digress.

Let's go to the beginning of the story.

I was stressed in the mid-80's. I was working a stupid job doing mostly commercials--working with ad agencies and their equally stressed copy-writers and producers. I loved doing production work, but this was doing something I loved at top speed, under a deadline, under the gun, and under the steaming breath of my clients who watched my every move. Long hours in the studio, prep for the next day's work and the mental pressures of doing something you love as well as you can, while simultaneously entertaining your client can lead to missed sleep, skipped meals, and the inevitable ying-yang, pushme-pullyou of both loving and hating your job.

I was stressed and losing sleep. I needed a way to relax. Exercise, I've since learned, works wonders but at the time I'd had a long fruitful life avoiding exercise. I've never experienced a "sports rush" like a lot of friends have, so I've never enjoyed exercise. I don't drink a lot, so heavy binge-drinking's never done much for me. I cannot remember if I was smoking at that time, but even if I wasn't, my wife smoked, our best friends smoked and even my clients smoked in the recording studio. Besides it's a myth that smoking relaxes you--all it does is allow an interruption from the daily grind, bless it's little capillary-constricting heart. I've never smoked dope, and probably never will. Drugs are out for me.

Anyway, I was looking for a way to relieve stress and relax. The wife of a good friend had started taking lessons in Trascendental Meditationtm (TMtm), and the more she told me about it, the more I wanted to try it. Years earlier, I worked with a photographer who told me about self-hypnosis. He'd put himself under for twenty minutes of deep sleep and at a predetermined time, he would completely wake up, fully refreshed. So refreshed, in fact, that he reduced his needed amount of sleep every night to just two hours. The hell with that idea...I like my sleep. But, TM--that seemed a good way to go. Plus, it had the appeal of the exotic--the mysterious, and the spiritual.

My life has been a journey AWAY from religion. I was raised in the Roman Catholic faith--eight years of Catholic Elementary education and then I was released from the nuns and the school uniforms to public schools and its free-form thinking. I'd drifted away from "the church" and then began to actively run away from it. My personal belief (and it's my own--I know it's silly to have to say this, like Monty Python's "Ann Elk," but I'm sure there's some "soul," though I prefer the term "nut-job," who will think that if I express my opinion that I'm advocating everyone should have that opinion, and I am not) that religion started out as a way to explain what could not be explained, to give order to a world seemingly indifferent and chaotic and then became a terrific way for predatory people to "lord" it (quite literally) over less fortunate folk. The revelations of the Church's bureaucratic conspiracy to protect pedophile-priests is the most recent shameful example of this. When asked, I tell people I'm not a "lapsed" Catholic, but a "recovering" Catholic. That usually stops the conversation cold.

So, transcendental meditation was something I wanted to explore. I had nothing to lose. But there needed to be some instruction. One night over dinner our friend, I'll call her "Lisa," sat me down to give me the rudimentary points about TM. "Lisa" told me that I needed to sit in a chair and get comfortable. She told me to completely relax--this was something that was particularly tough for me to do, especially at this time in my life. To relax, I had to start with my head and focus on every part of my body, relaxing it one segment at a time, all the way down until I reached my feet. Concentrate. Focus. Relax. Move on.

To aid in the relaxation I needed something to distract my racing thoughts from the day-to-day stresses that pre-occupied it, like counting sheep to fall asleep (is this a theme starting here?). I needed a mantra: a simple combination of nonsense syllables that I would repeat, and by focussing my mind on those meaningless phrases, I would be prevented from letting my concerns creep in and ruin my concentration. "Lisa" was generous enough to let me use the one her instructor gave her. Here it is:

Har-ring

Am I giving away a secret? Maybe...but I doubt it. I look at those syllables as nonsense words--they have no power inherent in them. The power rests in the repeating and the rhythm of the chanting--the focussing of the mind. It could be "Jar-Jar," "Don Juan," or "Ming Tea" for all that.
Har-ring. I had to use those syllables. They were given to "Lisa" by her instructor to use, and now she was letting me use them as well. They were hand-me-down syllables. A second-hand mantra. "Lisa" worried that by giving me her mantra, she might be doing something wrong...invoking some wrath of some such. Maybe it would weaken the word--like how handing the power of "Shazam!" to another would weaken the power of Captain Marvel. But she was going to supervise this first attempt at TM, so if something went wrong she could make an attempt to intervene. In that unlikely event, she warned me that I shouldn't panic and yank myself out of my meditative state--that would give me a blinding headache. Best to "cowboy" it out and slowly bring myself out of it, slowly, at a measured pace.

"Lisa" told me to close my eyes and begin to relax. When my whole body felt heavy and relaxed, I started to repeat those syllables in my head--over and over and they began to coalesce into and out of rhythm. I let go of any residual tautness or tension in my body. I breathed slowly...regularly...and slowly, my body began to relax further...and as it did, my shoulders sagged--my arms became limp and dead-weights. My body became slack and heavy. My breathing slowed. "Har-ring" began to echo in my head...

Like a drumbeat

Like a chant

Like my heart-beat.

I felt totally and completely relaxed.

And, then....

I dropped.

Part 2 tomorrow.

"Anytime Movies" Wrap-Up

Making a list of this sort always has a way of bringing up more issues than it solves.

For instance, its amazing what movies aren’t on the list. It’s amazing to me, and I made the list! “Dr. Strangelove” isn’t here because “2001” is. A lot of defacto “classics” aren’t here. Where’s “Casablanca?” (Love it!) Where’s “Star Wars?” (Love that!) Where’s “The Godfather?” (Love…and respect...that!) “THX-1138” was a big influence. Not here. Where’s “Gone with the Wind?” (Easy. I hate “Gone with the Wind,” though I’ve seen it five times) There’s no Hitchcock (That’s interesting). No Spielberg (ditto). "The Wizard of Oz?" (Not here...not in Kansas, either!) No superhero movies (Not so surprising, really). No foreign films. Hmmm. “Seven Samurai” and “Yojimbo” (natch!) and “Nights of Cabiria” would have made the list, but my history with them is short, and I didn’t feel I could write about them well, so, no…unless you count “Once Upon a Time in the West” and it’s so influenced by American westerns, I don’t really consider it a foreign film. I think “The Wild Bunch” and “Silverado” are perfect screenplays. Not here. There’s a lot of John Ford films I love, and Howard Hawks.’ They get a delegate apiece. “It’s a Wonderful Life”—but not as much as “Mr. Smith Goes to Washington.” Where’s Bogart? Cagney? “Patton,” “Lawrence of Arabia,” “Willy Wonka.” Hey, no musicals, though I think “Singin’ in the Rain” is a classic film. And “Goldfinger?” Yeah, yeah, I know. It’s a peccadillo and my list. Go make your own.

There were some interesting coincidences, Two films set in Monument Valley. Two with Jean Arthur. Three (four, actually) about “lost causes.” All different genres. Different decades.

The other thing is I called them “Anytime Movies”—not the typical “desert island discs.” I think I’d want a desert island movie like a Time/Warner handyman film like “How to Build a Boat” or “25 Interesting Recipes You can Make Using Sand,” or that “Gilligan’s Island” episode where the Professor makes a radio out of a cocoanut.

And none of these movies contain my favorite moment(s) in film. That one is pretty obscure.

It’s the last fourteen minutes or so of Francois Truffaut’s “Farenheit 451.” The combination of Ray Bradbury’s ideas (a literal translation of RB is usually problematic), Truffaut’s screenplay and direction and Bernard Herrmann’s yearning music make the most sublime moments of film I’ve ever loved. It’s the “Book People” sequence, where Montag, the Fireman who has rebelled against the repressive society and escaped, never again to burn books (well, except for one) makes his way out of the city to a fragile wooded area (by a lake) and finds a village of people who have committed to memory one beloved book. As fall turns to winter, these people walk and recite their treasures. One little vignette has a little boy being taught a book by a man, dying, and in a fade, it is the boy who recites by himself, and there is a moment…a moment…when he can’t remember. If that kid loses the book…it’s gone. That moment has always chilled me right down to the bone far more than any horror movie could, because it shows the fragility of an idea…as fragile as a life. Maybe it’s the sense that those books will go on, life after life. Maybe its because these people have taken on one sacred thing to devote their life to, like monks of literature. Maybe because it’s an island of sanity in a world of madness. Maybe because it’s the perfect melding of picture and sound. But the cumulative effect makes me want to check in with the sequence every couple of months.

Now, once again, for the last time, here are my “Anytime Movies.”

1. 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)
2. Citizen Kane (1941)
3. Once Upon a Time in the West (1968)
4. -Only Angels Have Wings (1939)
5. The Searchers (1956)
6. Mr. Smith Goes to Washington (1939)
7. Chinatown (1974)
8. American Graffiti (1973)
9. To Kill a Mockingbird (1962)
10. Goldfinger (1964)
Bonus: Edge of Darkness (1985)

Coming Up: The "Anytime Movie" series serves as a "frame-of-reference" for the sporadic movie reviews I'll be starting next week. I've been writing about movies since college (as will also be seen), and probably always will. Those who know me know I'm brutal in my opinions, but, hopefully, entertainingly so. No "stars," no "scales," no "frames," just practical designations. Is it a "Full-price" ticket, a "Matinee," a "Rental," a "Cable-waiter," or "Don't Waste Your Life?" I'll tell you. And concisely (or at least, that's my goal....)

Also, a review (or two), and a Hallowe'en story in three parts called "Seeing Satan: Or, the Second-Hand Mantra" (ooooooh! Scary, kids!)

Personal Heroes-Murch

Walter Murch

Who?

Walter Murch is a film editor, sound editor, film historian and renaissance man. He is part of the "young turks" class of students at USC who changed movies forever--Coppola, Lucas, Milius. Murch directed one movie (the opportunity provided to him by the clout of his class-mates) the wierd and wonderful "Return to Oz," which followed L. Frank Baum's version of Oz, rather than the MGM Musical Department's (which is probably why few went to see it, and the ones that did were confused and disoriented by it--"Toto, we're really not in Kansas anymore!"). The rest of his career he's been support-staff, but a major supporter whose influence and technique determines the shape and feel of each film he works on.

When I caught up to Murch, he had already done one significant thing--he had coined the phrase that now pervades the sound-editing field, that being "Sound Designer." Briefly, the story of that phrase originates with Murch not being a member of the sound editor's union at the time he was working on Coppola's "The Rain People." Coppola asked him how he wanted to be listed in the credits, since they were prohibited from using the "Sound Editor" designation. "Sound Designer" was Murch's reply* And a new aspect and depth to the field was coined. The credit on his next film, George Lucas' "THX-1138" had his work classified, not him. "Sound Montage by Walter Murch" (he also co-wrote the screenplay) was how the credits (rolling from the top of the screen against the norm) read. Murch filled the spaces of "THX" with echoing yelps, bizarre clusters of sounds and cheap Muzak. His motorcycles emitted flanging screams and in plexiglas confessionals deep, sonorous voices gave comfort. His sounds were not only accurate (in that they sounded appropriate to the visuals) but also displayed wit and satire.

His next film for Lucas, "American Graffiti," was more sophisticated and tougher to pull off in its more recognizable world. Lucas had strung together a continuous soundtrack of golden oldies and Wolfman Jack patter to serve as a constant back-drop and Greek chorus, and Murch re-recorded the entire track using a method he dubbed "world-izing" (a technique he later found had been used by Orson Welles to authenticate sound). He took the track, played it in a large empty space and recorded the result, moving the speakers at key times to muffle the sound, delay it by a few frames, attenuate it to a thin squeal, or layer on vast coat of echo. He inserted recorded kids' conversations and shrieks to enliven the background, making the empty midnight world of the cruisers full of activity and fun. For Coppola's "The Godfather," Murch kept the soundtrack real, but everyone remembers the roar of the el' train as Michael Corleone hesitates in the bathroom of an Italian restaurant before he sets out to "make his bones." There's another favorite sound moment of mine in "The Godfather" as Michael Corleone walks the deserted echoing halls of the hospital on a visit to see his father. He finds a Christmas party halted in mid-revelry, including a Johnny Fontaine record stuck in a groove and playing one chilling word--"toniiiiihght/toniiiiight." It's unnerving, and the moment we can distinguish what the words are, Michael snaps into action to save his father from a "hit." Murch expanded his role during Coppola's "The Conversation," editing the picture as well as the sound, and was responsible for all the sonic permutations that "the conversation" take on. And his other-worldly sound design for "Apocalypse Now," took us into the madness and surreal beauty of Viet Nam. Or Coppola's Viet Nam, anyway.

Over the years he's cherry-picked the movies he's supervised: Fred Zinnemann's "Julia;" three films with Anthony Minghella ("The English Patient," "The Talented Mr.Ripley," and "Cold Mountain")"K-19: The Widowmaker," "The Unbearable Lightness of Being," "Ghost," "Jarhead" for Sam Mendes. Currently, he's working on "Youth without Youth," Francis Coppola's first film in ages.

He's written one book, "In the Blink of an Eye," a practical and philosophical guide to film editing, done numerous interviews and essays (links below) and had two books written about him--"The Conversations" by the author of "The English Patient," Michael Ondaatje and "Behind the Seen," which talks about Murch's efforts to edit "Cold Mountain" using Final Cut Pro, a consumer editing system--and which became a book about Murch, himself. Plus, he's tackled personal assignments, like taking Orson welles' detailed memo of the steps that could be taken to get "Touch of Evil" back to his original intentions, and then doing just that. Or syncing pioneer film maker W.K.L. Dickson's first attempt at a film-audio hybrid by finally marrying the sound found on a tinfoil cylinder to the original film "reel" both done in 1895. The historic results are here:

When I saw (and heard) "THX-1138" on the lower-end of a "Sci-Fi" double bill (with the egregiously pedestrian "Soylent Green") at the Crossroads Theater with my brother John, it was a "thunderbolt" moment. No other film I'd seen looked like it, or, more importantly, sounded like it. It was right then that I, more than anything, wanted to be doing that kind of work with sound like that--a "creative" way to bring reality to the screen and color it with a certain sensibility. Not many people get to live their dream. I have. And I'm grateful to Walter Murch for inspiring me--and for continuing to teach me new things with every new film he does.

*Back in my "Bad Animals" studio days, there was a time when "sound designer" was being put on our business cards instead of the usual "engineer." I thought that was a little pretentious, so, being a "smart-ass," I asked that the term "Audio Architect" be put on mine. I've also used the term "Sound-Wave Landscaper," and these days I've boiled it down to "Chief Noisemaker." Now, I'm working at a place where the guy across the hall works on various compression schemes to make mp3's sound good at lower band-widths (so you can stuff more songs into your Ipod) His title? "Audio Architect."

Funny old world, innit?

Murch articles at FilmSound.Org
Murch articles at Transom. org
Murch interviewed on "Fresh Air"
Murch story on "All Things Considered"
Murch as guest on "Studio 360"

Murch's incredible work sorting out the chaos in "Apocalypse Now"

An interesting little piece on those initial helicopter sounds in "Apocalypse" and a nifty little graphic showing how Murch made it spin through your head

And finally, Murch explains "Worldizing" far better than I ever could

Night of Enchantment

"So, what are you doing today?"

Not the most loaded of questions, but it's what they call in Perry Mason episodes "leading the witness." I did have something in mind. "The "witness" was my companion of many years, Katheryn.

"So, what are you doing today?"

We were recently back from Spain where we'd spent a couple weeks hiking across half the north of the country on an old trail famed for religious pilgrimages called "El Camino de Santiago e Campostela" or “The Camino," for short. “The Santiago” being St. James, famous Christian martyr, and “Campostela” being the city on the western edge of Spain where after completing their pilgrimage the exhausted monks would strip off their crusty smocks and toss them into the sea. The story--as well as the journey-- usually ends there, but I can’t help but wonder where those naked monks went to get new clothes. Probably back at the church, which dominated—and stood at the geographical center of—the city.

We did not have to hurl our garments into the sea. A load of laundry and our wash-and-wear hiking gear from Travelsmith were good to go, though at the end of our journey we were weary and flush with our accomplishment. There was the vague idea of getting married in Campostela, but Spain is an extraordinarily Catholic—not to mention famously fascist—country, and given the restrictions “The Church” puts on you in this country (classes, for instance), one can only imagine the sanctified hoops the Church of Saint Jimmy the Moor-Slayer would put you through. Maybe a hazing by the Guardia Seville? No, thanks.

So, we weren’t married in Spain—we had enough difficulty with a taxi strike getting out of the country—that any further travel was out of the question, so we had no desire to, say, do the “John and Yoko” thing in Gibraltar.

So, we came away from this “marriage trip” without getting married—really. We had a certificate to. We got that before we went to Spain, but we had no ceremony. We had no signatures. No witnesses. Just the piece of paper. Folks who live together talk about marriage as “just a piece of paper.” Well, not really. A marriage ceremony is a rite of passage. It’s where you announce to the world “See them? They’re with me!” It’s more than a commitment. It’s a public commitment. You put it in writing and it becomes a matter of public record. It’s not between two people anymore. It’s a matter of state, of government and for those who believe, God.

“So, what are you doing today?”

“Well, nothing, really….” Katheryn replied.

“Ya wanna get married?”

I like delight. I get it a lot from Katheryn. There’s just enough of the kid in both of us, that when those kids intersect…that’s delight. This was one of those moments.

“Sure. Do you think we can?”

“Yeah….there’s gotta be someplace…..”

I went to the phone book, naturally. The Yellow Pages. There was a number of listings under “Wedding Chapels,” but one caught my eye. “Get Married. Fast. Cheap. Painless.”* It was the “Painless” part that sold me. “This one says ‘Painless!’” I said. “Where is it?” “It” was the Double A Vagabond “Enchanted Chapel,” and by happy circumstance it was within five miles of our house.

The A-A Vagabond flyer--I'm sure the prices have changed since 2000.

“I’ll call them,” I said.

I called the number. A child answered the phone. “Hello?”

“Hi…um…is this the Double A Vagabond Enchanted Chapel?”
“Uh-huh…”
“Uh…well…is it possible to get married today?”
“I don’t know. You’ll have to ask my mom. She’s out marrying somebody right now, but she’ll be back this afternoon.”
“Could you have her call me when she gets in?”

She took down my number, told me her mom would call me back and chirped a good-bye.

I stood there looking at the phone. That was strange.

Katheryn read the expression on my face. “Are we getting married today?” “I don’t know” and I explained about the kid, the mom and the call-back.

“Well, if it happens, it happens,” she said. I think Katheryn was being bravely blase. She wanted to do this—we’d said it out loud, after all—as much as I did, but she wasn’t going to show any disappointment.

I forget what we did the rest of that Saturday—but I’d be surprised if we strayed too far from home—we might have driven to Fred Meyer to get some plants, and almost certainly drove by the place to scope it out. I don’t remember exactly. But later that afternoon I got a phone-call. Introductions and salutations, then…”Is it possible to get married today?”

“I think so…we’re open ‘til 7.”
“Well, what time should we come by?”
“7”
“Uh…you just said you close at 7…”
“Uh-huh. Don’t be late.”

Good attitude. And it promised that I’d made a good choice with this particular place.

We were going to go the complete casual route—jeans and such. But I just couldn’t do it. I put on a white shirt and black slacks and jacket. Katheryn looked disappointed when I emerged from changing. “You’re dressing up…” “Nah, not really…I just couldn’t do this without a suit…” She disappeared into the bedroom. It was getting close to the time we had to leave (and, of course, we couldn’t be late!). I stressed and paced quietly in the living room. She came out in her black dress, looking sweet. And we set out for the A-A Vagabond “Enchanted Chapel.”

It was dark when we arrived, but it should be noted that, at the time, the Enchanted Chapel was pink. Hot pink. We were greeted at the door by the Rev. Zady Evans. “Right on time,” she said. She started to talk us through the procedure, but it was a little hard to pay attention. The chapel was busy with all sorts of sights to see. The front of the chapel was dominated by plate glass windows that looked out over the vast (and industrial) Rainier Valley, which was full of flickering lights. In front of this vista was an impressive arch covered by ivy of a questionable cellular structure to encourage photosynthesis (though, hanging from the arch were buckets with draping live plants) and festooned with what seemed like a million little lights. Burbling discreetly nearby was an elaborate water “project” with equally questionable rockery.

As one peeled one’s eyes away from that sight, one noticed the back of the chapel, which served as a staging area for photo ops, complete with props. To further the already-established theme, the ice in the perpetually-full champagne bucket was of the same cellular structure as the ivy and rockery, as was the perpetually intact wedding cake sitting nearby.

The Rev. Zady Evans was very real, though, and warmly guided us, googly-eyed though we were, through the formalities. She asked for our paperwork and handed us a white binder of various styles and lengths of wedding ceremonies starting with the “Soul of Brevity” 30 minute script, on up to the full-blown 60 minute Extravaganza.

The Rev. scampered off to get witnesses’ signatures (presumably from her family, who remained unseen, though they were witnesses—I imagined them sitting around the dinner table—eating pot roast, in my scenario—while Mom passed the marriage certificate for the kids to sign “Aw, mom!” “Sign it, Jimmy, and be sure to eat all your carrot rosettes or you won’t be excused from the table!”), leaving Katheryn and I to go over our reading material and contemplate what wedding ceremony to “go” with. Reading was easy as both our eyes were wide as saucers at the surroundings. We wanted to nose around and gawk, so the decision-making was pretty perfunctory.

“So….,” I said. “Which one do you want?” “The first one. It’s the shortest.” I agreed, which gave us lots of time to snoop.

The "first one"

I wandered over to the bulletin board which was crowded with pictures of beaming newlyweds radiating happiness, and using the props in the back. Gosh, it looked like they were actually getting married—right where we were. Then and there any worries about a faux-wedding ceremony flew right out the arch and out the plate-glass window, presumably onto on-coming traffic making their way up the hill to South Park.

Reverend Zady emerged in minister’s robes, and asked if I had a camera with me. I did. A disposable. “It’s still got five or six shots in it,” I said. She gave me a look. Five, huh? She’d have to make ‘em count. She herded us through the metal chairs going unused for our ceremony to the arch-way

Time for the ceremony to start. The Rev. clicked on the cassette player, and to the burbling water-project was added Slow Elvis and Hawaiian music. I don’t remember much of the actual wedding ceremony other than it was sweet, and Rev. Zady was quite adept at officiating and taking care of the picture-taking duties as well, bobbing and weaving to get just the right angle as she read from her text.

And before you knew it, Katheryn and I were pronounced man and wife. Snap! A last picture of us, looking like an Armenian couple—the scruffy tailor and his lovely wife—the first picture of us as a married couple. The cassette switched over to “Goin’ to the Chapel (of Love)” and it was time for our exit. A gratuity to the minister and we made our processional.

And true to their advertising, it was cheap, fast, but mostly….it was painless.

That’s the story of our wedding, October 21, 2000. Check your calendars. That was six years ago…today. **

Happy Anniversary.

* I recently looked up the Yellow Pages ad for the "A-A Vagabond 'Enchanted Chapel'" and it now reads "Fast. Easy. Romantic." *sigh* It was the "Painless" that sold me.

** Paper is the first anniversary. Gold, the fiftieth.
The sixth is plexiglas or something.

Coming Up: One last hero, some last thoughts on "Anytime Movies," and the week after that, a multi-part story just in time for Hallowe'en.

"Anytime Movies" I: 2001: A Space Odyssey

Why is “2001” my favorite film?

1. It completely does away with the three-act play structure that hems in most films. It’s four acts—like a symphony.

2. It contains very little dialog, and insists on telling its story (about discovering extraterrestial life) and providing key dramatic information visually and aurally—something that too few films actually try to do--fully utilizing the stregths of the medium.

3. It dispenses with the traditional sense of screen-acting which depends on emoting high-points (which is not standard drama, but is, in fact, melodrama), that has long been the crutch of what is considered great screen acting.


4. It comes up with a rather nifty solution for the Evolution versus Creation argument, which is: “Why can’t it be a little bit of both?” Trust Kubrick to answer a question with another question.

5. It is that very rare item in movie history—a true Science Fiction film. It is not a standard genre film (ie. a western or detective story) set in the future with gadgets, like “Star Wars” or “Close Encounters” or “Blade Runner” or “Outland” or “Forbidden Planet.” There are no comfortable, reliable concepts in “2001.” It asks audiences to consider the unconsiderable and make leaps of knowledge and faith. And it doesn’t wait for that audience to catch up, despite protestations of a “glacial” pace.

6. It obeys the rules of space and uses them dramatically. There is no sound in space. Trips in space take a long time. Isolation is a problem. Don’t get caught without your helmet. Ask your computer how its doing every so often. When you're dining over at a stranger's house, don't break the crystal. If a black monolith crosses your path, don't reach for it unless you're prepared for your life to change. Rules like that...

7. It takes advantage of the one unique element that separates film-making from any other artform, and presents the single greatest edit in movie history. To wit:

My Dad took me and my friend Jerry Fortune to see "2001: A Space Odyssey" on my thirteenth birthday. I was a space kid. I lived and breathed the Apollo program. I knew every Astronaut’s name and every mission. What went right and what went wrong. The names of landing sites and prominent craters nearby.

But I couldn’t make heads or tails out of this movie. Like my father, I “liked the middle parts,” but I couldn’t figure out what was up with the monkeys, what all that wierd screaming was about, what was with those streamers when they get to Jupiter, who was the old guy and what was that baby at the end?

I mean, huh?

I was determined to figure it out. It was a space-movie for cryin’ out loud. And, at that time, they only came around once in a blue moon (the last being “Planet of the Apes,” hardly a space-movie) and I wasn’t going to waste this one.

So it made me dig. I researched. I found out it had to do with the search for extra-terrestrial life (it did?), then I read Clarke’s book, and although Clarke and Kubrick deviated quite a bit, it let me in to what Kubrick was trying to communicate.

Then I got it. It made me realize why he did what he did, why he chose particular scenes to portray, why he framed shots the way he did, and what he could get away with without making his movie look stupid. For Kubrick, a suggestion was better than hitting you over the head by showing bug-eyed children in baggy suits and rubber masks ala Spielberg. There was no narrator to tell you what it all meant (Kubrick had cut out a prologue of talking heads discussing E.T. concepts). The film-maker trusted that his audience would figure it out. Some did.* Some just liked all the colors.

And it left a lot of people (including one thirteen year old and a good number of complacent critics) in the moon-dust.

It still boggles this mind that Kubrick was able to take Arthur Clarke’s slim concept in “The Sentinel” (alien beings leave a "burglar" alarm of sorts on the Moon), and take it to a logical beginning, wrap it in mythic proportions and take it to an inevitable, and, for me, heroic, end. It still is one of the few movies that purport to be science fiction with a deep sense of mystery and wonder, even a kind of visual poetry--something its sequel, the literal-minded “2010,” dispensed with to its drab, short-shelf-lifed detriment.

Where did that inspiration come from? How did those concepts appear? For me, the movie fits the description of the Black Monolith in the film (and are its last spoken words) “It’s origin and purpose, still a total mystery.”

I may have seen "2001: A Space Odyssey" over a hundred times, and it never, ever bores me or fails to thrill me.

Such is the power of this movie over me.

* A site that "explains" "2001" and touches on some philosophical aspects

Here's the oldest running web-site about "2001". Lots of handy info.

The 2001 Internet Resource Archive. Lots of neat things here, too!

A pretty comprehesive Kubrick web-site

"Welcome to the Hal Corporation"

The Hal project

Anytime Movies are movies I can watch anytime, anywhere. If I see a second of it, I can identify it. If it shows up on television, my attention is focused on it until the conclusion. Sometimes it’s the direction, sometimes it’s the writing, some times it’s the acting, sometimes it’s just the idea behind it, but these are the movies I can watch again and again and never tire of them. There are ten (kinda). This is Number 1.
1. 2001: A Space Odyssey

2. Citizen Kane

3. Once Upon a Time in the West

4. -Only Angels Have Wings

5. The Searchers

6. Mr. Smith Goes to Washington

7. Chinatown

8. American Graffiti

9. To Kill a Mockingbird

10. Goldfinger

Bonus: Edge of Darkness

Personal Heroes-Freberg

Stan Freberg

I’ve seen Stan Freberg speak twice, and both times it was very clear that if there’s one thing Freberg loves to talk about it's himself (this coming, of course, from a guy with a blog!). But then, Freberg has the sort of facile mind and forceful personality that any story he tells—if it is to have a snappy conclusion—has to involve himself and some interaction with a lesser light.

You may know him as that slightly sarcastic voice that hosts “When Radio Was…” if you’re into late-night radio or old radio shows (and yes, Freberg’s voice has always had that “edge”). It’s perfectly appropriate that Freberg does that job, as he had one of the last scripted radio programs that harkened back to the Golden Age of Radio back in the 1950's. The fact that it lasted only 15 weeks and ran afoul of CBS censors is a testament to Freberg bridging the gap between the GAofR and the turbulent 60’s.

He started out as a voice-actor doing recreations of FDR speeches when no audio was available, did lots of radio voice-work, some cartoons (most notably Baby Bear in Chuck Jones’ Bear Family cartoons, the voice of Claude the Cat, and the truly bizarre voice of a character called Peter Puma), then comedy records (like “John and Marsha,” in which he played both parts, “St. George and the Dragonet,” and “Green Chri$tmas”-a controversial piece on the over-commercialization of the holiday). Ironically, he then went into commercials, where he did ground-breaking work for Chun King, Jeno’s Pizza, Sunsweet, and Campbell’s Soups. He also did some work for the Radio Advertising Bureau, for which he wrote “Stretching the Imagination,” which is forever used as an example of “Theater of the Mind.” It’s also one of the funniest, spot-on homages to the power of sound that has ever been conceived by man (or woman), Here’s the script (not a wasted word, either!)

Stretching the Imagination

Man #1: Radio! Why should I advertise on radio? There's nothing to look at...no pictures!

Man #2: Listen, you can do things on radio you couldn't possibly do on TV.

Man #1: That'll be the day!

Man #2: Alright, watch this (clears throat) OK, people! Now when I give you the cue, I want the 700 ft. mountain of whipped cream to roll into Lake Michigan which has been drained and filled with hot chocolate. Then the Royal Canadian Air Force will fly overhead towing a ten-ton maraschino cherry, which will be dropped into the whipped cream to the cheers of 25,000 cheering extras. Alright? Cue the mountain!

Mountain moans and groans and splashes into hot chocolate

Man #2: Cue the Air Force!

Planes fly overhead

Man #2: Cue the maraschino cherry!

Maraschino cherry whistles down and plops into whipped cream

Man #2: Okay, 25,000 cheering extras!

Huge cheer rises up and cuts off

Man #2: Now, you wanna try that on television?

Man #1: Welllll...

Man #2: You see, radio is a very special medium because it stretches the imagination.

Man #1: Doesn't television stretch the imagination?

Man #2: Up to 27 inches, yes.

Freberg will still do an occasional comedy album (when they allow him).* His radio and comedy work is rarely out of print. There’s the occasional NPR commentary even more rarely. You can find an archive of his weekly commentary show among the links below. Mostly he’s doing voice-work and public speaking.

He just turned 80.

Mike Van Ackeren (RIP) told me once of seeing Freberg at the check-out of an L.A. grocery store. He had a big pile of groceries, and a limited amount of cash. When the total was rung up, he was short, so he turned it into a comedy piece. He’d take out one thing, ask for a total, and again, he’d be short. He’d take, again, only one item. Total? Nope. Like an ersatz janga puzzle, he’d take out some miniscule item to try to eke it out to the largest amount he could get away with. Mike expressed awe at how hilarious the scene was, and how precise Freberg’s sense of timing was—little hesitations, weighted pauses, a bit of bluster here and there. He acknowledged that, though it was funny in the observing, it probably wasn’t for the cashier, or the folks behind him in line. But the rapt way it was described to me remains in my mind, even though the details haven’t.

Below is a video of my favorite Freberg commercial—for Jeno’s pizza rolls—even though, one has to admit, it was very much of its time. It was, in fact, a response to another advertiser’s commercial. Fortunately, through the magic of YouTube, I can show you the original (which now that I look at it, after years of doing advertising, is as phony as a $3 bill—or a $7 pack of smokes), and Freberg’s caustic response with its perfect zinger of a pay-off.

Lark Cigarettes-"Show us your Larks!" *****



Jeno's Pizza Rolls-"Show us your Pizza Rolls!"




Unofficial Official Site
Stan Freberg at IMDB
Stan Freberg at Wikipedia
Stan Freberg in the Radio Hall of Fame
"Stan Freberg Here" Archive
Time Magazine article: "Stan the Man"

* Here's a place to write to Rhino Records to convince them to finance the third "History of America" album.

** SURGEON GENERAL'S WARNING: Smoking Causes Lung Cancer, Heart Disease, Emphysema, And May Complicate Pregnancy.

***Now, here's MY Warning: Don't Smoke! If you do already, Stop! If you don't smoke, Don't Start. Those aren't cigarettes, those are Nails In Your Coffin. Now, take a deep breath. Hold it. Release. You can't do that with emphysema. Not even when you're hooked up to an oxygen tent, hacking up black bile from your chest. Breathing keeps you alive. It's one of your brain's autonomic functions. Don't screw it up by making it difficult. Or impossible. Don't smoke: Stop! or Don't start.

"Anytime Movies" (Bonus): Edge of Darkness

What the hell is this? It’s not a classic movie!

Oh, it’s worse than that! It’s not even a movie! It’s a British mini-series.

Okay, so what’s so special about it that it squeezes into the “Wild Card” position of the “Anytime Movies” list over, say, “Casablanca” or “Gone With the Wind,” or your favorite film?

1. It’s a police procedural, as steeped in the gritty realism of shabby interrogation rooms and bad neon-tube-lighting as “NYPD Blue” or “Prime Suspect.”

2. It’s a spy story, with rogue undercover operatives (particularly an eccentric CIA operative by the name of Darius Jedburgh, played in the performance of his career by Joe Don Baker), chases (two stand out--an edge-of-your-seat hacking exercise, and another through an abandoned nuclear facility) and intrigue on the part of goverment, and commerce.

3. It’s a political thriller, with investigations into government corruption and collaboration with a privatized nuclear industry, that involves Union-busting, suppression of environmental groups, and murder.

4. It’s a revenge story, as a police investigator attempts to find who murdered his daughter...or was the bullet meant for him?.

5. It’s a ghost story, as she keeps coming back to advise and inspire her father’s efforts, as he sinks deeper and deeper into an ever-expanding investigation, that he is being encouraged to abandon.

6. It’s a psychological thriller—because maybe she isn’t really there, and is just a figment of his severe grief.

7. It’s a black comedy—it has some of the most absurd sequences ever put to film (a sumptuous dinner in an underground "hot" room), and some of the funniest lines ("He's in the field," but you have to be there).

8. On top of that, it’s a story of myth, although grounded in reality, for, impossibly, one of the main protagonists (and an alarming participant) would seem to be the Earth goddess, Gaea.

9. It has one of the best performances I’ve ever seen, by the hawk-faced Bob Peck (you might remember him as the big game hunter Muldoon in “Jurassic Park.” You don’t? One line: “Clever girl…” Now you know him)

10. It crosses genres, and expectations and always keeps you guessing not only what will happen next, but what COULD happen next. It seems to revel in going 90° from normal at every juncture. It is truly a thrilling film.

11. It has one of the most down-beat endings ever put to film. But it’s okay—it's assured the bad guys will lose. The Good Earth will win.

Sad to say, there’s no DVD release of this thing in the U.S., although it has been released in Britain. For all the crap out there that has been “digitally mastered,” there evidently is no room for this rough little gem of a movie despite its pedigree of being directed by Martin Campbell, director of two James Bond movies and the two Antonio Banderas Zorro films. One should also make note of the exceptional Troy Kennedy-Martin screenplay, and the music by the late Michael Kamen and Eric Clapton. Peck is gone now, as well, and it would have nice to see him in other things, so good is he in this. But it’s another in a long string of sad eventualities for this odd, crazy, thrilling piece of film-making.

You gotta love the British. We could never do this in the States.

They deserve the Falklands.

Craven (Bob Peck) finds a gun in his daughter's teddy-bear

Northmoor - a site dedicated to "Edge of Darkness"

"Edge of Darkness" at the IMDB

Anytime Movies are movies I can watch anytime, anywhere. If I see a second of it, I can identify it. If it shows up on television, my attention is focused on it until the conclusion. Sometimes it’s the direction, sometimes it’s the writing, some times it’s the acting, sometimes it’s just the idea behind it, but these are the movies I can watch again and again and never tire of them. There are ten (kinda). This is just a bonus.

2. Citizen Kane
3. Once Upon a Time in the West
4. -Only Angels Have Wings
5. The Searchers
6. Mr. Smith Goes to Washington
7. Chinatown
8. American Graffiti
9. To Kill a Mockingbird
10. Goldfinger
Bonus: Edge of Darkness

Next week: A Personal Hero who's still breathing...and the unveiling of #1