I finally had a chance to watch all of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame 25th Anniversary Concert, a title that's almost as long as the show itself. It's been a busy fall, so I had to watch it several weeks after the show first aired in order to have a chance to sit through it all at once. It's mostly a tribute to artists who have been inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, and it was a treat to see some of the "older" rockers still performing.
For example, Jerry Lee Lewis started the concert by playing a version of "Great Balls of Fire." Lewis is quite old now, one of the very few survivors from the early years of rock and roll, but he still knows how to play the piano just as nimbly as he did back in the 1950s. What impressed me more, though, was how he ended his performance. Like the true badass that he is and always was, Lewis kicked over the piano bench and knocked it out of his way so that he could exit the stage. Had he been a guitar player instead of a piano player, I suspect he would have smashed a guitar.
The concert had several emotional moments as artists paid tribute to singers and plays who had passed away. There was a lovely version of "Here Comes the Sun" by Paul Simon, Graham Nash, and David Crosby in honor of George Harrison. And I was particularly touched by Stevie Wonder's tribute to Michael Jackson. Wonder sang a version of "The Way You Make Me Feel," and it was all he could do to get through the song. He teared up in the middle and couldn't make the words come to him. He eventually recovered, but it was a powerful reminder of the friendship the two men had had all those years ago at Motown Records and to how much we lost musically with Jackson's passing this year.
If you wanted to see the pure joy of performing with one of your idols, all you needed to do was watch the lead singer of Metallica, James Hetfield, singing along with Ozzy Osbourne. He wasn't singing into the microphone; he was just "mouthing" the words that Ozzy was singing, and he was having a blast doing it. Speaking of Metallica, who knew that they could be such a great back-up band to Ray Davies of the Kinks? Davies, who has long been estranged from his brother and the other members of his original band, should go on tour with Metallica. They could bring a heavy metal edge to some of the Kinks' great songs.
Most of the concert was taken up with intriguing pairings of artists, but none was better than when U2 brought out Bruce Springsteen and Patti Smith to sing "Because the Night." Springsteen and Smith co-wrote the song, and Smith popularized it, and it was an inspiring touch to have Bono and U2 join them in singing it. It was almost perfect harmony.
Speaking of harmony and estrangement, one of my favorite segments was the one "hosted" by Simon. He brought out Art Garfunkel, and the two of them sang several of their hits with the beautiful combination of voices they always had. It's a shame that artists like Simon & Garfunkel couldn't seem to get along well enough to maintain their careers together. Hell, even the members of the Eagles have managed to overcome their creative differences and tour together. I'd love to see another concert of Simon & Garfunkel singing "The Sounds of Silence" and "The Boxer" and "Bridge Over Troubled Water" like they did for this concert.
The most powerful political moment--and a welcome one it was--was the arrival of Annie Lennox of the Eurythmics to duet with Aretha Franklin. Franklin was adorned in one of her usual showstopping dresses, but Lennox was wearing a simple outfit that included a t-shirt that said "HIV Positive." Now, Lennox isn't HIV positive; she's wearing the shirt to call attention to the devastation that AIDS has brought to Africa and to remind us that we don't always know the status of our partners unless they choose to be honest with us. Rock and roll is political, and Lennox reminded us of that even at this august occasion. And she and Franklin totally brought down the house with their rendition of "Chain of Fools." So when does Lennox get inducted into the Hall of Fame?
There were lots of other favorite moments: the appearance of Little Anthony and the Imperials, still in fine voice after all these years; the segment hosted by Jeff Beck that was primarily devoted to himself and other guitar gods; and Springsteen, Tom Morello of Rage Against the Machine, and John Fogerty of Creedence Clearwater Revival playing with the E Street Band--magical stuff. Sam of Sam & Dave sang with Springsteen's band, as did Darlene Love. And then Billy Joel sang "New York State of Mind," one of his best songs. It was a powerhouse way to end the evening.
Watching all of these performers brought back a lot of memories of my high school and college years. Many of them have seen their heyday as top-selling artists come and go, but the drive to perform is still there. If Jerry Lee Lewis, who's 74, by the way, can still rock, so can the rest of us.
I have a few quibbles with the choices the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame has made over the years. How exactly are the Staples Singers rock and roll? Or Madonna? Or ABBA, one of the inductees for 2010? How much of an influence, truly, were the Dave Clark Five? Or Frankie Lymon and the Teenagers? Or the Hollies, again one of the inductees for 2010? The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame bypassed KISS, the great Laura Nyro, and the Red Hot Chili Peppers in order to add ABBA and the Hollies next year. At least, the new inductees include the Stooges (with wild man Iggy Pop) and Jimmy Cliff, both deserving and long overdue. There was a call a few years ago by a rock journalist to start taking people out of the Hall of Fame because there were too many people he considered to be second-caliber talent being inducted. I wouldn't go that far, but I do wish the keepers of the hall would pay attention to their own concert. The stars performing that night are still shining, still performing, still worthy of our adulation. And they're still rock and roll to the core.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Nutty Neighbors: The Saga Continues
At 3 a.m., most of the building was awakened by the sound of a hammer pounding. Several of us yelled loudly, and the hammering stopped. Temporarily. After about ten minutes, it started up again. Then it would stop for a little while, only to start up again. Several of us called the security office to complain, but frankly, none of us were certain from where the sound was coming.
Well, that's not entirely true. I immediately suspected Godzilla. I checked to see if there were any lights on in her apartment, and there were, all in the back bedroom whose wall I share. I think she might have been putting together some presents or furniture or something, but why at 3 o'clock in the morning?
I'm not fond of confrontation, but I'm also not above it. When I knocked on her door, she opened only the peephole, so I still haven't seen what she looks like. I asked if she were the one hammering, and she replied that she wasn't. She said she thought I was the one making the noise. She then vowed to call security herself. I would like to note here that there was no more hammering after I confronted her about it.
By this point, it was almost 4 a.m., and I couldn't get back to sleep. I tossed and turned, but I just couldn't doze off again. Around 5:30 a.m., drawers in her walk-in closet were opened and shut (yes, you can hear them when they are slammed back into the wall), and a few minutes later, the charming sounds of her heels on the hardwood floor made their way to the front door.
I'm not trying to be accusatory, but Godzilla never gets up that early for work. That is more likely to be the time she goes to bed. Perhaps she was trying to get all of her stuff together so that she could go somewhere for Christmas? I hope so. It would be good to have her out of the apartment building for a few days. Maybe then we can all get some well-deserved sleep again.
Well, that's not entirely true. I immediately suspected Godzilla. I checked to see if there were any lights on in her apartment, and there were, all in the back bedroom whose wall I share. I think she might have been putting together some presents or furniture or something, but why at 3 o'clock in the morning?
I'm not fond of confrontation, but I'm also not above it. When I knocked on her door, she opened only the peephole, so I still haven't seen what she looks like. I asked if she were the one hammering, and she replied that she wasn't. She said she thought I was the one making the noise. She then vowed to call security herself. I would like to note here that there was no more hammering after I confronted her about it.
By this point, it was almost 4 a.m., and I couldn't get back to sleep. I tossed and turned, but I just couldn't doze off again. Around 5:30 a.m., drawers in her walk-in closet were opened and shut (yes, you can hear them when they are slammed back into the wall), and a few minutes later, the charming sounds of her heels on the hardwood floor made their way to the front door.
I'm not trying to be accusatory, but Godzilla never gets up that early for work. That is more likely to be the time she goes to bed. Perhaps she was trying to get all of her stuff together so that she could go somewhere for Christmas? I hope so. It would be good to have her out of the apartment building for a few days. Maybe then we can all get some well-deserved sleep again.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Nutty Neighbors: Godzilla's Slippers
I apologize for how blurry the picture is, but I was trying to keep from getting caught. The shoes above belong to Godzilla, one of the losers, uh, neighbors next door. You may recall that we had a lot of rain in Los Angeles a couple of weekends ago. Well, sometimes when one is destroying Tokyo in a rainstorm, one gets mud on one's shoes. I opened the door to my apartment on Sunday morning to get the paper and saw a pair of slippers in the tiny, tiny space between our front doors, and that's when I grabbed the cell phone. Luckily, Godzilla doesn't tend to wake up early.
The night before this picture was taken had been a rough one, actually. Godzilla had spent most of the weekend hanging out with a group of friends led by a 25-year-old who thought he was quite the success story already. I know this because he proclaimed it loudly both inside Godzilla's apartment and then again in the hallway before they left for the evening on Friday. I'm not sure who it was that he was trying to convince.
They returned home at 2 a.m. or so on Saturday. I know this because they woke everyone in the apartment building up. Including her roommate, Warren (whose name I learned because they kept yelling it repeatedly). Warren was apparently distressed over something that had happened to Godzilla. Well, he said her face was "fucked up." I have no idea how. After some loud discussions back and forth--and repeated calls from other neighbors to shut up--and a few phone calls to the security guards--Godzilla and her Wunderkind took their argument outside. As in the front of the building. As in loud enough to be heard by everyone in the building. Thankfully, the security officers showed up quickly and quietened them down and sent Wunderkind on his way.
Wunderkind hasn't returned, to the best of my knowledge. Warren's presence hasn't been apparent in the past week either; I suspect that the early morning wake-up might have been the last straw in their friendship. And Godzilla has been chastised at least once more, this time for playing her music too loudly. I know this because I heard the knock on the door from the security guard. I hadn't fallen asleep yet because, well, the music from next door was too loud. Good thing someone in the building had the foresight to call and report it, huh?
Since the photo above was taken, she has purchased a doormat. It's actually quite a pitiful one. No, I don't have a picture, at least not yet. It's small and obviously cheap, like one you'd pick up at the 99 Cents Store. I purchased a rather nice one a few years ago, but I keep mine just inside the front door. I figured the people streaming in and out of the apartment next door would wipe their dirty shoes on my mat, and I'd be left cleaning up after them. From the looks of the shoes above, my fears weren't unfounded. Oddly enough, it has stayed relatively clean inside my apartment.
I have to admit that I'm a bit worried about this doormat purchase. That might indicate a desire to stay here longer than the six months or so that the last two sets of tenants have managed. Then again, given how cheap it was, she might consider it to be disposable. Time will tell.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Nutty Neighbors: Godzilla and the Giggle Sisters
I still have no idea how many people are living in the apartment next to me. Whenever a new batch arrives, it's always a fun guessing game as to the number of folks who will wind up being "permanent" residents. I thought for a while it was a young couple, a woman and a man, but now I'm beginning to suspect that it might be two women who have male visitors occasionally. But there's no way to tell. Well, other than getting to know them personally, and I have no particular interest in doing that. Given the trend for that short bus of an apartment, they won't be here for very long anyway.
I have to say that, so far, they have been "better" than some of the previous residents, "better" being a somewhat relative term. Perhaps that's because they seem hardly ever to be home. And, shockingly, I'm okay with that. Now and then, though, they do have some odd habits which seem designed to annoy all of the other people on this floor, or maybe they have a grander scheme in mind: annoying everyone in the building. They have the capacity to do so. I just hope they never use it.
I've only had to call the security patrol once since the new neighbors moved in. It was one of the weekends when they were moving stuff into the apartment and unpacking. They had two--yes, two--stereos blasting music. Most of the other residents of the hallway stuck their heads around the corner to confirm the apartment number, a sure sign that I wasn't the only one who called. The response to the patrol officer's telling them that their music was too loud? "Seriously?" That's the best they could muster, and it was in that Paris Hilton/Valley Girl tone of voice that too many young women mimic nowadays, so you know what it sounded like. But they turned the music down, and peace was temporarily restored. Since I've only had to call the patrol once in the month or so since they moved in, I'm already happier with them as neighbors than the previous two sets. Of course, the holidays are looming, and you can never tell what parties might be on the horizon.
No, when it comes to noise, they only have a couple of annoying habits. One of them likes to play music while taking a shower. I guess she/he wants to be able to enjoy a few tunes while soaping up. I don't know; it makes no sense to me. I just want to get in the shower, get it over with, and get on with my day. They, however, must think of it as some sort of retreat. The music only lasts as long as the shower is running, so at least, I know it's only temporary. Of course, the showers go on for at least half an hour, so there may be no water left in the city of Los Angeles if this keeps up.
One of them is also rather heavy-footed. It's a woman because sometimes she likes to wear heels when stomping around the apartment. Well, I suppose it could be a man in heels, but I've heard the voice and I'm sticking with it being a woman. The worst is when the doorbell rings and she has to stomp from her bedroom to the front door. It sounds like Godzilla destroying Tokyo. And it happens a couple of times a week now. I can't imagine what the people living downstairs must think. It must sound like they are under attack. Did I mention that we have hardwood floors in most of the apartments in this building? Yes, that only adds another dimension to the horror.
There is a dog next door. His name is Oliver, and I know this because one of them--obviously, Oliver's owner--yells out his name every night when she comes home. So far, Oliver hasn't been prone to barking, but dogs are illegal in the tower apartments like mine, so I'm holding on to that little tidbit of information in case I need it later on. He's a small dog, and she apparently hides him in a big purse to take him for his nightly walk. Or so one of the other neighbors told me. She, too, has chosen not to turn in the errant dog owner. Yet.
I first nicknamed the new tenants the Giggle Sisters because, when they were moving stuff into the apartment, they always seemed to be giggling about something and doing so quite loudly. One of them, in particular, seems especially mirthful. I was dreading the inevitable late night jags of talking and laughing that seem endemic to the younger generation, but apparently, they are not fond of hanging out in the living room. After two sets of tenants with no living room furniture who loved to hear the sounds of their own voices echo, I fully support them staying in their own bedrooms. There are still giggles at times when they are walking from the elevator to the apartment and vice versa, and everyone on the floor can hear them, especially when the one in the movie business (yeah, exactly how I felt) is also talking on her cell phone. And she's always talking on her cell phone as she walks to and from the elevator. What is it about that generation's obsession with talking so loudly that everyone can hear? Does no one value a sense of privacy any longer?
I had a blissful couple of months when the property owners were going through the eviction process for the last tenants, the Bros. It was so peaceful and quiet. I could get my grading done with ease, and I could watch television without interruptions. I could even sleep without having to hear some racket from next door. And there was no constant slamming of the front door like I had with Mr. Echo and the Woo Girls, who never seemed to be able to stay in or out for more than half an hour at a time. That brief amount of solitude without neighbors was among the best few months I've had in the building in almost fourteen years of living here.
I am grateful that these new neighbors are relatively quiet. I understand that you do have to put up with some distractions when you live in a building with 156 apartments. And that's just my building. There are several thousand units in this complex and the neighboring ones, so the possibilities for noise are infinite. You might enjoy, for example, the rock band upstairs who like to play very synth-heavy, gloomy music all afternoon. Over and over and over and over. It's very depressing stuff. Or maybe the trumpet player who likes to practice with all of his windows open is more to your liking? I know he needs the practice. God knows he needs the practice. And don't get me started on the neighbors who like to sing. Well, "sing" is a generous description of what they're doing. I first thought someone was either drowning or gargling. Maybe it's just modern music, and I'm not up on the latest styles.
Yes, I have thought about moving. I've thought about it more than once, actually. However, my rent is under the city's stabilization plan, and comparatively speaking, I don't pay all that much for my two bedroom apartment. A friend and I checked out a one bedroom apartment last weekend that goes for almost as much as I pay, and that one doesn't even have a parking space for the tenant. I doubt I'd be able to find any place that is both cheap and quiet, so for now, I just keep hoping that the giggling is kept to a minimum and that Godzilla will someday have to give those tired feet a long, long rest.
I have to say that, so far, they have been "better" than some of the previous residents, "better" being a somewhat relative term. Perhaps that's because they seem hardly ever to be home. And, shockingly, I'm okay with that. Now and then, though, they do have some odd habits which seem designed to annoy all of the other people on this floor, or maybe they have a grander scheme in mind: annoying everyone in the building. They have the capacity to do so. I just hope they never use it.
I've only had to call the security patrol once since the new neighbors moved in. It was one of the weekends when they were moving stuff into the apartment and unpacking. They had two--yes, two--stereos blasting music. Most of the other residents of the hallway stuck their heads around the corner to confirm the apartment number, a sure sign that I wasn't the only one who called. The response to the patrol officer's telling them that their music was too loud? "Seriously?" That's the best they could muster, and it was in that Paris Hilton/Valley Girl tone of voice that too many young women mimic nowadays, so you know what it sounded like. But they turned the music down, and peace was temporarily restored. Since I've only had to call the patrol once in the month or so since they moved in, I'm already happier with them as neighbors than the previous two sets. Of course, the holidays are looming, and you can never tell what parties might be on the horizon.
No, when it comes to noise, they only have a couple of annoying habits. One of them likes to play music while taking a shower. I guess she/he wants to be able to enjoy a few tunes while soaping up. I don't know; it makes no sense to me. I just want to get in the shower, get it over with, and get on with my day. They, however, must think of it as some sort of retreat. The music only lasts as long as the shower is running, so at least, I know it's only temporary. Of course, the showers go on for at least half an hour, so there may be no water left in the city of Los Angeles if this keeps up.
One of them is also rather heavy-footed. It's a woman because sometimes she likes to wear heels when stomping around the apartment. Well, I suppose it could be a man in heels, but I've heard the voice and I'm sticking with it being a woman. The worst is when the doorbell rings and she has to stomp from her bedroom to the front door. It sounds like Godzilla destroying Tokyo. And it happens a couple of times a week now. I can't imagine what the people living downstairs must think. It must sound like they are under attack. Did I mention that we have hardwood floors in most of the apartments in this building? Yes, that only adds another dimension to the horror.
There is a dog next door. His name is Oliver, and I know this because one of them--obviously, Oliver's owner--yells out his name every night when she comes home. So far, Oliver hasn't been prone to barking, but dogs are illegal in the tower apartments like mine, so I'm holding on to that little tidbit of information in case I need it later on. He's a small dog, and she apparently hides him in a big purse to take him for his nightly walk. Or so one of the other neighbors told me. She, too, has chosen not to turn in the errant dog owner. Yet.
I first nicknamed the new tenants the Giggle Sisters because, when they were moving stuff into the apartment, they always seemed to be giggling about something and doing so quite loudly. One of them, in particular, seems especially mirthful. I was dreading the inevitable late night jags of talking and laughing that seem endemic to the younger generation, but apparently, they are not fond of hanging out in the living room. After two sets of tenants with no living room furniture who loved to hear the sounds of their own voices echo, I fully support them staying in their own bedrooms. There are still giggles at times when they are walking from the elevator to the apartment and vice versa, and everyone on the floor can hear them, especially when the one in the movie business (yeah, exactly how I felt) is also talking on her cell phone. And she's always talking on her cell phone as she walks to and from the elevator. What is it about that generation's obsession with talking so loudly that everyone can hear? Does no one value a sense of privacy any longer?
I had a blissful couple of months when the property owners were going through the eviction process for the last tenants, the Bros. It was so peaceful and quiet. I could get my grading done with ease, and I could watch television without interruptions. I could even sleep without having to hear some racket from next door. And there was no constant slamming of the front door like I had with Mr. Echo and the Woo Girls, who never seemed to be able to stay in or out for more than half an hour at a time. That brief amount of solitude without neighbors was among the best few months I've had in the building in almost fourteen years of living here.
I am grateful that these new neighbors are relatively quiet. I understand that you do have to put up with some distractions when you live in a building with 156 apartments. And that's just my building. There are several thousand units in this complex and the neighboring ones, so the possibilities for noise are infinite. You might enjoy, for example, the rock band upstairs who like to play very synth-heavy, gloomy music all afternoon. Over and over and over and over. It's very depressing stuff. Or maybe the trumpet player who likes to practice with all of his windows open is more to your liking? I know he needs the practice. God knows he needs the practice. And don't get me started on the neighbors who like to sing. Well, "sing" is a generous description of what they're doing. I first thought someone was either drowning or gargling. Maybe it's just modern music, and I'm not up on the latest styles.
Yes, I have thought about moving. I've thought about it more than once, actually. However, my rent is under the city's stabilization plan, and comparatively speaking, I don't pay all that much for my two bedroom apartment. A friend and I checked out a one bedroom apartment last weekend that goes for almost as much as I pay, and that one doesn't even have a parking space for the tenant. I doubt I'd be able to find any place that is both cheap and quiet, so for now, I just keep hoping that the giggling is kept to a minimum and that Godzilla will someday have to give those tired feet a long, long rest.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Quick Takes 2: Electric Boogaloo
The movies have piled up again. Thanks to the events of summer and a frantic start to the fall semester, I haven't had time to write much about the various movies I've seen. So here, briefly, are some remembrances of films past.
Adam stars Hugh Dancy as a young man with Asperger's Syndrome who must learn to live on his own after his father passes away. He falls in love with his upstairs neighbor, Beth (Rose Byrne), and slowly begins to find his way in society, haltingly and unsuccessfully most of the time, though. I can't say that I particularly enjoyed this film, because except for the inclusion of the Asperger's Syndrome, there's nothing really new here. It's a quirky independent movie with quirky independent character types. You're likely seen this film before, just with a different issue that what Adam has. Dancy is good, much better than, say, Dustin Hoffman was in Rain Man. Where Hoffman was all gestures and tics as an autistic adult, Dancy is very subtle and sweet (really). However, I'm not sure that his performance is truly substantial enough to recommend watching the entire film.
All About Steve was a waste of time and money, frankly. I went with a friend because, as he put it, "it looks funny from the trailer." Whatever jokes were in this film must have all appeared in the trailer. Sandra Bullock--who needs some career advice and fast--plays a woman who creates crossword puzzles for a living (well, as much a living as you can have living at home with your parents and making a little money from crosswords). She goes on a date with a local TV cameraman, the vastly underused Bradley Cooper, and thinks they are destined to be together after he tries to brush her off too politely. She has a little trouble with reality, I suppose. Thomas Haden Church is a lot of fun to watch as the reporter Cooper works with regularly, but he seems to be in his own movie at times. Avoid this film at all costs unless you want to see how a movie turns the incident of a dozen deaf children falling into a well into comic fodder.
District 9 was one of my favorite movies of the summer. An alien spaceship gets stuck over South Africa, and rather than exterminate the aliens, the government decides to restrict them to one slum area, the District 9 of the title. A government agent, played by Sharlto Copley, shows up with the troops to help relocate the aliens, many of whom do not want to leave. One, in particular, wants to stay because he thinks he has almost found the secret to reviving the engine of the mothership. Through an odd series of events, the agent becomes infected with an alien chemical and begins turning into one of the "prawns," as the aliens are known. Yes, I realize the allegory is pretty heavy-handed for those of us trained to find allegory, but I have a sense that most of the people leaving the theater never caught on to the racial and ethnic politics underpinning this film. I'm not always a fan of science fiction movies, but District 9 is compelling, particularly for the performance of Copley as the frantic human trying to make some short of connection with the aliens with whom he now shares DNA and for the documentary style the film makers have used here. The visual effects blend smoothly into the hand-held camera work to make us feel like we are witnessing an actual news story.
(500) Days of Summer has two things working in its favor. It has a clever structure, going back and forth in time to show different days in a relationship between a young man and woman who work in the same office where greeting cards are created. And it has Joseph Gordon-Levitt as the male lead. Otherwise, if you put the story elements in chronological order, you'd have a fairly pedestrian love plot and a really vicious portrayal of a young woman named Summer (Zooey Deschanel) who breaks, seemingly maliciously, the heart of Gordon-Levitt's Tom. I've admired Gordon-Levitt's work in Mysterious Skin and Brick, and he's very good in this film as well. Too bad the film doesn't really rise to the level of his performance. It's just too mean to its female lead to make you fall in love with it.
Inglourious Basterds was the most fun I've had at the movies all year. Quentin Tarantino's latest film is an intriguing experiment in alternative history. What if Hitler and the highest ranking Nazis were killed before the end of the war? The movie takes place primarily in Occupied France and features a gange of pretty ruthless Nazi hunters led by Brad Pitt as Lt. Aldo Raine. Pitt seems to be having a blast in this role, and it's good to see him enjoying acting (more so than he did in that tiring The Curious Case of Benjamin Button). To attempt to summarize a Tarantino movie is really a fruitless exercise, so let me concentrate on two aspects of the movie. The first is the acting of Christoph Waltz as Col. Hans Landa. What a find this guy is. Multi-lingual and hugely talented, he's spellbinding whenever he's on the screen. The rest of the cast, including director Eli Roth as one of Raines' crew, are uniformly good too. And then there's the music. Does anyone have a better ear for music than Tarantino? In particular, his use of David Bowie's "Putting Out Fire" from the movie Cat People was brilliant. That scene alone should put an Oscar in Tarantino's hands next year. I wish more filmmakers were as audacious as Tarantino. We'd get to see a lot more interesting movies if they were.
Julie & Julia features two great performances from two great actresses. It's no surprise that Meryl Streep is at the peak of her considerable acting talent portraying chef Julia Child. Streep has such a joy that radiates through her in this part. How she's able to give one standout performance after another is a testament to her skill. She's quickly surpassing many of the greats (Davis, Garbo, Hepburn) in my esteem. The other performance, though, is equally good, and that's the one that has been most criticized. Amy Adams plays a bureaucrat who decides to cook all of the recipes in Child's book during one year. Adams is meant to represent a certain type of person in her generation: self-absorbed, prone to emotional outbursts if things go wrong. I think she nails the part and allows us to see the contrast between her Julie and Streep's Julia (and to see the many, many traits they have in common). A quick shout-out for Stanley Tucci as Child's husband Paul. If all of us had spouses that supportive and, frankly, that randy, we'd all be as happy as Child was.
Ponyo is an absolute delight. It's an animated film by the Japanese master Hayao Miyazaki (of Spirited Away and Howl's Moving Castle and My Neighbor Totoro fame), and it is just glorious in its use of color and action. The title character is a goldfish who meets by accident a little boy named Sosuke. So enamored does Ponyo become with him that she transforms into a little girl with wild red hair and a wild attitude to match. I mean, it's not every little girl who can run on top of the waves of a tsunami, but Ponyo can. She gains her powers from her father, Fujimoto, who is sort of a wizard trying to protect the sea creatures from the ill effects of mankind, and her mother, who is a sort of goddess of the sea. I know that all sounds strange, but this movie is so charming that you find yourself accepting the most remarkable of events as being possible. I'd have a tough time choosing between this film and Up as the best animated feature of the year so far. They are both such masterpieces and worth a second or third or even fourth viewing.
Adam stars Hugh Dancy as a young man with Asperger's Syndrome who must learn to live on his own after his father passes away. He falls in love with his upstairs neighbor, Beth (Rose Byrne), and slowly begins to find his way in society, haltingly and unsuccessfully most of the time, though. I can't say that I particularly enjoyed this film, because except for the inclusion of the Asperger's Syndrome, there's nothing really new here. It's a quirky independent movie with quirky independent character types. You're likely seen this film before, just with a different issue that what Adam has. Dancy is good, much better than, say, Dustin Hoffman was in Rain Man. Where Hoffman was all gestures and tics as an autistic adult, Dancy is very subtle and sweet (really). However, I'm not sure that his performance is truly substantial enough to recommend watching the entire film.
All About Steve was a waste of time and money, frankly. I went with a friend because, as he put it, "it looks funny from the trailer." Whatever jokes were in this film must have all appeared in the trailer. Sandra Bullock--who needs some career advice and fast--plays a woman who creates crossword puzzles for a living (well, as much a living as you can have living at home with your parents and making a little money from crosswords). She goes on a date with a local TV cameraman, the vastly underused Bradley Cooper, and thinks they are destined to be together after he tries to brush her off too politely. She has a little trouble with reality, I suppose. Thomas Haden Church is a lot of fun to watch as the reporter Cooper works with regularly, but he seems to be in his own movie at times. Avoid this film at all costs unless you want to see how a movie turns the incident of a dozen deaf children falling into a well into comic fodder.
District 9 was one of my favorite movies of the summer. An alien spaceship gets stuck over South Africa, and rather than exterminate the aliens, the government decides to restrict them to one slum area, the District 9 of the title. A government agent, played by Sharlto Copley, shows up with the troops to help relocate the aliens, many of whom do not want to leave. One, in particular, wants to stay because he thinks he has almost found the secret to reviving the engine of the mothership. Through an odd series of events, the agent becomes infected with an alien chemical and begins turning into one of the "prawns," as the aliens are known. Yes, I realize the allegory is pretty heavy-handed for those of us trained to find allegory, but I have a sense that most of the people leaving the theater never caught on to the racial and ethnic politics underpinning this film. I'm not always a fan of science fiction movies, but District 9 is compelling, particularly for the performance of Copley as the frantic human trying to make some short of connection with the aliens with whom he now shares DNA and for the documentary style the film makers have used here. The visual effects blend smoothly into the hand-held camera work to make us feel like we are witnessing an actual news story.
(500) Days of Summer has two things working in its favor. It has a clever structure, going back and forth in time to show different days in a relationship between a young man and woman who work in the same office where greeting cards are created. And it has Joseph Gordon-Levitt as the male lead. Otherwise, if you put the story elements in chronological order, you'd have a fairly pedestrian love plot and a really vicious portrayal of a young woman named Summer (Zooey Deschanel) who breaks, seemingly maliciously, the heart of Gordon-Levitt's Tom. I've admired Gordon-Levitt's work in Mysterious Skin and Brick, and he's very good in this film as well. Too bad the film doesn't really rise to the level of his performance. It's just too mean to its female lead to make you fall in love with it.
Inglourious Basterds was the most fun I've had at the movies all year. Quentin Tarantino's latest film is an intriguing experiment in alternative history. What if Hitler and the highest ranking Nazis were killed before the end of the war? The movie takes place primarily in Occupied France and features a gange of pretty ruthless Nazi hunters led by Brad Pitt as Lt. Aldo Raine. Pitt seems to be having a blast in this role, and it's good to see him enjoying acting (more so than he did in that tiring The Curious Case of Benjamin Button). To attempt to summarize a Tarantino movie is really a fruitless exercise, so let me concentrate on two aspects of the movie. The first is the acting of Christoph Waltz as Col. Hans Landa. What a find this guy is. Multi-lingual and hugely talented, he's spellbinding whenever he's on the screen. The rest of the cast, including director Eli Roth as one of Raines' crew, are uniformly good too. And then there's the music. Does anyone have a better ear for music than Tarantino? In particular, his use of David Bowie's "Putting Out Fire" from the movie Cat People was brilliant. That scene alone should put an Oscar in Tarantino's hands next year. I wish more filmmakers were as audacious as Tarantino. We'd get to see a lot more interesting movies if they were.
Julie & Julia features two great performances from two great actresses. It's no surprise that Meryl Streep is at the peak of her considerable acting talent portraying chef Julia Child. Streep has such a joy that radiates through her in this part. How she's able to give one standout performance after another is a testament to her skill. She's quickly surpassing many of the greats (Davis, Garbo, Hepburn) in my esteem. The other performance, though, is equally good, and that's the one that has been most criticized. Amy Adams plays a bureaucrat who decides to cook all of the recipes in Child's book during one year. Adams is meant to represent a certain type of person in her generation: self-absorbed, prone to emotional outbursts if things go wrong. I think she nails the part and allows us to see the contrast between her Julie and Streep's Julia (and to see the many, many traits they have in common). A quick shout-out for Stanley Tucci as Child's husband Paul. If all of us had spouses that supportive and, frankly, that randy, we'd all be as happy as Child was.
Ponyo is an absolute delight. It's an animated film by the Japanese master Hayao Miyazaki (of Spirited Away and Howl's Moving Castle and My Neighbor Totoro fame), and it is just glorious in its use of color and action. The title character is a goldfish who meets by accident a little boy named Sosuke. So enamored does Ponyo become with him that she transforms into a little girl with wild red hair and a wild attitude to match. I mean, it's not every little girl who can run on top of the waves of a tsunami, but Ponyo can. She gains her powers from her father, Fujimoto, who is sort of a wizard trying to protect the sea creatures from the ill effects of mankind, and her mother, who is a sort of goddess of the sea. I know that all sounds strange, but this movie is so charming that you find yourself accepting the most remarkable of events as being possible. I'd have a tough time choosing between this film and Up as the best animated feature of the year so far. They are both such masterpieces and worth a second or third or even fourth viewing.
Nutty Neighbors: Saying Goodbye to the Bros
It started innocently enough. I came home from work one afternoon last month and found posted on the neighbors' door a notice that they had not yet paid that month's rent. My complex, as you may remember, does not believe in delicacy. The amount of rent due and the names of the tenants are prominently displayed for everyone on this floor to see. Perhaps the owners are trying to use shame as a means of getting their money.
Apparently, one of the Bros Next Door came home and removed that notice. It was certainly gone the next morning when I left for work. I'll be honest. I hadn't realized that they had already started moving out. I didn't notice that the noise level had subsided a great deal. It had been quieter, but it took additional events to clue me in.
A couple of weeks ago, September 8, to be specific, I came home to find a "Notice of Failure to Return Possession of Apartment" taped to the apartment door. The Bros seem to have left without returning the keys to the apartment. It must have been a very abrupt move since I don't recall hearing any noise (as I usually do when people move out from next door). The Bros were supposed to have returned the keys on September 2, and the notice was there to warn them to "surrender" the keys or face criminal prosecution.
Guess what? Nothing happened.
Last week, a new notice appeared. This one came not from the apartment complex but from the Sheriff's Department instead. I told you they don't mess around here. This one was labeled "Notice to Vacate," and it gave the Bros a week to get their stuff and move out and return the keys or else. This is, of course, all visible to everyone in the hallway, so now I'm probably known as the guy with the bad neighbors. Frankly, given the craziness that has gone on next door, I'd be surprised if I haven't been known that way for years.
Guess what? The Bros did nothing again.
Just this week, on the door knob next door, hung the "Notice of Eviction." Given that the Bros haven't taken any action in a month, that gives ownership of the contents of the apartment to the owners of the complex. To be honest, I think there's still some stuff in there. You can see objects in the window of the apartment, but I have no way of knowing what all the apartment owners are going to take into their possession. What happens to that stuff, anyway? Is there a big yard sale?
I realize that the apartment owners are going through with all of the legal steps necessary to evict the Bros. I just don't think they realize that the Bros are apparently long gone. I hope this takes months to resolve and involves the court system and testimony and people hauling out possessions in black plastic bags. The longer it takes, the quieter this floor will be.
Apparently, one of the Bros Next Door came home and removed that notice. It was certainly gone the next morning when I left for work. I'll be honest. I hadn't realized that they had already started moving out. I didn't notice that the noise level had subsided a great deal. It had been quieter, but it took additional events to clue me in.
A couple of weeks ago, September 8, to be specific, I came home to find a "Notice of Failure to Return Possession of Apartment" taped to the apartment door. The Bros seem to have left without returning the keys to the apartment. It must have been a very abrupt move since I don't recall hearing any noise (as I usually do when people move out from next door). The Bros were supposed to have returned the keys on September 2, and the notice was there to warn them to "surrender" the keys or face criminal prosecution.
Guess what? Nothing happened.
Last week, a new notice appeared. This one came not from the apartment complex but from the Sheriff's Department instead. I told you they don't mess around here. This one was labeled "Notice to Vacate," and it gave the Bros a week to get their stuff and move out and return the keys or else. This is, of course, all visible to everyone in the hallway, so now I'm probably known as the guy with the bad neighbors. Frankly, given the craziness that has gone on next door, I'd be surprised if I haven't been known that way for years.
Guess what? The Bros did nothing again.
Just this week, on the door knob next door, hung the "Notice of Eviction." Given that the Bros haven't taken any action in a month, that gives ownership of the contents of the apartment to the owners of the complex. To be honest, I think there's still some stuff in there. You can see objects in the window of the apartment, but I have no way of knowing what all the apartment owners are going to take into their possession. What happens to that stuff, anyway? Is there a big yard sale?
I realize that the apartment owners are going through with all of the legal steps necessary to evict the Bros. I just don't think they realize that the Bros are apparently long gone. I hope this takes months to resolve and involves the court system and testimony and people hauling out possessions in black plastic bags. The longer it takes, the quieter this floor will be.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Ted Kennedy and My Love of Literature
It was the summer of 1980, and I was about to become a high school senior. I was too young to vote in the presidential election that year, but I had hopes that Jimmy Carter would be re-elected. That's not what happened, of course, and our country has been on a very strange course of events since then.
I watched the Democratic National Convention that year, the first one I had watched with any sense of political awareness. Senator Ted Kennedy had to give a concession speech, but of course, it turned out to be one of the most eloquent speeches ever given and hardly a concession at all.
I remember reading Time or Newsweek the following week in order to find out where he got the quote that he cites a few minutes into this clip. It's from the poem "Ulysses" by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, and it's become one of my favorite poems over the years. I frequently teach it, and I always love rereading it.
Almost a year after he delivered this speech, I used the same lines from the poem as a part of my high school graduation speech. I was the salutatorian, having missed being the valedictorian by 0.6 points (not that I'm still bitter after all these years, mind you). I like to think that Kennedy inspired me that night at the Democratic National Convention. Due in part to him and his work, I not only became a lover of poetry but also a long-time liberal.
Thank you, Senator Kennedy, for all of your work on behalf of those less fortunate, those who have been ostracized, those for whom government no longer seems to care.
I watched the Democratic National Convention that year, the first one I had watched with any sense of political awareness. Senator Ted Kennedy had to give a concession speech, but of course, it turned out to be one of the most eloquent speeches ever given and hardly a concession at all.
I remember reading Time or Newsweek the following week in order to find out where he got the quote that he cites a few minutes into this clip. It's from the poem "Ulysses" by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, and it's become one of my favorite poems over the years. I frequently teach it, and I always love rereading it.
Almost a year after he delivered this speech, I used the same lines from the poem as a part of my high school graduation speech. I was the salutatorian, having missed being the valedictorian by 0.6 points (not that I'm still bitter after all these years, mind you). I like to think that Kennedy inspired me that night at the Democratic National Convention. Due in part to him and his work, I not only became a lover of poetry but also a long-time liberal.
Thank you, Senator Kennedy, for all of your work on behalf of those less fortunate, those who have been ostracized, those for whom government no longer seems to care.
Hair
Two weeks ago, I had my stylist cut off almost all of my hair. I have developed a bald spot on the crown of my head, and it was getting larger and larger, so I decided it was time to get rid of all of my hair. I asked him to shave my head, but he said he didn't have the equipment to do that. Instead, he promised to cut it very short and then let me shave off what was left. When he finished, I decided I liked the buzz cut look and kept it. I have maybe a quarter-inch growth, and that might just be the length I keep it.
By the way, while I was in the chair, my stylist began by cutting shorter and shorter on the sides, keeping the top longer. He cut it so that I had a short mohawk for a few minutes, but I thought I looked too much like Travis Bickle to keep it that way. Off the rest of it came. Since then, I've had a lot of people say how much they like the shorter 'do, and some who just say that it's a big change. I must admit that I've let go of a lot of vanity now that I have no hair to trouble with any longer. I enjoy this short haircut more than any I've had in decades.
I will admit that I have always had a complicated relationship with my hair. It has never been easy for me to maintain. When I was younger, I suffered the indignity of having a flat top like every other little boy around my age. We even had buzz cuts for a while then although none were quite as short as my hair is now. I remembered hating School Picture Day because I'd be stuck with photos of me with that flat top. It wasn't even long enough to need "product," as my stylist says. My grandmother tried to get me to use this stuff called Butch Hair Wax (I know, the irony of it all), but it never seemed to help. By the way, I think I destroyed all of those photos of my elementary years a while back. I just couldn't face looking at that kid's awful hair any longer.
My grandmother, bless her, tried all kinds of things to help me. She bought something called "hair trainer" from Avon or Luzier or Watkins or some door-to-door peddler. It was a waste of her money. My hair couldn't be trained. It just would hang limp whenever I tried to do anything with it. I couldn't even get the cowlick or two that I had to lie flat with the trainer stuff. My brother's hair would respond to almost everything she or my mother tried but not mine.
I was in junior high before my hair was allowed to grow out a bit. And, as soon as they allowed me (sometime in high school) to decide how long to grow my hair, I practically turned into a hippie. My bangs were so long that I would have to push the hair out of my eyes sometimes just to be able to read. I eventually cut it a bit shorter when I got to college, but I always seemed to prefer it to be a bit long. Oddly enough, my hair was still pretty long when I got my senior year photo taken at the university. The way our photos were lit made it look like I had a halo behind my head, leading to what my mother has always referred to as my "Jesus picture."
I have had almost everything done to my hair over the years except for coloring it. I had a "body wave" for a couple of years in high school. That's what they called "permanents" for men at the time, and a lot of guys did it at the time (even though most of us wound up looking like large poodles). It didn't really help me until the first time I got it cut. Then it would look good for a couple of weeks until the "wave" would grow out. I have also had it cut with almost everything, including a straight razor. If you want to know pain, have someone use a straight razor to slice off your hair. I have had it short and long. I once got the same haircut that Arnold had in the Terminator movies. I never had a mullet, thankfully, but it has frequently been long enough to have one.
I've used mousse (remember that stuff?), gel, pomade, even hairspray for a while. I tended to favor Garnier Fructis Fiber Gum Putty in recent years because it was sticky enough to hold my hair in place but not so sticky that it looked like I had clumped a lot of product on my head. I've had dozens of stylists over the years before I found my current one. They've tried everything they could to help me, all to no avail. One of them did reveal to me that I had hair the same texture of the hair of most Native Americans. I do have some Chickasaw heritage in there somewhere, I guess, but I didn't know it would manifest itself in my hair. (His first job after getting his cosmetology license was cutting hair on a reservation. That's how he knew.)
In recent years, it's gotten gradually shorter as my stylist has tried to keep me from looking too much like a bald guy. I tried to keep what hair I had for as long as possible, but nothing seemed to help. No ointments or pills kept the bald spot from getting larger, and there are side effects to the pills that a man should never want to have happen to him. I never wanted to do a comb-over because they look so silly and obvious, and I think getting hair plugs is an extreme sign of vanity even though I know some people who have had the procedure done. I also know some guys who just comb their hair straight back to cover the spot, but that too seems like an act of desperation. So a buzz cut it is.
I will admit to missing my longer hair. I had a good thick pelt there for a long time. I should have appreciated it more than I did, I suppose, despite all of the grief it gave me over the years. However, you can't imagine how much easier the maintenance is. I've shaved (no pun intended) at least half an hour out of my morning ritual. No more fussing with my hair. I just towel it off, and I'm ready to go. Maybe I should have gotten this buzz cut years ago. Think of all of the agony I might have avoided if I had.
By the way, while I was in the chair, my stylist began by cutting shorter and shorter on the sides, keeping the top longer. He cut it so that I had a short mohawk for a few minutes, but I thought I looked too much like Travis Bickle to keep it that way. Off the rest of it came. Since then, I've had a lot of people say how much they like the shorter 'do, and some who just say that it's a big change. I must admit that I've let go of a lot of vanity now that I have no hair to trouble with any longer. I enjoy this short haircut more than any I've had in decades.
I will admit that I have always had a complicated relationship with my hair. It has never been easy for me to maintain. When I was younger, I suffered the indignity of having a flat top like every other little boy around my age. We even had buzz cuts for a while then although none were quite as short as my hair is now. I remembered hating School Picture Day because I'd be stuck with photos of me with that flat top. It wasn't even long enough to need "product," as my stylist says. My grandmother tried to get me to use this stuff called Butch Hair Wax (I know, the irony of it all), but it never seemed to help. By the way, I think I destroyed all of those photos of my elementary years a while back. I just couldn't face looking at that kid's awful hair any longer.
My grandmother, bless her, tried all kinds of things to help me. She bought something called "hair trainer" from Avon or Luzier or Watkins or some door-to-door peddler. It was a waste of her money. My hair couldn't be trained. It just would hang limp whenever I tried to do anything with it. I couldn't even get the cowlick or two that I had to lie flat with the trainer stuff. My brother's hair would respond to almost everything she or my mother tried but not mine.
I was in junior high before my hair was allowed to grow out a bit. And, as soon as they allowed me (sometime in high school) to decide how long to grow my hair, I practically turned into a hippie. My bangs were so long that I would have to push the hair out of my eyes sometimes just to be able to read. I eventually cut it a bit shorter when I got to college, but I always seemed to prefer it to be a bit long. Oddly enough, my hair was still pretty long when I got my senior year photo taken at the university. The way our photos were lit made it look like I had a halo behind my head, leading to what my mother has always referred to as my "Jesus picture."
I have had almost everything done to my hair over the years except for coloring it. I had a "body wave" for a couple of years in high school. That's what they called "permanents" for men at the time, and a lot of guys did it at the time (even though most of us wound up looking like large poodles). It didn't really help me until the first time I got it cut. Then it would look good for a couple of weeks until the "wave" would grow out. I have also had it cut with almost everything, including a straight razor. If you want to know pain, have someone use a straight razor to slice off your hair. I have had it short and long. I once got the same haircut that Arnold had in the Terminator movies. I never had a mullet, thankfully, but it has frequently been long enough to have one.
I've used mousse (remember that stuff?), gel, pomade, even hairspray for a while. I tended to favor Garnier Fructis Fiber Gum Putty in recent years because it was sticky enough to hold my hair in place but not so sticky that it looked like I had clumped a lot of product on my head. I've had dozens of stylists over the years before I found my current one. They've tried everything they could to help me, all to no avail. One of them did reveal to me that I had hair the same texture of the hair of most Native Americans. I do have some Chickasaw heritage in there somewhere, I guess, but I didn't know it would manifest itself in my hair. (His first job after getting his cosmetology license was cutting hair on a reservation. That's how he knew.)
In recent years, it's gotten gradually shorter as my stylist has tried to keep me from looking too much like a bald guy. I tried to keep what hair I had for as long as possible, but nothing seemed to help. No ointments or pills kept the bald spot from getting larger, and there are side effects to the pills that a man should never want to have happen to him. I never wanted to do a comb-over because they look so silly and obvious, and I think getting hair plugs is an extreme sign of vanity even though I know some people who have had the procedure done. I also know some guys who just comb their hair straight back to cover the spot, but that too seems like an act of desperation. So a buzz cut it is.
I will admit to missing my longer hair. I had a good thick pelt there for a long time. I should have appreciated it more than I did, I suppose, despite all of the grief it gave me over the years. However, you can't imagine how much easier the maintenance is. I've shaved (no pun intended) at least half an hour out of my morning ritual. No more fussing with my hair. I just towel it off, and I'm ready to go. Maybe I should have gotten this buzz cut years ago. Think of all of the agony I might have avoided if I had.
Stories My Mother Told Me
I recently shared with you a photo of me with my grandfather that was taken just a few years ago. The one above is the first photo of the two of us together, at least the oldest one that anyone can find. I'm just a few months old, and we're on the porch of the "old place." Within the next few months, we would move into the house that I grew up in, my home for the first 18 years of my life. I know this picture is a bit fuzzy, a bit out of focus, but that's how different the talents for picture-taking were in those days.
My mother says that this picture shows just how devoted my grandfather was to me. She claims he doted on me as a baby like no man she had ever seen. I love it when she talks about the time she found him painting the "new house" with me cradled in one arm and holding a paint brush in his free hand. There he was standing on top of a ladder painting a house with a baby of only a few months. She asked him if he thought it was dangerous. His reply was classic Papa: "Aw, that baby's all right." I suspect I was no bigger than you see in the photo above.
Years later, when I began my first real job, as a reporter for a daily newspaper, I needed to find a place to live in Starkville, MS. I had always lived either at the "new house" (they called it that for years after we'd moved in, of course) or with Papa in his home after my grandmother died or in the dorms at school (the university officials preferred the term "residence halls," but as we say in the South, just because your cat had kittens in the oven don't make 'em biscuits). I wanted to go apartment hunting, and he and his wife, my step-grandmother, came with me. I found a little house for rent for $250 a month. (I know. Don't even get me started.) The landlady said she knew she had to rent the place to me when she saw that I had brought my grandparents with me.
I stayed in that little house for about five years before coming to California to attend graduate school. Naturally, Papa came to help me pack everything up and put it in the moving van. He wasn't making the trip to California with me--that was Mom's job--but he wasn't going to let me leave the state without helping. My mother told me that first night of our trip west, when we had finally stopped to rest for the night, that he had been crying as we drove away from the house. Many times over the years, she would remind me that she had never seen him cry over anyone else.
Whenever I would call home, Papa would always ask when I was coming to visit. What I didn't know was that when he and my mother talked on the phone, he would sometimes say to her, "I reckon Joe likes it out there." That was his way of saying that I probably would never move back to the South. Mom knew how that felt herself, having moved to northern Illinois almost forty years ago.
I wasn't his first grandchild. That would be my cousin Debbie, who was born three years earlier than I was, and he'd already had half a dozen or more step-grandchildren from my grandmother's kids (four boys) from her first marriage. I wasn't even the first grandson for long, as my cousin Jamie arrived just seven days after I did. However, I was the only one who lived with him. I think sometimes he considered me to be his son more than his grandson.
I'm feeling a bit sentimental these days. On the night of his wake, after we'd all returned to my uncle's house, we sat around for several hours talking about my grandmother. My uncle's wife said, "She must really be on your mind tonight." And she was. Perhaps sometime I'll post about her. However, Papa's been on mind lately. I know it isn't surprising, but I've been thinking back and remembering all of these stories, particularly the ones my mother has told me about when I was a little boy. I don't remember them, of course, but I do have pictures like this one.
Monday, August 24, 2009
15 Films
Again, the rules from a Facebook posting:
Don't take too long to think about it. Fifteen movies you've seen that will always stick with you. First fifteen you can recall in no more than 15 minutes. Tag 15 friends, including me because I'm interested in seeing what movies my friends choose.
Here is my list:
1. Lawrence of Arabia (still my favorite movie of all time)
2. Star Wars (I was 14 when it came out, the perfect age to love this movie. Still thrilling after all these years)
3. Casablanca (I could watch this film over and over and never tire of it. It's the most perfectly made film)
4. Citizen Kane (I find something new about this movie each time I watch it)
5. Sunset Boulevard (one of the greatest performances by an actress in the history of film. Compelling viewing)
6. Jaws (I could tell you almost every detail of the day I saw this movie--life-altering)
7. The Boys in the Band (sigh. another one of my favorites, now finally on video)
8. Forbidden Games (hardly anyone has seen this, but it's an intense, beautiful movie. A forgotten treasure)
9. La Strada (great film, great performances)
10. 8 1/2 (want your mind blown about what film can achieve? watch this one)
11. The 400 Blows (that final image still haunts me)
12. The Poseidon Adventure (I love popcorn movies, and this was one of my earliest favorites)
13. The Way We Were (I never make it through this movie without crying)
14. The Letter (my god, Davis is spectacular in this one. The opening sequence alone is worth watching it for)
15. Atonement (this movie is so underrated. I think it's just brilliant)
These are the first ones I thought of, but it seems like such a pedestrian list in many ways. Do you know how tough it is for a movie lover to pick only 15 movies, though? I could make this list almost five times as long. I'd have to add Rashomon and Close Encounters of the Third Kind and The Godfather and Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory (no, really, I would) and so many others. And Pulp Fiction and Jackie Brown and Reservoir Dogs...
Don't take too long to think about it. Fifteen movies you've seen that will always stick with you. First fifteen you can recall in no more than 15 minutes. Tag 15 friends, including me because I'm interested in seeing what movies my friends choose.
Here is my list:
1. Lawrence of Arabia (still my favorite movie of all time)
2. Star Wars (I was 14 when it came out, the perfect age to love this movie. Still thrilling after all these years)
3. Casablanca (I could watch this film over and over and never tire of it. It's the most perfectly made film)
4. Citizen Kane (I find something new about this movie each time I watch it)
5. Sunset Boulevard (one of the greatest performances by an actress in the history of film. Compelling viewing)
6. Jaws (I could tell you almost every detail of the day I saw this movie--life-altering)
7. The Boys in the Band (sigh. another one of my favorites, now finally on video)
8. Forbidden Games (hardly anyone has seen this, but it's an intense, beautiful movie. A forgotten treasure)
9. La Strada (great film, great performances)
10. 8 1/2 (want your mind blown about what film can achieve? watch this one)
11. The 400 Blows (that final image still haunts me)
12. The Poseidon Adventure (I love popcorn movies, and this was one of my earliest favorites)
13. The Way We Were (I never make it through this movie without crying)
14. The Letter (my god, Davis is spectacular in this one. The opening sequence alone is worth watching it for)
15. Atonement (this movie is so underrated. I think it's just brilliant)
These are the first ones I thought of, but it seems like such a pedestrian list in many ways. Do you know how tough it is for a movie lover to pick only 15 movies, though? I could make this list almost five times as long. I'd have to add Rashomon and Close Encounters of the Third Kind and The Godfather and Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory (no, really, I would) and so many others. And Pulp Fiction and Jackie Brown and Reservoir Dogs...
Guess Who?
He's a famous writer. Once his identity is revealed, you'll probably say to yourself, "Of course..."
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Papa
I always called him Papa. Even after I was a grown man, he was still Papa to me.
When I was growing up in Mississippi, he was the only father figure I had until my mother remarried. I never knew my own father, and my paternal grandparents remain a mystery to me. If you're a regular reader of this blog, you know that I grew up with my maternal grandparents. When they divorced in 1972--long after they probably should have split up, frankly--I lived with my grandmother until her death during my senior year (December 27, 1980, to be specific). After that, I lived with Papa.
He gave me my first job, working with him as a carpenter. I use the term "carpenter" loosely to describe myself, but he taught me what he knew about painting and roofing and plumbing and whatever else it took to build a house. I worked with him during every Spring Break and every summer and every winter break from school even after I started college. If I know anything about tools and fixing things, it's because of him. I still have the toolbox he gave me as a gift, and I have several tools that he gave me as well. And I have so many memories of the places we worked on, including that first house I helped to build and all of those roofs we put on during the hottest days of the summer.
I also owe him my sense of humor. If I'm at all funny, it's because of his genes. My mother is funny, but even she would admit that Papa is the source. I can remember him cutting a slice of cake for himself one night and then taking a bite and telling me that I wouldn't like it. "It's got that old moist taste," he said. Then he'd say that he didn't think it was "fit to eat," but, of course, a second slice would be the determining factor. I'm nowhere near as subtle as he was, but I like to think that I owe him my sense of humor.
He was in a terrible car accident three weeks ago. He ran a red light and hit a semi truck. The truck Papa and my step-grandmother were in spun into another car before finally coming to a stop. He was thrown from the car because, as usual, he refused to wear his seatbelt. He made sure his wife was buckled up, saving her life, thankfully. She suffered some bruising and a fractured leg, but that's all, amazingly.
He spent two weeks in a surgical trauma intensive care unit. He was only allowed visitors four times a day for twenty minutes. I was teaching summer school and had one more week to go when my mother called to say that the end would likely be near and that I should make arrangements to get there as soon as possible. I purchased my plane tickets, planning to fly on Tuesday of last week. He died Monday afternoon after his wife made the difficult decision to take him off life support when his kidneys and liver failed. He had been on a machine that was doing most of his breathing and another that kept his heart pumping. He had pneumonia and what my mother keeps calling "weeping edema." He was 86 years old, and although he was in good shape from having remained active all his life, there's no way he could have survived all of the injuries he sustained. And he wouldn't have wanted to be an invalid, believe me. He hated being in the hospital the few times he was ever sick.
Members of my family who were there said they're glad I didn't see him in the hospital. He certainly looked like he had suffered a tremendous amount of pain when I saw him at the funeral home on Thursday night. He almost didn't look like Papa. He didn't have that smile I was used to seeing. I know he's no longer in pain and, hopefully, now at peace. I only wish I could have said goodbye to him before he passed away. He's buried in a little country cemetery in rural Alabama, and he has a view of a beautiful pasture filled with cattle. If I know him, he's probably complaining that the owner should plow the land and plant some corn instead of wasting all that good land on a bunch of cows. (He was never much of a beef eater except for the occasional hamburger.)
When I would talk about going home to visit, I meant going to see Papa. The picture I've included of the two of us is from one of those holiday visits. It's from Thanksgiving a few years ago, and we're riding his four-wheeler, which he drove like a crazy person, by the way. He had already driven me down to the pond to see his fish and over to the chicken house and out to the dump. We were coming back to the house when this picture was snapped. My mother loves this picture of us, and so do I. It's the last photo that I have of him. I don't know what my family will do this Thanksgiving without Papa. We'll have nowhere to go, and even if we do all meet, it certainly won't be the same.
I saw lots of my family--and it's a big family--last week. He still has three sisters who all live in the same area, and there are lots of grandchildren and great-grandchildren and even a couple of great-great-grandchildren. I stayed with my uncle and his wife, whom I'd not seen in years, and they live next to two of my cousins and their families. I reconnected with people from high school who heard of his death and wanted to come see me. I met a lot of people who knew my grandfather from his more than 60 years as a carpenter and from his life spent in the same geographical area. Thursday's visitation was packed, a testament to how well liked Papa was.
Mostly, though, I cried. I broke down on the phone with my brother when he called last Monday to tell me the news. And I cried again when I saw my mother at the airport on Tuesday when she and my stepfather came to pick me up. I had to walk outside the funeral home several times Thursday night because I was so overcome with emotion. And the funeral on Friday rendered me speechless except for my sobs. Even on the plane ride home on Saturday, I felt the tears begin to well up a few times, but I somehow managed to hold them in until I got in my own car in the parking lot.
So many of you have lost loved ones, and you have been such good counsel for me during the past few weeks. I do appreciate all of your thoughts and prayers. I would never have made it through without your help. I know I'm not done grieving, but I'm very grateful to know that you've been there for me. I recognize that this post is going to be a difficult one to get through for many of you--it was tough for me, too--but I needed to write down what I'm feeling. It might help me to move on to the next stage, so thank you for indulging me.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
15 Books
Here are the rules (as per a friend on Facebook): Don't take too long to think about it. Fifteen books you've read that will always stick with you. First fifteen you can recall in no more than 15 minutes. Tag 15 friends, including me because I'm interested in seeing what books my friends value.
1. Moby-Dick (Herman Melville). This book is like the movie Casablanca. I can reread it and find something new and interesting each time. I can watch Casablanca over and over again and never tire of it either.
2. Sure of You (Armistead Maupin). The first book I purchased in the Tales of the City series. I now own all seven of them, and whenever I want to have a fun reading experience, I go back to Maupin's novels.
3. Oliver Twist (Charles Dickens). My favorite novel from one of my favorite novelists.
4. Beloved (Toni Morrison). I must have read this book a dozen times now. It was one of the works I discussed in my dissertation. Breathtaking stuff.
5. The Sound and the Fury (William Faulkner). I could put down any number of Faulkner novels, but after reading The Sound and the Fury, I could never read fiction the same way again (and, yes, I think that's a good thing).
6. The Lord Won't Mind (Gordon Merrick). Trashy, fun stuff. The first in a trilogy of novels about this gay couple. Hilarious, profane at times, serious-minded, groundbreaking.
7. The Borrowers (Mary Norton). The first book I ever sought out to read after watching a TV show or movie adaptation. It was the TV movie from the 1970s, by the way, not the stupid adaptation of recent years with John Goodman.
8. Pippi Longstocking (Astrid Lindgren). My mother bought me three of these books after we saw those wonderfully campy movies in the 1970s. I reread them about a year ago, and I had a blast. It was just like being a kid again.
9. Any of the Peanuts books by Charles Schulz. I owned a lot of them over the years. I loved that strip and its world view. I, naturally, always fancied myself to be like Linus. Minus the blanket.
10. The Rain God (Arturo Islas). This and Migrant Souls are two of my favorite books from my graduate school years in California. I had never heard of his before taking a seminar in Chicano/a literature, and I was devastated when I found out he had died after completing them. No more masterpieces from such a gifted writer.
11. The New Confessions (William Boyd). Victorian in its size and scope, this novel is about the life of a film director. It spans much of the Twentieth Century, and it has one of the best opening sequences I've ever read. Comparable to the shock value of reading the opening sentences of Billie Holiday's Lady Sings the Blues.
12. The Tipping Point (Malcolm Gladwell). I've read all of three of his books, but this was the first for me. He finds the oddest things fascinating, the most minute of issues and moments to discuss.
13. America's Faces (Rheta Grimsley Johnson). Johnson was a columnist for the Memphis newspaper for many years. This is a collection of her columns, and it made me want to be a better writer. Any budding journalist would benefit from reading her work, but sadly, it's out of print.
14. Collected Poems (Frank O'Hara). I'd also recommend reading Brad Gooch's biography of O'Hara, City Poet. O'Hara is one of my favorite poets, right up there with William Carlos Williams and Edna St. Vincent Millay. I'd recommend this collection for the poem "Joe's Jacket" if for no other reason.
15. Passage to India (E.M. Forster). Just brilliant.
I've left off too many people. Where's Jane Austen? Where's Virginia Woolf and To the Lighthouse? Why isn't there more poetry? This is such a difficult task, but I went with the first ones that popped into my head.
1. Moby-Dick (Herman Melville). This book is like the movie Casablanca. I can reread it and find something new and interesting each time. I can watch Casablanca over and over again and never tire of it either.
2. Sure of You (Armistead Maupin). The first book I purchased in the Tales of the City series. I now own all seven of them, and whenever I want to have a fun reading experience, I go back to Maupin's novels.
3. Oliver Twist (Charles Dickens). My favorite novel from one of my favorite novelists.
4. Beloved (Toni Morrison). I must have read this book a dozen times now. It was one of the works I discussed in my dissertation. Breathtaking stuff.
5. The Sound and the Fury (William Faulkner). I could put down any number of Faulkner novels, but after reading The Sound and the Fury, I could never read fiction the same way again (and, yes, I think that's a good thing).
6. The Lord Won't Mind (Gordon Merrick). Trashy, fun stuff. The first in a trilogy of novels about this gay couple. Hilarious, profane at times, serious-minded, groundbreaking.
7. The Borrowers (Mary Norton). The first book I ever sought out to read after watching a TV show or movie adaptation. It was the TV movie from the 1970s, by the way, not the stupid adaptation of recent years with John Goodman.
8. Pippi Longstocking (Astrid Lindgren). My mother bought me three of these books after we saw those wonderfully campy movies in the 1970s. I reread them about a year ago, and I had a blast. It was just like being a kid again.
9. Any of the Peanuts books by Charles Schulz. I owned a lot of them over the years. I loved that strip and its world view. I, naturally, always fancied myself to be like Linus. Minus the blanket.
10. The Rain God (Arturo Islas). This and Migrant Souls are two of my favorite books from my graduate school years in California. I had never heard of his before taking a seminar in Chicano/a literature, and I was devastated when I found out he had died after completing them. No more masterpieces from such a gifted writer.
11. The New Confessions (William Boyd). Victorian in its size and scope, this novel is about the life of a film director. It spans much of the Twentieth Century, and it has one of the best opening sequences I've ever read. Comparable to the shock value of reading the opening sentences of Billie Holiday's Lady Sings the Blues.
12. The Tipping Point (Malcolm Gladwell). I've read all of three of his books, but this was the first for me. He finds the oddest things fascinating, the most minute of issues and moments to discuss.
13. America's Faces (Rheta Grimsley Johnson). Johnson was a columnist for the Memphis newspaper for many years. This is a collection of her columns, and it made me want to be a better writer. Any budding journalist would benefit from reading her work, but sadly, it's out of print.
14. Collected Poems (Frank O'Hara). I'd also recommend reading Brad Gooch's biography of O'Hara, City Poet. O'Hara is one of my favorite poets, right up there with William Carlos Williams and Edna St. Vincent Millay. I'd recommend this collection for the poem "Joe's Jacket" if for no other reason.
15. Passage to India (E.M. Forster). Just brilliant.
I've left off too many people. Where's Jane Austen? Where's Virginia Woolf and To the Lighthouse? Why isn't there more poetry? This is such a difficult task, but I went with the first ones that popped into my head.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Updating My Ethnicity
We received an e-mail at work a few weeks ago asking us to go online and "update our ethnicity." The Department of Education, the federal one, is collecting data on the race and ethnicity of college employees and students. I suspect it might have something to do with our having received a couple of grants as a Hispanic-Serving Institution over the past dozen years or so.
I dutifully went to the page online that I was supposed to use and answered the two questions. The first simply wanted to know if I was Hispanic or Latino. Since I'm not Hispanic or Latino, I then had to choose from a series of lists to identify more accurately what my ethnicity is. Well, to be more accurate, there were five categories--American Indian or Alaskan Native, Asian, Black or African American, Native Hawaiian or Other Pacific Islander, or White. The Asian category had nine subcategories based upon national ancestry (Cambodia, China, India, Japan, Korea, Laos, Vietnam, the Philippines, and Other), and the Native Hawaiian or Other Pacific Islander had four subcategories, again based upon national ancestry (Guam, Hawaii, Samoa, or Other). The other three had only the one item per category. Before you start to ask, yes, I could check more than one box; we weren't restricted to only one ethnicity, which is good to know.
I don't object to reporting my ethnicity. I have only a vague sense of my family's ancestry anyway, so it's only speculative on my part. We're supposedly Scotch-Irish on my grandfather's side, and my grandmother always claimed that we had a Dutch background as well. Of course, she also claimed that one of her ancestors (a word she would never have used, for the record) was a "Hindi." I asked her once if she meant Hindu, but she'd never heard of that. I can't imagine that anyone in my family is truly of Hindu background, but who knows? There's also a strong Native American influence in my genetics, probably either Chickasaw or Choctaw in nature. Anything else is completely unknown to me.
My issue has to do with the way it was presented to us: "updating" our ethnicity. I can update my contact information when I change my cell phone number or when I move to a new address. I can change my emergency contact person if I decide I want someone else to make decisions for me, so that's an update. How exactly, though, do I "update" my ethnicity? I can report it, certainly, but updating it seems a bit far-fetched. Have I changed my ethnicity since the last time I was asked? Perhaps I should contact my mother to see if we are now of Guamanian descent. Or perhaps we actually are Hispanic or Latino, but I wasn't at the family reunion this year to listen to the deliberations.
I know this all seems rather silly, but I am an English teacher, after all. Language matters, and the words we use should be chosen carefully. You'd think that someone at the offices of a school district would have thought about the implications or the connotations of the word "update" before using that to describe the process we're undergoing. Or perhaps they just wanted us to have a chance to reconsider who we are. Knowing that we might have to do this on a regular basis, I'm going to start thinking about what ethnicity I want to be the next time I'm asked for an update.
I dutifully went to the page online that I was supposed to use and answered the two questions. The first simply wanted to know if I was Hispanic or Latino. Since I'm not Hispanic or Latino, I then had to choose from a series of lists to identify more accurately what my ethnicity is. Well, to be more accurate, there were five categories--American Indian or Alaskan Native, Asian, Black or African American, Native Hawaiian or Other Pacific Islander, or White. The Asian category had nine subcategories based upon national ancestry (Cambodia, China, India, Japan, Korea, Laos, Vietnam, the Philippines, and Other), and the Native Hawaiian or Other Pacific Islander had four subcategories, again based upon national ancestry (Guam, Hawaii, Samoa, or Other). The other three had only the one item per category. Before you start to ask, yes, I could check more than one box; we weren't restricted to only one ethnicity, which is good to know.
I don't object to reporting my ethnicity. I have only a vague sense of my family's ancestry anyway, so it's only speculative on my part. We're supposedly Scotch-Irish on my grandfather's side, and my grandmother always claimed that we had a Dutch background as well. Of course, she also claimed that one of her ancestors (a word she would never have used, for the record) was a "Hindi." I asked her once if she meant Hindu, but she'd never heard of that. I can't imagine that anyone in my family is truly of Hindu background, but who knows? There's also a strong Native American influence in my genetics, probably either Chickasaw or Choctaw in nature. Anything else is completely unknown to me.
My issue has to do with the way it was presented to us: "updating" our ethnicity. I can update my contact information when I change my cell phone number or when I move to a new address. I can change my emergency contact person if I decide I want someone else to make decisions for me, so that's an update. How exactly, though, do I "update" my ethnicity? I can report it, certainly, but updating it seems a bit far-fetched. Have I changed my ethnicity since the last time I was asked? Perhaps I should contact my mother to see if we are now of Guamanian descent. Or perhaps we actually are Hispanic or Latino, but I wasn't at the family reunion this year to listen to the deliberations.
I know this all seems rather silly, but I am an English teacher, after all. Language matters, and the words we use should be chosen carefully. You'd think that someone at the offices of a school district would have thought about the implications or the connotations of the word "update" before using that to describe the process we're undergoing. Or perhaps they just wanted us to have a chance to reconsider who we are. Knowing that we might have to do this on a regular basis, I'm going to start thinking about what ethnicity I want to be the next time I'm asked for an update.
Cheri
Last weekend, I ventured out of the apartment a couple of times. Once was to see a production of Reefer Madness: The Musical in downtown Fullerton. I went with N and R, and we all had a lot of laughs, and N and I had a few mojitos afterward to make the day even more enjoyable. The theater where the musical is being staged is one of the hardest to find I have ever encountered, but as I tell people who are trying to find my apartment for the first time, once you've been there, it's easier.
On Sunday, I went with a friend to see the movie Cheri. It's only playing in one theater here in Los Angeles (if it's still playing, that is). It's based upon a Colette story, and it features a luminous performance by Michelle Pfeiffer. It's been a while since she has starred in a film. The last time I saw her on screen was in a supporting role in Hairspray. It was such a delight to watch her be the center of attention again. She deserves it.
The plot, as with many films based upon works by Colette (think Gigi), is simple. An older woman falls in love with a younger man, only to have her heart broken by him when he chooses (is forced to choose, really) marriage with another woman, someone closer in age to himself. That's really the whole movie. Yet what Pfeiffer accomplishes is a master class in acting. She has moments where she doesn't speak, yet every emotion is evident on her face and not in some ham-fisted way, either. She is masterful at expressing herself in subtle ways. There's one close-up in this film that is just as memorable as the final close-up of Glenn Close in Dangerous Liaisons. You have to experience it yourself--preferably on a large screen--to appreciate it fully. Any description of it wouldn't do justice to its impact.
Speaking of that earlier film, which also starred Pfeiffer, it's the same team of director Stephen Frears and writer Christopher Hampton who created Cheri. They've given their star some great material here, especially the discussions about growing older and how people react to you as you "mature." I couldn't help thinking that moments like those were directed at the Hollywood studios, with their insistence on new, young, "fresh" stars and their habitual abandonment of some of the more talented performers. And Pfeiffer only brings greater resonance to those moments because she is just as stunningly beautiful as ever.
By the way, Cheri is not the name of Pfeiffer's character. That's actually Lea de Lonval. Cheri is the young man, the son of one of Lea's fellow courtesans. To be honest, I didn't quite see what anyone saw in him. He's played by Rupert Friend, who is, I suppose, attractive enough, but his character is such a twit. I know that he's meant to be representative of a certain type of young man common to the Belle Epoque, so I guess I should just be grateful that that period ended quickly.
It might be a bit of a challenge to find Cheri in a theater near you, but it's worth the effort for Pfeiffer's performance. I doubt very many people will get to see this movie, and that's a shame. It's only playing in art house theaters, and the audiences are rather small. Maybe a dozen or so people saw it when we did. Anyone who doesn't take the opportunity to catch this film is missing out on my early favorite for the best female performance this year.
Monday, July 20, 2009
What I Learned
I'm grading essays for my literature class. Still? Again? Tough to tell sometimes.
I always find literature papers intriguing. Sometimes, the students take on challenging texts and do amazing things with them. Other times, they tackle poems or stories that seem to have been thoroughly mined already, yet they come up with a new, different, unique perspective.
And then there are the students who provide valuable non-literary insights in their essays. Such as the following statement, the opening sentence to an essay about Tennyson's "Ulysses": "Even old, wrinkly people can have dreams and aspirations."
I have so much to look forward to. At least, I hope it's still looking forward. I need to look in a mirror.
I always find literature papers intriguing. Sometimes, the students take on challenging texts and do amazing things with them. Other times, they tackle poems or stories that seem to have been thoroughly mined already, yet they come up with a new, different, unique perspective.
And then there are the students who provide valuable non-literary insights in their essays. Such as the following statement, the opening sentence to an essay about Tennyson's "Ulysses": "Even old, wrinkly people can have dreams and aspirations."
I have so much to look forward to. At least, I hope it's still looking forward. I need to look in a mirror.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Rough Draft
Here's the thesis for one of the rough drafts I read this weekend for my English literature class: "In two of his [Charles Dickens] most famous works, A Christmas Story [sic] and Oliver Twist, there are many similarities between the two if one takes the time to look a little below the surface."
Aside from the fact that this thesis has no specific focus, which is a significant problem, it suggests that every similarity must be discussed. Right? You'd expect a litany of similarities to follow, lots and lots of details from both works that are common.
What actually follows is one-and-a-half pages that, basically, point out that there's a little boy in "A Christmas Carol" and there's also a boy in Oliver Twist.
Shocking. That wouldn't seem at all obvious to someone who has read either work or even to someone who has never read the works but only heard of them.
Then there is a paragraph with two sentences about the moral endings of the two works. There are no specific details or examples from either work to support this assertion.
Attached to the second and last page of this exhaustive analysis is a Post-It with this message: "I got stuck on what else I could say. Could I do differences as well?"
Sigh. How can you advise a writer who feels exhausted after writing so little? Is this the future of literary studies?
Aside from the fact that this thesis has no specific focus, which is a significant problem, it suggests that every similarity must be discussed. Right? You'd expect a litany of similarities to follow, lots and lots of details from both works that are common.
What actually follows is one-and-a-half pages that, basically, point out that there's a little boy in "A Christmas Carol" and there's also a boy in Oliver Twist.
Shocking. That wouldn't seem at all obvious to someone who has read either work or even to someone who has never read the works but only heard of them.
Then there is a paragraph with two sentences about the moral endings of the two works. There are no specific details or examples from either work to support this assertion.
Attached to the second and last page of this exhaustive analysis is a Post-It with this message: "I got stuck on what else I could say. Could I do differences as well?"
Sigh. How can you advise a writer who feels exhausted after writing so little? Is this the future of literary studies?
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Reassured about Insurance
A couple of weeks ago, I received an envelope from my car insurance company. Inside was one of those little yellow feedback cards. You know the kind. "How would you rate our handling of your claim?" The problem is I hadn't filed any claim in years. I started to worry that someone had filed a false claim, and my insurance had paid out some money to some criminal posing as me.
I called up my agent and gave her the claim number. She took a few minutes to find my file and locate the information. It turns out that the insurance company had finally retrieved all of its money from a claim I had filed four years ago. That's diligence, if you ask me. This company didn't stop until the owner of the vehicle responsible for the damages to my car had paid in full (with some interest, apparently, as well). The yellow card was an indication that the claim was finally "closed," at least in the minds of the insurance company honchos.
Here's what happened four years ago this month. I was dating someone new, and he was going to off to Mexico for a week to be at some artists' retreat. We went to dinner on his last night in town--a sushi place on Santa Monica Boulevard, not bad, actually--and returned home. I helped him pack up a few things and then watched him take off in the shuttle that he had ordered before he and I met (in case you're wondering why I didn't just drive him to the airport myself and save myself all of this grief). Just as an aside, the relationship didn't last long after he returned from Mexico because he turned out to be a bit of a jerk, but that's a post for another day.
When I walked out to the street to get into my car--we had walked to the restaurant from his condo--I noticed police cars all around. My car had apparently been hit by a rather large vehicle, and the entire driver's side was almost caved in. The front bumper had been almost completely torn off, too, with only a couple of inches still attached on the passenger side of the car. Four other cars had also been hit, one of them hardly recognizable as a car any longer. Mine was still sort of drive-able, so I took it home and called the insurance company. They started to work.
Once I got the police report later that week, I found that mine and the other cars had been hit by a speeding drunk driver in a Yukon. In case you're not familiar with that model, it's an enormous SUV. I was driving a Saturn L300 at the time, so imagine the amount of damage a huge truck like a Yukon could do to my mid-sized car if the driver was drunk and speeding. The police had arrested him and charged with a few different offenses, but he had been subsequently released after paying his fines. My insurance company and some others were in the process of filing claims against him. My car was in the shop for almost a month as a result of all of the damage, and I can't imagine the other cars (if they could even be fixed) got repaired any quicker. The one parked in front of me had to be totaled by the crash.
The insurance company paid for almost all of the repairs to my car, something to the tune of about seven thousand dollars as I recall. I had to pick up the tab for the deductible, of course, but the insurance company got that money for me out of the Yukon driver and mailed me a second check for that amount. I was only inconvenienced by not having a car for several weeks during the summer. At least, I wasn't working then and could just enjoy the leisure time.
By the way, this car accident was what prompted me to get a cell phone. I hadn't owned one prior to this accident, and I had so much trouble finding a working pay phone that night that I decided that I would make purchasing a cell phone a top priority when I got my car back. I couldn't even call a tow truck, prompting me to consider abandoning my car at one of those places that says cars will be towed if left overnight. I didn't. I managed to get the car home after all, but it was an incredibly slow drive.
I still am amazed that the insurance company--named for one of the Roman gods, if you must know--has been working on this case for four years. I must say that I am impressed that the driver of the vehicle had to pay them back for all of the money he cost them. I know that, at the time of the accident, I certainly wanted to make him pay. My anger subsided a bit when all was taken care of by the insurance company, but I feel comforted knowing that he has been punished for boozing it up and getting the behind the wheel of an enormous tank and plowing down five cars parked on a street. There is a little bit of justice in the world after all.
I called up my agent and gave her the claim number. She took a few minutes to find my file and locate the information. It turns out that the insurance company had finally retrieved all of its money from a claim I had filed four years ago. That's diligence, if you ask me. This company didn't stop until the owner of the vehicle responsible for the damages to my car had paid in full (with some interest, apparently, as well). The yellow card was an indication that the claim was finally "closed," at least in the minds of the insurance company honchos.
Here's what happened four years ago this month. I was dating someone new, and he was going to off to Mexico for a week to be at some artists' retreat. We went to dinner on his last night in town--a sushi place on Santa Monica Boulevard, not bad, actually--and returned home. I helped him pack up a few things and then watched him take off in the shuttle that he had ordered before he and I met (in case you're wondering why I didn't just drive him to the airport myself and save myself all of this grief). Just as an aside, the relationship didn't last long after he returned from Mexico because he turned out to be a bit of a jerk, but that's a post for another day.
When I walked out to the street to get into my car--we had walked to the restaurant from his condo--I noticed police cars all around. My car had apparently been hit by a rather large vehicle, and the entire driver's side was almost caved in. The front bumper had been almost completely torn off, too, with only a couple of inches still attached on the passenger side of the car. Four other cars had also been hit, one of them hardly recognizable as a car any longer. Mine was still sort of drive-able, so I took it home and called the insurance company. They started to work.
Once I got the police report later that week, I found that mine and the other cars had been hit by a speeding drunk driver in a Yukon. In case you're not familiar with that model, it's an enormous SUV. I was driving a Saturn L300 at the time, so imagine the amount of damage a huge truck like a Yukon could do to my mid-sized car if the driver was drunk and speeding. The police had arrested him and charged with a few different offenses, but he had been subsequently released after paying his fines. My insurance company and some others were in the process of filing claims against him. My car was in the shop for almost a month as a result of all of the damage, and I can't imagine the other cars (if they could even be fixed) got repaired any quicker. The one parked in front of me had to be totaled by the crash.
The insurance company paid for almost all of the repairs to my car, something to the tune of about seven thousand dollars as I recall. I had to pick up the tab for the deductible, of course, but the insurance company got that money for me out of the Yukon driver and mailed me a second check for that amount. I was only inconvenienced by not having a car for several weeks during the summer. At least, I wasn't working then and could just enjoy the leisure time.
By the way, this car accident was what prompted me to get a cell phone. I hadn't owned one prior to this accident, and I had so much trouble finding a working pay phone that night that I decided that I would make purchasing a cell phone a top priority when I got my car back. I couldn't even call a tow truck, prompting me to consider abandoning my car at one of those places that says cars will be towed if left overnight. I didn't. I managed to get the car home after all, but it was an incredibly slow drive.
I still am amazed that the insurance company--named for one of the Roman gods, if you must know--has been working on this case for four years. I must say that I am impressed that the driver of the vehicle had to pay them back for all of the money he cost them. I know that, at the time of the accident, I certainly wanted to make him pay. My anger subsided a bit when all was taken care of by the insurance company, but I feel comforted knowing that he has been punished for boozing it up and getting the behind the wheel of an enormous tank and plowing down five cars parked on a street. There is a little bit of justice in the world after all.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Served Well
Sad news for those familiar with the British television comedy Are You Being Served? Mollie Sugden, who played the brightly haired Mrs. Slocumbe on the show, passed away July 1. I used to watch the show regularly on KOCE here in Southern California, thanks to Partner at the Time, who is English and was familiar with the show from his days there. It's allegedly a take on the huge department store Harrod's and featured some memorable characters like Mrs. Slocumbe and Mr. Humphries (John Inman), one of the most outrageously gay men on television.
One of the running jokes on the show was about Mrs. Slocumbe's cat. Of course, that's not the word she used to describe her pet. Someone has edited together a lot of funny moments related to her "pussy." I know this is more scandalous than you might expect from me, but I couldn't resist having a chuckle, especially when she's on the phone with her neighbor Mr. Akbar. Enjoy, in particular, the one featuring her with a bright pink hairdo near the end of this collection.
Sadly, Inman and Wendy Richard (who played Miss Brahms) have also passed away in recent years. Everyone in the cast brought so much joy to people familiar with the show. If you've never watched an episode, put one in your Netflix queue and prepare to laugh.
One of the running jokes on the show was about Mrs. Slocumbe's cat. Of course, that's not the word she used to describe her pet. Someone has edited together a lot of funny moments related to her "pussy." I know this is more scandalous than you might expect from me, but I couldn't resist having a chuckle, especially when she's on the phone with her neighbor Mr. Akbar. Enjoy, in particular, the one featuring her with a bright pink hairdo near the end of this collection.
Sadly, Inman and Wendy Richard (who played Miss Brahms) have also passed away in recent years. Everyone in the cast brought so much joy to people familiar with the show. If you've never watched an episode, put one in your Netflix queue and prepare to laugh.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Teaching the State of California
I'm teaching a night class this summer. We're studying English literature since 1800, and we've made it through the Romantics and are almost finished with the Victorians. This is a good class, filled with lots of smart students from throughout the state. I know they are all students at my college now, but here's just a few of the places where they "regularly" study: Fullerton College (naturally), Mt. San Antonio College, UCLA, Chapman University, Loyola Marymount University, Biola University, Stanford University, and the Cal State Universities at Fullerton, Long Beach, and the Channel Islands. That's quite a range. Apparently, very few colleges or universities are offering summer school classes, and those that are have a very limited set of offerings for students. We seem to have attracted people from all over the state. Perhaps next summer we'll go national or even international.
Some of my colleagues will, of course, state that the reason the class is so talented is this mix of students from the universities. I think, however, that our community college students are just as well suited to this class as those coming from the four-year schools. The home-grown students seem to be just as insightful and participatory as anyone else. It's good to have a chance to compare, and it's perhaps even better when the comparison comes out so favorably.
Some of my colleagues will, of course, state that the reason the class is so talented is this mix of students from the universities. I think, however, that our community college students are just as well suited to this class as those coming from the four-year schools. The home-grown students seem to be just as insightful and participatory as anyone else. It's good to have a chance to compare, and it's perhaps even better when the comparison comes out so favorably.
The MP3 Shuffle Challenge
The directions from my friend D on Facebook were simple:
1) turn on your mp3 player
2) go to Shuffle songs mode
3) Write down the first 25 songs that come up...song title and artist-- NO editing/cheating, please.
4) Choose 25 people to be tagged. It is generally considered to be in good taste to tag the person who tagged you.
I followed the directions and here is what resulted. I will try to keep the commentary to a minimum.
"I'm Alright" by Jo Dee Messina
"Get Right" by Jennifer Lopez
"I Wanna Dance with Somebody" by Whitney Houston
"War" by Edwin Starr
"Sara Smile" by Hall & Oates
"Lovesick Blues" by Hank Williams (Sr.)
"If We Make It Through December" by Merle Haggard
"The Rest of Your Life" by Kenny Loggins
"Hard Luck Woman" by Kiss
"Mi Amor Contiki" by Disco Ruido! (from the Rudo y Cursi soundtrack)
"Intermission" by Scissor Sisters
"My Heart Sings" by Frances Faye
"Wait for Me" by Hall & Oates
"Oo-de-Lolly" by Roger Miller (from the Disney animated film Robin Hood)
"The Best of My Love" by the Eagles
"Everybody Wants to Rule the World" by Tears for Fears
"I Want You to Want Me" by Los Odio and Juan Son
"Larger than Life" by the Backstreet Boys
"Hello Stranger" by Emmylou Harris
"Dear Me" by Lorrie Morgan
"Somebody to Love" by Queen
"The Way We Were" by Barbra Streisand (the album version, not the soundtrack one)
"Where Is It Written?" by Barbra Streisand (from Yentl)
"Goin' on a Holiday" by Labelle
"The Love Boat Theme" by Jack Jones
I think the only word that fits is "eclectic." I'll leave it to the professionals to analyze what my random song selection says about me.
(By the way, I seem to have lost the bullets function on Blogger. I think I used to have it, but it has disappeared. So I apologize for not having the list look more orderly.)
1) turn on your mp3 player
2) go to Shuffle songs mode
3) Write down the first 25 songs that come up...song title and artist-- NO editing/cheating, please.
4) Choose 25 people to be tagged. It is generally considered to be in good taste to tag the person who tagged you.
I followed the directions and here is what resulted. I will try to keep the commentary to a minimum.
"I'm Alright" by Jo Dee Messina
"Get Right" by Jennifer Lopez
"I Wanna Dance with Somebody" by Whitney Houston
"War" by Edwin Starr
"Sara Smile" by Hall & Oates
"Lovesick Blues" by Hank Williams (Sr.)
"If We Make It Through December" by Merle Haggard
"The Rest of Your Life" by Kenny Loggins
"Hard Luck Woman" by Kiss
"Mi Amor Contiki" by Disco Ruido! (from the Rudo y Cursi soundtrack)
"Intermission" by Scissor Sisters
"My Heart Sings" by Frances Faye
"Wait for Me" by Hall & Oates
"Oo-de-Lolly" by Roger Miller (from the Disney animated film Robin Hood)
"The Best of My Love" by the Eagles
"Everybody Wants to Rule the World" by Tears for Fears
"I Want You to Want Me" by Los Odio and Juan Son
"Larger than Life" by the Backstreet Boys
"Hello Stranger" by Emmylou Harris
"Dear Me" by Lorrie Morgan
"Somebody to Love" by Queen
"The Way We Were" by Barbra Streisand (the album version, not the soundtrack one)
"Where Is It Written?" by Barbra Streisand (from Yentl)
"Goin' on a Holiday" by Labelle
"The Love Boat Theme" by Jack Jones
I think the only word that fits is "eclectic." I'll leave it to the professionals to analyze what my random song selection says about me.
(By the way, I seem to have lost the bullets function on Blogger. I think I used to have it, but it has disappeared. So I apologize for not having the list look more orderly.)
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Quick Takes
I have been to several movies in the past month, but I rarely have time to blog about them these days. (I read books, too, but hardly anyone else these days seems to care about that activity. Try talking to someone outside of an English department about a book you recently read and see what happens to you.) In the interest of sharing, here are some random thoughts on recent films.
I really enjoyed Easy Virtue. It's better than the reviews it received. Jessica Biel plays an American race car driver who falls in love with and quickly marries the son of an aristocratic English family (of course, that phrase could be redundant for the movies). The family, headed by that always reliable charmer Colin Firth and the witheringly funny Kristin Scott Thomas, seems to be rather traditional and conservative, at least if Scott Thomas' Mrs. Whittaker is any example. The movie is based upon the Noel Coward play, and I love his ear for dialogue. There are some great moments of slapstick here, and several scenes where characters analyze each other with scalpel sharp tongues--witty stuff. I'd also like to praise the music, all done in the style of the 1920s and 1930s, including a musical hall version of the 1976 classic "Car Wash." I downloaded the songs as soon as I got home from the theater.
The Hangover has gotten a lot of press this summer, and frankly, I was a bit underwhelmed by it. Yes, it's pretty funny, but that's mostly because of the situation, not because of, say, the actual dialogue, which is rather cliched. It's just a "bad trip to Vegas" movie with a veneer of cleverness over it. I did like the performances by Bradley Cooper and Ed Helms, and Zach Galifianakis seems like he's in another movie altogether, which really works here, oddly enough. Any movie that manages to get mileage out of a cameo from Mike Tyson can't be all bad, but can we please stop with the "fag jokes" already? I'm so bored with having comedies, in particular, resort to using such stupid humor.
My Life in Ruins stars Nia Vardalos of My Big Fat Greek Wedding fame. Here she's a former university professor reduced to giving tours of the Greek islands. Of course, most of the people who wind up on her bus are what they used to call "ugly Americans," and they fit every stereotype you could imagine for tourists. I will admit to being temporarily intrigued by the fellow who's an IHOP manager, but then he started talking about syrup and lost me. The real reason to see this movie--other than a few fun moments with Richard Dreyfus--is Vardalos' co-star, Alexis Georgoulis, whose character is the sadly named Poupi Kakas. He starts out as the scary looking bus driver and turns into the hot Greek stud by movie's end. Hey, at least, you'll have something to look at besides ruins. It's all a cliche, frankly, but Nia and Alexis actually made an appearance at the screening I attended to answer questions and promote the film, so I'm willing to forgive them this time. It's all relatively harmless fun, and the scenery (of all kinds) is quite beautiful.
Sex Positive is a documentary about one of the three men credited with creating the concept of safe sex. His name is Richard Berkowitz, and he's an intriguing central figure. He isn't an easy interview by any means, and he's always changing his mind about comments that he has made. He's sometimes brazen about his past, and at other times, he doesn't really want to talk about some of the things he's done. The other people who are interviewed seem to appreciate and accept just how difficult Berkowitz and his colleagues, Michael Callen and Dr. Joseph Sonnabend, had it when they tried to convince gay men in the 1980s to try, for example, using condoms. This is a significant historical document of a specific time in our history, one that is not frequently discussed for any number of reasons.
The Taking of Pelham 1 2 3 is one of the most unnecessary movies released this year. It's a remake of a 1974 film which was perfectly fine as it was. There was no real need to make a new version of this film because none of the updates to the story really contribute to its being more interesting. The lead performance by Denzel Washington is good, but the other lead actor, John Travolta, is in fun "ham" mode in this one. I could never quite figure out why his character looks the way he does: the haircut, the tattoos, everything. I kept thinking it was supposed to be some kind of ethnic representation, but the film takes you off that path pretty quickly. Rent the original instead. You'll have a better time.
Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen is truly a silly movie. I suppose it could serve as the perfect example of a popcorn movie, no substance, all style, just like everything director Michael Bay does. The explosions were frequent but not too loud, thankfully. Shia LaBeouf and Megan Fox are fine if a bit bland as the "heroes," but I'd rather watch sidekick Ramon Rodriguez. He's at least interesting. I have never seen all of the first Transformers movie, and I wasn't a fan of the TV show either. I don't even know when the show as on the air. Still, if a friend invites you and you want to get out of the house for a few hours, I suppose this is harmless enough. After the show, I overheard a young boy say it was "the awesomest movie ever." I'm glad he had a good time, but it does make me wonder about the future of America if he's any example. And I still want to know how the robots can be almost five times as large as the cars or trucks from which they transform. Yes, I know I'm not supposed to puzzle over questions like that in a movie like this.
I really enjoyed Easy Virtue. It's better than the reviews it received. Jessica Biel plays an American race car driver who falls in love with and quickly marries the son of an aristocratic English family (of course, that phrase could be redundant for the movies). The family, headed by that always reliable charmer Colin Firth and the witheringly funny Kristin Scott Thomas, seems to be rather traditional and conservative, at least if Scott Thomas' Mrs. Whittaker is any example. The movie is based upon the Noel Coward play, and I love his ear for dialogue. There are some great moments of slapstick here, and several scenes where characters analyze each other with scalpel sharp tongues--witty stuff. I'd also like to praise the music, all done in the style of the 1920s and 1930s, including a musical hall version of the 1976 classic "Car Wash." I downloaded the songs as soon as I got home from the theater.
The Hangover has gotten a lot of press this summer, and frankly, I was a bit underwhelmed by it. Yes, it's pretty funny, but that's mostly because of the situation, not because of, say, the actual dialogue, which is rather cliched. It's just a "bad trip to Vegas" movie with a veneer of cleverness over it. I did like the performances by Bradley Cooper and Ed Helms, and Zach Galifianakis seems like he's in another movie altogether, which really works here, oddly enough. Any movie that manages to get mileage out of a cameo from Mike Tyson can't be all bad, but can we please stop with the "fag jokes" already? I'm so bored with having comedies, in particular, resort to using such stupid humor.
My Life in Ruins stars Nia Vardalos of My Big Fat Greek Wedding fame. Here she's a former university professor reduced to giving tours of the Greek islands. Of course, most of the people who wind up on her bus are what they used to call "ugly Americans," and they fit every stereotype you could imagine for tourists. I will admit to being temporarily intrigued by the fellow who's an IHOP manager, but then he started talking about syrup and lost me. The real reason to see this movie--other than a few fun moments with Richard Dreyfus--is Vardalos' co-star, Alexis Georgoulis, whose character is the sadly named Poupi Kakas. He starts out as the scary looking bus driver and turns into the hot Greek stud by movie's end. Hey, at least, you'll have something to look at besides ruins. It's all a cliche, frankly, but Nia and Alexis actually made an appearance at the screening I attended to answer questions and promote the film, so I'm willing to forgive them this time. It's all relatively harmless fun, and the scenery (of all kinds) is quite beautiful.
Sex Positive is a documentary about one of the three men credited with creating the concept of safe sex. His name is Richard Berkowitz, and he's an intriguing central figure. He isn't an easy interview by any means, and he's always changing his mind about comments that he has made. He's sometimes brazen about his past, and at other times, he doesn't really want to talk about some of the things he's done. The other people who are interviewed seem to appreciate and accept just how difficult Berkowitz and his colleagues, Michael Callen and Dr. Joseph Sonnabend, had it when they tried to convince gay men in the 1980s to try, for example, using condoms. This is a significant historical document of a specific time in our history, one that is not frequently discussed for any number of reasons.
The Taking of Pelham 1 2 3 is one of the most unnecessary movies released this year. It's a remake of a 1974 film which was perfectly fine as it was. There was no real need to make a new version of this film because none of the updates to the story really contribute to its being more interesting. The lead performance by Denzel Washington is good, but the other lead actor, John Travolta, is in fun "ham" mode in this one. I could never quite figure out why his character looks the way he does: the haircut, the tattoos, everything. I kept thinking it was supposed to be some kind of ethnic representation, but the film takes you off that path pretty quickly. Rent the original instead. You'll have a better time.
Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen is truly a silly movie. I suppose it could serve as the perfect example of a popcorn movie, no substance, all style, just like everything director Michael Bay does. The explosions were frequent but not too loud, thankfully. Shia LaBeouf and Megan Fox are fine if a bit bland as the "heroes," but I'd rather watch sidekick Ramon Rodriguez. He's at least interesting. I have never seen all of the first Transformers movie, and I wasn't a fan of the TV show either. I don't even know when the show as on the air. Still, if a friend invites you and you want to get out of the house for a few hours, I suppose this is harmless enough. After the show, I overheard a young boy say it was "the awesomest movie ever." I'm glad he had a good time, but it does make me wonder about the future of America if he's any example. And I still want to know how the robots can be almost five times as large as the cars or trucks from which they transform. Yes, I know I'm not supposed to puzzle over questions like that in a movie like this.
The Problem with Twinks
Last Sunday, I went to see the Gay Men's Chorus of Los Angeles perform their final concert of the season. It was entitled "Broadway!" (please note the exclamation mark--it's vitally important) and featured Tony and Grammy award-winner Jennifer Holliday (that's how she was billed). I always enjoy the chorus. They have impeccable taste when it comes to choosing songs to sing, and Sunday's concert featured some of my favorites.
The show started with "The Bitch of Living" from Spring Awakening, a show I saw last year at the Ahmanson, followed by "Life Is" from Zorba, which I have never seen. The third song of the day is one I have always loved: "We Kiss in a Shadow" from The King and I. They had a lovely arrangement of the song, and listening to all of those beautiful male voices blending together just made it even more joyous for me. If I recall correctly, Jennifer came out next and did a solo number, "Blues in the Night." All of her trademark "sounds" were a part of the performance, and I knew we were in for a real treat.
"My Junk" from Spring Awakening was next, followed by a medley of songs from South Pacific. Of course, "There Is Nothing Like a Dame" got big laughs, and "I'm Gonna Wash That Man Right Out of My Hair"--complete with shower stalls and well-built boys in towels--got a lot of sighs. "He Vas My Boyfriend" from Young Frankenstein was done with boys in leather, a rather inspired and somewhat inspiring touch for quite a few in the audience. I loved that they sang "(Not) Getting Married Today" from Company; it was a perfect political statement in this post-Prop. 8 world of California. After "Loving You" from Passion, a show I need to watch again soon, they ended the first act by dueting with Jennifer on "One Night Only" from Dreamgirls.
It was during the intermission that I had my twink problem. I purchased my tickets online the day before the performance, so I was in the balcony. I still had a great view, but one of these days I'm going to think ahead and get tickets closer to the action, so to speak. I was sitting behind a row of six or seven friends, all of them in their twenties (isn't almost everyone these days?). Two or three of them decided to stay behind during the intermission, and they were talking about how much they liked the show so far.
I was trying to read a book I had brought with me. You should always have a book handy; it helps to keep you from getting bothered too often. Still, I couldn't help overhearing the conversation. Twinks are notorious for being loud; it must be from all of those years talking on cell phones. One of them asked, "Now why is Jennifer Holliday here?" I almost tore my book in half. When his friend answered that she didn't know either, I decided to butt in and share that Jennifer was the original Effie White on Broadway when Dreamgirls opened. That's right, dear. Long, long before Jennifer Hudson wowed you in the movie theater, Jennifer Holliday was wowing them on the stage. In fact, anyone who's see both performances will tell you that Hudson borrowed deeply from Holliday's performance.
See for yourself. I'm not responsible for the picture quality, by the way. First up is Holliday's performance from the Tony Awards broadcast for 1982.
Now it's Hudson's turn. Tell me you can't see any difference between these two.
Sigh. The younger generation has no sense of history. And it doesn't seem to bother them at all, either. You might recall that I had a similar encounter at the Hollywood Bowl when Rufus Wainwright performed his tribute concert of Judy Garland music. When he introduced Lorna Luft, some twink sitting near me asked aloud, "Who is Lorna Luft?" Mine was not the only head that jerked around in shock and disgust.
Thankfully, the intermission on Sunday was short, and I could go back to enjoying the chorus. Act 2 began with "THe Circle of Life" from The Lion King, and we had chorus members throughout the audience, even in the balcony, dressed in what approximates African costume these days. The second song of the second act was quite a stunner: a medley of "Written in the Stars/The Gods of Nubia" from Aida, the musical, not the opera. The soloists were Jessay Martin and Richard Rocha, and Martin was particularly outstanding. His singing of "The Gods of Nubia" brought the house to its feet. I was almost in tears. He's that good. Why have we never heard of him before? Why doesn't someone sign him up for a recording contract?
Jennifer returned to do her big number, "And I Am Telling You I'm Not Going" from Dreamgirls. I think she sounds even better now than she did in the 1980s. She's lost none of her power, and she deservedly received another standing ovation. Another of my favorites came next, "Could I Leave You?" from Follies, a comic gem of a song done with great timing by the chorus. "Let's Not Waste a Moment" from Milk and Honey, a show I've never even heard of, featured a solo by Bill Bowersock, a man closer to my own age if not a bit older, and I was delighted by both the song (which they merged gently with "It Only Takes a Moment" from Hello, Dolly) and the performance.
The chorus finished the show with "First You Dream" from Steel Pier, another lovely number for which they had a fantastic arrangement. Jennifer joined them on stage for bows, and then they did an encore. And what a choice: "We Are a Family" from Dreamgirls. A perfect song to end the concert, and we were almost all standing by its finish.
I took my program and left the theater, passing a lot of men "of a certain age." There are some twinks who go to these events, but more and more I see guys my age and older at them. I suppose choral music isn't for everyone, and the younger generation doesn't seem to be all that interested in older music anyway. The advertisement for Sunday's concert read: "Gay Men Sing Showtunes. Imagine That." However, if my twink neighbors during the show are any indication, it's only when those showtunes are later performed in movies that they'll pay any attention.
The show started with "The Bitch of Living" from Spring Awakening, a show I saw last year at the Ahmanson, followed by "Life Is" from Zorba, which I have never seen. The third song of the day is one I have always loved: "We Kiss in a Shadow" from The King and I. They had a lovely arrangement of the song, and listening to all of those beautiful male voices blending together just made it even more joyous for me. If I recall correctly, Jennifer came out next and did a solo number, "Blues in the Night." All of her trademark "sounds" were a part of the performance, and I knew we were in for a real treat.
"My Junk" from Spring Awakening was next, followed by a medley of songs from South Pacific. Of course, "There Is Nothing Like a Dame" got big laughs, and "I'm Gonna Wash That Man Right Out of My Hair"--complete with shower stalls and well-built boys in towels--got a lot of sighs. "He Vas My Boyfriend" from Young Frankenstein was done with boys in leather, a rather inspired and somewhat inspiring touch for quite a few in the audience. I loved that they sang "(Not) Getting Married Today" from Company; it was a perfect political statement in this post-Prop. 8 world of California. After "Loving You" from Passion, a show I need to watch again soon, they ended the first act by dueting with Jennifer on "One Night Only" from Dreamgirls.
It was during the intermission that I had my twink problem. I purchased my tickets online the day before the performance, so I was in the balcony. I still had a great view, but one of these days I'm going to think ahead and get tickets closer to the action, so to speak. I was sitting behind a row of six or seven friends, all of them in their twenties (isn't almost everyone these days?). Two or three of them decided to stay behind during the intermission, and they were talking about how much they liked the show so far.
I was trying to read a book I had brought with me. You should always have a book handy; it helps to keep you from getting bothered too often. Still, I couldn't help overhearing the conversation. Twinks are notorious for being loud; it must be from all of those years talking on cell phones. One of them asked, "Now why is Jennifer Holliday here?" I almost tore my book in half. When his friend answered that she didn't know either, I decided to butt in and share that Jennifer was the original Effie White on Broadway when Dreamgirls opened. That's right, dear. Long, long before Jennifer Hudson wowed you in the movie theater, Jennifer Holliday was wowing them on the stage. In fact, anyone who's see both performances will tell you that Hudson borrowed deeply from Holliday's performance.
See for yourself. I'm not responsible for the picture quality, by the way. First up is Holliday's performance from the Tony Awards broadcast for 1982.
Now it's Hudson's turn. Tell me you can't see any difference between these two.
Sigh. The younger generation has no sense of history. And it doesn't seem to bother them at all, either. You might recall that I had a similar encounter at the Hollywood Bowl when Rufus Wainwright performed his tribute concert of Judy Garland music. When he introduced Lorna Luft, some twink sitting near me asked aloud, "Who is Lorna Luft?" Mine was not the only head that jerked around in shock and disgust.
Thankfully, the intermission on Sunday was short, and I could go back to enjoying the chorus. Act 2 began with "THe Circle of Life" from The Lion King, and we had chorus members throughout the audience, even in the balcony, dressed in what approximates African costume these days. The second song of the second act was quite a stunner: a medley of "Written in the Stars/The Gods of Nubia" from Aida, the musical, not the opera. The soloists were Jessay Martin and Richard Rocha, and Martin was particularly outstanding. His singing of "The Gods of Nubia" brought the house to its feet. I was almost in tears. He's that good. Why have we never heard of him before? Why doesn't someone sign him up for a recording contract?
Jennifer returned to do her big number, "And I Am Telling You I'm Not Going" from Dreamgirls. I think she sounds even better now than she did in the 1980s. She's lost none of her power, and she deservedly received another standing ovation. Another of my favorites came next, "Could I Leave You?" from Follies, a comic gem of a song done with great timing by the chorus. "Let's Not Waste a Moment" from Milk and Honey, a show I've never even heard of, featured a solo by Bill Bowersock, a man closer to my own age if not a bit older, and I was delighted by both the song (which they merged gently with "It Only Takes a Moment" from Hello, Dolly) and the performance.
The chorus finished the show with "First You Dream" from Steel Pier, another lovely number for which they had a fantastic arrangement. Jennifer joined them on stage for bows, and then they did an encore. And what a choice: "We Are a Family" from Dreamgirls. A perfect song to end the concert, and we were almost all standing by its finish.
I took my program and left the theater, passing a lot of men "of a certain age." There are some twinks who go to these events, but more and more I see guys my age and older at them. I suppose choral music isn't for everyone, and the younger generation doesn't seem to be all that interested in older music anyway. The advertisement for Sunday's concert read: "Gay Men Sing Showtunes. Imagine That." However, if my twink neighbors during the show are any indication, it's only when those showtunes are later performed in movies that they'll pay any attention.
Friday, July 3, 2009
An Analogy
If this apartment complex were a school, then the apartment next door would be the short bus.
Inappropriately Funny
When I drove home from work on Monday, I noticed that, during the day, while I was at work, posters and billboards for the movie Orphan had popped up all over town. It's as if the movie studio is trying to blanket the town in publicity for this film. Now I'm not saying that this is a bad movie. I haven't seen it yet, so how could I judge it? However, it bears a remarkable resemblance to the old movie The Bad Seed from the 1950s, only with a dark-haired girl this time and she's an orphan this time around (hence, the title, I suppose). I first saw the trailer for Orphan a week or so ago, and I have to admit that I laughed out loud at how ludicrous the trailer makes the movie look. Why do I suspect that the choker around her neck is somehow the key?
And the tagline? "There's something wrong with Esther." Of course, there is. But there's also something wrong with the studios who make movies this silly and the audiences who spend good money to watch such claptrap. Oy.
Enjoy.
And the tagline? "There's something wrong with Esther." Of course, there is. But there's also something wrong with the studios who make movies this silly and the audiences who spend good money to watch such claptrap. Oy.
Enjoy.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
A Lot of Little
I recently completed a task that seems almost too daunting. I watched two versions of Little Dorrit. One was the 1988 film version, originally released in two parts, as I recall, and starring Derek Jacobi. The second was a BBC miniseries that aired on Masterpiece Classic during the Charles Dickens "festival" earlier this year. The ubiquitous Matthew Macfadyen played the lead role of Arthur Clennam that had been Jacobi's part in the earlier version.
Why would simply watching a movie and a miniseries be daunting? If you have to ask that, you must never have read the Dickens novel on which it is based. It's one of his whoppers at 826 pages. The first film version clocks in at six hours; the miniseries bests it by taking almost eight full hours to watch. It took me weeks to get through both of them, thanks to my schedule.
Both versions are solid adaptations, but they emphasize different elements, of course. The 2008 miniseries, for example, picks up the plot thread about the murderous Frenchman Rigaud that had been deleted from the earlier version. Both, though, are gloriously Victorian and delightfully Dickensian. I particularly enjoyed the Clennan house in both versions. It's an architectural monstrosity, and there's a constant rain (it seems constant) of dirt pouring through it. The home, in both cases, is just about as I would have imagined it after reading the description in the novel.
Watching these films nowadays, I was struck by the amount of attention given to the character of Mr. Merdle, the so-called "man of the age." Merdle makes all of his money in speculative ventures. In other words, he's a banker/broker using other people's money to get rich. When it inevitably all falls apart, an entire nation seems to collapse with his schemes. How very remarkable of Dickens to warn us a century ahead of time about the dangers of the stock market and banking.
What I will remember most, though, are the performances. In the 1988 version, the film is anchored by the performance of the great Alec Guinness as Mr. Dorrit, the long-time resident of a debtors' prison who comes into a great fortune, only to realize that money cannot help him to erase his years in solitude. Guinness is quite the peacock in his scenes at the prison, forcing everyone to make him the center of attention he so desires to be. It was also a treat to see Joan Greenwood, Guinness' former co-star from Kind Hearts and Coronets forty years earlier, in the pivotal role of Mrs. Clennam. She's just as fussy and cranky as the character in the novel. There's even a young Miriam Margolyes playing Flora, the once-beautiful girl of Arthur's dreams, now older and not quite so thin as he remembers. Margolyes has a deft touch with comedy, but she also allows you to see the desire her character retains for a love match with Arthur.
In the newer version, Tom Courtenay is brilliant as Mr. Dorrit. He allows us, even more than Guinness does, to see the fragility of Dorrit's ego. Eddie Marsan as Pancks, that character who seems to have his hands in a bit of everything, is so much fun to watch. The snorts and sniffs he makes are spot-on with the kind of little traits Dickens liked to give to his characters. And I particularly admired Macfadyen's performance here. I think I first noticed him in the adaptation of Pride and Prejudice from a few years ago; he was, of course, Mr. Darcy. He was also in Frost/Nixon last year. However, here he is called upon to be a strong moral center to the action, perhaps even more so than Claire Foy's Amy, Little Dorrit herself, the character usually given credit for being the moral compass, and he is compelling to watch in the part. I even found him to be quite sexy, to be honest.
The BBC version is, as you might expect, more faithful to the text itself. They are masters, those folks at the BBC, in replicating the look and feel of previous eras. I've enjoyed all of the adaptations of Jane Austen's novels that they've done over the years. The film version is more intriguing, though. The first half of the film is told from the perspective of Arthur Clennam, thus making Jacobi the focus of our attention. The second half shifts to that of Amy's perspective, so we see the action through the eyes of Sarah Pickering's Little Dorrit. It's an inspired choice, just as successful as the more faithful adaptation from twenty years later.
Why would simply watching a movie and a miniseries be daunting? If you have to ask that, you must never have read the Dickens novel on which it is based. It's one of his whoppers at 826 pages. The first film version clocks in at six hours; the miniseries bests it by taking almost eight full hours to watch. It took me weeks to get through both of them, thanks to my schedule.
Both versions are solid adaptations, but they emphasize different elements, of course. The 2008 miniseries, for example, picks up the plot thread about the murderous Frenchman Rigaud that had been deleted from the earlier version. Both, though, are gloriously Victorian and delightfully Dickensian. I particularly enjoyed the Clennan house in both versions. It's an architectural monstrosity, and there's a constant rain (it seems constant) of dirt pouring through it. The home, in both cases, is just about as I would have imagined it after reading the description in the novel.
Watching these films nowadays, I was struck by the amount of attention given to the character of Mr. Merdle, the so-called "man of the age." Merdle makes all of his money in speculative ventures. In other words, he's a banker/broker using other people's money to get rich. When it inevitably all falls apart, an entire nation seems to collapse with his schemes. How very remarkable of Dickens to warn us a century ahead of time about the dangers of the stock market and banking.
What I will remember most, though, are the performances. In the 1988 version, the film is anchored by the performance of the great Alec Guinness as Mr. Dorrit, the long-time resident of a debtors' prison who comes into a great fortune, only to realize that money cannot help him to erase his years in solitude. Guinness is quite the peacock in his scenes at the prison, forcing everyone to make him the center of attention he so desires to be. It was also a treat to see Joan Greenwood, Guinness' former co-star from Kind Hearts and Coronets forty years earlier, in the pivotal role of Mrs. Clennam. She's just as fussy and cranky as the character in the novel. There's even a young Miriam Margolyes playing Flora, the once-beautiful girl of Arthur's dreams, now older and not quite so thin as he remembers. Margolyes has a deft touch with comedy, but she also allows you to see the desire her character retains for a love match with Arthur.
In the newer version, Tom Courtenay is brilliant as Mr. Dorrit. He allows us, even more than Guinness does, to see the fragility of Dorrit's ego. Eddie Marsan as Pancks, that character who seems to have his hands in a bit of everything, is so much fun to watch. The snorts and sniffs he makes are spot-on with the kind of little traits Dickens liked to give to his characters. And I particularly admired Macfadyen's performance here. I think I first noticed him in the adaptation of Pride and Prejudice from a few years ago; he was, of course, Mr. Darcy. He was also in Frost/Nixon last year. However, here he is called upon to be a strong moral center to the action, perhaps even more so than Claire Foy's Amy, Little Dorrit herself, the character usually given credit for being the moral compass, and he is compelling to watch in the part. I even found him to be quite sexy, to be honest.
The BBC version is, as you might expect, more faithful to the text itself. They are masters, those folks at the BBC, in replicating the look and feel of previous eras. I've enjoyed all of the adaptations of Jane Austen's novels that they've done over the years. The film version is more intriguing, though. The first half of the film is told from the perspective of Arthur Clennam, thus making Jacobi the focus of our attention. The second half shifts to that of Amy's perspective, so we see the action through the eyes of Sarah Pickering's Little Dorrit. It's an inspired choice, just as successful as the more faithful adaptation from twenty years later.
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