Gravity. In space, no one can hear you scream. but we can hear your backstory. Great special effects, but I was ready for it to be over after a half-hour. However, Sandra Bullock does have nice gams.
Thursday, March 27, 2014
Two Turkeys
American Hustle. Am I the only person who hated it? It was like watching a bad Improv class for 2 hours and 10 minutes. Stylistically, it seems like a rip-off of Goodfellas and has a twist towards the end that seems like it was cribbed from The Rockford Files. Oh, and the hairstyles and fashions from the early 80s were funny-lookin'. We get it.
Sunday, March 9, 2014
One Angry Man
Jury duty starts tomorrow.
Does this state have the death penalty? Because I'm really lookin' to fry someone.
Does this state have the death penalty? Because I'm really lookin' to fry someone.
Monday, January 6, 2014
Don't Walk Away Mad......
Before Liz Cheney ended her bid for the Senate, she thanked all her supporters.
Both of them.
Both of them.
Thursday, January 2, 2014
40 Years to Go!
A friend of mine, who would be considered wise if so many people didn't already think he were crazy, recently said that miserable people always live to an overripe old age.
Great. That means I've got at least another forty years to go.
Great. That means I've got at least another forty years to go.
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| Me -- 40 years from now. |
Saturday, December 28, 2013
Beach Blanket Bingo!
Ever hear someone say, "I couldn't possibly choose. It would be like picking my favorite child."? Well, what's the big deal? Let us give it a try.
I never much liked Roscoe, the clown college drop-out. The twins, Chester and Lester, just don't care for them and their ability to make things spontaneously combust. Then there's Rollo, who's always whining about needing shoes to wear and wanting food to eat, and such. So that leaves Elwood, the quiet one. He's my favorite, even though he does have his mother's elephantine ears.
See? Pretty easy. Just like picking my favorite Beach movie: Beach Blanket Bingo. So much to like! First, there's that catchy title tune that once it enters your ear, will bore into your brain like a deadly earwig and never leave. Also, there's Buster Keaton, Paul Lynde, Harvey Lembeck, Don Rickles, Annette Funicello's bosoms, and the joy of watching dozens of near-naked middle-aged teenagers sucking in their pot bellies. On the debit side, there's everything else, mostly Frankie Avalon's smarm. But there's more good than bad.
Last one to the beach house is a tetanal rusty nail sticking in a bloody foot!
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I never much liked Roscoe, the clown college drop-out. The twins, Chester and Lester, just don't care for them and their ability to make things spontaneously combust. Then there's Rollo, who's always whining about needing shoes to wear and wanting food to eat, and such. So that leaves Elwood, the quiet one. He's my favorite, even though he does have his mother's elephantine ears.
See? Pretty easy. Just like picking my favorite Beach movie: Beach Blanket Bingo. So much to like! First, there's that catchy title tune that once it enters your ear, will bore into your brain like a deadly earwig and never leave. Also, there's Buster Keaton, Paul Lynde, Harvey Lembeck, Don Rickles, Annette Funicello's bosoms, and the joy of watching dozens of near-naked middle-aged teenagers sucking in their pot bellies. On the debit side, there's everything else, mostly Frankie Avalon's smarm. But there's more good than bad.
Last one to the beach house is a tetanal rusty nail sticking in a bloody foot!
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| Check out that groovy bouffant hairdo. And Annette looks pretty cool, too. |
Monday, December 9, 2013
Work in Progress
Excerpts from my latest novel, Eternal Wood; Adventures of a Teenage Vampire:
Ethelbert loved the big, sprawling, hectic, dynamic city at night. Even on a night like tonight, with the full moon obscured by the clouds, and the sky looking like an oyster stew, the vast city seem to shimmer. Yes, thought Ethelbert, there's no other metropolis in the world quite like Stockton.
* * * * *
Practically six hundred years to the day, Ethelbert's life changed forever, literally, after he was bitten by a vampire vole. Made drowsy by the summer sun, Ethelbert decided to rest in the shade of a sprawling elm; when he awoke, he discovered a vampire vole feasting on his delicious royal blood. He batted the accursed creature away, but the evil deed had been done: Ethelbert Mortimer Cloddington de Blessings, beloved heir and only legitimate child to the rakish Count de Blessings, became a vampire himself. He was now destined to walk the earth forever.
* * * * *
Although Ethelbert was over six hundred years old, not including leap years, his graceful body retained the sinewy muscles of a nineteen year old. His shoulders were square and his stomach taut; his hair was full and flowing, and stayed in place with but a judicious daub of rendered hedgehog fat. But henceforth Ethelbert had to be extremely careful; his six hundred year supply of hedgehog pomade was running dangerously low, and he had yet to find an establishment in Stockton that sold hedgehog sundries.
His lithe body was like a coiled spring, full of repressed energy, stronger than tempered steel, quicker than the mortal eye. Given the proper circumstances, he never failed to pounce on doomed, unsuspecting prey, like his blood relative, the murderous yet sympathetic vole.
* * * * *
Etherbert spied his latest conquest - he preferred this to victim - in front of a nightclub called Le Club de Nuit. She was quite attractive even for mortal standards. She paced to and fro, occasionally glancing at her wristwatch, heaving a sigh. Apparently she was waiting for someone. Etherbert's finely-tuned vampiric senses alerted his splendid body; certain parts of his body quivered in anticipation.
"Hello, pussycat," said Ethelbert. "What's cookin'?" When he turned on the charm thus, no mortal woman could resist him.
The young woman turned toward the direction of the beautiful, virile voice. She faintly gasped, overwhelmed by his masculine beauty and by the musky scent of his hedgehog mousse. "Hello yourself, you sweet thing," she replied. After a little small talk, she told Ethelbert she had been stood up, and they should go someplace else. "Some place dark," she suggested.
"You read my mind," Ethelbert replied, displaying evidence of his rapier wit.
* * * * *
There's something different about this one, thought Etherbert. She was far from Etherbert's usual conquest: her hips were narrower, her eyebrows were fuller, and when the light was cast upon her in a certain way, her eyes were golden. Etherbert never felt like this in over six hundred years. Could this be love?
"I have to tell you this, Ethelbert. I can no longer conceal it." With great effort she tore herself away from his manly embrace. She took a deep breath, shook her plentiful tresses, and said, "I'm a werewolf."
* * * * *
Ethelbert loved the big, sprawling, hectic, dynamic city at night. Even on a night like tonight, with the full moon obscured by the clouds, and the sky looking like an oyster stew, the vast city seem to shimmer. Yes, thought Ethelbert, there's no other metropolis in the world quite like Stockton.
* * * * *
Practically six hundred years to the day, Ethelbert's life changed forever, literally, after he was bitten by a vampire vole. Made drowsy by the summer sun, Ethelbert decided to rest in the shade of a sprawling elm; when he awoke, he discovered a vampire vole feasting on his delicious royal blood. He batted the accursed creature away, but the evil deed had been done: Ethelbert Mortimer Cloddington de Blessings, beloved heir and only legitimate child to the rakish Count de Blessings, became a vampire himself. He was now destined to walk the earth forever.
* * * * *
Although Ethelbert was over six hundred years old, not including leap years, his graceful body retained the sinewy muscles of a nineteen year old. His shoulders were square and his stomach taut; his hair was full and flowing, and stayed in place with but a judicious daub of rendered hedgehog fat. But henceforth Ethelbert had to be extremely careful; his six hundred year supply of hedgehog pomade was running dangerously low, and he had yet to find an establishment in Stockton that sold hedgehog sundries.
His lithe body was like a coiled spring, full of repressed energy, stronger than tempered steel, quicker than the mortal eye. Given the proper circumstances, he never failed to pounce on doomed, unsuspecting prey, like his blood relative, the murderous yet sympathetic vole.
* * * * *
Etherbert spied his latest conquest - he preferred this to victim - in front of a nightclub called Le Club de Nuit. She was quite attractive even for mortal standards. She paced to and fro, occasionally glancing at her wristwatch, heaving a sigh. Apparently she was waiting for someone. Etherbert's finely-tuned vampiric senses alerted his splendid body; certain parts of his body quivered in anticipation.
"Hello, pussycat," said Ethelbert. "What's cookin'?" When he turned on the charm thus, no mortal woman could resist him.
The young woman turned toward the direction of the beautiful, virile voice. She faintly gasped, overwhelmed by his masculine beauty and by the musky scent of his hedgehog mousse. "Hello yourself, you sweet thing," she replied. After a little small talk, she told Ethelbert she had been stood up, and they should go someplace else. "Some place dark," she suggested.
"You read my mind," Ethelbert replied, displaying evidence of his rapier wit.
* * * * *
There's something different about this one, thought Etherbert. She was far from Etherbert's usual conquest: her hips were narrower, her eyebrows were fuller, and when the light was cast upon her in a certain way, her eyes were golden. Etherbert never felt like this in over six hundred years. Could this be love?
"I have to tell you this, Ethelbert. I can no longer conceal it." With great effort she tore herself away from his manly embrace. She took a deep breath, shook her plentiful tresses, and said, "I'm a werewolf."
* * * * *
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| Cunning and lethal vampire vole, ready to pounce. |
Friday, December 6, 2013
Guest Review: Skyfall
My therapist suggests random acts of kindness might help drowning out the voices. So here's a review of Skyfall written by my twelve-year old nephew Nimrod, who prefers being called "Stinky":
My mom usually doesn't let me watch grown up-type movies, but she said it would be okay if I watched Skyfall with her, so long as I kept my trap shut and didn't make any noise while someone named Daniel Craig was on the screen. Turns out Daniel Craig is this old English guy who takes off his shirt a lot, which is kinda gross, and every time he appeared my mom's legs would get all twitchy, and she'd make little noises like she was eating ice cream.
This is one super-awesome movie. Lots of explosions, and crashes, and fighting on top of speeding trains. A subway falls through a tunnel. Awesome. Lots of shooting, too, which was sometimes confusing, but that made it even more awsomer. Anything fast is good, that's my motto.
So there's this secret agent named James Bond, who's looking for another secret agent who's evil and wants to blow up the world, or something. But the question I have is, if James Bond is a secret agent, why does he keep telling people his real name? "Bond. James Bond," he says. Duh. If I were a secret agent, I'd make up a fake name. But that's okay, since he doesn't do much talking, he mostly shoots a lot of people and awesomely blows things up.
There was so much of James Bond falling in water that I thought it should have been called Waterfall. Turns out that Skyfall is the name of the place where James Bond grew up as a child, much like Gone With the Wind is the name of the plantation where Scarlett O'Hara lived.
Like I said, most of the movie is really awesome, but parts of it are kinda gross, like when James Bond takes a shower with a woman, or lets another woman shave him, practically in the dark. I mean, if you're going to let someone shave you, at least turn on the lights. Stupid.
The cast, quoting from memory, includes Craig Daniels, Judi Stench, and Javier Badass. Then there's this really, really old guy, older than James Bond even, my mom said used to be a real actor. Albert Findley, I think she said.
So even with the gross parts, I recommend this movie. Lots of action, and a good story, too. It's like it was made just for me. I just hope this isn't the only James Bond movie they make. I hope they make more.
 |
| Nimrod, aka "Stinky" |
My mom usually doesn't let me watch grown up-type movies, but she said it would be okay if I watched Skyfall with her, so long as I kept my trap shut and didn't make any noise while someone named Daniel Craig was on the screen. Turns out Daniel Craig is this old English guy who takes off his shirt a lot, which is kinda gross, and every time he appeared my mom's legs would get all twitchy, and she'd make little noises like she was eating ice cream.
This is one super-awesome movie. Lots of explosions, and crashes, and fighting on top of speeding trains. A subway falls through a tunnel. Awesome. Lots of shooting, too, which was sometimes confusing, but that made it even more awsomer. Anything fast is good, that's my motto.
So there's this secret agent named James Bond, who's looking for another secret agent who's evil and wants to blow up the world, or something. But the question I have is, if James Bond is a secret agent, why does he keep telling people his real name? "Bond. James Bond," he says. Duh. If I were a secret agent, I'd make up a fake name. But that's okay, since he doesn't do much talking, he mostly shoots a lot of people and awesomely blows things up.
There was so much of James Bond falling in water that I thought it should have been called Waterfall. Turns out that Skyfall is the name of the place where James Bond grew up as a child, much like Gone With the Wind is the name of the plantation where Scarlett O'Hara lived.
Like I said, most of the movie is really awesome, but parts of it are kinda gross, like when James Bond takes a shower with a woman, or lets another woman shave him, practically in the dark. I mean, if you're going to let someone shave you, at least turn on the lights. Stupid.
The cast, quoting from memory, includes Craig Daniels, Judi Stench, and Javier Badass. Then there's this really, really old guy, older than James Bond even, my mom said used to be a real actor. Albert Findley, I think she said.
So even with the gross parts, I recommend this movie. Lots of action, and a good story, too. It's like it was made just for me. I just hope this isn't the only James Bond movie they make. I hope they make more.
Friday, November 22, 2013
Guest Blog
Here's a guest entry from my friend Frank, who, for some reason, prefers to be called Tidley McCobb. Some years ago, Tidley and I were enrolled in the same veterinary classes, until he was expelled for taking "animal husbandry" a little too literally. After a long absence, Tidley resurfaced, and his doctors now assure me he's doing quite well, and I'm in no danger as long as I don't make any sudden moves. So without further ado, and with the proper spelling corrections, here is Tidley McCobb's first blog entry, a review for The Count of Monte Cristo:
The Count of Monte Cristo is an adaption of Alexandre Dumas' famous novel, adapted for French television in 1996. It stars the supremely gifted French actor Gerard Depardieu, and is presented in four parts.
I remember the first time I had a monte cristo sandwich. It was in a restaurant in North Olmstead, Ohio, the birthplace of comedian Martin Mull. (I mean North Olmstead is the birthplace, not the restaurant where I had the sandwich.) It was a Friday, and it was raining.
The restaurant offered an all-you-can-eat buffet, but since I arrived after ten pm, the buffet was closed. Sadly disappointed, because I always enjoy a buffet, that lovely symbol of democracy, I decided instead to order a sandwich.
Menus are such a valuable metaphor for life itself. So many choices! I finally decided on a monte cristo sandwich, with turkey, and french fries on the side.
The monte cristo sandwich, with turkey, was good. The french fries, which were crinkle cut, were good, too. I prefer crinkle cut fries to fresh cut fries. Especially when they don't peel the potatoes. All those little eyes staring at me! It was also served with several kinds of jelly on the side. I chose grape jelly instead of strawberry preserves.
Personally, I like jelly more than preserves. I don't care for preserves. I don't like eating seeds. It's like I'm consuming potential life, and that makes me sad with the knowledge of an unjust existence. And the seeds get stuck under my bridge.
It continued raining while I ate my sandwich, with turkey. ( I mean the sandwich had turkey on it, not that it was raining turkey.) Suddenly I realized I had synchronized my chewing with the rhythmic dripping of a distant gutter. How strange, and yet, how not. I thought, we are all but cogs, a conduit, an ephemeral whisper on the gossamer wings of a butterfly, and I remembered reading that monte cristos were usually made with ham instead of turkey. Just one of the impenetrable mysteries of an indefatigable cosmos.
The Count of Monte Cristo was boring. I stopped watching after ten minutes.
The Count of Monte Cristo is an adaption of Alexandre Dumas' famous novel, adapted for French television in 1996. It stars the supremely gifted French actor Gerard Depardieu, and is presented in four parts.
I remember the first time I had a monte cristo sandwich. It was in a restaurant in North Olmstead, Ohio, the birthplace of comedian Martin Mull. (I mean North Olmstead is the birthplace, not the restaurant where I had the sandwich.) It was a Friday, and it was raining.
The restaurant offered an all-you-can-eat buffet, but since I arrived after ten pm, the buffet was closed. Sadly disappointed, because I always enjoy a buffet, that lovely symbol of democracy, I decided instead to order a sandwich.
Menus are such a valuable metaphor for life itself. So many choices! I finally decided on a monte cristo sandwich, with turkey, and french fries on the side.
The monte cristo sandwich, with turkey, was good. The french fries, which were crinkle cut, were good, too. I prefer crinkle cut fries to fresh cut fries. Especially when they don't peel the potatoes. All those little eyes staring at me! It was also served with several kinds of jelly on the side. I chose grape jelly instead of strawberry preserves.
Personally, I like jelly more than preserves. I don't care for preserves. I don't like eating seeds. It's like I'm consuming potential life, and that makes me sad with the knowledge of an unjust existence. And the seeds get stuck under my bridge.
It continued raining while I ate my sandwich, with turkey. ( I mean the sandwich had turkey on it, not that it was raining turkey.) Suddenly I realized I had synchronized my chewing with the rhythmic dripping of a distant gutter. How strange, and yet, how not. I thought, we are all but cogs, a conduit, an ephemeral whisper on the gossamer wings of a butterfly, and I remembered reading that monte cristos were usually made with ham instead of turkey. Just one of the impenetrable mysteries of an indefatigable cosmos.
The Count of Monte Cristo was boring. I stopped watching after ten minutes.
Wednesday, November 20, 2013
From Hunger
Every now and then, just to prove what a hep cat I am, and to see what passes for entertainment these days, I'll check out a fairly contemporary movie. This decade I chose The Hunger Games, thinking if there's something out there that can pierce my cultural semi-consciousness, perhaps it may be worthwhile.
First of all, and about the nicest thing I can say, it's a very shrewd property. If you target a very young audience, you can pretty much steal, I mean borrow, from anything you like. What fourteen-year old is going to know the difference? How many adolescents are going to ask the questions I asked: From which movies does it crib? Which novels does it remind you of? Did I turn off the iron?
Everything is so familiar, and all the whiskered tropes are checked off: Dystopian future? Yep. Oppressive Big Brother government? Natch. Technology used for evil? You bet. Enslaved but noble proletariat? Sure. A future that looks like the Industrial Revolution on a sad day? In spades. A human hunt to the death? Gotcha. Donald Sutherland? No surprise.
Not every action film has to be 85 minutes long, but it sure helps to keep my ass from getting itchy. The Hunger Games clocks in at a whopping 135 minutes. I could have watched two Bowery Boys and several Tom and Jerrys in the same amount of time. Or I could have easily chopped off thirty minutes, without harming the continuity and improved the pace. For example, do we really need a hallucinogenic flashback in the middle of an action sequence? As John Candy of SCTV once said, "John Ford would have put a bullet through their heads!"
Using so much hand-held stuff may have been clever forty years ago, but now it's just stylistically lazy, pointless, and ugly. For example, there's a static shot of a sign on a barbed-wire fence that needlessly shakes and a close combat rasslin' scene where it's impossible to tell what's happening. Fortunately, since there's never any doubt as to who's going to survive, it doesn't make much difference.
And since there's no serious political point of view, only a mess of predictable plot points cobbled together, we have no idea where it takes place. (Unless it was mentioned while I was taking a much-deserved snooze, I beg your pardon.) And it doesn't seem to matter; just The Future will do. At first I thought it may have been a future America, since every filthy prole hovel sported a big-screen TV; but then they featured a luxury high-speed railway system, so I knew it wasn't a future America.
Maybe it's Canada. After all, everyone carries a knife and eats wild game and berries to survive, and Donald Sutherland is their leader.
First of all, and about the nicest thing I can say, it's a very shrewd property. If you target a very young audience, you can pretty much steal, I mean borrow, from anything you like. What fourteen-year old is going to know the difference? How many adolescents are going to ask the questions I asked: From which movies does it crib? Which novels does it remind you of? Did I turn off the iron?
Everything is so familiar, and all the whiskered tropes are checked off: Dystopian future? Yep. Oppressive Big Brother government? Natch. Technology used for evil? You bet. Enslaved but noble proletariat? Sure. A future that looks like the Industrial Revolution on a sad day? In spades. A human hunt to the death? Gotcha. Donald Sutherland? No surprise.
Not every action film has to be 85 minutes long, but it sure helps to keep my ass from getting itchy. The Hunger Games clocks in at a whopping 135 minutes. I could have watched two Bowery Boys and several Tom and Jerrys in the same amount of time. Or I could have easily chopped off thirty minutes, without harming the continuity and improved the pace. For example, do we really need a hallucinogenic flashback in the middle of an action sequence? As John Candy of SCTV once said, "John Ford would have put a bullet through their heads!"
Using so much hand-held stuff may have been clever forty years ago, but now it's just stylistically lazy, pointless, and ugly. For example, there's a static shot of a sign on a barbed-wire fence that needlessly shakes and a close combat rasslin' scene where it's impossible to tell what's happening. Fortunately, since there's never any doubt as to who's going to survive, it doesn't make much difference.
And since there's no serious political point of view, only a mess of predictable plot points cobbled together, we have no idea where it takes place. (Unless it was mentioned while I was taking a much-deserved snooze, I beg your pardon.) And it doesn't seem to matter; just The Future will do. At first I thought it may have been a future America, since every filthy prole hovel sported a big-screen TV; but then they featured a luxury high-speed railway system, so I knew it wasn't a future America.
Maybe it's Canada. After all, everyone carries a knife and eats wild game and berries to survive, and Donald Sutherland is their leader.
Monday, November 18, 2013
What's Up? Docs.
Whenever I've had my fill of something stylistically dense or complicated, like Henry James or Jungle Jim, I like to relax, supply myself with cheese doodles and NyQuil, put my brain on cruise-control, and fire up a streaming documentary on the television machine. Here's a few random titles, some of which I've actually watched:
Salinger. Everyone's favorite overrated, reclusive, and creepy author. Have to say I've never been impressed with anything he's written. Perhaps I should re-read Catcher In the Rye, but I'm afraid it may make me want to assassinate someone. Again.
Ray Harryhausen: Special Effect Titan. Loving tribute to the master of stop-motion animation. Nothing new here, but essential viewing for anyone interested in film history.
Kingdom of Shadows. More documented film history goodness, this one covering the beginnings of the horror movie. A must-see for Rod Steiger's jaw-droppingly wacky rendition of Bret Wood's pretentious narration.
Tar Creek. Absolutely shameful story of the human and ecological destruction caused by Oklahoma mining.
Who Is Harry Nilsson (And Why is Everyone Talkin' About Him?) Rise and fall of Harry Nillson, generally considered one of rock music's greatest voices. Granted, a very short list. Years after his death, many are still moved by their memories of Nillson: singer, songwriter, damaged child, poor husband, lousy father, and extraordinary party dude.
Not so many fond memories of Lew Wasserman in The Last Mogul: The Life and Times of Lew Wasserman. Except for Suzanne Pleshette, no one was moved to tears recalling the spectacular demise of this Hollywood powerhouse. Some may have been just a wee bit gleeful. However, since he was from Cleveland, I'm obligated to like the unrivaled ruthlessness and prickiness of the guy.
Salinger. Everyone's favorite overrated, reclusive, and creepy author. Have to say I've never been impressed with anything he's written. Perhaps I should re-read Catcher In the Rye, but I'm afraid it may make me want to assassinate someone. Again.
Ray Harryhausen: Special Effect Titan. Loving tribute to the master of stop-motion animation. Nothing new here, but essential viewing for anyone interested in film history.
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| Cool drawing by Ray Harryhausen |
Kingdom of Shadows. More documented film history goodness, this one covering the beginnings of the horror movie. A must-see for Rod Steiger's jaw-droppingly wacky rendition of Bret Wood's pretentious narration.
Tar Creek. Absolutely shameful story of the human and ecological destruction caused by Oklahoma mining.
Who Is Harry Nilsson (And Why is Everyone Talkin' About Him?) Rise and fall of Harry Nillson, generally considered one of rock music's greatest voices. Granted, a very short list. Years after his death, many are still moved by their memories of Nillson: singer, songwriter, damaged child, poor husband, lousy father, and extraordinary party dude.
Not so many fond memories of Lew Wasserman in The Last Mogul: The Life and Times of Lew Wasserman. Except for Suzanne Pleshette, no one was moved to tears recalling the spectacular demise of this Hollywood powerhouse. Some may have been just a wee bit gleeful. However, since he was from Cleveland, I'm obligated to like the unrivaled ruthlessness and prickiness of the guy.
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| Me and my Arrow |
Friday, November 15, 2013
Good Advice?
A writer friend of mine, who is working on a novel, asked if she should include dialogue in an action sequence. Of course there are many possible answers, ranging from "yes" to "no". After careful and extensive deliberation lasting nearly a minute, and unless I change my mind, I feel as if I have to respond by saying, "No." Here's why:
I don't recall any dialogue included in the action scenes of literary titans such as Melville, Hugo, or Sidney Sheldon. If you happen to find any evidence to the contrary, just keep your lip buttoned. And from my own personal writing experience, in that towering historical opus, Samovar of Destiny, there's no dialogue in the riveting scene where Jesus and his disciple Larry are being pursued by a pack of ravenous brontosaurus. I felt that using dialogue would have strained credibility.
I don't recall any dialogue included in the action scenes of literary titans such as Melville, Hugo, or Sidney Sheldon. If you happen to find any evidence to the contrary, just keep your lip buttoned. And from my own personal writing experience, in that towering historical opus, Samovar of Destiny, there's no dialogue in the riveting scene where Jesus and his disciple Larry are being pursued by a pack of ravenous brontosaurus. I felt that using dialogue would have strained credibility.
Saturday, November 9, 2013
Return of Slapdash Reviews
More Slapdash Reviews, for those who are easily distracted by shiny things.
Svengali (1931): Fine comic performance by John Barrymore, but I think he neglected telling anyone else this was a comedy.
The evil eye of John Barrymore
Rhodes of Africa (1935): The movie that answers the question, "Mum, why is Rhodesia called Rhodesia?" Not the version of Cecil Rhodes' life I would have made, but then I'm not a warmongering, pro-colonialist, racially superior Brit.
Victory (1996): Deadly dull adaption of Joseph Conrad's masterpiece, with the delectable Irene Jacob and the not-so-delectable Willem Defoe. If anyone out there makes it to the end, please tell me how it turns out.
The Hindenburg (1975): Not even George C. Scott can elevate this essentially trashy adventure. A couple of nice set pieces, but not enough to justify the 125 minute length.
Agora (2009): Oppressive, destructive, ignorant, and murderous Christians in fourth century Alexandria set back civilization a thousand years. With Rachel Weisz as the brilliant philosopher Hypatia, who asks questions like, "Is the earth the center of the solar system?", "Why does the sun seem to change size?", and "Where is my idiot slave?" The epic scenes of destruction are very well done, the intimate scenes of celestial discovery, not so much.
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Svengali (1931): Fine comic performance by John Barrymore, but I think he neglected telling anyone else this was a comedy.
Rhodes of Africa (1935): The movie that answers the question, "Mum, why is Rhodesia called Rhodesia?" Not the version of Cecil Rhodes' life I would have made, but then I'm not a warmongering, pro-colonialist, racially superior Brit.
Victory (1996): Deadly dull adaption of Joseph Conrad's masterpiece, with the delectable Irene Jacob and the not-so-delectable Willem Defoe. If anyone out there makes it to the end, please tell me how it turns out.
The Hindenburg (1975): Not even George C. Scott can elevate this essentially trashy adventure. A couple of nice set pieces, but not enough to justify the 125 minute length.
Agora (2009): Oppressive, destructive, ignorant, and murderous Christians in fourth century Alexandria set back civilization a thousand years. With Rachel Weisz as the brilliant philosopher Hypatia, who asks questions like, "Is the earth the center of the solar system?", "Why does the sun seem to change size?", and "Where is my idiot slave?" The epic scenes of destruction are very well done, the intimate scenes of celestial discovery, not so much.
4th century philosopher Hypatia, a visual approximation
For a Limited Time Only
For those of you with a spare hour and an interest in Jim Reeves, and I know there are millions of you out there, you might want to go to this tribute to Jim Reeves on BBC2 radio.
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Slapdash Reviews with a Common Theme Edition
In Which We Serve: Noel Coward as a happily married family man with two children. Strains credulity.
Hombre: Paul Newman stars and strains credulity as a cool, modern, wiseacre half-breed Apache in the not-so-modern wild west. Martin Balsam as a Mexican doesn't help. Fortunately, Richard Boone is around to add authenticity.
The Mountain: Spencer Tracy and Robert Wagner as European mountain climbing brothers. Credulity strained? You bet. Or as they say in the French Alps, mais oui.
The Astonished Heart: Noel Coward as a raging heterosexualist who behaves perfectly beastly while awakening the animal passions of Celia Johnson and Margret Leighton. The credulity is frightfully strained. Frightfully.
Hombre: Paul Newman stars and strains credulity as a cool, modern, wiseacre half-breed Apache in the not-so-modern wild west. Martin Balsam as a Mexican doesn't help. Fortunately, Richard Boone is around to add authenticity. The Mountain: Spencer Tracy and Robert Wagner as European mountain climbing brothers. Credulity strained? You bet. Or as they say in the French Alps, mais oui.
Sunday, April 1, 2012
More Needles In My Eyeballs: The Sequel: May I Have Some More, Please?
There I was, not as happy as a clam or any other mollusk, going to my opthomologist for another treatment of Avastin, the wonder drug that's injected directly into one's eyeballs with only a local anesthetic. What could possibly go wrong?
So, after waiting in the waiting room, so called, I believe, because one waits there, I was leisurely herded into another waiting room, where I waited some more. I sat directly opposite a man who looked like an unwashed Willie Nelson (redundant?), talking with an authority only the truly ignorant can muster. "I check my numbers at least twice a day," he said, "and if I have to manually adjust the islands on my pancreas, I will." I nodded my head as if I understood what the hell he was talking about.
I was called into The Room of Eyeball Torture by a doctor different from the one I saw the previous month. I don't mean to sound sexist, Dear Reader (I say "Dear Reader", because as far as I know, I only have one reader), but she was pretty as a picture. Now, beauty can be off-putting, but prettiness can be comforting, so perhaps I was led into a false sense of security. Who knows? I'm not a philosopher.
She appeared to be in her late twenties, she had long, straight, dark hair that was tied back into a pony tail, a porcelain complexion, green eyes, and very white teeth. I sat in the Big Blue Chair of Agony, without a care. Then.
She sat in front of her computer, legs crossed, and twisted around to ask several pertinent questions. She had a faint, charming accent, which I narrowed down to Middle Europe or Hershey, Pennsylvania. She typed on her computer keyboard with amazing alacrity, her lovely, slender fingers practically a blur, the rapid clicking of the keys a testament to her competence. Her bare heel poked out of her flat-heel shoe. Oh, my.
She asked me to read an eye chart, and concluded that my eyesight had improved, especially the left eye. She wheeled around the big opthocomdetriculator, I think it's called, to look deep inside my eyeballs. She told me to look straight ahead, but I was too embarrassed to look into her lovely green eyes, so I focused on her pearl pendant earring.
She dilated my pupils so pictures of my retinas could be taken. Then, when my eyes were nice and numb and runny, she ushered me into the waiting room.
Unclean Willie Nelson was still there. "I always go barefooted, even in January," he said, to no one in particular. "The elastic in the socks cuts off the circulation in my calfs." Sure enough, he was wearing flip-flops, and thankful for small mercies, I was grateful, because of my blurry vision, I couldn't see his gnarly toes.
Next, pics were taken of my retinas. It was like the world's cheapest laser show. Then more waiting.
After just a few minutes, Dr. Dreama invited me into the Big Pleather Chair of Pain. Another doctor was with her, kibitzing. "Your eyes have improved, Mr. Simons," the other doctor said (how can people mispronounce a name as simple as mine?), "but we'll need another treatment of Avastin."
"No problem," says I. If I had any muscles, I would have flexed them. "Lookin' forward to it." Then the other doctor left.
I told her about my last horrible experience, and asked for plenty of anesthetic. "Certainly," she said, in her delightful accent. Sarajevo? Milwaukee? She buttered up my peepers with a topical, very lovingly and competently, I thought, then injected anesthetic into my eyes with a tiny needle. Then Q-Tips, or whatever the generic ones are called, were coated with more topical anesthetic, and placed inside my eyelids. I was asked to keep my eyes closed. "We will wait a long time, so that you will not experience any pain. Or very little. Of course, there will be a little pressure."
After a few minutes, she was sure that my eyes were numb enough. One way to find out, I thought to myself. It was blurry, but I could see the little syringe approaching my right eye. She steadied her hand, and suddenly the slenderness of her fingers didn't seen so important. Then an unbearable shot of pain as the needle pierced my eyeball. I don't know if you've ever had a needle pierce your eyeball, but there's only one way to explain how it feels: it's like a needle piercing your eyeball.
I'm not sure if I screamed like a little girl, but I know I jumped. "You felt that," she said. I don't know if she asked it or declared it, but either was fairly obvious. "Oh, yeah," was my equally obvious response.
More anesthetic, more time to let it sink in, another attempt at my right eye. My body stiffened, and not in a good way. I clutched the arms of The Big Blue Seat of Torment. I stopped breathing. Perhaps I imagined her hand shaking just a bit. More intense pain; I jumped. "Please try not to jump," she said, in an accent that now didn't sound quite so charming "Okay," I said. "Let's try again," she said. "Okay," I said, bracing myself. Then a tiny little thought flitted across my brain: has she ever done this before? More intense pain. I jumped, and this time I know I said Ow! out loud. "Please," she said, "we almost had it that time. But every time you jump, the needle pops out. Try not to jump."
"Sorry", I said, "but it hurts."
Now, there are two things wrong here: I allowed her to try again, the third time, without more anesthetic, and then I apologized for jumping.
More topical and local anesthetics, more Q-tips, I'm not quite sure. I stopped taking mental notes. But after she returned, the injections went off without much of a hitch; just some discomfort and a good deal of pressure.
I'm scheduled for another treatment in a month, depending on how my eyes respond to the treatment. But the way I feel now, I think I'd rather have blurry vision and the possibility of going blind than go through that again. On the other hand, she had a very pretty heel.
So, after waiting in the waiting room, so called, I believe, because one waits there, I was leisurely herded into another waiting room, where I waited some more. I sat directly opposite a man who looked like an unwashed Willie Nelson (redundant?), talking with an authority only the truly ignorant can muster. "I check my numbers at least twice a day," he said, "and if I have to manually adjust the islands on my pancreas, I will." I nodded my head as if I understood what the hell he was talking about.
I was called into The Room of Eyeball Torture by a doctor different from the one I saw the previous month. I don't mean to sound sexist, Dear Reader (I say "Dear Reader", because as far as I know, I only have one reader), but she was pretty as a picture. Now, beauty can be off-putting, but prettiness can be comforting, so perhaps I was led into a false sense of security. Who knows? I'm not a philosopher.
She appeared to be in her late twenties, she had long, straight, dark hair that was tied back into a pony tail, a porcelain complexion, green eyes, and very white teeth. I sat in the Big Blue Chair of Agony, without a care. Then.
She sat in front of her computer, legs crossed, and twisted around to ask several pertinent questions. She had a faint, charming accent, which I narrowed down to Middle Europe or Hershey, Pennsylvania. She typed on her computer keyboard with amazing alacrity, her lovely, slender fingers practically a blur, the rapid clicking of the keys a testament to her competence. Her bare heel poked out of her flat-heel shoe. Oh, my.
She asked me to read an eye chart, and concluded that my eyesight had improved, especially the left eye. She wheeled around the big opthocomdetriculator, I think it's called, to look deep inside my eyeballs. She told me to look straight ahead, but I was too embarrassed to look into her lovely green eyes, so I focused on her pearl pendant earring.
She dilated my pupils so pictures of my retinas could be taken. Then, when my eyes were nice and numb and runny, she ushered me into the waiting room.
Unclean Willie Nelson was still there. "I always go barefooted, even in January," he said, to no one in particular. "The elastic in the socks cuts off the circulation in my calfs." Sure enough, he was wearing flip-flops, and thankful for small mercies, I was grateful, because of my blurry vision, I couldn't see his gnarly toes.
Next, pics were taken of my retinas. It was like the world's cheapest laser show. Then more waiting.
After just a few minutes, Dr. Dreama invited me into the Big Pleather Chair of Pain. Another doctor was with her, kibitzing. "Your eyes have improved, Mr. Simons," the other doctor said (how can people mispronounce a name as simple as mine?), "but we'll need another treatment of Avastin."
"No problem," says I. If I had any muscles, I would have flexed them. "Lookin' forward to it." Then the other doctor left.
I told her about my last horrible experience, and asked for plenty of anesthetic. "Certainly," she said, in her delightful accent. Sarajevo? Milwaukee? She buttered up my peepers with a topical, very lovingly and competently, I thought, then injected anesthetic into my eyes with a tiny needle. Then Q-Tips, or whatever the generic ones are called, were coated with more topical anesthetic, and placed inside my eyelids. I was asked to keep my eyes closed. "We will wait a long time, so that you will not experience any pain. Or very little. Of course, there will be a little pressure."
After a few minutes, she was sure that my eyes were numb enough. One way to find out, I thought to myself. It was blurry, but I could see the little syringe approaching my right eye. She steadied her hand, and suddenly the slenderness of her fingers didn't seen so important. Then an unbearable shot of pain as the needle pierced my eyeball. I don't know if you've ever had a needle pierce your eyeball, but there's only one way to explain how it feels: it's like a needle piercing your eyeball.
I'm not sure if I screamed like a little girl, but I know I jumped. "You felt that," she said. I don't know if she asked it or declared it, but either was fairly obvious. "Oh, yeah," was my equally obvious response.
More anesthetic, more time to let it sink in, another attempt at my right eye. My body stiffened, and not in a good way. I clutched the arms of The Big Blue Seat of Torment. I stopped breathing. Perhaps I imagined her hand shaking just a bit. More intense pain; I jumped. "Please try not to jump," she said, in an accent that now didn't sound quite so charming "Okay," I said. "Let's try again," she said. "Okay," I said, bracing myself. Then a tiny little thought flitted across my brain: has she ever done this before? More intense pain. I jumped, and this time I know I said Ow! out loud. "Please," she said, "we almost had it that time. But every time you jump, the needle pops out. Try not to jump."
"Sorry", I said, "but it hurts."
Now, there are two things wrong here: I allowed her to try again, the third time, without more anesthetic, and then I apologized for jumping.
More topical and local anesthetics, more Q-tips, I'm not quite sure. I stopped taking mental notes. But after she returned, the injections went off without much of a hitch; just some discomfort and a good deal of pressure.
I'm scheduled for another treatment in a month, depending on how my eyes respond to the treatment. But the way I feel now, I think I'd rather have blurry vision and the possibility of going blind than go through that again. On the other hand, she had a very pretty heel.
Thursday, March 29, 2012
More Slapdash Reviews
Busting. Elliott Gould and Robert Blake mugging it up, with Allen Garfield a breath of fresh air. Takes place in 1974, when making fun of fags was funny.
The Choirboys. More fag hilarity, but at least Burt Young has some compassion: "Kid, how long have you had this problem?" In spite of the broad, sophomoric, unfunny humor, there is an almost redeeming wafting scent of dread and disaster, like the pervasive smell of farts and vomit at one of the choir practices.
Red Riding Hood Trilogy: Part One: 1974. Most colons ever in a movie title? "Based" on an actual serial killing, the hero wears tighty-whities, smokes filtered cigarettes (unlike a real man), gets beat up a lot, and mumbles so badly I had to turn on the subtitles. Ugly stuff, and not in a good way.
Cry Danger. Wisecracking ex-con and Jim Reeves look-a-like Dick Powell goes gunning for the mugs who sent him up the river on a bum rap. Directed by Robert Parrish and photogged by Joe Biroc. With Rhonda Fleming, and boy, what I'd like to do to her.
The Geisha Boy. From the first shot, we know we're in Frank Tashlin territory: an overhead shot that looks right down Marie McDonald's cleavage as she exits a plane. Lots of funny stuff, plenty of tit gags, and Jerry's pretty much kept in control, so that he almost seems like a real person. But the final third is so cloying that I have to believe it came from Lewis's brain. Is there anything else like it in movies Tashlin directed without Lewis? I wonder if Tashlin originally conceived it as an American/Japanese romance, and Lewis added the horribly sentimental stuff with the kid. I'd prefer blaming Jer, not Tash.
The Choirboys. More fag hilarity, but at least Burt Young has some compassion: "Kid, how long have you had this problem?" In spite of the broad, sophomoric, unfunny humor, there is an almost redeeming wafting scent of dread and disaster, like the pervasive smell of farts and vomit at one of the choir practices.
Red Riding Hood Trilogy: Part One: 1974. Most colons ever in a movie title? "Based" on an actual serial killing, the hero wears tighty-whities, smokes filtered cigarettes (unlike a real man), gets beat up a lot, and mumbles so badly I had to turn on the subtitles. Ugly stuff, and not in a good way.
Cry Danger. Wisecracking ex-con and Jim Reeves look-a-like Dick Powell goes gunning for the mugs who sent him up the river on a bum rap. Directed by Robert Parrish and photogged by Joe Biroc. With Rhonda Fleming, and boy, what I'd like to do to her.
Machete Maidens Unleashed. The documentary that makes me want to see every movie made in the Philippines from 1968 to 1974. Except for Beyond Atlantis. However, they left the most important question unanswered: why is Philippines spelled with a "P", but Filapino is spelled with an "F"?
The Geisha Boy. From the first shot, we know we're in Frank Tashlin territory: an overhead shot that looks right down Marie McDonald's cleavage as she exits a plane. Lots of funny stuff, plenty of tit gags, and Jerry's pretty much kept in control, so that he almost seems like a real person. But the final third is so cloying that I have to believe it came from Lewis's brain. Is there anything else like it in movies Tashlin directed without Lewis? I wonder if Tashlin originally conceived it as an American/Japanese romance, and Lewis added the horribly sentimental stuff with the kid. I'd prefer blaming Jer, not Tash.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Needles In My Eyeballs.
No. that's not the subtitle to Saw XII; it's what happened to me during my last happy visit to the opthomologist.
There I was, traipsing along to the Eye Clinic, with only one or two cares in the world: slightly blurry vision, and wondering if I should buy the new Laurel and Hardy Collection or wait for the bluray release. So when I sat in the big blue chair in front of the eye chart, I wasn't particularly concerned. Then, after I attempted reading the chart and the doctor asked, "Do you drive?", I knew something was up.
More tests, drops, and pics of my peepers, and my doctor determined I had macular edema. Macular edema, she explained, was swelling in the retina due to leakage from blood vessels. She recommended each eye be injected with Avastin, which she claimed was a new wonder drug.
I had three options: do nothing, but my vision wouldn't improve, and there was the possibility I could go blind; laser surgery, which would stop the leaking blood vessels, but wouldn't reduce the swelling or improve my vision; or the injections, which could likely stop the leakage, reduce the swelling, and improve my vision, provided I didn't contract an infection and go blind. Small chance, my doctor assured me, one in two thousand get infections, but still a risk.
So, being a decisive fellow, with Resolute my middle name (I much prefer it to "Lewis"), I opted for the injections, tout suite. The doc assured me, after a local anesthetic, I'd feel almost nothing. Well, she got that one wrong. It was the most excruciating pain I ever felt. Apparently, the anesthetic didn't take, and I felt the needle entering my left eye full-strength. Oy. All I can say is I never want to go through that again.
There I was, traipsing along to the Eye Clinic, with only one or two cares in the world: slightly blurry vision, and wondering if I should buy the new Laurel and Hardy Collection or wait for the bluray release. So when I sat in the big blue chair in front of the eye chart, I wasn't particularly concerned. Then, after I attempted reading the chart and the doctor asked, "Do you drive?", I knew something was up.
More tests, drops, and pics of my peepers, and my doctor determined I had macular edema. Macular edema, she explained, was swelling in the retina due to leakage from blood vessels. She recommended each eye be injected with Avastin, which she claimed was a new wonder drug.
I had three options: do nothing, but my vision wouldn't improve, and there was the possibility I could go blind; laser surgery, which would stop the leaking blood vessels, but wouldn't reduce the swelling or improve my vision; or the injections, which could likely stop the leakage, reduce the swelling, and improve my vision, provided I didn't contract an infection and go blind. Small chance, my doctor assured me, one in two thousand get infections, but still a risk.
So, being a decisive fellow, with Resolute my middle name (I much prefer it to "Lewis"), I opted for the injections, tout suite. The doc assured me, after a local anesthetic, I'd feel almost nothing. Well, she got that one wrong. It was the most excruciating pain I ever felt. Apparently, the anesthetic didn't take, and I felt the needle entering my left eye full-strength. Oy. All I can say is I never want to go through that again.
In a month, I have two more injections.
Better Living Through Google
I can't say I have more than a cursory understanding of Google's new privacy policy, mostly because whatever happens, it seems that the complete taking over of our private lives is just inevitable, so why worry? But at least Google appears to be fairly transparent about it, in effect saying, "We're tracking all your movements for the purpose of specifically targeting you with ads, making loads of money off you, and storing all this information forever."
Which is fine and dandy with me. If this can alert me to new John Wayne CD releases, groovy. However, when I agreed to add advertisements to my blog, Google insisted that I not ask my readers to click on my ads. I thought this was somewhat, shall we say, inconsistent. But I'm a go along/get along kinda guy, so I'll do as I'm told.
Never mind that my mortgage may go unpaid, the kiddies may need shoes, and I'm a little peckish right now with nothing in the pantry. But if you were thinking about taking those DeVry classes or buying that John Wayne CD anyway.....
Which is fine and dandy with me. If this can alert me to new John Wayne CD releases, groovy. However, when I agreed to add advertisements to my blog, Google insisted that I not ask my readers to click on my ads. I thought this was somewhat, shall we say, inconsistent. But I'm a go along/get along kinda guy, so I'll do as I'm told.
Never mind that my mortgage may go unpaid, the kiddies may need shoes, and I'm a little peckish right now with nothing in the pantry. But if you were thinking about taking those DeVry classes or buying that John Wayne CD anyway.....
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Slapdash Reviews
Deadhead Miles. Hilarious Alan Arkin performance, with his ersatz southern Robert Duvallian voice. Of course the big difference is Duvall's always convinced he's giving a serious performance. Very similar in tone to Terrence Malick's other screenplay, Pocket Money. It just tickled me.
Watch Bobs DeNiro and Duvall try to out-method each other in True Confessions. Count how many times they look off-screen, like Jack Barrymore searching for a cue card. Takes place in 1946, when everything was fuzzy.
Botany Bay. Alan Ladd is unjustly confined on a prison ship to Austrailia, but manages to keep his eyebrows beautifully landscaped. James Mason is a wonderful villain, with moderately butch acting by Jonathan Harris.
Bill Holden is racked with guilt in Submarine Command. Bill Bendix is there to give him the stinkeye.
Threepenny Opera. Germans talking and singing German in Soho. Strains credulity.
Across 110th Street. Dark, lots of swearing and lots of hand-held stuff. Pretty good, pehaps Barry Shear's best movie, but not as compelling as Swingin' at the Summit. Would have been even better with Mitchum or Marvin. Or Lancaster. Or Widmark. Or Holden. or....
The Countess. How could there be a dull movie about a gal bathing in the blood of hundreds of virgins? Godawful.
In Martin and Lewis' last Colgate Comedy Hour, Dino plays a character named "Mr. Crocetti". Jerry does his hilarious Jap portrayal. Hard to believe he's still doing it 20 years later.
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