The world is wet and windy as we sit in the midst of the second of four consecutive storms expected to sweep down out of the Pacific and across the Northwest. CNN, brilliant disseminators of news, report that Northern California is saturated; great news flash...
It's hard to be appreciative of reports of one's reality, though I suppose it's news to those in other climes. I remember envying ground saturation when I sat on my couch above the overflowing sewage in my first apartment that first New Year's Eve I ever spent away from home. I remember wishing for California rain when I sat in the dark without power, heat, or light, snowbound for ten days. I remember envying ground saturation while enduring enforced water conservation during times of drought.
I remember, too, the fine wines that have emerged from previous years of saturation and flooding, though it's hard to be appreciative in the moment when the lemon tree is swimming and the potted chives have floated right out of their container. I remember the beauty of Spring when the buds emerge and the first flowers bloom, thanks to adequate winter hydration, though at the moment all I know is that the banks along the roads were overflowing as I drove home this morning, sure that someone was going to hydroplane before long, hoping that person wouldn't be me. I remember the promise of the rainbow as the sun emerges briefly now, though the debris everywhere tells me that tomorrow and tomorrow's tomorrow will entail some serious cleaning up.
Perhaps that's why we need these midwinter festivities, regardless of what we call them. And so, as I labor under the duress that rare hosting causes me, I will try to be mindful that there may not be many more such opportunities, that this is a time for gathering together good memories, that rain is followed by so many things that I love and cherish, that the trade-offs of opportunities I am missing is worth the moments I am sharing.
Gee, I hope I remember this someday and don't just blow it off as more Pollyanna stuff...
Saturday, December 31, 2005
Friday, December 23, 2005
Flight into Limbo
Flight into Limbo
What a day! What a day!
I’d wisely scheduled a midday flight out of town in order to give Dad some time to recover from his flight to my place. Unfortunately, I’d scheduled the flight on a recently merged airline that still functions as though the merger happened last week instead of six months ago.
We arrived at the airport in good order, having breakfasted in leisurely and ample fashion, only to learn that Dad’s wheelchair access would be unavailable until we’d stood in line and gotten him checked in. The electronic check-in gizmos were, of course, out of order, and the counter workers (behind “Position Closed” signs,) were busily checking in people whose flights were scheduled to depart momentarily. An hour later, however, we were through all lines and comfortably ensconced in chairs nearest the entryway to the nonexistent plane we expected to board within the next thirty minutes.
An hour later we were informed that our flight was delayed because we were awaiting the imminent arrival of the fourth flight attendant, who was expected within the next ten minutes. And it began to rain.
Shortly thereafter two attendants came by to pick up the disabled passengers for an elevator ride down to the tarmac. Evidently we were scheduled to fly in a plane too low to reach the concourse. There were two chairs for three potential riders, so one rider was left behind. That’s nothing; half an hour later we watched from a secured area as the other passengers began to board without us. We’d been forgotten left unattended in a secured area behind encoded doors. Fortunately, someone got worried, reported our presence, and we were taken to the plane.
Now, I understand a mother’s need to care for her child. I understand the impatience and frustration we were all feeling. What I don’t understand was the young thing who felt obligated to circumvent us as we were trying to get Dad onto the boarding ramp, nor do I understand the cursing woman who insisted on dashing out from cover into the rain in order to rush her child onto the plane instead of waiting to let my dad get up out of the wheelchair and onboard. So much for a shared understanding of family values and cultural niceties.
The hour flight took an extra half hour. The landing was smooth enough, but then we waited for an available gate. This would have been acceptable if we hadn’t already been delayed a couple of hours.
Having disembarked, we were once again forced to wait because there was only one wheelchair for two riders. I think we were playing musical wheelchairs…
Finally we got to the baggage claim area where things went uncharacteristically smoothly: about time!
Of course the car rental had released my reservation when I hadn’t shown up on time, so there was more waiting around. What’s the point of Gold membership?
The day was shot. We were all quite irritable and hungry . . . so we began with a buffet. I can only hope we do not go on as we have begun.
Sorry for such a personal post, but I didn’t swear on the plane, and I just gotta vent somewhere sometime some now.
Off to a better day and more high-minded thoughts… yeah, right. ;->
What a day! What a day!
I’d wisely scheduled a midday flight out of town in order to give Dad some time to recover from his flight to my place. Unfortunately, I’d scheduled the flight on a recently merged airline that still functions as though the merger happened last week instead of six months ago.
We arrived at the airport in good order, having breakfasted in leisurely and ample fashion, only to learn that Dad’s wheelchair access would be unavailable until we’d stood in line and gotten him checked in. The electronic check-in gizmos were, of course, out of order, and the counter workers (behind “Position Closed” signs,) were busily checking in people whose flights were scheduled to depart momentarily. An hour later, however, we were through all lines and comfortably ensconced in chairs nearest the entryway to the nonexistent plane we expected to board within the next thirty minutes.
An hour later we were informed that our flight was delayed because we were awaiting the imminent arrival of the fourth flight attendant, who was expected within the next ten minutes. And it began to rain.
Shortly thereafter two attendants came by to pick up the disabled passengers for an elevator ride down to the tarmac. Evidently we were scheduled to fly in a plane too low to reach the concourse. There were two chairs for three potential riders, so one rider was left behind. That’s nothing; half an hour later we watched from a secured area as the other passengers began to board without us. We’d been forgotten left unattended in a secured area behind encoded doors. Fortunately, someone got worried, reported our presence, and we were taken to the plane.
Now, I understand a mother’s need to care for her child. I understand the impatience and frustration we were all feeling. What I don’t understand was the young thing who felt obligated to circumvent us as we were trying to get Dad onto the boarding ramp, nor do I understand the cursing woman who insisted on dashing out from cover into the rain in order to rush her child onto the plane instead of waiting to let my dad get up out of the wheelchair and onboard. So much for a shared understanding of family values and cultural niceties.
The hour flight took an extra half hour. The landing was smooth enough, but then we waited for an available gate. This would have been acceptable if we hadn’t already been delayed a couple of hours.
Having disembarked, we were once again forced to wait because there was only one wheelchair for two riders. I think we were playing musical wheelchairs…
Finally we got to the baggage claim area where things went uncharacteristically smoothly: about time!
Of course the car rental had released my reservation when I hadn’t shown up on time, so there was more waiting around. What’s the point of Gold membership?
The day was shot. We were all quite irritable and hungry . . . so we began with a buffet. I can only hope we do not go on as we have begun.
Sorry for such a personal post, but I didn’t swear on the plane, and I just gotta vent somewhere sometime some now.
Off to a better day and more high-minded thoughts… yeah, right. ;->
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
Out of Touch
I'll be on the road for the next fifteen days, here and there, so posts will be sporadic, depending on connectivity and time.
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
A Time for Every Season
A Time for Every Season
Euthanasia and mercy killing are terms I’ve casually rolled off my tongue in heated debate and callous jest about people and creatures I have not known; today it became much more personal and visceral.
A fellow cat-lover who is also a frequent social acquaintance/friend has become increasingly agitated over the last month as her youngest cat has become increasingly emaciated-looking. A weekend Emergency Room visit revealed that he has been suffering from heart disease and a kidney failure, each complicating the treatment of the other. Yesterday she was warned that his time is near and that treatment is no longer helping, or even relieving his suffering. She wasn’t ready to let him go just then, but overnight she made the hardest decision of her life: the decision to ease his pain and suffering permanently rather than stand by and watch him suffer. (She was equally unwilling to let him crawl off and die alone, as he clearly attempted to do with increasing frequency and decreasing success at eluding her.)
And thus it was that this morning a phone call came with the sad news and the specific time: high noon. We faithful few gathered to lend moral support. Her boss even offered to take off and keep vigil, though that generous offer was ultimately declined.
You who have not taken furry four-footed creatures into your family will not understand this kind of thinking or behavior. Certainly members of our parents’ generation will not understand. For them four-footed creatures are soulless beasts below humanity in the hierarchy of creation. They remember Animal Control wagons and rabies scares, prowling scavengers and marauding beasts kept at bay with firearms and sticks. For those of us who have taken domesticated creatures into our homes and our hearts, however, the sharing of room and board is a more common practice. As such, we mourn the loss of our furry companions as much as, if not more than we would some of our less kind human acquaintances.
Well, as is the nature of such watches, high noon came and went without the arrival of the veterinarian who was to administer the coup de grace. The borrowed time was dearly treasured, as we sat and swapped stories about the beloved lad whose labored breathing we anxiously watched. It would have been easier all around if he had expired on his own, but his was a much stronger heart than body, and he labored on. There were spurts of energy when he mustered the strength to wriggle enough to let it be known that all this maudlin cuddling was not what he desired. There were anxious moments when the toxins building up within his tiny body forced their way up and out, racking his frail frame in the process. There were times when he lay splayed out, his still luxurious tail stretched straight out behind him, as if to show that he was still a long, tall, fine-looking fellow, illness be damned. And then there were the times when he submitted gratefully to being held, curled up in his loving, grieving human’s arms just a little bit longer.
All too soon the vet did show. Dr. Cora, willing to make this final sorrowful house call so that Marco would not have to be hauled ignominiously into the office once more, was clearly an experienced professional. She said all those proper noises one makes in the face of death, but above all else she was efficient and expeditious. A few words of preparation, the buzz of the electric shaver to bare his leg for the final injection, a snip or two extra for a final souvenir (for the human), a sedative, a final shot, a couple of minutes, and it was over.
Marco Polo Chidmat, 9 years of age, died at 1:16 p.m., PST. He is survived by his sole littermate, Buster Brown, and his maternal aunt, Lolita. Where his mother is no one knows, though she was only one at the time of his birth, the feline equivalent of a pregnant teen. He was a great little guy.
May he Rest In Peace.
12/20/05
Euthanasia and mercy killing are terms I’ve casually rolled off my tongue in heated debate and callous jest about people and creatures I have not known; today it became much more personal and visceral.
A fellow cat-lover who is also a frequent social acquaintance/friend has become increasingly agitated over the last month as her youngest cat has become increasingly emaciated-looking. A weekend Emergency Room visit revealed that he has been suffering from heart disease and a kidney failure, each complicating the treatment of the other. Yesterday she was warned that his time is near and that treatment is no longer helping, or even relieving his suffering. She wasn’t ready to let him go just then, but overnight she made the hardest decision of her life: the decision to ease his pain and suffering permanently rather than stand by and watch him suffer. (She was equally unwilling to let him crawl off and die alone, as he clearly attempted to do with increasing frequency and decreasing success at eluding her.)
And thus it was that this morning a phone call came with the sad news and the specific time: high noon. We faithful few gathered to lend moral support. Her boss even offered to take off and keep vigil, though that generous offer was ultimately declined.
You who have not taken furry four-footed creatures into your family will not understand this kind of thinking or behavior. Certainly members of our parents’ generation will not understand. For them four-footed creatures are soulless beasts below humanity in the hierarchy of creation. They remember Animal Control wagons and rabies scares, prowling scavengers and marauding beasts kept at bay with firearms and sticks. For those of us who have taken domesticated creatures into our homes and our hearts, however, the sharing of room and board is a more common practice. As such, we mourn the loss of our furry companions as much as, if not more than we would some of our less kind human acquaintances.
Well, as is the nature of such watches, high noon came and went without the arrival of the veterinarian who was to administer the coup de grace. The borrowed time was dearly treasured, as we sat and swapped stories about the beloved lad whose labored breathing we anxiously watched. It would have been easier all around if he had expired on his own, but his was a much stronger heart than body, and he labored on. There were spurts of energy when he mustered the strength to wriggle enough to let it be known that all this maudlin cuddling was not what he desired. There were anxious moments when the toxins building up within his tiny body forced their way up and out, racking his frail frame in the process. There were times when he lay splayed out, his still luxurious tail stretched straight out behind him, as if to show that he was still a long, tall, fine-looking fellow, illness be damned. And then there were the times when he submitted gratefully to being held, curled up in his loving, grieving human’s arms just a little bit longer.
All too soon the vet did show. Dr. Cora, willing to make this final sorrowful house call so that Marco would not have to be hauled ignominiously into the office once more, was clearly an experienced professional. She said all those proper noises one makes in the face of death, but above all else she was efficient and expeditious. A few words of preparation, the buzz of the electric shaver to bare his leg for the final injection, a snip or two extra for a final souvenir (for the human), a sedative, a final shot, a couple of minutes, and it was over.
Marco Polo Chidmat, 9 years of age, died at 1:16 p.m., PST. He is survived by his sole littermate, Buster Brown, and his maternal aunt, Lolita. Where his mother is no one knows, though she was only one at the time of his birth, the feline equivalent of a pregnant teen. He was a great little guy.
May he Rest In Peace.
12/20/05
Sunday, December 18, 2005
A Curious Pairing of
A Curious Pairing of Films
I have seen Peter Jackson’s remake of the King Kong tale, and I have come to the conclusion that it is essentially the same narrative as that of Brokeback Mountain: a strong silent fellow spends an idyllic moment in time with a feisty object of his affection, but there is no hope for them in the so-called “real world” of human civilization. One of the two lovers is hounded to death by intolerant representatives of mainstream society in the name of defense of the species, while the other is left to make do with what is left of a sad and sorry half-life. People who might in ordinary romances seem more than adequate replacement lovers will spend a lifetime trying but failing to fill the void left by the lost love.
In each case the film in question can be seen as a monster movie, a horror movie, a celebration of perversion, and/or a gloriously cinematic triumph.
Seriously, I found Kong to be quite humorous, right up until the moment I felt my eyes well up with unshed tears. Those around me may have wondered at the odd soul cackling through the horrific sequences, but in the absence of words there were just so many sight gags that I could not take what I was seeing seriously. I am convinced that Jackson was in his element with the plethora of bugs with which he made his cast play.
I remember thinking that Adrien Brody and Naomi Watts probably didn’t need to hit the gym at all while filming, as they seemed to run through most of the 3:10 that I sat through their adventures. Fay Wray may well be the standard by which all others are measured, for she was the first to bring down that doe-eyed beast, but I could not help comparing the performance of Watts with that of Jessica Lange, whose psychological fragility was so delicately balanced with her insane romances.
Andy Serkis, like his predecessors, takes Kong to yet another level of technological achievement and seeming humanity. Unfortunately for Serkis, some of Kong’s movements, especially on ice, are not quite as smoothly done as one might expect of the level of CGI expertise to which we have become accustomed.
What this film continues to do, however, is to showcase the natural beauty of Jackson’s New Zealand homeland and the fine workmanship of the WETA Workshop there.
As spectacle, this movie amply satisfies those of us with a bloodlust to see WWD: World Wrestling Dinosaurs. As a romance it is also appealing. Adrien Brody does not disappoint, though narratively his metamorphosis from successful literary author to studly jungle hero goes unexplained, mother love strength fable notwithstanding. Still, Kong does have realistic scars and retains those big hands and doe-like eyes…
Not an Oscar contender outside of technical categories, but a fun way to spend three hours on a rainy day…
I have seen Peter Jackson’s remake of the King Kong tale, and I have come to the conclusion that it is essentially the same narrative as that of Brokeback Mountain: a strong silent fellow spends an idyllic moment in time with a feisty object of his affection, but there is no hope for them in the so-called “real world” of human civilization. One of the two lovers is hounded to death by intolerant representatives of mainstream society in the name of defense of the species, while the other is left to make do with what is left of a sad and sorry half-life. People who might in ordinary romances seem more than adequate replacement lovers will spend a lifetime trying but failing to fill the void left by the lost love.
In each case the film in question can be seen as a monster movie, a horror movie, a celebration of perversion, and/or a gloriously cinematic triumph.
Seriously, I found Kong to be quite humorous, right up until the moment I felt my eyes well up with unshed tears. Those around me may have wondered at the odd soul cackling through the horrific sequences, but in the absence of words there were just so many sight gags that I could not take what I was seeing seriously. I am convinced that Jackson was in his element with the plethora of bugs with which he made his cast play.
I remember thinking that Adrien Brody and Naomi Watts probably didn’t need to hit the gym at all while filming, as they seemed to run through most of the 3:10 that I sat through their adventures. Fay Wray may well be the standard by which all others are measured, for she was the first to bring down that doe-eyed beast, but I could not help comparing the performance of Watts with that of Jessica Lange, whose psychological fragility was so delicately balanced with her insane romances.
Andy Serkis, like his predecessors, takes Kong to yet another level of technological achievement and seeming humanity. Unfortunately for Serkis, some of Kong’s movements, especially on ice, are not quite as smoothly done as one might expect of the level of CGI expertise to which we have become accustomed.
What this film continues to do, however, is to showcase the natural beauty of Jackson’s New Zealand homeland and the fine workmanship of the WETA Workshop there.
As spectacle, this movie amply satisfies those of us with a bloodlust to see WWD: World Wrestling Dinosaurs. As a romance it is also appealing. Adrien Brody does not disappoint, though narratively his metamorphosis from successful literary author to studly jungle hero goes unexplained, mother love strength fable notwithstanding. Still, Kong does have realistic scars and retains those big hands and doe-like eyes…
Not an Oscar contender outside of technical categories, but a fun way to spend three hours on a rainy day…
Friday, December 16, 2005
Syriana and Pride & Prejudice
Syriana and Pride and Prejudice: 2005
Yesterday was slated to be another day of movie madness, so of course it started with a nail in my left rear tire. Fortunately, there are plenty of willing if taciturn auto shop workers employed within easy driving distance. Sure, I could have gone to an auto supply store and bought an inexpensive patch kit, but then what? So I forked over a minor fortune, sat back and let someone else do it, and banged my head on Sudoku and crosswords for an hour, at the end of which my tire was patched and my oil changed. Who am I to complain?
I’d already decided that it would be an East Bay day, which turned out to be a good plan. I arrived at the theater complex with moments to spare before the first show was slated to begin rolling. I even caught an ongoing LeBron James shoe ad that tickled my fancy, but I digress…
Syriana is another George Clooney/Steven Soderbergh collaborative production, though it behooves me to say that they are joined in that task by nearly as many co-producers as there are credited performers in this multi-strand ensemble endeavor. The script is penned by the director, Stephen Gaghan, and his cohort, Robert Baer. This is the same fellow who adapted Traffic five years ago, and his approach this time is essentially the same. Because of my greater interest in the politics playing out in Middle East oil interests than in the politics of drug trafficking across our Southern border, I found this film more engaging than Traffic. I have to admit that I like George Clooney and Matt Damon more than Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta Jones. I also like Alexander Siddig more than Benecio Del Toro, or maybe I just like their characters better. Syriana’s start feels like the middle of a CNN report, which had me reaching for my invisible remote, but I settled down soon enough as more personal glimpses of home life were interspersed with the “business” at hand. Damon’s wife is played by Amanda Peet, so their children can be young. That’s pretty sympathetic. Clooney’s boy just wants a normal senior year of high school before going off to a decent college, not the “local” state U of a state in which he hasn’t lived. It’s all heartstring tuggy. That’s okay, though, because there’s enough grimness elsewhere.
What really got me, though, was the narrative line I cannot discuss in terms of performance because I really don’t know who played what, even looking at the Internet-posted cast list. This is the line that follows a young Pakistani who starts out as a migrant worker in Iran, suffers the same indignities as migrant workers in America – getting laid off without warning and getting criticized for not speaking “the language”, getting threatened with deportation if he can’t get employment; it all echoes and parallels the problems addressed in Traffic, but somehow it was more accessible to me in this film. His ultimate fate may seem to some to be inevitable or stereotypical, maybe both, but that doesn’t lessen the tragedy. There are no winners here, with the possible exception of the filmmakers, who should get consideration for a picture larger than any individual performances, for everyone seems to be in a role subservient to the film as a whole. Some may argue that that is as it should be.
The most recent adaptation of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, on the other hand, while written in similar multi-strand fashion, really focuses on one particular couple. The book, of course, focuses on one half of that one couple, but recent adaptations have been making great progress in fleshing out Austen’s admittedly ill-defined males. Now, I go in with very high expectations, as Austen is one of my favorite authors and P&P is one of my all-time favorite books. Worse, I absolutely loved Colin Firth’s interpretation of Darcy, so I really approached this film with high bars. I bear that in mind as I write this review.
Critics have been speaking highly of Keira Knightley’s performance as Elizabeth Bennet, and I have to agree that she has done an admirable job of capturing EB’s youthful spirit and sense of independence. Unfortunately, I think someone has cut out too much of her wit. Whether this is a consequence of directorial choices, editing cuts, or the screenplay itself, I cannot say. All I know is that EB is more heart than head, which just strikes me as wrong, for I have always thought her to be in possession of both, except for that one teensy weensy blind spot without which there would be no story.
Matthew MacFadyen as Mr. Darcy seemed to me in the previews to be a bit wooden, but that is how Austen wrote him, so I reserved judgment. Now that I have seen the movie, I wonder that his eyes get so liquid so easily. Still, I ended up enjoying his performance for the most part. It seems to me that the BBC mini-series featuring Colin Firth was a real breakthrough for the Darcy character and that each actor to play the part subsequently has had the advantage of building on what has been fleshed out by those who have gone before.
Like Goblet of Fire, the screenplay has undergone some serious surgery in order to move the tale along. The annoying Aunt Norris has been completely excised, the Uncle has become a brother-in-law, completely obviating the need for one more weeping and gnashing of teeth turn for Brenda Blethyn, who is excellent, by the way, though not nearly as annoying as her predecessors, (perhaps because I like her as an actress.) This change also cuts out the need for any childhood reminiscing for the aunt. Jane’s town visit gets short shrift, as we really don’t seem to care much about her. Mr. Collins gets a couple of chances to play the fool, but he, too, gets short shrift. Charlotte, however, (whose credit I cannot even find,) does a superb job with the little screen time she is given. I think her lines are so well delivered that I would give her serious consideration for her supporting role. Like EB, she has spunk. Her choices and her friendship make more sense than they ever have before outside the pages of the book.
Oddly, the thing that bothered me the most was the humanizing of the father as depicted by Donald Sutherland, whom I generally very much enjoy. As an actor, he is generally quite sharp-witted and sharp-tongued. As Mr. Bennett, however, he is too much a 21st century American dad, too understanding and sympathetic with Mary in particular. What I did enjoy, though, was the scene in which Knightley and Sutherland flesh out the proof of her love for Darcy. There they play well off each other.
P&P is sold as an epic love story, but it is Syriana that looks like a love story gone awry on screen. When I first came out of the latter, I thought of it as Love Actually taking a hard left turn; now I see it as Traffic in Asia. I think it’s a bit of both. It tells the modern tale of what can happen because of excess pride, prejudice, and misunderstandings that this latest P&P attempts to bring into the new millennium.
Yesterday was slated to be another day of movie madness, so of course it started with a nail in my left rear tire. Fortunately, there are plenty of willing if taciturn auto shop workers employed within easy driving distance. Sure, I could have gone to an auto supply store and bought an inexpensive patch kit, but then what? So I forked over a minor fortune, sat back and let someone else do it, and banged my head on Sudoku and crosswords for an hour, at the end of which my tire was patched and my oil changed. Who am I to complain?
I’d already decided that it would be an East Bay day, which turned out to be a good plan. I arrived at the theater complex with moments to spare before the first show was slated to begin rolling. I even caught an ongoing LeBron James shoe ad that tickled my fancy, but I digress…
Syriana is another George Clooney/Steven Soderbergh collaborative production, though it behooves me to say that they are joined in that task by nearly as many co-producers as there are credited performers in this multi-strand ensemble endeavor. The script is penned by the director, Stephen Gaghan, and his cohort, Robert Baer. This is the same fellow who adapted Traffic five years ago, and his approach this time is essentially the same. Because of my greater interest in the politics playing out in Middle East oil interests than in the politics of drug trafficking across our Southern border, I found this film more engaging than Traffic. I have to admit that I like George Clooney and Matt Damon more than Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta Jones. I also like Alexander Siddig more than Benecio Del Toro, or maybe I just like their characters better. Syriana’s start feels like the middle of a CNN report, which had me reaching for my invisible remote, but I settled down soon enough as more personal glimpses of home life were interspersed with the “business” at hand. Damon’s wife is played by Amanda Peet, so their children can be young. That’s pretty sympathetic. Clooney’s boy just wants a normal senior year of high school before going off to a decent college, not the “local” state U of a state in which he hasn’t lived. It’s all heartstring tuggy. That’s okay, though, because there’s enough grimness elsewhere.
What really got me, though, was the narrative line I cannot discuss in terms of performance because I really don’t know who played what, even looking at the Internet-posted cast list. This is the line that follows a young Pakistani who starts out as a migrant worker in Iran, suffers the same indignities as migrant workers in America – getting laid off without warning and getting criticized for not speaking “the language”, getting threatened with deportation if he can’t get employment; it all echoes and parallels the problems addressed in Traffic, but somehow it was more accessible to me in this film. His ultimate fate may seem to some to be inevitable or stereotypical, maybe both, but that doesn’t lessen the tragedy. There are no winners here, with the possible exception of the filmmakers, who should get consideration for a picture larger than any individual performances, for everyone seems to be in a role subservient to the film as a whole. Some may argue that that is as it should be.
The most recent adaptation of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, on the other hand, while written in similar multi-strand fashion, really focuses on one particular couple. The book, of course, focuses on one half of that one couple, but recent adaptations have been making great progress in fleshing out Austen’s admittedly ill-defined males. Now, I go in with very high expectations, as Austen is one of my favorite authors and P&P is one of my all-time favorite books. Worse, I absolutely loved Colin Firth’s interpretation of Darcy, so I really approached this film with high bars. I bear that in mind as I write this review.
Critics have been speaking highly of Keira Knightley’s performance as Elizabeth Bennet, and I have to agree that she has done an admirable job of capturing EB’s youthful spirit and sense of independence. Unfortunately, I think someone has cut out too much of her wit. Whether this is a consequence of directorial choices, editing cuts, or the screenplay itself, I cannot say. All I know is that EB is more heart than head, which just strikes me as wrong, for I have always thought her to be in possession of both, except for that one teensy weensy blind spot without which there would be no story.
Matthew MacFadyen as Mr. Darcy seemed to me in the previews to be a bit wooden, but that is how Austen wrote him, so I reserved judgment. Now that I have seen the movie, I wonder that his eyes get so liquid so easily. Still, I ended up enjoying his performance for the most part. It seems to me that the BBC mini-series featuring Colin Firth was a real breakthrough for the Darcy character and that each actor to play the part subsequently has had the advantage of building on what has been fleshed out by those who have gone before.
Like Goblet of Fire, the screenplay has undergone some serious surgery in order to move the tale along. The annoying Aunt Norris has been completely excised, the Uncle has become a brother-in-law, completely obviating the need for one more weeping and gnashing of teeth turn for Brenda Blethyn, who is excellent, by the way, though not nearly as annoying as her predecessors, (perhaps because I like her as an actress.) This change also cuts out the need for any childhood reminiscing for the aunt. Jane’s town visit gets short shrift, as we really don’t seem to care much about her. Mr. Collins gets a couple of chances to play the fool, but he, too, gets short shrift. Charlotte, however, (whose credit I cannot even find,) does a superb job with the little screen time she is given. I think her lines are so well delivered that I would give her serious consideration for her supporting role. Like EB, she has spunk. Her choices and her friendship make more sense than they ever have before outside the pages of the book.
Oddly, the thing that bothered me the most was the humanizing of the father as depicted by Donald Sutherland, whom I generally very much enjoy. As an actor, he is generally quite sharp-witted and sharp-tongued. As Mr. Bennett, however, he is too much a 21st century American dad, too understanding and sympathetic with Mary in particular. What I did enjoy, though, was the scene in which Knightley and Sutherland flesh out the proof of her love for Darcy. There they play well off each other.
P&P is sold as an epic love story, but it is Syriana that looks like a love story gone awry on screen. When I first came out of the latter, I thought of it as Love Actually taking a hard left turn; now I see it as Traffic in Asia. I think it’s a bit of both. It tells the modern tale of what can happen because of excess pride, prejudice, and misunderstandings that this latest P&P attempts to bring into the new millennium.
Thursday, December 15, 2005
Movie Madness Continues
Saw Syriana and Pride and Prejudice today. Review to follow tomorrow. Tired, cold, and sleepy now, despite twirling brain.
P.S. Rush hour traffic in twilight leaves much to be desired of humanity...
P.S. Rush hour traffic in twilight leaves much to be desired of humanity...
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Sojourners Protest
Sojourners Protest
Yahoo News published a story this afternoon for which I did not see a counterpart on Google. It reports the arrest of 115 of more than 200 religious activists who protested a House Republican budget proposal that calls for $50 billion in savings over five years, to be achieved through the trimming of social programs such as Medicaid benefits and food stamp beneficiaries.
“The House's bill would create savings in part by increasing premiums and co-payments for Medicaid benefits and letting states scale back benefits. It also would cut about 250,000 beneficiaries from food stamp rolls.”
This proposal sets the House at loggerheads with the Senate, which is on record against such acts, but which is willing “to open the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge to oil exploration.”
Once again the federal government finds itself in a situation wherein lawmakers are damned if they do and damned if they don’t. They must choose between alienating educated environmentalists, who are more likely to vote, and taking a giant step backwards in the ongoing war on poverty, a war too many in politics too often find too unprofitable to wage.
What I find intriguing is that the equally frequently vilified religious community seems to be at the forefront of this politically and economically unrewarding fight. It’s nice to read for a change about religious people in general and the Christian community in particular standing up for a segment of our country’s population that are too often underrepresented and voiceless. It does seem unfortunate that politicians have chosen to create an either/or situation that forces people of good will to have to choose between the good of the planet and the good of the populace. It is unfortunate that we as a civilized society feel obligated to remain in such an antagonistic relationship with the world in which we live.
Yahoo News published a story this afternoon for which I did not see a counterpart on Google. It reports the arrest of 115 of more than 200 religious activists who protested a House Republican budget proposal that calls for $50 billion in savings over five years, to be achieved through the trimming of social programs such as Medicaid benefits and food stamp beneficiaries.
“The House's bill would create savings in part by increasing premiums and co-payments for Medicaid benefits and letting states scale back benefits. It also would cut about 250,000 beneficiaries from food stamp rolls.”
This proposal sets the House at loggerheads with the Senate, which is on record against such acts, but which is willing “to open the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge to oil exploration.”
Once again the federal government finds itself in a situation wherein lawmakers are damned if they do and damned if they don’t. They must choose between alienating educated environmentalists, who are more likely to vote, and taking a giant step backwards in the ongoing war on poverty, a war too many in politics too often find too unprofitable to wage.
What I find intriguing is that the equally frequently vilified religious community seems to be at the forefront of this politically and economically unrewarding fight. It’s nice to read for a change about religious people in general and the Christian community in particular standing up for a segment of our country’s population that are too often underrepresented and voiceless. It does seem unfortunate that politicians have chosen to create an either/or situation that forces people of good will to have to choose between the good of the planet and the good of the populace. It is unfortunate that we as a civilized society feel obligated to remain in such an antagonistic relationship with the world in which we live.
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
Tooling around the City Again
Tooling around the City Again
This is the time of year when the theaters call my name, and I am powerless to resist. Now, when I say theaters, I do not mean cozy stages; I mean rowdy, booming auditoria crowded with adults truant from work and students on field trips. Okay, I’m not really so keen on sharing my space with students on field trips, but they are interesting for eavesdropping purposes, especially post-viewing. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Friday I intended to go into the City because I’d heard that a new movie was only showing in three cities in the entire country, and that SF was one of them. Naturally I wanted to see it, though as one reviewer I later read commented, it’s amazing what some folks will go to see without knowing what they’re getting into… Well, for one thing, a movie that’s only showing in three theaters in the entire world and is getting buzz is guaranteed to be sold out for someone like me; and so it was. Saturday ditto. This time, however, I had taken brighter, more aggressive souls with me, and we landed tickets for a Sunday matinee, even as more showings were being crossed out as Sold Out! Sheltered as my life has been, this was a new experience for me.
Friday I’d missed the boat; Saturday I’d taken B.A.R.T, then gone on to visit the sick furry son of a friend. Sunday I was emboldened to drive, knowing that with validation parking would be free, and so it was. It was nice to be the one cruising in, ticket clutched firmly in hand, instead of one of the admittedly dwindling many still wondering what the fuss was all about.
Being who I am, I started surveying the audience, observing that males outnumbered females at least 10-1, and that older male couples comprised at least half the audience. The most conspicuous members of the crowd were three raucous gaggles of young dykes, their ebullience a marked contrast to the more somber demeanors of their counterparts. Behind me sat what was probably the sole heterosexual couple in the entire theater. Interestingly enough, they stayed through the whole film, and one of them said at the conclusion, “Well, the scenery was very pretty, anyway.”
This morning, Monday, Ang Lee’s Brokeback Mountain is being described as the front runner for the Golden Globes and, therefore, possibly for the Oscars. New York and San Francisco reviewers and fans are ready to crown it the most stunning achievement of the year, though New York film critics and film school critics prefer George Clooney’s Good Night, and Good Luck. Regretfully, I must concur with the latter.
BM does, indeed, contain beautiful scenery shot to wonderful advantage, and the script does tackle an important topic long overlooked by mainstream film. That said, the question remains: does it stand on its own, sans subject matter, as a well-crafted film? Personally, I walked away with a feeling that something was missing, and I attribute that sense to a flawed screenplay. Somehow the women received short shrift, both as human beings and as literary characters. Sure, this is based on a short story about men, but surely that still leaves room for fleshing out in a screenplay; and it’s not as though talented women were not cast to do their bit for this male romance. Maybe it’s because I don’t find Jake Gyllenhaal an adequate or sympathetic leading lover opposite Heath Ledger; maybe it’s because someone two seats down, who is ESL, couldn’t understand a thing he said; or maybe it’s just that a visually gifted director with a talented cast was working from a flawed script. Ultimately, mine were one of the dryer pairs of eyes leaving the theater, but I was not alone.
I just looked at the box office results for this past weekend, and I see that BM played in five auditoria this past weekend; I saw three of them, all sold out. As one fellow in the ticket line Saturday quipped, “I wonder why” they chose San Francisco as one of the three cities, and why we had three of the five auditoria in which the film played. Today, of course, the film is in wider release, though still clinging to the art house theaters, I think. It is a sad story, ultimately. One hopes that it will not incite the kind of violence it so tastefully leaves off-screen but to which it so clearly alludes and which as clearly and powerfully affects the choices and lives of the characters.
As I said at the start of this, the theaters are calling me, so I was not satisfied with seeing just one movie. To that end, yesterday I popped out of bed and boarded B.A.R.T, ready for another exciting day in the City. Unfortunately, the theaters were not ready for me, not at 7:30 a.m. Fortunately, the mass of well-paid manipulators of money who swell all forms of transit and clog the City’s arteries with their morning commute have also created ancillary support services that I find ridiculous in general but very convenient when I’m day-tripping. Avoiding Starbucks on principle, I found a quiet, inexpensive morning deli that let me buy breakfast by weight instead of content, just like salad bars in the U.S. and some eateries I encountered in Europe. I like that. One Sudoku and one crossword puzzle later, I realized that the kindly accommodating Metreon was about to start their first shows, and I still had a 20-25 minute walk between me and it. It’s nice to start your morning with a brisk walk… huffapuffa . . .
I was optimistic as the movie I desired to see has been out since its midnight showings and through the weekend, so I didn’t think I’d have the same problem I’d had with GoF. Sure enough, I bought my ticket and breezed into a half-filled auditorium. Right behind me, however, came a local Catholic field trip, uniformed but noisy. Well, it’s C.S. Lewis, after all: what did I expect?
Curiously, I actually enjoyed The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe more than I had expected. I’m guessing that the fact that it has the same director as Shrek and Shrek 2, Andrew Adamson, may have something to do with that, as I like the pacing and the visual humor. Contrary to what I’d read in one review, I didn’t find myself spending all my time recognizing shots from elsewhere, though I did think the big battle scene put me in mind of Mel Gibson’s Braveheart and Ridley Scott’s Gladiator, but only because there were massive troops on a collision course. I did consider Peter Jackson’s Return of the King and Two Towers sequences but discounted them as visual parallels.
William Moseley, 17 at the time of filming, kept making me think of Prince William, though Skandar Keynes, who plays Edmund, did not remind me of Prince Harry. I was pleased to see Peter’s character fleshed out a bit, in contrast to the too often wooden carved in stone pillar of morality treatment he gets. Lucy, played by Georgie Henley, was appropriately irritating. Well, seriously, Shirley Temple as a little girl bugs me, too. Those big eyes were clearly aimed at the camera quite a bit, but juxtaposed with the talking animals, she blended well into that scenery. Anna Popplewell as Susan seemed nicer than I understood the character to be, but then, I’ve never really cared for Susan, knowing as I do that she won’t be at the Last Battle. Tilda Swinton, the White Which whose work seems to be generating a bit of buzz, did nothing for me because I’ve been brought up on drama queens… James McAvoy as Mr. Tumnus, however, definitely captured my attention while he was on-screen. I’d like to see some of his other work now, though I’m guessing he doesn’t play shirtless a lot… Aslan I love. Well, sure, I love cats, and he’s one big cat, though he’s “not a tame lion.”
As I was exiting the theater, the loudest comments I heard from the field trip crew were enthusiastic if vague appreciation of the battle sequence as “better than that other one,” particularly because of “that rhino” who was “so bad!”
OK, keiki fare aside, I hustled back the way I’d come, then found I had a half hour more time than I’d anticipated before the second show. This was that perfect opportunity for which I’d been waiting to check out Mijita: Cocina Mexicana at the Ferry Building. Of course, doing so would allow me to get my bearings as well, since I know the downtown district primarily from the waterfront.
Mijita then. The menu is in Spanish, but they very kindly have an English translation printed up on beige half-sheets for those less knowledgeable but willing to spend. Clearly, the menu reading is part of the work staff’s daily entertainment. This restaurant is all about fresh ingredients, not a wide variety of exotic offerings. The fare is simple, quick, and reasonably priced, which may explain why its patrons are usually hanging out at the gills. I ordered a modest $2 bean-n-cheese burrito, then blew my budget on a “Mexican coke”, which turned out to be a bottle of coke that was bottled for transport and sale in Mexico. That little pecker cost me $3.50 and more chuckles. Ah well… at least the food was fresh and I was able to eat on the waterfront. The last ferry had left until rush hour, so I had an unobstructed view of the Bay, which was nice. The beans, however, were so fresh and wet that I squirted some on myself, not once but twice, because if a thing’s worth doing, it’s worth doing over… I gotta let go of lame clichés.
After lunch I headed back to the Embarcadero, confident that the majority of filmgoers would be trying to get into BM, and they were. I, on the other hand, sailed blithely into George Clooney’s Good Night, and Good Luck.
GNGL is shot in black-and-white, making very clear, intelligent use of light and shadow without being intrusive about it. It’s a fascinating film study of the medium of television, a lovely reversal of the more familiar television documentary of filmmaking. Clooney and Grant Heslov, his co-screenwriter and fellow producer, make brilliant use of actual archival footage to portray McCarthy, just as Murrow, the anchor featured in the film, did in his day. Like An Ideal Husband (1999), an ostensible look back at another era is used to comment on the contemporary political climate. It’s kinda chilling that way.
I’d expected Narnia to be the highlight of my day, but I walked out of GNGL totally blown away. David Strathairn’s performances almost always do that to me, though I’m more accustomed to seeing him very subdued. This time he is quietly tightly wound, and there are shots of him between television takes that speak volumes. A lovely bonus is Robert Downey Jr. in a supporting role opposite Patricia Clarkson, whom I’ve never seen turn in a bad performance either. I’m gushing, and I mean it.
A day like this could have ended after that second movie, and I’d have felt it all worthwhile. The temperature was plummeting and I wanted to get back to my warm, cozy abode and my furry furnace-like Boys, but I stayed to meet a friend. We were to meet at the Hyatt nearby. I’d forgotten that that Hyatt has an annual Christmas display of a private collector’s “town”. Len Connacher’s “Original Snow Village” is comprised of over 3000 pieces, of which only the trees seem alike. It has a Midway, an ice rink, a ski slope, houses, hotels, a hot dog stand, various roadside eateries, a Ford dealership, an electric train, a miniature Golden Gate Bridge, complete with various watercraft below, cattle and calves, horses, colts, and foals, people, city lights, countryscapes, etc. Above it all the Hyatt staff have strung four or five strands of vertical lights that form a curtain in their atrium, a beautiful backdrop for their stories-high Christmas tree. That sight joined with some amber liquid and good grinds was a perfect ending to a really great day in the City.
The ride home is a blur and this morning came hard, but I will treasure the experience. I should be ready for another such adventure real soon, seeing as how there are still so many movies to see before this year is out.
This is the time of year when the theaters call my name, and I am powerless to resist. Now, when I say theaters, I do not mean cozy stages; I mean rowdy, booming auditoria crowded with adults truant from work and students on field trips. Okay, I’m not really so keen on sharing my space with students on field trips, but they are interesting for eavesdropping purposes, especially post-viewing. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Friday I intended to go into the City because I’d heard that a new movie was only showing in three cities in the entire country, and that SF was one of them. Naturally I wanted to see it, though as one reviewer I later read commented, it’s amazing what some folks will go to see without knowing what they’re getting into… Well, for one thing, a movie that’s only showing in three theaters in the entire world and is getting buzz is guaranteed to be sold out for someone like me; and so it was. Saturday ditto. This time, however, I had taken brighter, more aggressive souls with me, and we landed tickets for a Sunday matinee, even as more showings were being crossed out as Sold Out! Sheltered as my life has been, this was a new experience for me.
Friday I’d missed the boat; Saturday I’d taken B.A.R.T, then gone on to visit the sick furry son of a friend. Sunday I was emboldened to drive, knowing that with validation parking would be free, and so it was. It was nice to be the one cruising in, ticket clutched firmly in hand, instead of one of the admittedly dwindling many still wondering what the fuss was all about.
Being who I am, I started surveying the audience, observing that males outnumbered females at least 10-1, and that older male couples comprised at least half the audience. The most conspicuous members of the crowd were three raucous gaggles of young dykes, their ebullience a marked contrast to the more somber demeanors of their counterparts. Behind me sat what was probably the sole heterosexual couple in the entire theater. Interestingly enough, they stayed through the whole film, and one of them said at the conclusion, “Well, the scenery was very pretty, anyway.”
This morning, Monday, Ang Lee’s Brokeback Mountain is being described as the front runner for the Golden Globes and, therefore, possibly for the Oscars. New York and San Francisco reviewers and fans are ready to crown it the most stunning achievement of the year, though New York film critics and film school critics prefer George Clooney’s Good Night, and Good Luck. Regretfully, I must concur with the latter.
BM does, indeed, contain beautiful scenery shot to wonderful advantage, and the script does tackle an important topic long overlooked by mainstream film. That said, the question remains: does it stand on its own, sans subject matter, as a well-crafted film? Personally, I walked away with a feeling that something was missing, and I attribute that sense to a flawed screenplay. Somehow the women received short shrift, both as human beings and as literary characters. Sure, this is based on a short story about men, but surely that still leaves room for fleshing out in a screenplay; and it’s not as though talented women were not cast to do their bit for this male romance. Maybe it’s because I don’t find Jake Gyllenhaal an adequate or sympathetic leading lover opposite Heath Ledger; maybe it’s because someone two seats down, who is ESL, couldn’t understand a thing he said; or maybe it’s just that a visually gifted director with a talented cast was working from a flawed script. Ultimately, mine were one of the dryer pairs of eyes leaving the theater, but I was not alone.
I just looked at the box office results for this past weekend, and I see that BM played in five auditoria this past weekend; I saw three of them, all sold out. As one fellow in the ticket line Saturday quipped, “I wonder why” they chose San Francisco as one of the three cities, and why we had three of the five auditoria in which the film played. Today, of course, the film is in wider release, though still clinging to the art house theaters, I think. It is a sad story, ultimately. One hopes that it will not incite the kind of violence it so tastefully leaves off-screen but to which it so clearly alludes and which as clearly and powerfully affects the choices and lives of the characters.
As I said at the start of this, the theaters are calling me, so I was not satisfied with seeing just one movie. To that end, yesterday I popped out of bed and boarded B.A.R.T, ready for another exciting day in the City. Unfortunately, the theaters were not ready for me, not at 7:30 a.m. Fortunately, the mass of well-paid manipulators of money who swell all forms of transit and clog the City’s arteries with their morning commute have also created ancillary support services that I find ridiculous in general but very convenient when I’m day-tripping. Avoiding Starbucks on principle, I found a quiet, inexpensive morning deli that let me buy breakfast by weight instead of content, just like salad bars in the U.S. and some eateries I encountered in Europe. I like that. One Sudoku and one crossword puzzle later, I realized that the kindly accommodating Metreon was about to start their first shows, and I still had a 20-25 minute walk between me and it. It’s nice to start your morning with a brisk walk… huffapuffa . . .
I was optimistic as the movie I desired to see has been out since its midnight showings and through the weekend, so I didn’t think I’d have the same problem I’d had with GoF. Sure enough, I bought my ticket and breezed into a half-filled auditorium. Right behind me, however, came a local Catholic field trip, uniformed but noisy. Well, it’s C.S. Lewis, after all: what did I expect?
Curiously, I actually enjoyed The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe more than I had expected. I’m guessing that the fact that it has the same director as Shrek and Shrek 2, Andrew Adamson, may have something to do with that, as I like the pacing and the visual humor. Contrary to what I’d read in one review, I didn’t find myself spending all my time recognizing shots from elsewhere, though I did think the big battle scene put me in mind of Mel Gibson’s Braveheart and Ridley Scott’s Gladiator, but only because there were massive troops on a collision course. I did consider Peter Jackson’s Return of the King and Two Towers sequences but discounted them as visual parallels.
William Moseley, 17 at the time of filming, kept making me think of Prince William, though Skandar Keynes, who plays Edmund, did not remind me of Prince Harry. I was pleased to see Peter’s character fleshed out a bit, in contrast to the too often wooden carved in stone pillar of morality treatment he gets. Lucy, played by Georgie Henley, was appropriately irritating. Well, seriously, Shirley Temple as a little girl bugs me, too. Those big eyes were clearly aimed at the camera quite a bit, but juxtaposed with the talking animals, she blended well into that scenery. Anna Popplewell as Susan seemed nicer than I understood the character to be, but then, I’ve never really cared for Susan, knowing as I do that she won’t be at the Last Battle. Tilda Swinton, the White Which whose work seems to be generating a bit of buzz, did nothing for me because I’ve been brought up on drama queens… James McAvoy as Mr. Tumnus, however, definitely captured my attention while he was on-screen. I’d like to see some of his other work now, though I’m guessing he doesn’t play shirtless a lot… Aslan I love. Well, sure, I love cats, and he’s one big cat, though he’s “not a tame lion.”
As I was exiting the theater, the loudest comments I heard from the field trip crew were enthusiastic if vague appreciation of the battle sequence as “better than that other one,” particularly because of “that rhino” who was “so bad!”
OK, keiki fare aside, I hustled back the way I’d come, then found I had a half hour more time than I’d anticipated before the second show. This was that perfect opportunity for which I’d been waiting to check out Mijita: Cocina Mexicana at the Ferry Building. Of course, doing so would allow me to get my bearings as well, since I know the downtown district primarily from the waterfront.
Mijita then. The menu is in Spanish, but they very kindly have an English translation printed up on beige half-sheets for those less knowledgeable but willing to spend. Clearly, the menu reading is part of the work staff’s daily entertainment. This restaurant is all about fresh ingredients, not a wide variety of exotic offerings. The fare is simple, quick, and reasonably priced, which may explain why its patrons are usually hanging out at the gills. I ordered a modest $2 bean-n-cheese burrito, then blew my budget on a “Mexican coke”, which turned out to be a bottle of coke that was bottled for transport and sale in Mexico. That little pecker cost me $3.50 and more chuckles. Ah well… at least the food was fresh and I was able to eat on the waterfront. The last ferry had left until rush hour, so I had an unobstructed view of the Bay, which was nice. The beans, however, were so fresh and wet that I squirted some on myself, not once but twice, because if a thing’s worth doing, it’s worth doing over… I gotta let go of lame clichés.
After lunch I headed back to the Embarcadero, confident that the majority of filmgoers would be trying to get into BM, and they were. I, on the other hand, sailed blithely into George Clooney’s Good Night, and Good Luck.
GNGL is shot in black-and-white, making very clear, intelligent use of light and shadow without being intrusive about it. It’s a fascinating film study of the medium of television, a lovely reversal of the more familiar television documentary of filmmaking. Clooney and Grant Heslov, his co-screenwriter and fellow producer, make brilliant use of actual archival footage to portray McCarthy, just as Murrow, the anchor featured in the film, did in his day. Like An Ideal Husband (1999), an ostensible look back at another era is used to comment on the contemporary political climate. It’s kinda chilling that way.
I’d expected Narnia to be the highlight of my day, but I walked out of GNGL totally blown away. David Strathairn’s performances almost always do that to me, though I’m more accustomed to seeing him very subdued. This time he is quietly tightly wound, and there are shots of him between television takes that speak volumes. A lovely bonus is Robert Downey Jr. in a supporting role opposite Patricia Clarkson, whom I’ve never seen turn in a bad performance either. I’m gushing, and I mean it.
A day like this could have ended after that second movie, and I’d have felt it all worthwhile. The temperature was plummeting and I wanted to get back to my warm, cozy abode and my furry furnace-like Boys, but I stayed to meet a friend. We were to meet at the Hyatt nearby. I’d forgotten that that Hyatt has an annual Christmas display of a private collector’s “town”. Len Connacher’s “Original Snow Village” is comprised of over 3000 pieces, of which only the trees seem alike. It has a Midway, an ice rink, a ski slope, houses, hotels, a hot dog stand, various roadside eateries, a Ford dealership, an electric train, a miniature Golden Gate Bridge, complete with various watercraft below, cattle and calves, horses, colts, and foals, people, city lights, countryscapes, etc. Above it all the Hyatt staff have strung four or five strands of vertical lights that form a curtain in their atrium, a beautiful backdrop for their stories-high Christmas tree. That sight joined with some amber liquid and good grinds was a perfect ending to a really great day in the City.
The ride home is a blur and this morning came hard, but I will treasure the experience. I should be ready for another such adventure real soon, seeing as how there are still so many movies to see before this year is out.
Saturday, December 10, 2005
Movie Madness
Movie Madness
It’s time once again for movie madness. The Oscar hopefuls are being released and I’m going crazy. There are so many movies to see, so little time in which to view them all. Today I made the trip into town to see the limited release of Brokeback Mountain, only to learn that a movie that is advertised as only being shown in three cities in the entire country sells out easily. Every show for today was sold out except the 10 p.m. showing, which sold out as I was standing there trying to fathom this phenomenon. Naturally I bought tickets for tomorrow.
It’s insane. Evidently people have been buying tickets via Moviephone because Fandango works with a different distributor. In any event, fools who have not bought ahead are not getting in. So now I know. I wonder if that’s true of other films as well. I’ve never before been unable to get into a film at which I aimed. Well, the truth is that when I make the arrangements, I always get in. Hm… I hate that; why do I always have to set things up or sit at home?
Interestingly enough, a local reviewer gave Goblet of Fire half a star more than Brokeback Mountain but less than Capote, the Ed Morrow story, or Pride and Prejudice. I think it was ranked on a par with Memoirs of a Geisha. In any event, I think I’m spending much of this coming week in darkened auditoriums. It should be fun. As I see films, I’ll track my initial and subsequent thoughts here. Clearly I have very low standards for escapist film fare; let’s see how I do with films that aspire to “quality” production values… ;->
It’s time once again for movie madness. The Oscar hopefuls are being released and I’m going crazy. There are so many movies to see, so little time in which to view them all. Today I made the trip into town to see the limited release of Brokeback Mountain, only to learn that a movie that is advertised as only being shown in three cities in the entire country sells out easily. Every show for today was sold out except the 10 p.m. showing, which sold out as I was standing there trying to fathom this phenomenon. Naturally I bought tickets for tomorrow.
It’s insane. Evidently people have been buying tickets via Moviephone because Fandango works with a different distributor. In any event, fools who have not bought ahead are not getting in. So now I know. I wonder if that’s true of other films as well. I’ve never before been unable to get into a film at which I aimed. Well, the truth is that when I make the arrangements, I always get in. Hm… I hate that; why do I always have to set things up or sit at home?
Interestingly enough, a local reviewer gave Goblet of Fire half a star more than Brokeback Mountain but less than Capote, the Ed Morrow story, or Pride and Prejudice. I think it was ranked on a par with Memoirs of a Geisha. In any event, I think I’m spending much of this coming week in darkened auditoriums. It should be fun. As I see films, I’ll track my initial and subsequent thoughts here. Clearly I have very low standards for escapist film fare; let’s see how I do with films that aspire to “quality” production values… ;->
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
Mr and Mrs Smith: Reflections
Mr. and Mrs. Smith and Chicken Little: subtle appeal dependent on understanding of inside jokes targeting mid-boomer generation with references to the schtick of the 60s and early 70s
reference to Blade Runner: dystopic façade concealing sleek state-of-the-art technology and gadgetry
hares always one or two steps ahead of the hounds; only question is, who are the hares and who are the hounds?
snappy dialogue, smart, sexy performances with subtle suggestiveness
brisk pacing once the action begins; appreciation of presentation of tedium, perhaps because of foreknowledge of action to come
appreciation of “Kost?” discount department store’s supplies and layout
reference to When Harry Met Sally w/shrink’s office opening and closing set pieces?
Bogotá. Columbia sequence reminiscent of Antonio Banderas/Angelina Jolie turn in Original Sin, a similar narrative whose premise is marriage based on false identity and the consequences of revelation, again revolving on the notion of true love despite deception at the core
Mr. & Mrs. Smith: A Reflection
Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie are common targets of the paparazzi these days, and it all began when they teamed up to make the film, Mr. and Mrs. Smith, recently released on dvd. Like Chicken Little, this film has drawn much negative criticism from reviewers. Similarly, it has delighted me. That realization made me stop and ask myself why. What is it about these films that appeals to me while others far and wide decry them? It dawned on me that each tickles the funny bone that I developed and honed as a mid-boomer child, a very special, narrow window to be sure.
Comfortably ensconced in the middle of the largest block of children ever to be born in this country, I have neither the classical educational benefits of the first ones out of the post-WWII gate nor the benefits of a renewed vigor within educational pedagogy bestowed/inflicted upon those whose births wagged the tail end of the boom, narrowly escaping the Z.P.G. and N.P.G. movements so widespread during my pubescent period. What I have are aesthetic sensibilities shaped and molded by such classically crass gems as Mighty Mouse, Underdog, George of the Jungle, Top Cat, The Banana Splits, The Archies, I Spy, Our Man Flint, Sean Connery’s interpretation of James Bond, The Man from U.N.C.L.E, The Flinstones and The Jetsons, etc. Sunday television matinees featured sword and sandal epics, especially Steve Reeve as Hercules, Sinbad the Sailor, and Johnny Weismuller as Tarzan. It was a time of the demise of the Western and the rise of the Secret Agent Man. Technology was a shiny new toy featured in television and movies from Bond to Star Trek and spoofed from Get Smart and The Avengers to Lost in Space. There was cheese, too, like Time Tunnel, now once again periodically cropping up on the Sci-Fi channel when I least expect it.
Having made a short story long, I note that these are the images and memories in my head as I watch films like Chicken Little and Mr. and Mrs. Smith. What I see, then, are sly echoes of stylish slapstick, ludicrous moments passed off with what I consider to be aplomb, though others may perceive them to merely bomb.
As I look for parallels, then, what I see is Angelina Jolie repeating herself, essentially replaying her role in Original Sin against a more worldly Brad Pitt who is presented as more nearly her equal than poor Antonio Banderas. Granted the world at large is not ready to buy this tale of true love sprung from such a web of lies laid as mulch over lust at first sight, but seriously, are these films not presented from the start as escapist fantasy? Why then do they draw such criticism for lack of realism?
I very much enjoyed the nods to prior films, such as the opening and closing sets in the psychiatrist’s office, the banter about the cooking, the suspicions about just where the expected poison might be hidden, the secret caches of armaments, the elevator shaft shtick, the sleek hi-tech hidden behind dystopic facades, the hare and hounds interchanges, the climbing of a mountain juxtaposed against a pee in the desert, the crotch kick juxtaposed against big blasts, the ongoing visuals of his bigger bangs against her more painful and more accurate hits. Sure it’s all been done before, but it’s been awhile since it’s been done with this level of zest. All that was missing was the telephone gimmick, but cell phones have obviated that one. I liked it.
reference to Blade Runner: dystopic façade concealing sleek state-of-the-art technology and gadgetry
hares always one or two steps ahead of the hounds; only question is, who are the hares and who are the hounds?
snappy dialogue, smart, sexy performances with subtle suggestiveness
brisk pacing once the action begins; appreciation of presentation of tedium, perhaps because of foreknowledge of action to come
appreciation of “Kost?” discount department store’s supplies and layout
reference to When Harry Met Sally w/shrink’s office opening and closing set pieces?
Bogotá. Columbia sequence reminiscent of Antonio Banderas/Angelina Jolie turn in Original Sin, a similar narrative whose premise is marriage based on false identity and the consequences of revelation, again revolving on the notion of true love despite deception at the core
Mr. & Mrs. Smith: A Reflection
Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie are common targets of the paparazzi these days, and it all began when they teamed up to make the film, Mr. and Mrs. Smith, recently released on dvd. Like Chicken Little, this film has drawn much negative criticism from reviewers. Similarly, it has delighted me. That realization made me stop and ask myself why. What is it about these films that appeals to me while others far and wide decry them? It dawned on me that each tickles the funny bone that I developed and honed as a mid-boomer child, a very special, narrow window to be sure.
Comfortably ensconced in the middle of the largest block of children ever to be born in this country, I have neither the classical educational benefits of the first ones out of the post-WWII gate nor the benefits of a renewed vigor within educational pedagogy bestowed/inflicted upon those whose births wagged the tail end of the boom, narrowly escaping the Z.P.G. and N.P.G. movements so widespread during my pubescent period. What I have are aesthetic sensibilities shaped and molded by such classically crass gems as Mighty Mouse, Underdog, George of the Jungle, Top Cat, The Banana Splits, The Archies, I Spy, Our Man Flint, Sean Connery’s interpretation of James Bond, The Man from U.N.C.L.E, The Flinstones and The Jetsons, etc. Sunday television matinees featured sword and sandal epics, especially Steve Reeve as Hercules, Sinbad the Sailor, and Johnny Weismuller as Tarzan. It was a time of the demise of the Western and the rise of the Secret Agent Man. Technology was a shiny new toy featured in television and movies from Bond to Star Trek and spoofed from Get Smart and The Avengers to Lost in Space. There was cheese, too, like Time Tunnel, now once again periodically cropping up on the Sci-Fi channel when I least expect it.
Having made a short story long, I note that these are the images and memories in my head as I watch films like Chicken Little and Mr. and Mrs. Smith. What I see, then, are sly echoes of stylish slapstick, ludicrous moments passed off with what I consider to be aplomb, though others may perceive them to merely bomb.
As I look for parallels, then, what I see is Angelina Jolie repeating herself, essentially replaying her role in Original Sin against a more worldly Brad Pitt who is presented as more nearly her equal than poor Antonio Banderas. Granted the world at large is not ready to buy this tale of true love sprung from such a web of lies laid as mulch over lust at first sight, but seriously, are these films not presented from the start as escapist fantasy? Why then do they draw such criticism for lack of realism?
I very much enjoyed the nods to prior films, such as the opening and closing sets in the psychiatrist’s office, the banter about the cooking, the suspicions about just where the expected poison might be hidden, the secret caches of armaments, the elevator shaft shtick, the sleek hi-tech hidden behind dystopic facades, the hare and hounds interchanges, the climbing of a mountain juxtaposed against a pee in the desert, the crotch kick juxtaposed against big blasts, the ongoing visuals of his bigger bangs against her more painful and more accurate hits. Sure it’s all been done before, but it’s been awhile since it’s been done with this level of zest. All that was missing was the telephone gimmick, but cell phones have obviated that one. I liked it.
Monday, December 05, 2005
Time to Eat
The illness is as much a state of mind as of body, subtly insinuating itself into every facet of life. Work requires reward. Duress requires reward for survival. Depression requires consolation. Existence requires sustenance. Rest requires celebration. What’s left? Always it’s time to eat.
All right: eat every four hours. Test two hours after eating. Chew slowly and set eating utensils down after every bite. By the time one is done eating, it is time to test, then to eat again.
Don’t skip meals.
So…
Oversleep, eat breakfast and it’s time for lunch too soon but don’t skip eat it’s time for dinner rest overindulge the damage is done oh eat it’s time for dinner and bed oh when was it time to exercise and work and where are the children and . . . oh bother . . . it’s time to get up and eat again . . .
this can’t be the right rite, can it?
All right: eat every four hours. Test two hours after eating. Chew slowly and set eating utensils down after every bite. By the time one is done eating, it is time to test, then to eat again.
Don’t skip meals.
So…
Oversleep, eat breakfast and it’s time for lunch too soon but don’t skip eat it’s time for dinner rest overindulge the damage is done oh eat it’s time for dinner and bed oh when was it time to exercise and work and where are the children and . . . oh bother . . . it’s time to get up and eat again . . .
this can’t be the right rite, can it?
Sunday, December 04, 2005
Cenotes of Yucatan
Cenotes of Yucatan
The Discovery Channels are amazing. Ever since the television show, Sea Hunt, I’ve been fascinated by scuba diving. Jacques Cousteau, of course, significantly extended everyone’s knowledge of the wonders available to those who dare the depths of the world’s oceans. What I happened upon today was an hour-long documentary about the cenotes, or sinkholes of the Yucatan Peninsula, which serve as one of the current frontiers of exploration for scuba divers who are willing to dare the unknown.
Evidently these cenotes contain deep reservoirs of fresh water in caverns that crisscross the peninsula. Some are linked, while others peter out into crevices too narrow for human passage or into dead ends, reminiscent of their marshy counterparts in the bayous. One fascinating difference, however, is that the caves into which some of these cenotes open contain stalagmites and stalactites, indicating that they were once open to air. There are layers of limestone above and layers of sulfurous water below, creating clouds and layers in what one might falsely assume is all “just” water. There in the darkness where sunlight does not go are eyeless creatures devoid of color, creatures that survive and thrive on hearing, scent, and touch. At first glimpse I was struck by how much they resemble images conjured by science fiction creature feature artists. It made me rethink the stereotyping that visual language is imprinting on the “civilized” children of our tech-savvy society, myself included.
The documentary focused on one American and one British explorer, both sturdy young men in their twenties or early thirties. Clearly they are funded by equipment sponsors: BodyGlove was prominently displayed, and the BBC made sure that its logo was visible in the closing credits, though this was ostensibly a Discovery Channel production. Yet the earnestness of the explorers was clear. The documentary, which began with our intrepid explorers hacking away at heavy jungles with machetes in hand and a lone burro in tow, ended as the divers emerged in the tropical waters off a tourist-filled beach as the voiceover bemoaned the potential pollution about to be caused by the burgeoning development of resort areas throughout the Yucatan.
And so it goes: the ongoing conflict between preservation of the world’s dwindling resources an pursuit of historical knowledge vs. the unceasing push for development as societies move towards the future. I, too, wish to boldly go where others have not gone before, though not at the expense of what has preceded. How can one resolve the conflict between Picard’s love of archeology and his avowed ongoing mission?
The Discovery Channels are amazing. Ever since the television show, Sea Hunt, I’ve been fascinated by scuba diving. Jacques Cousteau, of course, significantly extended everyone’s knowledge of the wonders available to those who dare the depths of the world’s oceans. What I happened upon today was an hour-long documentary about the cenotes, or sinkholes of the Yucatan Peninsula, which serve as one of the current frontiers of exploration for scuba divers who are willing to dare the unknown.
Evidently these cenotes contain deep reservoirs of fresh water in caverns that crisscross the peninsula. Some are linked, while others peter out into crevices too narrow for human passage or into dead ends, reminiscent of their marshy counterparts in the bayous. One fascinating difference, however, is that the caves into which some of these cenotes open contain stalagmites and stalactites, indicating that they were once open to air. There are layers of limestone above and layers of sulfurous water below, creating clouds and layers in what one might falsely assume is all “just” water. There in the darkness where sunlight does not go are eyeless creatures devoid of color, creatures that survive and thrive on hearing, scent, and touch. At first glimpse I was struck by how much they resemble images conjured by science fiction creature feature artists. It made me rethink the stereotyping that visual language is imprinting on the “civilized” children of our tech-savvy society, myself included.
The documentary focused on one American and one British explorer, both sturdy young men in their twenties or early thirties. Clearly they are funded by equipment sponsors: BodyGlove was prominently displayed, and the BBC made sure that its logo was visible in the closing credits, though this was ostensibly a Discovery Channel production. Yet the earnestness of the explorers was clear. The documentary, which began with our intrepid explorers hacking away at heavy jungles with machetes in hand and a lone burro in tow, ended as the divers emerged in the tropical waters off a tourist-filled beach as the voiceover bemoaned the potential pollution about to be caused by the burgeoning development of resort areas throughout the Yucatan.
And so it goes: the ongoing conflict between preservation of the world’s dwindling resources an pursuit of historical knowledge vs. the unceasing push for development as societies move towards the future. I, too, wish to boldly go where others have not gone before, though not at the expense of what has preceded. How can one resolve the conflict between Picard’s love of archeology and his avowed ongoing mission?
Spirit of Christmas?
Just what is the “Spirit of Christmas”?
I was scanning headlines on the Yahoo homepage, as is my wont, when I came across this title: “Americans Let Contractors Do Decorating”; naturally I had to check it out. Evidently the practice of decorating one’s home with enough lights to power a village in celebration of the Christmas Season has spawned a new industry in this country. I’d always thought that stringing up lights and setting out scenes for the season was a family activity that allowed folks to share time while passing on a valuable family tradition, but I must have been mistaken. Evidently it is now both possible and an increasingly common practice to pay others to set up gaudy decorations that consume increasingly scarce fuel resources, just so others can be impressed by one’s “spirit”.
Okay, I can understand people like Andre Agassi and Grant Hill paying for such services. After all, they are professional athletes who are often on the road during the holiday season. What’s more, there’s a good possibility at least Grant has a clause in his contract that forbids him from climbing ladders during the NBA season. What I don’t understand is how there are enough consumers of this service to spawn an industry. In my opinion, people who lack the skills and/or the courage should simply forego the indulgence, for that is what all this decorating is: an indulgence.
I remember when there was just one guy going all out with the lighting. The local newspaper ran an article on the cost of his electric bill for the month of December. Then there were three houses on the island whose families made the task a multi-generational activity, giving other families for miles around an opportunity to enjoy their efforts. Now this custom has become a burgeoning industry. Sure, it gives seasonal field and construction workers another source of income during the cold season, but doesn’t our country already consume more natural resources than is decent for a nation with our population? Haven’t we just come off a serious bit of pissing and moaning about fuel prices? So what’s up with this ostentatious and unnecessary consumption of electricity? Whatever happened to tinsel and stale popcorn, to homemade ornaments and the beauty of a “silent night”? Why are we so determined to drown out internal voices and visions with the glare and cacophony of contemporary technology?
No, I’m not trying to be Scrooge. I’m just trying to reconnect with a useful meaning for this season.
I was scanning headlines on the Yahoo homepage, as is my wont, when I came across this title: “Americans Let Contractors Do Decorating”; naturally I had to check it out. Evidently the practice of decorating one’s home with enough lights to power a village in celebration of the Christmas Season has spawned a new industry in this country. I’d always thought that stringing up lights and setting out scenes for the season was a family activity that allowed folks to share time while passing on a valuable family tradition, but I must have been mistaken. Evidently it is now both possible and an increasingly common practice to pay others to set up gaudy decorations that consume increasingly scarce fuel resources, just so others can be impressed by one’s “spirit”.
Okay, I can understand people like Andre Agassi and Grant Hill paying for such services. After all, they are professional athletes who are often on the road during the holiday season. What’s more, there’s a good possibility at least Grant has a clause in his contract that forbids him from climbing ladders during the NBA season. What I don’t understand is how there are enough consumers of this service to spawn an industry. In my opinion, people who lack the skills and/or the courage should simply forego the indulgence, for that is what all this decorating is: an indulgence.
I remember when there was just one guy going all out with the lighting. The local newspaper ran an article on the cost of his electric bill for the month of December. Then there were three houses on the island whose families made the task a multi-generational activity, giving other families for miles around an opportunity to enjoy their efforts. Now this custom has become a burgeoning industry. Sure, it gives seasonal field and construction workers another source of income during the cold season, but doesn’t our country already consume more natural resources than is decent for a nation with our population? Haven’t we just come off a serious bit of pissing and moaning about fuel prices? So what’s up with this ostentatious and unnecessary consumption of electricity? Whatever happened to tinsel and stale popcorn, to homemade ornaments and the beauty of a “silent night”? Why are we so determined to drown out internal voices and visions with the glare and cacophony of contemporary technology?
No, I’m not trying to be Scrooge. I’m just trying to reconnect with a useful meaning for this season.
Friday, December 02, 2005
Observations on P&P Distribution
Thought I'd take in a movie this evening and noticed something very interesting: "Pride and Prejudice" doesn't seem to be available for viewing in San Francisco, only in the outlying areas around the Bay. Now why would that be?
Jane Austen is one of my all-time favorite authors. At least once a decade, (generally more often,) I reread her complete works. My initial observation that the language is a little out of sync with contemporary usage is quickly swept away as I am caught up in the plots, characterizations, and quips that continually draw me back to these texts. Likewise, I have eagerly watched the few films that have been based on Austen's works, with more and less success.
Now an "updated" version featuring Keira Knightley (sp?) is in release, and I am uncertain as to whether or not I want to see it. The fact that it cannot be found in SF startles me, even though I will have no problem finding it elsewhere. Why is this film unavailable either at the art houses or at the populist theaters? What should I infer from this?
I will update on this subject as opportunity and new information allow.
Jane Austen is one of my all-time favorite authors. At least once a decade, (generally more often,) I reread her complete works. My initial observation that the language is a little out of sync with contemporary usage is quickly swept away as I am caught up in the plots, characterizations, and quips that continually draw me back to these texts. Likewise, I have eagerly watched the few films that have been based on Austen's works, with more and less success.
Now an "updated" version featuring Keira Knightley (sp?) is in release, and I am uncertain as to whether or not I want to see it. The fact that it cannot be found in SF startles me, even though I will have no problem finding it elsewhere. Why is this film unavailable either at the art houses or at the populist theaters? What should I infer from this?
I will update on this subject as opportunity and new information allow.
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