Hallowe'en

Hallowe'en might be evil and dark. Hallowe'en may, in fact, be a celebration of the demonic and satanic and evil underworld. It may, in fact, have as its roots the superstitious fear of the unknown and the subsequent obsequious butt-kissing of Death itself.

It may in fact, somehow, be one of the causes of the not-so-gradual decline of civilization as we know it.

Or.

Or, it might just be a chance to be -- something or someone other than ourselves. It might just be a chance to (pretty harmlessly) thumb our noses at superstition and the unknown; to have fun with (and within) the chaos that is life (and after).

Of course, the kid that shows up dressed as Michael Jackson -- he might be condemned to an eternity of teeth-gnashing. I'm okay with that.

Dean Koontz

Within the right venue, I love Dean Koontz.

What's the right venue?

Well, since you (cosmically) asked, I'll tell you.

I live in Cleveland. In Cleveland, weather pretty much blows about 78% of the time. I live 37 miles from work. When the weather is nice, it takes me about 50 minutes to get there. When it blows (78% of the time, doncha know), it takes me an hour (or more) to get there...which leaves four choices for mental meltdown avoidance during the long commute:

1) Listen to talk radio. This would work, if talk radio in Cleveland wasn't ubiquitiously Rush Limbaugh, Jim Rome, or their many ditto-clones.
2) Listen to music. This works -- except that music requires singing along, and since my voice hurts when I sing along, this is the masochist's choice. By the way, ask me what a sadist does. What does a sadist do, you (cosmically) ask? Beats me.
3) Listen to myself. I'm not so sure, however, whether talking to oneself is the road to breakdown avoidance or a sure symptom of it having already occurred.
4) Listen to books on tape.

I choose to listen to books on tape most days.

By the way, I only ever listen to unabridged versions. If an author had meant for his/her book to be abridged, they'd have written the damn thing shorter. I never understood abridgement. Why would anyone even be a reader if they didn't love the written word and respect the author's craft? And if one does love the written word and respect the author's craft, why would one participate in an eviscerated version of it? I digress, however.

Books on tape are (in Tedworld) best when they are plot-driven. The kind of books I may choose to read at home (dense literary works with strong characterization and layered resonance) may not always be the best books for driving -- driving does, after all, require at least a bit of mental engagement. Listening/reading to Stephen King, for example, works well. If one occasionally misses a paragraph of the (extremely fat) King verbiage (because, for example, one of the many inadequately prepared drivers in Cleveland has plopped themself in one's way), one hasn't missed too too much.

So. Under the aegis of listening (with about 88% engagement) to a book on tape while driving, I love Dean Koontz. He writes page turners, with passable dialogue and impeccable plotting. He creates situations of great variety and ingenuity -- and he doesn't require so much concentration that one might drive into an abutment (and doesn't the word "abutment" sound vaguely dirty?).

Mind you, he can drive you nuts sometimes. His dialogue can be solid, but occasionally (or perhaps a bit more than occasionally) he lets precious, cute, TV-cop-banter substitute for actual conversation. Too, he is a list-maker. Over and over again, instead of writing, for example, "She lay on the floor amongst the spilled candy", he'll write "She lay on the floor, surrounded by Milk Duds and Snickers and Goobers and Milky Way bars, by Ike and Mikes and Fig Newtons and SweetTarts." Yeesh. These sentences (or, sometimes, entire paragraphs) are excellent times to roll your eyes, stop listening, and decide which lane to choose (and to flip off other drivers, as necessary).

I read him, occasionally, at home and on paper. He's okay at home and on paper. He's excellent, though, in the car. I just finished Book Two of his "Frankenstein" series (soon to be a trilogy, I assume) (look for a review later). It wasn't bad -- it was typical Koontz.

Dean Koontz, like John Grisham, was meant to be listened to.

October

How do you review Autumn? How do you attempt to record the nuclear burst of color, the way the breeze contains both the warm hug of Summer and the bitter foreshadowing of Winter, the glorious last gasp of Nature as she pulls in upon herself to reload for next year's bounty? How do you freeze in time the dynamic and unstoppable river that is October?

You don't.

You simply go outside, open your arms, and say "Thank you, God". This fall is already lighting up in awe-inspiring technicolor, and (if it ever stops raining) it just may soon be spectacular.

Kill Bill

Tarantino. You know the legend, you love the legend (as you love all legends that transform a schlumpy loser into a respectable winner). Video clerk turns Hollywood on its ear by becoming the next director that saves Corporate Lockstep Entertainment from itself.

He directs "Pulp Fiction", resurrecting the career (for which we should thank him?) of Vinnie Barbarino and tweaking the Hollywood conventions of storytelling and chronology and hero identification, while knowingly using (and stretching) the established vocabulary of film. His tongue remained pretty firmly in-cheek, even while delivering a loving restatement of film archaeology. "Pulp Fiction" earned all its wild praise; and Tarantino earned all his flavor-of-the-month-wunderkind-beads-of-praise.

But. But.

Since "Pulp Fiction", has any director been more overpraised, overhyped, overrated than Quentin Tarantino? His raison d'etre seems to be to remake bad movie genres in homage, to bring what he perceives as his own special touch to the conventions of Hollywood, to continue to turn corporate filmmaking on its ear. It seems, though, that with his tongue this firmly in his cheek, he's not so much turning Hollywood on its ear as biting Hollywood's ankle, less Quixotic savior than yippy chihuahua.

"Kill Bill" purports to love the chop-socky films while being a subtle parody of them. What Tarantino doesn't seem to grasp, though, is that chop-socky is already so self-parodying that creating his own seems like pouring salt on Lot's wife. "Kill Bill" tries be bravura filmmaking, mixing styles and genres and storytelling methods, but by being stylish for the sake of being stylish, and unendingly repeating the same images (limbs (and heads!) being cut off while the torso sprays blood everywhere, for example), it merely comes off as a stylish but ulimately pedestrian remake.

As interesting as every single movie ever made may be to the ex-video clerk, not every single movie deserves remake or homage.

I should probably, by the way, be less hard on Travolta. After all, since the revelation of his very good work in Pulp Fiction, he has brought us "Broken Arrow" and "Battlefield Earth" and "Swordfish". Wait, never mind.

Corpse Bride

The old saw about the dancing poodle often leaps (or dances) to my mind: "It's not how well he dances, but that he dances at all." While I enjoyed "Corpse Bride" very much, I kept wondering when we were going to get past the dancing poodle of stop-motion animation and get to the real meat of the thing.

"Corpse Bride" is a Tim Burton movie, which (by definition) implies the creation of an artistic universe in which unexplained randomly dark elements exist; in which primary attention is paid to the art of the thing and secondary (or lower) attention is paid to actual plot and characterization. When you see a Tim Burton movie, you have to go in knowing that. You have to go in with no expectation of richly nuanced characters or subtle and wise plots.

This may give the appearance that I don't like Tim Burton as a director. Nothing could be further from the truth. Artistically, his movies always stun -- always. From the bizarro world of Pee-wee Herman to the bleak and cluttered Gotham City; from the inhuman cast of "Mars Attacks" to the inhuman cast of "Planet of the Apes" to the (most human of all) circus freaks in "Big Fish", Burton sees God in the details....and it is good.

"Corpse Bride" is like that -- filled with eye-feasts and visual puns (like the box of hands in the, um, "Second Hand Shop"). In Tim Burton's universe, the land of the living is entirely painted in shades of gray and black, limned in sepia. In his land of the dead, color abounds. Tim Burton is (and has always been) attracted to a side of life that is decidedly off-center, if not completely off the bubble (which makes me sidebarishly note that, while I greatly admire his sensibilities, he may not be the guy with whome I want to share my Thanksgiving table). The beauty of the worlds he creates, the highly-comic moments, the compelling nightmare quality of the film make this enjoyable, indeed -- even if all of those moments serve only the moment, and almost never the plot or characters.

In fact, the characters themselves are little more than ciphers -- holding-places in the plot. And as for that plot....this is a fable of sorts, and one can't hold the plot of a fable to the same candle that one holds Pinter. Still....the plot of "Corpse Bride" places itself squarely on a high-wire suspended over a pit of inanity -- and doesn't always stay upright. Victor, through sheer coincidence, ends up with the murdered and dead bride of the man who currently plots to steal and do the same to Victor's fiancee? The holes in the story could fill Albert Hall (which, by the way, we now know how many that requires).

Bafflingly, this movie occasionally breaks into song, although it's not a musical. Odd. Odder still is the fact that long-time Burton collaborator Danny Elfman has penned, arguably, the most forgettable and meandering songs I've heard in, well, ever.

Still, one should go into a Tim Burton film with Burtonesque expectations, and in that world I did, in fact, enjoy the movie very much. It's beautiful to look at, intriguing to behold, and full of dark humor. See it.

Then go home and read some Tony Hillerman.

Mad About You

I sat, blimplike and content, and let the television slip 30 minutes of electronic soma into my soul. Proud of that? Maybe not...but embarassed? Um, not at all.

"Mad About You" came on, and I decided to write a review of it. I liked that show very much, back in the day, and now, through the cold light of cynical immaturity....I liked it very much.

So I planned my review: Paul Reiser's wise but schlumpy husband;, Helen Hunt's near-bitchy but intriguing, loving and sexy wife; dialogue that quips and sizzles but never (or rarely rarely) falls into television-scriptwriter-cute....quirky, likeable, real characters whose company you enjoy and whose relationship you envy.

But before I write all this stuff, I need to know one thing: does liking this show make me a girl?

By the way? I love Steven Wright. Is anyone-- living or dead -- funnier than he?

The Princess Bride

Okay. I'm a cynic, but a cynic always waiting (and almost always unrewardedly so) to be charmed.

Movies that try to charm, that break out the corporate spreadsheet of "charming elements" and carefully laid out "moments", unfailingly fail to do so. Nothing charming ever came out of a suit. And make no mistake -- Hollywood is all about suits and spreadsheets. "Charm" is a celebrity 'Q rating' measurement, not a viable goal.

And yet, somehow, in spite of itself, Hollywood does occasionally produce pure and lovely charm. "The Princess Bride" is (with no close second) the most charming movie ever (in Tedworld, certainly, if not the rest of the knowable universe).

"The Princess Bride" is a fable set within a story; it is about the power of love to endure, the miracle of friendship, the gift of loyalty....and it is just as much about the importance of storytelling itself. It's about the power that a love story can have to open our own hearts to love.

Populated by the most bizarre set of fun characters -- from Christopher Guest's six-fingered count to Wallace Shawn's pompous screeching sicilian; from Peter Falk's bold grandfather to Fred Savage's nicely restrained turn as the sick boy; from Mandy Patinkin's driven swordsman ("My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.") to Cary Elwes' noble stableboy posing as the Dread Pirate Roberts (and who the heck ever named a pirate that?) -- "The Princess Bride" holds you riveted by the humor and intense likeability of the characters and the film itself.

Is it perfect? Well, probably not -- although the only minor quibble I can assert is that Billy Crystal and Carol Kane's brief scene is more full of Catskills schtick than actual characterization....but this is mere quibble, because schtick or not, their scene is fiercely funny, too.

This movie I love. This movie simply makes me glad that stories and storytellers still exist. This movie does nothing less than make me glad to be alive.

Cynicism begone.

America's Next Top Model

God help me.

I watched it.

I don't watch much television anymore (and my world is largely better for it)....furthermore I (almost always) simply refuse to watch bad television.

But....God help me. I watched Tyra Banks and "America's Next Top Model".

I watched a celebration of shallowness encrusted with naked hedonistic ambition. I watched beauty, yes...but beauty that barely made it to skin depth. I watched shallow poseurs intentionally posing -- striving to be something they are not, to please others shallower (if only atomically) than they.

I watched Tyra Banks prove that she should thank God she's not been required to talk during her long modeling career. I watched people act as if modeling were IMPORTANT -- nay, I watched people act as if modeling were The Most Important Thing In The World!

God help me.

Mr. Congeniality

Bill Belichik as Genius.

Wait, lemme pick myself back up, rearrange my clothes, brush the time-space-continuum-breaks outa my hair.....

Belichik. Genius. He of the "We must release the incredibly popular Bernie Kosar because of diminishing skills" pronouncement (said skills, of course, still being present enough for Bernie to help lead the Cowboys to a Super Bowl win)....he of the "I can only go by what I see".....

...he of the 3 rings.

That's the fact that stuck in my craw. At first. Three rings. I'm, um, no longer young....and in my more-than-youthful years, I've celebrated how many rings? Oh, yeah. Zero.

Yet fate would grant the "Genius" moniker on ol' Bill? I've even heard (more than once) the phrase "coaches from the Belichik Tree", as if his sap was somehow ambrosia. I really hated him in Cleveland, and really wanted to drink the Kool-aid when he won in New England.

But here's the thing: yes, I still hate what he did when he was here ...but...people change. He still may not be exactly the guy I want to go see that "Ya-Ya Sisterhood" movie with, but people do change, and (it turns out) he's a good coach. He actually does know what he's doing.

For those here in Cleveland, though, who believe we let a(nother) good one go, take heart in this: He didn't know what he was doing when he was here. He didn't figure it out until he was fired....and he's hard-headed enough that he (probably) woulda never figured it out until he got fired.

So (and I'm sure this will give him that sorely-missed sleep of serenity) I forgive him.

Intolerable Cruelty

In everyone else's world, people wear suits, they drive to work, they hold conversations about baseball and bagels and baby beets. In the Coen brother's world, senior partners at major law firms have tubes dangling from the middle of their chests and subscribe to "Living Without Intestines".

It's a strange place.

It's a strangely compelling place, mind you, to those who like the Coen brothers. Many of their movies -- most, perhaps -- are difficult to recommend to the average moviegoer. How do you send mom to go see a movie in which a criminal stuffs body parts into a wood chipper; in which a massive flood brings a biblical denoument to a picaresque odyssey; in which The Dude's only comment to the nihilists when they invade his bathroom is "Nice marmot" (just before they toss the marmot (actually, a ferret) into the tub with him). It's a strange place.

"Intolerable Cruelty" is their first (and, if I were a betting man, I'd bet their last) foray into Romantic Comedy. In their world, though, romantic comedy is unlike anything imagined in Hollywood. George Clooney and Catherine Zeta Jones, the main characters, are selfish, ambitious liars, surrounded by equally ambitious enablers. They cheat and destroy others with impunity. At one point, George (a divorce attorney/shark) is overheard saying that yes, of course the son's needs are important, but they will need to discuss whether his special education expenses are truly necessary.

Somewhere in the middle of act 3, both characters try to kill each other....which is expected in a black comedy like "War of the Roses", but which jars under the aegis of Romantic Comedy. But this is the Coen's world, and what rules there may be will be ever distorted.

Is this movie funny? Yah, you betcha. Does at least some of the humor arise from the precipitate hedonism of the protagonists? Sure, that too....and all this is filtered through the virtually unimaginable weirdness of the Coen's world. It's not our world -- it only (somewhat, and by fits and starts) resembles it.

"Intolerable Cruelty" is a re-imagining of and (semi) loving homage to the screwball comedies of the past -- soft-headed man falls for hard-hearted woman, so forth -- and a gentle send-up of same. George Clooney's performance (and, to a lesser extent, Catherine Zeta Jones' performance) are twists on (and virtual parodies of) the acting style of the 40's. Taken on their own, the performances don't entirely work (Clooney tries so hard, and it seems like a performance in which the actor is trying soooo hard). Within this darkened vision of Cary Grant's universe, though, the performances (almost) do work.

Working less effectively is the contrivedly happy ending. Were these any other filmmakers, I would dismiss it (and, retroactively, the entire movie) as sentimental and forced. This being the Coens, I'm more inclined to accept it as their final homage. Didn't work for me, although I (think I) get it.

The bottom-most bottom line lies here -- I enjoyed the movie, and it accomplished (most of) its goals. Not bad things by any schema, and downright rare in Hollywood. See it, enjoy it, and think not of it afterwards. It was always their world.

Boston Legal

More because of schedule than desire, in this year's new television season, I haven't watched a single episode of a single show -- drama or comedy -- save one. "Boston Legal" blipped on my radar last year, and I'm continually delighted by it's boiled admixture of outrageous characterization, bold story lines, and philosophical examination of the nature of 'The Law'.

Who would have thought that William Shatner would be good? In anything? At all? I mean.....he's such an......affected!.....actor. His style has....always.............. been annoying.

But damn, he's in control and funny in this show. "I'm Denny Crane" he barks, both mantra and plea for recognition.

His combination of over-the-top blowhard and (occasionally) introspective self-aware realist is always fascinating, and more than occasionally brilliant. His relationship with the tortured, amoral, win-at-all-costs (while putting himself and his career on the line for those clients in whom he believes) Alan Shore (as played in layered depth by James Spader) sizzles.

These two men understand each other. These two men like each other. These two men are fundamentally alike while being spectacularly different. Denny Crane views justice as a nice thing to happen, but peripheral to the act of practicing law. Alan Shore hoists himself on his own petard weekly to save his clients, but remains soulfully troubled by the fact that he commonly frees guilty clients. Justice (and the lack of same) drives him; his own success both fuels him and torments him.

Is "Boston Legal" a perfect show? Oh, no -- but no no no. When Spader and Shatner are not on screen, it's time to freshen up your popcorn, paint the ceiling, write your novel. I find that I don't care -- in the slightest! - about any of the other characters.

To their credit, the producers (pretty much) realize that, and focus most of their attention on Denny Crane and Alan Shore, separately and together. There are few shows that I go out of my way to catch. This is one of them.

Shopgirl

Mirabelle is adrift. She, herself, might define herself as "stuck at a crossroads", but truly she's on no path at all. She sells gloves at a time when ladies no longer wear gloves; she is an artist with neither the connections nor the ambition to enter the scene; she's in a dead-end relationship with a dead-end guy.

She stays at the store, with her private art, in the empty relationship because she has no burning (or even mildly warm) desire to do much else. She takes her daily meds to stabilize her bi-polar disease, she indulges in self-love, and only occasionally wonders if there's more.

She is the central character in Steve Martin's "Shopgirl", and at first glance, one might wonder at the wisdom of spinning a novel (or, in this case, a novella) around such a hub. When in the hands of a genuinely gifted observer like Steve Martin, however, one need not wonder -- one need only immerse within the warm depths of this fine book.

It's been a long time since Steve Martin wore the arrow through his head, that wild guy. It's been almost as long since he dazzled us with inventive and brilliant comic performances in innovative movies. His current actor/persona -- playing the befuddled middle-ager in befuddlingly bad movies -- did not prepare me for a book so flat-out well written. His talent is the rare kind that paints broad and telling portraits with the smallest of phrases.

The plot, such as it is, turns when Mirabelle meets Ray Porter, a man old enough to be her father (and rich enough to pursue her with lavish gifts). He, in his own way, is as emotionally crippled as she, and as their meandering roads cross and divert, spin and dance and, ultimately head off into their own lands, each learns something about themself.

Or maybe they don't, and that's quite the point of "Shopgirl". Life is rarely about those moments that change us, those events that teach us to be better people. We are who we are. Mirabelle and Ray don't become role models for personal growth -- they simply live in their moments, in the same moments we all have.

This book is special, but not because of lessons learned and battles won. This book is special because it celebrates the life in all of us, the virtue and vitality inside those the city overlooks. "Shopgirl" is a warm, wry, funny (although not the "spit your coffee" kind of funny), literate, intelligent (and short!) read. Steve Martin is a novelist to treasure.