Try And Stop Me -- Reviews of Everything

Winter Olympics

2006-02-22T08:59:00.000-05:00

I love the Winter Olympics. God help me, but I love 'em.

I know it's popular right now to disdain them. Jim Rome (who openly hates them (and who (not coincidentally) is a sneering idiot)) says that it's impossible to follow sports we don't care about, played by athletes we've never heard of....and all that compounded by the 10 hour(ish) tape delay from Italy. I see that American Idol (that paeon to all that is selfish and ego-driven and mean about America) is smoking the Olympics in the ratings.

I've heard others say their only interest in the Olympics is in the medal count -- how the U.S.A. is doing in gold and silver -- and since we traditionally don't do that well in the winter sports, there's no reason to watch.

I get their point; I do. But they're wrong, all of 'em.

What the Olympics offer -- far more than any other sporting event -- is the opportunity to witness rare and stunning dedication and courage. I think of Kerry Strug, doing her last vault with a broken leg and sticking the landing to lead her team to the gold medal. She had to be carried off the mat, but she stuck her landing. Kerry's vault may be the most inspirational and amazing sports memory I have. I think of Zhang Dan -- the chinese skater who crashed spectacularly during her pairs event (looked to me, when she went down, like she broke both knees) -- getting back on the ice, nailing her jumps, and earning the silver medal.

Contrary to popular belief, the Olympics is not about jingoistically cheering for Americans above all else; it's not about counting medals. Don't get me wrong -- I always want the American team to do well, and sure, I root for 'em. But that's not why I watch. I watch to see the athletes reaching heights that can only be imagined by most of us. Heck, reaching heights that (in most cases) were only imagined by the athletes themselves.

These are athletes that, most of 'em, won't earn in a lifetime what a mediocre baseball player will earn this year; yet they train and focus with a dedication that would shame most of the finest pro athletes that ever played.

The Olympics matter, current snideness aside. Do you think Tonya Harding would have whacked the Kerrigan chick over any other figure skating event? This is the Olympics, and they matter.

No, I don't get curling. No, I can't discern the difference between the fastest bobsledders and the slowest...but I can see the joyous elation on the face of a bobsledder when he learns that he has vaulted into the lead by one-hundredth of a second.

This is sports. This is what sports is. It's competition for the joy of it; it's competition that drives you to be far more than you ever thought you could be, far more than most humans can ever be. This is drama, and inspiration, and I love it.

Reviews

2006-02-21T09:22:00.000-05:00

I started this blog (and (rather defiantly) named it "Try and Stop Me"), because whenever I see anything, read anything, hear anything, I tend to regale (read: bore) my friends and loved ones with my opinions on said item.

Given that, I can't believe it's been a couple of months since I regaled/bored about anything. It's certainly not been that I've had no opinions in those months...yet I've not felt (quite so) compelled to foist 'em.

Part of me wonders why that is; and yet another part wonders why I (or anyone) would ever think of expounding upon anything, given a world that is subjectively perceived through these eyes only, parsed by my cold-firing brainstem only; recapitulated through these sticky fingers only.

I mean, why would anyone -- anyone! -- care about my thoughts re: "Narnia" or "Forever Odd' or the Winter Olympics? Given that some people actually think that "Married with Children" was something other than drek, it's clear we don't all think or perceive alike. So why bother to read a review, much less write one?

Reading someone else's review can -- sometimes -- help me decide whether to see a particular movie...but unless I completely know and trust that reviewer -- and unless I have previously found their taste and sensibility to be fairly lockstepped with my own -- it's rarely of much use. Reading a review of a movie I've just seen is equally non-edifying, usually. When I agree with the review, the review simply restates what I already believe, which doesn't really help me....and when I disagree, the review itself is simply (in Tedworld) relegated to the (huge) psychic crap pile.

Yet I read 'em anyway....probably because (I suspect) it engenders a feeling of community. It's nice to think that someone else loves "The Princess Bride" or "Charly". It's comforting to know that someone else is completely mystified by professional wrestling. When someone mentions that they think "Bye Bye Birdie" was an evil plot hatched upon Broadway for the express purpose of making audiences stupid, like some theatrical terrorist plot, I want to be their friend for life.

So why do I write 'em? Do I think I'm always right, or that anyone would/should care? Oh, no, no, no. Not at all.

I have learned that -- for me alone -- I like the process of formulating a review. It engages my brain about the movie/book/cd/show/event I've just experienced, which enriches the worthy experiences in my memory, and helps defang the (manifold) drekky ones. So writing a review becomes a sort of personal thing -- an adjunct to my journal, a thing done for me.

And yet. And yet....do I want someone to read these reviews? Yeah, I do....and I wonder why.

So. I'm (as best I can) re-committing to produce reviews. They're a part of me....and read or unread, I (mostly) like doin' 'em. Coming soon will be reviews of Dean Koontz's "Odd Thomas", and "Narnia", and "Spellbound", and "Will and Grace" and "My Name is Earl" and the Winter Olympics.

Try and stop me.

The Office

2005-12-02T11:02:00.000-05:00

Geeze, this show is funny.

I could (and probably should) write a long, impassioned review of "The Office", explaining how unwaveringly perfect is Steve Carrell's interpretation of the king of cluelessness; how spookily creepy is Rainn Wilson's Dwight (when he dressed as the emperor from Star Wars for a Hallowe'en party (and managed to both parody Star Wars and infuse the emperor with Dwight's special brand of cowardly self-importance), I thought I'd spit my coffee laughing); how subversively charismatic is John Krasinski's Jim (who very much plays the everyman observer, the greek chorus, the rational reality dose that the other characters all lack).

I could, and probably should.

But I'm leaving it at this: Geeze, this show is funny!

Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire

2005-11-28T10:51:00.000-05:00

The very concept of "franchise films" evokes McCrappy food and a "serve 'em up, shove 'em out, 'next!' attitude" that wouldn't seem to mesh with the desire to dine well. It's the rare sequel that provides anything new, much less substantial or tasty. Amazingly for Hollywood, the first three Harry Potter films hadn't taken that tack -- if anything, the producers may have almost been a bit too respectful of the books. They treated the books as biblical, errorless, fundamentalist documentaries on the wizarding life.

Still, probably because of that respect, the first three films were successful, in both tone and character, capturing the sense of magical whimsy that made the books so compelling to such a wide range of readers. The effects were, almost without exception, devices that served the story, rather than ends in and of themselves.

So, when the 4th film was to be directed by a new director, and to star someone other than Richard Harris as Dumbledore, trepidation flew on greasy wings into the abyss of my muggle heart (hey, if one can't mix weird metaphors in one's own blog, where can one mix 'em?).

Fears unfounded. "Harry Potter and The Goblet of Fire" is a qualified success. Of course, one doesn't go into this film with the same expectations as, say, a Merchant/Ivory flick, but that shouldn't diminish the (almost) complete fulfilling of said expectations. This film (like it's biblically-rendered sourcebook) is dark (as the whole series gets darker and darker). Semi- major characters die; Voldemort emerges alive and predatory; Harry and his cabal endure rifts and teenage angst and hormonal assault.

This last point teeters on one of the weaknesses of this film (and scary future of the series): Daniel Radcliffe, the titular star, is 16 years old (when Harry is supposed to be 14). He looks a lot older than that. When Harry becomes pubescent, will it look a little weird to have a 6 foot tall, twice-daily-shaving actor playing him?

"Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire" also feels like a movie that is missing some key scenes. The book explored the fear and pain and heartbreaking emotions of first love. The movie, for the most part, simply glosses over that -- and in the one section of the movie in which it plays a major part (Harry and Ron and Hermione at the ball), dropped scenes reduce the section to filler material.

Voldemort could have been scarier, Dumbledore could have been more imperial, Sirius could have had more than one small scene played in a box of coals. This might be particularly notable, given Sirius's importance to the next book/movie). Still, these are quibbles with a movie I enjoyed very much.

By the way, don't you just love the pornsound of the phrase "titular star"?

The Weather Man

2005-11-17T09:53:00.000-05:00

I really wanted to like "The Weather Man". I think Nicholas Cage (when he chooses to actually act instead of to walk through some misbegotten action movie travesty) is a terrific actor, with shades and layers and power. I also really like movies that explore people and ideas instead of explosions and unsubtle humor. I really wanted to like this movie.

Nicholas Cage plays Dave Spritz (nee Spritzer), a man whose life is an unrelenting mess. He's divorced from a wife who (pretty much) hates him; he's the father of a son in trouble with drugs and a homosexual pedophilic counselor; he tries and tries to connect with his disaffected and terribly obese daughter; and he's the son of a Pulitzer Prize-winning author (played rather woodenly by Michael Caine) who is deeply disappointed in him. Dave Spritz is a weather man, although even he is aware that his only talent lies in reading a teleprompter. He's not a meterologist -- he doesn't even understand much of what he cheerfully reads to his Chicago viewers. Ultimately, it's Dave Spritz who is disappointed in himself.

Cage is (mostly) terrific, although in more than one scene he substitutes an utter lack of reaction for a depressed introspection. Hope Davis, as his ex-wife, is similarly powerful -- but the real find in this movie is Nicholas Hoult, who plays the troubled son. Hoult is quintessentially a young man trying to reach adulthood while still carrying the twin baggage of his naivete and his dysfunctional family. He's by turns engaging and maddening, confused and confusing, mature and painfully non-wordly.

So why didn't I like this serious, artfull movie?

First, it should be noted that "The Weather Man" is unrelentingly depressing. It starts with a man and a family in trouble, and ends with a man whose issues remain unresolved, whose life remains lonely. That's not, in and of itself, reason to avoid a movie -- but it's certainly not, in and of itself, reason to rush into a movie, either.

The real problems I had with "The Weather Man" fell into two categories. First, this is a movie that uses voiceover extensively. Unnendingly, ubiquitously. It uses voiceover to introduce scenes; it uses voiceover to conclude scenes; it uses voiceover to remind us of the scene we've just watched. All this talking, all this background blathering has the strange effect of distancing the audience. Movies work viscerally best when they have an emotional immediacy. Dave Spritz's depressed rumination turns "The Weather Man" into someone else's sad and ancient history.

Worse, it hammers its metaphors. For example, in one nicely written scene, Cage eloquently describes the vagaries of weather, its unpredictability and volatility, but then observes (for the disengaged cretins who juuuust might have missed it) that "I am the weather". Nothing ruins a nice analogy quite as effectively as nudging the audience and saying "See? Analogy! This is an art film!" It's the cinematic equivalent of explaining a joke to the humorless....it doesn't amuse the humorless, and annoys those that got it in the first place.

Also, too many story elements are simply introduced and then dropped -- the story of the son's pedophilic counselor, for example, is examined for a while. Then, when the son gets in trouble for rejecting the counselor's advances, the parents are conflicted as to whether their son is telling the truth. It's a nice representation of the conflict all parents feel when their children are revealed to be less than perfect...but that element (like so many other elements of this film) is then dropped, never to be examined again. Ditto the rare glimpses we get of his daughter's tortured inner life; ditto his novel.

Finally, to my deep annoyance, Hollywood (with its seemingly bottomless talent for mis-representing film) has marketed this as some kind of James Brooksian dramady -- revealing the few comic moments of this movie in the trailers. This is most certainly not a dramady. "The Weather Man" will not send you out smiling -- it's no one's "feel good" movie, and marketing it like one not only utterly lies to the audience as to what kind of movie we're about to see, it also robs those few comedic moments of their power to lighten and humanize the mood.

Still, there is much -- much! -- to like about this movie and the performances. Despite Michael Caine's staidness early, his final scene -- describing how a parent never quits worrying about and parenting his children -- is eloquent and sweet, and (almost) worth the price of admission all by itself. Almost.

I just wish "The Weather Man" had been the movie it could have been, should have been, wanted to be. Instead, when I left the theatre, I wanted (needed!) to go find something to make me happy, to rinse off the pall that clung to me like poison ivy.

Sideways

2005-11-16T09:53:00.000-05:00

I'm usually leery of Best Pictures. The Academy doesn't have the greatest sense of what actually constitutes a good (much less "best") picture. Ever since I watched "Out Of Africa" and spent 2 1/2 hours wanting to swallow the clorox, I've taken the "best" appellation with the proverbial salt grain.

So. I took it as a good sign that "Sideways" did not win the oscar. It did appear on most critic's "top ten" lists, which may or may not mean anything. Still, the nomination(s) did raise some expectations of quality -- which were ultimately and amply rewarded.

Movies like this are not nearly so much about the plot (such as it is) as they are about the people, and the performances, and the corners and alleys of life. Movies like this are what keep true movie lovers returning to the theatre, even when that means wading through a Vin Diesel glut. In "Sideways", Jack is getting married, and his best friend/best man Miles decides, as a wedding gift, to take Jack on a weeklong road trip. To Miles, this trip will be about treating Jack, about introducing him to the peculiarly satisfying world of wine-tasting, about re-strengthening their pure bond of friendship. To Jack, this trip will be about one last single fling, about embracing his inner caveman, about getting laid.

The performances in "Sideways" are fine and funny and felicitous. Thomas Haden Church exudes macho comfort as Jack. He's quirky and believable, and although his character is not as sharply drawn as Miles, he is nuanced and interesting. Although Jack is pretty much an unrepentant rogue, you can't help but identify with his growing frustration at the way Miles continually turns his back on life, on risk, on anything more social than sticking his nose deeply into a wine glass.

Miles, as brilliantly portrayed, by Paul Giamatti, is layered and deep, full of tics and fears and unsalved pain from his two-year-old divorce. He meets (and falls for) Maya, but can't seem to reconcile his feelings for her with his need to wallow in loneliness.

At one point, Maya asks him why he likes Pinot so much, and in a bravura piece of acting he delivers a brilliantly conceived monologue:
"I don’t know. It’s a hard grape to grow. As you know. It’s thin-skinned, temperamental, ripens early. It’s not a survivor like Cabernet that can grow anywhere and thrive even when neglected. Pinot needs constant care and attention and in fact can only grow in specific little tucked-away corners of the world. And only the most patient and nurturing growers can do it really, can tap into Pinot’s most fragile, delicate qualities. Only when someone has taken the time to truly understand its potential can Pinot be coaxed into its fullest expression."

Maya, for her part, describes why she likes wine:
"I do like to think about the life of wine, how it’s a living thing. I like to think about what was going on the year the grapes were growing, how the sun was shining that summer or if it rained... what the weather was like. I think about all those people who tended and picked the grapes, and if it’s an old wine, how many of them must be dead by now. I love how wine continues to evolve, how every time I open a bottle it's going to taste different than if I had opened it on any other day. Because a bottle of wine is actually alive -- it’s constantly evolving and gaining complexity. That is, until it peaks -- like your ‘61 -- and begins its steady, inevitable decline."

It's clear that both these characters have just described themselves, in a paroxysm of self-awareness that is both sweet and sad. Unlike "The Weather Man" (to be reviewed shortly), the script doesn't bash us with its Deep Meaning. Instead, like wine itself, this movie is a living thing, that grows within us as we savor it's nuance. It's most definitely not f'ing merlot.

"Sideways" is about self-realization, about loving the person who also makes you crazy, about knowing when to feed the flame and when to let it gutter and die. "Sideways" is subtle and funny and flat-out wonderful.

The West Wing Live Debate

2005-11-07T09:53:00.000-05:00

I didn't arrive early to "The West Wing". More's the pity, because once I started watching it (somewhere in season 3, I think) I got hooked on the crispness of the writing. Whip-smart dialogue (assuming that a whip is, in fact, somehow smart) being delivered by characters that are quirky and intelligent and flawed and real will hook me every time.

So. Imagine my disappointment as the seasons went on, and what had been crackling dialogue became polemic; what had been human characters became inexplicably-acting ciphers. "The West Wing" slowly turned from 'must watch' to 'will watch' to 'background noise for boxer-folding'.

The ratings have reflected it, as well, which is why last night they resorted to stunt. The fictional presidential candidates held a debate, and they did it live. Alan Alda and Jimmy Smits are veteran enough (and have enough stage experience) that the plan can't have been too too daunting. Being as susceptible to stunt as the next guy, though, I did watch, for (probably) the first time this season.

Smits and Alda did well -- better than well, probably. They looked and sounded presidential, and they portrayed their quintessential political stances with believability and conviction. Further, the live aspect of it played well, as the occasional stumble over words added a verisimilitude that only added to the overall effect. So, give "The West Wing" an A (or A-, anyway) for execution.

But. But. It still wasn't a success in any artistic (or story/character arc) way. First, the script tried desperately to have it both ways. It tried to present both liberal and conservative points of view in realistic ways. Alda's conservative senator is a good man who embraces conservativism as the proper program for America -- ditto Smits's liberal senator -- yet at the same time, it portrayed Smits as vibrant and thoughtful and youthful while Alda smirked and postured and spouted. It's difficult to imagine any real person watching such a real-world debate siding with Alda's conservative agenda. It's okay for a show to take a stance (and I have no problem with the stance it took), but to pretend to be balanced while so obviously leaning to the left seems presumptuous at least, and pretentious and prevaricatious (which, if it ain't a word, should be) at worst.

Worse that that, however, is this: political debates are inherently dull. One watches in the real world when one is trying to decide between real-life candidates. One rarely (or never) watches them for entertainment. Last night's experiment (stunt) was too realistic (by far) -- it not only captured the ambiance and clutter of a political debate, it captured its boredom.

Is "The West Wing" now done as a viable series? Maybe. Probably. And yes, that makes me sad.

Waiting for Guffman

2005-11-03T09:01:00.000-05:00

I want to love "Waiting For Guffman".

I laughed -- a lot -- while identifying with the characters and with their (spectacularly misplaced) passion for their quest. In order to honor the 150th birthday of their home town of Blaine, Missouri, they're staging an amateur musical-theatre production ("Red, White, and Blaine"). The performers (ordinary(?) townfolk all) have an enduring (and endearing) belief in the depth and breadth of their own talent, and in the potential of "Red, White, and Blaine" to become Broadways' next smash. All they need is a break...and that break comes, deus ex machinally, in the rumored appearance of Guffman, the famed broadway agent, at their show.

I wanted to love this film. When I watched it, though, I wasn't sure that I did. Having worked (lo, these many years) in amateur theatre, these actor's conviction that they are actually good strikes a little to close to the bone for me. I've never done a show about which we weren't convinced of it's professional quality (all evidence to the contrary being conveniently ignored). We went out there -- every time -- believing we were the best actors, singers, tech geeks this audience had ever seen.

Seeing our amateur self-importance and baseless pomposity skewered -- albeit in such true and humorous ways -- could hurt a little. I mean, even if, on some level, we know we're not Broadway bound, aren't we supposed to act as if we are? Aren't we supposed to take the work seriously, to give it our best, to be all that we can be (militarily cliched as that may be)?

So, I was inclined not to like this movie, even while laughing in recognition.

But here's the thing: while this movie knows us for the silly egoists we may be, it also likes its characters. These are not buffoons. These are not people to be pitied or mocked - -they're just people striving to exceed their own limitation -- hilariously so.

So. I have to admit -- while I (hugely!) recognized myself and many of my peers in this movie, and while I recognized the humor in our quixotic ways, I liked this movie. I liked this movie a lot. It's amiable, and witty, and genuinely human while still being soup-spittingly funny. I'm not sure how much more one can ask of a movie.

And, in the end, when Guffman/Godot does not arrive, the people of Blaine's lives (like those of Estragon and Vladimir) go on (although maybe, possibly, having been gently changed by the waiting). With or without Guffman, they put on their show. That's not really a bad thing at all.

The Pleasure of My Company

2005-11-01T09:40:00.000-05:00

Steve Martin can write.

Lots of people can, of course, and comedians (the good ones, anyway) must write. Words are the heart, the soul, the very lifeblood of most comedians -- excluding, of course, the slapstick/prop comics like Carrot Top and Gallagher and George W. Bush.

Few performers, though, after creating a particular stage persona (to hilarious result) can then create an entirely different (and equally effective) film ouevre. Rarer by far is the artist who can then write in a still different (and still wonderfully literate) voice.

Steve Martin can write.

Creating a novella like "The Pleasure of My Company" is a task that, in most hands, would be fraught with peril. Written in the first person, it is the account of a man suffering from obsessive-compulsive disorder. Daniel is so dysfunctionally obsessed that he can't ride in a car; can't even step off a curb. This limits his world to the destinations to which he he can walk -- further, it limits his world to only those destinations to which he can walk by crossing the street at lined-up driveways (thus avoiding curbs). This, for all intents and purposes, limits his world to the Rite-Aid and the Kinko's (at which he occasionally must touch every corner of every copy machine in order to impose order upon the inherent chaos of the universe). Daniel recognizes the absurdity of such actions even while being imprisoned by them. One would (wrongly, as it turns out) assume that such a protagonist and novel would be, at the very least, off-putting.

Daniel's lives in a world of gentle fantasy (he assumes, for example, that when his Mensa test is returned, they had dropped a digit off the I.Q. score); yet his ironic self-perception (he knows he is not "normal") makes him more endearing than pathetic.

Daniel doesn't so much do things as have things happen to him (he wins a prize as "Most Average American" (and then revels in the irony that an insane man (using his own self-description) might be the most average)); he can't hold down a job, but then receives a huge inheritance from his grandmother. He falls in love with women he hasn't yet actually met (his first love is a real estate agent that he observes from his apartment window; his second is his student-therapist). For all of this, he is remarkably likeable. There is pleasure in his company, and in the end, the reader discovers that there is beauty in the quiet heart. "The Pleasure of My Company" is, as the title implies, not so much about the plot as it is about the calm joy one gets when among friends.

"The Pleasure of My Company" is a lovely book with its own quiet heart, and when its (all too brief!) story is told, I found myself missing Daniel and his wryly accurate observations on the noisier (and just as insane) world surrounding him.

Hallowe'en

2005-10-31T10:06:00.000-05:00

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

2005-10-28T10:22:00.000-04:00

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

2005-10-25T10:09:00.000-04:00

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

2005-10-24T09:37:00.000-04:00

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

2005-10-17T09:37:00.000-04:00

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

2005-10-14T09:57:00.000-04:00

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

2005-10-13T09:10:00.000-04:00

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

2005-10-12T16:35:00.000-04:00

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

2005-10-11T11:08:00.000-04:00

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

2005-10-10T09:55:00.000-04:00

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

2005-10-05T09:57:00.000-04:00

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

2005-10-04T13:57:00.000-04:00

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.

Joey

2005-09-30T13:56:00.000-04:00

It's the writing, it's the writing, it's the writing.

Whenever Hollywood sees a success (like, f'r instance, "Friends"), the hacks in suits try to figure out what makes it a success:

"Hmmm...we need a show with attractive young people bantering"
"We need a show with 3 boys and 3 girls in apartments."
"Get me 6 unknown actors!"

"Friends" was not funny because of the premise, such as it was. "Friends" was just funny. Funny is funny -- and it's the writing!

Doesn't seem that hard to grasp, but apparently it is. The character of Joey Tribiani was funny when the scripts were funny. It's okay, moving the character to California, giving him a quirky sister and a quirky nephew and quirky neighbors and a quirky agent and quirks abounding....it'd be more okay if those quirks were actually funny. And they would be if the writing were funny!

Hmm....maybe I'm being redundant and repetitively redundant -- but "Joey" could be funny if....well, you know. The fact that it isn't is largely because, um....well, you know that, too.

I wish it were funny. Matt LeBlanc was pretty darned humorous on "Friends". Too bad that they didn't bring that quality to this vehicle.

The 60's, The 90's, and Now

2005-09-29T09:46:00.000-04:00

During the Vietnam War, I was in high school -- prime draftable meat, although since I knew I'd be going to college, I wasn't particularly worried about being drafted. Still, I thought the war an abomination -- being waged by a corrupt president for the express purpose of building the coffers of The Man, the military-industrial complex.

Pretty sure I didn't know what the phrase "military-industrial complex" meant (or what "The Man" meant, for that matter). Still, I completely sympathized with the protesters, and considered them at the time to be true patriots. I (mostly) still do, for that matter.Of course, a fair share of them joined the protests simply because it was the thing to do -- young people are nothing if not peer-sheep -- but that doesn't (in my mind) demean the goals or ideals of those who were committed to the movement.

As for me, I didn't participate (much) in the anti-war protests -- I was a little young. I made some posters and put 'em up in the high school; I wore a black armband to school, but that was about it. In fact, some part of me always felt a little sad that I wasn't able to participate. By the time I got to college, the war was long over, Nixon was history, and nobody protested nothin'. I'm sure I would have been a war protester had I been in college earlier....and on some level, a part of me always felt a bit ripped-off that I missed it.

Later, from the perspective of the 90's -- from the perspective of a decade in which I (and most of us) had become The Establishment, with neatly grazed lawns and heavy mortgages and a healthy disdain for modern music -- I wondered how much (if any) difference any of that made. Maybe -- maybe!! -- the social climate fostered by the cynicism and protests ended the war a little earlier, but I'm not so sure about that....and the grand and glorious vision we all had about a new society somehow became smoke and moonbeams. This, also, made me a little sad.

Now, just like the 60's, we're at war again. I, personally, happen to disagree mightily with this war...and I'm not so sure that it's not also being waged to prop up an economy and keep The Man in power. And just like the 60's, people are facing ridicule and hatred, risking careers and relationships to try to bring this war to an end.

But as for me, I do nothing about it.

My point is not about the rightness of the war. My point is about my own social conscience. If, in fact, I believe this war to be wrong, shouldn't I be trying to do something about it? Shouldn't I have the courage to take a stand? If I'm a true "child of the 60's" (whatever the heck that's supposed to mean), shouldn't I be somehow involved in trying to evoke change?

I can't come up with a single good justification for my own inaction...yet I get up, go to work, come home, pull my weeds....

Star Wars III (I)

2005-09-28T16:31:00.000-04:00

Geez.Stop, already.

You hooked us with "Star Wars"...and then really haven't told a good story since then.

The problems with this script (and indeed, all the Star Wars scripts) is epitomized in the scene in which Anakin Skywalker becomes Darth Vader. He sees the emperor (or governor (or some such needlessly titled bad guy))) in a battle with one of his fellow Jedi Knights.

"No!" he screams, in disbelief. "I can't believe it! You've been evil all along! I can't stand evil, and I'll never accept you!"

"Come to the dark side, young skywalker" says the (governor?).

"All righty," says Anakin. "Want I should kill all the little children back home, too?"

I may have paraphrased the scene, but not by that much.

Please. stop. making. these. films.

Star Wars III (II)

2005-09-28T16:27:00.000-04:00

And shouldn't someone buy the future Dark Lord, the newly named Darth Vader, a facial expression? Even one?

No wonder he started wearing that mask.

Monday Night Football

2005-09-27T09:13:00.000-04:00

It might be just me, but I wonder: is there still a real person hidden (deep) within John Madden?

Or has he now become nothing more than a combination of tics and meaningless phrases and "booms"?

He reminds me of a poorly written character in a would-be noir novel -- all eccentricity with no reality. I could comment that he could use some fleshing out, but when I think about seeing him in the camera shots within the booth, perhaps he's plenty fleshed out already.

The Constant Gardener

2005-09-26T10:18:00.000-04:00

Ah, political thrillers. Such a fine line they usually have to walk -- twixt preaching and politically-correct nonchalence -- daunting enough in and of itself. Set the movie in Africa, stir the pot with corporate greed and the never-ending tension of race relations, and good luck, Mr. Director.

"The Constant Gardener" intrigues and infuriates, tempts you and teases you and forces you to re-examine and re-think as the plot unwinds. Ralph Fiennes and Rachel Weisz give empassioned (and in the case of Fiennes, understated and intense) performances, and the plot thickets through which the film navigates keep you guessing. Ultimately, however, "The Constant Gardener" becomes a polemic on the world's indifference to Africa and the free world's obsessive love affair with corporate profit; and ultimately, the film makes its points at the expense of a satisfying film experience.

It begins with the mysterious death of a British diplomat's wife, and then spins immediately back in time to their humble beginnings (a scene which begins with her standing on an unrequested (and largely unwarrented) soapbox and interrupting his tidy little speech; and which ends with the two of them (absurdly) in bed). Now, this film is most definitely not a romantic comedy, and the point of the film is most definitely not how this seemingly mis-matched couple (Hanks and Ryan, anyone?) get together -- but if you're going to include a scene in which they meet and fall in love, at least give it enough flesh so as not to cause the viewer to simply roll his eyes.

Still, together they end up....and once together, her unrelenting activism juxtaposed against his mealy diplomacy generate great tensions. How far will she go to achieve her altruistic aims? Is she, in fact, cheating on him? With multiple lovers? As he realizes that there is more to her undercurrent than to her waves, he tends to keep his knowledge to himself...and as we know only what he knows, we too are awash in mystery. Ralph Fiennes shines here, as a man whose "need to know" wrestles with his "need to pacify". After her death, as he slowly uncovers the mysteries she has kept, he finds himself embroiled in her cause, discarding his mollifying personality and taking up her memory as a knight errant.

Director Fernando Meirelles has chosen to enliven (one imagines) the mystery and surreality of the whole exercise with camera work that is as annoying as hell. He is in love with twitchy, handheld camera shots that are virtually unwatchable (and which, no doubt, would send the average epileptic into seizure) -- and those shots that don't quiver like Jello over the San Andreas tend to focus on Fienne's nostrils, or the back of Rachel Weisz's neck, or some other equally off-putting shot. Two actors of this intensity ought to be seen within the character they portray, and not as the oddly disjointed appendage. They teach in Film 101 (or if they don't, they should) that style is terrific, but style that exists only for its own sake is pointless. "Film Style" is cake icing -- even when tasty, too much of it simply makes for an inedible cake.

Oh, and New Rule: anyone who writes a scene in which the bad guy (for reasons imagined only by the writer) explains (in hoary detail) all the events and motivations that the protagonist would never have ferreted out on his own will be forced, as punishment, to watch all the Gilligan's Island movies over and over and over (and to write an essay explaining how the professor could make a radio out of coconuts but can't patch the damn boat).

So. Should you see it? Probably. The lessons learned here are real, and the scenes shot within real African slums are both disturbing and, in their own way, elegant. The people in such inimaginable poverty still have lives full of music and color, rich and full (and sans television, if you can imagine)...but after you see it, you'll feel more like you attended a strident lecture than a thoughtful film.

Napoleon Dynamite

2005-09-23T17:30:00.000-04:00

Well, I admit I was late to this party. Furthermore, it's the kind of party I hate -- filled with buzzwords and catchphrases; more bumper sticker and t-shirt than script.

It's a pretty reliable rule-of-thumb that the likelihood of my enjoyment of a movie is inversely proportional to the osmosis of said movie into popular culture. And make no mistake about it, "Napoleon Dynamite" is (for now, at least) as thoroughly enfused into popular culture as a weevil into bolls.

So. Attached to this movie are all the things (well, most of them, anyway) that drive me monkey about popular movies.

And yet. And yet.

I liked it very much. I might have loved it, truth be (shyly) told. It's a script like no other -- ever! -- and the perfomances (as filled with pecularity and uncommented oddness as they may be) are spot on. Napoleon is a geek -- Napoleon is a geek's geek -- he's the ubergeek....as played by Jon Heder, he may be the pure distillation of geek.

But here's the thing: this movie is kind to him. We laugh at his quirkiness and (uttter!) lack of social skills, but we never laugh at him. He's not a caricature to be mocked -- he's a fleshed out young man, struggling to find himself. Just like I did. Just like we all did.

And there are those who claim the movie to be plot-free. To this, I say first that Socrates might have been a little overly enraptured by plot, but I also say that this movie absolutely does have a point....and that point is brilliantly captured in his solo dance.

"Napoleon Dynamite" is about friendship and loyalty and individuality and even (especially as seen in the (unimaginably bizarre) courtship of Kip and LaFawnda) embracing one's place in the universe. This movie is important to young people for far more than the collection of quotes they have incorporated into their speech -- even if they don't know why it's important to them. This movie is about all of us, and the way we all struggle to dance through our own dysfunctions.

Even when our lips hurt real bad.

College Football

2005-09-22T12:52:00.000-04:00

I attended an OSU football game (thats The Ohio State University, doncha know) last weekend. I attended a small college (whose football team was excellent (in that small college football way (which is to say we had the best players among the worst group of players in football))). Football games at Dinkburg U. were pretty much a fun diversion if you didn't have anything else to do, and weren't overly hung over.

At the horseshoe, however, it's a different universe.

Now, I'm not stupid or naive (although I did once say that we should give poor misunderstood Albert Belle a break, so I may not be the best judge of my own naivete). Still, I was not prepared for the roiling sea of scarlet and grey, for the mountain of noise within that stadium, for the passion that exploded when the players entered the field.

Three rows ahead of me sat a little old lady, hair as grey as a Cleveland winter....with scarlet spots painted on her head.

I know, I know, college sports has become a hypocritical big business, one in which the primary employees do not participate in the profits. I know, I know.....but the pageantry and ritual and unabashed love there gave me a warm and happy feeling anyway.

When the best damn band in the land spelled out the script "Ohio", I literally got goose bumps...and that's been a while.

Ender's Game

2005-09-20T11:12:00.000-04:00

I used to read science fiction fairly avidly, although (trust me) I never fell (too too deeply) into the SF Nerd pool (No "Live long and prosper"s or Empirial Storm Trooper outfits for me).

Still, somehow I never quite got around to reading "Ender's Game", despite the almost cult-like love for the book (especially (but not exclusively) among young people). I suspect that on some level, the appeal to youth probably made me feel that the book was not an adult book.

Wrong. So terribly, misguidedly, blindly wrong.

"Ender's Game", while concerned with the life of a young man, examines themes of life, and destiny, and dedication and heroism and the triumph of the oppressed. It touches upon xenophobia and genius and what makes a man a man.

"Ender's Game" is a work of unquestioned brilliance.

Prior to the opening of the book, the earth had been attacked by an alien race (and had barely survived). To prevent future attacks, the combined countries of the world decide to seek and destroy the home of the aliens, eliminating the fear of future attacks. Ender Wiggins, a young man in a world set in a recognizable future world, is recruited by the government to participate in their "Battle School".

Battle School is a school located off-planet, populated by a group of super-genius children, bred specifically to act as the military planners that will lead humankind to eventual victory. Ender is both the smallest (and most resourceful) of these children, and he quickly rises to prominence within the Battle School.

Juxtaposing Ender's growth as a leader against his questions about his destiny; watching him find ways to win his battle games while still struggling to survive in the real world of jealousy and politics and youthful exuberance makes for compelling reading....and, unlike many such works, the ending is both satisfying and thoroughly thought-provoking. Ender, and "Ender's Game" will linger long after the book has been read.

Reality TV

2005-09-19T09:02:00.000-04:00

Explain 'Reality TV' to me.

Now, I'm not talking about the whole issue of how unreal reality television is (although the concept of a carefully scripted reality show is pretty oxymoronish)...nor am I talking about the passion with which many viewers identify with the 'contestants'.

After all, it's a fine line, in many cases, between reality shows and game shows....so I do understand the vicarious thrill that's possible when a player wins. Doesn't do much for me, but at least I understand how that could have some appeal.

What confounds me is the ubiquitous and selfish meanness rampant in (most of) these shows. The contestants make no secret of their complete obsession with self (in fact, the shows themselves are set up to reward self-obsession). Moreover, the contestants (often) indulge in taunting and braggadocio not unlike the ugliest WWF or NBA player.

But as viewers, do we -- are we supposed to -- identify with them? Are we supposed to care about and cheer for any of a group of self-promoting, unrepentantly greedy people?

And if we do, what does that make us?

Law And Order

2005-09-16T10:18:00.000-04:00

Yeah, it's a franchise....and a franchise that has lived a long full life. Pasture, anyone?Sam Waterston is still brilliant as the scratchy curmudgeon district attorney, but most of the rest of the luminaries have slowly been replaced by lesser stars. The loss of Jerry Ohrbach was massive -- his cranky cop attitude, his acceptance and struggle with his alcoholism, his wise-guy demeanor and smart mouth, his decaying relationship with his offspring, his reluctance to give in to age...all facets of an intriguing and compelling character.

The guys that replaced him and Jesse L. Martin (fine actors and exemplary citizens in their private lives, I am sure) just didn't have it. I couldn't make myself care about them. And Waterston hasn't had a good foil since Angie Harmon (whose unyielding press for hardline justice made him seem almost gooey). The blond (Elizabeth Rohm) never became more than a bimbo (and no, it's not just because of the hair (although it might have been the pouty lips (kidding, kidding))). I really think it had much more to do with her wooden approach to acting. Couldn't at least one director suggest she employ a facial expression or two?

And who knew how central Steven Hill was? His tough but pragmatic approach to justice brilliantly counterpointed Sam Waterston's inflexibility, creating a weekly dynamic that only grew more sizzley as the years went on. Fred Dalton Thompson just seems hard-assed and unemotional.

Is there hope for this franchise? Maybe, yeah...but I fear (since I watch so little television, anyway) that I won't be around to see it. Very few shows make my short list of must-sees...and "Law and Order" is no longer on that list.

Cinderella Man

2005-09-15T14:30:00.000-04:00

While on vacation, my wife and daughter wanted to see some movie about travelling pants (my 'y' chromosome is blocking my full recall of the flick's title, doncha know). My son and I debated about the list of things we would rather do than view this particular movie....jogging in barbed wire boxers made the list.

So. At the particular multiplex wherein we so waffled, "Cinderella Man" was showing. I didn't have a huge desire to see the movie (despite good reviews), and Russell Crowe is certainly a jerk. But the movie promised scenes of guys punching other guys, and in comparison to the estrogen-fest my girls chose, we decided to see it.

At the very least, we'd be able to indulge in the requisite buttery corn snack.

Turns out that "Cinderella Man" is a terrific movie. Jerk he may be, but Russell can act. The movie itself is a pretty sentimental morality tale centered on a cardboardly heroic figure. In terms of character arc or dramatic flow or even passable dialoge, Russel Crowe received no favors from the script writer.

By the way, do all protagonists have to be unrelentingly good? Whatever happened to the flawed and tragic hero?

Anyway, despite the gooey and flawed script, Crowe's performance was (almost) oscar-worthy. He made an uninteresting guy (albeit one with an unusually interesting story) into a character worth spending time with....even one (dare I say it) that could serve as a viable role model.

Being older than dirt, I've seen roughly 9,000 boxing movies....yet this one made me almost cheer out loud. Ron Howard may plumb the depths of sentimentality, but recognizing that doesn't mean I can't fall for it anyway, when the performance and directing are good enough.

"Cinderella Man" is good enough.

Talk Show Bullies

2005-09-14T16:11:00.000-04:00

I leave the office every day to go to lunch. I find that sitting at my desk for lunch causes all of the following to happen:

1) Everyone living toddles into my office to talk to me, ask me to do things, borrow aspirin, generally disrupt my (mostly derailed) train-of-thought.
2) My blood pressure, stress level, and head-achiness grow like bamboo.

When I leave the office and eat out, the following things happen:

1) No one talks to me (except to say "You want fries with that?"), no one wants anything from me, I get to think about the Browns and the next season of The West Wing" and whether we'd all be better off being hunter-gatherers.
2) My cholesterol and weight grow like the Andromeda Strain.

It's not a perfect set-up, granted, but it's better for me to go out to lunch.
So. Since I take lunch at mid-afternoon, I always hear Jim Rome (who is on opposite Rush Limbaugh) as I drive to my gourmet repast. Both these guys disturb me. Well, truth be told, their listeners disturb me far more.

There's an unpleasant undercurrent in (many) Americans today, a sneering superiority, a build-myself-up-by-slamming-everyone-else attitude, a "Me me me" mode that is, at the very least, unbecoming to a country that prides itself on diversity and acceptance and free speech.

Rush Limbaugh and Jim Rome and Bill O'Reilly (especially Bill O'Reilly) (oops, did I let a bit of my petticoats (otherwise known as "disdain for the right") show?) cater to the most unthinking, mean, and bully-attracted among us. Now, this comment is not meant to convey any opinions as to the general rightness or wrongness of these guys and their ilky ilk....rather, it's the trend of so many people to choose to align themselves with the loudest and pushiest among us that distresses me. Rome and his clones, Limbaugh and his ditto-heads....these are people who choose snideness over kindness, clever put-downs over thoughtful discussion, closed-wall entrenchment over any sort of interpersonal relationship.

These are bullies, no different from Spanky's Butch or Franklin's Adolph....they're small men who speak loudly, and who attract an even louder following full of pride in their own thoughtlessness.

I find it all distressing.

Hidden Prey

2005-09-13T11:13:00.000-04:00

This is yet another of the Lucas Davenport "Prey" novels. I happened upon this series by accident (basically, I was preparing to eat a Whopper (with (plenty of) cheese, thank you very much) and I needed something to read. The CVS next door had about 6 books in their cheesy paperback book section, and one of the Prey novels was there.

1 minute (and 6 bucks) later, I was reading John Sandford and noshing on about 1800 calories of greasy bliss.

What I learned (before my arteries completely clogged) was that Sandford could write, and Lucas Davenport is a heck of a character. Intelligent and tough, dark and multi-faceted (without being noir-brooding-cliched), I found the book an excellent read. Subsequent novels hooked me -- each novel maintained its own raison d'etre (which, I know, sounds vaguely like fruity french cooking) while building interest in the arc of the character.

In "Hidden Prey", Lucas ends up investigating the death of a russian sailor. Soon, he is embroiled (although he does not know it) in an old russian spy ring. The book shifts back and forth between Davenport and the two main spies (Grandpa, an elderly spy who has waited years to be called upon, and Carl, his grandson and would-be protege (and the murderer in question)). Davenport is assisted by Nadya, a russian cop (who, of course, turns out to be a spy herself).

Lots of opportunities for mystery and betrayal and the deliciously slow unfolding of the enigmas within the mysteries. Unfortunately, "Hidden Prey" had none of that. Davenport, for the most part, simply muddles from place to place, accompanied (and frequently annoyed by) Nadya. Nadya, for her part, seems to offer nothing to the investigation or the book (except the observation the America has "too many signs").

Ultimately, the bad guys are outed (much more by luck (and fortuitously absurd plot twists) than by any real detecting)....but about 5 minutes after finishing this book, I had already forgotten most of it. Sandford is better than this. Much better than this.

As Simple As Snow

2005-09-12T14:35:00.000-04:00

I just finished the book "As Simple As Snow"

Um, what would be the emoticon for "absurdly, passionately, bone-chillingly frustrated"? If there was one (and if I used emoticons), this would be the place for it.

Well-written and haunting, the book creates memorable characters with mysterious backgrounds and inexplicable motivations. The plot layers mystery upon mystery, grabbing you, begging you to read to the conclusion....

....said conclusion then containing no answers at all.

Stick a damn needle in my eye, willya?

I mean, I'm not (one hopes (or at least I hope)) a total cretin, and I like having my brain engaged in a good read. In fact, if I remain unengaged I'm unlikely to want to finish the book. But c'mon. You can't make me read it and then explain nothing!

Anna disappears...is she dead? Or pretending to be dead?
Anna communicates with the narrator from the dead...or does she?
Anna hated the art teacher, for no reason we can readily discern (yet the art teacher is a mysterious character, so we want to know what happened there).
Anna listens to shortwave radio channels that broadcast nothing more than continual strings of numbers. What's that about?
The narrator's best friend leaves town (or is he dead, too?). Later he returns -- where was he? Why did he leave?

These and a kabillion other mysteries create a dense and intricate, fascinating world...but they all remain unanswered. Nothing at all gets answered. Nothing.

Especially the most mysterious question of all -- why did I spend so damn many hours reading the stupid thing?

The Day After Tomorrow

2005-09-08T14:32:00.000-04:00

Last night, my daughter and I ordered a pizza and sat down together to watch a movie. We rented "The Day After Tomorrow" (which was her idea). I have to admit I (sorta) liked it. It was not what you might call a good movie, in the sense of having a good script, or good characterization, or good, you know, anything....but it was entertaining, and Roland Emmerich really does know how to blow stuff up .

Pretty dumb, though, really....especially when Dennis Quaid felt he had to travel -- on foot! -- through a storm supercell that had already been identified as being capable of freezing a man solid in seconds. Why? To save, apparently, his son (who was doing just fine in a warm library).

When he got there, what exactly did he do? He hugged him (and got warm (thanks to the son's fire)). This is almost as dumb as the bimbo venturing into the dark basement alone when she knows there's a killer in the house.

No, it isn't -- it's dumber.

The movie then adds really dumb scenes, like the (really! dumb!) scene in which they characters race down a hallway, pursued in some odd and unconvincing way by.....frost.

But he does know how to wreck buildings...and did I enjoy cuddling on the couch with her and eating pizza while watchin' it? Yep. Very much yep.

And my brain was not exhausted afterwards, so there's that.

Million Dollar Baby

2005-09-07T14:29:00.000-04:00

Everything everyone has said about "Million Dollar Baby" is true -- this is the work of three actors on top of their game, and a competent and understated director who stays out of the way.

The performances by Clint Eastwood and Morgan Freeman were (as usual) filled with nuance and unspoken power....but Hillary Swank's performance just blistered off the screen. Glowing with an innocent charisma enfused with the fire of her inner drive, she carried the film as the titular character, the driving force of the plot, and the center of the moral storm.

If I were to fault this movie, it would be for the one-sided presentation of the right-to-die debate. A movie that had, until the ending, been colored in shades upon shadows of gray became a fairly black-and-white examination of the issue. Now, my own liberal sensibilities were not particularly offended by that, but I wish the movie had been a little less sure of itself, had agonized a bit more about the difficulties of the decision.

Still, while perhaps not a perfect movie, "Million Dollar Baby" is nothing short of terrific, and (yet another) tour de force for Clint Eastwood.

Harry Potter and the Half-blood Prince

2005-09-06T14:25:00.000-04:00

"Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince" is far darker and more intense than any of the others, and I liked it very much.

The one thing I always found a little weak in the books was the unrelenting nastiness of Snape and Malfoy. Yes, earlier Snape did have his (sort of) moments of redemption (when he tried to save Harry during the Quidditch match in the first book, for example); and yes, Snape did become a (slightly) more sympathetic character in the 5th book (when we saw Harry's dad cruelly taunting him). But Harry never felt anything but hatred for either character, and I found that a little one-dimensional.

(MAJOR SPOILER ALERT -- SPOILER'S A-COMIN'!)

In this book, though....in this book, Snape reveals his true evil duplicity, and Malfoy (after becoming a Death Eater) shows some fear and even compassion (or at least an unwillingness to utterly embrace evil). Harry gains a small sympathy for Draco and a final and complete hatred for Snape. Both character arcs made this one far more interesting to me....although it's still hard to fathom Snapes coldly murdering Dumbledore. I wonder if we've actually heard the last of Dumbledore (I've been wondering the same thing about Sirius).

This one was a thrilling read, and Harry's embracing of his cold loneliness and singular destiny made the ending of this one uniquely dark and compelling.

I have to admit, I enjoyed them all, but this is the first one that I legitimately enjoyed on its own, without needing/wanting to share it with my wife and my son. I just liked it.

The Dark Tower, Book 7

2005-09-05T14:19:00.000-04:00

Earlier this year, I finished Stephen King's "The Dark Tower" series. After 7 books (and many thousands of pages), Roland (the last gunslinger of Gilead) finally reached the tower. This has been -- make that had been -- a hell of a series. Inventive, engaging, and wholly unlike anything else he's written.

In the end, Roland's ka-tet (his unbreakable group of friends, joined by ka (destiny) and their unique love for one another) breaks up. This made me sad, although the book never promised that the ending would be purely saccharinely "happy". Part of the quest always included the risk of death, and the risk of severing the ka-tet. Roland still makes it to the tower and protects it.

However. How-damn-ever.

Roland finally enters the tower, alone (which had been his destiny and lifelong pursuit)....and then Stephen King drops the bomb. Roland has been in hell all along, and when he gets to the tower, he is doomed to REPEAT his quest again....as he has already done innumerable times before.

What the hell is that? I ask you -- what the hell is that? How dare he? How DARE he? How could King let me invest this much time in his "magnum opus" only to find that I've been wasting my time? That I was not really travelling with the "last gunslinger" on a quest of glory, but rather was watching a small portion of a good man's journey through unending hell (and Roland is in this hell for no good reason, I might add). King does sort of imply that Roland was trapped in this torture because he failed to pick up a glove during a battle, for whatever idiotic sense that makes (then he sort of implies that on Roland's next trip to the tower, he may find relief (because the next time, he did pick up the glove)). Still. How stupid, how unsatisfying, what an utter betrayal of my loyalty as a reader.

Yes, indeed, I sorely wasted my time and energy reading it.

It makes me so angry and put-upon that I swear I am done with Stephen King. Other than this series, I had not been a fan for a long time anyway, and now I am done.

The Sign of the Book

2005-09-04T14:16:00.000-04:00

I just finished "The Sign of the Book". This was the fourth in a series about an ex-cop turned rare book dealer. The first was fascinating in its details about the book collecting world, and Cliff Janeway, the lead, was an interestingly tough/upright (if only a bit cliched) character.

By now, though, the series has run out of steam. For most of the book, this was a pretty good read -- John Dunning does know how to make you turn the pages -- but the ending was preposterous.

First of all, the "who" in the "whodunnit" was ridiculous. Worse was a looooong scene in which -- for no apparent or good reason -- the killer spent pages explaining everything that happened and why they did it. Yeesh.

This kind of scene felt cliched to me when I used to read it in The Hardy Boys.

The Longest Yard

2005-09-03T14:11:00.000-04:00

For most of "The Longest Yard", I sat there hating it. Adam Sandler is no Burt Reynolds (and if
that ain't damning, nothin' is). The movie had no subtlety, no charm, no charisma....and frankly, no reason to exist.

That said, the final football game -- with its formulaic and utterly predictable ending -- still grabbed me. Not enough to recommend that anyone should see this movie, mind you....

And, just out of curiousity, who deemed the original as worthy of remake? If we're remaking films, shouldn't we at least remake good ones?

Okay, okay....I did like the original. But formula and charm do not equal classic.

Adam Sandler should go back to making other films.

Or not.

War of the Worlds

2005-09-02T13:55:00.000-04:00

"War of the Worlds" was not bad -- not even close to the "A-" the Cleveland Plain Dealer rated it -- but not bad.

The movie had its moments. In particular, in one scene, a group of dazed survivors approach a train track when the crossing gates suddenly close. A passenger train roars past them, utterly engulfed in flames. Flames pour out of every window. It's a shocking image; made more shocking when the camera then cuts back to the survivors. The gates open, and they cross the tracks, showing no real reaction to the blazing train. They've already been scared and scarred beyond reaction.

Dakota Fanning, the newest child darling of the critics, proved that she can scream. Any acting ability beyond that remains undisplayed (in this movie, at least -- I hold out the possibility that in a different (and better (denser)) movie, she'd show some mad skills....like nunchuck skills, or computer hacking skills). Possible digression -- sorry.

Cruise is Cruise -- all teeth and charisma and intensity. Tim Robbins is wasted in a weird basement hidey-hole, although much of that fault may lie at H.G. Wells' feet.

Worth seein'? Yeah. Worth spendin' a lot of cash (or brain cells) on? Nope.

The Da Vinci Code

2005-09-01T13:39:00.000-04:00

In the course of building my profile, I had to ponder my list of favorite books. I read mostly fiction, and about a book a week (give or take), so this was a hard one (which sounds like I'm talkin' dirty, but I ain't). I managed to list a few that, eclecticly, have delighted me in one way or another.

Thinking about my books sent me spinning about books in general, which sent me contemplating the best seller list (which juuuuust possibly might have as little to do with good reading as a Big Mac nutrition list has to do with good cooking).....which sent me to "The Da Vinci Code"

Sheesh. This book has been near the top of the list for WAY over a year, which is remarkable in that it may well be the most over-rated book in the history of publishing. Besides a convoluted plot that was less engaging than it was befuddling, the guy filled the book with deus ex machinaish resolutions. F'r example....after travelling the world to figure out the double secret probation password (I paraphrase) to an ancient container owned by the female protagonist's uncle, they finally discover that the password is.....the daughter's name. Now, besides the obvious breakage of all password security standards, did they really have to globe-trot to figure that out?

Hell, the author thinks that Leonardo's last name was "da Vinci", which actually means "of Venice"....yet some cottage industry has sprung up trying to explain all the deep secrets this guy seems to know.

Gimme the kool-aid.