Finally, there is joy, reading the NYT Friday Movie page. I want to see Scenes of a Crime, Turn Me On Damnitt, Moonrise Kingdom, Damsels in Distress, and about three or four others, ...
"Watch out for the operators."
Next week is my birthday. Baseball season is about to begin. (Yu Darvish vs Ichiro and the Mariners on Monday, April 9.) Soon the sun will be setting at 8:30 pm. (Heaven!)
6'6" and very handsome, too.
My parents are in town for the weekend, taking Renee & I to Rivoli for a birthday dinner on Monday.
I will take some time off after Inventory Thursday.
Renee & I (and Molly and Mavis) are healthy and happy and things are looking up!
"The connections between and among women are the most feared, the most problematic, and the most potentially transforming force on the planet."
My Mother, Donna, (I call my parents by their first names, Andy & Donna; always have) has a wonderful, if slightly idiosyncratic, method of organizing her books on her bookshelves. Generally, she organizes them by genre. But then in almost all genres, they will be divided by sex. Thus, William Carlos Williams does not live next door to Edna St Vincent Millay. He lives next door to T.S. Eliot. As much as I have come to love William Carlos Williams and Ezra Pound and e. e. cummings and other male poets, it was always that women's poetry section of her bookshelf that intrigued me the most.
The big three for me, from Donna's bookshelf, that I loved the most were Sylvia Plath, Adrienne Rich, and Marianne Moore. And at the time I was sneaking those books off of Donna's bookshelves was a time when I was still writing poetry. (I hung that hat up a long time ago. I had my moments, but I was never very good. Eventually, I realized that I was not in it for the art, but in it for trying to seduce women. What is it they say in Cold Comfort Farm about seducing people through poetry?) I think the last serious poem I wrote was probably in 1990, or so. Believe me, none of you are missing anything from my "retirement".
I know Marianne Moore is not really in fashion these days (hell, what poets are?) but I still love her work. And Plath was a no-brainer for my drama major sensibilities, plus she was married to a poet, who many believe was better than her. (Those that believe that are wrong, but that is neither here nor there at the moment.) But, whereas, Ms Moore can be very silly at times, or write poetry about the most ludicrous of topics; and Ms Plath's work can come off as over-thought and too richly wrought, or, "worked on"; Ms Rich's poems come across as communiques from the clandestine press.
Just sitting at my desk, trying to change the world.
Ms Rich's poems are forthright, direct, polemic, conversational, spare, yet elegant distillations of, say, the Reuters News Service. Ms Rich has no interest in providing clues or masking her intent. She lays out her wishes, loudly and plainly, over and over again. It was her special talent that her style never seemed boring or pedantic. Because that is a very thin wire to walk even by twentieth century standards of "modern" poetry. She expresses human (and political; every frickin' thing we do in life is political) relationships as a quest for truth. There was probably never an instant in her work (or adult life, for that matter) that she hedged her bets to spare someone's feelings. Because she knew that Truth was always better in the end than hurt feelings in the meantime.
Rich was obsessed with "truth" and wrote about it constantly, throughout her life. The quest for truth, to me, is like the quest for perfection. It is something wholly unattainable, yet something all serious artists endeavor for, a Quixotic dream that separates great artists from the rest of the hacks and critics like me.
"There is no 'the truth', 'a truth' -- truth is not one thing, or even a system. It is an increasing complexity."
One of my personal Holy Trinity of Movie Stars. (The other two are Barbara Stanwyck, Cancer; and Ingrid Bergman, Virgo.) I remember one time at a drama party back in 1989 or so, someone made fun of Ms Davis' Letterman appearances and complained about how old she looked. I mentioned All About Eve and how crucial that film was to anybody interested in the theatre. That shut him up real good.
There just never will be any movie starlike Bette Davis again.
(And Junebug, too!) and I have been itching to watch Darling for a month or so now. Luckily, as part of the English New Wave March Mondays on TCM, Renee and I were able to watch Darling last night.
Darling is just getting better with age. I do not think I have enjoyed this film as much as I did last night. (Maybe it is because I have seen so many bad, disappointing movies lately?)
Her idea of fidelity is not having more than one man in bed at the same time.
From the opening shots, where a billboard promoting charity for African malnourished children gets slathered over with a magazine cover picture of our "hero", Diana Scott, played by Oscar-winning, Julie Christie, to the final shot of a smartly-dressed London lady picking up said magazine in Picadilly Square, following her to a sad, toothless lady busker finishing her beautiful song.
Time and again, John Schlesinger, the director, uses opposing twin images in editing to expose the differences between the haves and the have-nots. And throughout the film, Schlesinger uses sound effects and all sorts of different types of media to shock and surprise his audience. There is a newsreel, real documentary footage, a commercial advert, and a film within the film.
For once, we get a voice-over, the whole film is ostensibly Julie Christie's life story, given to an interviewer for a magazine, that actually makes sense and works. In fact, the entire film is an opposite twin of her version of events. It is masterfully executed, used for great humor throughout the entire picture.
All the performances are astounding, notably Dirk Bogarde, Laurence Harvey, and Roland Curram. The costumes for Ms Christie are stunning and obviously helped turn her in to a big star. You do not root for Julie Christie, our nasty lying hero, so much as root against her, with great relish. That is one of the hardest tricks to turn in films and novels, and here Schlesinger and the screenwriter, Frederic Raphael, turn the trick with an uncanny insight in to London's (real) Swinging 60s, and amazing grace and panache. A honest-to-goodness masterpiece.
And did I mention the shot of the kiss on the train? Or the decadent Parisian party? Or the "whores in taxis bit"? Or, "You crumb!"?
(This is a terrible review. It is more a mash note.)
Nick C, I want my movies back.
Now, I will have another sip of Mariage Freres tea and head off to work.
This post is dedicated to Justin T Griggs who inspired me to make this list after a conversation I had with him.
Thanks to my Mother for turning me on to The Beatles, Leonard Cohen, Bob Wills, Ella Fitzgerald, The Rolling Stones, Edith Piaf, Todd Rundgren, the Hair Broadway Soundtrack, Joni Mitchell, The Grateful Dead, Woody Guthrie, Bob Dylan (and many others.)
Thanks to my Father for turning me on to The Beach Boys, The Spencer Davis Group, Traffic, Dave Brubeck, Charlie Parker, Freddie King, Steely Dan, Bill Withers, Stevie Wonder, Otis Redding, Booker T and the MGs (and many many others.)
Thanks to Gramps for turning me on to Johnny Cash and Dolly Parton.
Thanks to Renee for turning me on to Beulah, Quasi, Blur, The Yeah Yeah Yeahs, and Amy Winehouse (and many others.)
Thanks to Paul H at the Brodie Oaks store who turned me on to Wire, Swell Maps, Psychic TV, Daniel Johnston (and many others.)
Thanks to Goat Roper at Spence Jr High who turned me on to King Crimson and Yes
Thanks to Octavia at Martin Bros who turned me on to Au Pairs, Television Personalities, Dog-faced Hermans (and many many others with her fabulous Birthday mixtapes.)
Thanks to Wade at Brodie Oaks who turned me on to Skinny Puppy, Severed Heads (and many others.)
Thanks to Will at Brodie Oaks who turned me on to Elvis Costello.
Thanks to Ted at Martin Bros. who turned me on to The Geto Boys, NWA, The Jesus Lizard, and Ice Cube.
Thanks to Mark Willard who turned me on to Ministry, The Sex Pistols, The Pogues, and The Clash.
Thanks to Kenny who turned me on to The Velvet Underground, Public Enemy, and Television.
Thanks to Dave at Brodie Oaks who turned me on to The Butthole Surfers and Crust.
Thanks to Kim K who turned me on to Billy Bragg, Michelle Shocked, Shoulders, Trio, and Sinead O'Connor.
Thanks to Kate who turned me on to Throbbing Gristle, Joy Division, The Cure, and the Sweet Charity Broadway Soundtrack.
Thanks to Annie S at the Walnut Creek store, who taught me it was okay to love Heart. They are really good.
Thanks to the front-end kid at the Berkeley store who turned me on to Belle and Sebastian.
Thanks to Michael K for turning me on to Mogwai and Sportsguitar.
Thanks to Dawn P for turning me on to The Sea and Cake and other Thrill Jockey groups.
Thanks to Tim R for turning me on to The Jazz Butcher, the first Lenny Kravitz record, and The Replacements.
Thanks to Maureen for turning me on to Nina Simone.
Thanks to Per at Brodie Oaks who turned me on Captain Beefheart.
Thanks to Edie Brickell who turned me on to XTC, David Bowie, and The Psychedelic Furs.
Thanks to Bonnie who turned me on to Harry Nilsson.
Thanks to Rick M for pushing The Police on me. You were right. They are great.
Thanks to Allison W for turning me on to The Waitresses, Patsy Cline, The Mamas and the Papas, The Monkees, and enduring all those fights about Madonna. You were right. She is great.
Thanks to Marcus McClung for turning me on to AC/DC, Van Halen (and many many others.)
Thanks to Chris McClung for turning me on to The Lee Harvey Oswald Band, The Gaza Strippers, The Stooges, T Rex,The Michelle Gun Elephant, The White Stripes, The Oblivians, Chrome Cranks, The Jon Spencer Blues Explosion, The Lord High Fixers, Cheater Slicks (and countless others.)
Thanks to Dave Barber for turning me on to Depeche Mode, New Order, and Bauhaus.
Thanks to Alex K for turning me on to The dBs, Texas Instruments (who kindly shared the gate with us when my group, The Winona Ryders, opened for them in Austim, TX.), Thin White Rope, Big Dipper, Young Fresh Fellows, Translator, Giant Sand, Big Star, The Reivers, Glass Eye (and many others.)
Thanks to Tom S for turning me on to The Feelies.
Thanks to Dawn W for turning me on to Liz Phair.
Thanks to the fabulous dykes from the Berkeley store who turned me on to PJ Harvey.
Thanks to Jenny H for turning me on to The English Beat, Steel Pulse, and the first Red Hots record.
Thanks to the kids at the 1984 Drama Summer Camp who turned me on to Prince.
Thanks to Craig Diskowski who turned me on to Madeleine Peyroux.
Thanks to Three Years Down for turning me on to Turbonegro.
Thanks to Dave R for turning me on to Talking Heads.
Thanks to Lisa R at Martin Bros. for turning me on to Pavement.
Thanks to Andrew from my college days for turning me on to Roy Orbison (I was monumentally hungover, had fallen asleep on the front room floor of his apartment and said something when the Orbison record skipped. Andrew said, "Cut the record a break. It's older than you."), The Ramones, and The Minutemen.
And thanks too to any one I have forgotten here.
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You do know, there is a price that we pay for the astonishing convenience of the internet? Is conversation really dead? Keep the dialogue going. Keep sharing.
About The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo: The opening credit sequence, which dispenses with the credits in under ninety seconds and the final fifteen, twenty minutes of the film where Rooney Mara vanquishes one of the film's many villains and then sets about "courting" Daniel Craig. Sorry, spoilers and all, but I do not think I am really spoiling anything.
(Re the opening credits: Renee nailed it a few bars in and said, ever so casually, "That's Karen O, singing." Brill.)
Rooney Mara, near the only thing I liked about this movie.
So, that accounts for a little over twenty minutes of a one-hundred and fifty-eight minute long motion picture. That does not make for a very pretty Slugging Percentage.
I understand that this is a very dark, bleak, Swedish story about disgusting and inhumane men who do disgusting and inhumane things to women but could Fincher use a different palette for once? These sickly, nauseating yellows and greens he keeps using over and over in every one of his films are near to becoming a joke, or self-parody. Are there not other colors in the spectrum that could tell this story?
And does any audience need to suffer through yet another, "I have trapped you just when you thought you had me. Yes, I killed them all. And now I am going to talk to you all about it for the next five minutes or so. Hopefully, your partner will not get here in time to save you, yes?" You know, if it is something like BBC Sherlock, or Hot Fuzz, or the OSS movies, or the crappy James Bond franchise, or anything even showing the barest modicum of irony or sense of humor then I can buy it. But not with this film.
(There are far too many reasons to recount here why Kind and Hearts and Coronets is a stunning masterpiece, the finest film Ealing produced, but one of them is director and screenwriter, Robert Hamer's take on this type of scene: Dennis Price has trapped the last member of the D'Ascoyne family -- all members of the D'Ascoyne family are played by Sir Alec Guinness -- that he needs to execute in order to become the Duke of Chalfont. Price tells Sir Alec that he has murdered them all and that he is going to murder him, too. Price tells Sir Alec he did it because of the shameful way they excommunicated Price's mother from the D'Ascoyne family after she married for love instead of status. Then Price aims his rifle and shoots Sir Alec dead. Price runs away. End of scene.)
I thought Rooney Mara's performance was terrific. I loved every little detail of the way she inhabited Lisbeth. My fave detail was the way she held her cigarettes. But, I also liked her make-over scene because it reminded me of the film, Battle of Algiers and the scene where the Muslim Algerian women put on Western make-up and clothes in order to "blend" and set off a terrorist bomb.
Daniel Craig did not do much of anything for me, nor did the guy who played Martin, and Christopher Plummer was essentially wasted here. (Plummer did get some good lines, one of which is, "Isn't it interesting how fascists always steal the word, freedom?")
Overall, it was a really big disappointment for me and Renee feels the same. She might like it a little more than I do. Or maybe I am just a big baby and should stick to Miss Marple and Detective Montalbano. Those months of darkness really do take a toll on Sweden, hunh?
Came home last night, eager to watch The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. But Renee was watching something else, and was so absorbed/taken with it (and, besides, Girl is 150 minutes long) that we watched her selection, Mona Lisa Smile, instead. Hoo-boy.
(By the way, Ms Diskowski pulled off yet another stunning dinner last night: Grilled pork chops, pan-fried kale, and cannellini beans with crispy prosciutto on top. For whatever reason, Ms Diskowski did not take a photo. But it was real. No joke. We drank 2006 -- the winery sent me an older vintage by mistake -- Hendry Chardonnay, which was absolutely sublime. It is showing magnificently right now.)
Anyroad, back to Mona Lisa Smile. Despite a fantastic cast: Julia Roberts (one of the Wife and I's faves); McNutty from The Wire; Kirsten Dunst (does not make a good brunette, should always be blonde); Ginnifer Goodwin (Renee and I like her, too); Maggie Gyllenhaal (already way too old for her part in the film); Julia Stiles (criminally under-rated); Marcia Gay Harden; John Slattery; Juliet Stevenson (one of my all-time faves); Topher Grace; and even Aleksa Palladino for, like, two seconds of screen time! And despite the film's obvious good intentions and feminist message, Mona Lisa Smile is an awful motion picture.
Where do I begin? The musical score for one thing is so heavy handed and annoying. In fact, heavy-handed should be the essential expression, describing Mona Lisa Smile. Director, Mike Newell, goes for every big emotional moment as if playing whack-a-mole. The "villain" of the picture, Ms Dunst's student character's transformation at the end is wholly unbelievable and unsupportable. Julia Stiles' "I choose to be a housewife" speech seems like a PC cop-out, which probably is the result of Newell's poor direction and Ms Roberts' sleepwalking performance in this extremely crucial scene. Sadly, despite this being a possible big Hollywood show-offy role for Ms Roberts, she is not up to it. I suspect Ms Roberts had doubts about the material. The absolute worst is the song chosen for the end credits, which is grossly inappropriate, Sir Elton John's, The Heart of Every Girl. So terrible.
Yeah, I will take Lone Scherfig's An Education over Newell's Mona Lisa Smile every day of the week, and twice on Sundays.
Aleksa Palladino in Todd Solondz' creepy, difficult masterpiece, Storytelling.
After Mona Lisa Smile we watched My Man Godfrey and fell asleep. It had been a long week, after all.
My fave part is watching the crowd's reaction. Insane. (And Blake's not just a highlight reel. He's having a great season and the Clippers are actually good for once.)
A couple of days ago I had a customer, standing in front of the Domestic Wall, Sauvignon Blanc section. I asked her if she needed any help and she said, "Are the New Zealand Sauvignon Blancs mixed in with these? Because I don't see any." I showed her to the New World set and pointed out where all the Kiwi SBs are. She took a v cursory look, then asked if I had a certain brand. I said, "No, I do not have that brand," and tried to sell her on Cloudy Bay, or Craggy Range, or Whitehaven, or Isabel. She did not say anything, stood there a few more seconds and walked away.
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There is a very cute little Italian film out there, streaming on Netflix, called Mid-August Lunch. It tells the tale of a down on his luck dude, Gianni, living with his mother in a flat that is falling apart all around them. Not only are they way behind in their rent, in danger of getting kicked out, but there is no way they can pay for any of the repairs the flat needs. The landlord is sympathetic though and proposes a deal. This is Europe, after all, and it is August, so the landlord is desperate to get out of town for a couple of weeks. If the landlord's Mother can stay with Gianni and his Mother while he is on vacation he will forget all about the back rent. Agreed. But then the plumber comes by the next day. Gianni can not pay him, either. The plumber thinks about it and says, "If you could take care of my Aunt here while I go on holiday then I will do the repairs for nothing." Eventually, Gianni ends up having to deal with four cranky, elderly Italian Grandmas in a dilapidated apartment in the middle of a scorching hot Italian August. It is a sweet and delightful motion picture. But my favorite scene takes place in a wine shop. Gianni goes in to purchase some wine. The proprietor, Gianni's friend, asks Gianni what he would like today. Gianni says, "Gosh, it is so hot out there, I would like some Chablis." The proprietor says, "Would you like the expensive kind or the cheaper kind?" (What the proprietor is asking Gianni is if he would prefer Petite Chablis, which is entry-level Chablis, a blend of different lower-quality Chablis vineyards or 1er Cru or Grand Cru Chablis, which are single vineyard wines that come from the best Chablis vineyards.) Gianni says he would love some of the pricier stuff but can not afford it and asks for the cheaper bottle. Ring it up, put it in a bag, Thank you, have a wonderful day!
See how easy that is.
Americans are so hung up on brands it drives me crazy. It is much more important where the vineyards are located, and the quality of the vineyards then the Brand. And there are plenty of very affordable options out there that still express the terroir of a specific region, especially in Europe and the New World. (Napa and Sonoma not so much. I love Spring Mountain Cabernet and there are no entry-level Spring Mountain Cabs made, really. Ramsay is my best Napa Cab deal, Napa appellation, fifteen bucks. Great deal.)
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You know, oftentimes when I read a lukewarm or even hostile review of a film, I read right between the lines and realize I am going to like the film anyway, usually a lot. Such was the case with Polanski's Carnage.
Renee and I adored the film, and why not? Let us see, we have Kate Winslet, Jodie Foster, Christoph Waltz, and John C Reilly in it. It is based on a very famous, successful play. Polanski directed and co-wrote the screenplay with the playwright. It is masterfully performed and paced. The film gets in and out the door in eighty minutes. It is absolutely side-splittingly hilarious. And I always love seeing frickin' cell phones destroyed, to boot.
It may not be to everybody's taste, but it is right in Renee and I's wheelhouse, and we loved it. All four of the main players are excellent but I thought Waltz's performance was especially curdled and magnificent. I will definitely purchase Carnage for my home collection.
And Polanski is having a bit of a come back lately. His previous film, Ghost Writer, was very good, too.
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Ms Kiberlain on the left, but the cocktail dress on the right is stunning, too.
Renee and I also had a chance to re-watch The Women on the 6th Floor, which is aging nicely, indeed. It was even better at home, than in the theater, I think. Anyhoo, Renee and I love the costumes that Christian Gasc built for the film, especially the jackets, dresses, and blouses for the Wife character, played by Sandrine Kiberlain. Just gorgeous, rich, textured, period appropriate (the film is set in Paris in the early 60s) clothes that are absolutely perfect for Ms Kiberlain's hair, features, and long, elegant body type.
Ms Kiberlain on the left.
Unlike Carnage, The Women on the 6th Floor, is a movie I can heartily recommend to every one out there. It is a real joy.
Romanian film the other day; Tuesday, After Christmas.
It is a very simple, quiet, slice of life motion picture that is still extremely moving and gripping to watch. The story is there is a man with a wife, a daughter, and a mistress. And, he must decide over Christmas week who he wants to be with, either the wife or the mistress. The mistress is also the child's dentist, which makes things a bit more complicated, as well.
Mirela Oprisor is not having a very good Christmas.
Like a lot of the more recent Romanian films, Tuesday is composed of mostly static shots of people talking in rooms. This gives the fabulous actors a chance to really shine. (Mirela Oprisor is the real star of this picture, with a stunning performance.) But, I also like the fact that this movie does not pass judgement on any of the characters. It is a true, objective look in on some folks living in Romania round Christmas time. How refreshing.
By the way, I saw Tuesday streaming on Netflix. And there are currently a bunch of Romanian New Wave films streaming on Netflix currently, including California Dreamin', Tales of the Golden Age, 4 Months 3 Weeks 2 Days, Police Adjective, and a whole lot more I have not seen yet. (But will devour soon, I am sure.) All of these films just listed come extremely highly recommended. You should check them out.
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Got another crack at Tiny Furniture the other day. It was on the Sundance Channel. My opinion did not really change. It is still not a good or great motion picture in my judgement. But, Renee brought up a good point: That Tiny Furniture probably means a lot more and says something quite different to twenty-something aged women than it does to an old dude like myself. It might just be a gender thing, blind spot. As painful and cringing as the movie can be for Renee to watch, she still likes it a lot, and much more than I do.
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Casablanca tonight! I wonder what the turnout will be like all across the nation. Maybe I will see you there, yes?
Renee wakes up first (generally anytime between three and six am.) She switches off whatever black and white movie I have left on to fall asleep to, then puts the teevee on Channel 59 (FoxNews), or as we like to call it, The Channel of Hate. This way I can catch up on whatever the Channel of Hate's big meme/message is going to be that day. (For the longest time now, the CoH's big issue is Gas Prices and how they will cripple Obama's re-election bid. Fox and Friends is def the worst. They will say anything over there.)
I wake up slowly. Renee and Molly (our youngest cat) hang out in the bathroom together, literally talking to each other. It is a little odd. Eventually, I wake up enough that I can yell at the nimrods on the CoH.
Renee does her normal girly routine and then makes us each a cup of Mariage Freres tea, using our Breville electric tea kettle (which was the most fabulous Wedding Present evah!) My fave Mariage is Noel, but we also love French Breakfast, and Vanilla.
Luckily, last time my Da was in Paris, he bought us a whole bunch. (It's not cheap here in the US.) But Renee does a great job, keeping us well stocked, buying hers at Market Hall, Oaktown.
Renee heads to work, I take a shower. then hit the computer right before I head to work.
It is a well-oiled machine that is a joy to start every day with. Love you, Pnut.
Here are a few of my favorite ballots I received for the 2012 Spitler/Diskowski Greatest Films Poll:
Samara and her little Angel
Marlene R:
Isabelle Corey enjoys some frites in Bob le Flambeur
(no order)
Au Bout de Souffle
Le Mepris
L'Atalante
Bob le Flambeur
Le Regle de Jeu
La Belle et la Bete
Barry Lyndon
Member of the Wedding
The Deer Hunter
Berlin Alexanderplatz
Josette Day in Cocteau's magical Masterpiece, La Belle et la Bete
Samara D:
(no order)
La Belle et la Bete
Now, Voyager
King of Hearts
Fellini's Roma
Rebecca
Imitation of Life (Sirk version)
Two for the Road
Manhattan
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest
Antonia's Line
and, Allison W:
Judith Anderson tells Ms Fontaine to stay out of Rebecca's lingerie drawer.
(no order)
Casablanca
Mean Girls
The Conversation
Dirty Harry
The Sound of Music
The Apartment
All That Jazz
Bringing Up Baby
Rebecca
8 1/2
Fab ballots, ladies. Thank you so much for being a part of my poll!
Just checking out my times, smashing World Records, ...
I fell in love with Ms Evans during the 1988 Olympics, naturally, as much of the rest of the nation did. Living in Texas at the time, and never having even been to California yet, through the teevee screen Ms Evans seemed to me the perfect expression of the successful, athletic, nonchalant, shy, slightly awkward, (she was only fifteen when she started blasting World Records and piling up medals and trophies) attractive California Girl. She was adorable then and she is still lovely today.
I also particularly liked Ms Evans because she was small in stature like myself. Most great swimmers have very lithe, lean, long bodies. Ms Evans started kicking ass in the pool as a teen at about five foot four. She eventually added a couple of inches as she grew older. And Ms Evans was an absolute monster in the pool. Her specialty is long distance freestyle. The World Record she set in 1988, winning a Gold Medal, in the 400m freestyle was not broken until 2006. Her World Record for the 1500m freestyle, also established in 1988, lasted until 2007. Not to mention that Evans was the first woman to break the sixteen minute barrier in the 1500 meters, plus her winning time would have been good enough to win a Men's Gold Medal back in 1968! And her World Record in the 800m freestyle, set in 1989, was not broken until 2008. That is unheard of in Olympic sports, hanging on to records for that period of time. She was just an absolute freak of training, determination, effort, talent and hard work. That it took nearly twenty years for others to break the records she set in the late Eighties is, frankly, hard to fathom.
Janet Evans, age forty, is attempting a comeback as we speak. She has already qualified for the US Team Trials in hopes of participating in the 2012 London Summer Olympics. I wish her all the best.
About the new upcoming HBO series, Veep. Renee is wary, not excited. I think she is worried about Julia Louis-Dreyfuss being the star, or, maybe she does not think that that swear-y The Thick of It/In the Loop style will translate well to American audiences. In the Loop was a considerable cult hit here in the US (it probably helped that James Gandolfini starred in it, too) but most Americans have no idea about The Thick of It. And I do not think The Thick of It would be a massive hit here if shown on Sundance or IFC or whatever. The Thick of It is probably too English for a regular (whatever that is) US teevee audience. Of course, I would dvr every episode and watch them over and over again, myself. And re Ms Dreyfuss: No, she is not one of my personal faves, but when she had excellent material in Seinfeld, she was very good. And, the writing team for Veep is the same folks who did The Thick of It and In the Loop, including the one writer whose job it is to add clever swearing and hip pop culture referenced insults. (Wow, what a job, right? Why can not I get paid to loll around the house and add snappy clever insults to great scripts?) I could be completely wrong. Maybe Veep will be a disaster. We will see.
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I am less excited (but keeping an open mind) about the new upcoming HBO series, Girls. Girls is the baby of Tiny Furniture writer/director/star, Lena Dunham. And it looks to be, the film, Tiny Furniture, stretched out to series length. Tiny Furniture was not my cup of tea, for sure. But, my favorite part was Jemima Kirke's fabulous creation of her character, Charlotte. Charlotte is by far the best thing in the picture; a cynical, drug-addled, lazy, insanely sexy, spoiled rotten twenty-something City-girl going on forty-five, who affects a ludicrous sort-of English accent all the time for no reason at all, naturally. Love it! Give me more!
And, good news, Ms Kirke looks to be playing a character like Charlotte in Girls. (Just watched trailers for Veep and Girls, and it looks like Renee might be right. Veep looks empty and quiet. Girls looks fresh and fun.)
If Veep stinks, I will always have The Thick of It on YouTube.
Might have made a smashing short film, but stretched out to a hundred minutes it loses steam, rolls over, and nearly perishes. The doll house scene is a real eye-roller. In fact once Eddie Redmayne "moves in" with Michelle Williams' Marilyn the film gets a bit dopey and overly-sentimental. I liked Michelle Williams' performance (Renee was less impressed.) And Kenneth Branagh got to do his Sir Larry impersonation again. (I bet all his friends are sick of that Party Piece.)
My favorite moment was a shot of Ms Williams looking out a set window just before she does a take. But they did not hold the shot long enough. I finally thought they had captured all the pain and torment behind that gorgeous face and then it was gone before it could completely be absorbed.
The best thing about the film is Nina Gold did the casting so I got to see all my favorite English actors in bit parts, including one guy, who I have not seen in anything since Dennis Potter's original, The Singing Detective. (Hope he's been doing theatre all this time, ... )
By the by, speaking of Dennis Potter, when is Lipstick on Your Collar going to be released on dvd for the US market?
(And, Dominic Cooper, I still love you to pieces. And your American accent? It will get better. It took a few films for Carey Mulligan, too.)
Whoever invented lipstick as we know it, in the twist tube, is a stone-cold genius. And, no, I am not going to research it and find out exactly who did it. And, yes, I know, women (and men) have been wearing "lipstick" since ancient times (crushed beetles and pollen, fruit juice, whathaveyou.)
A woman today can be instantly transformed just by applying a bit of lipstick. It is the most amazing little weapon in a woman's arsenal. My friend, Daña, told me that during the Depression, when women could barely afford to have makeup, that all women at least kept a tube of lipstick.
And there really is no equivalent for men. The closest I could think of was a man wearing a button down shirt and tie. Nick C suggested the man combing his hair.
... This is another notes column, post, what have you ... I was pretty disappointed with Game Change. I thought Recount was much much much better (both HBO films were produced, written, directed by the same team.) I thought the performances were fine. I mean, when is Julianne Moore ever bad in anything? And Woody was fine, as was Ed Harris. And I am not disappointed because it was not a hatchet job on Ms Palin. Well, I do not think it was a hatchet job, anyway. There are many others that disagree, I am sure. I just have a hard time believing that Palin is that vain and dumb, and would be so intransigent. I know it was based on a book by journalists (*shiver* Halperin). And journalists never shade the truth or outright lie, right? Anyhoo, I think Palin is much craftier than they portrayed her. I think Ms Palin is a misguided, very evil woman, who knows exactly what she is doing all the time. Sure, I am probably wrong, but when you are making a film, my through-line is much better than the one we witnessed last Saturday ... What is it w/ cats and rainy weather? Mavis & Molly are completely nuts the past two days ... Meanwhile, I v much enjoyed the recent PBS American Experience Clinton documentary. Say what you will, flame away, but I liked Bill. I liked Billary. And Chelsea and Socks, the whole crew. (That is Socks up in the top left hand corner of fauxluxe, holding a press conference, naturally.) They are all assholes, politicians. There is blood on most every politician's hands. Waco was a disaster. NAFTA? Ugh. DOMA, Don't Ask Don't Tell? Not pretty, sure. But we had a frickin' surplus when all was said and done, a peace dividend for crying out loud and the country was in good shape. (The GOP is itching for another government shutdown this September, right before the election. Geniuses, those folks.) And I frickin' love Hillary Clinton. So sue me. Flame away. There is no way I will give you my DailyKos handle. (And Marlene, you keep it to yourself, please.) I do not write diaries there any more, but whoo-boy, I was there, writing diaries in the v ugly trenches of the great Obama/Clinton wars in 2008. I can not tell you the amount of sexist, ageist, awful hatred Clinton received on DailyKos in the Summer of 2008. Or the amount of abuse I suffered just because I believed Hillary Clinton should have been the nominee. Do not get me wrong, I love Obama (more as a wonk and campaigner than as a policy maker) but back then I thought Clinton was the right choice. Aw, hell, I still think Hillary would be a better President. But I am in a severe minority, I know (even amongst Dems!) ...
Anyroad, the really big news today is that, in honor of the 70th Anniversary of the release of Casablanca, the film is being shown on the big screen one day only in theaters all over the country. That day is next Wednesday, March 21st. Just to remind you, Casablanca was top of the charts in the recent Spitler/Diskowski Greatest Films Poll. Nick C, Renee, and I are trying to get a massive group together to see the film. We are going to the Cinemark theater on Locust, in boo-ti-ful Walnut Creek. We are going to the seven o'clock showing. You are on your own for tickets, and I would advise you to snap them up quickly. We have six folks, already, but we want many many more. So get your tickets and get in touch w/ either Nick C or I. You can contact me through facebook message or mavis.mike@gmail.com. Hopefully, some of us can meet at Va Di Vi (or, as my Wife, Renee, likes to call it: Ba Da Bing) for Champagne and cocktails before the movie.
When I was a kid there was a book that seemed to live on every single one of my friend's parent's bookshelves. That was Future Shock by Alvin Toffler. Naturally, as an avid reader, even at a very young age, whenever I had time at my leisure I would pick up the book and read bits and pieces of it. I still have never read the entire book, nor do I really have any intention of buying or reading it today. And my thoughts on the book should be viewed through a hazy prism of memory. I am not here today to discuss in detail what Toffler's intent was, or how many of his predictions came true. On the contrary, I am here to discuss something very different, indeed.
The inspiration for this post came from a discussion I had with Nick C. And at one point during said discussion, something clicked, my memory opened wide, and quite suddenly I was a seven or eight year old child in Norman, OK or Dallas,TX, sitting on a sofa or a chair, in a living room, reading Future Shock.
I am not sure why certain parts of this book that I have never owned have stayed with me for so long and could produce such a profound rush of memory. My first guess would be that the book frightened me. But I have no memory of being frightened by what I read. Honestly, I only remember two things/concepts from the book, period. They are that Toffler discussed how the world was "shrinking", using the six degrees of separation idea as a nearly off-hand modest "proof" of such. And that technology was advancing at such a ferocious rate, collapsing time (i.e. What took months to achieve could be done in days; what took a few days to acquire could be acquired in hours; what took an hour to solve could now be solved in a fraction of a second, and so on, ...), that this overload of information and convenience at ever-excelling speeds could ultimately produce, what he called, "future shock" in people or whole communities. Future shock manifested itself in humans through both physiological and/or psychological stresses or ailments. The book was written in 1970.
Remember, and this is very important, that hazy prism I spoke of earlier. I have done only the barest, most cursory research in to Toffler's book for this post. It is entirely possible that I have it all wrong. That my memory is a jumble or faulty. But, for whatever reason, that is the rabbit hole my memory has chosen for these "information overload" concepts. And that rabbit hole always ends in a living room in the seventies. I am alone. I pull a book off the shelf and I begin to read.
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Nick C and I's conversation began with us talking about Lana Del Ray. Then we talked about a Miley Cyrus video Nick C had dug up that irritated him and seemed to prove to him to be yet another nail in the coffin of the Death of Pop. The video above might be the video he was speaking of but I strongly doubt it since I have just noticed that there are dozens of these Miley covers Smells Like Teen Spirit performance videos available.
Nick C circulated his Miley video amongst his closest friends, attempting to start a dialogue. But was shocked to discover that most of friends seemed to miss the point entirely. Most of his friends seemed to have sympathy, or at least, ambivalence for Ms Cyrus and utter disdain for Nirvana. Nick C and my Wife are near the same age (went to the same High School) and I have talked about this matter of personal taste in music before. Fair enough. Nick C and I just shake our heads.
Then we talked about what impact Kurt Cobain's suicide had on Nirvana's legacy. Then we talked very generally about suicide. And all of this finally came full circle and we discussed for the umpteenth time our personal musical/cultural Holy Grail: The next Rock Revolution (or, I prefer the term Pop Explosion.)
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Alright, let us get some definitions out there, in the open, right away: First, I am not using the word "Pop" in some pejorative, judgmental, or sarcastic way. I never do. Pop is not a genre of music. Pop is not shorthand or code for something someone might consider safe or tepid or twee. Pop is simply short for the word, "Popular". Pop music encompasses all genres of music that are available in the marketplace today, all over the world. My Django Reinhardt cds are right next to my Replacements cds. It is all Pop.
(In fact, the whole notion of genre or of the distinction between Literature and Fiction gives me the heebie-jeebies. There are only two types of art for me: Good and Bad.)
Second, let us define what is a Pop Explosion. I will let Greil Marcus take it from here:
A pop explosion is an irresistible cultural upheaval that cuts across lines of class and race (in terms of sources, if not allegiance), and, most crucially, divides society itself by age. The surface of daily life (walk, talk, dress, symbolism, heroes, family affairs) is affected with such force that deep and substantive changes in the way people think and act take place. Pop explosions must link up with, and accelerate, broad shifts in sexual behavior, economic aspirations and political beliefs; a pervasive sense of chaos, such as that which hit England in 1963 with the Profumo scandal, and the United States in the mid-Sixties with the civil rights movement, the Kennedy assassination, and later the Vietnam War, doesn't hurt.
Notice that his definition says nothing about commercial success. As Punk proved in 1977, commercial success is not a de facto prerequisite for a Pop Explosion. Although, all other Pop Explosions (Elvis, The Beatles, Michael Jackson's Thriller) were seriously boffo at the Box Office. (And to be fair to Punk, it can be argued that Nirvana's Nevermind was merely the final step to legitimizing Punk in the marketplace, making it a commodity finally worth co-opting and exploiting.)
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This is right around the time during our conversation that I went down the rabbit hole. I very foolishly said aloud, "Imagine what it would be like if The Beatles happened today in our insane social networking blogosphere world? How crazy and big that would be."
No sooner had I said those words then I was down that rabbit hole. And I found myself practically reading Nick C's mind as he, very politely, spelled out how wrong I was. The game has changed. Our Future Shock culture, our real time media, and the Internet have created a new world where (mini) Pop explosions happen every day. They are pushed upon all platforms available, explode, and are dissolved in a matter of months, days, or even hours. (Lana Del Ray is an excellent example here.)
The next Pop Explosion will be completely different from all others that have come before it. It has to be, in order to survive and sustain itself in our current environment.
Nick C and I have come to the certain conclusion that the next (Rock) Revolution will most definitely Not Be Televised (or on the Internet.) It will have to be similar to Punk in the sense that it is a Luddite towards technology and media. It will be about word-of-mouth networking, snailmail, fanzines (again), posters, etc, ... The next Pop Explosion will proclaim itself bored with the Internet.
By the way, never once when talking about this "impending" Pop Explosion or the band we propose to spearhead it, am I talking about what this Explosion or band will sound like. The actual group may not be Luddite, at all, in terms of embracing musical technologies or playing only acoustic instruments. In fact, I doubt it. But, honestly, I do not think Nick C or I know what this or they will sound like. We have not had that gleaning yet. I believe, though, that they will sound different yet recognizable; be "surprising yet inevitable." (Hat tip to David Mamet.)(Plus, Malcolm McLaren did not give a toss about the music. Why should we?)
Nick C and I's proposed band to start this Pop Explosion will be called Les Bonnes Femmes. We already have our first t-shirt design: simple Matisse-like line drawings of three women's faces in black ink. One of the women will have red lips. Beneath the drawing it will say Les Bonnes Femmes in swishy script lettering. On the back of the shirt will be one of the group's first slogans in Helvetica typeface, "FUCK BELGIUM". This slogan is great because it is infuriating and it means absolutely nothing.
You will not be able to buy any Les Bonnes Femmes recordings over the internet or download any of their songs. Les Bonnes Femmes website will be a complete blank, alternately colored black or white, depending on the band's mood. You will only be able to purchase or acquire recordings at shows or by going on elaborate urban scavenger hunts. Clues for these hunts will be provided through the band's personal authorized newsletter only.
You will not see Les Bonnes Femmes on YouTube. Any unauthorized (meaning all) videos of the group posted there will be immediately removed by a vigilant, crack team of lawyers employed by the group.
All cellphones must be handed over to security before being allowed entrance to a Les Bonnes Femmes show. Any one caught with a cellphone or any recording device will result in the band leaving the stage until the offender is removed from the premises, their cellphones, recording devices permanently confiscated.
(Think about that last paragraph. Instead of posting a video about your magical experience at the Rock Show last night, now you will have to describe your impressions to your friends through simple words and language. How refreshing that might be, removing the spectacle and living, as opposed to recording.)
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It's just fun. (h/t Chris McClung) We've already thrown this idea out there to three people. Two of them thought it ridiculously silly and one was mildly intrigued.
Meanwhile, the next Pop Explosion is out there, looming. Perhaps Nick C and I will be riding the crest of that wave. We will see.
(With a serious tip of the cap to the late, great Blackie Sherrod.)
This post is a big random round up/notes column to tide me over until my (most prob) too long post about the next Pop Explosion is ready to be published. That should happen Sunday or Monday.
Until then, well:
I swear, in the Enron doc she's only wearing one earring.
... Since it is International Women's Day I figure I should throw out another Woman Michael Loves. Today it is another journalist, Bethany McLean. Ms McLean nearly single-handedly brought down those Enron assholes. She has a great article in this month's Vanity Fair about how a whole bunch of rich folks, hedge fund managers, and movie stars are co-opting and ruining a very sacred, difficult yoga discipline. Yeah, I know, a shocker ... So, my fantastico RomanVinity rep, Michele, who has been mentioned here before, obv dropped off a bottle sample of Verdicchio to me. I had completely forgot about it and it had been camped out in the back of our fridge for ages. I drug it out last night. It is amazing. I do not even know if it is approved for me to order and sell. There's no price on the bottle, either. I do not even know how much it costs. But it is superb, a white wine spilling over w/ baking spices and cardamom. Folks in Italy generally drink Verdicchio with seafood and shellfish. It can have a brine-y quality to it sometimes. There is no brine here. It is aromatic, lively, refreshing and perfect for North African or Indian food. Next time I get the chicken Tikka Masala at Breads of India this is the bottle I want. (Let me go get my reading glasses -- I am so old.) Accadio Angelo is the producer. It is 2010 vintage. I am guessing this bottle would prob be twenty dollars retail ...
The Dali-like image on the bottle is brought more forward now. And I am enjoying the 2010, not this 2008.
... The film, Anonymous, did not suck, at all, like I had expected it to. Of course, the splendid Rafe Spall's talents were nearly wasted in a small (but very important) role. Could someone please give this guy one shot at a lead role? I suppose he will be just like his superb character-acting Da, Timothy Spall. But, naturally, me being a theatre guy I would like Anonymous. We theatre-folk love that, "We were so oppressed, hated, vilified" bullshit. (Does not everyone? A chip on the shoulder moves mountains sometimes.) Do not get me wrong. The powers that be truly hate artists, always have. Look at the whole Fox News/Right-wing revulsion towards "Hollywood" ... Also saw recently Still Bill, a documentary about Bill Withers. It was not the greatest film I have ever seen, for sure. But, I did learn a bit more about Bill Withers and what a great man he is. Withers was born on the Fourth of July, and he is, for me, maybe the nicest, sweetest, most humble, most generous American alive. The fucking recording industry does not deserve a legend like him. I am so proud someone as talented and wonderful as Withers has decided to "retire". Withers, now, makes music strictly for himself, his family, and friends. Right on ... Yeah yeah I know I know, it is only v early March but Yu Darvish looked an absolute monster out there yesterday. I am loathe to link to gifs. I will not. But, I will give you a quote from today's AP round-up report:
"He had good stuff, great poise," Padres second baseman Orlando Hudson said, " ... Seven different pitches. It's hard enough to throw one pitch in the big leagues, man."
... Aw, hell. Everyone who is reading this knows that Michael prefers the company of women (h/t to Wire, 106 Beats That.) And all of you, all of you wonderful women that have meant something to me in the past, and that change and enrich my life every single day (especially you, Pnut, who made me grow up, finally) I would like to give a most humble thanks. (Thanks, Renee. And thanks, Mum.) It is all the English Roses, exes, cheese-mongers, wine reps, customer service clerks, movie stars, team leaders (thanks Annie & Lisa & Josie & Meghan), authors, rock stars, journalists, baristas, book store owners, nurses, etc, that make me who I am. I am so indebted to you.
All my love,
Michael David Spitler
(Here's the deal on that kissing sequence: At the time you could only kiss on screen for three seconds max. Hitchcock, who was madly in love with Ingrid Bergman (are we not all in love with her?) thought that was incredibly silly. So, he had Grant and Bergman do a four minute take of them together, where never once was a smooch longer than three seconds. Absolute genius. And, my goodness, Bergman has never been as sexy before as she is in this. Why is not that me on the patio? When I see those elbows raised I get a little bit excited. Bergman was an icon (a picture, a poster, an image, whathaveyou) but when you see her in action she is a living, breathing sexual Swedish adult that I wish I could have bumped in to at a party.
Towards the end of my shift I could not help but notice that almost an entire girl's High School softball team was waiting in turns to use the public restroom. (My wine back stock wall is right by the Food Hole public restrooms.) The team wore white jerseys with a gold "A" on the left chest. But there was also one member of the Los Lomas (Los Lomas is the high school that is right behind my store) team in full uniform, too. She was chatting amiably with a member of the opposite team, leaning on a five stack of back stock wine (prob Three Wishes). I said, "Wait a minute. You two aren't supposed to be together, are you?" And that got a pretty good laugh from them. I asked them what time the game was. Some said, Three-thirty. Some said, Four. I asked the white jersey team what High School they went to. They said, Antioch.
Then noticing the Antioch girls' sanitary socks, I said, "You're wearing two different colors. Is that allowed?" The entire team was wearing a gold sock on one leg and a black sock on the other. They said, "Yeah, we have to. It's part of the uniform." Then one girl looked at another, who looked to be the youngest, and quite small in relation to the rest of the team, and asked her, "Did you put them on the right foot this time?"
The small girl, blonde, raised her eyes to the heavens, let loose with a classic long Sally Brown from Peanuts sigh, and said, "I've done it again. I always put them on the wrong foot."
Who would of thought that a documentary about a ubiquitous typeface could be so game-changing and profound? If you do not believe me I challenge you to watch it yourself and see if I am not right.
Must see.
The film, Helvetica, totally changed the way I looked at my environment, totally helped me understand the way text and graphic design spoke to me in ways I had never seen or heard before. Clued me in to a new secret language and forced me to think about things I had never thought about before, had taken for granted.
