It's all about trust...

Lantana: a plant with colorful flowers that grows wild in and around Sydney, a plant that takes pride in winding and intertwining itself with everything that gets in it's way.

The final frame of movie Lantana was about as powerful of a bit of intertwined cinematic storytelling that I ever could hope to see in a motion picture drama. After almost two hours of white knuckle tension and red herring interplay by hopelessly needy, secretive couples and generally emotionally messed up people we witness the lead detective in the story and his wife dancing arm in arm to a soft Latin tune, something that they could never seem to do during the whole course of the film. It took a disappearance, an affair and the uncovering of a death by misadventure of a mutually known character for the inspector to finally break through his numbness and bawl like a baby, but, by then, it was already too late for him to salvage his life, let alone the love of his wife. So there he was, final frame, back in the arms of his wife, his lips poised and ready to being the marital games again but all the while his wife held herself back, the look in her eyes saying that she was a million miles away from both sex and his heart. With their mutual trust shattered, his arms became a vise, their damaged love a weight holding them both down and back from being whole, happy, passionate people.

Lantana, a wonderfully twisted, interwoven, award winning story out of Australia that delivers the goods on relationships, love, lust, isolation, secrets, betrayal, heartbreak, tragedy and hope, the kind of hope that dies a hard death once trust is broken.

Action!

Film review: Lantana:

http://www.allmovie.com/work/lantana-248917/review

Movie people

I blame the Hot Dog King. Every time the county Sheriff comes over to buy a dog from him he does his best Maxwell Smart imitation and calls out "Hello, Chief!" It never fails to crack the head sheriff up as well as those hangers on around the cart. It was because of that Don Adams thing that I had to look up information about the series and that led me to view Google images. Wait a minute, I asked myself. Who is that familiar looking dude in the background, the one wearing a KAOS hat? Come to find out it was my uncle Eddie, truly the bigger "movie star" of the family.

My father was in the industry for years, but it wasn't until the last years of his life that he found regular employment with the studios. He told years ago that this was just the way of the world when you choose to work for film and television, especially when you are new to the business. Somehow he felt that that somewhat nomadic lifestyle wasn't for me. He dissuaded me from going further into Hollywood once I was laid off from Disney. "Go back to school" was pretty much what he felt I needed to do, so I did and thanks to him never had to suffer the ups and downs of finding regular employment in the movie business like he did. In the end, though, he did become a highly respected camera dolly man, a grip's grip, and was a regular on the set of many a sitcom and television drama. I missed his wake but was told afterwards that it was a hell of a party, that it was grand roast of sort, filled with all sorts of Wally stories great and false and kinda true. Sorry to have missed that, to have missed talking about him with all the grips and cameramen and such.

But I was there with my uncle and my cousin when we hauled his ashes out to sea. To see my uncle Eddie then was to see my Abuelita again, a true stand in for Lillian Gish. It was the eyes, you see, true movie star eyes. But he wasn't a real big time actor, he was mostly into bit parts, stunts, second unit direction, and more, he was Don Adam's stand-in and stunt double for all the years that Get Smart ran on television. Somehow I missed all that, as it was overshadowed by my father's much larger shadow. Uncle was urbane, funny, a solid family man, a horseman, a motorcyclist, a true tough son of a bitch. He was kind, though, raised good kids. I met his boy when I was a boy, then participated in that boy's wedding as a sort of informal photographer. Somehow my wife at the time thought it would be a great time for a full out row. A very memorable occasion, that.

No matter, I look for my cousin Freddie at the end of every Hollywood movie I watch. As a matter of fact I tend to sit through film credits just because I want to honor all the people who pulled the picture together. My father once took me on location with him for the day. Of course I was in awe..there goes Tony Curtis, there goes...well, who ever. By the end of the day I was more in lust with the catering girl, another story entirely. At lunch he told me a truism that to this day I have always believed. When I asked him about his job, if it was exciting to work with all those movie stars, he looked at me with those haggard blue eyes of his and said to me "son, they're folks just like you and me, nothing more, nothing less. We're all just movie people, folks just working a job."

I watched "movie people" do their thing the rest of the day after that, not so much in awe anymore but just seeing how hard they worked, cobbling together sets on location, laying down cable and dolly tracks and the like. I watched the camera men set up, the costumers and the makeup people apply their arts, saw the actors stumble over and laugh and then get mighty serious with their lines. Movie people, indeed. Seeing how a film was made on that side of the camera was almost more exciting that seeing the finished product up on the screen.

As the years have gone by I managed to lose touch with my cousin and my uncle and all the other folks in the family who have managed to find regular employment in the industry. Thinking about them got me thinking that maybe I should go back to school, gett an additional masters in film just so I can hang out with all those cool and wonderful and hard working people who put movies and television shows together. Even if all I did was handle old reels or become an archivist or work a studio library I think I would be one of the happiest men alive. Sort of like the way my father was when he was in his element, the sort of way my uncle Eddie is when is he behind the camera, calling the shots, working with all the rest of those cool and decidedly wonderful movie people.

Action!

My Uncle Eddie, a family member who is a real life stunt guy:
http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0382554/

Stuntmen Movie Association bio:

http://www.stuntmen.com/members/index_dir.asp?offset=35

Cousin Freddie:

http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0382556/

The "Other" Maxwell Smart:

http://www.ilovegetsmart.com/eddie_hice.html

Get Smart Reunion:

http://www.wouldyoubelieve.com/gather.html

Wikipedia Entertainment Eddie Hice bio:

http://memory-alpha.org/en/wiki/Eddie_Hice

Wallace, just a mention, but still...

http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0382560/

The face that launched a thousand ships

I wonder what Helen would have thought of it.

Helen of Troy. I stumbled upon a taped copy of the Robert Wise 50's sword and sandal blockbuster at Goodwill the other day. I am almost positive that I've never seen it before. I was certainly not aware that that title had been such a big hit, that it had been one of Warner's bigger money makers back in those early Cinemascope days. From what I could tell from the box it was just another reissued pan and scan big screen epic with a cast of thousands that I had somehow overlooked as an adult, that I might have watched as a boy in some truncated fashion or another during one of those late afternoon local television station matinees that always seemed to be running in LA in the sixties.

From what I can tell it wasn't one of those pieces of high cinema that my mother would occasionally command me to sit and watch for my classic film viewing edification. Rather, it was probably just another bit of faded film fodder I sat down and kept myself busy with, the way I did with all those Steve Reeves Hercules kind of films. If it wasn't a war film or a Western I generally wasn't too interested. Didn't have those kinds of soldiers to act out the movie afterwards. Didn't have the plastic swords to bang around with outside. So, outside of Victor Mature's pecs flashing as he tore the temple down in Samson and Delilah I never really saw the point of all those greased up muscle boys cavorting about in togas. I certainly was too young to appreciate the scantily dressed babes. Pity, as I really missed out on a vibrant and thrilling genre.

Never say never, for in the film world it rarely a case of "too late" these days. After watching Helen I realized that I was sorely lacking in my classical education. Not the book kind, mind you. I had struggled with Homer as a student back in high school and have never had the inclination or the desire to go back to those musty words again. No, rather, it was the Italian sword and sandal cult films that I missed out on. I didn't realize, outside of a stray Hercules and the Moon Men piece that would show up now and again in a cheesey 10 film compilation, that there was such a huge body of work out there to pile through. Again, it wasn't my skin of wine as a boy, but now it can be in all it's lightbulb faded glory. I, too, can be the proud owner of a 50 film Italian sword and sandal box set filled with films from the 50's and sixties that I never knew exisited before.

I, too, can now revel in a form of cinema that stands alone, that can be consumed and enjoyed for the cheese that it is without it being watered down with other likeminded B and C quality genre films. Unlike horror or western or war box sets that contain poorly preserved films made on the cheap, the Warriors box set found on Amazon is a true goldmine of boyhood fun filled with movies that were made with possibly a bit of tongue in cheek, but certainly with a lot of brio, wit and brimming with that old school classical education that can only come about by living with old monuments and antiquities all around you day after day. Somehow I know the memory of those films are buried deep in the catacombs of my film watching subconscious, waiting for the right moment to break free and be enjoyed again.

Helen of Troy was no Wolfgang Petersen CGI action fest, that's for sure. I was old school film making at it's finest. There was some great matte work to be sure, but there was evidence of quality craftmen at work all the way around. There were no pumped up matinee idols, either, just seasoned European actors, many with serious stage production pedigrees. It was the kind of film that I would have prefered to watch on a rainy day, on the couch, with a big bowl of popcorn and cold sodas by my side. But instead I was curious and jumped in. My curiosity was rewarded. Because of Wolfgang's film Helen of Troy has been rereleased on DVD. Someday I would like to run across it, to witness and enjoy the spectacle of that old school piece in all it's widescreen glory. But for the moment it was good enough to catch a clean copy of a boyhood memory, to give my classic literature chops a good shaking out. I know, too, that more Italian cult cinema will soon be part of my film viewing education. It's never too late to catch muscle bound dudes in g-strings rescue winsome babes in flowing togas, poor film quality or not.

Action!

Review: Helen of Troy:

http://www.allmovie.com/work/helen-of-troy-94695

History of widescreen movies site: review of Helen of Troy:

http://www.widescreenmovies.org/WSM01/helen.htm

Review: Troy:

http://www.allmovie.com/work/troy-286522/review

Warriors DVD movie set: absolutely great customer reviews!

http://www.amazon.com/Warriors-50-Movie-Pack-Collection/dp/B000F9SUT4

Wikipedia article: Sword and Sandal films:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sword_and_sandal

Atlas Visuals: online dealer of European cult films, including Sword and Sandal epics:

http://www.atlasvisuals.com/index.htm

Not just another day at the beach

You will never see and think of sand the same way again.

Forget Gidget and Frankie Avalon when it comes to images of the beach. Set aside Chubby Checker and the gang doing the Twist down the sand outside Malibu. Once you watch Woman in the Dunes you will have a completely different appreciation for the tactile qualities of sand and loneliness. A true masterpiece in world cinema, this moody modern masterpiece is based on Kobo Abe's existential novel and once viewed will leave you reeling for days, if not years.

I first caught this piece back when I was page working for the Santa Ana Public Library. Roger was the media librarian, a British ex-pat, a man on a mission, a handsome, ruddy guy bound and determined to make the best of his scene there in SoCal by planting the finest films and music his department could afford in that funky county seat library. It was quite a chore, but on his watch we saw the collection blossom from a mere handful of tired theatrical, technical and non-fiction movies to a spread of film that would have made a university film librarian blush. We not only had current cutting edge movies on hand to borrow, but Roger, with an eye for the finest art house videos money could buy, stocked our somewhat frumpy city library with some of the most memorable movies ever made, including such masterpieces as Woman in the Dunes.

I don't know why it took me so long to catch it again. I know that I had it in my hands once or twice while I lived and worked in Seattle. No matter, I stumbled upon it the other day, cruising the shelves of Gig Harbor's Peninsula branch. It was a true flight back in time holding that movie again. I can still remember the apartment I lived during those somewhat wild student days, not so much ones of bookish poverty but rather ones filled with a sort of poor, edgy, high quality adventure. Back in those days we were hot for Ren Faire, for home brewing, for punk and ska and old English ballads on old scratchy vinyl. My pals and I managed to make every Friday night a dinner, libations and movie night, not hard to do on the cheap with the cache of films that Roger bought.

The grandest thing about cozying up to this film today after twenty years is that the print copy has improved. It might have been the years that clouded the frames. I had images of that movie burned in my brain from my one and only viewing and was anxious to see it again, to see if it was as grand as I remembered it being. For years I could see the falling, shifting sands, hear the plantive plea of the widow begging the bug hunter to stay. I could feel the presence, the weight of that wet sand cascading down around them as the lovers rutted in the pit. It was a wild, scratchy image of a movie in my mind, somewhat like the after effects of a wild and torrid bit of lovemaking on the beach in the moonlight on a breezy fall night. It was a powerful film back then, and today, while the credits rolled, I once again felt that tidal wave of world cinema satisfaction.

Roger, I owe you, man. If the truth be known what I wanted to be more than a Children's Librarian was a Media Librarian, just like you. Someday, maybe, I'll get that chance. In the meantime know that you blazed a mean trail to follow, and that I look forward to someday being able turn on an awful lot of young and old minds alike to high quality films, just like you did with me and the rest of Santa Ana's film watching faithful.

Action!

Review: Woman in the Dunes:
http://www.allmovie.com/work/woman-in-the-dunes-55073/review

Oona loves Charlie

I look at the photo above and what do I see? True love.

Sometimes I feel that that kind of sacrifice, devotion and surrender only live in the movies, is packaged up by some great PR unit just to get us to buy tickets. Sometimes I feel that most of us sit in the audience and watch that fabled happiness happen up there on the silver screen not because we want it or have it or had it, but because we are believers in the mythos of "true love". I sometimes feel that instead of soda water the theaters pump an elixer of "Hope Springs Eternal" out of their concession stand spigots, just another way for us to swim out deeper into the myth.

Sometimes I, too, gaze upon those celluoid lovers and know, just know in my heart of hearts, that true love is some sort of fantasmagorical beast for us to dream about, not something we mere mortals could ever hope to attain, ride or master in this lifetime. I feel that most us wander out into the sunshine or moonlight after our latest does of celluloid love wistful, wistful in the way that only an afternoon tryst can can make you feel. Sometimes, if we're willing and strong enough to pull back the curtain and watch the illusionist at work, we'll find once again that we've been had, yet, the sucker in us, the good person in us, the believer in us still walks away feeling that sense of awe and purpose behind the lie and continue to seek out true love anyway. Hope springs eternal, indeed.

You must understand one thing: I am a believer. I'm the kind of a man who loves to watch those kinds of flicks not only for the illusion but also because I know that we all have the potential to find and live a life with someone who cares and is willing to damn near lay down their life for us.

Movies can breed cynics. Or maybe life does. But then again, as I said I am a believer in this true love business, and so was Oona O'Neill.

I don't believe that either one of them was looking for it. It just happens. True love is timeless, there is no past or future tense to it. The pairing of Oona O'Neill and Charlie Chaplin certainly lives up to that ideal. The headstrong, willful daughter of one of America's great playwrights meets and falls in love with one of the silent era's most storied if not greatest film comedians. It was a chance opportunity that turned into a life long love affair. Love on the run, love that bore many children, love that cast off citizenship and country. Oona and Charlie, a real life love story for the ages, the kind that the faithful are happy to pay good money to see up on the screen time and time again.

Action!

NY Times book review: Oona bio:
http://www.times.com/books/98/11/29/reviews/981129.29spadat.html

Chaplin film review:
http://www.allmovie.com/work/chaplin-8916

Charlie Chaplin's wives:
http://www.ednapurviance.org/chaplininfo/chaplinwives.html

Articles on Charlie, one specific to Oona:
http://www.clown-ministry.com/index_1.php/site/articles/oona_oneil_chaplin_biography_dedicated_wife_to_charlie_chaplin/

Unjust comparison

This morning on Yahoo's OMG some celebrity-snapshot taking, red carpet critic made an unjust comparison between the classic camp look of Elsa Lanchester's The Bride of Frankenstein and that of Ashley Olsen's somewhat stunning runway look for a celebrity studded fundraiser:

"The lace Alexander McQueen dress Ashley Olsen donned for the 3rd Annual Art of Elysium charity gala was undoubtedly glamorous, but unfortunately she resembled the Bride of Frankenstein thanks to her overly powdered face, unruly updo, and ridiculously dark lipstick."

Frankly, is there any comparison? Elsa Lanchester wins the horror dame beauty contest, hands down! Sorry, Ashley, better luck next time!

Action!

Bride of Frankenstein review:

http://www.allmovie.com/work/the-bride-of-frankenstein-7091

If this is Saturday it must be cartoon day

Saturday morning coming right up. Is it still the highpoint of children's programming the way that it used to be? It's been decades since I've made that day the highlight of my television viewing week. It seemed that for most of my boyhood it was something not to be missed. I have to wonder,then, when it was that I started watching cartoons on Saturday mornings in earnest. Looking back deep into my life I can see a big, wooden cabinet television set sitting on the floor of my bedroom. I remember it being my pop's set from the barber shop. I am sure that I didn't care how it got there, because for awhile I felt like the top dog of the kid set, having access to Saturday morning programming in my bedroom from local network sign in till noon or later in the day.

Sundays never had the same appeal due to dodging all that religious traffic, and afterschool programming, while ripe with the live action antics of Hobo Kelly, Bozo the Clown and Sheriff John, never matched the fervor and partisanship that the Saturday line up promoted with my grade school set. There was one line up that came close, though. For awhile it was almost a sacred trust to make time for it, especially when the sun went down early and the afternoons went wet and cold. I seem to remember that the programming was left of the dial, PBS and small, scratchy independent stations. I felt I was a bit too old for Mr Rogers at the time but got into anyways, Sesame Street, the same thing. But following those shows came a priceless combo: the Little Rascals,Three Stooges, then Simba the White Lion, followed up by Speed Racer. That old Japanese fare was exciting even back then, made me yearn for Astro Boy and Gigantor all over again.


But Saturday mornings was where I truly cut my teeth as far as animation was concerned. Past and present and a bit of the future were all packed in right there between six in the morning and one o'clock in the afternoon. Back in those pre-video tape days we were prone to take what we could get. It meant flipping dials, studying the TV Guide like biblical scholars, looking ahead for something cool to watch even while we were watching something equally cool and interesting on the screen before us. Maybe that jiggly eyedm hyped up behaviour had a lot to do with the fact that we were consuming large amounts of starches and carbs in form of surgary cereals and processed flours, upping our heart rate to marathon runner levels while sitting on our asses. Nothing more frightening, I am sure, to a bleary eyed parent than to peek into a room full of sucrose mad children at eight o'clock on a wet and soggy wet Saturday morning.

Hanna Barbera ruled in those days, but old Warner Bros Looney Tunes and their ilk, with their ultra high standards, did more than hold their own, too. I know that even back then I could see the difference between the two animation houses, heck, I could even see the difference between the newer Bugs Bunny pieces and the older ones. It wasn't until years later, when I started seeking out collections of old cartoons packaged for point of purchase sale in the bargain bins, that I started having celluoid flashbacks to those pieces I had seen as a kid. Apparently those older black and white Fleischer and Terry Tune cartoons never stood a chance against the flash and bang of Space Ghost and Scooby Doo, but what the hell did those programmers know? I suppose as kids we didn't care either so long as the 'toons kept a rollin'. Half the fun of those mornings was being pandered, plied with toy and cereal ads, trailers to upcoming shows and movies. We had no idea that half the dreck we were watching was purely hack work to fill some programming slot. Or maybe, now having seen all the classics jumbled together on those bargin bin compliations, I realize that we squandered daylight watching those pieces that lacked merit, that shouldn't have held us in their thrall to begin with.

We should have known better about consuming such sub par fare considering all the classic animation pieces we used to catch at the movies, but I suppose, since we were a captive audience we just didn't care. Back in those days a good Disney piece would come through only rarely. It was a special event when a Sleeping Beauty or Jungle Book sort of classic would come to town and when it did it the quality of the piece really burned a hole into your subconcious. As I troll the second hands these days I see racks filled with all those Disney classics we loved as kids, see them on VHS lined up by the dozens and know that cartoon heads are truly living in grand times. All those pieces that filled my kiddie head with wonder can now be viewed anytime, anyplace. I know I no longer have to wait for a Saturday afternoon matinee to get my classic animation fix.

I still like to sit down on the couch with my kids and watch cartoons. I prefer those packaged Walmart specials, the 200 cartoon for five bucks numbers over any single work that're being cranked out of most large studio production houses. Sony, Dreamworks and Pixar have all been steadily releasing features, but alot of the product seem repetitious and crude. Not crude in design, as animation, especially computer animation, has advanced to a place where it's all pretty remarkable stuff. No, the complaint lies in the script writing. Sometimes it's a bit too raunchy for my tastes, or for that of my kids. Maybe it's focused on the tastes of the pre-teen set. Okay,then know that'll it be a tad boring for those somewhat sophisticated adult animation aficiandos in the audience, let alone the worn out parent hauling his passle of chillins to the multiplex.

I tire, too, of teenage focused story lines, of movie length cartoons filled with hip characters, potty jokes, poor parenting skills, coach like mentors helping disadvantated charges get over their problems. I want an animation piece to entertain me, not move along like Young Adult literature, I want action and romance and comedy, not a piece that panders along to the climax where small speeches are made, everyone makes up and everything turns out all right. I want my cartoons served straight up, filled with pratfalls and explosions and anvils, or I want them to be otherworldly and beautiful, filled with visions of wonderment and gorgeous song. I know that every piece of animation can't be Snow White or Pinnochio, but there needs to be a benchmark set, a place where good films and their appreciativce audiences can meet.

I suppose that's why Pixar films have been so instrumental maintaining that Saturday morning cartoon magic in us older folk. I have never felt let down after a viewing of Toy Story or A Bug's Life, never felt flat after watching Wall-E or Up. Sometimes, when I watch Pixar's contemporaries try to occupy the high ground that they so easily took, I long for simpler days but happy all the same to see that the animation art is healthy and taking strides to be something more than just entertainment fodder for kids. I take long road trips to be with my children and when I do I take them to see "cartoons" on the big screen and lately I have to admit that I have not been disappointed. The animation house that produced Astro Boy is superb. Pieces like Monsters and Aliens was astounding in it's range and breadth of film references and gags. The Fantastic Mr Fox was as over the top and wonderful to me with it's stop motion magic as Gumby ever was when I was a boy.

I take home animation pieces from the video store these days just to keep up with the art and have something to talk about on the phone with my kids. I watched 9 the other night and was touched by it's dark wonder. I plugged in Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs and was tickled by it's boy's life, mad scientist charm. I correspond with an old schoolmate and know that we both share in the delight of Up!, something that I rarely do with another adult. Maybe that's why the draw to cartoons is so visceral, maybe because we are all Saturday morning veterans, marooned in an adult world that lacks that whiz and bang of colorful celluloid, Our lives are missing that sugary cereal, footed pajama draw that those simple cartoons on a Saturday mornings supplied. Maybe that's why, when I faunch and carry on, trying to get my oldest to watch damn near anything else with me at the cineplex, I am secretly pleased when I knuckle under and watch the latest Ice Age or Bolt or some such ilk with him. Once again I am the little boy sitting up close to that old barbershop black and white set. Once again I am held in thrall of the cinematic genuises of the animation arts.

Action!

WOW! Saturday morning cartoon schedules, mid-sixties through late seventies:

http://www.tvparty.com/sat.html

Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs:

http://www.allmovie.com/work/cloudy-with-a-chance-of-meatballs-474693

9:

http://www.allmovie.com/work/9-332273

Coraline:

http://www.allmovie.com/work/coraline-352012

Fantastic Mr Fox:

http://www.allmovie.com/work/fantastic-mr-fox-378039

Up:

http://www.allmovie.com/work/up-402056

Astro Boy:

http://www.allmovie.com/work/astro-boy-400000

Monsters Vs Aliens:

http://www.allmovie.com/work/monsters-vs-aliens-379339

The con's the thing...

I really don't seem to have a knack for this "review" thing. I'll watch a movie, love it or not, then check out the "real" reviewers to see if they gleaned any additional insight to the film I just watched. What amazes me is half the time I feel we've watched different movies altogether. Upstairs in the comfort and confines of the Futon Cinema I am not predisposed to take notes, flip through compendiums for facts or histories, check against my spelling or gauge my feelings in depth. I come downstairs to this place because I want to mess about in film land, rack up the titles, share the joy. I still look at movies the way I did as a kid: I watch them and then, after the credits roll and the lights come on in the house, pick up my popcorn bag and my soda cup and go out into the daylight..or nighttime, depending on whether or not I was able to catch a matinee....and groove on the residual feelings of what I just watched.

See, I think of movies as entertainment, or a trip out of my head, a temporary vacation to another time and space for a couple, three hours. I don't go into a moviehouse with the idea that I am going to come out of it with an attitude, or some sort of edgy critique to enlighten the world with. I don't watch movies because I want to write a doctoral thesis about them, or because I want to write some pithy dialogue to make folks think I'm witty or with it or extremely plugged into film.

I am one of those movie watchers that watch movies because I love them, not because I think I can make them better than the hundreds of people involved in the making of one. I suppose that's where those other "film watchers/scribbners" are so much different than me. I feel that they get paid to ride their high horses, to come across as some sort of grand elloquent interpreter of film, as somebody who has all the keen knowledge, background and history of films in their heads, encycleopedic knowledge of cinema, a working vocabulary of the films of the world. They have to have attitudes because their paychecks depend on it. I just like to watch movies, no attitudes or stipends attached.

See, I have this history of watching movies in damn near every format. I have this thing that says to me that movies are to be shared, or watched late at night or found and checked out from a library and viewed when the rain is coming down and you have nothing better to do. Right now movies are my friend. I fill up my nights with film, wide varieties of movies, and then I come down and figure out where to plug them into this blog. I come downstairs with a "wow" on my lips, or my eyes still puffy from tears, or my sides still aching from laughing so hard. I think of this blog and know that I will never knock out "rotten tomato" worthy reviews but then again I couldn't even think to want to sully the experience of my viewing pleasure with numbers or stars or false modesty.

Take, for instance, The Brother's Bloom. That delicious con man movie fell into my hands because I was wandering the aisles of Hollywood Video one afternoon. I wasn't looking for suggestions, I had a list in my hands of titles I wanted to see, trailers I had caught along the way, when this total stranger walks up to me and asks me if needed a movie suggestion. Well, hell, why not? So he hands me this flick and then, walks me across the store and hands me another. My movie angel. I couldn't quite get enough of Taken especially when I found out it was scripted by Luc Besson. I held off on the first title he handed me for awhile, then thought, "man, I paid for that, better watch it before it's due".

See, we fall into movies and either love them and recommend them or watch them and put them away for bored guests to pick out, for another rainy day. I have hundreds of movie titles laying around because I don't want to wait for Netflix to send them to me. I don't want to go down and rent them from Redbox or pick them up at the library just so I have to take them back right away (not that I don't but I'd rather not). No, instead I want the option of being able to pull a title from a stack day or night. Like Brad Anderson's Brick. I found that film trolling the shelves of the local pawn shop. I was mesmerized by it, loved the noirish dialogue, an edgy thriller in a contemporary high school setting.

Well, thanks to that guardian movie angel I stumbled upon Brad Johnson's sophomore effort. The Brothers Bloom has as many twists and turns as a box of Red Vines. It is a movie that demands a second viewing, that commands your attention and requires you to laugh and cry and leave the damn cat alone for a moment. It wants you to root for the "bad" guys, it desires for you to believe in love again, it has no intention of having you do anything other than think and laugh and cry right along with the characters, the quirky, grifting characters that make up this wonderful, small and brilliant piece of art.

I can never really grasp why critics feel they have to watch a movie just to judge it. I suppose that their handlers, the ones that are paying their salaries want them to have strong opinions about the dozens of movies they watch and have to write about. I would rather know that I was slapping a film into my player because it was the lucky title of the moment. I want to think that I putting a film on in the morning or the middle of the night because I wanted to be entertained, distracted, enlightened or kept from going crazy for a couple hours. What I don't want is to go into a movie house and know that I am destined to come out of it with a chip on my shoulder and need to tell the world how good or bad the movie I just watched was. Hell, I know a good movie from a bad one, I just don't need to tell the world. Sometimes I wish that those critics didn't need to do that, either. Let me decide, okay? Keep your opinions to yourself.

As for The Brothers Bloom? A ten out of ten, a million stars, a must see, an Oscar contender, a world class piece of art. Exaggeration? You watch it and tell me where to get off. Or better yet, come on by and we'll watch it together and afterwards, over a cup of coffee or a glass or three of wine, talk about it. Just save your hard core critiques for your boss and your weekly column, okay?

Action!

The Brothers Bloom:
http://www.allmovie.com/work/the-brothers-bloom-376451/review

A few other films about confidence men and their marks:

House of Games:
http://www.allmovie.com/work/house-of-games-23350

The Grifters:
http://www.allmovie.com/work/the-grifters-20935

The Sting:
http://www.allmovie.com/work/the-sting-46920

Criminal:

http://www.allmovie.com/work/criminal-290323

Paper Moon:

http://www.allmovie.com/work/paper-moon-37203

A bit of celluloid, a drop of vino and thee

Okay, let's lay the blame at the feet of the man who started it all: Jame Coburn. Face it, man, it was you all along, it was your doing that got me going in direction of wine. Sure, I had fits and starts with other liquors, other brews. William Powell made cocktails look so appealing in the Thin Man. And for quite a big chunk of time Clint Eastwood made beer the only libation a true hairy chested man could drink.

But wine found it's hero in you, James. One evening back in the late seventies I found myself in a funky contemporary movie house across the street from Disneyland and caught a double bill that changed the imagery in my mind about wine and how one should drink it. I was on weekend leave, coming down from a very nice tab of very clean windowpane. I don't know what inspired me to take in such a heady, psychotronic double bill after such a blissful day. Cross of Iron and Black Sunday. On paper the plan seemed sound and the drive, while hazardous, was doable. I parked the car and unbeknownst to me, left the lights on, which gave the evening a decidedly dramatic twist later on. Somehow I managed to come up with correct change, got my ticket, walked in and grabbed a seat.

Damn big auditorium. Was there a crowd that evening? I can't remember but I do remember that those films occupied every square inch of my brain that night. As far as I was concerned, it was Peckinpah's finest hour. I had yet to see The Wild Bunch, and only seen a couple of his earlier Westerns on television. The battle scenes were pure symphonic ballet, a cinematic ode to slow-mo gunplay. Then came the scene that changed the way that I looked at Rhine wine forever.

James Coburn had caught it, big time, in a pitched battle on the Russian front that turned things, temporarily, in favor of the Germans. While in the midst of fighting a holding action, Coburn's character, Cpl Steiner, found himself in the vicinity of a rather large explosion, which thanks to good script writing, meant he was due a bit of time in the rear for recovery. Maybe it was the Weirmacht fatigues he was dressed in, or the dashing, juanty way he wore that bandage around his head. Maybe it was the way he grabbed that sweaty bottle, the careless way he hoisted it to his lips, his grin visable behind the quaffed wine. I'm sure it was the delight he took in that swallow, or maybe it was the nurse he had on his arm, that made that wine look so damn tasty. No matter, wine and war, handsome men, gorgeous women and film all became inextricably intertwined in my psyche that night.

Wine shows up fairly regularly in films. It doesn't have the upscale appeal like hootch does in old Warner Brothers gangster films, and it doesn't have the same bbq and baseball feel of brew like films that Kevin Costner would play in. But it does speak of family, of celebration, of joy. When wine plays a part in the scene of a movie it's not necessarily for comic relief like in Arthur or to help the antihero get over his heartache the way that whiskey does in any number of movies. I think of films like Sideways and Bottleshock when I think of wine, of how it's appreciated and venerated and talked about in ways that can make even a man on the wagon thirsty. I think of those scenes in the cave in For Whom the Bell Tolls, where the communal table is beset by anxiety and worry about how the war was going, but then, once wine was applied, how it tied together the tough and weak and the uncertain and turned them all into a force to contend with.

Wine is a means to a toast, like in 84 Charing Cross Street when the characters, companions all, toast to an upcoming trip to England. Wine was there in biblical epics, promoting tension in Samson before he met Delilah. It was present in the wedding scene of the Godfather, for sure, but it was also part of any number of large and small films where family and celebration and toasts were called for. Wine is most certainly is the drink of love, of sophistication, of humility, of heroes. Where would brave Jason and his Argonauts be, where would Robin Hood be, where would Dumbo be without the thrill, delight and comfort of wine? Wine has been used a vehicle to overcome grief, like in The Shrink. Wine is there to make merry, like when Rick wooed Ilsa in Paris in Casablanca. Wine, in all it's glory and humbleness, is where culture is, where love blooms, where good times dwell.

And wine was also made the drink of hairy chested men as well, thanks to Coburn and Peckinpah that night. When I left the movie house I was finally coming down from my long, star spangled trip and wanted something cool to drink, something like a bottle of Gewertzterminer or some such libation. I reached into my pocket, pulled out my wallet and saw that I had enough change to buy a long, cool green bottle of California Reisling from the little market across the street from my mom's house. I jumped into my car and turned the key, already picturing the grin I would employ to show my appreciation for the sweetness, the coolness of that heady elixer. Damn if the motor didn't turn over. I saw that my headlight switch was pulled out, had been left on, for the entire length of the show. My James Coburn moment would have to wait. That jingle in my pocket went to the owner of a service station, instead. Even hairy chested males find their batteries drained out every once in a while.

Action!

San Francisco Chronicle: Top 10 wine movies:
http://articles.sfgate.com/2006-06-22/wine/17300223_1_wine-films-paul-henreid-great-pairing

Top Tenz: Top Ten wine movies, with clips:
http://www.toptenz.net/top-10-movies-with-wine.php


Chowhound (natch!): long rap on wine and movies:
http://chowhound.chow.com/topics/556001

Wine in movies, television shows AND books:
http://wineintro.com/movies/

And, finally, I believe things would have turned out differently if James had been drinking wine out of a box, instead. Not near as sexy, but far more practical, if not greener:

http://seattletimes.nwsource.com/html/wineadviser/2010724146_pacificpadviser17.html?cmpid=2628

Horror, real and imagined

Haiti it wasn't, not even by a long shot.

Growing up on the edge of the Barrio Goldenwest I felt I was living on the edge. No one I knew had such a "hard life" as the one I lived growing up, or so I thought. I had a barber daddy, we lived in an old house and we drove ancient cars. My mom worked McDonalds, I had a simple minded half brother and my clothes came from Sears. Tough life, right? Yeah, right.

I suppose my mindset had a lot to do with the company I was keeping. I had pals who were growing up in seemingly affluent or at least solid middle class neighborhoods in Santa Ana or other cities in Orange County. I attended a Catholic high school that trucked in the the elite of the county, the kids from the beaches and the hills, youngsters who claimed hardship if their daddies didn't buy them the latest of whatever it was they needed in order to make the cut. I was soft, not a fighter. I only ventured down into my own personal barrio when I felt I had to make time, or see friends, or chase the dog. I didn't go down into that part of the world because I really didn't want to make myself an easy target, or "get involved" or become part of the burgeoning drug culture that sucked the last vestiges of life out of the young gang bangers who didn't feel like following their field working father's and housecleaning mother's footsteps.

I knew and hung out with "drug dealers", too. We didn't need or want guns. We were marijanos and lead an easy life. We weren't policitally astute, didn't worry about police or revolution or counter revolutionaires upsetting our bike rides to the beach or our prom dates hairdos. We lived easy lives, so easy that to watch films like Ghosts of Cite Soleil, a documentary filmed in Haiti's Port Au Prince slums, deemed by the UN to be the "most dangerous place on earth", that I have to wonder how far I was off the reality map at the time. My worries were simple, and looking back, fairly naive. I worried about grades, about making the grade, about finding work when all kinds of jobs were easy to find. I worried about my weight or girls or what I was going to do with my life instead of going college. I look back at all my options, about how easy my life was, about how little real fear I truly had to deal with in regards to my own personal barrio and think, man, what an easy life I have had. I wish sometimes that real life would have slapped me across the face earlier on. I suppose that's what crossing the "Shit River Bridge" did for me later on. But that was in the future. The Barrio Goldenwest pretty much left me alone to my silly and largely unfounded fears.

Watch Ghosts of City Soleil if you have a gripe or a grumble about your middle class existence. There are plenty of places in the good ol U S of A that are hardcore and dangerous, but I know now for certain that the corner of Goldenwest and McFadden wasn't one of them.

Action!

Filmmaker Magazine article: Ghosts of Cite Soleil:
http://www.filmmakermagazine.com/fall2006/reports/inner_city.php

Interview with Asger Leth, director, Ghosts of Cite Soleil:

http://filmmakermagazine.com/directorinterviews/2007/06/asger-leth-ghosts-of-cit-soleil.php

The New York Times: Haiti in the news, the earthquake and beyond

http://topics.nytimes.com/top/news/international/countriesandterritories/haiti/index.html

Another kind of horror: film review: Serpent and the Rainbow:

http://www.allmovie.com/work/the-serpent-and-the-rainbow-43768/

The real Wade Davis, since then:

http://www.nationalgeographic.com/field/explorers/wade-davis.html

Mrs Chavez Goes to Chifton's

It was impossible to get around. Every summer when I would go to visit my mother's people I would have to cull out a day to spend with my grandmother Eva. My mom's mom was a prickly pear of a woman, more a cactus in keeping with her Mexican heritage. She was harsh, quick to judge, fast to critique, not a whole lot of fun to hang out with. But to her credit she doted on me, got me fat so that when I went home my mother would have other things to worry about other than my not too often seen Pop.

Eva made it a point to drag me away from my ever spoiling grandfather. He had a different way about him, one that was more connected to life outside their four plex. He had connections all around the neighborhood, had all the little old ladies on Westmoreland anxiously awaiting his arrival. He cut their lawns and moved their furniture and in turn they paid him a few dollars and plied him with sodas and fresh baked goods. He was happy and shared that happiness with the world, shared the spoils of that delight in living with me. We were often out and about together, running errands, fetching artesian water fresh from the tap in Griffith Park or grabbing burgers at Tommy's.

Eva, on the other hand, liked being housebound. It was her domaine, her bully pulpit. I did my best to stay away and wander about out of doors. But I had to give over at least one day a year to her. Looking back those afternoons spent with her were part of the fundamental building blocks of my appreciation for soon to be lost downtown LA. Back in those days downtown was still vibrant, if a bit tawdry. The department stores were still up and running, the theaters still had movies splashed across their screens, most building were still being used for the purposes they were built for and had not yet been gutted and turned into mini-swap meets or parking garages.

Going out with Mrs Chavez meant washing up, combing my hair, wearing long pants. We always caught the bus, never drove, never asked for a ride. Once we disembarked on Broadway I found that walking with Eva meant walking alongside her, not way out in front, not lollygagging behind. It made me feel like Von Stronheim in Sunset Blvd, a mini-man servant pressed into service. a two legged chihuahua dog in the guise of a grandson. But there were always two highlights to our day: lunch at a cafeteria and a double bill at one of the numerous movie palaces that were still to be found on Broadway.

I remember Clifton's Cafeteria more clearly than the others she took me to. It had a special place in the heart of Angelenos even back then, well before it became the kitschy foodie icon the way that Phillippes, Tommys and the Pantry have become. It was filled with a sort of timelessness that many places I had eaten in up to that time lacked. I loved the way that the room smelled when we entered, how it was both noisy and hushed all at the same time. The lighting rebounded and settled into the decor, a sort of movie set for the cafeteria set. We always shared a leisurely lunch. My food interests were still outrageously narrow in those days, so the only items I can remember ever enjoying there were the macaroni and cheese and the jello. I'm sure that my insistant grandmother piled up other delectables on my tray, but those two things stand out.

After lunch we would take a walk and look around at the theater marquees. The movies that we choose to watch were always enlightening. My grandmother never paid attention to things like film ratings. She was the kind of gal who grooved on mayhem and murder, had stacks of detective pulps and Mexican murder rags by the side of her bed, so picking mature rated movies for a ten year old youngster mattered not a wit to her. So under her wing I caught films like Play Misty for Me, Groundstar Conspiracy and Five Man Army. If it wasn't a spaghetti western or a cheesey, violent thriller it wasn't considered. The more lurid the posters and the lobby cards the better. My eyes were pried opened wide during those summer movie forays and have never had a chance to close.

I think back on those days I spent with Eva and realize that they were mighty fine days indeed. Sure, I used to absolutely hate being told to sit up or to walk alongside her in the tone of voice that she used to speak to me in. She was terrifying in alot of ways, forceful, mean spirited and not very kind to my grandfather or my mom. But she was a powerhouse, a force of nature to contend with, one that turned me onto strange and interesting movies and Cliftons and forever seared in my mind the wonders and glories of the finest film palaces of the world, the ones that still graced the Broadway corridor of downtown LA back in the day.

Thanks, Mama, it really was truly a great time after all.

Action!

The Official Clifton's homepage! Great postcard images!

http://cliftonscafeteria.com/

Nice LA Times piece on Cliftons:
http://articles.latimes.com/2009/feb/04/food/fo-cliftons4

Spendor in the aisles: The Los Angeles Theater

The Los Angeles Theater:

http://www.losangelestheatre.com/

American Theater Organ Society:

http://www.atos.org/Pages/Palaces/Los_Angeles/LosAngeles.html

"You are here" LA: The Los Angeles and great photos of other LA landmarks:

http://www.you-are-here.com/broadway/los_angeles_theatre.html