Precious memories keep lingering on...

Just today I was talking to somebody about how much I loved listening to Motown growing up. To this day, it's still the music I consider mine, the one that makes me the happiest. Later I found out that Levi Stubbs, the lead singer of the Four Tops had just died at the age of 72. One of the most distinctive voices of the Motown factory, Stubbs and the Tops were inducted in the Rock 'n' Roll Hall of Fame in 1990... R.I.P.

"I have vision, and the rest of the world wears bifocals."

There are a lot of movie stars and a lot of very good actors. Only sometimes, and nowadays more rarely, do we find the two in the same human being. Friday we lost one of the best of both when Paul Newman passed away at the age of 83.

He was closely linked with Robert Redford, another person who fit both categories and in the same way that you're either a Fred Astaire guy or a Gene Kelly guy, I think you may be either a Robert Redford guy or a Paul Newman guy. I was always a Newman guy. Make no mistake, I love Redford. But he was almost too perfect, too good-looking. Newman had an ease about him, a nonchalance that was self-effacing. Redford seemed like a God, Newman seemed more damaged. He was a heartthrob as well, but he often played a character that would get in his own way. The joy of watching him onscreen was watching how he would get out of his way, how he would somehow manage his plight.

I wonder if people my age know Newman as something more than the guy on the salad dressing or the guy in the race cars. I wonder if they know that while Britney Spears gets married and divorced within 55 hours, Newman defied all Hollywood logic by celebrating his 50th wedding anniversary earlier this year. (It does help that he was married to Joanne Woodward, an actress as talented and beautiful as he was.) I wonder if they've seen that moment in Butch Cassidy & the Sundance Kid where he rides the bike with Katharine Ross on the handlebars while "Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head" plays on the soundtrack. I wonder if they've seen the part in The Sting where he out-cheats Robert Shaw in that poker game on the train.

I want to stop wondering and suggest you go out and rent those two movies... and Hud, and The Hustler, and The Verdict, and Cool Hand Luke, and Sweet Bird of Youth and, well I could go on and on.

I got a woody.

Midway through Woody Allen's latest release, Vicky Cristina Barcelona, Penelope Cruz's Maria Elena says to Scarlett Johansson's Cristina--and I'm paraphrasing here--that unfulfilled love is the only kind of romantic love, that once something is realized it loses its allure. (Whether I agree with this sentiment is fodder for an entirely different post--in fact, perhaps, an entirely different blog site--but I will say that in my younger days I often liked to say that "consummation breeds contempt".)

In a way, that line (Maria Elena's, not mine) comes to fruition in every relationship in Vicky Cristina Barcelona, a film whose plot is a blurry convergence of intersecting love triangles, quadrangles, and more. The film, as suggested by its fully matter-of-fact and un-ironic title, is the story of two twenty-something friends, Vicky and Christina, enviably spending their summer in beautiful Barcelona. But their altogether breezy vacation is quickly upended when they meet Juan Antonio (Javier Bardem), a painter whose failed, trouble marriage with Maria Elena (Cruz) has become a bit of a local legend ("She put a knife in me," he calmly tells the two American women.).

Directly and without pretense, Juan Antonio propositions the two to join him in a weekend trip to the Spanish town of Oviedo to "eat good food, drink good wine, and make love." Yes, to both of them. Needless to say, a great deal happens--longing gazes, chance encounters, a good amount of sexual activity--between here and the end, only complicated by the arrival of Maria Elena into the mix. As for the sordid details of these shifting encounters, I'll leave that for you to hopefully discover.

There are many who would say that Allen's films possess in them a great deal of misogyny. That criticism doesn't stop with Barcelona in some of the reviews I've read. To be fair, I think that is a legitimate opinion of his films, though I tend to have a more tempered reading of this issue. Though he may deny this, of just about all mainstream American directors, Allen is the most philosophically apparent in his own work, the one whose intellectual perspective is the most visible. First, let me say that I think all men are to some extent misogynists. I think it's part of our nature. It isn't always malicious (it probably only rarely is), but it's there even if it's latent.

It only seems obvious that Allen is playing a bit of fantasy fulfillment here: the soulful artist living out his every whim among a collage of beautiful women. But the real center of the film exist in the two women. The real projection of Allen's psyche lies in Vicky and Cristina, not Juan Antonio. All the familiar elements of the Allen oeuvre are apparent, but it's this slight rack in focus where he begins to move into slightly different territory.

Vicky and Cristina lie on almost opposite ends of the sexually emotional spectrum. Cristina is the hopeless romantic, willing and able to be picked up by the unknown Spanish artist. Vicky is reluctant, settling for her safe, comfortable relationship back at home. By the end of the summer, they meet up somewhere in the middle... sort of. The point is that Allen is exploring issues of romantic and sexual identity universal certainly among the genders, but I think specific more to women. Where Annie Hall famously ends with that bit about "needing the eggs," Vicky Cristina Barcelona tries to figure out whether those eggs should be scrambled, poached, or sunnyside up.

foil yogurt lids

I know it's been awhile since I've blogged here, but I've been busy with... well you know... life, as it were.

We're about at the midway point during the Summer Olympics as I write this and every four years (and to a lesser extent, every two years when the Winter ones come around) I am not to be bothered by other issues. Only my fantasy football draft this Saturday will take me out of the house for something that isn't work, food, or sex. (To be clear, those three things are in reverse order of importance.)

But as I look at some of the movies that will be playing at local theaters this weekend, before me lies a slew of movies that may tug me away from my living room and into a darkened theater. A quick survey:

Pineapple Express
Tropic Thunder
Bottle Shock
Star Wars: The Clone Wars
The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2 (yeah, I said it)
Gonzo: The Life and Work of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson
Hancock
American Teen
The Wackness
Tell No One

And of course at the top of the list is Woody Allen's new film starring Scarlett Johansson, Penelope Cruz, and Javier Bardem, Vicky Cristina Barcelona. For a weekend in the middle of August in Orlando, this is a pretty nice lineup. Too bad it had to coincide with a two-week major international sporting event.

But while we're talking about the Olympics, I'd like to take this opportunity to publicly ask Nastia Liukin to marry me. Nastia, I know you're in Beijing right now, but please give me a call when you get back.




P.S. I just heard Dan Hicks say in a piece about why Michael Phelps is so physically gifted in the water. One of the important traits he says is his flat backside. If that's the case, why the hell don't I have 10 gold medals in swimming either?

Two Thumbs Down

One of the reasons this blog (and I guarantee you countless others) exists is from the influence of a show that started out as "Sneak Previews" on PBS in 1975 featuring two local Chicago film critics, each writing for competing newspapers. That show eventually turned into "Siskel & Ebert," and after Gene Siskel's death in 1999, "Ebert & Roeper." Now the show, at least in its current and comfortingly familiar incarnation, will cease to exist.

From Roger Ebert's website:

After 33 years on the air, 23 of them with Disney, the studio has decided to take the program named "Siskel & Ebert" and then "Ebert & Roeper" in a new direction. I will no longer be associated with it.

Here's Richard Roeper's take, from a Yahoo! News article:

Several months ago, Disney offered to extend my contract, which expires at the conclusion of the 2007-08 season. I opted to wait. Much transpired after that behind the scenes, but an agreement was never reached, and we are all moving on.

Replacing them will be TCM host Ben Mankiewicz. He's a reasonably likable fella, though he's not as good as primetime host Robert Osborne. He also comes from a fairly formidable pedigree: his great uncle Joseph L. Mankiewicz wrote and directed the classics A Letter to Three Wives and All About Eve; his grandfather Herman Mankiewicz co-wrote arguably the greatest movie ever, Citizen Kane.

Also replacing them will be current E! News movie correspondent, Ben Lyons. His pedigree includes his father, Jeffrey Lyons, long-time film critic and current host of the syndicated "Reel Talk," one of the many "Siskel & Ebert" knockoffs. A better way to describe the Lyons is not through their television credits, but through the fact that last year eFilmCritic.com named them two of the top 10 "Whores of the Year" among film critics. Jeffrey astoudingly was named the #4 whore of the year and, not falling far from the whorish tree of film criticism, Ben came in at #7.

I have not seen Ben Lyons criticize a film, for he in fact is really a film journalist, and I even use that term loosely. His appearances on E! amount to little more than marginal insider knowledge and good deal of useless industry/celebrity gossip, such is the function of the E! Network as a whole. I do believe there is a place for this kind of (puffy) movie reporting, but not on the show that introduced intelligent and entertaining film criticism for a whole generation of people who may not have been exposed to it otherwise. Is Ben Lyons really good enough to replace the late Gene Siskel or the inimitable Roger Ebert? If the powers that be at Disney who are turning the show in this new direction think so, I have some advice as to where they can stick their collective thumbs.

Charles H. Joffe, 1929-2008

I'd be remiss today if I didn't take the opportunity to note the passing of Charles H. Joffe. He may not be a household name but if, like myself, you are a fan of movies directed by Woody Allen, then I'm sure you've seen it. In that unmistakable white, Windsor font, plainly laid on a black title card, the name has flashed consistently at the beginning of Mr. Allen's films for the past forty years and in the process is partly responsible for the one the best and most influential body of work in the second half of twentieth century American cinema. R.I.P.

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/07/15/movies/15joffe.html?ref=movies

I joined the glee club.

"Art is made by the alone for the alone."

--Luis Barragán, Time (May 12, 1980)

In order to correctly define art, it is necessary, first of all, to cease to consider it as a means to pleasure and consider it as one of the conditions of human life. ...Reflecting on it in this way, we cannot fail to observe that art is one of the means of effective communication between people."

--Leo Tolstoy, What is Art? (1896)

The two seemingly disparate conclusions made by the above quotes together, oddly, serve to elucidate both the dichotomy between the creation and reception of art and, also, the nexus upon which they come together. Art is an emotional shorthand, a distillation of feelings and ideas too deep and wide to express in any complete way. In the past few weeks, I have seen a trio of films which speak to this notion of how art unites vastly different people as well as unites what is fractured and incomplete within oneself.

Walter Vale (Richard Jenkins) has emotionally flatlined since the death of his wife, existing in an intellectual and professional malaise in Thomas McCarthy's The Visitor. At first Walter takes piano lessons as a means of trying to connect with the memory of his late wife, who was an acclaimed classical pianist. This quest for solace and meaning in art works to no avail until he is forced to temporarily moves to his New York apartment to speak at an economics conference. It is there he meets the "visitor" of the movie's title, Tarek, a Syrian-born immigrant. See, Tarek and Zainab, his Senegalese girlfriend, have been renting Walter's apartment unbeknownst to Walter, who is a professor in Connecticut and hasn't occupied the place in years.

Tarek plays an African drum, practicing it in the apartment (Walter has by now allowed the two to stay with him), performing in jazz clubs, and playing with others in Central Park. Slowly, but surely, Walter begins to show interest in the music, wanting to play and Tarek abides. Certainly Tarek teaches and encourages him as an act of good faith for giving him a place to live, but there's also something intoxicating about another human being showing interest in what you create. And while Tarek is thrilled that his new landlord not only tolerates but revels in the music he makes, Walter is given a hand to draw him out of his doldrums. Two men who shouldn't (and don't really) have anything in common are bound by an abstraction.

Back to the first quote by Barragán. Movies may not work fully here because of its propensity to be collaborative (though in a way I still think it does fit), but there is something solitary and introspective about being an artist, about going through the process of creating your work that is peculiarly your own. This solitude is what permeates Anton Corbijn's biopic about the late Joy Division lead singer Ian Curtis, Control.

The film thankfully skirts the usual pitfalls of the musical biopic by refusing to reduce the subject's life to a series of high- and lowlights. And even more so, by refusing to explain it through the superficiality of pop psychology: an abusive or overbearing parent, a downtrodden upbringing, a wandering libido, or some other seminal moment that can exist easily as a narrative scapegoat.

What remains is actor Sam Riley's quiet internalization of Curtis's anguish. With all the turmoil surrounding him, the film is as uniquely pensive as Curtis is. And what Curtis retreats to amid these storms is his art--his music. The film fails to penetrate his psyche and while I initially wished the movie explored more about the process of writing and creating the music, ultimately that would contradict the mood and tone of the picture. For just as the film keeps Curtis at a distance from the other people in the film, he is also kept at a distance from us. The only way into him is through his music--the lyrics a tunnel to his mind, the art a conduit to his soul.

But where the two above quotations funnel together into a single point is in Andrew Wagner's Starting Out in the Evening. The movie begins with Heather Wolfe (Lauren Ambrose), a college student, interviewing long-forgotten novelist Leonard Schiller (Frank Langella) for her thesis. What transpires throughout the film becomes a treatise on the nature of art, the critical analysis of it, and the emotional toil it creates within the artist and on its audience.

Schiller embodies the idea of the solitary artist, the writer sitting endlessly in the silence of his lonely room, having nothing to keep him company but the unmistakable clicks of his pounding typewriter (yes, he still composes on a typewriter). At his advanced age, the only self-proclaimed goal he has left in life is to finish his final novel. Initially, he rejects the notion of helping the young grad student because of the distraction from his work. But since Schiller isn't entirely a curmudgeon, he relents, allowing Heather to conduct a series of interviews at his apartment for research.

A writer puts a wall around himself. It's easier and in his nature to look inward and crumble within himself. It is until he implodes and out come the words (or images or sounds or whatever). Schiller most certainly has this wall and the first few interviews between he and Heather contain moments that are quite tenuous. Midway through the film, he even says to another writer, "There's something about collaboration that brings out the worst in writers." It isn't until she tells him why she loves his work, the story of her first discovery of his writing does he begin to open up and to be more honest about the nature of his craft. It's only when the personal and private efforts of his work connect tangibly to something in the public world can he learn to fully engage with, well, anything really.

Thus the collision of the two quotes also highlights one of the most revealing and intriguing traits of the artist: he (or she) is a massive hypocrite. For the creation of art is at the same time a selfless, giving olive branch to the world around us and a highly selfish and self-indulgent pastime.

A good friend of mine (not to mention a writer I admire) once wrote that men are assholes, that they are driven by ego. I reacted personally and violently to such a harsh assessment. But in the end, I think she was right. I would extend that specifically to the artist, for he is defined by ego--consumed by it. Schiller, despite his elevated and reserved demeanor, is such a person. It's a quiet arrogance he possesses; an elitism that seems particular to people who create. To be fair, I don't mean this necessarily as criticism, but something I think is quite indispensable to the process. It's the oddest of juxtapositions: the quest to connect through whatever medium the person possesses is guided by an air of superiority. Even kind and likable Walter Vale in The Visitor isn't immune to this type of haughty behavior, as evidenced by his response to a woman who asks him what he writes about: "It's difficult to explain to someone who isn't a writer." He immediately apologizes to her--such is his mien--but the mentality is still present, no matter how latent.

Yet the talent to create is a remarkable aphrodisiac and contains the allure of connecting in ways that don't involve regions nether the belt buckle. In all three of these films, the main characters forge new relationships both platonic and romantic by way of art--sometimes their own, sometimes that of others. As I said before, it is a form of emotional shorthand and listening to someone else's song, or watching someone else's movie, or reading someone else's short story they sent you via email, it invariably reaches you in a way that is unique. It has a way of wading through the muck, a way of pushing through the bullshit that a (dare I say) "normal" conversation can't.

But the best way to understand that is to not listen to someone like me talk about it, but actually going out there and experiencing it for yourself, so I'll see you at the movies! Or as David Bowie more succinctly and wittily put it: "Talking about art is like dancing about architecture."

Storytime

I meant to post this link when it first came out, but I was busy trying to do my own post. I've often thought about this topic and would write about it, but Emerson puts it much more elegantly that I ever could. If you even remotely like the stuff that is written on my blog, I highly suggest reading his post as well as everything else he writes on here. (If you scroll down far enough, you'll find my comment and reaction to his thesis.)

http://blogs.suntimes.com/scanners/2008/06/tell_me_a_story_or_dont.html

It's that time of year again...

The American Film Institute will unveil its next list on Tuesday: 10 Top 10. These are, according to the AFI panel, the ten greatest films in each of ten classic movie genres. Looking at the list of celebrities who will host a section for each of the categories during the CBS telecast, one can't help but wonder if the folks at the AFI have tipped their hand.

Clint Eastwood is hosting the "Western" section. Can we assume that Unforgiven will make the cut? Could The Outlaw Josey Wales sneak in? Doubt it, as I would venture to guess that the AFI will strive for plurality. Sigourney Weaver will host the "Sci-Fi" category. Hello, either one of the first two Alien flicks (I'm leaning towards the first one). Kirk "I AM SPARTACUS" Douglas will host the "Epic".

Those seem obvious, but how about some of the others? Cuba Gooding, Jr. will host the piece on "Sports." Does that mean Jerry Maguire will be considered one of the ten best sports movies in American history? God, will it be Radio instead? "Mystery" will be hosted by Gabriel Byrne. The Usual Suspects appears to be, well, the usual suspect here. But how wonderfully surprising would it be if they put the Coen Brothers' Miller's Crossing instead? Jessica Alba will host the "Romantic Comedy" section. Just in case you read that wrong, I'm going to cut and paste. Jessica Alba will host the "Romantic Comedy" section. If she appears in any movie that appears in this list, the AFI will have lost its collective rocks.

Anyone who knows me knows I love me some lists (just look at the right-hand side of this blog!). But I can't help but wonder when the AFI will run out of things to throw into a new special. This is the 11th straight year, since their inaugural 100 Years... 100 Movies special in 1998. Last year's 10 year reunion was even a redo, a mea culpa of sorts, changing the rank of some films, including new ones, dropping others. (My post about it is here.) I'm still waiting on the 25 (or even 50) greatest American directors list.

All I know is that I can't for the life of me make the connection for having Jennifer Love Hewitt host the "Animation" part of the special. I swear those things weren't hand-drawn or CGI!

--

P.S. If you can guess the #1 film in each of the ten genres on their website, you can win some sweet cash-like prizes. I'll show you mine if you show me yours!

I need the eggs.

My break is over.

The hiatus was brief, I know. (Actually the almost three weeks of my unofficial vacation was shorter than the time in between some of my posts!) But it was long enough to realize what is and isn't important to me. What is and isn't worth worrying about when there's nothing you can do about it. To quote a line from a song (from a movie I will be writing about soon): "I exist on the best terms I can."

Writing about movies (or anything well, and of any consequence) can be difficult when at the end of the day it really is just a hobby--when you have other things to deal with. (I'm gonna quote again) At the end of Annie Hall, Alvy remembers an old joke:

This guy goes to a psychiatrist and says, "Doc, uh, my brother's crazy--he thinks he's a chicken." And the doctor says, "Well, why don't you turn him in?" The guy says, "I would, but I need the eggs."

Blogging for the sake of something other than blogging can be a draining task. As passionate as I am about the things I write about and my desire to share that with others, it's overwhelming, frustrating, and time-consuming... but I guess I still need the eggs.