You Don't Love Me Yet

After a heavy read like "Blood Meridian," I tried to ease up a bit and read something a little more lighthearted. Glancing at my shelf, I saw a book I had found in the bargain bin at Barnes and Noble, got excited about and bought, and then instantly forgot about - Jonathan Lethem's 2007 novel "You Don't Love Me Yet."

The book follows a few months in the life of Lucinda Hoekke, tracing the rise and fall of her unnamed band. As the novel begins, she is working for an abstract artist answering and documenting phone call complaints. In her free time, she jams with a band which seems to have a lot of potential (in terms of character), but which hasn't written a breakthrough song, or even played a gig. One day she gets a call from a complainer (a recurring complainer, in fact), and she falls in love with him. During the conversations of their affair, she picks up on several unique phrases - such as "monster eyes" - which inspire her to help write some lyrics which eventually become the bands strongest song. The band gets their first gig at a failed art experiment which morphs into a real party and gets them some positive attention Unfortunately, the complainer was also at the party, and leverages his creation of many of their lyrics into making the band let him join. The complainer then sabotages the band's radio appearance, and they miss their big chance. Yet, in the end, everyone is paired off and happy.

(Oh yeah, and somewhere in the book is a subplot about the guitar player kidnapping a kangaroo from the LA zoo and the zoo denying it to save face.)

The book's biggest limitation was the inability to actually hear the band. Very little is ever even said about how their music would sound - there is a distinct lack of sensory detail for the reader's ears (if that makes sense, somehow).

I remember that there was a lot of negative feedback for Lethem when the book came out. And not undeserved, I can confidently say. This novel pales in comparison to his other novels, and isn't even in the same league as his masterpiece - "The Fortress of Solitude."

But, on the other hand, this novel never really aspires to be that type of book. So how can we complain when it doesn't achieve it? It's more like the outline for a romantic comedy with a twist-of-Lethem (mostly in the names of the characters). It

I can say that it was a nice, smooth read, and that it didn't require a lot of thinking - unlike "Walden" and "Blood Meridian." I can't say that it belongs on the same shelf as those books, though. It doesn't. It just doesn't.

Blood Meridian

It took me a while to slug through it, but I finally finished reading Cormac McCarthy's 1985 novel "Blood Meridian, or The Evening Redness in the West." It was a brutal read, both in regards to the text and the mental energy expended to read it, but I finish it with a sense of smugness that I have tackled some literary monster.

The book loosely follows the journeys of a character known only as "the kid" and traces his life around his encounters with the antagonist character - Judge Holden (almost exclusively referred to as "the judge"). The two characters' fates are irreversibly intertwined after the judge rescues the kid from a Mexican prison in return for the kid joining the judge's band of scalp-hunters. Most of the novel then follows the scalp-hunters killing sprees, until they are finally ambushed and mostly killed. The few survivors are hunted down, one-by-one, by the judge, until the kid is the only one left. (At this point, the kid is suddenly referred to as "the man" - suggesting that he is beyond the edge of innocence.) In the final scene, the judge has tracked down the kid / the man down in Texas and, although the kid's fate is left unknown and ambiguous, we are left with the impression that the judge has slaughtered him too.

To me, "Blood Meridian" hearkens back to an earlier era of writing - to the era of Herman Melville and (to an extent) Joseph Conrad. Much of the writing is consumed by descriptions of the landscape and weather, with the characters merely traversing these settings. Dialogue is kept to a minimum, with most of the conversations being short and consisting of questions and responses. Yet, eventually, we learn about our characters, even though they are not necessarily the foreground of the picture much of the time. Extended metaphors are also a rarity (which fits with the characters of the novel who are mostly uneducated grunts). The book has a few "extended monologues" though, which remind me of Conrad's regular narrator of Marlowe. This style, then, is well-crafted and exhibits McCarthy's fantastic ability to manipulate the written word to serve his purpose, and it is evident why many critics view "Blood Meridian" as his masterpiece.

The character of Judge Holden was brutal but beautifully created. He is, among all the characters, the one who transcends the intelligence of all the others. He keeps a journal where he documents everything he comes across, trying to learn as much as he can about everything he can. He uses logic and reasoning with the rest of the gang, who are often confused by his statements. Yet, he is also an inherently evil character. It is implied repeatedly (including through his relationship with the kid) that he is a pedophile, and it is explicit that he is a child murderer and a calculated homicidal maniac. He repeatedly refers to the pervasiveness of violence throughout culture, claiming at one point (in essence) that men are not men if they have not been to war and drawn blood. To me, he represents the devil in all his deception and violence. There is even a moment when, while explaining why he documents everything he sees and does, the judge declares that the fact that anything exists without his permission and beyond his control is an insult to him - which reminds me of a passage from Milton's "Paradise Lost" (although I cannot recall the line verbatim).

The novel's ambiguous ending - with the kid's fate left unresolved - was quite a shock to me. Although much of the action of the book had been left ambiguous, I suppose I was expecting some kind of secure resolution, some sense of closure. Yet, the lack of clarity is also a fitting ending to a book which moves through a haze of uncertainty - we're never quite sure where exactly the kid came from, why he was chosen by the judge, what happens to many of the characters. The only thing we know for certain at the end is that the judge survives in all his madness (perhaps still survives, the last line suggests - adding to the impression that he is an evil beyond the earth).

One final note: although much of the action of the book is implied, most of the descriptions of locations and scenes of the book are incredibly explicit. This detail includes the slaughter, dismemberment, and scalping of several people. McCarthy's prose leaves nothing to the imagination in regards to the brutality of these based-on-reality events. This novel is not for the feint-of-heart or weak-of-stomach. I found this brutality interesting, though, in contrast with the way death is treated in most westerns (especially in film). More often than not, someone is shot with a puff of smoke and falls over stiffly. In reality, though, bodies were disfigured, ears and scalps kept as souvenirs, and conflicts were bloody and messy. McCarthy does not stray from reality, and the reader is left with a few horrific images to think about.

Walden

(Although this post is a few months late, I still felt I should put it up, if only to document my reading habits.)

I finished the summer by reading Henry David Thoreau's key project "Walden; or Life in the Woods." In all honesty, I could not tell you what impulse moved me to read this book at this point in my life, other than the random chance that it was sitting on my bookshelf at an opportune moment. I had read it once while I was in high school, but that was mainly to show myself as a pseudo-intellectual and not because I had any real interest in the philosophies and musings scribed by Thoreau. In fact, until I re-read this book, the most detail I could have given in review would have been "it's about a guy who lives in the woods by himself for a while and thinks a lot about life and happiness." (Actually, it would have been quite impressive of my high school self if I could have written even that much about it.)

The book chronicles, in only a general chronological order, a period in Thoreau's life in which he abandoned the shackles of city life to begin anew in a self-built cabin by Walden Pond. During this period, he works to prove that a person can be almost completely self-sufficient, needing minimal contact with society and even that only for social purposes and not for physical or personal sustenance. He builds his own cabin (from the remains of another cabin), grows his own food (mostly beans) and lives the ultimate simple life. He provides us with some interesting insights into our own lives, calling us to examine how much we really need to survive. (Ultimately, though, he does return to civil society, but as a renewed and completely transformed man.)

Thoreau's book is well-written and very powerful. There are a few moments where I had to realize that this wasn't just some fun experiment for him, but was a total surrendering of his life to his personal beliefs. In these moments, though, Thoreau becomes a bit preachy and self-righteous. (Anyone who can completely sustain their life with no income aside from occasionally selling some leftover bean crop has the right to be self-righteous, I suppose.)

I am very intrigued by his ideas of poverty being a form of wealth. From my understanding, Thoreau viewed owning an item - let's say, a bookshelf - as a form or reverse possession as well. You may move the bookshelf wherever you like, but you bound to that bookshelf through your ownership. The more you own, then, the more you are tied down. Especially interesting was his discussion of the costs of simply going anywhere. A man who walks across the country could get coast-to-coast faster (according to Thoreau) than a man taking a train (or, in modern times, driving or flying), assuming that both men start with nothing. The man who chooses to walk has to pay nothing, but the man who drives must pay for the car and gas for the car, as well as for his place to live while he works and saves the money to pay for the car and gas.

The question that comes to my mind, immediately, is the possible applications to the modern world. Thoreau's ideas would be in direct opposition to our contemporary consumer-based society (somewhat gelled by the current economic crisis), which, in some ways, would paint him as a socialist or communist. Yet, "Walden" takes no such political position. (Thoreau's other great work "Civil Disobedience" would take an incredibly conservative position in regards to politics, but that is another essay for another day.) The book merely presents the epitome of the American ideal of "rugged individualism." Including the doomed experiment of Christopher McCandless (documented well in the book and movie "Into the Wild"), most modern "rugged individualists" are often part of a lunatic-fringe with no real philosophical base. Somewhere between then and now, the true spirit of Throeau's experiment was distorted.

Finally, as with all non-fiction, we must question the authenticity of Thoreau's writings. Every writer has a purpose in writing. Thoreau's was to prove that a man needs no support from society or government to thrive. So, we must ask, was anything exaggerated to prove his point? Was any part of his experience conveniently left out? I imagine that any winter cold enough to freeze Walden Pond would be cold enough to make most people incredibly uncomfortable - yet Thoreau's discussion of the winter time makes it seem as though the weather were mild.

I'm glad I re-read this book. It was a refreshing way to end the summer, and it has given me a lot to think about though the fall and winter.

Sugar

With baseball season nearly over (as the World Series builds to a climax), I thought it might be an apt time to review the 2008 film "Sugar" - co-written and co-directed by Anna Boden and Ryan Fleck. The film follows the early adult life of a young Dominican pitcher nicknamed Sugar (Algenis Perez Soto) through is trials and tribulations of the minor league baseball system.

Born in poverty in the Dominican Republic, but with a natural arm for pitching, Sugar is part of a major league development club and, after mastering a "spiked curve" pitch, makes his way into the American minor league system, where his family hopes he can make money to support them. In the US, he is suddenly immersed in a culture beyond his comprehension and ability to adapt. Unfortunately, this is where Sugar's life begins to take a downward turn. In the Dominican, his talents were something special, but in the US he is just one of hundreds of talented players who are trying to make their way to the top. His career stalls, and when another young Dominican pitcher takes his place in the team's rotation, he sees the writing on the wall and runs away to New York before he can be deported. In New York, he struggles to survive, but meets a carpenter who "adopts" him and helps him to adjust to the life he had never planned for. At the very end, we see Sugar playing contently on a Sunday league team.

What was most surprising for me was how much this movie was simultaneously both about baseball (and the player development system) while also being about a single individual within that system. It was quite a shock when he abandons the team two-thirds of the way into the movie, and the baseball premise becomes merely a background to the character. The film was generally heartwarming, and, at many times, felt more like a documentary than a movie.

The core theme of the movie, to me at least, was the unfairness of a sports development system in which people - real people with hopes and dreams and talent - are treated as though they are commodities to be bought, sold, traded, and let go without conscience. Most American boys - boys around the world, in fact - grow up admiring Major League ballplayers. Imitating their swings, trying to field the positions, dreaming of winning the World Series. Yet, too often left in the background, is the flood of ball players who were left behind in the development process. Players whose physical or mental abilities may have wavered at the wrong moment and were not given a second chance.

The final sequence of the movie, I feel, hammers this point home. The audience sees Sugar playing for a local Sunday league team through a chain-link fence. He is smiling and joking around with the other players, although their words are not translated. Suddenly, the soundtrack goes silent and we see Sugar stare off into the distance, and his face goes from smiling to one of solemn reflection. Finally, the camera re-focuses to the fence in the foreground, leaving Sugar a blur in the background for a few seconds - and then the screen goes black.

That last shot gave me major pause. It symbolized that these players, especially the foreign born players raised in poverty, are often left muted on the other side of the fence. Nobody sees (or perhaps cares) about their plight. It rarely comes up in salary negotiations (such as those by Manny Ramirez last winter), how much money will trickle down to those who, by some single stroke of bad luck, may never get the chance to ask for millions of dollars. These players never become part of our collective conscious, and because they are not necessarily citizens, are not given the labor protections granted to others. The massive Yankee and Dodger Stadiums, and Wrigley Fields and Fenway Parks, are built upon the sweat, blood, and aching muscles of thousands of players who hope for one chance to take an at-bat and build a career.

Overall, "Sugar" was an outstanding movie, and I highly recommend it. Just don't expect it to be an uplifting film about the one player who gets the big hit in the final game. It's about the thousands of players who just hope for that chance to make their mark.

Be Kind Rewind

On a whim, I moved Michael Gondry's 2008 film "Be Kind Rewind" to the top of my Netflix queue. Although I don't regret the decision, I will say that I didn't have the best luck either.

In the movie, Jerry (Jack Black) and Mike (Mos Def) are working at a little independent video store in New Jersey, when they accidentally erase all the tapes while their boss Elroy (Danny Glover) is out of down desperately trying to figure out how to save his business. Jerry gets the idea to "Swede" (independently re-make) as many movies as they can, with hilariously successful results. Business booms until a lawyer (a great cameo by the great Sigourney Weaver) representing several film companies puts an end to the fun. In a last-ditch effort to save the video store, the entire town bands together to make a new movie about a "local" jazz hero as part of a fund-raiser. Although the money raised falls woefully short of what is needed to save the store, the decaying town is brought together in the wake of their civic loss.

The movie had a lot of potential, but only ended up showing a lot of heart. But that heart carried a movie higher than it should have ever gone, considering the final product. The ending is a bit of a tearjerker at the moment when Elroy reveals that he's accepted the store's relocation to the projects and that the money is nowhere near enough, despite everyone's best efforts. The ending was touching, but, unfortunately, it was too late to save the drag of the rest of the movie. The first two-thirds of the movie were so slow, clunky, and awkward, that it was slightly beyond the salvage of the ending (or even the help of a Sigourney Weaver appearance!).

As a comedy, this movie really fell flat. There were only a few "laugh out loud" moments which were overshadowed by far too many "awkward chuckle" sequences. The "sweded" movies are not funny crappy re-makes, but, too often, just crappy re-makes. Jerry and Mike are not a silly-type of stupid (think Andy Bernard from "The Office"), but the characters are literally stupid - the implication being that their intelligence may be correlated to their home proximity to a power plant. As a result of this, there's a feeling of guilt whenever they do something stupid - as though you probably shouldn't be laughing at them. Over the course of the movie, this feeling wears thin and uncomfortable.

Ultimately, the ending of the movie serves as a perfect allegory for the movie itself - a lot of heart, but not enough to save the entire operation.

Inherent Vice

Although it did not take me very long to read Thomas Pynchon's newest novel, "Inherent Vice," it has taken me a long time to absorb it and develop anything coherent to say about it. Coming in at just over 350 pages, it's Pynchon's shortest work in quite a while, and, maybe as a result, it is also his most coherent and readable. (Of course, considering Pynchon's prior work, everything is relative - "Inherent Vice" has already produced a pretty comprehensive wiki.)

The best way to sum up the book is: Raymond Chandler noir crossed with an acid trip.

The book starts with the protagonist - Doc Sportello, a private detective who spends most of his time high - being approached by an ex-girlfriend who suspects that her boyfriend's wife (read between the lines there) is up to something fishy. Of course, a day or two later, there's gunfight which ends with the boyfriend - a highly influential real-estate developer - as well as the ex-girlfriend missing and his bodyguard dead. Stoner's logic leads Sportello to try to unravel this mystery despite the fact that he knows he will not be paid, which leads to even more mysteries and subplots which include an undead saxophone player, a brainwashing center disguised as a rehab hospital, a half-developed futuristic commune in the Nevada desert (which might also be a portal to other dimensions), an "Atlantis" myth for the Pacific, and the "Golden Fang" which is simultaneously a building, a dental group, a drug cartel, and a boat. In the end, nothing is really resolved except a mystery which at the beginning is a passing comment. Yet, in true postmodern fashion, th

ere is a sense that "all's well that ends well" because none of the major characters are dead and life goes on.

Although the complexities of noir fiction are nothing new to Thomas Pynchon (see "The Crying of Lot 49"), this book is much more "real" than his prior work. It is set in a (mostly) real place - 1970 Los Angeles - and features (mostly) real locations - such as Pink's and the Original Tommy's. Yet, these places are rendered as unfamiliar because the narrator is inherently unreliable due to his drug vice (pun intended). So much of Sportello's time is spent drinking, smoking weed, or dropping acid th

at it's sometimes hard to tell which parts of the story are the true, underground conspiracy and which are just waves of drug-induced paranoia. The sense of real provided by the setting, then, becomes an illusion.

Almost humorously, Pynchon seems to reference his real life elusiveness through the character of Coy Harlingen. When we first hear about Coy, we find out that he was a saxophone player for the band The Boards who just recently (in book time) died of an overdose. Yet, as the plot unravels, he keeps popping up everywhere - even being shown on television getting arrested at a Richard Nixon rally. Eventually, Coy even re-joins his old band, but nobody recognizes him. His logic, then, is to hide in plain sight: nobody recognizes him because they all think he's dead. Anybody who s

uspects that he faked his own death would never think to

look for him at the same places doing the same things he previously did. Coy, in a way, comes to represent Thomas Pynchon - he hides in plain sight. Pynchon has admitted doing normal, everyday things. He even recently had lunch with Salman Rushdie and has appeared (dubiously) on "The Simpsons". Yet, he's managed to maintain his anonymity despite his celebrity. Although his books always make the bestseller list and his name is synonymous with postmodernism, his face is a paper bag with a question mark on it. He is a voice, a book cover, a name. Yet, he is also human and does human things. He is "dead" t

o the world, yet he lives the way he would if he were "alive."

I'm still not quite sure I understand all of what "Inherent Vice" was really about (assuming it was about anything - which is a valid point in Pynchon's work). At once the novel seems both nostalgic for 1970 while at once pointing to its hollowness. Doc starts out to solve one mystery, becomes a part of another, and helps to solve a third one while the original one plays itself out - and so he is both a major player and a completely helpless pawn. Coy is both stone cold dead and vibrantly alive. So, what are we to make of these contradictions? The closest we get to a solution comes from the character Bigfoot Bjornsen when he says (which could be echoed by Pynchon himself):

"If I didn't know, I would never admit it to you. And if I did know, I would never tell you."

The Wild One

Today I watched the 1953 motorcycle gang classic "The Wild One." The movie was directed by Laslo Benedek and stars Marlon Brando, Mary Murphy, and Lee Marvin. The story is loosely based on a short story which, itself, was loosely based on the actual events of a real motorcycle gang riot in 1947.

The film begins with the Black Rebels Motorcycle Club - identified on their jackets by a skull and crossbones logo, with the crossbones replaced by engine pistons - rolling into an unnamed small town. The leader of the BRMC is Johnny Strabler (Brando), and he quickly falls in love with the local beauty and cafe waitress Kathy Bleeker (Murphy), who has very little experience with the world beyond the town borders. A tentative peace exists between the townspeople and the BRMC, moderated by the local sheriff who is simply trying to avoid a riot. This peace is shattered when a rival motorcycle gang, The Beatles (long before they were a band in Liverpool, apparently) arrives in town, led by Chino (Marvin). The new gang starts a bit of trouble, leading to Chino's arrest. The Beatles then begin to terrorize the town, putting a conservative townsman into a prison cell and threatening to rape Kathy, until Johnny shows up to rescue her. Their romance blossoms briefly, but ultimately she rejects him. When he returns her to town, Johnny finds that the people of the town have become an angry mob ready to kill the next motorcyclist they see. In his attempt to get away, Johnny is hit with a tire iron, and his uncontrolled motorcycle kills an innocent man. Johnny is let off the manslaughter charge on the condition that he and his gang never return, but refuses to directly thank those who helped him. He stops briefly to say good-bye to Kathy before he rolls out of town.

This movie is amazing in its simplicity, serving mainly as a vehicle to highlight Marlon Brando. The plot itself is relatively thin, with almost too much time being spent trying to emphasize the hooliganism of the two motorcycle gangs without developing any of the background characters. Almost the entire cast is shallow and static, with spoken lines strategically used to reveal what we need to know about the characters' motivations.

Yet, at the same time, Brando is at his dark and brooding best. His performance of Johnny is visibly torn between his primary rebellious nature and his romantic feelings for Kathy. Johnny's deep-seeded hatred for authority is clear in his refusal to cooperate with the sheriff, even though it would reveal the truth of what happened during the riot. Brando, in "The Wild One," produced a new kind of cool and, in a way, showed that emotional instability and alienation from the world could be a sign of personal strength and leadership.

The movie, in terms of theme, essentially set the stage for "Easy Rider." There is an obvious tension between the conservative townspeople and the outlaw motorcycle gangs. The townspeople are so caught up in the ideas of law and tradition and respect that they are even willing to go outside the law to prove their point. Meanwhile the motorcyclists are simply trying to get along in a world they have rejected and which has rejected them. It is when these two forces - one of constraint and one of recklessness - clash that the two sides of our society become painfully evident. Although "The Wild One" ultimately ends with the suggestion that these two groups can co-exist in a "you go your way, we'll go ours" way, we are left to wonder, especially in our modern society, whether such a paradigm can be sustained.

The Men

I just finished watching Fred Zinnemann's 1950 film "The Men." The movie is most famous for being Marlon Brando's first starring role.

The movie begins, very briefly, with Ken (Brando) sustaining a gunshot wound in the back in World War II combat. From there, the setting shifts to a veteran's hospital filled with paraplegic veterans trying to rehabilitate, where we are introduced to the brutally blunt and honest Dr. Brock (Everett Sloane) who tries to prepare these men for the reality of their lives without use of their legs while also trying to give them hope for living rich, fulfilling lives. Over the course of the movie, we get to know the men in the ward and what motivates them as well as their personal scars and ghosts. Ken is motivated to strengthen his boy as he attempts to re-kindle his relationship with Ellen (Teresa Wright) - his fiance from before the war. Eventually, the two get married, but his emotional instability flares up as they move into their new apartment and he leaves her. Ken goes on a binge and nearly kills himself in a car accident, which leads to him being kicked out of the rehabilitation ward. As Ken leaves, Dr. Brock gives him a little pep talk and convinces Ken to give marriage another shot. The movie ends with Ken visiting Ellen and asking her to give him another chance.

For his first film performance, Brando acts like a seasoned veteran. Apparently, he took his method acting so seriously, that he actually spent a month in a veteran's hospital to prepare for this part. Sloane was also masterful at coming off as crass and mean at first, so that, as a viewer, you come to hate him and the way he treats his patients. Yet, by the end, he has shown that he was doing it all so that his patients could live full lives after leaving his care without kidding themselves as to the reality of their condition.

Although artfully done, the movie comes off as a bit hallow. The background characters are too far in the background, and their personal demons seem a bit forced - such as the clownish gambler whose father is obviously a boozing gambler. Although we realize that Ellen deeply loves Ken, we never really get the chance to find out why or what she sees in him (or why she insists on trying to make it work even after it is painfully obvious that he would rather wallow in his injury). Even the most dynamic character of Dr. Brock remains shrouded in a haze and we learn nothing of him except what we see.

From a contemporary perspective, it raises a few interesting issues which we rarely encounter these days - such as the long-term effects of a major war on a country. Yes, there are many wounded soldiers returning from Afghanistan and Iraq, but these numbers are nowhere near the scale that was seen during the World Wars. After Germany and Japan surrendered in 1945, thousands of wounded soldiers returned to find their lives broken, shattered, and merely a shadow of what they had expected before the war. This movie somewhat effectively demonstrates this problem which impacted our country at the time, but is mostly swept under the rug and not discussed today.

Adam

Last week, Nicole and I went to see "Adam," a 2009 film written and directed by Max Mayer. The movie stars Hugh Dancy as the title character - a young man with Asperger's syndrome - and Rose Bryne as his neighbor Beth.

As the movie begins, Adam's father has just died and he is adjusting to life alone in New York. Beth moves into his apartment complex and the two become good friends, and, eventually, more than friends. Beth reads about Asperger's syndrome so that she can help Adam function better in normal society, even helping him practice for interviews. Tension arises in their relationship, though, as her parents demonstrate disapproval of what is happening and feel that she could do much better. The story reaches its climax when Adam gets the job of his dreams in Flintridge, California, and wants Beth to come with him - but Beth is torn between her love for Adam and her fear that she will never have a normal life if she leaves her family. Ultimately, Beth decides to stay in New York, and Adam moves away on his own. In the last scene, we catch a glimpse of Adam's life in California, and it is apparent that he has become better functioning and is doing well on his own.

I really appreciated that this movie attempted to tackle a very sensitive issue in our modern society - the relationship between "normal" people and those with Asperger's syndrome (on the Autism spectrum). People with Asperger's often have trouble forming emotional connections because it is hard for them to read and understand the emotions of other people, and this often leads to a ego-centrism which prevents healthy relationships. In the movie, Beth realistically fears that Adam will never say "I love you," no matter how much he cares for her. At one point, emotionally upset by a family problem (the film's shallow subplot) she has to tell Adam to hug her because he cannot read between the lines of her comment that she "could use a hug." As the population of people with Asperger's and Autism grows and grows, these are essential human issues that must be faced and addressed at some point, and this movie represented a big step in the right direction.

Except, I think, for the end...

I've spent a lot of time thinking and debating how I felt about the climax and resolution of the story. Beth chooses to stay in New York because she feels that Adam does not truly love her, but that he is only using her because he needs her to navigate the complexities and subtleties of society. Yet, I felt in Adam's plea that he needs her to move with him so that she can "teach him how to get to work" (as well as other tasks) - I felt that in that plea he was, in his own way, saying "I love you." Adam's Asperger's prevented him from understanding her need to hear "I love you," but in his plea I felt he was saying what everyone means when they say those three words - that you need that person in your life, by your side, to help get you through the small and the big tribulations and challenges of simply living. At that moment, I feel that her selfish need to hear three words prevented her from hearing the meaning behind those words that he was outlining.

I'm also a bit confused over the message of the ending. Beth abandons Adam in his time of need, but - good news! Adam's even better than before! Somehow, by leaving him on his own, Adam has learned to survive successfully and overcome his social difficulties! Is this realistic? Probably not...

The final scene of the movie has Adam reading a book that Beth has written about a talking raccoon family (one aptly named "Adam") and how "they didn't really belong there, but there they were." What is that line subtly suggesting about people with Asperger's? That they don't belong? That we just need to accept that they are here to stay? I feel that is probably the wrong message - I feel that we need to embrace them as members of the human race and find out how best we can work with them for the benefit of all - to end the "normal" and "not-normal" divisions that plague our social interactions. This movie, in its (possibly innocent) last lines, suggests otherwise.

Overall, I was impressed with the movie. Dancy's performance was fantastic. And, although I'm not sure I agree with the message of the movie, it's about time a movie made any kind of comment on an issue which is very quickly becoming something that cannot be ignored.

Terminator Salvation

I held out as long as I could, but on Wednesday I finally broke and went to see "Terminator Salvation." The 2009 film, directed by McG, is the fourth film in the "Terminator" series, but is the first one to take placed after Judgement Day - the day that the Skynet military computer program becomes self-aware and launches an attack to wipe-out humanity.

In terms of a timeline, "Salvation" takes place after Judgement Day and the first full assault of the machines, but before John Connor (played in this film by Christian Bale) has risen to total command of the human resistance. We are at a lull in the war - the machines are making smaller campaigns to collect and kill the smaller human settlements, while the humans are still working to organize themselves into a homogenous resistance. The civilized world has been generally obliterated by the machines, with only a few buildings left standing and nature generally taking back the territory.

Into this world wakes up Marcus Wright (Sam Worthington), who isn't quite sure what has happened and can only remember donating his body to science before being executed for a presumably horrendous crime. (The astute eye might catch that the paperwork he signs has Skynet Labs letterhead - foreshadowing!.) He runs into a young Kyle Reese (Anton Yelchin) and a little girl in the remains of Los Angeles, and together they decide to track down John Connor. (On the way, though, Reese and the girl are captured by the machines and taken to Skynet headquarters in San Francisco.) Just as he is about to meet Connor, Wright steps on a mine which, instead of killing him...

...reveals that he is, in fact, a new model of Terminator with a human heart and brain! This comes just as much of a shock to Connor as it is to Wright, who does not understand what has happened to him. Connor and Wright agree on a plan in which Wright will infiltrate Skynet headquarters and disable the defenses so that Connor can come in and rescue Reese (who, we all know, needs to survive so that he can go back in time and father Connor).

Big twist here - this was all part of Skynet's plan! Wright had been programmed (without knowing it) to go out, earn Connor's trust, and bring him back. Wright, realizing his unwitting betrayal, rips out the chip that Skynet was using to manipulate him and decides to use his machine-level strength to protect Connor. Eventually they escape, but Connor's heart is damaged and, in a symbol-heavy resolution, Wright donates his heart to Connor to keep the hope of humanity alive.

(Oh, and there was a subplot about a weakly organized human resistance trying to destroy the machines with some sort of radio wave which would tell them to shut down. When the leaders of this resistance group do not listen to Connor and launch an attack, the machines destroy that arm of the resistance, and Connor comes to power.)

Was the movie a neat episode in a franchise which had been sent off-course with the third film (forever unnamed here)? Yes. Was it a great movie? No. The plot of the movie moved across long flat plains and would then make huge jumps. The characters were all these confused, introverted people which made it hard for the viewer to have any sort of relationship with them.

The movie suffered from not really adding anything to the prior movies. It seemed more like a fan-fiction story made into a movie. We didn't learn anything new about Connor or the war with the machines. It did not directly effect on developments made in the original two stories, but also did not bring anything new to the table. Rather, it simply seemed to exist in a world that had already been created.

The Painted Desert

This afternoon I watched Howard Higgin's 1931 western "The Painted Desert." To be honest, I'm not quite sure how this movie got on my Netflix queue. Nor am I quite sure how it made it to the top of the queue. But, sure enough, it was mailed to me and I managed to ignore it for quite a while. Until this afternoon...

The movie begins with two cowboys - Cash Holbrook (played by William Farnum) and Jeff Cameron (played by J. Farrell MacDonald) - finding a baby at an abandoned wagon camp near their well. The two men agree that they will take care of the baby together.

Then, the film flashes forward about 20 years, and apparently Holbrook and Cameron have become mortal enemies for reasons unexplained (although there is reference to Holbrook taking the baby and some sort of dispute about the well). The baby has grown up into Bill Holbrook (played by William Boyd before he became Hopalong Cassidy) and has his sites set on marrying Cameron's daughter Mary Ellen. But to marry her he needs to mend the wound between the two old men, and so hatches some sort of plan involving tungsten mining.

Of course, the malicious cowboy Rance Brett (played by Clark Gable in his first speaking role) has recently stumbled into town and also set his sights on Mary Ellen, it seems. Brett sets about sabotaging Bill's plans and generally causing spite and anger between the two old men. Bill realizes Brett's plan, but not before the two old men wander through town - somehow building tension - looking to duel each other. At the last moment, Bill jumps between the dueling old men and ends up shot, although not mortally, and the two men see the error of their feud.

This movie had a lot of heart, and showed a lot of promise. Somehow, the promise never quite paid off. The characters fell flat, and there were quite a few plot holes and leaps of logic taken in the 75 minute film. The movie never explains what drove the two men apart, except that they both wanted to raise the boy as their own. There is little to no action, and the most exciting scene merely consists of the two old men wandering around the shanty town trying to find each other so they can duel. In the context of a very early western, it succeeded at presenting a genre film with genre tropes and elements. But by modern standards, it does not hold up.

The Joke's Over

A few days ago, I finished reading Ralph Steadman's book "The Joke's Over." The 2006 book is a memoir of sorts, chronicling Steadman's professional and personal relationship with the late writer Hunter S. Thompson.

The book begins very slowly and seemed very disappointing at first. Essentially, the first chapter discusses how Steadman and Thompson were first assigned to each other and met for their first assignment at the 1970 Kentucky Derby. This was disappointing because this meeting and event was already covered by Thompson in the article "The Kentucky Derby Is Decadent and Depraved."

But after that, Steadman's narrative changes a bit and focuses more on telling anecdotal stories about times he spent with Thompson, filming documentaries or preparing books together. Steadman's book seems like a "Behind-the-Scenes" feature or "Collaborator's Commentary" to Thompson's writings. Steadman gives us a bit more context and material to consider, clarifying much of what was distorted in Thompson's articles (or, perhaps, considering Steadman's art, distorting them further).

Although Thompson usually presented himself as an invincible embodiment of freedom and masculinity, Steadman's book shows Thompson as being much more human and fallible. There is an extensive section which discuss his painful attempts to write about the Honolulu Marathon, which eventually lead to his personal and internal struggles trying to complete "The Curse of Lono." Although Steadman and Thompson were collaborators on the Lono book, Steadman makes it clear that Thompson made it a difficult book to complete, and strained their relationship. Although their personal relationship continued until Thompson's suicide in 2005, it is clear that their professional collaborations essentially ended after the Lono experiment.

Steadman's book on Thompson is weakened mainly by the fact that, in all truth, their work and time spent together was relatively limited, and that their collaborations were often just one of many projects Steadman on which Steadman was working. Significant portions of the book are spent discussing his other projects and events only tangentially related to Thompson. Which would be fine, except the book was clearly marketed (even to the point of the subtitle: "Bruised Memories: Gonzo, Hunter S. Thompson, and Me) as being about Steadman's work with the late writer.

It is evident, from reading, though, that Steadman was not, in any way, trying to leech off Thompson's death or to profit from his pain. His tone, when writing of Thompson, is usually tender and kind, and occasionally bittersweet. He is reflecting upon the life of a unique man, with whom he worked regularly. And, put simply, it is often touching.

Lastly, I want to share one passage of the book which particularly struck me. It comes from Steadman's journal of their time in Hawaii, working on the Lono book. They have visited a ancient Hawaiian sacred temple, and decided not to disturb it (except to take a quick picture).

"The most important thing about being in the City of Refuge is simply that you are there, steeped in the blackness and fanned by the waving palms, surrounded by stories far, more significant than ours. They are stories that speak with authority, tried and tested and passed down from father to son and mother to daughter. We had no story to tell there. There are no stories to tell gods. They know them all. We need only to listen and look. Their stories are everywhere. Carved grimacing faces shout truths that never change and stand as irrefutable proof of what no longer survives outside this sacred place." (222)

That may have been Thompson's problem all along...

Czechvar

A few weeks ago, my sister - knowing my love of all things Czech, as well as most things beer - presented me with a six-pack of a beer labeled "Czechvar - Premium Czech Lager." At first, I was merely amused by the novelty of it - a true Czech beer! (Although a few years ago a friend and I brewed a batch of Czech-style pilsner - the world-famous "Czechmate Brew" - Irvine hardly qualifies as my family's homeland.)

The novelty wore off relatively quickly (a few days of seeing the bottles lined up in the fridge), and I decided to pop one open and try it. Even Nicole got in on the game, wanting to taste a true Czech brew.

We should have taken it as a bad omen when I couldn't get the bottles open. If you look closely at the picture above, you can see that the cap and top inch-and-a-half of the bottle are wrapped in a piece of gold-colored foil. That foil is completely glued down to the bottle, making it impossible to tear off except in tiny strips. Eventually, I gave up and just used a bottle opener to take off the cap directly from under the foil, which was effective except that it made the bottle-drinking experience uncomfortable (and slightly dangerous).

On first sip, Czechvar is brutally bitter. So bitter, in fact, that it's hard to distinguish any other flavor, subtle or otherwise. It made for a thoroughly unsatisfying drinking experience. (Nicole may have sworn off beer forever, although that just leaves all the beer drinking to me.)

The only solace was that, as the beer warmed up, so did the flavor. Which, in retrospect, makes me wonder if we should have been drinking it warm all along (or even at room temperature). Too late to think about that now.

Also, as a final note, in trying to find a picture for this post on Czechvar, I came across the Wikipedia page for the beer, which revealed to me that the beer is, in fact, the Budweiser of the Czech Republic - literally!

The Mysteries of Pittsburgh

I finally made my way around to reading Michael Chabon's 1988 novel "The Mysteries of Pittsburgh." I had tried reading through this book a few years ago, but got bogged down about halfway into it and distracted by other things, and eventually it made its way back on to my shelf. I picked it up again (literally) a few months ago, and put it in my car with every intention of reading it, but but before I could read it, it got buried under the myriad and sundry things that eventually end up in the backseat of every car. Finally, it was discovered and I committed myself to getting all the way through it. (But enough about that...)

The book covers one summer in the life of Arthur Bechstein, as he discovers new friends and lovers in the college areas of Pittsburgh. Jobless and aimless and recently graduated, he gets caught up in a whirlwind of activity surrounding his new friends. Although he falls madly in love with the exotic librarian Phlox, he also struggles with homosexual feelings for his best friend, Arthur Lecomte. Bechstein bounces between the two lovers through most of the novel. Meanwhile, he is also trying to keep his past - specifically his mobster father - away from his newly developing personal life. But, when Cleveland - one of the new friends - forces Bechstein to introduce him to his father, things begin to sour on every front. Phlox and Lecomte force Bechstein to choose between the two of them, and Cleveland gets caught up too heavily in the mob scene and meets a tragic end. In the end, we learn that Bechstein chooses Lecomte and they move to Europe, although it is also revealed that Lecomte leaves him there and the novel ends with Bechstein reflecting upon his abandoned relationship with Phlox and what might have been.

"The Mysteries of Pittsburgh" was the first novel that Chabon read, and that becomes painfully obvious while reading. The voice and tone of the novel is unrefined and seems to change regularly, as though Chabon wasn't quite sure where he was going from chapter to chapter. He relies too heavily on archetype to create his characters: Phlox - the exotic woman; Lecomte - the forbidden lover; Cleveland - the rugged man; Jane - the ideal upper-class beauty. Cleveland's dramatic death represents the climax of the plot, somehow, even though he was only a slightly-higher-than-minor character throughout the book - rather than the climax being Bechstein's choice between Phlox and Lecomte, which the entire book was building towards but ends up being delegated to a few sentences in the resolution. There are also moments of beautiful metaphor and description that do not seem to add to the novel in any way except that, well, they're the type of thing a novel is supposed to have and so they were thrown in to the book.

Of course, part of the reason I blast "The Mysteries of Pittsburgh" here is out of jealousy. The book is better, by far, than anything I could ever write (me being the same age now as Chabon was when it was published). Clearly, Chabon is setting the stage for his later great writings involving similar situations - the ensemble cast in "Wonder Boys" (one of my personal favorite books of all time) and the love triangle in "The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay" (although that was a minor subplot).

Like a teenager shaving with a straight blade for the first time who nicks himself several times in the process, "The Mysteries of Pittsburgh" isn't perfect, but it marks the beginning of an already great career, highlighted by a Pulitzer Prize honor, but not yet punctuated. (And with that poor imitation of a Chabon metaphor, this post is over.)

Juno

So, I finally broke down and saw Jason Reitman's 2007 film "Juno" - mainly because Nicole wanted me to.

The movie follows the pregnancy and related life-changes of a teenage girl named Juno (Ellen Page). Not only does she have to deal with her pregnancy, but also the complexities of giving the baby up for adoption as well as the typical challenges of being an American teenager. She decides to give her baby to a young couple - Mark and Vanessa (Jason Bateman and Jennifer Garner) - whose marriage then proceeds to fall apart. In the end, she gives away the baby to the suddenly-single Vanessa, and then realizes that she is in love with the father of the child. The end.

There is a moment very early in the film in which Juno's father, just informed of her pregnancy, says that he thought she was the kind of girl who knew when to say when. Juno responds by saying "I don't know what kind of girl I am."

Frankly, that's how I felt about the whole movie. I could not tell which way it was going or what kind of message I was supposed to be getting out of it. Was it supposed to be a realistic drama about teenage pregnancy? Was it supposed to be a comedy? A tragedy? A romance? (I pretty well eliminated sci-fi adventure after the first scene.)

As a realistic drama, it failed. The character of Juno was completely unbelievable. No high school junior is familiar with Iggy and the Stooges, the Carpenters, Sonic Youth, Mott the Hoople and is completely comfortable referring to the early seventies as "Punk, Volume One" as well as readily referring to McSweeney's (among her many other underground cultural references). She had the witty comeback and the right thing to say simply too often to be believable. Her parents were even less believable, leaving reality the moment they said that they couldn't believe she was pregnant because they were expecting her to have a DWI or be into hard drugs. Let's face it - no parent would act so casually so soon after hearing that kind of news from their teenage daughter.

As a comedy, it failed. Rainn Wilson and Michael Cera are great at what they do in their other movies and TV shows (well, maybe not Rainn Wilson in his movies), but in this movie their performances seemed forced and fell flat. Rainn Wilson's only scene was shown, nearly in its entirety, in the trailer, and seemed only there to leverage his star power from "The Office." Michael Cera, meanwhile, wasn't given nearly enough screen time to do anything meaningful, except eat Tic-Tacs, or have any impact on the film (but more on that a little later on in this post).

As a film tragedy (perhaps tragedy is the wrong word - character piece?) about the trials and tribulations of a pregnant teenage girl, it failed. Juno cries or shows any major emotion about her situation once (maybe twice) in the entire film. Instead, she spends most of her time showing off how hip she is (or, rather, how hip the writer and director are to include the references) and occasionally complaining about how much she has to pee. I'm not saying that I wanted the baby to die or anything, but a little bit of suffering - or even some discomfort - would have been a bit more appropriate. Instead of any sort of panic or worry when her water breaks, she once again takes the chance to show off how cool she is by referencing the Thundercats when she needs to leave.

Finally, as a romance, it fell completely flat. Juno's romantic interest is her best friend Bleeker (played by Michael Cera), who also happens to be the father of the baby. Yet, he only appears in a handful of scenes. Which is what makes it so surprising that the big cathartic moment in the resolution is when Juno realizes that she is truly in love with Bleeker, and they go playing guitar together happily ever after. I didn't see that coming - mainly because that subplot was so insignificant for the entire movie up until that point!

So - what kind of movie was "Juno" then? (And if anyone says anything like "it was an indie movie," I'm going to pummel them with a truckload of DVDs of the movie!) I'm not quite sure. And that leaves a really dissatisfying taste in my mouth.

Gran Torino

Last night I watched Clint Eastwood's 2008 film "Gran Tornio" (which he both starred in and directed). I have to say that, despite my initial misgivings (mainly Eastwood playing the same character he's played in a thousand other films), the movie was pleasantly surprising.

Although the previews portrayed the movie as a simple movie about an old man griping about changes in the demographics of his Detroit neighborhood, the previews fail to even hint at the complexities and depth of the characters.

Yes, Eastwood does play an old man - Walt Kowalski - griping about the changes in demographics of his Detroit neighborhood, but that premise is over with after the first thirty minutes of the movie. From there it moves to developing his relationship with his new neighbors, especially the two young adults - Thau and Sue. Thau gets into a little gang trouble with his no-good gangbanger cousin, but Walt, being a righteous, hard-working, and old-fashioned American, tries to steer Thau into a more traditional adulthood. The two sides violently clash (literally and figuratively), and, without spoiling anything, Walt reveals a side of himself nobody believed existed.

My only real problem with this movie, until the last few scenes, was that I had felt I had seen the entire thing before, except in the old west instead of Detroit and titled "Unforgiven" instead of "Gran Torino." The major differences in the end make up for the striking similarities, though.

Of course, the highlight of the movie is Clint Eastwood in his gritty, growling, snarling, insult-hurling best, especially now that he's almost eighty. One of my favorite moments is when Walt happens upon a couple of gang members harassing his neighbor, Sue. He steps out of his car, confronts the assailants by saying, in a gravely voice, "Ever notice how you come across somebody once in a while you shouldn't have fucked with? [At this points Walt spits on the ground and stares coldly before continuing] That's me."

Rumor is that Eastwood has proclaimed that "Gran Torino" was to be his final acting performance. If so, he certainly went out on the top of his game doing exactly what he did best. But I hope that the rumor isn't true, because it would be very hard for me to believe that the man who portrayed Walt Kowalski - as well as "the Man with No Name" and Dirty Harry - could ever just quit and walk away, or ever stay down for very long.

The Road

A few days ago I finished reading Cormac McCarthy's Pulitzer Prize winning novel "The Road"(first published in 2006), but it has taken me a few days to really absorb it.

You'd think that with a cover like this, I would have at least a hint of the unnerving bleakness that was the theme of the book. But you'd be wrong.

The novel is set in a post-unnamed-cataclysm world, in which some catastrophe has led to the atmosphere being encased in a smoky cloud cover, effectively killing all the world's plant life (and, thereby, all the world's animal life). The few remaining humans are left to scrounge the earth for the remaining cans of food and other resources, such as fuel for fires (because, apparently, without the sun, it gets pretty cold during winter).

Through this dark world (pun intended), the reader follows a peripatetic man and his son, as they relentlessly follow a tattered map to the coast, where the man has hung his last best hope of finding any sort of civilization (although it is clear to the readers that this hope is completely unfounded in this fictional reality).

A story about a relatively silent man and boy walking around in a world without sunlight would be pretty boring. To add intrigue, then, McCarthy has them encounter various other survivors and horrific situations including a bit of cannibalism (because humans are the last source of meat on earth). This book is not for the faint of heart. McCarthy's prose is as stark and as brutal as the story described, but also hauntingly beautiful - as if the descriptions and metaphors used would be the type of literature a survivor would write.

The book itself is chilling in the way it portrays many of the darker sides of the way we live today, as well as presenting terrible choices that nobody hopes to ever make. In a dying world, would you be the type of person to keep surviving through the killing of others, or to kill yourself (which is what the man tells the boy to do if he were ever to be confronted by the cannibals), or to just keep moving on and clinging to baseless hopes? Would you rather wander the earth silently on your own to eventually die by yourself, or would you take a companion or join a group and risk their betrayal the next time the food runs short? After reading a scene in which the boy drinks what is perhaps the last soda in their molding world, I slowed down to savor my next Dr. Pepper and appreciated something I so often take for granted.

I am still puzzled by the novel's final passage, regarding the trout that once swam in the world's streams. The book ends with the line "In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed with mystery." It is the only point in the book which does not focus on the man or the boy (or, does it?), and I am not quite sure how I am supposed to feel about it. (Based on the rest of the novel, though, I doubt it's meant to make the reader feel bright and bubbly.)

I will not soon forget this book, its words, and the characters and world and images it presents. One passage in particular strikes me as one morbidly worth sharing and contemplating (although I don't know why):

He walked out in the gray light and stood and he saw for a brief moment the absolute truth of the world. The cold relentless circling of the interstate earth. Darkness implacable. The blind dogs of the sun in their running. The crushing black vacuum of the universe. And somewhere two hunted animals trembling like ground-foxes in their cover. Borrowed time and borrowed world and borrowed eyes with which to sorrow it. (p 130)

Harsh sentiment, good writing.

Lies My Teacher Told Me

Last week, I finished reading Lies My Teacher Told Me: Everything Your American History Textbook Got Wrong by James Loewen. First published in 1995, the book analyzes twelve common high school American history textbook in regards to both the actual facts presented as well as the way in which the history is presented.

The opening volley of the text uses history textbook treatment of Christopher Columbus's voyages to condemn the textbooks as Euro-centric by pointing out the ways in which they omit certain facts, distort other facts, and (in some cases) invent undocumented facts. Most of the rest of the book follows this same pattern. There is also a breakdown of the process of "heroifcation" that takes place in textbooks, in which historical figures are presented as unblemished and ideal, rather than the flawed figures that they are. For example, the book points out that while most history textbooks mention Helen Keller overcoming her blindness and deafness, but not a single one mentions that she became a noteworthy radical socialist.

One of the more interesting chapters (actually, pair of chapters) discusses the disappearance of race (both racism and anti-racism) in American history textbooks. There is little to no mention of the history of explicit racism which saturates American history. In doing so, then, the textbooks prevent students from understanding complex historical figures. For example, the abolitionist John Brown is always presented as being a lunatic when, in fact, he was a highly intellectual person. But to discuss his intellect would reveal to the students that he spent much of his time arguing against racism, which is a taboo subject, so the students are only given a simplistic view of the man, which prevents them from truly understanding his motivation.

It is also funny Loewen points out how textbook authors strategically use the passive voice in writing, which effectively prevents students from seeing any causality in history. For example, he cites one textbook which, in discussing the Korean War, claims simply that "in June, 1950, war broke out" without any discussion of how the war broke out or what caused the conflict.

The title is a bit misleading because the book really condemns the American history textbook publishing industry and state textbook adoption methods (of which teachers are only a small part). But I guess a title along the lines of "Lies My American History Textbook Presented Me With and Which the State Textbook Adoption Board Approved, Making Them Complicit in My Miseducation" would have been a bit clunky.

Run Fatboy Run

I must admit that I didn't expect much from "Run Fatboy Run" (2007) when I threw it in the DVD player last night. I figured it would be simple, corny, and filled with dry attempts at edgy humor. And, to an extent, my expectations came true. But the movie also had a simple, heart-warming charm that I was not expecting, and which made it an enjoyable film.

It stars Simon Pegg as Danny, a somewhat overweight, lowlife of a man who has major trouble with commitment - running away from his pregnant would-be bride, Libby, moments before the wedding. He is trying to re-spark the relationship with his ex-fiance, when, surprise surprise, he finds out that she has taken on a new lover - the very wealthy and in-shape Whit (played by Hank Azaria). Danny decides to prove that he has matured enough to commit by running in the same marathon as Whit.

Where I feel the movie gains its real charm, though, is through its minor characters and (albiet weak) subplots. Danny and Whit are vying for the affection of both Libby and her son - Danny with humor and Whit with an endless supply of money (and all the things money can buy). Danny's best friend Gordon (Dylan Moran) has a gambling problem, but has managed to wager his entire debt to the underworld on whether Danny can complete the marathon. The sultry daughter of Danny's landlord wagers with Danny that she will forgive all of his past-due rent if he can complete the race, but that she'll evict him immediately if he doesn't. But his kind landlord takes it upon himself to become Danny's "assistant coach" and motivate his training with a swift spatula in the rear-end.

Have I mentioned that this little heartwarmer was directed by non-other than Ross from "Friends"? That's right - this film was the big-screen directorial debut for David Schwimmer. The screenplay was also written in-house (at least, collaboratively) by Simon Pegg.

Most of the people involved in this movie have been a part of bigger and better things. This movie doesn't necessarily mark a low-point in their careers. More of a side project that became overshadowed by everything else surrounding it.

Ghostbusters

I went to see "Ghostbusters" and the local "indie" theatre last night, and somehow it took me by surprise at how good of a movie it actually was. Even after 25 years, the jokes are still fresh, the characters still seem real, and even the effects have held up pretty well.

The four main Ghostbusters, Peter Venkman (Bill Murray), Ray Stantz (Dan Akroyd), Egon Spengler (Harold Ramis), and Winston Zeddmore (Ernie Hudson) are perhaps the most believable team of Ghostbusters that could have possibly been assembled. Stantz and Spenger represent the heart and the brains of the operation (respectively), with Venkman being the salesman who can actually deal with the public. The small details of their characters are perfectly formed, and their interactions throughout the film do not seem forced but feel as though they've been friends and colleagues for years - except for Winston, who fits in well as the new guy who gets caught up in the storm. The hardest character for me to believe this time around was Dana Barrett (Sigourney Weaver) - she comes off as too cold and simple, and misses some of the finer touches of a well-defined character.

On the big screen, I noticed some interesting details that I had never seen before. In the kitchen scene (when the eggs cook on the counter), a bag of Stay Puft Marshmallows can be seen on the counter. Later, when panning the city skyline, a billboard for Stay Puft Marshmallows can be seen on the side of a building. Although these details are largely unnoticed, they subtly set the stage for the climactic appearance Gozer the Destructor in the form of The Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.

To say that I grew up on this film (and its many franchises) would be a gross understatement - I just recently got the video game for Wii, fulfilling a life long dream of blasting ghosts! I look forward to watching this movie again and again, through its fiftieth anniversary, and warmly embracing any new additions to the series.

Alien

I re-watched the 1979 science fiction / horror movie "Alien" the other day, and it only reminded me of what a great movie it actually is. Sure, it's not "Casablanca" (and Sigourney Weaver is sure no Humphrey Bogart), but it definitely has all the small things right which helped turn it into a cult classic.

Watching it this time around, I was struck by two things: 1) The quiet of the movie, and 2) the great use of plot twists.

I was surprised how closely the movie stuck to it's tagline - "In space, no one can hear you scream." In fact, the movie itself is eerily quiet, considering that it features an acid-bleeding monster and several death scenes. There's no major explosions, no huge gun fights, and very little screaming. Instead, the movie lets the silence seep in and absorb you, which makes the occasional loud noise very striking and haunting. For example, in the scene in which the captain, Dallas (played by Tom Skerritt), is tracking down the alien in the ventilation system, the "blip" on the motion monitor of the alien running at him is much creepier than booming footsteps or horror movie music. The same goes for the scene in which Ripley has set the ship to self-destruct, and the alarm system constantly blares in the background for five minutes - without any other sounds, the alarm becomes eerily ambient.

In regards to the plot twists - this movie hits all the great ones, including the classic chest-bursting sequence. There is also a great moment when Ripley, taking command, checks the ship's computer to determine how to handle the situation, only to find that the science officer had received orders to bring the alien back to earth alive as the primary objective with the note "Crew expendable" (at which point the camera pulls back to reveal the science officer standing right behind her, reading over her shoulder).

Although this movie spawned (no pun intended) many sequels, the chain went significantly downhill after the second film ("Aliens"), and this progenitor stands out far above the rest.

First!

This is my new blog. It is where I will keep track of what I've been reading, watching, listening to, and other things I've generally been thinking about.