salads need dressing and so do I

The Hollow Men

2006-09-23T02:16:00.000-07:00

There are certain films that gain resonance beyond their initial birth. Films that seem more relevant in a contemporary frame than when they were originally presented to the world.
Apocalypse Now is one of those films.
Seen in the light of the current fiasco in Iraq, the film contains thoughts and ideas that have more bite than they did in the relatively calm times of 1979.
A French soldier tells Martin Sheen's American soldier, "We fight because this is our land. You fight . . . for nothing."
The Heart of Darkness tale orginally seemed to be Francis Ford Coppola's folly when it was released in 1979. He had the time, the money, and coming off the double header of Godfather 1 and 2, artistic respect. He could really make any film he wanted.
An initial viewing of the film about the border between good and evil, sanity and insanity, compells the viewer to believe that Coppola was indeed insane, or at the very least drowning in hubris.
One scene in particular is almost unfathomable in it's enormous scale and purpose. Older folks must remind themselves (and the jaded younger folks in tow) that the sequence was done BEFORE computer graphics. It's all real. Robert Duvall's surfing obsessed general launches over a dozen helicopters to destroy an entire village while blasting Wagner from loud speakers. Standing on the beach, oblivious to the fireworks and bombs exploding behind his back, Duvall marvels at the breaking waves and orders his men out to surf. When I first saw the sequence, my jaw was on the floor. Then a trio of jets napalmed the vast landscape of palm trees and village. It might be the largest explosive destruction I have ever seen on film. Good God, Coppola was insane! He blew up an entire island . . .
When The Beatles released Rubber Soul, they realized they were famous enough to not include their band name on the cover. Some thought it was arrogant, but it made some sense. There are no opening credits to Apocaplyse Now; a mark of vanity or a statement about the purity of film? The opening sequence is pure film to the soundtrack of The Doors' The End. An epic montage where art house film meets massive studio production. Who needs a title?
Sadly, this film marked the beginning of mockery towards Marlon Brando as a fat, crazed actor. However, contemporary viewing (and in light of his films that came later), he is in good health; striking a classic presence. His monologue is no longer a "kooky" performance, but a landmark of his brilliance as an actor. He calmly relates the irony of America's brutality in war while proclaiming superior morality. His calm reading of the classic Joseph Conrad line, "The horror. The horror," originally seemed uninspired. It now makes perfect sense. There is no need to scream the line in hyper theatrics. Simply, the horror. What other actor could have such control to refrain from overstatement?
Brando's performance, which anchors the climax and point of the film, can now be viewed as perfection. His character realizes it is yet another war born of choice where the enemy is willing to resort to extreme evils to win. Brando's character believes that the only way to overcome this evil is to embrace darkness and become more evil than the enemy. Is this a madman or a realist? Brando's calm performance places doubt in the viewer and Martin Sheen's character. A crazed performance would have negated the complexity of the film and given the viewer a simple answer.
This is a film about the heart of darkness found in a war that has no purpose. The ironic sting of sending our own men to kill an American because he might be talking sense. Then knowing the bitter realization that the only sense is madness.
Just as anyone who has fully appreciated the film Jaws knows it is not about a shark killing people on the beach but about three guys becoming friends on a boat - this film is, at it's heart, the story of five soldiers becoming friends on a boat. The viewer is given both the heart and the darkness of war. Coppola's mission was, after further review, completely accomplished. Apocalypse Now has more value today, in our insane climate with yet another war of choice and the dark heart of our intentions and of our enemy, than it did when it first made it's first bow in cinematic culture. Take the time to watch it again with fresh eyes. You will be rewarded.

2006-09-11T23:57:00.001-07:00

On the morning of September 11th, I headed to school, in a sleepy daze I had become accustomed to.
First period, I had a student aid, a blonde cheerleader I had known since she was a freshmen, who went to work in my stock room. I had a little black and white TV that she would tune into Good Morning America while she cut paper or organized the glue.
I worked with my freshmen in the room, struggling with them to understand not all art "looks real."
My cheerleader came out of the back room to tell me a plane had hit a building. I went back with her and watched the footage. It was terrible. We looked at each other with a heavy sigh, and I returned to teaching art.
A few minutes later, my cheerleader came out to tell me that ANOTHER plane had hit a building.
I smiled kindly at her, and I told her it was just a replay of the first plane. Cheerleaders, they are cute, but sometimes a bit slow.
She looked at me, as only women can look at a man fully consumed with his own idiocy, and told me once again another plane had hit a building.
I told her, "silly girl," that it is impossible that two planes could possibly hit two buildings in the same day. I walked back to the store room and watched the footage. The cheerleader was correct. I was nervous.
I returned to my freshmen art students and smiled. Everything was OK. Everything was normal with world. Smile.
My cheerleader returned again from the backroom, in hushed tones she told me to come and watch the TV again. The Pentagon had been hit. I was now in a panic mode. I returned to my classroom, 39 faces looking at me with confusion.
I told them in the most basic and harmless way I could that several planes had crashed all at once. They looked at me with confusion and terror. I told them everything would be just fine. Smile. We went on with drawing and our schedule.
The day went on, with questions and worries of over a hundred students. I kept my smile solid on my face. Nothing to worry about.
I raced home as soon as the last bell rang. I arrived home before Becky and the children. I made myself a large martini, sat on the couch and turned on CNN.
I remember a CNN anchor announcing, with a choked voice, just how many firefighters were feared lost. For the first time that day, without my children, wife or students around, I began to cry. They began showing people jumping to their deaths from the higher floors before the towers collapsed.
I was free, for the first time that day, to let the fake smile go. The tears poured down my face freely and soaked my shirt. I watched the replay of the towers tumble, knowing just what had been lost.
I cried more that day than I had in a long time. Real tears of pain. Uncontrollable.
My children returned home, concerned about the vague news they had heard. I wiped my face dry and smiled again. The world is fine. Nothing to worry about.
I look back on the day where I was afraid anything else could happen. Who knew?

Accordians are Heavy

2006-09-10T02:44:00.000-07:00

I played some songs tonight that I haven't played in 10 years.

That's a medal waiting to be awarded.
I hualed my 100 pound accordian over to Brian's birthday party. Brian is the guitar player from my old band, Tippy Elvis. Brian has been a bit down lately. I should have stayed home with the wife and kids, or gone to another party I was invited to, but I knew I had to be there for an old bandmate.
It's a band thing. Most folks don't understand. Watch The Blues Brothers, or Spinal Tap. Somehow, despite their silliness, those films managed to catch the strange family link of bandmates.
Early in the day, Brian and I fiddled around for a bit. Faked our way through some generic songs. It was amusing, but lacking.
The fabulous Lenadams was there, the "manager" of Tippy Elvis. While playing, I walked with the heavy weight of my accordian into the living room and thought he was sleeping on the couch. I looked down and saw his eyes wide open with the most fabulous grin on his face. He knew something was coming.
Then Ginger, the tuba player goddess from Tippy Elvis, showed up. She pulled out her glorious brass magic.
Suddenly the clouds parted, the sun shined down in the dark hours of night, and a 10 year old vaccuum of neglect vanished. It all clicked again. We played the old songs. We looked at each other and remembered why we did it all in the first place. For some unknown reason, we fit each other. Tuba, guitar and accordian. Two geeks and a chick.
Nobody would pick us in a lineup and decide we would somehow be the perfect match, but we are. Where one player is lacking, the other picks up. It was the sudden resurrection of vital organs of a long dead being, under a patio cover with cold beer. Imagine something you once thought permanently dead and gone, and it briefly comes to life.
We could have used Dayv singing, there was much "blah blah blah" going on. Joe's masterful drumming would have been sweet to keep us on track.
Still, for an hour or so, there was a heartbeat. Any parent can tell you how precious that heartbeat is. It is a relief, it is a joy. It is alive. The head might not be awake, and the feet may not be walking, but the vitals are good.
When I began the lead to "Cigarette," and Ginger's tuba fell in with Brian's guitar, even the people who had heard Brian and I noodling around earlier in the day suddenly sat up straight and had a look of appreciation on their face. Most of them have no idea who Tippy Elvis is, but they could tell that a miracle awakening had just happened.
I don't know if that moment could possibly heal the hurt that Brian has been feeling with his relationships. I can only hope that it was as wonderful a moment for him, at his birthday bash, as it was for me.
Brian said something between songs that resonated with me. He said he was tired of living in the past, and he wanted to start making it the now.
I'm with Brian. We had an opportunity in the past. We had a huge following. We all blew it because of egos and laziness. I'm tired of explaining to people what we "were." Before age makes us a passing joke, I'd like to make us what we are.

Best Kept Secret

2006-08-26T22:31:00.000-07:00

Heard of The Artisan? I might be the last person in Vegas to hear of the place, but if you haven't . . .
First, I'll talk about my dad.
My father is not rich. Some believe he is wealthy. I would classify him as "well off." One thing I have had the opportunity to ascertain and appreciate growing up is that my father prefers to be seen as middle class. A blue collar Democrat. He doesn't like rising above the radar of society. He would rather have a beer with a truckdriver than be at a cocktail party with celebrities.
There are only three areas where he doesn't mind indulging a bit; going to the opera, nice hotels and eating at fancy resaurants.
So, when my father asked to go to lunch today while the ladies were at a baby shower, I imagined some sort of new fancy dining hangout like the Triple George. Then my father told me we were going to The Artisan. I asked him to repeat that. The Artisan?
For those of you new to town (or out of town), The Artisan is a crappy looking white building of a hotel located just east of the I-15 off of Sahara (you can spit on it from the North bound lanes). It's sandwiched between strip clubs and dirty industrial buildings. It use to be a cheap Ramada Inn Hotel. They painted it white and slapped a new sign on it.
The Artisan? Really? For food?
My dad kept smiling and saying, "You'll see." I dreaded that he had finally gone senile.
We valeted under a small retro awning and opened a large, church like door that brought us into darkness.
I am not sure if I can do the place justice with my humble description. The ceiling is painted black. The walls and floors are covered with dark, stone tiles. Everywhere, EVERYWHERE - including the ceiling, there are massive art reproductions hanging. Beautiful reproductions of all the masters (classic, modern, all of them). The lobby has a dark roman fountain in the middle surrounded by antique tables, chairs and chaise lounges with red velvet. Antique furniture (beautiful carved wood) is abundant. There is a staircase that leads only to a balcony with a chaise lounge and sitting chairs. There are small rooms off of the lobby that look like victorian sitting rooms. Everywhere, EVERYWHERE - including the floor, there are burning votive candles.
I stood flabbergasted for a minute. Completing the bad math in my head, I told my father the hundreds of artwork reproductions and the elaborate frames they were in cost at least half a million dollars. This has to be one of the coolest lobbies I have ever seen, not just in Vegas but in 10 states and England.
The bar is the same, comfy leather chairs with antique tables. Art, candles.
The restaurant was fabulous. Same decor (with a fauxed dome ceiling). Fresh cut tulips on every table. Amazing food.
After we ate, my father and I decided to be curious. We took an elevator up to one of the floors. We believed they couldn't possibly keep up this decor beyond the main floor. We were wrong. On the randomly selected 4th floor, the hallway was stuffed with massive, elaborately framed art reproductions (my father guessed that every major painting in art history is displayed in the building). The doors to each room have a gold frame, and each room is named after an artist; the Andy Warhol room, the Frida Kahlo room.
I told my father I wouldn't want to stay in the Francis Bacon room.
A maid was cleaning the Seurat room, so we peaked in. It was a nice, well furnished room (not dark like the hallways and lobby) with large prints of Seurat everywhere.
We returned to the lobby and decided to check out the pool area. It is a vision of white. It is a modest, rectangle pool. Very plush lounge chairs are evenly lined on both sides, each with it's own small table and ashtray. Completing the perfect symmetry at the end of the pool is an arched wall with a grotto fountain on it. Private cabanas surround the place. It was a perfect old Hollywood postcard. I could SEE Marilyn Monroe lounging on a chair and flirting with Errol Flynn smoking in one of the cabanas.
I just couldn't fathom the existence of this place in Las Vegas. My father and I only saw about 10 guests the entire time we were there. Curious, we asked the lady at the check in desk if they are ever busy. She said Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays (when they have a $20 jazz breakfast - with live jazz). My father and I snooped around a bit more. As we were leaving, a business man was at the counter was speaking to the same lady my father and I had interogated. He had the same dazed expression on his face as he told her, "This is the best kept secret in Vegas! How come nobody knows about this?"
Back at the baby shower, I heard some theories about the place. Some think it is a "hooker hotel." I didnt' get that from the clients we saw there, but it is very close to the strip places. Some think it is a "gay hotel." If that is the case, great. My own theory is that there is some eccentric millionaire who just decided to make a quiet, cool place for people to stay at and doesn't really care if it makes a lot of money.
If you live here in Vegas, go there soon. Lunch isn't too pricey. If you are from out of town, I suggest you stay there next time (the highest room rate is $129).

Truth in Advertising. . .

2006-08-20T21:03:00.000-07:00

I belatedly woke up Saturday morning. 3/5th's of the family headed to Henderson to visit and shop. This left Drew and I on our own to tackle our personal agenda.
Drew and I had an itching desire to see the new film Snakes On a Plane. The movie became a cult hit before it even opened. It's funny, you know. The movie is about snakes on a plane, and it's CALLED Snakes On a Plane. That alone is funny. It has Samuel L. Jackson in it. He was a Jedi Knight, Shaft and in Pulp Fiction. That is the definition of cool. We had to witness this strange cultural phenomena.
Drew and I ran over to The Cannery theaters and purchased our tickets for the 11:30 am show, in DIGITAL PROJECTION!!, and then purchased an overpriced small soda. The realization that the film is rated R, and perhaps not appropriate for my 11 year old son, crossed my moral synapses briefly. The goofy father portion of my head thought, "Snakes on a PLANE! That is FUNNY!"

We were the only people in the theater. One lady showed up during the movie, but she was a ninja in her quiet stealth presence. Drew and I plopped ourselves in the best, middle view seats. I'm sure there will be a plethora of folks writing about this film, just as they did prior to it's release. I'll save you a fully extended appreciation of the film.

The movie began, much like other excessive cop movies do. A large set up to create a reasonable reason to actually get the snakes on the plane. Some of this is funny, some of it silly or violent, and some moments are boyish fun. The airport scenes were similar to the Airport films, or even the Airport spoof, Airplane. The cliche passengers were set up. The plane took off.

OK, it sounds funny; snakes on a plane. But, when this actually becomes a reality, it's terrifying. Snakes of all kinds, in close quarters, biting and jumping. People swelling up from venom, drooling blood. Nowhere to hide.

Oh shit, they really meant it; there are SNAKES on a PLANE. Not as funny as you would think.

Drew and I, mostly alone in the theater, had the freedom to crawl or crouch in our chairs. We covered our faces and looked away. It was not a manly facade Drew and I were presenting.

When Samuel L. Jackson finally said THE line, the line that internet folks demanded the filmmakers include in the film and was surprisingly added by them, "That's it! I've had it with these motherf***king snakes on this motherf***king plane!!!" I was right there with Mr. Jackson. Drew and I cheered alone in the empty theater (the ninja lady was retaining her silence). We had been shocked, grossed out, and terrified enough.

It is a cult classic. Just be warned; there ARE snakes ON a plane. OK?

The Agony of the Outcast . . .

2006-08-16T21:58:00.000-07:00

Just returned from yet another sojourn in Cali. That would be "hip hop" for California. In case you didn't know.
This time it was not Disneyland, but Laguna. Land of great beaches, sweet restaurants and fine galleries of art.

I have an anxiety about the open beach. Not out of concern for myself, but of the sight of my children against the backdrop of God's massive power. My own children fully trust God's protective powers and fully disregard the enormous monster of the ocean. Here is where my anxiety begins. My sad, Las Vegas cure is the consumption of a beverage or two before heading to the beach. A prayer or two to Jesus. Wag a finger at me, but it works.
Laguna has become a yearly trip for us, thanks to the my mother in law. Like Christmas, Laguna comes once a year. Drew was born for the ocean. You have to pull him away from it. Kathryn enjoys it just as much. Dylan has found it incompatible with his dress and general teenage vision of superiority.

I am more like Dylan than he would be willing to admit. My joy of Laguna is in haunting the downtown area of art and food. Looking at the art is free, the food becomes more complicated in it's expense. I find myself similar to a bum, looking in at the fancy restaurants but not able to attend. We eat at Jack in the Box or KFC. This should be an environmental crime. There should not be a Jack in the Box or KFC on the Pacific Coast Highway. Yes, that is where we can afford to eat, but I'd rather sacrifice my mortgage for a sublime appetizer than submit to a plastic bench at a fastfood joint that has a view of the ocean. Despite my agony, I am vetoed on the culinary experience by the financial advisor I love more than anything.

My financial advisor, Beck, did allow me one night out to eat. We ended up at the first restaurant we came to, the Boom Club, which turned out to be the gay spot in Laguna. We actually enjoyed the atmosphere of "ladies night." Madonna videos on the screens. Nice couples snuggling like ourselves.
Beck and I had a fantastic dinner at the Boom club. Along with an amazing menu, they also had an ashtray at the entrance, where I was actually SMILED at by lesbians and certain men while I performed my forbidden act. Outcasts tend to find sympathy for other outcasts. The Boom club is destined to be torn down in September, despite the fact that it has been the gay club in Laguna since the 1930's. Becky and I signed the petition to save the place, though the waiter told us it was futile.

For this vacation, we didn't stay at our normal hotel, the more humble Laguna Riviera. We ended up at the "Sea Cliff Inn," whose master of cermonies was very similar to the Prawn from the Muppets, Okaaay?
While I was indulged in my desire to smoke on the patios of the Riviera, I was forbidden from smoking anywhere near the Sea Cliff Inn. Not even in the parking lot. I had to walk to the street to smoke.

Now this might be alien to some of you, but I will hopefully educate you about the true pain of this problem. When you begin, you choose to smoke. After the honeymoon, you are forced into the act. I do not like smoking. I do not like smoking around people. I go out of my way, respectful of the laws, to not smoke around others. Yet, I am forced by an addiction to perform the act.

I have indulged in a majority of the major drugs known to man. I've managed to quit them all, but tobacco is the holdout. It is truly the most evil substance I've been exposed to. I am not happy I have to smoke. I am ashamed. I know it is killing me. Duh. It's written very clearly on the packs I buy and the hard science of society. Thank you very much. I really have no need to hear another person who feels the compassion to tell me that it is "not good for you." Again, DUH. You don't think some smokers stay awake at night thinking about it? You don't think some of the addicted do not pray for salvation?

I cannot count on my hands, toes or penis how many times I received dirty looks, yelps of outrage and extreme discrimination while I was walking out of my way to attend to my addiction in Laguna. Let me give you a scenario that is like-minded to my experience. It would be similar to a person walking up to an overweight individual and demanding, "Why can't you lose that weight?" "You fat people go outside." It is even close to a person giving nasty looks to an individual with palsy. "Stop that shaking!" "You can only shake on the sidewalk." Thank you very much. Not that we are already embarrassed to be overweight, palsy or, God forbid, smokers.

Listen. . . Society, introduced me to this plague. I have cried, prayed and suffered to simply attempt to quit this drug that is more addictive than heroin. I've tried the gum, the patch, Jesus, and cold turkey. I do not want to submit others to my smoke. I go out of my way to accomodate everyone. I really do not need another jogging, health-conscious Laguna amazon with cancer-potential wrinkled skin jabbing me with an attack of condemnation. Maybe, just maybe, if I lived in the hills overlooking a fabulous beach, with access to great doctors and had some free time for the pains of withdrawals, I would not have to sneak to some obscure corner to attend to my pain.

Oh yeah, I need just one more self righteous fool to point out to me that I am an idiot. Thank you very much. Maybe, if I didn't have my addiction, I could also afford to eat at your nice establishments.

Yes, I know it is hard to ingest for some, but a smoker does not always feel pride in the catagory they find themselves in. I know some who brag about smoking. It seems as similar to me as the proud "plus" models who are offended by those who are concerned about their weight. They appear to gain some sympathy from the Oprah set, despite the risks to their own health. I'm not asking for sympathy. I'm not asking to be allowed to smoke while someone is enjoying dinner. I'm not asking for the right to smoke in a public building. I'm asking for a small bit of compassion. I'm asking not to be reminded, in addition to my own nightmares, of what I am doing. I know. Most of US smokers know. The evil glares, the educated diatribes and the sighs of destain are excessive daggers in the hearts of the afflicted.

This does not simply pertain to the addicted. This need to acknowledge a known evil befalls the innocent loved ones of the afflicted. Everyone seems inclined to ask the kin of the smoker why they can not stop them. It is not their problem! It pains the smoker more than anything to know they are somehow hurting their family. It is even more painful to know that their loved ones are included in the damnation. Both the family and the addicted really do not need a reminder of the situation. The addicted individual and the family would like nothing more than to solve the addiction. Constant reminders are not benificial but extremely painful to a family. DUH. They know.

Perhaps you should worry about George Bush, a real idiot, being our president. Maybe you should be concerned about a needless war in Iraq. Perhaps you should be worried about the oil companies blocking the progress of new fuel potentials in science. Is it beyond you to worry that extremist politics have destroyed the potential for research in stem cells to find cures for disease? Who is willing to admit that it is not a war on terror but a religious battle?

Maybe a single individual's difficulty with a common addiction is not really worth a nasty look or exclusion from society. There are bigger fish to fry than a man with a cigarette. Screw you Laguna. Jog all you want, but I will blow my smoke into your self pretentious ass.

Self-Described

2006-07-31T19:52:00.000-07:00

I just returned from several days in Disneyland.
I do not habitually attend Disneyland in the month of July (heat, crowds, heat), but it happened to be the chosen place and dates of the Jones Family Reunion (ironically, I had no input on the choice of Disneyland, as I could not attend the last bi-annual reunion).
If you read my previous blog, you know I wrote a response to the Entertainment Weekly review of the Pirates of the Caribbean sequel (If you haven't read it, you can find it somewhere on this page, somewhere).
It was an aggravated response written for friends, but one that found itself emailed to Entertainment Weekly. To my astonishment, EW actually wrote me back, requesting my permission to be "Obsessed Fan of the Week." This amused me. I counted on the extreme possibility that they would make a sad caricature of me, as I am accustomed to such abuse. I told them OK, and emailed a picture of myself.
Irony reared it's goofy head again.
I was walking to Disneyland with my daughter and middle son (the oldest has grown weary of the place and stayed in the hotel, the wife was busy helping with reunion things). We passed a newstand in Downtown Disney, and I saw the face of Samuel L. Jackson glaring at me on the August 4th cover of Entertainment Weekly. This was Wednesday, July 26th. It annoyed me; I knew we would not receive our EW until Sunday or Monday - a five day delay in reception of their rich banquet of pop knowledge. I haulted the children and whipped open the rag. There it was, on page 4 . . .

Bad scan, sorry. If you can't read the picture, here is what it says:
Self-described "art educator" S.C. Jones of
North Las Vegas, Nev., takes his knowledge of
Disneyland seriously. "Pirates of the Carib-
bean is not an 'amusement' ride," he complains,
but a "themed attraction," which he sees an an
art form comparable to cinema. He suggests
that our unwillingness to perceive such a dis-
tinction is "a clever but patronizing mockery . . .
fashionable among elitists." Us . . . elitists?

Pretty much what I expected. Nice abbreviation of my long winded letter. It shows my intent much better than I did. But. . . I read it again.
"Self-described" art educator? What the hell does that mean? Most of my emails have a signature attached to them; "s.c.jones, Artist, Art Educator." I mean, it IS what I do. Here in the great State of Nevada, hundreds of Art "Teachers" decided to begin referring to ourselves as Art "Educators." We thought it had a more pleasant ring to it.
But . . . "self-described?"
Do they actually assume I have not toiled the last 10 years in the service of thousands of children, paid and endorsed by the state, as an art teacher? Do they really presume that I simply "refer" to myself as such? I expected to be exposed as a Disneyland geek, but I never expected my livelihood to become fodder of their derision. I am not paid very much. It is hard work. This is not upright. Becky wants to email them my teaching license. Still, it is fun to be found in a national magazine.
I had several days of Disneyland and family ahead of me to ease the pain. The trip was great. Knowing that my brother's daughter would be a new addition next year to the Disneyland clan brightened every moment. It was also a great pleasure to have our "extended" family of Rob, Patti and the girls hanging out, finally, with all of ours.
Disneyland heals all my pains.

Yo Ho . . .

2006-07-11T00:36:00.000-07:00

Dearest folks at Entertainment Weekly,

I don't normally respond to film reviews or write them myself.

I may occasionally promote an appreciation of certain films, but never anything that would fall into the unvarnished realm of contemporary film criticism with it's black and white view of good and bad.Gone are the days of intelligent film criticisms penned by such greats as Pauline Kael or Cahiers du Cinema. Even poor Roger Ebert has been reduced to a thumbs up or down and a 20 second sound bite. True film criticism should not be an absolute decree of yes or no. The lost tradition held by the masters was a discussion of the art of film, the visual and the narrative, promoting the benefits of the work and planting helpful suggestions for the less successful aspects of the work. Criticism was not a negative and judgmental exercise; it was a constructive tool for both the artist and the audience.

What passes as current film criticism has been corrupted into an audacity to tell the audience if a film is an absolute - good or bad. There is an assumption that the viewer is not adept enough to make his or her own decision.

My wife often says, "Sean likes every movie." It's a phrase I coined myself. It's not actually true, but very close. I am always able to appreciate some aspect of a movie. Current trends in judging a film have obsessed on the narrative aspects of film (the idealess theory of cinema as a theatrical stage of actors talking). I can fully appreciate a film on it's visual assets, even if the writing and story are lacking.

OK . . . I'm actually maneuvering my way to a point of sorts. Simply a response to a review.

I should start with a disclaimer: I am a huge Disneyland fanatic. This may seem childish to some, but, I assure you, it is simply a childLIKE fraction of my self. It in no way influenced my desire to write this diatribe. . .

I received the newest copy of Entertainment Weekly in the mail today. I was excited, as the cover featured Pirates of the Caribbean. I have seen the film, enjoyed it, and I looked forward to what was waiting in the magazine for me.There was the nice production article. It teased me once again with the hope that Keith Richards might be in the 3rd film.

Then I turned to the review by Lisa Schwarzbaum.

It was a treasure trove of arrogant and frustrating misknowledge that jolted me from my comfortable summer vacation into scribing this rebuke.

Let us begin with her confession of incompetence as a paid champion of cinematic appraisal.She admits to initially degrading the original Pirates film as, "a mirthless course of script beats and busy action sequences." She also scorned Johnny Depp's Academy Award Nominated performance as "a mild yo ho. . . glam rock vamping as pirate/Village Person."

BUT, after most of the human population of the planet Earth expressed their love of the film, she reformed her opinion; "I see now that I was wrong about the original: It's a thing of balletic grace, theatrical richness of character, and self-effacing economy of action . . ."

Dear Ms. Schwarzbaum,The first film was a abomination in your initial opinion, but you suddenly saw the light (and maybe the huge success) and reverted to frantic praise? This is the floundering foundation upon which the public should commend their cinematic choices?

In respect to the newest film, Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest, you lapse into a familiar condescending rap; "Yes, indeed, Pirates 2.0 is a theme ride, if by ride you mean a hellish contraption into which a ticket holder is strapped, overstimulated but unsatisfied . . . "

Time for a little amusement education. You are referring to is an "amusement" ride. One that simply shakes you around and spits you out again. Your thinly veiled agenda appears to be a derogatory reference to the ride that Pirates is based on. A clever but patronizing mockery that is fashionable amongst elitists fearing purging from the wine and cheese set. However, in your attempt to patronize, you are wrong. The Pirates of the Caribbean ride is not an "amusement" ride. It is a "themed attraction." What is that? What is the difference?

Watching his daughters at crass amusement parks, where the rides simply turned you around and made you dizzy (the amusement rides you are referring to), Walt Disney began thinking of a better type of ride that would actually tell a story and that adults could enjoy.
Walt Disney had a vision of what would become Disneyland, the first THEMED amusement park. Financers and industry people thought he was nuts. He spent his own money and made a deal with ABC to build his park. He uniquely combined filmmakers with engineers and created rides that utilized a cinematic experience. Walt Disney created the first "Themed Ride" and "Theme Park."

By dredging up a misinformed comparison between the film and a simple "amusement ride," you have exposed an ignorance of the visionary and personal sacrifice Walt Disney put into creating a more satisfying attraction for the public, both young and old. You deride the film, like so many other film critics, because it is based on a ride. If you ever actually find yourself on the ride, you would find, after two small drops, that it is a simple and slow boat voyage passing by well conceived scenes that tell a story. It is visually comparable to a film. There is no shaking or straps. It is the most popular themed ride in the world. I understand some "educated" folks cannot comprehend how a simple "ride" could stimulate passion in the masses. It is similar to the bewildered reaction by stoic reviewers who cannot comprehend the popular tastes of mass culture.

Ms. Schwarzbaum, you critiqued Mr. Depp for being a "Village Person" in the first film, and, in your ruling of the newest film, you demote him as, "an exotic Cage aux Folles bird." This strikes me as a curiously homophobic. Perhaps a more macho man would have pacified your distaste? Maybe John Wayne with his strange walk and waving hands . . . oh. . . I guess not. I suppose almost every female I know, including my 9 year old daughter, are amiss in their attraction to Captain Jack Sparrow? He is giving a new generation a glimpse at Keith Richards. You know, The Rolling Stones?

The biggest grievance you seem to have with the film is the lack of character development. Did we see the same film? I witnessed several extended scenes of dialogue that developed all the characters beyond the first film and leaves the viewer anticipating the next chapter. Will Turner and Elizabeth are not simply "whirling teacup figurines" (is that yet another derogatory reference to theme parks?). Will Turner has a difficult relationship with his condemned father. Elizabeth is boiling over with passion, and her reluctant engouement towards Jack Sparrow creates a great setup for future tensions with Will.

Are you completely ignoring the invaluable visual impact this film has? You pass off the visual candy in this film as "the very picture of ick by teen standards." Why must the genre of fantasy be constantly shelved away as a childish balderdash? Why deride a film for monetary extravagance (implied in your comment that the next film will be a"necessarily staggering, ostentatious extravagance as to bankrupt all but the most iron-walleted of Hollywood producers")? Shouldn't we celebrate the hard working artists who were supported and allowed to stretch their imaginations so far? Walt Disney had a passion for putting his own money on the line for a vision he believed in despite detracters (including, at times, his own brother). This gutsy modus operandi of placing quality and artistic achievement above monetary worries is sadly lacking in the cautious utility atmosphere of today. Why would any film critic chastise a studio for supporting artists with financing? Adversly, why does the "sell out" mentality that profit devalues the artistic acheivement, proclaimed by punk rock youth in the 70's, find it's way into critical thinking?

I applaud the fresh addition of Pirates to the standard fair given to us every summer. It seems to me your criticism is prejudiced by the tired cosmopolitan razing of the Disney product name. I suggest you read the well argued criticism by Greil Marcus, "Forty Years of Overstatement: Crtitcism and the Disney Theme Parks," where he exposes the lack of substance found in the merry glee that devotees possess using this discontented "easy put down." You speak of Pavlovian response; it seems to me that far too many self proclaimed intellectuals drool and drop reason at the chance to mock Walt Disney, families, and good natured fun.
Really, I actually do enjoy reading your articles, despite all evidence to the contrary.
Thank you.

Belated Blog

2006-06-18T01:08:00.000-07:00

Check out my new website . . . www.artofscjones.com. If you like the art, let me know. . .

Brew Time

2006-04-17T00:08:00.000-07:00

I haven't blogged in a few months. It was pointed out to me, by my dear wife, that the comics I've been making, and taking up all my time, are my actual blogs. So, from now on (bandwidth permitting) here are my comic blogs . . .

20 Years Ago Today

2006-02-21T22:50:00.000-08:00

Sgt. Pepper taught the band to play . . .
I remember when I turned 20, and it was the 20th anniversary of The Beatles' Sgt. Peppers, and that slogan . . . "It was 20 years ago today" was printed on everything, everywhere I turned. I thought at the time, what a helluva long time that is.
20 years.
On February 14th, Becky and I celebrated our 20th wedding anniversary. It's a helluva long time, but it seems like a few fleeting years. We've actually been together longer than the official 20 years, but that's just band camp and nitpicking.
For our actual anniversary day, we decided to stay at home and make dinner. Becky ran out to Costco to pick up a fancy dinner for us to cook. We ate dinner, drank some wine and then I put on our bad (very bad) wedding video to show the kids.
I don't think we've watched it in 20 years. Beck and I both looked at ourselves and said, "Damn, we were babies!" With bad hair (at least me, Mr. Serpico). What the hell were we thinking?
I watched a parade of our friends and family. They all looked to be in a slight daze performing the rituals of the wedding. They were probably thinking, "this isn't really going to happen, is it." I loved watching Becky's father shove her at me. The big bear Baker. One of the most humbling things to occur in my life is that Beck's father, a World War II veteran with an always loaded shotgun, accepted me, without question or a second look at my freakish ways (honestly, he didn't blink an eye at my strange long hair and . . . Sgt. Pepper outfits). It was plainly, "Sit down and have a beer." His actions at the wedding could be interpreted as "marry him, now" or "get this damn thing over with." It's about the same, if you think of it.
It is sweet to see how my parents, in shock, accepted the moment.
It fills my heart with joy to see my mother's parents, Ben and Fran Hoffman, healthy, walking down the aisle in their best Sunday clothes. It's a pleasure to see my brother and sister, also looking like babies, lighting the candles and then standing at our sides. Beck's sister, Michelle, and Paul, her husband, were there. They are what we always hope to be. It's nice to know everyone was there for that moment.
"Let the children come to me. Don't stop them! . . . I assure you, anyone who doesn't have their kind of faith will never get into the Kingdom . . ." - Mark 11:13
The Magic Kingdom.
For our anniversary, Becky and I went to Disneyland (with the help of Paul and Michelle watching the kids). I know people think, why go to Disneyland . . . without children? Why go AGAIN? This is superficial thinking that assumes the place is just "rides and candy." Beyond the cliche facade sustained by a cynical society, there is a place that has become a true park, with lush trees and pathways. Sights and joys that are blind to the hurried guest desperate to just ride a "coaster" (these people find Six Flags parks so much better - with trash on the floor, no trees, but great rides that spin you upside down until you throw up). People fail to see a land that is a carefully conceived experience unique in being the first of it's kind.
Becky and I couldn't think of anything better to do for our anniversary than to visit Disneyland alone. Nothing could make us happier than to listen to the live music, walk along our familiar paths and watch the faces of children experiencing the joy of the park for the first time.
Becky and I were not completely without children. We became the Guardian Angels of the park; guiding lost children to their parents, telling parents where to take their kids for special help or treats, showing kids hidden secrets within the park. It seemed everywhere we went, we were helping someone.
We found a spot where Becky matched the flowers. While we were quiet most of the time together (after 20 years, we didn't have to worry about talking all the time), I somehow managed to make Becky laugh uncontrollably while I tried to take her picture with the matching flowers. It's nice to know we can make each other laugh like idiots after all this time together.

It was cold. Damn cold. For a couple of desert rats, anything below 80 degrees is freezing. It was somewhere around 57 degrees while we were there. I wore two coats, two shirts, a scarf, a hat and gloves. It also rained on us a few times. This was a benefit to our experience, because, as John Lennon sang, "When the rain comes, they run and hide their heads. They might as well be dead. When the rain comes . . ." People ran away in massive groups. We, the two desert rats, stuck it out and made the best of it. We were rewarded with small crowds and short lines.
Fortune seemed to smile upon us. We ate at a fancy Italian restaurant in Downtown Disney. The waiter brought Becky the wrong pizza. The head chef was just a few feet from us. He sent Becky a free plate of steamed clams, shrimp and seared tuna with a light mushroom sauce while she waited for the correct order. We really didn't need the correct pizza after that. The entire trip was a series of special moments just like that, where people went out of their way to make us feel happy and content. Little did they know, we were already happy and content just being together, in a place we love with so many fond memories stacked in our favor.
You can never go home again. In our home town, they tend to implode anything that might provoke the occasional memory or nostalgia. So, it is amazing to us that we are able to walk in a park where we both share a treasured past. Unchanged, aside from the massive growth of the trees.
It isn't lost on Becky and I, as we held hands walking under the Adventureland sign, that a big bear once walked there. Proud of his little daughter and filled with hopes that the girl would have a perfect life of happiness and joy. That same bear who shoved his daughter at me 20 years ago.
I wish I could tell him things have been perfect, but they never really are. You can only hope to come close to perfection. I would like him to know how honored I am that he shoved that little girl's hand into mine. I hope he knows that I'm still holding it, and I'm hoping to come close to the perfection she deserves.

Oreo Cookie Shake of Death

2006-02-05T20:46:00.000-08:00

It is predestined that at some point in all of our lives we will be bored.
I've become bored with our local "First Friday," wandering and seeing the same style of art, paying too much for beer. Not seeing my own art hanging on a wall makes it painful.
So, the kids and I skipped the FF thing and decided to eat dinner at Applebee's, then go home to relax.
It was a busy night at Applebee's. We waited a long time for a seat. Then we waited a long time for our food. Boredom set in. I began to play around with the children's menu and the red crayon they gave us . . .

Silly, yes.
This spawned a hellish creative spree with input from all of my children. All in good fun . . .

Finally, the menu . . .

Wings of Desire

2006-01-17T20:17:00.000-08:00

Several years ago, my wife designated the entry room / library of our house as the "Angel Room." We have at least 30 or so angels lurking about the bookshelves, hanging from the walls, standing in the corners.
I decided to make the above painting, from one of my favorite films of all time, "Wings of Desire," to hang above the door. Most people don't see the painting. The have to look up as they leave the house. This past Martin Luther King, Jr. weekend, I revisited "Wings of Desire," and, after 13 years of waiting, finally watched it's sequel, "Faraway, So Close!"
Homer, the aged poet: Tell me, Muse, of the storyteller who has been thrust to the edge of the world, both an infant and an ancient, and through him reveal everyman.
If you have not seen "Wings of Desire," I suggest you run out and grab it at the local rental joint. Don't walk, run. Fly. Any mode of fast travel.
Directed by Wim Wenders in 1987, "Wings of Desire" was originally titled "Angels over Berlin," which is probably a more accurate title for the film. Wenders creates a unique vision of Angels wandering Berlin, listening and recording thoughts of humans. They comfort the ill and rest their heads upon the shoulders of the weak. The Angels dress in long, dark trenchcoats. Wings are only visible in a few scenes. The world of the Angels is presented in beautiful black and white. Only very small children can see the Angels, their bright smiles look up in recognition as the real world races by in ignorance. The "real world" in the film is shown in harsh, bright color.
One memorable and visually stunning scene has a massive grouping of Angels, in their long dark coats, filling every corner of a vast library - with a few Angels sitting on the high ledges, like bohemian gargoyles.
The film doesn't have a conventional script. It would be more accurate to describe it as a string of vivid poems. I doubt any actual human has inner (or outter) thoughts that are so completely lyrical. An Angel follows the old poet, Homer, who recalls the horrors of WWII Berlin, and the bright days before the decent into fascism. Homer searches the ruins of an overgrown field, looking for the cafe he and his friends use to sit at and enjoy cigars.
The film centers on a friendship between two particular Angels, Damiel (Bruno Ganz) and Cassiel (Otto Sander). An amusing pair who talk about being around at the beginning of time and share notes like, "A man stopped and listened to a bird." Damiel has begun thinking about what life as a mortal might be like. "To be looked at and seen. To touch something and feel it."

Damiel wanders into a small circus and finds a beautiful French acrobat, Marion (Solveig Mommartin), who is dressed as an Angel on the trapeze. He listens to her thoughts, and he soon falls in love with her and the notion of human touch.
In a humorous moment, Damiel bumps into Peter Falk (yes, TV's Columbo), who is in Berlin acting in a film about WWII. Falk can sense the Angels, and it is soon apparent that Falk himself is a fallen Angel.
Damiel decides to take the plunge himself. His armor falls beside him, and he hocks it for some cash. He's in the real world of bright color. His one goal, to find Marion. He bumps into Peter Falk again, who immediately recognizes him as a "kindred spirit." Peter Falk: To smoke, and have coffee - and if you do it together . . . it's fantastic.
It is a beautiful, thoughtful and touching film. It works on so many levels; the love story, the history and regret of Germans about their past, the amazing world of the Angels, the love for the city Berlin once was, and still is, through it's people. Classic.
American filmmakers decided to re-make "Wings of Desire." It starred Nicolas Cage, it took place in America, and it was all in color. They only kept the love story. I could only stand about ten minutes of it before I began to feel sick to my stomach. I was really angered that the American filmmakers never mentioned Wim Wenders' film. The publicity for the film completely ignored any notion of Wenders' film. I watched the credits of the remake, looking for the "based on" or "inspired by" credit. Nothing. Perhaps they knew they had desecrated real art with their bastard version of a classic film. Acknowledging "Wings of Desire" would only lead people to the original - and the realization of what a piece of crap they had made of it.
In 1993, Wim Wenders made a sequel to "Wings of Desire" (this was not much of a surprise, since the original ends with the credit "To Be Continued"). By 1993, the original had already become an established icon in film history (I first viewed it in a college film class). The new film, "Faraway, So Close!" played in limited release. I never had a chance to see it. I tried hard to rent it or purchase it over the years, but it was almost impossible to find. Becky and I recently signed up for Netflix, I was happy to find it there, and it was the first film I added to our que.

I had believed the sequel had a loose connection to the original; just more stories about Angels. The film was heavily promoted as starring Nastassja Kinski, but she actually has a very minor role in the film. The film is a faithfully direct sequel, taking up the actions of the characters where the original left off.

In the opening scene, Cassiel listens to the thoughts of Mikhail Gorbachev. It is perhaps one of the strongest, "hidden" political speeches of the 20th century; one that stirs the ashes of Churchill in elegant prose.

Cassiel begins to think that if he also fell to earth, that he could do some good. His fall to earth is not exactly voluntary, but an act of heroism towards a small child. Cassiel has a hard time adjusting to real life. He has no spouse to guide him, as Damiel did. He meets up with Peter Falk (returning to Berlin for a showing of his sketches), who helps him the best he can.

Willem Dafoe plays Emit Flesti, a scheming demon, who recognizes the threat of Cassiel's goodness. He does everything to turn Cassiel on the wrong path. He introduces Cassiel to "firewater." Cassiel becomes a drunk and homeless man. He becomes involved with criminals. Desperate, Cassiel seeks out his old partner, Damiel, who is now married with a small girl. The family tries to help him, but the demon keeps leading him astray. Bottomed out, Cassiel finds Lou Reed, the legendary singer for the Velvet Underground, who might also be a fallen Angel.

Cassiel: Why can't I be good? Why can't I act like a man? Why can't I act like other men can?

Lou Reed: If I knew, I would tell you. Hang in there.

The film has the same glorious photography, poetic dialogue and continues to delve into the struggles of Berlin with their identity (this film includes a newly open Berlin with the recent fall of the Wall). The Angels worry over the growing distance that mankind places them (in some "faraway" religious realm), when they are actually so close.

The film surprisingly becomes an action film when Cassiel decides he must do some good, at all costs.

While some may not find this film as accessable as the original, since it lacks the love story, it is still a worthy continuation.

I watched both films, and my children attempted to follow along with me, but they were turned off by "too much reading" (German and French and English with English subtitles). They were all fascinated by the look of the film and the unique representation of the Angels.

All I know is, if there are Guardian Angels hovering around me, I would hope they look and act like Bruno Ganz and Otto Sander. So, among the fat cherubs in our library, I just had to include one of my favorite Angels.

Normandie Buoys

2006-01-08T21:18:00.000-08:00

As it always seems with the coming of a New Year, a person tends to look back in hopes of soothing the fresh birth of the young year as it smacks you in the face.
Today, the past smacked me in the face. In a nice way.
My Mother, my Brother, his wife, my wife, my kids and I went to clear out a storeroom that has lingered shut since my Grandmother passed away. A lot of my Mother's parents' belongings are boxed up in that dusty old storeroom. We dug through a lot of odd junk. If it looked interesting, we hauled it into our cars.
I brought home a box that looked like a collection of some old Vegas magazines. My wife collects old Vegas ashtrays, so we were interested to see what was in there. When I arrived home I opened it up and discovered a motherload.
I should give you some back story here . . .

My maternal Grandfather, Ben "Benny" Hoffman, arrived in Vegas in the late 40's, built his own house next to the airport and worked as a musician at the old Thunderbird Hotel with his trio, the Normandie Buoys, for many years. They weren't headliners. They were a filler act, or a back up act.
(Note the small billing on this ad - look for the red arrow on the bottom)

They did have constant work. They were considered a fun novelty act, always dressing up in odd attire, having a good time.
When I was growing up, I never knew much about the Normandie Buoys except some stories the family would tell and visits from my Grandfather's surviving partner, Brad. It was a sad day when Brad passed away, leaving my Grandfather, Ben, the only living Normandie Buoy. After my Grandfather passed away, I often wondered what the Normandie Buoys were like; what kind of music they played, what kind of shows they did.

So, back to today. . . I opened that box of Vegas magazines when I arrived home. Just underneath the magazines, I began finding an endless stack of clippings, photographs, articles and set lists from the Normandie (sometimes spelled Normandy) Buoys. More information than I had ever known when my Grandfather was alive.

I learned they would often participate in "Mini- Musicals" at the Thunderbird. They would stage anything from Guys and Dolls to The Mikado. Often, the Normandie Buoys would have a small featured roll in the musical, as a trio.

That's my Grandfather, Ben, on the left.

Other times, they would perform as themselves, but usually in odd costumes. They would dress as sailors, Indians, gypsies. Anything for a "hoot."

Ken on the left, Benny (Gramps) in the middle, and Brad on the guitar.

In the reviews I read, they were considered the "bright spot" in long evenings of variety acts. Funny and charming.

My Grandfather also moonlighted as a gossip columnist for the Las Vegan magazine, published out of the Thunderbird.

He wrote the Thunder from a Bird column, about acts around town. The "seen and heard" within the Thunderbird.

The typewriter style is familiar to my entire family. My grandfather loved to type everything, from recipe books to his favorite Bible quotes.

In later years, his typewritten works looked just like these old articles from the Las Vegan Magazine. It all makes sense now.

I think, somewhere deep in those many boxes we didn't remove from the storeroom, are actual record album recordings of the Normandie Buoys. Now, that is a treasure I'm looking forward to finding.

I've often told people, in general terms, that my Grandfather was a musician on the Strip in the old days. I didn't have much to back it up with. They weren't the top of the bill, so history burried them quickly. But it appears to me that they were happy. They were thankful for what they had. They had a good time.

I had my own experience with a little novelty band that didn't get too far. On the night my Grandmother Hoffman was dying after a long struggle with cancer, I knew - and she knew - it would be the last time we saw or spoke with each other. Unfortunately, I had to go to a gig with my goofy band. I didn't want to leave. She held my hand and told me what she wanted, "If your Grandfather were here he'd tell you - the show must go on."

Later that night, I found myself playing my Grandfather's accordian at a British pub with my pants down and my British flag boxers proudly on display. I was playing God Save the Queen. At the time I felt awful. How could I be doing this while my Grandmother is dying?

I realize now that it was the best thing I could have done. People were laughing and enjoying themselves. It was a tribute. Following in the footsteps of my Grandfather, I was displaying the last of a dying breed. On that night, for both my Grandmother and Grandfather, I was a Normandie Buoy.

The Merry Resurrection of Monkeys

2005-12-25T23:46:00.000-08:00

Merry Christmas!
Not terribly PC, I know, but I mean it. Most well adjusted folks don't give a damn, so I'll just stick with it . . . Merry Christmas.
It's been some time since I've "blogged," so I have some ground to cover. Mostly movie reviews. Boring, I know, but not much else happens in my life.
I went to see The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe. I would basically describe it as Lord of the Rings - Light. I took Dylan, Drew and Kathryn to see it with our friends Patti and Rob and their kids, Hannah and Eva. Drew was sitting between myself and Patti. Patti and Rob are very devoted Christians, perhaps the most honest believers I've known in my life. If you haven't heard, most of Chronicles of Narnia is an allegory for Christian beliefs.
The Lion represents Jesus. Not to give too much of the plot away, but there is a scene where the Lion is tortured and then killed by the evil ones. He sacrifices himself for the sins of another character. It's a very emotional moment. Sensitive folks might shed a tear. Well, Patti seemed to be touched by the moment. Drew, little heart he is, turned to Patti, held her hand, and said, "Don't worry, he comes back." This made me laugh, at a very inappropriate moment. Here is a little boy, telling a very religious lady who is very cognizant of the story of Jesus and his resurrection, that the Lion - obviously Jesus - will return from his crucifixion. The moment was painfully sweet and at the same time extremely amusing. Here is a small child, just barely going to church, telling a passionate believer a very obvious fact. It would similar to a tiny child telling a mailman that the letters go in the mailbox. So, I laughed. I suffered some strange stares. Sorry.
I enjoyed the movie. It isn't a perfect film, but it has a passion going for it. The filmmakers are serious about the subject, a children's book, which should be appreciated and enjoyed.
Shortly after that, I took my boys to see King Kong (my daughter and wife had Girl Scouts).
Let me preface this with a little of my own Kong history; I was a monster nut growing up. Not much to do in Vegas as a kid except reading, playing sports in 120 degree heat and watching old monster movies on TV (yes, we had no cable, vcr's, computers or video games). I wasn't much for the 120 degree heat. I enjoyed reading, but the monster movies were a great salvation.
I loved the original, 1933, King Kong. I watched it on the afternoon Monster TV Movie show here in Vegas. Hosted by the obligatory vampire.
I was 9 when the much hyped 1976 remake came out (starring Jessica Lange - a modernized version with Kong on the World Trade Center Towers fighting jets). Seeing it meant the world to me. I was nine. I begged my father for weeks. He reluctantly took me to see it, and I loved it.
I saw the 1976 version again as an adult. As the bad effects and clunky plot moved slowly forward, I sadly succumbed to the reality of just how awful it is. Not just that . . . how bad it is . . . but how bad it was when I first saw it . . . I was too innocent to notice. I dragged my poor father to it.
So . . . my 10 year old, Drew, for 3 weeks harped about seeing the new, Peter Jackson King Kong. I couldn't help but thinking about myself, as a 9 year old, and that unbearable anticipation over a new Kong movie.
Drew marked the day on our calendar. He reminded me of opening day every night. He drooled over the few pictures of Kong in Newsweek and Time.
I have no heart to disappoint a child. I feared, if the film wasn't good, he would have the same shameful experience I had of that dreadful adult awakening.
I'm an adult now. Childish, but grown up. I do not have a severe amount of childhood wonder.
To put it simply, it's a stunning film - Kong or no Kong. It's over 3 hours, but it doesn't feel that long. It has one amazing action set piece after another - action scenes that rival the craftsmanship of Spielberg at his best. Dinosaurs, bugs, cliffs, crashing boats, very spooky natives . . . and the monkey. Not only that, but it is also a very emotional and tragic film - I heard several grown adults sitting near me crying during the last 15 minutes. I'm glad my 8 year old daughter missed it, she would have been crushed.
How did Peter Jackson do it? Most people make remakes with the idea that they can "do it better." Jackson didn't want to "do it better," he wanted to expand the film and pay homage by retaining what made the original great.
Everything anyone loved about the original 1933 version is still there, just enhanced with more plot, better effects and more emotion. This version is set in 1933. The New York scenes are almost as amazing (and, as my father noted, just as fantasy driven) as the jungle scenes. Kong is back on the Empire State Building, back to fighting prop planes. Perhaps the greatest "enhancement" of this homage (not really a re-make) is that it has the best "actor" playing Kong of all the Kong films. True, it is only animation, but Walt Disney always stressed that animation at it's best is acting. Kong's eyes and face cover a number of vast emotions, clearly understood, in just a few seconds. The moment when Naomi Watts (in the Faye Wray role) realizes that Kong is protecting her and not out to hurt her - presented only with their faces and emotive eyes- is an actual, heartfelt touching moment. Who knew?
It's not creepy monkey love, just honest and pure love of an animal. It makes the story much more tragic. Just as millions of people feel for their own pets, this film takes that love to an extreme.
It's worth it. Just eat before you see the movie (it is long). Hold off on any drinks before the film. The film doesn't give you a chance to run to the bathroom. Stick to hard liquor, like a brandy. No beer.
Happy Holidays to all, and to all a good night!

It's the Sudden Stop . . .

2005-11-29T21:34:00.000-08:00

I'm afraid of heights.
Let me clarify that; I'm afraid of my kids near heights. I'm pretty good alone near long drops - I'm not so good watching my kids near long drops.
For my Mother in Law's 80th birthday, my sister in law invited us to Zion for some hiking and splendid views. Destined to be the weekend of Thanksgiving. I took an extra day off from work so we could actually celebrate Jacqueline's birthday on Sunday, her birthday. It was a lovely trip. No, there was no snow (everyone - EVERYONE, seems to ask that). But, it was very, very cold.
Our hiking expedition began with a breakfast dilemma. Becky suddenly came down with something not good. Cold sweat. We could SEE the sweat. Her stomach hurt. It was bad. We sent her back to our nice hotel room to rest for the day. Paul, Michelle, Grandma, the kids and I headed off for hiking and an exploration. In two cars. Girls in one, boys in the other.
We drove through a mountain. This was a surreal experience. Dug into the mountain in 1929, it is an amazing human achievement and a testament to a great use for concrete. With Paul, Dylan, Drew and I alone in the boy's car, we listened to the Blues Brothers Definitive Collection as we snaked our way through the tunnel of concrete, occasionally broken by vast windows of spectacular views. It is hard not to speed a little bit - just a little - with the Blues Brothers playing in your ear.
At the end of tunnel, we parked to take a hike.
Damn. It was cold. I had opted for lighter gear thinking that hiking and the sun would make me warm, but . . . no. It was cold. Hell is cold. So I've heard. So it was; cold as hell.
Becky and I have Disneyland. We know Disneyland from a corner brick near Main Street to the best bench to enjoy fudge on.
Paul and Michelle know Zion. They know every trail and broken tree branch in the place. We were all up for a great hike guided by our expert family members. We left Grandma at the car and hiked up a few steps. Suddenly, I was looking down, from a 2 foot wide path, to a drop of hundreds of feet . . . below, beautiful, solid rock.
Hard rock - some "no messing with your concern for living" rock. As I said, this does not necessarily bother me, but it does bother me to see my children against this backdrop. Skipping.
I couldn't tell if I was shaking from the cold or a severe panic attack. It was then that I decided I should tell Paul and Michelle of my issues with high places. There were a few thankful areas blocked off by railings. This gave me a chance to breath.
A little bit. Still, it is shocking to watch your very own little kids against a backdrop of God's ultimate power.
"Stay to the right." "Slow down." "Watch your feet!"
Michelle and I echoed these concerns up the steep climb.
I've seen Kathryn stumble, trip and fall just walking in the living room in poorly selected footwear. Hundreds of times. Her odds on the narrow paths we were ascending were not one I could hang a sliver of hope on. My heart was very close to imploding.
Michelle assured me that a lovely rock shelter was waiting for us around the next extreme drop bend. She was right. A lovely sanctuary for me to catch my breath. Stick close to the walls, kids. I looked up on the wall, and scrawled in red mud it said, "Hell." It took a minute or so for me to notice the "o" that followed it.
We took the opportunity to take several pictures. Here we are with Paul. A few feet from our own feet is a hundred foot drop. Notice how close to the wall I am. Notice how Drew does not care.
So it is with children; a complete disregard for the doom that might overtake them. It's what makes them so lovely. The lack of negative thinking that befalls the aged mind.
Drew and Kathryn were fully aware of my terror. They constantly assured me they were listening and not in danger. It helped, a little.
Still, Drew decided to go away from the assigned path and climb some pretty sharp looking rocks. He just wanted to be the best Mark Twain bred boy as possible. In between yells from Paul, Michelle and I for him not to do it, I managed to take a picture.
Small boy, dangerous rocks. It has the beauty of a kid who has no worry. That childish glee of feeling immortal amongst God's work of power. How weak do I feel, with my knowledge of possible negative outcomes, next to the assured dignity of a small child who is certain all will be well in nature's playground.
Add to that the small child himself assuring the worried adults that life is good and worth the risk of defying doom and gloom . . . It makes the educated mind question itself.
"When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things. For now we see through a glass, darkly . . ." - Corinthians 13:11

Post Pop Tart

2005-11-11T17:41:00.000-08:00

An artist can become frustrated when lacking a venue for the public display of his or her creations. Good or bad. I have tried. It appears the major outlet for artists in Vegas, "First Friday," is a bit of a hard wall of insular friends and egonomics to climb. I've been trying.
When frustrated, an artist might turn to something silly to occupy their time. I attempted a "Magic Poster" series, but didn't like the very first one. So, I turned to something silly and pointless. Pop Art. It was valid about 40 years ago. Why not dip my brush in that realm for no reason except to have fun?
Here are the images, so far, created on canvas with acrylic paint and needlessly long titles:

"Andy Warhols Hair: The Failure of Post Modern Art to Deal with what He Started."

"Post Pop Tart: The Obligatory psychedelic Nude."

"Princess Brand Young Men's Tonic: The Coming of Age of a Generation of Light Sabers."

"Lincoln's Right Ear could Occasionally Hear What the Left had to Say."

"Bonfire of the Chihuahua: A Redundant Hot Dog Joke Done in Tattoo Form."

"Mondrian is Sick: Calling Dr. Benway for the Popular, but Unconventional Cure."

"Musical genius Pun #23: Tom Waits (4 no 1)."

Man, if this could be a show somewhere. It would be a fun opening. If you will, dream with me; early 60's Stones playing while strange folks mingle with the normal folk. Pop Tarts and Martinis for all.

The History of Dylan's Hair

2005-11-06T16:46:00.000-08:00

There seems to be some family controversy regarding the styling that Dylan, my eldest son, has chosen for his hair. First of all, I am not one to critique hair; I displayed a fair amount of poor hairstylings during the 80's, until God thankfully relieved me of my follicle embarrassments upon society. While I might not agree with Dylan's hairstyle choice, I must accept a good portion of the blame. I have set upon him my own heroes that could have somehow seeped into his young mind and therefore contributed to his styling choice.
Here, I present, the history that has contributed to the assumed crime of
Dylan's hairdo . . .

Mark Twain:

The greatest American wit. Not the greatest grooming figure of history.

Albert Einstein:

E=MC2? Hmmm. Many thought little of this man as he was proggessing to older age. Maybe it was his hair?

Andy Warhol:

The Father of Pop Art. I tried to explain to Dylan that Warhol wore a wig, but he wanted to hear nothing of it.

Jimi Hendrix:

The greatest guitar player. Ever. He's black and sports an afro. Yet, Dylan has been raised in North Las Vegas. He doesn't seem to draw the line.

Joey Ramone:

The Godfather of Punk Rock. There is a street named after him in New York. Dylan and Drew actually had lunch with the Ramones (tragically, only one Ramone is still alive). Our generation loves Joey Ramone as previous generations loved Bing Crosby. He's a classic. He'll be missed. Dylan got to shake his hand and share an apple pie with him.

Larry David:

Yes, before he started Seinfeld and his own HBO show, Larry David showed poor hairstyle judgment. Then, as with me, God took away his folly.

Tim Burton:

The King of the Goth set. Filmmaker of the nuevo noir; Edward Scissorhands, Nightmare Before Christmas, Pee Wee's Big Adventure, Sleepy Hollow, Big Fish, Ed Wood, The Corpse Bride. He's done pretty well.

So, history has shown us, while we may feel the need to shun these strange people with crazy hair, it is indeed a lucky and wise person who is able to see beyond the eccentric topping and into the potential of the actual being.

Rap up the Horror

2005-11-03T16:02:00.000-08:00

Rapping up the Horrorthon attempt. I can't quite remember all that I watched, it was a blurred mess of putting things on and remembering to wake up the next day. . .
What comes to mind, briefly . . .
Land of the Dead (George Romero created the modern zombie myth, why it took so long for the "powers that be" to let him continue his iconic series is beyond me. He did it first, he does it best.)
Damien Omen II (unintentionally humorous in several aspects, this is a more enjoyable film than the first Omen. There is a strange sort of pedophile moment in the middle as a business man, sworn to protect Damien, appears to be coming on to him. I couldn't stop giggling.)
The Fog (John Carpenter's classic, recently remade - I don't know why. Pirate ghosts, basically. The original has the added bonus of John Houseman - of Orson Welles' Mercury Theater- and Hal Holbrook as a priest chewing up scenery.)
Halloween H20 (made 20 years after the original Halloween, this is actually a very good film with decent acting and a nice plot. It's best to ignore the five films between the original John Carpenter classic and this one.)
Elvira's Haunted Hills (a spoof of all the classic Corman Poe films, it actually has moments of decent comedy. Added bonus is Richard O'Brien, creator of the Rocky Horror Show, having fun in the Vincent Price role.)
Bones (Snoop Dogg stars as a pimp who is wronged by his friends and the police. He returns from the dead to exact revenge on his enemies. I was surprised by how much I enjoyed this film. It's actually very reminiscent of an old EC horror comic.)
Young Frankenstein (What can I say? When does this become a great Broadway musical - can you see the whole "roll in the hay" music number?)
I'm sure there were more, but I can't recall. I took Drew and Kathryn to see The Corpse Bride the day before Halloween. Yet another collaboration between Johnny Depp and Tim Burton. It's promoted as a sort of sequel to Nightmare Before Christmas, which has become a classic with time. It's not as good as Nightmare, being thin on plot. But, it looks much better - with amazing stop motion animation. Eye candy is certainly a decent treat for Halloween.
In the middle of all of this, I abandoned my idea of a "magic poster" series of paintings and turned to the old standby; Pop Art. It's absurd pop art images with even more absurd titles. I can't wait to display them somewhere with the almost paragraph length titles posted next to them. I've debated putting the titles within the actual images, since they sort of elevate the images beyond the trivial objects they are. Still, I do not want to taint the purity of the images with text. More on this later . . .

Come Play with Us, Danny. Forever and ever and ever and . . .

2005-10-16T22:06:00.000-07:00

Quick artistic update; I attempted a "magic poster" painting. I tried hard to get the Art nouveau look, but I ended up with a Bad, Self Published Book Cover look. I had to hide it in the garage. Time to turn to something new. I have ideas.
Now, an update on my pathetic attempt at an October "Horrorthon." I'm up to 5 films so far. Not very good. Life and lack of time tend to interfere with the simple leisure of indulging myself. My last post was a bit lazy, I cut and pasted information on my first 2 horror films. This time, I will step up to the plate and be a bit more personal by "reviewing" the films myself.

Sleepy Hollow (1999)
directed by Tim Burton
screenplay by Andrew Kevin Walker
starring Johnny Depp, Christina Ricci, Miranda Richardson, Christopher Lee and Christopher Walken

Johnny Depp is to Tim Burton what Robert DeNiro is to Martin Scorsese. What Jimmy Stewart was to Alfred Hitchcock. They usually make their best work together. One compliments the other.
With all the current attention centered on their current collaboration, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (which is very good), and the cult status of Edward Scissorhands, it seems to me that excellent additions to the collaborative body of work of Burton and Depp, like Ed Wood and Sleepy Hollow, are pushed under the rug of our public's short attention span. I actually believe that Sleepy Hollow is one of their best, if not very close.
I think what makes this film stand out is that Tim Burton is playing in the world he most enjoys; classic, old horror film. Burton's entire creative sensibility is grounded in a healthy knowledge of Universal horror and the House of Hammer. Burton can wave his pinky finger and conjure up stunning horror landscapes. In this film, he indulges himself with unbridled glee. It is an amazing film to just look at. The viewer is treated to lovingly constructed images of fog filled forests with dark trees and a blanket of an impossible number of yellow leaves on the ground (Burton attempted the use of the fallen leaves in Batman, but it didn't really fit in).
The notion of making Ichabod Crane a visiting New York detective, obsessed with new ideas of scientific forensic techniques in solving crimes, is straight from the book of England's classic Hammer Horror films starring Peter Cushing and Christopher Lee ( the brief appearance of Lee at the beginning of this film makes it feel not like a homage to the House of Hammer, but a doorway back in).
Johnny Depp, heartthrob to a million young females, is not the actor you would first pick to play Ichabod Crane. One would probably think of the lanky figure seen in the Disney cartoon. But, Depp, who based his performance on the kindly English gentleman Peter Cushing, creates a timid and kind character who is not a broad cartoon, but a likeable figure.
The film combines a nice mystery story, witchcraft and American history to create a highly enjoyable tale. With time and a second chance, I am sure this film will finally be acknowledged as a classic.

Scream (1996)
directed by Wes Craven
screenplay by Kevin Williamson
starring Neve Campbell, Courtney Cox, David Arquette and Henry Winkler

Yes, the Fonz is the principal in this high school slasher flick. It's one of the many cultural bonus points this 90's sensation notches on it's belt.
In her textbook, Men, Women and Chainsaws: Gender in the Modern Horror Film, Carol Clover debunks the theory (promoted famously by Gene Siskel and Roger Ebert) that the slasher films of the 80's were degrading to females and akin to violent pornography. Clover points out that every slasher film features a female of good character (she doesn't do drugs or have sex) who ends up conquering the evil beast of the film. She argues that these films actually empower women as heroes (not a common trait in current cinema).
Scream was a cultural hit because it acknowledged it's place in the slasher film genre. A character even points out the "rules" of a horror film, as the horror film is proceeding. The film constantly gives nods to classics of the genre, Nightmare on Elm Street and Friday the 13th. The end of the film even has the characters watching the greatest film of this genre, Halloween, giving the filmmakers a great excuse to use John Carpenter's classic score as their own.
With hindsight, Scream is not very different from the rest of the genre of slasher films. It is better produced, better acted, far better written and very well directed (by Wes Craven, who created the original Nightmare on Elm Street and Freddy Krueger - not the cheesy sequels, a very undervalued and creative director). But, in the end, this is a better packaged slasher film.
The film does not give us a simple monster like Michael Myers, Jason or Freddy. The film has the viewer constantly guessing who is the killer. At one point, it seems like Henry Winkler, The Fonz, might be the killer. By taking this route, the film received great reviews and the attention of the public. It fleshes out the fine line between simple horror and mystery that seems to prejudice the mentality of our culture.

The Shining (1980)
directed by Stanley Kubrick
written by Stanley Kubrick and Diane Johnson
based on the novel by Stephen King
starring Jack Nicholson, Shelley Duvall, Scatman Crothers and Danny Lloyd

What can I say? Stanley Kubrick (along with Tarantino, Spielberg, Scorsese and Capra) is one of the greatest American filmmakers of all time. 200 years from now, these guys will be the Ninja Turtles of cinematic history (the Ninja Turtles being named after the great Renaissance artists - Michelangelo, Leonardo, Donatello and Raphael). Think about it . . . you know it is true.
Stephen King, who I've often come to the defense of, had problems with the movie. Now, I believe that Stephen King is one of America's greatest authors, up there with Fitzgerald, Steinbeck and Hemingway - no, really - he just picked a genre that is not taken seriously - Horror. If some of his critics actually bothered to read him, they would see he has created a great record of modern America's landscape. Besides, the huge popularity of his books is not because they go "boo" from time to time.
Yet, Stephen King found it worthwhile to decide he did not like Kubrick's version of his book. So, King spent his hard earned money to have an "accurate" version of his novel produced for TV. It proved one thing; it was a TV movie. While it was more faithful to the novel, it was not, in any way, art.
Kubrick and Diane Johnson stripped the book down to it's basic elements. They removed much of the paranormal and centered on the psychological. But, in the end, Kubrick's genius was technical. He was not a story driven director or much for character development (think of 2001: A Space Odyssey; he made a film with as little dialogue as possible). Kubrick, like Hitchcock, would meticulously plan his films.
Every shot, every cut and the music were planned before the sets were built. Kubrick was famous for shooting 30 or more takes of one scene, just to get the right aperture on the camera or the correct beat to his pre-chosen classical music (in this film it is Bela Bartok). Kubrick was always centered on the need to create visual art in cinema; not literary cinema. Every shot in a Kubrick film is perfect. Every cut in his films are perfect. The lighting is always perfect (for Barry Lyndon, he used a new Kodak stock that allowed him to use only natural lighting, such as candles, to create the period scenes). Kubrick references the modern art world in his use of the great photographer Diane Arbus' "twins" ("Come and play with us, Danny. Forever, and ever and ever . . . ").
Critics and viewers held back by the notion that a film is an extension of playwriting, ignoring the validity of visual mastery, can never fully appreciate this film and the genius behind it. The expert editing and cold lighting of the final hedge maze chase say more visually than King's written original toperary figures coming to life and attacking. One extended shot of Jack Nicholson staring into the bright snow says more about his psychological state than any prolonged monologue from the book could have. In time, the dominance of literary criticism in film will hopefully be equaled by an appreciation for the visual and rhythmic mastery of our great directors.
Speaking of Jack. Damn. Once Jack Nicholson plays a character NAMED Jack, where do you go? No person, on the face of this earth, could ever replace our memory of Jack bursting through the door and saying, "Here's Johnny!" On one hand, you have a misguided situation - it's as if Robert Bloch told Alfred Hitchcock, "You didn't follow my Psycho book to the exact word, so I am going to remake it." (This didn't happen, thankfully - Memo to King: listen to Robert Bloch). Then you have a TV remake of The Shining, with another actor playing Jack Torrance. This reminds me of the failed idea to make Casablanca into a TV series with David Soul as Rick. Come on! Humphrey Bogart IS Rick. End of story. Well, Jack Nicholson IS Jack Torrance. Forever and ever and ever and ever . . .

*Film buff note: Spielberg visited the set of The Shining in London (by the way, the entire hotel was a set in London, amazing, isn't it?). Spielberg was about to use the same studios to shoot his next film, Raiders of the Lost Ark. The film shot, on those hallowed studio grounds, immediately after The Shining, was Raiders of the Lost Ark.

The good news is your dates are here, the bad news is they're dead

2005-10-03T22:32:00.000-07:00

My old junior high friend, Carl, and I have an ongoing tradition; we watch as many horror films as we can during the month of October, then we share the tally. We call it our Horrorthon.
Carl usually beats me with his quantity. He isn't married and doesn't have kids (I have to wait for the kids to go to bed for many of the films). Quantity usually takes priority over quality. But, quality is a subjective thing. We both genuinely enjoy the films we select.
So, I've begun my Horrorthon with a B movie double feature. It was an interesting night of Vampires and Creeps . . .
(the following synopsis reviews are written by others, I've given them credit)

The Return of the Vampire
Running Time: 70 Minutes
Directed By: Lew Landers
Starring: Bela Lugosi, Frieda Inescort, Nina Foch, Miles Mander
(USA, 1943, B/W)
The story begins in London, October 1918. Vampire Armand Tesla (Lugosi) along with wolfman servant Andreas are causing the usual havoc of biting women on the neck and making them into willing servants. Lady Jane and a professor studying Tesla put a stop to the vampire's reign of terror by staking him in the heart with a metal spike. Lady Jane takes Andreas (reverted back to human form) and rehabilitates him by training him as a research assistant.
23 years have passed. The professor has died and his granddaughter Nicki is engaged to Lady Jane's son John.
The Germans bomb London and a bomb lands in the cemetery where Tesla's remains lie. Two soldiers are sent into the cemetery to rebury the bodies, they find the remains of Tesla and think he has a shard of shrapnel in his chest. They remove the metal spike unwittingly unleashing Tesla into the world once more.
Tesla turns Andreas back into a wolfman servant. He is after Nicki who he has a connection with since he (apparently) bit her when she was a little girl, in his previous reign of terror. Lady Jane helps an underground movement which helps rescue captives from German POW camps. She sets up an operation to rescue a Dr. Bruck. Andreas (Under Tesla's influence) intercepts the meeting, killing the good doctor and his guards.
Tesla then assumes his identity and instantly has access to polite society where he begins his quest to seduce Nicki. Can Lady Jane convince Scotland Yard that Tesla is a vampire? Can she save Nicki from his evil clutches? And Can wolfman Andreas, who has committed terrible acts ever be morally saved?
Information for this review comes from: The Pocket Essential Vampire Films by Colin Odell and Michelle Le Blanc (2000)

Night of the Creeps (1986)
MPAA Rating: R
Runtime: 89 minutes
Cast & Crew
Jason Lively, Steve Marshall, John Whitlow, Tom Atkins, David Oliver
directed by Fred Dekker
Virtually unnoticed during its brief theatrical run, this wildly entertaining horror-comedy achieved healthy cult status following its home-video and cable TV releases.
The directorial debut of Fred Dekker (writer of the successful horror parody House), this low-budget effort throws alien monsters, axe-wielding killers, flesh-eating zombies, nudity, and (gasp!) drunken fraternity shenanigans into a blender, spiced with witty one-liners and references to dozens of horror classics (and anti-classics).
The result is a satisfying treat that will tickle the tastebuds of horror fans. The film's nominal protagonists are a pair of randy fraternity pledges (Jason Lively, Steve Marshall) who open a literal can of worms when they steal a corpse from the campus medical facility and release a horde of space-leeches, which proceed to infest the bodies of everyone in sight.
The host bodies subsequently become homicidal zombies with a penchant for popping in on unsuspecting (and undressing) sorority girls. The town's only hope (such as it is) seems to be a hard-boiled ex-cop (Tom Atkins), who has uncovered the secret link between the zombie invasion and a 30-year-old axe-murder case... and who's also several sandwiches shy of a picnic. Dekker keeps things moving at a brisk pace thanks to some outrageous set-pieces (some of which happen so quickly they'll have viewers reaching for the pause button) and clever dialogue, particularly for Atkins ("Girls, the good news is your dates are here; the bad news is, they're dead"), who dives into his crusty character with relish.
~ Cavett Binion, All Movie Guide
MPAA Rating: R
Runtime: 89 minutes

Invading My Space

2005-10-02T22:32:00.000-07:00

Becky and I went to see Dolly Parton at the House of Blues last night. It's our second time with the Tennessee lady. People seem perplexed when we tell them we actually like her - we don't seem the "Dolly" type. Some of my family is from Tennessee. We had a family reunion there. We went to Dollywood. Dolly's a fun lady, and we like her storytelling.
The House of Blues is set up with seats in an overhanging balcony. Downstairs, looking like a old wooden saloon, people stand, surrounded by three bars and the stage. It's very cozy. Becky and I like the floor, since you are close to the stage. As long as you don't mind standing the entire show. The trick is finding a good spot for viewing. Dolly's shows are packed, so this can be a problem.
We found a nice, high spot by the back bar. After Dolly opened with a cover of "Those Were the Days," "Crimson and Clover," and then her own "9 to 5," she moved on to quieter, bluegrass story songs. The people at the bar next to us began to talk loudly. Very loudly. We could not hear Dolly. We could not hear her even though she was singing through several speakers and only about 20 feet in front of us. Many in the crowd, even Dolly herself, looked at the loud group in disbelief. They were not only loud, they were not even looking at the stage. Becky and I decided to move.
We found a new spot at the top of some stairs, next to a couple. There was space for us, but the lady told Becky, "You can squeeze in, but I'm not moving!" An elderly lady on one of the steps looked at the lady with disapproval and moved down a step for Beck and I.
It was fine at first, but the couple we moved next to began to talk as loudly, and as non-stop, as the people at the bar. During an acoustic song about Dolly's father, the lady loudly stated, "I don't know this song." Becky quietly remarked, "Maybe if you listened to it." The lady heard her and blurted, "I'll listen if I know the song."
I whispered to Becky that I was going to smoke. I am not proud of smoking and take great effort not to discomfort other people when I am doing it. Most of the night I had been walking to an open area near the bathrooms to smoke. Becky looked at me, puzzled. I told her my plan and she gave me the go ahead. I began strategically blowing my smoke directly into the faces of the couple. This seemed to shut them up for a minute. When they began chatting again, I lit up again. I knew I wouldn't be able to smoke the entire show to keep them quiet.
The couple kept yapping. They gathered looks of disgust from the crowd around us. I just couldn't take it anymore. I stepped in front of the couple, and I began nodding and smiling, as if I was enjoying their conversation. The man finally stopped, looked and me and asked, "What?" Smiling, I said, "Nothing. I just wanted to hear what was so important that you have to talk about it during this show." The lady snapped, "You invaded our space!" The man said, "How childish." I figured I was about to get pummelled by the pair, but I looked to my side and saw a very large group of people, looking at us and not the show, giving me "thumbs up" signals.
The couple left for the short remainder of the show. They returned to pick up their coats, which they had left on the ground next to us.
I just want to know, why do people spend money on a movie or a show, a live show, and then spend the entire time talking to each other? Is this the downfall of theater etiquette in America? Is it the living room syndrome of people accustomed to talking during movies and concerts they watch on TV? How can it be stopped?
Big bouncers help. I've been to a few theaters where large men constantly roam the theater and actually stop people from talking or answering their cell phones. It's not enough. I think we, those of us who know how to act in public, need to band together to fight this scourge. If one person turns and asks someone to be quiet, they might suffer bodily harm from these idiots. If a large group of people makes their request known, the impact and result is far better. Work with your neighbors. Ask them for help in our common goal.

Becky's Bang

2005-09-17T23:37:00.000-07:00

I like the Rolling Stones. Becky sort of likes the Rolling Stones.
I listen to the Stones frequently. I know some folks are turned off by Mick Jagger's voice. It's different if you know the Stones began as a blues cover band and Mick developed his unique voice imitating old American blues artists like Howling Wolf and Robert Johnson (really, listen to them one after the other, and it becomes surprisingly clear). Then there is the constant moaning about how old the Stones are. Again, the Stones worship the old blues artists who were still great as very old men. In a few years, the Stones may not be able to prance around the stage like they do today, but I can really see them sitting on stools, singing their songs, just like the old blues men that birthed them.
The Stones created great albums during the late 60's into the early 80's. The albums during the 90's were touch and go. Mostly, they were overproduced. Critics were less kind.
The Stones have a new album out, A Bigger Bang. I ran to pick it up the day it came out. I had heard it was good. Critics liked it. The Stones drummer, Charlie Watts, was very ill recently. The Stones thought this album might be their last together. They ditched all the big studio stuff, sat in a room alone and recorded it.
I popped the disc in at home and began listening to it. The first song sounded great. About 4 songs into it, Becky looked up from going through the mail and said, "I really like this."
Becky hardly ever says that about a new CD I bring home. She's never said it about a new Stones album.
Later that night, I was taking out the trash. I passed by Becky and she said, "Did I mention I REALLY like that new album?" It was getting odd.
The next day, Becky stopped me and asked, "Could you make a copy of the Stones CD for me? I really like it."
Becky listens to it in the car all the time now. She keeps telling me how good it is. I know fancy critics and fans are all praising the new album, but to have Becky actually like it that much says a whole lot more about how good it is. Trust me.

Skills

2005-09-14T20:57:00.000-07:00

In the realm of cultural absurdity overwhelming the odds and becoming a cinematic hit, I believe Napoleon Dynamite is close to number one on any list. My son, Drew, loves the film. He can't get enough of it. I knew it was big when my older, teenage son, Dylan, declared that he hated it. Once something becomes too popular, a teenager usually rebels quickly and without solid rationale.
One of the often quoted dialogues from the film (aside from the Vote for Pedro thing or the tots stuff) is Napoleon's speech about skills. He lists off a series of ninja skills in his signature monotone. It's capped off with a slightly aggressive, "You know . . . SKILLS."
I feel that the last several years of my painting labors have been devoted to building up a list of skills. Portrait skills. Still life skills. Landscape skills. You know . . . skills. I'm much better than I was in college. I finally became serious about the entire thing. Damn, practice makes perfect. Who knew?
But, I have no clue about what I want to paint.
Andy Warhol use to bemoan the fact that he couldn't think of anything to paint. It was kind of endearing to hear him say it in his shy, childish voice. He once asked a friend what he should paint, and the friend told him to paint what he likes the most. Andy figured he loved money, so he did a large series of money paintings. He had the skills, but projected an attitude that it was too hard to think of anything good to paint. He spent most of his life asking people what he should paint, until he became popular enough to make a living doing portraits. He stopped asking people what he should paint and just painted them. It does make an artist's life easy.
I've taken Andy Warhol's friend's advice the past few years and painted what I like. I did a series of portraits of old horror movie stars. I love old horror movies. I did a series of American authors that I like. I did a series of martini still lifes. I like martinis. It all peaked in my last painting of something I like - Princess Leia in her slave outfit. It was then that it dawned on me, what is the point? What am I saying with my art? Nothing, really. How are my paintings different from the cheese factor portraits found in booths on Venice Beach of Jimi Hendrix and Al Pacino as Scarface. Not very different. I think my skills are slightly better, but that's a subjective and very narcissistic stance. In the end I'm just copying popular images with paint. Warhol got away with it. But society has been there, done that.
I've been racking my brain with hopes of opening some door to a truly original concept. Nothing. I can't even find the door.
I look at other modern works for inspiration. My old college friend, Mark Brandvik, has ideas. He did a series of religious works featuring the Hamburger Helper hand. In case you don't remember the TV ads, the hand is a white glove with a round, red nose in the palm. Mark realized that it resembled the stigmata. The works are funny, original and well executed. It's damn brilliant. It's a concept.
Perhaps I'm paranoid because the modern art world has been so dominated by conceptualism the past few decades. I need a concept. My thoughts keep turning to more abstract styles of painting. But what about my hard earned skills? Throw them away to create mush?
Today, I again turned to thoughts of things I like. I like magic. I like magicians. I like fictional tales of magicians. I like factual tales of magicians. I like watching magic on TV. I like seeing magic shows. I love the old posters, slightly flirting with evil, of turn of the century magicians. What if I created my own magicians? What if I tweaked the evil level of the old posters? But, where do I find subjects who look like turn of the century magicians? Is it a big enough concept to seem original? Whatever it is, it's an idea. I'll try it.

Pajama Day

2005-09-12T22:11:00.000-07:00

This is homecoming week at the high school I teach at.
For those of you who may not be familiar with current trends within our academic facilities, homecoming week now sponsors dressup days for each day of the week. Today was Pajama Day.
I wore a silk outfit with an explosion of Mickey Mouse faces on it. The cut is similar to that of a male nurses' uniform. It is quite comfy.
I, of course, slept in my attire the previous night. No need for dressing up this morning. I had some confused looks at Starbucks. "Has he lost it?" Thankfully, a younger coffee worker recognized that I was dressed for homecoming week and loudly stated the fact.
At school, I proudly wondered the halls, displaying my school spirit by subjecting myself to the dress of the day. In the office, the school banker looked at me oddly and asked, "Are you sick?" I told him, "No." "Why are you in your pajamas?" I informed him. I had expected the outside world to mock my appearance, but I had not planned on the staff of my own school to be so uninformed. Later, I was stopped by one of the secretaries. "Are you sick?" she asked. I began to get paranoid about this "sick" thing. Do I really look that bad in my PJ's?
It is an odd thing to be in your sleeping clothes during the work day. You have a sinking feeling that you haven't started the day correctly somehow. The comfort level is a plus. The easy morning start is fun.
I believe "real" workplaces should follow this practice of dressup days. A stock company that shows up in pajamas for a day. Show some spirit.