For as easy as MJ makes it to be appalled by him, I actually thought Idol made it a little easier to appreciate his songs this week. There wasn't any crotch grabbing or moonwalking, but there was "Dirty Diana" and -- what the fuck -- "Rockin' Robin?"
Since I haven't yet commented, I will say that the new fourth judge with the identity crisis does serve one important function -- she makes me appreciate Randy a lot more. He used the be the most worthless opinion, but now it's like he's throwing out pearls of wisdom while the new chick waves her head around and over-articulates and blows more hot air than a Conair Infiniti, all without the drunken charm of Pauler.
As for the favorites this year, I suppose it's in terrible taste to make some sort of joke about the state of pity in the voting in regards to a blind guy. Disabilities are not fodder for jokes. But I do suspect that only Marlee Matlin can really believe that Scott is the best singer. Dead spouses aren't funny, either. It'd be in bad taste to joke about that. But it's also in poor taste to exploit the dead spouse.
I didn't care one bit that Jasmine and Jorge went home. Fuck 'em. I also don't care about the big twist judges' save new rule. If it was a weekly thing, it'd be kind of bullshitty. But if it gives them a chance to save Adam Lambert's neck if he's in trouble, I don't mind it. Of course I like him. He's like a skinny, screechy, Broadway MeatLoaf. He was the Queen of Camp singing the King of Pop, and that's good entertainment.
I'm not sure who else I like yet. Nor am I certain of who I love to hate. I see glimmers of curious potential in some of them, so we'll see what develops. I will miss several weeks, though, so I'm not sure how into the show I'll get this year. (Gasp!)
Naturally, I am rooting for Steve-O on DWTS. I'd be honestly surprised if he doesn't end up doing fairly well. I know he's a jackass, that's why I love him. But if you've ever watched him in action, you'll know just how athletic he is with his circus clown background. And since he's rehabbing it, I presume he won't be whipping it out and taking a leak on the dance floor. But hey, there's still hope for that happening if he ever has Bam Margera in the audience to cheer him on!
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Sunday, March 08, 2009
Read an E-book Week -- Free Copy of 24/7
It's national "read an e-book week." In celebration, one of my publishers, Zumaya Publications, is celebrating by offering a selection of their titles for free download this week. You can even download a free version of e-reader right there to make it easy. One of the titles being offered is my book, 24/7.
I'm really excited about this. So if you've ever been curious about my filthy books, here's a good chance to check one out for free. Here's the link for the free download, and the pitch:
24/7 -- Vegas, Booze, Gambling, Gangsters, Sex.
And, of course, if my book isn't up your alley, do check out the rest of Zumaya's free offerings to celebrate the week.
I'm really excited about this. So if you've ever been curious about my filthy books, here's a good chance to check one out for free. Here's the link for the free download, and the pitch:
24/7 -- Vegas, Booze, Gambling, Gangsters, Sex.
And, of course, if my book isn't up your alley, do check out the rest of Zumaya's free offerings to celebrate the week.
Friday, March 06, 2009
Better Off Red
Bruce Springsteen sings about them -- and sometimes marries them. Some of the most famous ones --Lucille Ball and Rita Hayworth -- were fake ones. We often connote fiery passion with the color, but also sometimes wackiness or ill-temper. But on these ladies, in these roles, red was simply hot.
Red Bull
Susan Sarandon is what I consider a true dame, and her resume boasts a couple of memorable, juicy roles. She's the Louise portion of Thelma &, and the redheaded Witch in Eastwick. But I will always love her most as the sexy, Whitman quoting, baseball loving, muse-minx Annie Savoy in Bull Durham.
This movie is so wonderful that I don't even have to bother trying to sum it up. Same with Susan's Annie. Just mention the role, and that's enough. But I couldn't imagine Annie as a blonde or even a brunette. She's got that fierce intelligence with a lovely loony streak and enough passion to fill a stadium. She's so unique and different that you almost expect she'd be scoffed or mocked in her little southern town, but she's so outrageously vibrant that instead, she's a star. Also, Sarandon has a lovely first name.
Rose Red -- Damsel in Distress
Kate Winslet has now finally won her Oscar. YAY for her! She is a great actress who's tackled many a complex role. She had already done Shakespeare and Austen by the time 1997's Titanic came around. This is one of those movies that people either love, or they love to hate. I admit it, I'm an idiot who loves it. It's not at all the highbrow thing that some people try to pretend it is. But it is an excellent costume drama, sweet romance, and Cameron action picture, all in one.
Kate plays young Rose, chafing against her mother's expectations and her rotten fiance's overbearing 'tude. With her dangerous red tresses, we know she's not going to play it safe and succumb to her fate easily -- either by sinking her life by marrying a cad or by just sinking with the ship. She's a randy broad, posing nude for Leo and later steaming up the backseat of a car with him before they start running for their life through the doomed vessel.
Scarlet Woman -- Hooker with a Heart of Gold
Julia Roberts had already notched a couple of notable roles on her belt, but she rode her coltish charm and wild locks to superstardom in 1990's indefatigable Pretty Woman. When Richard Gere finally saw her without the blonde wig and she sheepishly pointed to her hair and admitted, "Red," he simply answered, "Better." No shit.
Cinderella-Pygmalion project Vivian Ward is the hooker, but it's also her innocence that helps redeem corporate raider Richard Gere in Gary Marshall's blockbuster comedy. Though it's from 1990, this movie captures the very essence of the '80s and had enough vivacious charm to keep audiences coming back to Julia for nearly two decades.
Ruby in the Rough?
And in the "one to grow on" department, she's not a superstar yet, but I sure did adore wild & comic redhead Isla Fisher in Wedding Crashers. She's even gotten her first leading role since that flick, and she seems to have plenty of promise as an engaging actress. So hopefully, for her, the best is yet to come.
Red Bull
Susan Sarandon is what I consider a true dame, and her resume boasts a couple of memorable, juicy roles. She's the Louise portion of Thelma &, and the redheaded Witch in Eastwick. But I will always love her most as the sexy, Whitman quoting, baseball loving, muse-minx Annie Savoy in Bull Durham.
This movie is so wonderful that I don't even have to bother trying to sum it up. Same with Susan's Annie. Just mention the role, and that's enough. But I couldn't imagine Annie as a blonde or even a brunette. She's got that fierce intelligence with a lovely loony streak and enough passion to fill a stadium. She's so unique and different that you almost expect she'd be scoffed or mocked in her little southern town, but she's so outrageously vibrant that instead, she's a star. Also, Sarandon has a lovely first name.
Rose Red -- Damsel in Distress
Kate Winslet has now finally won her Oscar. YAY for her! She is a great actress who's tackled many a complex role. She had already done Shakespeare and Austen by the time 1997's Titanic came around. This is one of those movies that people either love, or they love to hate. I admit it, I'm an idiot who loves it. It's not at all the highbrow thing that some people try to pretend it is. But it is an excellent costume drama, sweet romance, and Cameron action picture, all in one.
Kate plays young Rose, chafing against her mother's expectations and her rotten fiance's overbearing 'tude. With her dangerous red tresses, we know she's not going to play it safe and succumb to her fate easily -- either by sinking her life by marrying a cad or by just sinking with the ship. She's a randy broad, posing nude for Leo and later steaming up the backseat of a car with him before they start running for their life through the doomed vessel.
Scarlet Woman -- Hooker with a Heart of Gold
Julia Roberts had already notched a couple of notable roles on her belt, but she rode her coltish charm and wild locks to superstardom in 1990's indefatigable Pretty Woman. When Richard Gere finally saw her without the blonde wig and she sheepishly pointed to her hair and admitted, "Red," he simply answered, "Better." No shit.
Cinderella-Pygmalion project Vivian Ward is the hooker, but it's also her innocence that helps redeem corporate raider Richard Gere in Gary Marshall's blockbuster comedy. Though it's from 1990, this movie captures the very essence of the '80s and had enough vivacious charm to keep audiences coming back to Julia for nearly two decades.
Ruby in the Rough?
And in the "one to grow on" department, she's not a superstar yet, but I sure did adore wild & comic redhead Isla Fisher in Wedding Crashers. She's even gotten her first leading role since that flick, and she seems to have plenty of promise as an engaging actress. So hopefully, for her, the best is yet to come.
Hotel Erotica Party
Donna George Storey is hosting an ongoing hotel erotica party, and she invited me to stop by today with Vegas hotel recs (I'm such a spoiled brat) and a piece of a story, and she even cued up a delicious menu. So do check it out!
Monday, March 02, 2009
Unruly Interview
I just completed an unruly e-mail interview with Critical Mick. Mick does cool and unusual book reviews and hosts monthly interviews with some really striking writers, so I'm very fortunate that he spent some time with me. It's even more fortunate that he's a self-described bloke and not a fancy-pants type. And, most fortunate, he's funny and asks off-the-wall questions, and he asked me a couple that I suspect some people have wanted to ask me but always shied away.
So do check out the interview right here, along with his review of my book, American Cool. To be honest, I'm delighted with the review, and even slightly shocked. Mick has some observations which are wildly spot-on regarding my patterns and themes, and it's both gratifying and a bit startling to have someone be so insightful. And, it's nice that he likes it, too!
So do check out the interview right here, along with his review of my book, American Cool. To be honest, I'm delighted with the review, and even slightly shocked. Mick has some observations which are wildly spot-on regarding my patterns and themes, and it's both gratifying and a bit startling to have someone be so insightful. And, it's nice that he likes it, too!
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Hello, Gorgeous
The pantheon of movie stars is a vast an ever-expanding collection, and some of them fade or burn out, there are always new ones to replace them. The criteria upon which one earns stardom is only slightly mutable as the decades progress. Stars can explode onto the scene with a fiery burst of paparazzi interest and flashes of E! squibs and one promising, shining performance on screen. But unless they marry well and interestingly and create a plethora of curiosity about their private lives, they must continue to haul their weight at the box office or at least turn in performances that create a buzz or else face the eventual dimming of their appeal. That's why you'll generally find a catalogue of over fifty movies for an actor/actress -- the glittering and immortal stardust left behind. And the truly brightest stars leave in their wake, if they're lucky, one, or maybe two crown jewel masterpiece performances which will ensure the enduring luster of their legacy.
This yet another example of what makes Barbra Streisand different. Her film career spans five decades, and she's only starred in seventeen films. Seventeen! But talk about beating the averages -- of those seventeen, at least three of them are what I'd consider bona-fide masterpiece performances. Some would argue a much higher number of them are. And, of course, her film output was certainly smaller than most actresses because she was also a director and producer, and, of course, a singer.
What's the appeal of Barbra Streisand? Simple, and two-fold. First, she was different. There's no denying it -- she did not have the expected face of a leading lady movie star. And, given some of her choices as a director, I think it's safe to say that she was always aware of this, and that it was quite possibly a point of insecurity for her. That said, I will say that I do find her absolutely gorgeous. And I don't mean that in the Sarah-Jessica Parker way where it's nice to see a "different" looking girl get the sexy lead. I mean I really do think Barbra was different, but gorgeous. Second, the bitch had the shit. Riveting onscreen with impeccable comic timing and a voice that could leave you in slack-jawed amazement. Now, that said, about her voice, which was magnificent, I wasn't a particularly big fan of what she chose to sing. Nevertheless.
I am, however, a big fan of the roles she chose over the years. In her debut, Oscar-winning role as Fanny Brice in Funny Girl she established herself with an almost unnerving confidence that demanded applause. She then followed that up under Gene Kelly's direction in another musical Hello, Dolly. But in 1972, she teamed with Ryan O'Neal for the first time in Peter bogdanovich's What's Up, Doc? This was a true '30's throwback -- screwball and slapstick comedy -- where Streisand truly asserted her unassailable comic chops. The film is zany and joyful, and Streisand is luminously loony at the center and successfully proves that she is the reigning funny girl of film.
Just one year later, Sydney Pollack teamed her with Robert Redford in what should've been a melodramatic piece of tear-jerking tripe -- The Way We Were. It's the story of star-crossed lovers, Katy and Hubbell, who try and try but just can't get their stars to align. The dialogue is overwrought and obvious at times, and the theme of the golden-boy taking on a girl who's not of his class is well-worn. It's the kind of movie that, in anyone else's hands, would make me want to slap all the main characters and leave the theater. But under Pollack's direction, Babs and Redford absolutely sizzle, simmer, and then fizzle in heartbreaking fashion as Barbra brushes his hair away and sings how memories light the corners of her mind. And instead of frustrating me, it turns me into a sobbing little girl. Because although it's obvious, and awkward, there's also a squirmyness to it when Katy asks Hubbell if she's not pretty enough for him. That's how she sees herself -- different, and because of that, not gorgeous. But the sad truth is that she was plenty pretty -- too pretty, in fact. She had that extra brightness which made her gorgeous, and poor Hubbell just couldn't handle it, because all he wanted was simply pretty. It's a film that leaves memories alright, and they're the kind of memories that will forever light up Bab's legacy and keep her star burning bright.
This yet another example of what makes Barbra Streisand different. Her film career spans five decades, and she's only starred in seventeen films. Seventeen! But talk about beating the averages -- of those seventeen, at least three of them are what I'd consider bona-fide masterpiece performances. Some would argue a much higher number of them are. And, of course, her film output was certainly smaller than most actresses because she was also a director and producer, and, of course, a singer.
What's the appeal of Barbra Streisand? Simple, and two-fold. First, she was different. There's no denying it -- she did not have the expected face of a leading lady movie star. And, given some of her choices as a director, I think it's safe to say that she was always aware of this, and that it was quite possibly a point of insecurity for her. That said, I will say that I do find her absolutely gorgeous. And I don't mean that in the Sarah-Jessica Parker way where it's nice to see a "different" looking girl get the sexy lead. I mean I really do think Barbra was different, but gorgeous. Second, the bitch had the shit. Riveting onscreen with impeccable comic timing and a voice that could leave you in slack-jawed amazement. Now, that said, about her voice, which was magnificent, I wasn't a particularly big fan of what she chose to sing. Nevertheless.
I am, however, a big fan of the roles she chose over the years. In her debut, Oscar-winning role as Fanny Brice in Funny Girl she established herself with an almost unnerving confidence that demanded applause. She then followed that up under Gene Kelly's direction in another musical Hello, Dolly. But in 1972, she teamed with Ryan O'Neal for the first time in Peter bogdanovich's What's Up, Doc? This was a true '30's throwback -- screwball and slapstick comedy -- where Streisand truly asserted her unassailable comic chops. The film is zany and joyful, and Streisand is luminously loony at the center and successfully proves that she is the reigning funny girl of film.
Just one year later, Sydney Pollack teamed her with Robert Redford in what should've been a melodramatic piece of tear-jerking tripe -- The Way We Were. It's the story of star-crossed lovers, Katy and Hubbell, who try and try but just can't get their stars to align. The dialogue is overwrought and obvious at times, and the theme of the golden-boy taking on a girl who's not of his class is well-worn. It's the kind of movie that, in anyone else's hands, would make me want to slap all the main characters and leave the theater. But under Pollack's direction, Babs and Redford absolutely sizzle, simmer, and then fizzle in heartbreaking fashion as Barbra brushes his hair away and sings how memories light the corners of her mind. And instead of frustrating me, it turns me into a sobbing little girl. Because although it's obvious, and awkward, there's also a squirmyness to it when Katy asks Hubbell if she's not pretty enough for him. That's how she sees herself -- different, and because of that, not gorgeous. But the sad truth is that she was plenty pretty -- too pretty, in fact. She had that extra brightness which made her gorgeous, and poor Hubbell just couldn't handle it, because all he wanted was simply pretty. It's a film that leaves memories alright, and they're the kind of memories that will forever light up Bab's legacy and keep her star burning bright.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Top Douche
Oh what a painful finale for Top Chef tonight with fuckwit Hosea taking the title because Colicchio is an asshole who hates ice cream.
On the plus, we did get to see darling Fabio and his impossibly cute mohawk again. On the downside, Carla cried! It even made Stefan sad to see her so upset, and I really do feel bad for her. To go out because she's a nice person who takes suggestion is just awful. She had said she was going to cook her food, though, and that's what broke her up, was knowing that it was Casey's suggestions that cost her dearly.
And it's particularly polarizing, because Carla really highlights dipshit Colicchio's meandering 'tude. He made fun of her and was very dismissive several episodes back when she claimed to be putting love and soul into her food. And yet tonight, he refused the title to Stefan with the reasoning that he didn't put enough soul into his food. (which seems like bullshit) I just really can't stand this guy much longer. He clearly speaks for the producers and contorts his view of dishes to push the agenda.
The weird thing about this season is that they had clearly set up Stefan as the "villain" and Hosea as the good guy and they played them as adversaries in many episodes. Problem is, if that's the best edit they could give Hosea to make him come off like a good guy and a capable chef, he must be a super-douche, because he came off like a whiny twit who couldn't skin an eel. More, Stefan's cocky 'tude was a true highlight of the season. Certainly, I'm sure he turned off plenty of people, but he had such humor about it all and was never mean, he was just great TV with his lesbian love-crush and overconfidence and super-Euro cuisine.
Maybe Hosea got the big prize, but I'd still rather go sit in Stefan's (or Carla's, or Fabio's) restaurant to see what they'd serve up. Now if only Bravo would serve Colicchio walking papers -- he's the villain of this show.
On the plus, we did get to see darling Fabio and his impossibly cute mohawk again. On the downside, Carla cried! It even made Stefan sad to see her so upset, and I really do feel bad for her. To go out because she's a nice person who takes suggestion is just awful. She had said she was going to cook her food, though, and that's what broke her up, was knowing that it was Casey's suggestions that cost her dearly.
And it's particularly polarizing, because Carla really highlights dipshit Colicchio's meandering 'tude. He made fun of her and was very dismissive several episodes back when she claimed to be putting love and soul into her food. And yet tonight, he refused the title to Stefan with the reasoning that he didn't put enough soul into his food. (which seems like bullshit) I just really can't stand this guy much longer. He clearly speaks for the producers and contorts his view of dishes to push the agenda.
The weird thing about this season is that they had clearly set up Stefan as the "villain" and Hosea as the good guy and they played them as adversaries in many episodes. Problem is, if that's the best edit they could give Hosea to make him come off like a good guy and a capable chef, he must be a super-douche, because he came off like a whiny twit who couldn't skin an eel. More, Stefan's cocky 'tude was a true highlight of the season. Certainly, I'm sure he turned off plenty of people, but he had such humor about it all and was never mean, he was just great TV with his lesbian love-crush and overconfidence and super-Euro cuisine.
Maybe Hosea got the big prize, but I'd still rather go sit in Stefan's (or Carla's, or Fabio's) restaurant to see what they'd serve up. Now if only Bravo would serve Colicchio walking papers -- he's the villain of this show.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Book Auction
My pal Critical Mick is going to be holding a collectible book auction in support of the Alzheimer Society of Ireland. Being a book reviewer who specializes in Irish crime fiction, he's got six autographed books he's putting up. They are:
Cracking Crime: Jim Donovan - Forensic Detective by Niamh O'Connor
The Mercury Man by John Galvin
Christine Falls by Benjamin Black (John Banville)
Have Ye No Homes To Go To? by Neville Thompson
The Secret World of the Irish Male by Joseph O'Connor
All Summer by Claire Kilroy
To get all the details, see here.
Cracking Crime: Jim Donovan - Forensic Detective by Niamh O'Connor
The Mercury Man by John Galvin
Christine Falls by Benjamin Black (John Banville)
Have Ye No Homes To Go To? by Neville Thompson
The Secret World of the Irish Male by Joseph O'Connor
All Summer by Claire Kilroy
To get all the details, see here.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Dildo In, Fabio Out, Dildo Back Out!
So I guess Idol has officially started now, and I have to say that I'm already disappointed in voters. Anoop out? Really? Tatianna out? What the fuck? We finally voted correctly in the BIG one, people, we were allowed to vote to keep the dramatic crazy in the running on Idol. But no. Instead we let the "nice guys" slide through because they're nice guys. I'm all for nice people having a nice life, but I'm also for my entertainment being entertaining. Shiiit.
In even bigger news, Top Chef brought back the Dildo Beach Club chef, Jeff and his too-perfect hair and his laconic talk of how much more prep he does than anyone else. I was glad to see him back in, cause I thought he got sort of screwed. But he had to win to stay, and he just couldn't handle the task of capsizing Carla's creole cuisine. Carla! Oh my god do I love Carla and the love she puts in her food and the crazy fun she's put in this season. Did you see how she openly fawned of Gail returning? You have to be a love to get so excited over freaking Gail. Sadly, it all cost dear sweet, shoe-in for fan-favorite Fabio hees place een thee finahl tree as somehow Hosea ended up there instead of him after Tom and others were able to change Padma's mind about how good Fabio's pasta was. But I'm sure he'll come back and cook for Stefan in the final. And Stefan is the gift that keeps on giving with his cocky 'tude, isn't he? That's entertainment.
In even bigger news, Top Chef brought back the Dildo Beach Club chef, Jeff and his too-perfect hair and his laconic talk of how much more prep he does than anyone else. I was glad to see him back in, cause I thought he got sort of screwed. But he had to win to stay, and he just couldn't handle the task of capsizing Carla's creole cuisine. Carla! Oh my god do I love Carla and the love she puts in her food and the crazy fun she's put in this season. Did you see how she openly fawned of Gail returning? You have to be a love to get so excited over freaking Gail. Sadly, it all cost dear sweet, shoe-in for fan-favorite Fabio hees place een thee finahl tree as somehow Hosea ended up there instead of him after Tom and others were able to change Padma's mind about how good Fabio's pasta was. But I'm sure he'll come back and cook for Stefan in the final. And Stefan is the gift that keeps on giving with his cocky 'tude, isn't he? That's entertainment.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Wise Men Say Only Fools Rush In
Did you ever enjoy something, but not enjoy it as much as you thought you should, and you can't figure out why, so you start to assume the problem is with you, not with what you were supposed to enjoy? I'm thinking that's where I am with the newest book from one of my all-time favorite writers, Christopher Moore. The book, Fool, is everything that should make me curl my toes in glee. It's a Moorish take on Shakespeare's King Lear, told from the point of view of Lear's fool.
Now, I just spent all last summer and fall writing my own comic version of Hamlet. Oh, I'm not fucking around here, I really did it, despite advice to the contrary. I figure, if you're a writer, sooner or later you're going to start making allusions or references or borrowing and so why not just dive in and see what you can do? The original material really is that good that it can stand idiots like me mucking around with it. Of course, as someone wise advised me as I began meddling about, just because it can withstand such attacks doesn't mean it should have to tolerate them, and it could be a really foolish undertaking to even attempt. But, fuck it, I did it anyhow! And it was really fun.
But then, when I saw what Moore's latest release would be, I felt a twinge of jealousy. This wasn't just because he had the career to get his published and be a bestseller, but also because I knew his dance in Bardland would be insanely superior to my attempted tango with Bill. And it is, for sure. (Of course, forget I said that when I start pimping my book!)
And yet, I can't help but be a wee bit bugged by all the reviews who proclaim the concept so freaking unique. It just makes me think that apparently, it's not just that Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead, but that the whole fuckin' world has forgotten about Tom Stoppard.
Nevertheless, the device that Moore uses of taking an off-center minor character and making him the protagonist often is a great way to breathe new life into a well-worn story. (My beloved Rome did exactly this by showing the ascension of the Caesars through the lives of Pullo and Vorenus. (Damn, I miss that show!)) And Moore does breathe a lot of comic life into the tragic tale of Lear through his brazen fool, Pocket.
As usual, Moore creates not just one wacky character, but a whole cast of fabulous freaks. There is wit, there is treachery, and plenty of borrowed, British buzzwords from Extras and Bridget Jones. (Yes, Moore IS having a laugh on Lear!) Also a plus, not that he's ever been afraid to toss about the f-word or inject a little sex, this is, as advertised, his most "bawdy" work to date -- just as Shakespeare would want it, I'd assume.
There is also no doubt that fans of Moore will find plenty to love here, as did I. And, yet...
Is it just me? Or is this particular book probably not going to rank on anyone's list of all-time favorites? It's a similar conceit to the one that Moore used in his masterpiece Lamb, and maybe it's because of that similarity that I mentally compared the two before even reading Fool. And I just can't imagine many books would manage to stand toe-to-toe with Lamb. But I can also easily crank off five other Moore titles that I preferred, too. But is that just my jealousy talking?
I'm not so sure. Moore is at his wacky best when he's playing in his own pools. Fluke was the only book I'd been disappointed in, and it was based on real people. Perhaps Moore tackled a lot by tethering himself to Shakespeare's characters. But, mostly, I got the distinct impression while reading the book that Moore sort of hated King Lear (the character), and that was damn near admitted in his end-of-book acknowledgments. He did an absolutely great job weaving in his own "mistaken identity" surprise twists, but one of them ended up being a little too close for my comfort.
Moore's fool has all the rascally, quirky, and lovable qualities one would expect from one of Moore's leading men, with one major difference. Frankly, most of his leading men are, in some fashion, bumbling. They're put-upon or slightly inferior beta dogs. But Pocket really isn't. He's obviously smarter than everyone else and it's his job to prove that in witty fashion at every opportunity. Whereas his normally beleaguered men pop off in frustration, Pocket jests from a vantage point of superiority. Maybe that's why I didn't exactly warm to him as much as some others.
I don't know what it is. But I do know that objectively, it's a hell of a great book with a lot of laughs and plenty of innovative twists on a beloved, tragic old tale. And, I'm pretty sure, if you're not even acquainted with Lear, you'll still enjoy it. But since he borrows heavily from Shakespeare's whole portfolio, some familiarity might get you a few more chuckles.
So even though it's not replacing Lamb as my all-time favorite, or even knocking Lust Lizard out of second, I still think it blows most of the other stuff on bookstore shelves out of the water. Moore, he could do this kind of book, and he's exactly the guy who should do it, and he did it bloody well. It was, most certainly, not a foolish undertaking.
Now, I just spent all last summer and fall writing my own comic version of Hamlet. Oh, I'm not fucking around here, I really did it, despite advice to the contrary. I figure, if you're a writer, sooner or later you're going to start making allusions or references or borrowing and so why not just dive in and see what you can do? The original material really is that good that it can stand idiots like me mucking around with it. Of course, as someone wise advised me as I began meddling about, just because it can withstand such attacks doesn't mean it should have to tolerate them, and it could be a really foolish undertaking to even attempt. But, fuck it, I did it anyhow! And it was really fun.
But then, when I saw what Moore's latest release would be, I felt a twinge of jealousy. This wasn't just because he had the career to get his published and be a bestseller, but also because I knew his dance in Bardland would be insanely superior to my attempted tango with Bill. And it is, for sure. (Of course, forget I said that when I start pimping my book!)
And yet, I can't help but be a wee bit bugged by all the reviews who proclaim the concept so freaking unique. It just makes me think that apparently, it's not just that Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead, but that the whole fuckin' world has forgotten about Tom Stoppard.
Nevertheless, the device that Moore uses of taking an off-center minor character and making him the protagonist often is a great way to breathe new life into a well-worn story. (My beloved Rome did exactly this by showing the ascension of the Caesars through the lives of Pullo and Vorenus. (Damn, I miss that show!)) And Moore does breathe a lot of comic life into the tragic tale of Lear through his brazen fool, Pocket.
As usual, Moore creates not just one wacky character, but a whole cast of fabulous freaks. There is wit, there is treachery, and plenty of borrowed, British buzzwords from Extras and Bridget Jones. (Yes, Moore IS having a laugh on Lear!) Also a plus, not that he's ever been afraid to toss about the f-word or inject a little sex, this is, as advertised, his most "bawdy" work to date -- just as Shakespeare would want it, I'd assume.
There is also no doubt that fans of Moore will find plenty to love here, as did I. And, yet...
Is it just me? Or is this particular book probably not going to rank on anyone's list of all-time favorites? It's a similar conceit to the one that Moore used in his masterpiece Lamb, and maybe it's because of that similarity that I mentally compared the two before even reading Fool. And I just can't imagine many books would manage to stand toe-to-toe with Lamb. But I can also easily crank off five other Moore titles that I preferred, too. But is that just my jealousy talking?
I'm not so sure. Moore is at his wacky best when he's playing in his own pools. Fluke was the only book I'd been disappointed in, and it was based on real people. Perhaps Moore tackled a lot by tethering himself to Shakespeare's characters. But, mostly, I got the distinct impression while reading the book that Moore sort of hated King Lear (the character), and that was damn near admitted in his end-of-book acknowledgments. He did an absolutely great job weaving in his own "mistaken identity" surprise twists, but one of them ended up being a little too close for my comfort.
Moore's fool has all the rascally, quirky, and lovable qualities one would expect from one of Moore's leading men, with one major difference. Frankly, most of his leading men are, in some fashion, bumbling. They're put-upon or slightly inferior beta dogs. But Pocket really isn't. He's obviously smarter than everyone else and it's his job to prove that in witty fashion at every opportunity. Whereas his normally beleaguered men pop off in frustration, Pocket jests from a vantage point of superiority. Maybe that's why I didn't exactly warm to him as much as some others.
I don't know what it is. But I do know that objectively, it's a hell of a great book with a lot of laughs and plenty of innovative twists on a beloved, tragic old tale. And, I'm pretty sure, if you're not even acquainted with Lear, you'll still enjoy it. But since he borrows heavily from Shakespeare's whole portfolio, some familiarity might get you a few more chuckles.
So even though it's not replacing Lamb as my all-time favorite, or even knocking Lust Lizard out of second, I still think it blows most of the other stuff on bookstore shelves out of the water. Moore, he could do this kind of book, and he's exactly the guy who should do it, and he did it bloody well. It was, most certainly, not a foolish undertaking.
Monday, February 09, 2009
Spanish Enchantress
I have a friend who claims that she thinks that Penelope Cruz is not attractive. Quite ugly, this friend of mine says, if you really examine her. I have no fucking idea what she's looking at. Cruz is, to me, unquestionably one of the most beautiful women in the world. And part of her appeal is the fluidity of her looks. She can have an innocent, almost sprightly appeal at times with her doe eyes and thin frame. Just as easily, she can put a glint in her eye and pout in her lips and project formidable strength. And, of course, probably most popular with the fellows is effortless way she can use her curves and become a total bombshell.
The problem with Penelope, as I see it, at least, is that American filmmakers just haven't yet found a way to exploit her talents the way that European ones have. She is currently Oscar nominated for her role in Vicky Christina Barcelona, but, sadly, I don't think this film is an exception to the American/European Penelope rule, though I do wish her well with the award.
Now, you know me. You know I'm not some sort of foreign film snob. I just love movies. So when I tell you that Volver and Non Ti Muovere and Sin Noticias de Dios and Todo Sobre Mi Madre are flicks worth seeing, I'm not shoveling some esoteric ennui upon you. Okay, some of them may have a touch of that, but not too much.
Cruz was already becoming the first lady of Spanish cinema by the time she filmed 1997's Abre Los Ojos, which was later re-made as the muddled, American Vanilla Sky. But she rose to international fame with her role in Pedro Almodovar's Todo Sobre Mi Madre just a couple years later, and then, the US came calling with Woman on Top, a quirky little comedy about a woman whose severe motion sickness has ill effects on her marriage, and then Billy Bob's All the Pretty Horses. Luckily for movie lovers, she works a lot, and she went back to Spanish cinema for 2001's Sin Noticias de Dios, known here in the States as Don't Tempt Me. In this flick, Heaven and Hell enter a tug of war over the soul of a boxer, so each sends a representative to vie for his fate. Penelope was Hell's ambassador, and to say much more about her role would give away some of delightful twists. But it really is a great vehicle to showcase the sexy-yet-stunningly tough Cruz in action in a fast and fun film that has enough offhanded charm to please an angel or demon.
In 2004, she learned Italian and professed her love for Italian life and won the role of Italia, a dark and depressing role about a damaged woman in Non Ti Muovere (Don't Move or, sometimes, Don't Look Now in English.) In other words, she got to show her dramatic chops to critics and audiences who aren't as wowed with the lighter touch. It is a difficult role in a different movie, but it also probably falls over that line of "esoteric foreign" if you're inclined to have those prejudices.
Unlike so many actresses --particularly those of great beauty-- who make an early, substantial mark and then spend the rest of their career never really capturing those same heights, Cruz has, so far, only managed to get better. I refer, of course, to 2006 and her reunion with the celebrated Almodovar for the popular Volver. Though generally not considered his best film, it still bears all his signature touches in this strange, sad, and funny movie. This is a movie ruled by women, and Penelope is its center -- at once controlled and yet wildly vibrant; full of life and strength and subtle surprises. She's known as the Spanish Enchantress, and in Volver, she's absolutely that and more. Maybe, like my weirdo friend, you don't find her physically attractive, but you'd still fall absolutely in love with her in this movie.
The problem with Penelope, as I see it, at least, is that American filmmakers just haven't yet found a way to exploit her talents the way that European ones have. She is currently Oscar nominated for her role in Vicky Christina Barcelona, but, sadly, I don't think this film is an exception to the American/European Penelope rule, though I do wish her well with the award.
Now, you know me. You know I'm not some sort of foreign film snob. I just love movies. So when I tell you that Volver and Non Ti Muovere and Sin Noticias de Dios and Todo Sobre Mi Madre are flicks worth seeing, I'm not shoveling some esoteric ennui upon you. Okay, some of them may have a touch of that, but not too much.
Cruz was already becoming the first lady of Spanish cinema by the time she filmed 1997's Abre Los Ojos, which was later re-made as the muddled, American Vanilla Sky. But she rose to international fame with her role in Pedro Almodovar's Todo Sobre Mi Madre just a couple years later, and then, the US came calling with Woman on Top, a quirky little comedy about a woman whose severe motion sickness has ill effects on her marriage, and then Billy Bob's All the Pretty Horses. Luckily for movie lovers, she works a lot, and she went back to Spanish cinema for 2001's Sin Noticias de Dios, known here in the States as Don't Tempt Me. In this flick, Heaven and Hell enter a tug of war over the soul of a boxer, so each sends a representative to vie for his fate. Penelope was Hell's ambassador, and to say much more about her role would give away some of delightful twists. But it really is a great vehicle to showcase the sexy-yet-stunningly tough Cruz in action in a fast and fun film that has enough offhanded charm to please an angel or demon.
In 2004, she learned Italian and professed her love for Italian life and won the role of Italia, a dark and depressing role about a damaged woman in Non Ti Muovere (Don't Move or, sometimes, Don't Look Now in English.) In other words, she got to show her dramatic chops to critics and audiences who aren't as wowed with the lighter touch. It is a difficult role in a different movie, but it also probably falls over that line of "esoteric foreign" if you're inclined to have those prejudices.
Unlike so many actresses --particularly those of great beauty-- who make an early, substantial mark and then spend the rest of their career never really capturing those same heights, Cruz has, so far, only managed to get better. I refer, of course, to 2006 and her reunion with the celebrated Almodovar for the popular Volver. Though generally not considered his best film, it still bears all his signature touches in this strange, sad, and funny movie. This is a movie ruled by women, and Penelope is its center -- at once controlled and yet wildly vibrant; full of life and strength and subtle surprises. She's known as the Spanish Enchantress, and in Volver, she's absolutely that and more. Maybe, like my weirdo friend, you don't find her physically attractive, but you'd still fall absolutely in love with her in this movie.
Monday, February 02, 2009
The First Lady of Cinema
Since I don't have much else to talk about (yay Steelers, though!) I figured it was time to give equal due to the great dames of films. And I know it's a common and tempting thing to say "they don't make 'em like that anymore" when speaking about stars of a previous generation. But, when it comes to Katharine Hepburn, it's completely fair to say that they also didn't make 'em like that back then, either.
Her looks were definitely aristocratic, and her attitude balanced on a fine line between the privileged haughty and raging lefty. Her obvious intelligence and cultured education oozed out of her, but it was paired with a winning comedic timing and willingness to be knocked down a peg onscreen even while standing toe-to-toe with her male co-stars. She was a maverick of her day. She wore pants and often refused makeup, quarreled with the studios and blew off press engagements, and yet she also embraced her own stardom. How did this dame get away with her then-outrageous behavior? Well, two things.
One: She didn't get away with it. When the general public caught a whiff of her shenanigans in the mid-30's, she had a string of flops and came to be labeled "box-office poison." This drove her back to Broadway where she had to rebuild her career.
And, Two: As she said, she never realized that women were supposed to be inferior to men. So she took her knocks and flops and then very smartly picked The Philadelphia Story to star in on Broadway. It was a smash hit, and then the film version, in 1940, brought her right back to prime in Hollywood.
How could The Philadelphia Story miss? It's classic screwball comedy -- still incredibly successful in the winning remake High Society, sixteen years later. It reunited Hepburn and Cary Grant, along with mega-director George Cukor, even though their previous effort, Holiday didn't strike box-office gold, and the Hepburn-Grant pairing in Bringing Up Baby was one of her poisoned efforts. (Bringing Up Baby is, however, now considered a classic, and rightly so, as both stars shine in it.) But The Philadelphia Story also threw Jimmy Stewart into the mix. In a role requiring us to believe that our leading lady might actually choose someone other than Carry Grant in the end, Stewart's starry-eyed admiration and affable personality -- along with his milk-raised good looks -- did exactly the trick, and he ended up with his Oscar for it. As for Cary Grant, well, what can I say? He was Cary Grant in it, and that's always more than enough for his dashing highness to be supreme.
But the whole flick hinges on the Hepburn role in this film. As Tracy Lord, Hepburn has to walk a familiar tightrope -- taking abuse and condemnation for being a statue goddess, too uppity and demanding and perfectionist to ever have real love, and then falling from her high grace to become a human and -- again -- being scorned for that. It's really a rather classic feminist role -- she's either a prude or a slut here is the bottom line, and Hepburn pulls it all together and proves that she doesn't have to be one or the other, and, mostly, the hell with anyone who's judging her. Of course, it's all much more mannered than that with questions of class rippling through the growing chaos. And Hepburn is by turns cold and then warmly lovable, smart and silly. And she's never been better. To mention that she was Oscar nominated for this performance is a bit useless, as she was nominated for Oscars every time Jack Warner flushed a toilet.
In the '50s, Kate managed to make hay with "spinster" roles, such as in one of my inexplicable faves The African Queen and Summertime, where she wore the badges of "strength" and "independence" just as prominently and proudly as one would expect and yet still managed to find a mate by the end credits. But The Philadelphia Story was a harbinger of these trademarks to come and remains among the most irresistible, with Kate at her most stunningly strong and sexy.
Her looks were definitely aristocratic, and her attitude balanced on a fine line between the privileged haughty and raging lefty. Her obvious intelligence and cultured education oozed out of her, but it was paired with a winning comedic timing and willingness to be knocked down a peg onscreen even while standing toe-to-toe with her male co-stars. She was a maverick of her day. She wore pants and often refused makeup, quarreled with the studios and blew off press engagements, and yet she also embraced her own stardom. How did this dame get away with her then-outrageous behavior? Well, two things.
One: She didn't get away with it. When the general public caught a whiff of her shenanigans in the mid-30's, she had a string of flops and came to be labeled "box-office poison." This drove her back to Broadway where she had to rebuild her career.
And, Two: As she said, she never realized that women were supposed to be inferior to men. So she took her knocks and flops and then very smartly picked The Philadelphia Story to star in on Broadway. It was a smash hit, and then the film version, in 1940, brought her right back to prime in Hollywood.
How could The Philadelphia Story miss? It's classic screwball comedy -- still incredibly successful in the winning remake High Society, sixteen years later. It reunited Hepburn and Cary Grant, along with mega-director George Cukor, even though their previous effort, Holiday didn't strike box-office gold, and the Hepburn-Grant pairing in Bringing Up Baby was one of her poisoned efforts. (Bringing Up Baby is, however, now considered a classic, and rightly so, as both stars shine in it.) But The Philadelphia Story also threw Jimmy Stewart into the mix. In a role requiring us to believe that our leading lady might actually choose someone other than Carry Grant in the end, Stewart's starry-eyed admiration and affable personality -- along with his milk-raised good looks -- did exactly the trick, and he ended up with his Oscar for it. As for Cary Grant, well, what can I say? He was Cary Grant in it, and that's always more than enough for his dashing highness to be supreme.
But the whole flick hinges on the Hepburn role in this film. As Tracy Lord, Hepburn has to walk a familiar tightrope -- taking abuse and condemnation for being a statue goddess, too uppity and demanding and perfectionist to ever have real love, and then falling from her high grace to become a human and -- again -- being scorned for that. It's really a rather classic feminist role -- she's either a prude or a slut here is the bottom line, and Hepburn pulls it all together and proves that she doesn't have to be one or the other, and, mostly, the hell with anyone who's judging her. Of course, it's all much more mannered than that with questions of class rippling through the growing chaos. And Hepburn is by turns cold and then warmly lovable, smart and silly. And she's never been better. To mention that she was Oscar nominated for this performance is a bit useless, as she was nominated for Oscars every time Jack Warner flushed a toilet.
In the '50s, Kate managed to make hay with "spinster" roles, such as in one of my inexplicable faves The African Queen and Summertime, where she wore the badges of "strength" and "independence" just as prominently and proudly as one would expect and yet still managed to find a mate by the end credits. But The Philadelphia Story was a harbinger of these trademarks to come and remains among the most irresistible, with Kate at her most stunningly strong and sexy.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
What sort of protiens would they serve at such a place?
Do you ever get really irritated by something you enjoy? That's how I am with Top Chef. I love this show, but it really does drive me crazy pretty often. It's not like Idol, because I can't truly judge the contestants, because I'm not eating the dishes. However, whenever someone gets kicked off like Radhika did last week for something to do with personality instead of food, it's bullshit. Just, bullshit. Also, I have eaten at Craft and I'm not so sure that Colicchio should always be mouthing off about improperly seasoned food, so that bugs. And some of the challenges are just...dumb. But, you know, they find great personalities each year to keep me watching.
This year? How can you NOT love Stefan and his ego and his wild crush on lesbian Jaime? And then there's new-age, hippy-dippy Carla, sending all kinds of love with her flaky crusts and even flakier hootie-who calls and hilarious asides. And don't geet me stahted on thee luhv for Fabio! But now, this week, with Jeff biting the dust, one of my favorite, stupid little moments each week is lost. When the contestant is speaking in a confessional and they flash their name, city, and restaurant, I misread his joint's name the first week as "The Dildo Beach Club." I was scandalized. I then, of course, realized on subsequent episodes that it's actually "Dilido". Didn't matter. It still scans in my brain as Dildo Beach Club and I get a cheap giggle out of it. And now that's over. But shit, at least we've still got Carla, Stefan, and Fahbeeo!
This year? How can you NOT love Stefan and his ego and his wild crush on lesbian Jaime? And then there's new-age, hippy-dippy Carla, sending all kinds of love with her flaky crusts and even flakier hootie-who calls and hilarious asides. And don't geet me stahted on thee luhv for Fabio! But now, this week, with Jeff biting the dust, one of my favorite, stupid little moments each week is lost. When the contestant is speaking in a confessional and they flash their name, city, and restaurant, I misread his joint's name the first week as "The Dildo Beach Club." I was scandalized. I then, of course, realized on subsequent episodes that it's actually "Dilido". Didn't matter. It still scans in my brain as Dildo Beach Club and I get a cheap giggle out of it. And now that's over. But shit, at least we've still got Carla, Stefan, and Fahbeeo!
Yummy and Cuddly
One of the best perks of being a "creative" kind of person is that you'll end up with other creative people as your friends. And creative people aren't always focused in one area. You know, like Tony Bennett is a great painter as well as a singer. Like that. So a lot of my writer friends dabble -- and excel -- in other areas, and this can produce some lovely enjoyments. Two such instances:
Donna George Storey is also an accomplished cook and is currently one of the erotica writers involved in a Progressive Blog Dinner. Each writer/blogger is hosting a different course each day. Donna's day is on Saturday with a vegetarian course, but you can find the entire schedule on her blog and catch up and enjoy and maybe get yourself some new recipes.
Gwendolyn Joyce Mintz is a multi-talented woman, and I just received the most lovely and adorable hand-sewn teddy bear from her. It's truly beautiful, and I think she's starting up a bear business, so I'll keep you updated about that. Thanks, Gwen!
Now if I could just make friends with Tony Bennett to get myself a new painting or private serenade, I'd truly have the best of everything.
Donna George Storey is also an accomplished cook and is currently one of the erotica writers involved in a Progressive Blog Dinner. Each writer/blogger is hosting a different course each day. Donna's day is on Saturday with a vegetarian course, but you can find the entire schedule on her blog and catch up and enjoy and maybe get yourself some new recipes.
Gwendolyn Joyce Mintz is a multi-talented woman, and I just received the most lovely and adorable hand-sewn teddy bear from her. It's truly beautiful, and I think she's starting up a bear business, so I'll keep you updated about that. Thanks, Gwen!
Now if I could just make friends with Tony Bennett to get myself a new painting or private serenade, I'd truly have the best of everything.
Monday, January 26, 2009
You Fuck With Him, You Fuckin' With the Best!
When I started this series of posts about my favorite actors/movie stars, I told you then that I definitely have a type. Tall, dark, and hawk-faced is pretty much a sure winner with me. But, well, when you've got the dark and dago, apparently height isn't a deal-breaker, cause my all-time favorite guy proves that size isn't everything. So, say hello to my little friend!
The smoke-ravaged voice. The owl eyes. The ability to turn a tirade into a mini-opera. Inexplicable charisma. And not one, but two of the most enduring and definitive gangster roles ever. His onscreen personas have become so integral a part of the culture that even his real name has become a synonym (and sometimes satire) for defining bad ass.
Al Pacino's start in the movie business was shaky, to say the least. Everyone wanted the part of Michael Corleone in The Godfather. And the studio most definitely didn't want the short, unknown, and untested guy. But Francis Ford Coppola did want him, and he fought for him. And the rest is cinema history.
Only thirty-two years old at the time, Al's youthful face already showcased his trademark, deep, dark bedroom eyes. I firmly believe it's because of The Godfather that the common phrase -- appropriately useful when an onscreen hottie is engaged in a fistfight -- "not the face!" was coined. But even with a busted cheek, he was still hot. But even though he was hot, his screen persona, Michael Corleone, would come to bring new shades of definition to cool. Calm and calculating, Michael Corleone embodies the challenge of taking nothing personal while rising to take control of his family business, and all the while, the audience watches as he sinks, unwittingly, into damnation.
Though Michael Corleone's spiritual fall from grace is the climax of the film, The Godfather was one of the first major gangster-crime films released after the lifting of the Hollywood Production code. In that previous era, it was mandatory that villains got their due at the end of movies. And that meant jail or justice by the gun. This symbolic, soul destruction shit would not have played in the old days when it was flesh for flesh justice. But in the modern era, Corleone not only got away with it, he got an Oscar nod and a smash-hit sequel. And the first step in Al Pacino's path to stardom was set.
There were other notable steps along the path to building the perfect gangster-psycho -- some of them unexpected, and some with better results than others -- but then, in 1983, Al sealed his fate to become the single most revered icon not only among wannabe screen thugs, but real-life ones alike. He took on a Spanish accent (and an entire army) as the polar opposite of Michael Corleone -- the brash and fiery Tony Montana, better known simply as Scarface.
Not only did Al as Montana set the bar for balls, he was one hell of a fashion statement of excess. Believe me, I am a world-class aficionado of the tacky and gaudy, and holy balls did Brian De Palma's Scarface bring it. Though it's a shameful admission, I will confess that I still harbor an Extreme Home Makeover fantasy about someday having Tony Montana's home. Or even just his office. Or just that "The World Is Yours" awful statue-fountain. It is, undoubtedly, as much because of the tremendous, lascivious excess in Montana's tastes in clothes and home and women as because of his brutal, balls-to-the-walls attitude that makes him a touchstone. This guy, he lived large. But the opulence of his home still manages to be dwarfed by the beauty of De Palma's film and Oliver Stone's script.
Scarface is a tough movie to talk about seriously, because of all the baggage it's acquired and what it's come to inspire. People then, and today, write it off as a piece of trash -- pulp fiction on the screen. Gory and gratifying at a base level. They're right, of course. It was, and still is, vulgar and violent. But that doesn't mean it should be dismissed as nothing more. It doesn't have the classy cache of The Godfather, and for that it pays a dear price. De Palma is, unquestionably, a master of homage, and his Scarface is even dedicated to the creators of the original, director Howard Hawks and screenwriter Ben Hecht. But with Scarface, De Palma didn't just jump into their genre, he refined and elevated it, and, for those who really watch it, created a full-blown modern tragedy. And in the middle of this marvelous madness stood Al Pacino, giving the performance of his life.
Tony Montana was not a simple thug. He'd escaped Cuba to find a better life in America and ended up destroying not just himself and his entire family, but, essentially, the American dream. It would be easy to paint him as a vile little creature, but, like most of us, he wasn't that easily summed up. But it's also difficult to keep the audience on a kind of teeter-totter with an over-the-top character like Montana. But it was exactly Pacino's crazy onscreen chemistry and charm that pulls the character in and out of focus. He is tacky and gruff and way out of line in his pursuit of Michelle Pfeiffer's Elvira. And yet, when he slides next to her in a booth or sits by her poolside, we already know she's his for the taking. And as for that relationship with his sister? Well. Uh. Yeah.
Tony Montana boldly breaks all the rules, even the artistic ones. Michael Corleone remained convinced he was doing the right things for his family. Tony Montana, however, acknowledges his own villain status, even if it is with a glib irony. And though his tragic flaw is most certainly his cocksure confidence-turned-arrogance, the catalyst for his inevitable unraveling was a moment of clear morality. Clouded in defiance and overly enamored with his own power, he still makes a choice to not kill a man's family, which brings the wrath of an entire Bolivian cartel raining on his head. And Al sells it all.
Many of his lines are so often repeated, and much of his demeanor is now routinely caricatured. But if you ever actually watch the movie, it is an outlandish indulgence, but it's not nearly the cartoon that pop-culture has turned it into. It is a true classic whose legacy is tainted by its own cult-popularity. And Al has never been better. He was magnetic in this role, fascinating, even, as he somehow crosses the line back and forth and portrays both a human being and a larger-than-life character. And that's why this is his defining role. Because, as Tony himself said, it's the last time you gonna see a bad guy like that again.
The smoke-ravaged voice. The owl eyes. The ability to turn a tirade into a mini-opera. Inexplicable charisma. And not one, but two of the most enduring and definitive gangster roles ever. His onscreen personas have become so integral a part of the culture that even his real name has become a synonym (and sometimes satire) for defining bad ass.
Al Pacino's start in the movie business was shaky, to say the least. Everyone wanted the part of Michael Corleone in The Godfather. And the studio most definitely didn't want the short, unknown, and untested guy. But Francis Ford Coppola did want him, and he fought for him. And the rest is cinema history.
Only thirty-two years old at the time, Al's youthful face already showcased his trademark, deep, dark bedroom eyes. I firmly believe it's because of The Godfather that the common phrase -- appropriately useful when an onscreen hottie is engaged in a fistfight -- "not the face!" was coined. But even with a busted cheek, he was still hot. But even though he was hot, his screen persona, Michael Corleone, would come to bring new shades of definition to cool. Calm and calculating, Michael Corleone embodies the challenge of taking nothing personal while rising to take control of his family business, and all the while, the audience watches as he sinks, unwittingly, into damnation.
Though Michael Corleone's spiritual fall from grace is the climax of the film, The Godfather was one of the first major gangster-crime films released after the lifting of the Hollywood Production code. In that previous era, it was mandatory that villains got their due at the end of movies. And that meant jail or justice by the gun. This symbolic, soul destruction shit would not have played in the old days when it was flesh for flesh justice. But in the modern era, Corleone not only got away with it, he got an Oscar nod and a smash-hit sequel. And the first step in Al Pacino's path to stardom was set.
There were other notable steps along the path to building the perfect gangster-psycho -- some of them unexpected, and some with better results than others -- but then, in 1983, Al sealed his fate to become the single most revered icon not only among wannabe screen thugs, but real-life ones alike. He took on a Spanish accent (and an entire army) as the polar opposite of Michael Corleone -- the brash and fiery Tony Montana, better known simply as Scarface.
Not only did Al as Montana set the bar for balls, he was one hell of a fashion statement of excess. Believe me, I am a world-class aficionado of the tacky and gaudy, and holy balls did Brian De Palma's Scarface bring it. Though it's a shameful admission, I will confess that I still harbor an Extreme Home Makeover fantasy about someday having Tony Montana's home. Or even just his office. Or just that "The World Is Yours" awful statue-fountain. It is, undoubtedly, as much because of the tremendous, lascivious excess in Montana's tastes in clothes and home and women as because of his brutal, balls-to-the-walls attitude that makes him a touchstone. This guy, he lived large. But the opulence of his home still manages to be dwarfed by the beauty of De Palma's film and Oliver Stone's script.
Scarface is a tough movie to talk about seriously, because of all the baggage it's acquired and what it's come to inspire. People then, and today, write it off as a piece of trash -- pulp fiction on the screen. Gory and gratifying at a base level. They're right, of course. It was, and still is, vulgar and violent. But that doesn't mean it should be dismissed as nothing more. It doesn't have the classy cache of The Godfather, and for that it pays a dear price. De Palma is, unquestionably, a master of homage, and his Scarface is even dedicated to the creators of the original, director Howard Hawks and screenwriter Ben Hecht. But with Scarface, De Palma didn't just jump into their genre, he refined and elevated it, and, for those who really watch it, created a full-blown modern tragedy. And in the middle of this marvelous madness stood Al Pacino, giving the performance of his life.
Tony Montana was not a simple thug. He'd escaped Cuba to find a better life in America and ended up destroying not just himself and his entire family, but, essentially, the American dream. It would be easy to paint him as a vile little creature, but, like most of us, he wasn't that easily summed up. But it's also difficult to keep the audience on a kind of teeter-totter with an over-the-top character like Montana. But it was exactly Pacino's crazy onscreen chemistry and charm that pulls the character in and out of focus. He is tacky and gruff and way out of line in his pursuit of Michelle Pfeiffer's Elvira. And yet, when he slides next to her in a booth or sits by her poolside, we already know she's his for the taking. And as for that relationship with his sister? Well. Uh. Yeah.
Tony Montana boldly breaks all the rules, even the artistic ones. Michael Corleone remained convinced he was doing the right things for his family. Tony Montana, however, acknowledges his own villain status, even if it is with a glib irony. And though his tragic flaw is most certainly his cocksure confidence-turned-arrogance, the catalyst for his inevitable unraveling was a moment of clear morality. Clouded in defiance and overly enamored with his own power, he still makes a choice to not kill a man's family, which brings the wrath of an entire Bolivian cartel raining on his head. And Al sells it all.
Many of his lines are so often repeated, and much of his demeanor is now routinely caricatured. But if you ever actually watch the movie, it is an outlandish indulgence, but it's not nearly the cartoon that pop-culture has turned it into. It is a true classic whose legacy is tainted by its own cult-popularity. And Al has never been better. He was magnetic in this role, fascinating, even, as he somehow crosses the line back and forth and portrays both a human being and a larger-than-life character. And that's why this is his defining role. Because, as Tony himself said, it's the last time you gonna see a bad guy like that again.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Stone Cold Killer
I'm getting near the end of my favorite actors list here, with my penultimate pick. Given who this is, you can probably guess who number one will be. Although they rarely work in tandem, with only three shared pictures to their credit, and only two of those pictures actually containing any interaction between the two, they are often considered bookends, and rarely is one spoken about without the other. That said, that's the reason I arranged them in this order to present them, even though my love for one (the other one, actually) eclipses my love for the other. But this guy deserves his due, and it's true, I will, and always do, watch any movie that he's in.
If I had to sum up Robert De Niro and his acting style in one word, it would have to be intimidating. Obviously, I like the "tough" guys. But De Niro has routinely taken this tough guy thing way beyond levels that could've ever been imagined by prototype Edward G. Robinson (an actor I loathe, by the way.) Possibly what's so frightening about De Niro's portrayals is not his vicious outbursts of violence, but, rather, it is in his quiet, simmering moments, when the violence isn't yet even a whisper of a threat. There is a stillness, a calm before the storm with him when the power is coiled, as a snake before striking, which can incite a dread, because you know you've passed the warning stages, and the rest is inevitable, but that cold, calm, twitchless, intimidating menace is nearly palpable through the screen. It's kind of, frankly, a bit psycho, and it's what he's been able to parlay for laughs or turn inside out in his later career to great success.
There have been numerous actor-director collaborations that have repeatedly struck artistic (and financial) gold in Hollywood and set a virtual template and gold standard for their respective genres. Billy Wilder and Jack Lemmon. John Huston and Humphrey Bogart. Howard Hawks and Cary Grant. Howard Hawks and John Wayne, for that matter. But I'm not sure there's ever been one quite like Martin Scorsese and Robert De Niro. It was Scorsese who gave De Niro his first big break as the loose cannon Johnny Boy in Mean Streets. After that, he landed the role of young Vito Corleone in The Godfather II, a role which brought him his first Oscar and major star status. From there, De Niro always gravitated back into Scorsese's orbit over the years, but if you look closely at his body of work, it's almost a sin to brush him with the one-note stroke of "tough guy" considering the roles he successfully tackled. He has, without question, stretched himself and taken on romantic and comedic roles. But I guess the thing is, even when the roles were light, such as in one of my favorite comedies, Midnight Run, De Niro was still kind of thugish. And for as physically good looking as he was in his younger days -- and I do think he was formidably handsome -- I can never get fully behind him in romantic mode as there still seems to be that slight coldness about him. Not quite detachment, but a lack of passion with his leading ladies.
And so it remains that he still becomes most identified with the hood persona. It was Scorsese's Raging Bull that brought him his second Oscar as volatile Jake La Motta, and Travis Bickle in Taxi Driver remains a benchmark for aspiring psychos. Personally, I love his performance as the calculating casino ruler in Casino. But that movie is often (unfairly) blown off, as it's considered an inferior bookend to what may forever remain Scorsese's masterpiece -- GoodFellas.
There's not much that needs to be said about GoodFellas. It was the movie that Scorsese was always meant to make, and a role that De Niro born for. As Jimmy "The Gent" Conway, De Niro brought everything together into one of the most complex, cohesive characterizations he's ever put on screen, and yet he made it seem deceptively easy and routine. Summed up, as Ray Liotta's character told us, De Niro's character was the kind of guy who liked to root for bad guys in the movies. And that translated into this -- De Niro's character was the kind of bad guy we wanted to root for in that movie. At first. Before the repulsion set in. He was calm and slick, clever and shady, all with a thick patina of charm. At first. When things went well. But this character was almost a bookend to Vito Corleone, the man who said "never let them know what you're thinking." That's what's so riveting and engaging about De Niro's acting. He understands that people aren't always showing their emotions. Most of the time, most of us, when in pressure situations, expend a lot of energy to disguise our emotions. And that's where De Niro's gift lies. It's in that calmness, and seemingly resolute veneer which has only the subtlest of movements. We see him hiding, and yet we detect what's lurking. So, later, when the paranoia sets in and De Niro as Jimmy The Gent had to go on the offensive, it became chilling to watch him calmly try to coax Lorraine Bracco's character into a darkened warehouse.
And talk about controlled, cold violence? The famous foot kicking sequence, where he helps nearly stomp to death a guy who made a tasteless joke about shoe shine boxes is a quick, celluloid capture of De Niro's frightening essence onscreen. It was brutal and ugly, lacking any remorse, but also completely devoid of enjoyment. The only detectable emotion is that of slight annoyance at the hassle of having to kick the guy while he bleeds on his shoes. It's this exact scene that personifies what people so often quip about the man as actor. Yeah, he's great at playing a killer. But part of the reason he's so intimidating is because he's so adept at conveying someone who's seemingly dead inside.
If I had to sum up Robert De Niro and his acting style in one word, it would have to be intimidating. Obviously, I like the "tough" guys. But De Niro has routinely taken this tough guy thing way beyond levels that could've ever been imagined by prototype Edward G. Robinson (an actor I loathe, by the way.) Possibly what's so frightening about De Niro's portrayals is not his vicious outbursts of violence, but, rather, it is in his quiet, simmering moments, when the violence isn't yet even a whisper of a threat. There is a stillness, a calm before the storm with him when the power is coiled, as a snake before striking, which can incite a dread, because you know you've passed the warning stages, and the rest is inevitable, but that cold, calm, twitchless, intimidating menace is nearly palpable through the screen. It's kind of, frankly, a bit psycho, and it's what he's been able to parlay for laughs or turn inside out in his later career to great success.
There have been numerous actor-director collaborations that have repeatedly struck artistic (and financial) gold in Hollywood and set a virtual template and gold standard for their respective genres. Billy Wilder and Jack Lemmon. John Huston and Humphrey Bogart. Howard Hawks and Cary Grant. Howard Hawks and John Wayne, for that matter. But I'm not sure there's ever been one quite like Martin Scorsese and Robert De Niro. It was Scorsese who gave De Niro his first big break as the loose cannon Johnny Boy in Mean Streets. After that, he landed the role of young Vito Corleone in The Godfather II, a role which brought him his first Oscar and major star status. From there, De Niro always gravitated back into Scorsese's orbit over the years, but if you look closely at his body of work, it's almost a sin to brush him with the one-note stroke of "tough guy" considering the roles he successfully tackled. He has, without question, stretched himself and taken on romantic and comedic roles. But I guess the thing is, even when the roles were light, such as in one of my favorite comedies, Midnight Run, De Niro was still kind of thugish. And for as physically good looking as he was in his younger days -- and I do think he was formidably handsome -- I can never get fully behind him in romantic mode as there still seems to be that slight coldness about him. Not quite detachment, but a lack of passion with his leading ladies.
And so it remains that he still becomes most identified with the hood persona. It was Scorsese's Raging Bull that brought him his second Oscar as volatile Jake La Motta, and Travis Bickle in Taxi Driver remains a benchmark for aspiring psychos. Personally, I love his performance as the calculating casino ruler in Casino. But that movie is often (unfairly) blown off, as it's considered an inferior bookend to what may forever remain Scorsese's masterpiece -- GoodFellas.
There's not much that needs to be said about GoodFellas. It was the movie that Scorsese was always meant to make, and a role that De Niro born for. As Jimmy "The Gent" Conway, De Niro brought everything together into one of the most complex, cohesive characterizations he's ever put on screen, and yet he made it seem deceptively easy and routine. Summed up, as Ray Liotta's character told us, De Niro's character was the kind of guy who liked to root for bad guys in the movies. And that translated into this -- De Niro's character was the kind of bad guy we wanted to root for in that movie. At first. Before the repulsion set in. He was calm and slick, clever and shady, all with a thick patina of charm. At first. When things went well. But this character was almost a bookend to Vito Corleone, the man who said "never let them know what you're thinking." That's what's so riveting and engaging about De Niro's acting. He understands that people aren't always showing their emotions. Most of the time, most of us, when in pressure situations, expend a lot of energy to disguise our emotions. And that's where De Niro's gift lies. It's in that calmness, and seemingly resolute veneer which has only the subtlest of movements. We see him hiding, and yet we detect what's lurking. So, later, when the paranoia sets in and De Niro as Jimmy The Gent had to go on the offensive, it became chilling to watch him calmly try to coax Lorraine Bracco's character into a darkened warehouse.
And talk about controlled, cold violence? The famous foot kicking sequence, where he helps nearly stomp to death a guy who made a tasteless joke about shoe shine boxes is a quick, celluloid capture of De Niro's frightening essence onscreen. It was brutal and ugly, lacking any remorse, but also completely devoid of enjoyment. The only detectable emotion is that of slight annoyance at the hassle of having to kick the guy while he bleeds on his shoes. It's this exact scene that personifies what people so often quip about the man as actor. Yeah, he's great at playing a killer. But part of the reason he's so intimidating is because he's so adept at conveying someone who's seemingly dead inside.
Tomorrow -- reading for X
I wanted to return the favor for Donna hosting such a fun interview with me, but since I lack the imagination necessary to come up with great questions, I'm pinching her official interview that she did for X: The Erotic Treasury.
This is a great collection, and we both have stories in it. Donna's is the sultry "Yes" and she'll be out doing readings in support of the collection, along with editor Susie Bright and a few other contributors. Here are the dates you can check them out.
Diesel, A Bookstore
Oakland
January 22
7pm
Greta Christina
Donna George Storey
Pam Ward
Susie Bright
Books Inc.
16th and Market St., San Francisco
January 29
7:30pm
Rachel Kramer Bussel
Greta Christina
Donna George Storey
Susie Hara
Susie Bright
And here's Donna's thoroughly charming interview (it's both smart and sexy, just like Donna, and her writing) with Susie Bright regarding her smart and sexy story in the collection, "Yes."
Susie Bright: Have you ever won an awards for your talents?
I like to think I do it all for love, no reward required, but I’ll admit I enjoy a little recognition now and then.
A few years back Sunset Magazine gave me a “Good Cook” award for my recipe for Bavarian Mousse Rice Pudding. That creation has gotten me some of the best in-person reviews of my career—who can resist a rich, fluffy pudding spiked with rum?
I also managed to snag a special mention in Pushcart Prize Stories 2004 for one of my more restrained stories about sex and Japan, but frankly I prefer no-hold-barred sex stories such as “Ukiyo” in Best American Erotica 2006, which is the prettiest jewel in my tiara!
Tell me how you would cast the film version of your story...
I would love to cast Mad Men’s Jon Hamm as the narrator who pushes his lover on to ever-edgier adventures. I love how his hair gets all mussed in those scenes of illicit, untrammeled sex.
For the lover who is sweet and proper on the outside, but wild and experimental (even pit bull-like?) in private, well, someone dared me to suggest Sarah Palin. While she seems willing to give in to the whims of her political party, I doubt she’d sleep with her mate’s best friend just because he ordered her to do it. So let’s go with Liv Tyler—lovely and elegant, but that sensual mouth suggests an intriguing sensuality we all want to see more of.
How would you describe yourself in a phrase, school-wise?
An apparently minor incident in my junior year English class may be responsible for my career as an erotica writer. One morning, I overheard a boy behind me say to his friend “Donna George is cute. I’d go out with her if she wasn’t so smart.”
I blushed and pretended not to hear, but I heard all too well. He’d summed up a well-accepted dilemma in our society, bookish women (and men) are not considered sexy. I think I decided then on some level that I would prove smart and sexy DO go together. And so I went on to assemble a date-defying list of academic credentials.
I’m a Phi Beta Kappa Princeton graduate with a Ph.D. in Japanese literature from Stanford. I know, you wanted to fuck me— but now you have second thoughts?
Fortunately, somewhere along the way men did consent to sleep with me, thus giving me plenty of material for my erotic writing. My readers may not know it, but every time one of my stories makes them spring a boner or get nice and wet down there, it’s a victory for girls-who-wear-glasses everywhere!
Any interesting felonies or misdemeanors you'd like to mention?
Not quite to that level. But I prevented a miscarriage of criminal justice. I once spent a summer working at the IRS, copying the tax returns of British rock stars about their US income—and I saved The Moody Blues from an audit.
This is a great collection, and we both have stories in it. Donna's is the sultry "Yes" and she'll be out doing readings in support of the collection, along with editor Susie Bright and a few other contributors. Here are the dates you can check them out.
Diesel, A Bookstore
Oakland
January 22
7pm
Greta Christina
Donna George Storey
Pam Ward
Susie Bright
Books Inc.
16th and Market St., San Francisco
January 29
7:30pm
Rachel Kramer Bussel
Greta Christina
Donna George Storey
Susie Hara
Susie Bright
And here's Donna's thoroughly charming interview (it's both smart and sexy, just like Donna, and her writing) with Susie Bright regarding her smart and sexy story in the collection, "Yes."
Susie Bright: Have you ever won an awards for your talents?
I like to think I do it all for love, no reward required, but I’ll admit I enjoy a little recognition now and then.
A few years back Sunset Magazine gave me a “Good Cook” award for my recipe for Bavarian Mousse Rice Pudding. That creation has gotten me some of the best in-person reviews of my career—who can resist a rich, fluffy pudding spiked with rum?
I also managed to snag a special mention in Pushcart Prize Stories 2004 for one of my more restrained stories about sex and Japan, but frankly I prefer no-hold-barred sex stories such as “Ukiyo” in Best American Erotica 2006, which is the prettiest jewel in my tiara!
Tell me how you would cast the film version of your story...
I would love to cast Mad Men’s Jon Hamm as the narrator who pushes his lover on to ever-edgier adventures. I love how his hair gets all mussed in those scenes of illicit, untrammeled sex.
For the lover who is sweet and proper on the outside, but wild and experimental (even pit bull-like?) in private, well, someone dared me to suggest Sarah Palin. While she seems willing to give in to the whims of her political party, I doubt she’d sleep with her mate’s best friend just because he ordered her to do it. So let’s go with Liv Tyler—lovely and elegant, but that sensual mouth suggests an intriguing sensuality we all want to see more of.
How would you describe yourself in a phrase, school-wise?
An apparently minor incident in my junior year English class may be responsible for my career as an erotica writer. One morning, I overheard a boy behind me say to his friend “Donna George is cute. I’d go out with her if she wasn’t so smart.”
I blushed and pretended not to hear, but I heard all too well. He’d summed up a well-accepted dilemma in our society, bookish women (and men) are not considered sexy. I think I decided then on some level that I would prove smart and sexy DO go together. And so I went on to assemble a date-defying list of academic credentials.
I’m a Phi Beta Kappa Princeton graduate with a Ph.D. in Japanese literature from Stanford. I know, you wanted to fuck me— but now you have second thoughts?
Fortunately, somewhere along the way men did consent to sleep with me, thus giving me plenty of material for my erotic writing. My readers may not know it, but every time one of my stories makes them spring a boner or get nice and wet down there, it’s a victory for girls-who-wear-glasses everywhere!
Any interesting felonies or misdemeanors you'd like to mention?
Not quite to that level. But I prevented a miscarriage of criminal justice. I once spent a summer working at the IRS, copying the tax returns of British rock stars about their US income—and I saved The Moody Blues from an audit.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Storey Interview
My friend, the talented writer Donna George Storey, has posted an embarrassingly kind review of my book, American Cool on her blog. She also took the time to interview me. Mostly, I hate interviews, as I'm both boring and uncomfortable in the spotlight. But, she asked some great questions about things I just love to babble about. So if you're inclined, you can check it out right here.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Sometimes Nothing Can Be a Real Cool Hand
If Hollywood has ever produced a more beautiful man, on the inside and outside, than Paul Newman, then I certainly wish someone would turn me on to him, cause I can't even imagine that it's possible. Probably because Paul Newman was almost impossible to believe. His looks are damn near mesmerising -- transcending even personal tastes. He was effortlessly cool, still able to pull off the double-gun-with-a-wink greeting even late in life. And yet his cool wasn't cloaked in thugishness or machismo -- he was pure class, all the way. And to top it off, he could act his ass off.
If Bogart was the guy who pulled cinema thugs and anti-heroes from the one-dimentional thirties into an updated and nuanced forties and fifties audience, Newman was the guy who took that rebellious, anti-hero characterization and bridged that gap right into the modern day, starting back in the '50s, and bringing his naturalistic approach -- lacking in ticks, tricks, and distractions -- into the quote/unquote modern stage of film and movies.
Newman already made a splash as Rocky Graziano in 1956's Somebody Up There Likes Me. But the '60s were to be Newman's decade. He kicked it off in '61 with The Hustler, where he first played Fast Eddie Felson, the arrogant up-and-coming pool shark with a wicked self destructive streak. (25 years later, under the direction of Martin Scorsese, that same character -- older and weary, he gets a dose of his own medicine when he takes a piece-of-work protege under his tutelage -- finally brought home the elusive Best Actor Oscar. After that, the Academy decided that they reallyreally liked him a lot and gave him a Lifetime Achievement Award and a Humanitarian Award.) And then he closed out the '60s with the wildly popular and entertaining Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.
But it was sandwiched between these flicks, in 1967, that he made my favorite Paul flick -- Cool Hand Luke. Newman's Luke Jackson is a guy who just won't give up the fight. Not any kind of fight. He can't give it up, because, fair or not, life just never seems to deal him a decent hand and he's got no choice. It's either fight to the last breath, and end up living like the dead. But instead of self-loathing or pity, Luke has a wry humor about it all, a sense of fun in his rebellion and moral and spiritual victory, even in his most brutal defeats. It's the kind of character we'd see a lot of in the counter-culture '60s -- the archetype that Jack Nicholson rode to superstardom with Cuckoo's Nest. (It's also the kind of character and role and movie that nearly got completely snuffed out once we entered the super-conservative '80s.) But Newman's portrayal remains the landmark.
He was the quintessential lone rebel, lashing out against the oppressive, unjust system. What they had was a failure to communicate, alright. But his connection with audience is nearly palpable. Charm oozes out of him, even when he's on a chain gang, for Christ's sakes. And there's more than a glint of devilish mischief -- and ultimate grace and nobility -- even as he takes his beatings and losses. Luke and his kind may never end up winning. And Newman, in this role, just couldn't lose. It was truly a thing of beauty.
If Bogart was the guy who pulled cinema thugs and anti-heroes from the one-dimentional thirties into an updated and nuanced forties and fifties audience, Newman was the guy who took that rebellious, anti-hero characterization and bridged that gap right into the modern day, starting back in the '50s, and bringing his naturalistic approach -- lacking in ticks, tricks, and distractions -- into the quote/unquote modern stage of film and movies.
Newman already made a splash as Rocky Graziano in 1956's Somebody Up There Likes Me. But the '60s were to be Newman's decade. He kicked it off in '61 with The Hustler, where he first played Fast Eddie Felson, the arrogant up-and-coming pool shark with a wicked self destructive streak. (25 years later, under the direction of Martin Scorsese, that same character -- older and weary, he gets a dose of his own medicine when he takes a piece-of-work protege under his tutelage -- finally brought home the elusive Best Actor Oscar. After that, the Academy decided that they reallyreally liked him a lot and gave him a Lifetime Achievement Award and a Humanitarian Award.) And then he closed out the '60s with the wildly popular and entertaining Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.
But it was sandwiched between these flicks, in 1967, that he made my favorite Paul flick -- Cool Hand Luke. Newman's Luke Jackson is a guy who just won't give up the fight. Not any kind of fight. He can't give it up, because, fair or not, life just never seems to deal him a decent hand and he's got no choice. It's either fight to the last breath, and end up living like the dead. But instead of self-loathing or pity, Luke has a wry humor about it all, a sense of fun in his rebellion and moral and spiritual victory, even in his most brutal defeats. It's the kind of character we'd see a lot of in the counter-culture '60s -- the archetype that Jack Nicholson rode to superstardom with Cuckoo's Nest. (It's also the kind of character and role and movie that nearly got completely snuffed out once we entered the super-conservative '80s.) But Newman's portrayal remains the landmark.
He was the quintessential lone rebel, lashing out against the oppressive, unjust system. What they had was a failure to communicate, alright. But his connection with audience is nearly palpable. Charm oozes out of him, even when he's on a chain gang, for Christ's sakes. And there's more than a glint of devilish mischief -- and ultimate grace and nobility -- even as he takes his beatings and losses. Luke and his kind may never end up winning. And Newman, in this role, just couldn't lose. It was truly a thing of beauty.
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
Serial Story
Here's a cool thing from one of my publishers, Zumaya Publications. On their Myspace page, they're offering a serialization of one of their novels. They just started posting chapters at the start of the year, so it's a great time to catch up and then get hooked for the updates every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. The novel currently being featured is R.J. Leahy's sci-fi thrillerTigra, the sequel for which should also be released for sale shortly. You can check out Zumaya and catch up on Tigra right here.
Also keep in mind that the iPhone is fully functional for reading e-books, and that includes all of Zumaya's titles. They're all easily available in the proper format through Fictionwise. And that does, of course, include my book, 24/7. Yes, that was blatant and tacky self-promotion. Nevertheless. It's a good, addictive read during a commute, perfect for your fancy phone, especially if you made a resolution to read more.
Also keep in mind that the iPhone is fully functional for reading e-books, and that includes all of Zumaya's titles. They're all easily available in the proper format through Fictionwise. And that does, of course, include my book, 24/7. Yes, that was blatant and tacky self-promotion. Nevertheless. It's a good, addictive read during a commute, perfect for your fancy phone, especially if you made a resolution to read more.
Cops & Crooks
Well, I've suffered a terribly sad setback in my movie viewing routine. The theatre near my house closed just a couple days before Christmas. It wasn't a multiplex, which is one of the reasons it closed, and one of the reasons I loved it. They didn't have ten movies to choose from, but they had an enormous screen and awesome popcorn and although quite often they'd never get in the major release I wanted to see, they sometimes got in little quirky flicks that were just as enjoyable. Now, I'm pretty much relegated to DVDs. Of course, it sucks even worse for the owners of the theatre, but they'd struggled for a long time to keep up with the multiplex across town and finally succumbed.
So, speaking of struggling, lesser known, but just as charming entities, I figured I'd devote this post to a couple of my favorite actors who might make you go who? when I mention their names, but I'm willing to bet that you'll recognize their faces. And I hope that in 2009 they keep getting quality work and maybe even breakout roles. I mean, it's not impossible. My man Bogart struggled with bit parts and second or third fiddle roles for twenty years before establishing himself as a viable lead. And these guys, just like the big stars I've been blogging about here, I'll watch them in pretty much anything.
The first one hit my radar about a decade ago when a cop show called Third Watch came on the air. When this show premiered, it was an embarrassment of hot guys. All the chicks in my office watched this show, and for several of us, the hottest of the formidable bunch was Bobby Cannavale. In fact, we didn't even call the show by its title. We just called it Hot Bobby's Show.
When it started, it was a decent show with potential, but rapidly declined, and when they made the horrible error in judgment of killing off Cannavale's character, I wouldn't be surprised if they lost a major chunk of viewers. They lost me, and it went off the air, I think, shortly after.
Since then, I've always been on the lookout for Hot Bobby. For a time, it looked like he was destined for his big break at any second as he popped up in a plethora of places. He was funky spunk guy on SATC, he was Will's impossibly cute boyfriend on Will & Grace. But in 2003, he landed a juicy role in the Sundance sweetheart hit, The Station Agent as a happy-go-lucky guy who through sheer force of his friendliness insinuates himself into the lives of a couple of lonely people. It's a charming movie, elevated even more by the performance of the always lovely and captivating (and also underrated) Patricia Clarkson and a steady performance by Peter Dinklage.
But although the film won over indie audiences everywhere, for some reason, it still didn't push Cannavale into the limelight. I don't get it. He's absolutely gorgeous. He's got a natural style and has an easy confidence that suits him for comedy and isn't overwrought in dramatic roles. He keeps working, thankfully. And a lot of the pictures and roles he picks are really juicy even though they're not leads, but they're also often in indies. Can't someone with a good major release pick this guy up for a good role in wide distribution? Favreau? Someone? So far, The Station Agent remains the pinnacle of his career.
Now, speaking of niche roles in quirky shows, that brings me to Dean Winters. 2008 was kind to Dean as he reprised his role as Liz Lemmon's foil boyfriend Dennis Duffy on 30 Rock and he also held down a plum role in a couple eps of Life on Mars. It's not hard to shine on 30 Rock given the material, but it is tough to steal the spotlight from Alec or Tina. But Dean consistently did it with his uber-obnoxious, sluggish thinking and loud-snorting unlovable/lovable beeper salesman. And on Life on Mars, he had to make us love him before he could show his truly villainous self.
But, good as these roles were, they still can't touch what was indisputably a role of lifetime. The time was 1997. The place was HBO. This was the pre-Sopranos era, when HBO had built a credible-if-spotty list of comedies, but had yet to unveil a killer drama. In walked Tom Fontana, already highly pedigreed in very serious, quality episodic television. Suddenly, the inmates were running the asylum, or, more accurately, the correctional facility. And that facility was the brutal, sometimes wrenching, often shocking series Oz. In its first year, Oz was Emmy-worthy quality television. As it aged, it evolved (or devolved) into a lurid soap opera, which, of course, was even more addictive.
Girls and gays loved it for its full frontal nudity and steamy shower scenes, mixed with what quite possibly remains the most blatant and highest quantity of "red-shirt" characters to ever appear. Yeah, the red-shirts came and went, but the core cast was, among "character" actors and second-fiddle indie stars, legendary. The indomitable JK Simmons was the Nazi Schillinger. Before they got Lost, Harold Perrineau was do-gooder, Greek chorus narrator Augustus, and Adewale Akinnuoye-Agbaje was animalistic perfection as Adebisi. Before she served crown roast to Tony Soprano, Edie Falco helped keep control as guard Diane. One of my other favorite hotties, Kirk Acevedo showed skin as disturbed Alvarez. Chris Meloni was a psycho-supreme who just loved too much. Even Rita Moreno did time at Oz.
But out of all the inmates who came, went, or got executed, one master manipulator rose the ranks and became the Iago of the incarcerated. That was Ryan O'Reily, and he was played with squinty-eyed, sexy machination by Dean Winters. I don't see how he possibly could ever top this role, because I'm not sure a better one could be written. Winters as O'Reily was a perfect marriage of bullshit Irish charm, dangerous and sultry survival instinct, and a gritty and quiet, if still smug, satisfaction at the success of all his most nasty plans realized. You know those villains you just have to root for? That was him.
Another reason I like him? He's half dago and speaks fluent Italian. Also?
And that's all I'm gonna say about that.
I don't know if he'll ever escape Oz and O'Reily, but I do hope he still keeps getting juicy roles, because he's just got that spark that pulls you onto his side when you watch him. And no one's been as good at the squint since Clint Eastwood. So I hope 2009 lands him some movies, even if I won't be able to go see them.
So, speaking of struggling, lesser known, but just as charming entities, I figured I'd devote this post to a couple of my favorite actors who might make you go who? when I mention their names, but I'm willing to bet that you'll recognize their faces. And I hope that in 2009 they keep getting quality work and maybe even breakout roles. I mean, it's not impossible. My man Bogart struggled with bit parts and second or third fiddle roles for twenty years before establishing himself as a viable lead. And these guys, just like the big stars I've been blogging about here, I'll watch them in pretty much anything.
The first one hit my radar about a decade ago when a cop show called Third Watch came on the air. When this show premiered, it was an embarrassment of hot guys. All the chicks in my office watched this show, and for several of us, the hottest of the formidable bunch was Bobby Cannavale. In fact, we didn't even call the show by its title. We just called it Hot Bobby's Show.
When it started, it was a decent show with potential, but rapidly declined, and when they made the horrible error in judgment of killing off Cannavale's character, I wouldn't be surprised if they lost a major chunk of viewers. They lost me, and it went off the air, I think, shortly after.
Since then, I've always been on the lookout for Hot Bobby. For a time, it looked like he was destined for his big break at any second as he popped up in a plethora of places. He was funky spunk guy on SATC, he was Will's impossibly cute boyfriend on Will & Grace. But in 2003, he landed a juicy role in the Sundance sweetheart hit, The Station Agent as a happy-go-lucky guy who through sheer force of his friendliness insinuates himself into the lives of a couple of lonely people. It's a charming movie, elevated even more by the performance of the always lovely and captivating (and also underrated) Patricia Clarkson and a steady performance by Peter Dinklage.
But although the film won over indie audiences everywhere, for some reason, it still didn't push Cannavale into the limelight. I don't get it. He's absolutely gorgeous. He's got a natural style and has an easy confidence that suits him for comedy and isn't overwrought in dramatic roles. He keeps working, thankfully. And a lot of the pictures and roles he picks are really juicy even though they're not leads, but they're also often in indies. Can't someone with a good major release pick this guy up for a good role in wide distribution? Favreau? Someone? So far, The Station Agent remains the pinnacle of his career.
Now, speaking of niche roles in quirky shows, that brings me to Dean Winters. 2008 was kind to Dean as he reprised his role as Liz Lemmon's foil boyfriend Dennis Duffy on 30 Rock and he also held down a plum role in a couple eps of Life on Mars. It's not hard to shine on 30 Rock given the material, but it is tough to steal the spotlight from Alec or Tina. But Dean consistently did it with his uber-obnoxious, sluggish thinking and loud-snorting unlovable/lovable beeper salesman. And on Life on Mars, he had to make us love him before he could show his truly villainous self.
But, good as these roles were, they still can't touch what was indisputably a role of lifetime. The time was 1997. The place was HBO. This was the pre-Sopranos era, when HBO had built a credible-if-spotty list of comedies, but had yet to unveil a killer drama. In walked Tom Fontana, already highly pedigreed in very serious, quality episodic television. Suddenly, the inmates were running the asylum, or, more accurately, the correctional facility. And that facility was the brutal, sometimes wrenching, often shocking series Oz. In its first year, Oz was Emmy-worthy quality television. As it aged, it evolved (or devolved) into a lurid soap opera, which, of course, was even more addictive.
Girls and gays loved it for its full frontal nudity and steamy shower scenes, mixed with what quite possibly remains the most blatant and highest quantity of "red-shirt" characters to ever appear. Yeah, the red-shirts came and went, but the core cast was, among "character" actors and second-fiddle indie stars, legendary. The indomitable JK Simmons was the Nazi Schillinger. Before they got Lost, Harold Perrineau was do-gooder, Greek chorus narrator Augustus, and Adewale Akinnuoye-Agbaje was animalistic perfection as Adebisi. Before she served crown roast to Tony Soprano, Edie Falco helped keep control as guard Diane. One of my other favorite hotties, Kirk Acevedo showed skin as disturbed Alvarez. Chris Meloni was a psycho-supreme who just loved too much. Even Rita Moreno did time at Oz.
But out of all the inmates who came, went, or got executed, one master manipulator rose the ranks and became the Iago of the incarcerated. That was Ryan O'Reily, and he was played with squinty-eyed, sexy machination by Dean Winters. I don't see how he possibly could ever top this role, because I'm not sure a better one could be written. Winters as O'Reily was a perfect marriage of bullshit Irish charm, dangerous and sultry survival instinct, and a gritty and quiet, if still smug, satisfaction at the success of all his most nasty plans realized. You know those villains you just have to root for? That was him.
Another reason I like him? He's half dago and speaks fluent Italian. Also?
And that's all I'm gonna say about that.
I don't know if he'll ever escape Oz and O'Reily, but I do hope he still keeps getting juicy roles, because he's just got that spark that pulls you onto his side when you watch him. And no one's been as good at the squint since Clint Eastwood. So I hope 2009 lands him some movies, even if I won't be able to go see them.
Monday, December 29, 2008
Here's Looking At You, Kid
I'm a couple days late, as I'd planned on doing a Bogie post for Christmas in honor of his birthday, but you know how the holidays can slip away. But considering that even his birthday, like so much else about the man, is a point of curiosity and misinformation, maybe it doesn't really matter.
After all, he's one of the least likely to appear on my favorite leading men list. The lisp. His big, old, basset hound head. His funny walk. He's named 'Humphrey' for crying out loud. And yet, he's damn near at the very top of my favorite leading men list. The lisp! His big, old, basset hound head! That funny walk! He's named Humphrey for crying out loud! I love it. Love it all. Who else had the balls to "bogart" one of James Cagney's cigarettes and therefore have their name become a permanent fixture in stoner slang -- as a verb. Who else, not only in his time, but even now, could ever so perfectly embody romantic pessimism. James Dean became the rebel without a cause, but Bogie was the rebel with a cause. His characters were troubled and tempestuous, and yet also deeply moral and principled. He had no trouble playing the brutal gangster or the tough-guy hero, or, most winningly, the reluctant hero.
He played both Philip Marlowe and Sam Spade and is a true icon of vintage film noir. How hard-boiled was his Spade? He didn't just punch out Peter Lorre while Lorre was holding a gun on him. He did it with a laugh! Seriously, a brilliant and winning touch. And as Marlowe? Tough and ethical, and yet the viewer has the joy of watching not just his Marlowe fall for his client, but watching the sparks fly (again) as Bogie fell even harder for Lauren Bacall.
Speaking of the great dame Bacall, Bogie was also the founding father of the original Hollywood "rat pack," of which Sinatra was a member, and which Bacall appropriately named. Bogart, he once said that the "trouble with the world is that it's three drinks behind." How could I, of all people, not adore that philosophy?
Much of his personal history is still in dispute, clouded in myth by the studios. His real birthday? How he got that lip injury that gave him the lisp? Also, one of his most repeated quotes (Play it again, Sam) was never even spoken. What is not in dispute is his influence and stature, even today, as a legend and icon. He ranks #1 on the AFI's list of greatest screen legends. And if you don't know why, the biggest favor you could do yourself is to sit back and take in a few of his classics.
And among those classics, is, of course, the most classic, Casablanca. Of course, I have to pick this as his defining role, as it embodied so many of the characteristics he was drawn to portray. Now, that said, I have to admit that Casablanca, for reasons I can't fully understand, is not one of my favorite films or roles of his. I just don't connect with the film. I love Bergman. Love Bogart. What's not to like? Swarming Nazis, a hot nightclub, a bitter club owner. And yet, for his best work, I prefer Charlie Allnut in African Queen, or, frankly, Dixon Steele in In a Lonely Place. But I understand why Casablanca resonates through the decades in a way these other films don't. There's both melancholy and romanticism in the movie, and disillusionment gives way to idealism, giving you the best of everything that Bogie so easily personified within that seemingly lurid, tough exterior.
So even though it wasn't my personal favorite, it remains the zenith of his incredible career as it shot him forever from leading man to the stratosphere of true star. The public embraced him as never before. I guess you could say it was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
After all, he's one of the least likely to appear on my favorite leading men list. The lisp. His big, old, basset hound head. His funny walk. He's named 'Humphrey' for crying out loud. And yet, he's damn near at the very top of my favorite leading men list. The lisp! His big, old, basset hound head! That funny walk! He's named Humphrey for crying out loud! I love it. Love it all. Who else had the balls to "bogart" one of James Cagney's cigarettes and therefore have their name become a permanent fixture in stoner slang -- as a verb. Who else, not only in his time, but even now, could ever so perfectly embody romantic pessimism. James Dean became the rebel without a cause, but Bogie was the rebel with a cause. His characters were troubled and tempestuous, and yet also deeply moral and principled. He had no trouble playing the brutal gangster or the tough-guy hero, or, most winningly, the reluctant hero.
He played both Philip Marlowe and Sam Spade and is a true icon of vintage film noir. How hard-boiled was his Spade? He didn't just punch out Peter Lorre while Lorre was holding a gun on him. He did it with a laugh! Seriously, a brilliant and winning touch. And as Marlowe? Tough and ethical, and yet the viewer has the joy of watching not just his Marlowe fall for his client, but watching the sparks fly (again) as Bogie fell even harder for Lauren Bacall.
Speaking of the great dame Bacall, Bogie was also the founding father of the original Hollywood "rat pack," of which Sinatra was a member, and which Bacall appropriately named. Bogart, he once said that the "trouble with the world is that it's three drinks behind." How could I, of all people, not adore that philosophy?
Much of his personal history is still in dispute, clouded in myth by the studios. His real birthday? How he got that lip injury that gave him the lisp? Also, one of his most repeated quotes (Play it again, Sam) was never even spoken. What is not in dispute is his influence and stature, even today, as a legend and icon. He ranks #1 on the AFI's list of greatest screen legends. And if you don't know why, the biggest favor you could do yourself is to sit back and take in a few of his classics.
And among those classics, is, of course, the most classic, Casablanca. Of course, I have to pick this as his defining role, as it embodied so many of the characteristics he was drawn to portray. Now, that said, I have to admit that Casablanca, for reasons I can't fully understand, is not one of my favorite films or roles of his. I just don't connect with the film. I love Bergman. Love Bogart. What's not to like? Swarming Nazis, a hot nightclub, a bitter club owner. And yet, for his best work, I prefer Charlie Allnut in African Queen, or, frankly, Dixon Steele in In a Lonely Place. But I understand why Casablanca resonates through the decades in a way these other films don't. There's both melancholy and romanticism in the movie, and disillusionment gives way to idealism, giving you the best of everything that Bogie so easily personified within that seemingly lurid, tough exterior.
So even though it wasn't my personal favorite, it remains the zenith of his incredible career as it shot him forever from leading man to the stratosphere of true star. The public embraced him as never before. I guess you could say it was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
Friday, December 19, 2008
British Invasion
Man, I've been slacking in blogging, eh? I wish I could blame my oh-so-fabulous life with all sorts of busy and important goings on, but that's just not the case. I have been enjoying myself, but it seems that the more laid-back my schedule gets, the less I do to fill the time. I actually sit around and watch movies, and then instead of talking about them or writing about them, I make some popcorn and watch more. So, all I can really say about that is this. When I do, then, make the effort to write about one of my top picks, you can rest assured that I have done my due diligence and you can place a lot of confidence in the fact that although I'm just blabbing on about superficial crap, it is at least thoroughly researched crap.
So, though I don't claim to be an Anglophile of any sort, I have watched and weighed all the delightful nuances of modern hot Brits to bring you this little hidden-gem suggestion. Even I can't deny the earnest intensity of Colin Firth, or the scoundrel charm of Hugh Grant in Bridget Jones's Diary, particularly when they're engaged in their slaptastick fist fight.
And I have no problem with the new Bond, Daniel Craig, as I've been on to him since Layer Cake.
But, for me, if I'm going to look across the pond, I'd most likely be gazing at Clive Owen. I don't think I really need to talk about his assets, do I? Pretty self-evident with this guy. I mean, he doesn't mesmerize me to the point where I'll try to convince you that Shoot 'Em Up is a decent flick. But I sure don't mind watching it, either. Though, slight digression here, a nearly identical flick, Hitman starring the riveting Timothy Olyphant was sneered at by audiences, mostly because the movie didn't resemble the vastly popular game it was based upon, and so the gamers didn't support it. And yet, it's a completely watchable, and even pretty enjoyable movie. If you're in the mood for some serious action, check it out.
But Shoot 'Em Up got roundly panned, and it's understandable why. On paper, it all sounds good. Paul Giamatti as an arch villian, Monica Bellucci as the hottie, and Clive shooting everything in sight. And yet, well. A lot of Clive's movies have turned out that way. He took a turn in a twisty psychological thriller that could've done better, but he starred opposite Jennifer Aniston, and for whatever reason, her movies always flop. He played opposite Julia Roberts in Closer, but that whole movie just turned out to be a mean-spirited dirge. He made a couple classy pictures back-to-back with the highly underrated Inside Man and then the somewhat overrated Children of Men. But both pictures had a slow and lumbering feel, something Clive seems drawn to, which is what makes it so refreshing to check him out in the unexpected Greenfingers. He's been Sir Walter Raleigh and King Arthur, and was made for his role in Sin City. Gosford Park? Critics ate the shit up; it's an English Manor-Manner whodunit by Robert Altman, but it's not a satisfying film for everyone. I actually liked it quite a bit, which is saying quite a lot, but it's still not my top pick.
Often, Clive picks characters or scripts that are, to say the least, morally ambiguous. And in that vein was the lifeblood of Clive's blossoming film career: Croupier.
I actually think Clive's gotten better looking over the years since this movie, but he certainly wasn't anything to kick out of bed even then. But he's also perfect as the dual characters Jack and Jake in this neo-noir that's absolutely riveting. As a failing writer, Jack takes a job as a croupier at a casino and begins to write a novel about it. A dark meditation of fate vs. free will, this is equal parts thriller and philosophical drama, and Clive is hypnotic, completely pulling this movie together with nuances that aren't charming or sexy, but instead is cunning and enigmatic. It gives him enough credibility to be able to skate by on his deep voice and insouciant charm in Hollywood crap like Shoot 'Em Up. And believe me, I know my crap.
So, though I don't claim to be an Anglophile of any sort, I have watched and weighed all the delightful nuances of modern hot Brits to bring you this little hidden-gem suggestion. Even I can't deny the earnest intensity of Colin Firth, or the scoundrel charm of Hugh Grant in Bridget Jones's Diary, particularly when they're engaged in their slaptastick fist fight.
And I have no problem with the new Bond, Daniel Craig, as I've been on to him since Layer Cake.
But, for me, if I'm going to look across the pond, I'd most likely be gazing at Clive Owen. I don't think I really need to talk about his assets, do I? Pretty self-evident with this guy. I mean, he doesn't mesmerize me to the point where I'll try to convince you that Shoot 'Em Up is a decent flick. But I sure don't mind watching it, either. Though, slight digression here, a nearly identical flick, Hitman starring the riveting Timothy Olyphant was sneered at by audiences, mostly because the movie didn't resemble the vastly popular game it was based upon, and so the gamers didn't support it. And yet, it's a completely watchable, and even pretty enjoyable movie. If you're in the mood for some serious action, check it out.
But Shoot 'Em Up got roundly panned, and it's understandable why. On paper, it all sounds good. Paul Giamatti as an arch villian, Monica Bellucci as the hottie, and Clive shooting everything in sight. And yet, well. A lot of Clive's movies have turned out that way. He took a turn in a twisty psychological thriller that could've done better, but he starred opposite Jennifer Aniston, and for whatever reason, her movies always flop. He played opposite Julia Roberts in Closer, but that whole movie just turned out to be a mean-spirited dirge. He made a couple classy pictures back-to-back with the highly underrated Inside Man and then the somewhat overrated Children of Men. But both pictures had a slow and lumbering feel, something Clive seems drawn to, which is what makes it so refreshing to check him out in the unexpected Greenfingers. He's been Sir Walter Raleigh and King Arthur, and was made for his role in Sin City. Gosford Park? Critics ate the shit up; it's an English Manor-Manner whodunit by Robert Altman, but it's not a satisfying film for everyone. I actually liked it quite a bit, which is saying quite a lot, but it's still not my top pick.
Often, Clive picks characters or scripts that are, to say the least, morally ambiguous. And in that vein was the lifeblood of Clive's blossoming film career: Croupier.
I actually think Clive's gotten better looking over the years since this movie, but he certainly wasn't anything to kick out of bed even then. But he's also perfect as the dual characters Jack and Jake in this neo-noir that's absolutely riveting. As a failing writer, Jack takes a job as a croupier at a casino and begins to write a novel about it. A dark meditation of fate vs. free will, this is equal parts thriller and philosophical drama, and Clive is hypnotic, completely pulling this movie together with nuances that aren't charming or sexy, but instead is cunning and enigmatic. It gives him enough credibility to be able to skate by on his deep voice and insouciant charm in Hollywood crap like Shoot 'Em Up. And believe me, I know my crap.
Tied with a Bow
Dexter completed another season, sending Jimmy Smits back to the unemployment line as Michael C. Hall picked up another Golden Globe nom along with two more guaranteed seasons to come.
What I love about this show and its finales? It really makes a clean cut and then wraps things up as neatly as one of Dex's victims. It just keeps hiking the suspense all season, and it has fallen into the habit of releasing most of the tension in the penultimate episodes with the big climax, and then the final eps reach for some more, but basically still end up bringing the audience back down. It's a bit different than the usual format in this respect, and there can be moments where I think the final ep was a bit of a letdown because of it. But, overall, I'm getting to like this format, because it is overall satisfying. And this year, they did manage to leave a few splatters to be mopped up next season.
I will miss Jimmy, and though I loved this season, I am hoping they find a new angle next season instead of repeating this now well-worn storyline. I have confidence they will. After all, this show has pulled off the nearly impossible. I now think of Lauren Velez as "LaGuerta" instead of as "Gloria."
What I love about this show and its finales? It really makes a clean cut and then wraps things up as neatly as one of Dex's victims. It just keeps hiking the suspense all season, and it has fallen into the habit of releasing most of the tension in the penultimate episodes with the big climax, and then the final eps reach for some more, but basically still end up bringing the audience back down. It's a bit different than the usual format in this respect, and there can be moments where I think the final ep was a bit of a letdown because of it. But, overall, I'm getting to like this format, because it is overall satisfying. And this year, they did manage to leave a few splatters to be mopped up next season.
I will miss Jimmy, and though I loved this season, I am hoping they find a new angle next season instead of repeating this now well-worn storyline. I have confidence they will. After all, this show has pulled off the nearly impossible. I now think of Lauren Velez as "LaGuerta" instead of as "Gloria."
Castrocopia's Christmas Mix
Oh, I'm so pleased and honored to have been included in Castrocopia's Christmas Non-Shuffle. The best part is that compare me to liquor and garnish me with lemon. Or is that with a Lemon? Either way, it completes me.
Monday, December 08, 2008
Schmidt-canned
Easily one of the better series finales of all time. It was just like the show -- wacky, sad, hilarious, and probably at least a little bit offensive to many different people. And, ultimately, it was filled with love.
Denny Crane!
Sunday, December 07, 2008
Page 56 Tag
I was just tagged by the charming and talented Myfanwy Collins.
And here are the rules...
RULE ONE, I have to grab one of the books closest to me, go to page 56, type the fifth line and the next two to five lines that follow.
The book closest to me right now was a gift, and I'm in the middle of it, and I'm loving it! It is Declan Burke's The Big O.
She looked up, licking at some brown dribble hanging from her upper lip and growling way back in her throat.
"It's okay, hon," Karen said, taking Anna's face in her hands, cupping her beneath both ears and kissing her on the forehead. Anna squirmed pleasurably and wriggled free of Karen's grasp, the huge tongue lolling in anticipation of a game.
RULE TWO, I have to pick five people who love books. My five picks are:
Citizen Jane
Dennis Mahagin
Donna George Storey
Mick Halpin (the giver of the gifted book that's quoted above)
Jen Hayley
And here are the rules...
RULE ONE, I have to grab one of the books closest to me, go to page 56, type the fifth line and the next two to five lines that follow.
The book closest to me right now was a gift, and I'm in the middle of it, and I'm loving it! It is Declan Burke's The Big O.
RULE TWO, I have to pick five people who love books. My five picks are:
Citizen Jane
Dennis Mahagin
Donna George Storey
Mick Halpin (the giver of the gifted book that's quoted above)
Jen Hayley
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Happy Endings
Well. So True Blood ended with a front-loaded finale that wrapped up the season and managed to set up next season by closing out with screams and a shiver and a cliffhanger. Generally, I really fucking hate cliffhanger season endings. Like the Seinfeld once said, if I want something long that just keeps continuing, I have my own life. Fuck. But they managed to do it and make it satisfying and tempting, though I will be PISSED, just utterly PISSED if that dangling ending (and by that I mean the dangling foot) ends up being attached to a harmed Lafayette. Don't do it, Alan Ball! Don't do it!
Entourage, well, the boys wrapped it up, too, and after a grueling year that tested Vince's patience and pride, and therefore pushed me to testing my patience with him, the unthinkable happened: Vince broke up with Eric! And I was not at all happy about it! I was actually pissed at Vince. PISSED. But, of course, it is Entourage and everything ended up more than okay when the big guinea, Martin Scorsese, swooped in to save the day. Tony Bennett and Martin Scorsese in the same season! It's enough to make me tune in next year again, even if they are hitting levels of unforeseen douchery overall.
And then there's Dexter, still managing to be the superstar of Sunday, Bloody Sunday.
The twist! I did NOT see that coming, and I LOVE it! Just when the show was feeling comfortably formulaic, here came this brilliant twist to make me salivate for the last couple of episodes. Praise to you, oh Dexter writers, and praise as always to Michael C. Hall, and I fully endorse the Emmy that I expect Jimmy Smits to dance off with for this season.
Lastly, though they reside on Monday instead of Sunday, since we're also down to the penultimate episode of Boston Legal, I wanted to give a mention to David E. Kelley's drama. Spader and Shattner weren't on my favorite film actors list, but they sure do give any couple, (even Sandler and Barrymore) a run for their money for best couple ever.
Alan Shore and Denny Crane are a match made in heaven, both comedic and dramatic. This show was one of the liberal bastions that made living through the W years bearable as Kelley constantly railed against the ridiculous and outrageous by using Denny and Alan as his loving, confrontational mouthpieces. They are what Alan Sorkin so desperately wanted his star-crossed couple on the ill-fated Studio 60 to be. Except where Sorkin failed, Kelley succeeded and exceeded. They are a bromance to make even Judd Apatow jealous. Not despite them, but because of their radically different values and constant bickering, Alan and Denny are truly one of the great love affairs for the ages, and it'll be sad to smoke that last cigar.
Entourage, well, the boys wrapped it up, too, and after a grueling year that tested Vince's patience and pride, and therefore pushed me to testing my patience with him, the unthinkable happened: Vince broke up with Eric! And I was not at all happy about it! I was actually pissed at Vince. PISSED. But, of course, it is Entourage and everything ended up more than okay when the big guinea, Martin Scorsese, swooped in to save the day. Tony Bennett and Martin Scorsese in the same season! It's enough to make me tune in next year again, even if they are hitting levels of unforeseen douchery overall.
And then there's Dexter, still managing to be the superstar of Sunday, Bloody Sunday.
The twist! I did NOT see that coming, and I LOVE it! Just when the show was feeling comfortably formulaic, here came this brilliant twist to make me salivate for the last couple of episodes. Praise to you, oh Dexter writers, and praise as always to Michael C. Hall, and I fully endorse the Emmy that I expect Jimmy Smits to dance off with for this season.
Lastly, though they reside on Monday instead of Sunday, since we're also down to the penultimate episode of Boston Legal, I wanted to give a mention to David E. Kelley's drama. Spader and Shattner weren't on my favorite film actors list, but they sure do give any couple, (even Sandler and Barrymore) a run for their money for best couple ever.
Alan Shore and Denny Crane are a match made in heaven, both comedic and dramatic. This show was one of the liberal bastions that made living through the W years bearable as Kelley constantly railed against the ridiculous and outrageous by using Denny and Alan as his loving, confrontational mouthpieces. They are what Alan Sorkin so desperately wanted his star-crossed couple on the ill-fated Studio 60 to be. Except where Sorkin failed, Kelley succeeded and exceeded. They are a bromance to make even Judd Apatow jealous. Not despite them, but because of their radically different values and constant bickering, Alan and Denny are truly one of the great love affairs for the ages, and it'll be sad to smoke that last cigar.
Adam Sandler -- Gimme More Barrymore!
Well, I hope I'm not putting the hex on Adam Sandler by talking about him next. I'd just gotten through blabbing about the pleasures of Vince Vaughn, only to actually go see Four Christmases and get a fairly grinchy feeling going about him. It's now two years in a row that Vince has wrecked Christmas movies, first with Fred Claus and now with this year's un-funny holiday drag. But hey, at least Jon Favreau looked fantastic in it! And I hope Adam fares better in his upcoming seemingly kid-friendly epic Bedtime Stories. But even if it turns out to be a turkey, I'll forgive Sandler more quickly than I forgive Vaughn, mainly because his track record is better, and, after all, he does know turkeys.
Just how much do I like Adam Sandler? Well, how's this -- I know all the lyrics to Lunch Lady Land. Not enough? Okay. I'm probably one of only three people in existence who actually liked Punch Drunk Love. I did. I liked it! A lot. And I'm not one of those people who encourage comedians to do "serious" work. Frankly, it mostly pisses me off when they do that. But I still liked that movie.
I know a lot of people really can't stand his humor. People with good taste, people whose funny bone I respect! And I can't even explain why I do laugh at his shenanigans. It's obvious humor, often stupid, but I guess what I like is that he's got this soft, cuddly appeal, and then, just below that is that explosive, juvenile temper, and then, beneath that is more cuddly appeal. I like that he's always casting Steve Buscemi and also Rob Schneider (He can do it!), not to mention all his other buddies, who even made their own damn film which made me giggle (Grandma's Boy).
Even better? He's got great taste in his love-interest co-stars. Joey Lauren Adams, Marisa Tomei, Winona Ryder, Drew Barrymore, and, again, Drew Barrymore.
It's hard for me to pick a favorite between those two flicks. They're both sneaky in their charm, even if they are obvious in their laughs. And Drew Barrymore is a romantic comedy darling. She's both beautiful and adorably cute with a talent for pratfalls along with her lispy innocence. In The Wedding Singer they successfully mine bad '80s fashion, Billy Idol, and youthful romance with a banterful elan. But in 50 First Dates, they get to frolick in the gorgeous Hawaiian setting while infusing the light comedy with some truly touching deep devotion in the romance.
It's still a silly comedy, and not quite classic screwball. But Sandler and Barrymore are a classic, enchanting pairing with absolutely mad chemistry. Something about them onscreen just clicks and connects and feels right as a couple. Not the steamiest couple ever, or the most dreamy, or even the most witty. But together, they do seem like the perfect fit, and a matchup made to last from the '80s to the '00s, (<--I pronounce that "the oughts" by the way) and from the east coast to the Pacific.
Just how much do I like Adam Sandler? Well, how's this -- I know all the lyrics to Lunch Lady Land. Not enough? Okay. I'm probably one of only three people in existence who actually liked Punch Drunk Love. I did. I liked it! A lot. And I'm not one of those people who encourage comedians to do "serious" work. Frankly, it mostly pisses me off when they do that. But I still liked that movie.
I know a lot of people really can't stand his humor. People with good taste, people whose funny bone I respect! And I can't even explain why I do laugh at his shenanigans. It's obvious humor, often stupid, but I guess what I like is that he's got this soft, cuddly appeal, and then, just below that is that explosive, juvenile temper, and then, beneath that is more cuddly appeal. I like that he's always casting Steve Buscemi and also Rob Schneider (He can do it!), not to mention all his other buddies, who even made their own damn film which made me giggle (Grandma's Boy).
Even better? He's got great taste in his love-interest co-stars. Joey Lauren Adams, Marisa Tomei, Winona Ryder, Drew Barrymore, and, again, Drew Barrymore.
It's hard for me to pick a favorite between those two flicks. They're both sneaky in their charm, even if they are obvious in their laughs. And Drew Barrymore is a romantic comedy darling. She's both beautiful and adorably cute with a talent for pratfalls along with her lispy innocence. In The Wedding Singer they successfully mine bad '80s fashion, Billy Idol, and youthful romance with a banterful elan. But in 50 First Dates, they get to frolick in the gorgeous Hawaiian setting while infusing the light comedy with some truly touching deep devotion in the romance.
It's still a silly comedy, and not quite classic screwball. But Sandler and Barrymore are a classic, enchanting pairing with absolutely mad chemistry. Something about them onscreen just clicks and connects and feels right as a couple. Not the steamiest couple ever, or the most dreamy, or even the most witty. But together, they do seem like the perfect fit, and a matchup made to last from the '80s to the '00s, (<--I pronounce that "the oughts" by the way) and from the east coast to the Pacific.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Interviews, Felonies, and Discounts
As I've mentioned, I've got a story in Susie Bright's new book, X: The Erotic Treasury
Susie conducted interviews with the contributors, regarding our stories and inspirations and sex and writerly things. A sample from mine:
Has your work ever been banned in a nation, or seized at Customs?
Answer: My work hasn't, but I have! I'm still not allowed to return to the Bahamas. That was
such a fun trip!
You can check out the entire interview here, along with people much more interesting than I am. People like Amorous Woman author Donna George Storey, whose short "Yes" is featured in the collection. And, of course, many other erotic-literati answer questions.
And, of course, even better than the interviews are the actual stories, and the book is so beautifully packaged it'd make a lovely, high-end holiday gift.
Also, forgive me for repeating myself, but since books do make such wonderful gifts, and since they make affordable gifts, I'll remind you that one of mine is currently on sale. 24/7 -- now on sale for $12.59, and with free shipping! With things getting tighter, you may not be able to take a trip to Vegas, but this book will take you on a virtual tour, and nearly get you laid.
Susie conducted interviews with the contributors, regarding our stories and inspirations and sex and writerly things. A sample from mine:
Has your work ever been banned in a nation, or seized at Customs?
Answer: My work hasn't, but I have! I'm still not allowed to return to the Bahamas. That was
such a fun trip!
You can check out the entire interview here, along with people much more interesting than I am. People like Amorous Woman author Donna George Storey, whose short "Yes" is featured in the collection. And, of course, many other erotic-literati answer questions.
And, of course, even better than the interviews are the actual stories, and the book is so beautifully packaged it'd make a lovely, high-end holiday gift.
Also, forgive me for repeating myself, but since books do make such wonderful gifts, and since they make affordable gifts, I'll remind you that one of mine is currently on sale. 24/7 -- now on sale for $12.59, and with free shipping! With things getting tighter, you may not be able to take a trip to Vegas, but this book will take you on a virtual tour, and nearly get you laid.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Frat Party
I like to laugh. I like urbane and witty repartee, I like squirmy, uncomfortable humor, I like screwball and romantic comedy. But I also really like good, old idiotic chuckles. Juvenile, bad-taste, borderline offensive silly slapstick -- often the kind of shit that you'd associate with frat boys. Which is precisely why the Frat Pack cracks me up. Though I'm often confused on the particulars of full membership status (Jon Favreau -- why not?) I do know enough to pick out my favorite major movies.
It's a tough call to pick my favorite Ben Stiller flick, because I also hold a strong affinity for Farrelly Brother movies, and still think that the first fifteen minutes of There's Something About Mary is some of the funniest film ever. But even though the Farrellys have also worked with Jack Black, they aren't really considered in the core of the Frat Pack, and I do have a Stiller flick that I think I like even better.
Zoolander got buried at the box office when audiences flocked away from the stupid comedy in the wake of 9/11. But it's still one of the silliest and most satisfying on Stiller's resume. It's a family affair, with his wife and dad both turning in funny performances, and even features a cameo by his mom. Will Ferrell nearly steals the show, and it's at least once a week that I wail "I feel like I'm taking crazy pills!" Also, the world would be a poorer place without the Blue Steel.
Close on the heels of Zoolander comes quite possibly the most packy of the Frat flicks -- Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy. With the notable exception of Owen Wilson, this film features nearly all the full-fledged packers and even a fine assortment of pledges. It may even be the film that drew Steve Carrell into the craziness, and his Brick -- particularly when killing a man with a trident or holding pants parties -- is a true highlight. There's also Christina Appelgate, who shows off fine comedic timing as Tits McGee. But Anchorman is primarily a Will Ferrell vehicle, showcasing his loud, obnoxious outbursts and stupendously self-involved stupidity.
If there's a movie more underrated than Zoolander, it's probably Anchorman, which is probably the one of the single most quotable flicks ever. (Go back to your home on whore island! I'm 72% sure that I love you. Smelly pirate hooker.) It's not high-brow, but it sure does make me laugh. As much as I laughed at Talladega Nights, and enjoy Elf (again, that Favreau guy pops up on the periphery), and yeah, I still bounce my head to that Roxbury song, Anchorman ties down the number one spot for Ferrell for me.
And, of course, I can't talk about the Frat Pack without talking about the tall cool one, Vince Vaughn. Written by his pal Jon Favreau, Swingers launched motor-mouth Vince into full-fledged stardom. And I do love Swingers with its Rat Packy vibe, trip to Vegas, and freelance feel. But the pairing of Vince and Owen Wilson was given a warm reception by the public at large and its charm, and Vince's, is undeniable.
Wedding Crashers has its problems. There's an abundance of humor that's homophobic and therefore somewhat offensive. And yet, how can you NOT love Todd Cleary?
Everything about this breezy romantic comedy clicks, and even though Owen is the "lead," Vince more than holds his own. Those plaid pants. The motorboating on the stairway. The dancing. The freaking out about stage four virgin clingers. Getting shrapnel plucked from his ass. It's good shit. It's the kind of thing that makes you wish you had hung out more with Seamus O'Toole and Bobby O'Shea at those frat parties back in the day.
It's a tough call to pick my favorite Ben Stiller flick, because I also hold a strong affinity for Farrelly Brother movies, and still think that the first fifteen minutes of There's Something About Mary is some of the funniest film ever. But even though the Farrellys have also worked with Jack Black, they aren't really considered in the core of the Frat Pack, and I do have a Stiller flick that I think I like even better.
Zoolander got buried at the box office when audiences flocked away from the stupid comedy in the wake of 9/11. But it's still one of the silliest and most satisfying on Stiller's resume. It's a family affair, with his wife and dad both turning in funny performances, and even features a cameo by his mom. Will Ferrell nearly steals the show, and it's at least once a week that I wail "I feel like I'm taking crazy pills!" Also, the world would be a poorer place without the Blue Steel.
Close on the heels of Zoolander comes quite possibly the most packy of the Frat flicks -- Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy. With the notable exception of Owen Wilson, this film features nearly all the full-fledged packers and even a fine assortment of pledges. It may even be the film that drew Steve Carrell into the craziness, and his Brick -- particularly when killing a man with a trident or holding pants parties -- is a true highlight. There's also Christina Appelgate, who shows off fine comedic timing as Tits McGee. But Anchorman is primarily a Will Ferrell vehicle, showcasing his loud, obnoxious outbursts and stupendously self-involved stupidity.
If there's a movie more underrated than Zoolander, it's probably Anchorman, which is probably the one of the single most quotable flicks ever. (Go back to your home on whore island! I'm 72% sure that I love you. Smelly pirate hooker.) It's not high-brow, but it sure does make me laugh. As much as I laughed at Talladega Nights, and enjoy Elf (again, that Favreau guy pops up on the periphery), and yeah, I still bounce my head to that Roxbury song, Anchorman ties down the number one spot for Ferrell for me.
And, of course, I can't talk about the Frat Pack without talking about the tall cool one, Vince Vaughn. Written by his pal Jon Favreau, Swingers launched motor-mouth Vince into full-fledged stardom. And I do love Swingers with its Rat Packy vibe, trip to Vegas, and freelance feel. But the pairing of Vince and Owen Wilson was given a warm reception by the public at large and its charm, and Vince's, is undeniable.
Wedding Crashers has its problems. There's an abundance of humor that's homophobic and therefore somewhat offensive. And yet, how can you NOT love Todd Cleary?
Everything about this breezy romantic comedy clicks, and even though Owen is the "lead," Vince more than holds his own. Those plaid pants. The motorboating on the stairway. The dancing. The freaking out about stage four virgin clingers. Getting shrapnel plucked from his ass. It's good shit. It's the kind of thing that makes you wish you had hung out more with Seamus O'Toole and Bobby O'Shea at those frat parties back in the day.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Sex in Vegas for Sale -- and On Sale
Zumaya Publications is having a big 30% off (and free shipping!) sale for the next three weeks. My book, 24/7 is among the titles being offered for this sale. So, if you've ever been curious about what I write, other than Idol blog posts and blatherings about movies and tv shows, now is an excellent time to treat yourself to an early holiday gift, as it's only $12.79. (Free Shipping!)
As an extra special bonus, since my publisher is offering this sale and free shipping, if you take advantage of the sale and pick up a copy of the book now, I'd be happy to sign it for you and pay for the shipping to you. You could either have the book shipped to you and then mail it to me, or ship it directly to me. Either way, I'll sign it and send it back to you and pick up the cost of that postage. Or, alternately, to save the whole extra shipping, you can let me know you ordered a copy, and I can send you a signed bookplate that you can place in the book.
So if you're into raunchy, racy fiction -- or if you know someone else who is and want to get some gift shopping done -- now's the time to get a good deal. Here's the official blurb on the book:
Marina Martino is a bright, young woman who has a talent for counting cards. Miguel Rodriguez is a charming casino dealer. Sparks fly when they meet during a serendipitous game of blackjack. But as they become entangled in a dizzying romance through Sin City, details about Miguel's dark past surface and Marina begins to doubt his intentions as the stakes rise and danger unfolds. In the city of illusion, the normally calculating Marina has to make a decision to trust her brains or her heart - to bet on her skill or push her luck.
And, of course, it's chock full of lots of scandalous sex. Click here for the sale: $12.79 and free shipping.
And even if you're not into my style, do remember that books make great gifts and give the rest of Zumaya's bookstore a browse. You might find something else you fancy for 30% off.
As an extra special bonus, since my publisher is offering this sale and free shipping, if you take advantage of the sale and pick up a copy of the book now, I'd be happy to sign it for you and pay for the shipping to you. You could either have the book shipped to you and then mail it to me, or ship it directly to me. Either way, I'll sign it and send it back to you and pick up the cost of that postage. Or, alternately, to save the whole extra shipping, you can let me know you ordered a copy, and I can send you a signed bookplate that you can place in the book.
So if you're into raunchy, racy fiction -- or if you know someone else who is and want to get some gift shopping done -- now's the time to get a good deal. Here's the official blurb on the book:
Marina Martino is a bright, young woman who has a talent for counting cards. Miguel Rodriguez is a charming casino dealer. Sparks fly when they meet during a serendipitous game of blackjack. But as they become entangled in a dizzying romance through Sin City, details about Miguel's dark past surface and Marina begins to doubt his intentions as the stakes rise and danger unfolds. In the city of illusion, the normally calculating Marina has to make a decision to trust her brains or her heart - to bet on her skill or push her luck.
And, of course, it's chock full of lots of scandalous sex. Click here for the sale: $12.79 and free shipping.
And even if you're not into my style, do remember that books make great gifts and give the rest of Zumaya's bookstore a browse. You might find something else you fancy for 30% off.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Building the Not So Perfect Beasts
The great thing about cable TV shows is how good they can be, how different from regular network fare. Quirky and kinky, demented and delicious. But the downside is they also have incredibly short seasons. HBO and Showtime's shows typically run 12 to 13 episodes a season, often with extremely long lag times of over a year between seasons. If it's Californication, which overstays its welcome pathetically quickly, that's a good thing. If it's Entourage, after the season they're ending, it's not shattering. But the truly vampy, campy True Blood is going to be sorely missed over the winter, as will the equally sinister, though slightly less bloody Dexter.
I love David Duchovny, but the novelty of his charm really can't pull the crass Californication out of the dreary mire of bad TV any longer. And whatever they pay Jeremy Piven, and Rex Lee, on Entourage should really be increased. Because those two did manage to keep that rapidly sinking show afloat this year. Ari and Lloyd just don't get old, and they've got me wishing that Doug Ellin and Co would consider branching out. Shows age and I know it's generally a death knell when they're forced to bring on new characters. But I have really lost the capacity to give a shit about Vince and his posse this season. The worst part? I even sort of like Eric now, but it's only in a bland way. But the whole season of Vince getting ground down just didn't play, possibly because he was such a bitch about some of the circumstances, and possibly because it just got too over-the-top and redundant. We saw brief of flashes of Ari with a couple of his other clients. Jeffrey Tambor was hilarious, and even the smarmy Mark Wahlberg appearance was a relief. (If they want to do clever meta-funny, they need to bring on Donny Wahlberg and have him face off with Drama. Now that'd be wink-wink funny, and probably funny.) And though Seth Green again juiced up the show with some ridiculous antics for an episode, on the whole, as this season closes, I find myself wishing Ari would find another movie-star wannabe or two and then they could show us those people and their posse as they navigate Hollywood from the shallow shores to the rocky reefs in even shallower shores.
I still want to love the boys, but they've hit levels of stupidity, vapidity, and just downright self-centered meanness this year that frayed my patience for their shenanigans. Drama, don't cock-block Turtle! Ever!
Oddly, nearly all the characters on True Blood fray my edges, too, and yet I'm still riveted because the plot pulses along, and it's precisely everyone's idiocy that allows the twists. Anna Paquin's Sookie, I can forgive a lot. Frankly, I like that she's got such a hard bitch edge under that sweet exterior. And considering the level of trauma she's suffered, and her young age, I can even go along with her fatuous self-involvement. It's not an attractive trait how utterly involved with herself she is, but it's fairly accurate and allows her swings in emotion to keep things with loverboy Bill tense. But this week pushed the envelope of believability: Bill's on trial for murder and she gets huffy that he's been unavailable to serve her needs for two whole days so she flings herself at Sam, even though she knows that he's taken up with her best friend. And her best friend? Tara could be lying in a ditch dead, but neither Sam nor Sookie seem too concerned about it. And yet, it feels not so much like convenient writing as actually in-character actions from these two to behave this way! So I can go with it!
And as for Bill, I've finally warmed to him, probably because he's finally getting put through the wringer. He was forced to be a "maker" last week as punishment for his murder of another vampire. But his baby-vamp Jessica turned out to be even more of a monster than you'd expect for a vampire, in the most hilarious way.
Not only does he have to frustratedly deal with Jessica whining about hunger and calling him a dick, but then he returns home to find Sookie making out with Sam! I love it. I love it nearly as much as I love Lafayette, who's rapidly vying with Lloyd for my favorite Sunday night side dish.
And when it comes to creating monsters, it's not just Bill who took the protege-plunge and had his creation come out a little icky. Over on Dexter, Jimmy Smits has taken a creepy turn to send shivers up my spine.
This isn't exactly new territory for Dexter. Season One was all about Dexter coming to grips with his identity and accepting the solitude it'd bring him, and then discovering kin and kind in the ice truck killer. Then, in season two, we had the British invasion where Dex thought maybe crazy arsonist Lila could light his fire and understand him. Neither of those experiments turned out so well. So this season, we've got Jimmy Smits as ADA Miguel Prado, and he's got a dirty little hidden agenda. Hoping, again, for camaraderie and understanding, Dex allowed this guy to insinuate himself into Dexter's life waaay too deeply. As disturbing as it is to have James Remar ever be right, Dex should've been listening to his dearly departed dad on this one, but, luckily for viewers, and for Prado's bloodlust, Dex has started training another killer. But, much like Bill's Jessica, Dexter's protege just goes a little over the edge. (Let's hope over on Entourage, Ari's new agen-pal played by Gary Cole is even half the disaster these two have parented!) I think we all know exactly where this is going to end up for Dexter, but that hardly matters. How it gets there is all the fun. I just wish there were more episodes of all this crazy killer madness.
I love David Duchovny, but the novelty of his charm really can't pull the crass Californication out of the dreary mire of bad TV any longer. And whatever they pay Jeremy Piven, and Rex Lee, on Entourage should really be increased. Because those two did manage to keep that rapidly sinking show afloat this year. Ari and Lloyd just don't get old, and they've got me wishing that Doug Ellin and Co would consider branching out. Shows age and I know it's generally a death knell when they're forced to bring on new characters. But I have really lost the capacity to give a shit about Vince and his posse this season. The worst part? I even sort of like Eric now, but it's only in a bland way. But the whole season of Vince getting ground down just didn't play, possibly because he was such a bitch about some of the circumstances, and possibly because it just got too over-the-top and redundant. We saw brief of flashes of Ari with a couple of his other clients. Jeffrey Tambor was hilarious, and even the smarmy Mark Wahlberg appearance was a relief. (If they want to do clever meta-funny, they need to bring on Donny Wahlberg and have him face off with Drama. Now that'd be wink-wink funny, and probably funny.) And though Seth Green again juiced up the show with some ridiculous antics for an episode, on the whole, as this season closes, I find myself wishing Ari would find another movie-star wannabe or two and then they could show us those people and their posse as they navigate Hollywood from the shallow shores to the rocky reefs in even shallower shores.
I still want to love the boys, but they've hit levels of stupidity, vapidity, and just downright self-centered meanness this year that frayed my patience for their shenanigans. Drama, don't cock-block Turtle! Ever!
Oddly, nearly all the characters on True Blood fray my edges, too, and yet I'm still riveted because the plot pulses along, and it's precisely everyone's idiocy that allows the twists. Anna Paquin's Sookie, I can forgive a lot. Frankly, I like that she's got such a hard bitch edge under that sweet exterior. And considering the level of trauma she's suffered, and her young age, I can even go along with her fatuous self-involvement. It's not an attractive trait how utterly involved with herself she is, but it's fairly accurate and allows her swings in emotion to keep things with loverboy Bill tense. But this week pushed the envelope of believability: Bill's on trial for murder and she gets huffy that he's been unavailable to serve her needs for two whole days so she flings herself at Sam, even though she knows that he's taken up with her best friend. And her best friend? Tara could be lying in a ditch dead, but neither Sam nor Sookie seem too concerned about it. And yet, it feels not so much like convenient writing as actually in-character actions from these two to behave this way! So I can go with it!
And as for Bill, I've finally warmed to him, probably because he's finally getting put through the wringer. He was forced to be a "maker" last week as punishment for his murder of another vampire. But his baby-vamp Jessica turned out to be even more of a monster than you'd expect for a vampire, in the most hilarious way.
Not only does he have to frustratedly deal with Jessica whining about hunger and calling him a dick, but then he returns home to find Sookie making out with Sam! I love it. I love it nearly as much as I love Lafayette, who's rapidly vying with Lloyd for my favorite Sunday night side dish.
And when it comes to creating monsters, it's not just Bill who took the protege-plunge and had his creation come out a little icky. Over on Dexter, Jimmy Smits has taken a creepy turn to send shivers up my spine.
This isn't exactly new territory for Dexter. Season One was all about Dexter coming to grips with his identity and accepting the solitude it'd bring him, and then discovering kin and kind in the ice truck killer. Then, in season two, we had the British invasion where Dex thought maybe crazy arsonist Lila could light his fire and understand him. Neither of those experiments turned out so well. So this season, we've got Jimmy Smits as ADA Miguel Prado, and he's got a dirty little hidden agenda. Hoping, again, for camaraderie and understanding, Dex allowed this guy to insinuate himself into Dexter's life waaay too deeply. As disturbing as it is to have James Remar ever be right, Dex should've been listening to his dearly departed dad on this one, but, luckily for viewers, and for Prado's bloodlust, Dex has started training another killer. But, much like Bill's Jessica, Dexter's protege just goes a little over the edge. (Let's hope over on Entourage, Ari's new agen-pal played by Gary Cole is even half the disaster these two have parented!) I think we all know exactly where this is going to end up for Dexter, but that hardly matters. How it gets there is all the fun. I just wish there were more episodes of all this crazy killer madness.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Brainy Book
I just finished Kirsten Menger-Anderson's debut collection of short stories Doctor Olaf van Schuler's Brain. Loved it. Unique, absorbing, and animated, this is the kind of book that makes me wonder why it's so difficult for writers to get short story collections published. But then I think about it again and realize that the difficulty is probably because most collections just aren't as good and cohesive as this one.
It's got a great premise. The short stories begin in the 17th century when the titular character, Dr. Olaf is forced to flee from the Old World to then New Amsterdam when his propensity for slipping into catatonic spells culminates in him performing a fatal bloodletting -- and then deciding it best to go on ahead and dissect the brain of the corpse. So he brings his insane mother with him to the New World, and she is tantamount to his determination to continue to dissect brains, as he's certain he can cure her if he keeps researching. But, you know, Dr. Olaf is a bit off his rocker, too, what with the blackouts and lunatic ravings. Menger-Anderson then follows his offspring through generations as they become physicians and wrestle with the vogue maladies and chic cures of the day.
The writing in this collection is remarkable itself. Subtle and smart, Kirsten is able to alter her style to match the mood of the story and of the day to more fully immerse the reader in the already vivid historical detail. But it is still character that rules the day, and wisely so. As we move through time, although these are descendants of Dr. Olaf, each with their own story, there are recurring threads which give this collection an almost novel-like approach. There are plenty of mad men and willful women, particularly in times when that wasn't a desirable trait in one's daughter or would-be lover. In the pivotal "Hysteria," set in the early 1800's, an unhappily married doctor must demand his daughter quit her beloved job at the prison so that she may receive proper suitors, all while he resents his own wife from steering and manipulating him away from his own true love. The pendulum swings back as the daughter grows up, and, after being married and having a child of her own, her husband departs across the country to scout their relocation. The daughter, however, again takes up work at an institute where phrenology is the brilliant fad, and she eventually forces her father to allow her to begin the practice in their home.
There are hypnotists and shock therapy in here, and we move from suffragettes to silicone implants, until we finally meet another father-daughter pair, this time, both of them physicians, but again, both of them struggling to balance on the fine and important line between work and family, science and social desires, and what is most important to keep propelling forward, not just for this family, but also for humanity. And, again, it is the brain of one that drives the other in their decisions.
It's got a great premise. The short stories begin in the 17th century when the titular character, Dr. Olaf is forced to flee from the Old World to then New Amsterdam when his propensity for slipping into catatonic spells culminates in him performing a fatal bloodletting -- and then deciding it best to go on ahead and dissect the brain of the corpse. So he brings his insane mother with him to the New World, and she is tantamount to his determination to continue to dissect brains, as he's certain he can cure her if he keeps researching. But, you know, Dr. Olaf is a bit off his rocker, too, what with the blackouts and lunatic ravings. Menger-Anderson then follows his offspring through generations as they become physicians and wrestle with the vogue maladies and chic cures of the day.
The writing in this collection is remarkable itself. Subtle and smart, Kirsten is able to alter her style to match the mood of the story and of the day to more fully immerse the reader in the already vivid historical detail. But it is still character that rules the day, and wisely so. As we move through time, although these are descendants of Dr. Olaf, each with their own story, there are recurring threads which give this collection an almost novel-like approach. There are plenty of mad men and willful women, particularly in times when that wasn't a desirable trait in one's daughter or would-be lover. In the pivotal "Hysteria," set in the early 1800's, an unhappily married doctor must demand his daughter quit her beloved job at the prison so that she may receive proper suitors, all while he resents his own wife from steering and manipulating him away from his own true love. The pendulum swings back as the daughter grows up, and, after being married and having a child of her own, her husband departs across the country to scout their relocation. The daughter, however, again takes up work at an institute where phrenology is the brilliant fad, and she eventually forces her father to allow her to begin the practice in their home.
There are hypnotists and shock therapy in here, and we move from suffragettes to silicone implants, until we finally meet another father-daughter pair, this time, both of them physicians, but again, both of them struggling to balance on the fine and important line between work and family, science and social desires, and what is most important to keep propelling forward, not just for this family, but also for humanity. And, again, it is the brain of one that drives the other in their decisions.
Sunday, November 09, 2008
Grant at his Grandest
Cary Grant and Grace Kelly. The French Riviera. A comedy by Hitchcock. Those first three gems are enough to make a stunning picture. But even that last, unlikely component -- a Hitchcock comedy ends up making this piece the crown jewel on several already luminary careers in 1955's To Catch a Thief.
Cary Grant, to this day, exemplifies the dashing, suave, charming, and handsome leading man. His X factor was always off the charts, and he sure could deliver witty, wry comedy. But as retired jewel thief John "the cat" Robie, his carefree, cavorting lifestyle gets cramped when a copycat thief begins burgling in his backyard. So why not enlist the help of an American heiress to track down the real thief to clear his name? Especially when that heiress is none other than Grace Kelly.
Between the costumes, the setting, and the two leads, this picture is a visual feast. It's also a bit of a departure for Hitchcock, because although it's suspenseful, it's also romantic, and the cheeky dialogue still glitters today.
Cary Grant, by this time in his career, merely had to show up, and his likeability factor could command everything else. But he does more than just clock in here. He's everything you ever expect from him. He's Cary Grant, and that's more than enough to steal any woman's heart.
Cary Grant, to this day, exemplifies the dashing, suave, charming, and handsome leading man. His X factor was always off the charts, and he sure could deliver witty, wry comedy. But as retired jewel thief John "the cat" Robie, his carefree, cavorting lifestyle gets cramped when a copycat thief begins burgling in his backyard. So why not enlist the help of an American heiress to track down the real thief to clear his name? Especially when that heiress is none other than Grace Kelly.
Between the costumes, the setting, and the two leads, this picture is a visual feast. It's also a bit of a departure for Hitchcock, because although it's suspenseful, it's also romantic, and the cheeky dialogue still glitters today.
Cary Grant, by this time in his career, merely had to show up, and his likeability factor could command everything else. But he does more than just clock in here. He's everything you ever expect from him. He's Cary Grant, and that's more than enough to steal any woman's heart.
Tuesday, November 04, 2008
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