Ξ August 23rd, 2008 | → 0 Comments | ∇ Music |
For my dad, a rare and beautiful flower.
Gathering Flowers for the Master’s Bouquet (recorded by many)
Written by Marvin E. Baumgardner.
Death is an angel sent down from above,
Sent for the buds of the flowers we love.
Surely it’s so, for in heaven’s own way,
Each soul is a flower in the Master’s Bouquet.
Gathering flowers for the Master’s Bouquet,
Beautiful flowers that will never decay.
Gathered by angels and carried away,
Forever to bloom in the Master’s Bouquet.
Loved ones are passing each day and each hour,
Passing away as the life of a flower.
But every bud and each blossom some day,
Will bloom as a flower in the Master’s Bouquet.
Gathering flowers for the Master’s Bouquet,
Beautiful flowers that will never decay.
Gathered by angels and carried away,
Forever to bloom in the Master’s Bouquet.
Let us be faithful ‘til life’s work is done,
Blooming with love till the Reaper shall come.
Then we’ll be gathered together some day,
Transplanted to bloom in the Master’s Bouquet.
Gathering flowers for the Master’s Bouquet,
Beautiful flowers that will never decay.
Gathered by angels and carried away,
Forever to bloom in the Master’s Bouquet.
1958. Starring Orson Welles, Charlton Heston, Janet Leigh. Directed by Orson Welles.
Hollywood never knew how to handle a genius like Orson Welles, which may be why he’s such an enigma today. When I was growing up, he was a walking metaphor for unrestrained appetites and shameful failure, self-deprecating in his TV appearances and insincere in his grotesque-gourmand image of a pitchman for Gallo wine. Only years later, after seeing Citizen Kane and The Third Man and Lady From Shanghai, did I realize that I had misjudged him.
Once I saw Touch of Evil, though, my appreciation of Welles took a giant leap. Film noir through a sideshow hall of mirrors, like Twin Peaks with fedoras, Touch of Evil is about corruption and vengeance, and is so oily and damp that you can almost smell the sleazy characters.
Charlton Heston (a truly confounding casting choice) portrays Miguel Vargas, a Mexican detective about to honeymoon with new bride, Janet Leigh. They never get started as a car bombing forces the Mexican and American police to cooperate on the investigation — cooperation that is suspended when esteemed Hank Quinlan (Welles) appears on the scene, and quickly arrests his first suspect. But was the arrest based on one of Hank’s “hunches” or did the evidence mysteriously appear in the suspect’s possession, as it has in so many of his past cases?
Meanwhile, the new Mrs. Vargas has been transported to wait at a remote hotel, managed by the strange Dennis Weaver (his character seems Scandanavian AND bi-polar), who would seem to be riffing on Psycho’s Norman Bates — if not for Psycho being released two years later. But the hotel is actually owned by the Grandi gang, a Mexican gang of bikers and small-time thugs who have been following and tormenting Leigh. They attempt to derail Vargas’ investigation into the gang’s crimes by kidnapping his wife, drugging her and framing him for a murder.
Yeah, it’s hard to follow, but you won’t mind a second viewing, because you’ll never see filmmaking like this again. The opening scene is studied in film school, as a bomb is planted in a closeup that expands to an overhead establishing shot, then follows a couple down the street as they pass the car with the bomb, which then drives by, all while dialogue sets up the characters and kicks the plot into motion.
Every shot in Touch of Evil is something special — the lighting, the framing, the movement, the sets. The characters talk over each other, move in and out of each other’s scenes, uncomfortably squeezed face to face in scenes where you have to watch everyone’s expression. Welles is sweaty, unshaven, bloated and rumpled as the veteran cop. “Don’t you recognize your old friend? I’m Hank Quinlan,” he asks the oddly-cast fortune teller played by Marlene Dietrich. “You should lay off the candy bars,” she replies. She later tells him, without having to turn over her cards, that he has no future, that it’s all used up.
Welles is very generous in making himself so physically representative of his character’s depravity and corruption. Universal was less generous, taking the editing away from Welles after his first cut. Universal reshot some scenes and released their version, causing Welles to write a 58-page memo of changes to match his original vision. A revised version was produced in 1975, before a team re-edited the film to match Welles’ memo and released it as the “Director’s Cut” in 1998. It may not be exact way Welles wanted it, but it is fantastic, and it’s hard to believe a studio would have ever questioned his genius.
Ξ August 20th, 2008 | → 0 Comments | ∇ TV |
Nothing crushes ambition and productivity quite like receiving the fifth season of The Wire from Netflix. If you haven’t seen any of it, I envy you. Your future could potentially have that many more enjoyable hours. I’d like to forget the whole series and start all over again.
I tore through every season of the Sopranos — excellent writing, superb acting, great end to the series. I’ve watched the entire run of Deadwood twice, and own all three seasons so I can watch it again someday. But I don’t think there has ever been a better work of fiction or non-fiction that portrays the problems of modern urban life than The Wire. The schools, the streets, City Hall, the media and the police all take their lumps, and the answers are as elusive as they are in real life. Every character is multidimensional, all motives are suspect and every time hope is extinguished somewhere in the streets of Baltimore, a little spark reignites down the block.
I’m not even going to talk about the plot — there are a thousand plots in The Wire, hundreds of characters, dozens of themes, a single consistent voice in the series. We’re all in this together, and somehow, life goes on.
Ξ August 19th, 2008 | → 0 Comments | ∇ Music |
I read today that this fall’s college freshmen will have always had GPS as part of their lives. They will have never known the experience of getting lost, of staring at a map, of the humiliation of having to stop and ask for directions — and of course, will never have had the need to figure out where they are on their own. We’ve come a long way from life without indoor plumbing, electricity, cable TV, home computers, iPods and wi-fi. So why are some of us so nostalgic for life before convenience?
The jukebox has survived this time of innovation, but barely. I can barely remember the last time I played one in a bar or restaurant, and that was a CD jukebox. The ability to play the song you need to hear at that moment, to tap into whatever feeling that song evokes, has always been important. And the jukebox plays an enormous role in country music, both as subject (Lattie Moore’s Between the Jukebox and the Phone presents a dilemma that no one born this century will understand: should he spend his last dime on a song or a call home?), or as a means of distribution.
Buck Owens was a king of the jukebox, with his many hit singles and his ability to make you tap your feet while crying in your beer. A-11 is an awkward song, mournful and sentimental, much like you’d imagine the drunk wandering over to see what songs you’re picking and weighing in with his story for each one. The line “I just came in here through force of habit/I don’t intend to spend too much time in here” is loaded with disingenuousness. This is a guy who comes in regularly, waiting for someone to play A-11 so that he can reopen the wound, and relive the love he’s lost.
A-11 (recorded by Buck Owens)
written by Hank Cochran
I don’t know you from Adam
But if you’re gonna play the jukebox
Please don’t play A-11.
I just came in here from force of habit
I don’t intend to spend too much time in here
But I heard you matchin’ for the music
And if you play A-11, there’ll be tears.
I don’t know you from Adam
But if you’re gonna play the jukebox
Please don’t play A-11.
This used to be our favorite spot
And when she was here it was heaven
It was here she told me that she loved me
And she always played A-11.
I don’t know you from Adam
But if you’re gonna play the jukebox
Please don’t play A-11.
So few words, and yet, when blanketed by the steel guitar and enveloped in that Ken Nelson Capitol Records sound, it could choke up the whole bar, making everyone feel lonesome and lost. And there’s no GPS for that feeling.
Ξ August 18th, 2008 | → 0 Comments | ∇ Women |
There’s a song by the Carpetbaggers called “Thank You Lord” in which my good buddy John Magnuson sings the praises of a creator who saw fit to create a variation on man that is superior in almost every way to the original. (I’m relying on country music AND the gospel here, so don’t get too upset.) They don’t seem too crazy about me, but I don’t care. I’m an enthusiastic fan of their gender, and intend this theme as appreciation of what Johnny Horton called “that little difference.” When a man equals the charm or the appeal of any female I include in the series, I’ll admit I was wrong and that’ll be the end of another awkward intended compliment.
Thank you Lord for Anna Faris:
- For being the sole reason for renting Scary Movies 1-4
- For channeling the physical comedy of Carol Burnett and Lucille Ball
- For being the first in a series of women from Washington state (stay tuned)
- For giving me a new movie to see, the House Bunny, which looks kinda good
- Other intangibles (see photo below)
Anna -
It takes a really smart actress to play a dumb bunny. I enjoyed your role in Lost in Translation, as well as every Scary Movie that I’ve seen. (Sorry, I don’t remember which is which.) Those have to have be the toughest roles — playing the straight (wo)man in a parody of horror movies, and being the funniest thing about them. Hope the House Bunny lives up to the promise of its trailer, and good luck in your promising future.
Expecting a restraining order and your continued indifference,
Jeff
1950. Starring John Dall, Peggy Cummins. Directed by Joseph H. Lewis.
The greatest film noir of all time is essentially a love story: love between a man and a woman and their love for guns. When Bart Tare (John Dall) meets Annie Laurie Starr (Peggy Cummins), it’s love at first shot. Bart has just quit as an Army sharpshooter (after a spell in reform school for stealing handguns), and Laurie is starring as a trick shooter in a carnival. Their on-stage flirtation is an incredible scene, as Laurie coyly points at Bart with her pistol as he challenges her to a contest. He lights matches off a target perched on her head to win the contest, and her heart. She “belongs” to the boss — he has a secret he’s holding onto regarding her — but their attraction to each other gets both fired.
Times are good for the young lovers — until the money runs out. Soon they are doing small stickup jobs, then larger robberies to cover their tracks. Laurie has a bad habit of firing back at her pursuers, something Bart hestitates to do since he remembers the early-life trauma of killing a bird. He’s good at heart — as his best friends testify in court and later in life — and he almosts converts Laurie. “I have the feeling that I want to be good,” she coos in his ear. But they are both running out of time.
The couple on the run want to settle down, but they’re broke. So Laurie offers one last job, and John accepts. The job involves a payroll robbery at an Armour meat plant in which they get jobs. The well-executed plan blows up when Laurie kills a supervisor (who criticized her for wearing slacks!) and a security guard. Chased across the country, the fugitives are near freedom when fate catches up with them.
The lust between them, said the carnival boss, makes them look “like wild animals,” and that’s how they are pursued, right up to the end. The finale, as the couple holds off police and bloodhounds in a foggy mountain swamp, is full of tension and romance. Just before the shots ring out, Bart confides, “I wouldn’t have had it any other way.”
Every scene in Gun Crazy looks great — even the montage of the happy couple with the clearly fake backgrounds. The famous scene where Bart robs a bank while Laurie distracts a cop, all filmed in three-and-a-half minutes of real time and from the backseat of the getaway car, is amazing. Peggy Cummins is incredibly sexy in her carnival cowgirl outfit, and John Dall seems totally possessed by her. He really seems capable of taming her wild impulses, if not for his own desperate ones.
Scientists have tested 32 people between the ages of 92 and 102 and found that their blood still carries antibodies created to fight the 1918 flu, responsible for killing 50 million worldwide. And the immunity still works, as tests on mice protected them from the killer flu virus.
The 1918 flu virus has “mutated out of its deadly form” and is no longer a threat (although researchers have used genetic material from flu victims to recreate the virus in a government lab, so watch out), but the antibodies created by the immune systems of those who survived that period have actually grown more potent. Scientists hope to use this study to create vaccines for future epidemics.
Money quote:
“It’s incredible. The Lord has blessed us with antibodies our whole lifetime,” said study co-author Dr. Eric Altschuler at the University of Medicine and Dentistry in New Jersey. “What doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger.”
The study apparently was inspired by a plot in the since-cancelled TV show Medical Investigation, in which a town struck by a revival of the epidemic is saved by a transfusion from an elderly butler. TV drama, is there anything you can’t do?
The study is described by Nature magazine — I’d supply a link, but they don’t appear to be offering the article online. Here’s a link to the AP article.
1968. Directed by Albert and David Maysles.
The men employed by the Mid-America Bible Company have a product that belongs in every home, and comes complete with the blessing of Pope Paul. It should be easy to sell, but the good men followed on their calls in this amazing documentary face closing doors, customers unwilling to commit to a payment plan, and a sales manager who is “sick and tired of being sick and tired of their excuses.” I first saw the Maysles Brothers’ Salesman back in college, but its portrayal of despondent, chain-smoking, cynical door-to-door salesmen has stuck with me.
There’s the Badger, a wornout Irish everyman who sings “If I Were A Rich Man” while he’s out selling overpriced Bibles; the Rabbit, a nervous, fast-talking rookie; the Bull, a relatively successful doughy white guy (to use MST3K parlance); and the Gipper, a craggy, greasy-haired veteran who knows how to bear down on a squirming prospect.
To most people, this film will seem like science fiction: strangers going door-to-door, conniving their way inside homes, and forcing the occupants to endure a scattershot sales pitch, while swatting away excuses like bills, lack of money, and uncertain futures. (The image of salesmen lighting up their cigarettes without asking permission is strange enough.) Someone trying a similar hard sell today would lucky to get out of that home alive.
There are some nearly unbearable scenes. The Badger pushes and pushes a sale to a young housewife, who tries to reject the offer from its beginning. There is the couple who want the $49.95 Bible for their young child, but who cannot afford the $1 a week payment plan — the Gipper sends the very “devout” Badger (pretending to be the sales manager) to collect the downpayment. Nearly every sales call is uncomfortable, and as the salesmen reunite in their shared hotel room to compare their efforts, they all seem to wish to die in their sleep.
But the worst scene may be the sales conference in which a “theological consultant” tells the smoke-filled room of salesmen that Jesus did “his father’s work,” and that they are too — not through the dollars and cents they pry out of some devout-but-poor hands, but through spreading the word of God through the unnecessarily expensive books. The fact that they can state they are “from the church” and visiting with the permission of the local church makes one want to puke.
In Salesman’s closing scene, that’s exactly what it looks like the Badger — facing an uncertain future after a string of failed pitches — is about to do.
Don Helms was a member of Hank Williams’ Drifting Cowboys, which must have been fulfilling and frustrating at the same time. As steel guitarist, he was able to put his signature on some of country music’s most-renown songs but he had a boss whose battles with drugs and alcohol made the lives of all around him difficult, and who played himself off the stage at age 29. Helms continued to work, adding steel guitar to the music of Johnny Cash, the Wilburn Brothers and Lefty Frizzell, among others.
Don Helms was 81, and lived long enough to have a Myspace page. RIP Mr. Helms.
2008. Starring Seth Rogen, James Franco. Directed by David Gordon Green.
The cinematic love-child of Pulp Fiction and Up in Smoke, conceived in a beanbag and delivered during a coughing fit, Pineapple Express is a buddy movie that somehow devolves into an over-the-top bloodbath. Seth Rogen and his co-writer Evan Goldberg wrote the screenplay years ago, and Rogen’s success in Knocked Up, Superbad, and The 40-Year-Old Virgin helped get this made, as well as getting Rogen the lead in the upcoming The Green Lantern epic.
Rogen stars as a process server who wants to be a talk-radio host, but spends much of his time with his unlikely high-school girlfriend and buying pot from the world’s sweetest dealer, played by Franco, who offers a rare blend called Pineapple Express. When Rogen witnesses a murder committed by Franco’s boss, and he’s tracked by the particular brand of weed found at the scene, he scoops up Franco and the pair make a clumsy escape.
There are many funny moments in the first half of the film, including a first round of vicious, cartoonish beatings, and a chase scene in a stolen squad car that seals the buddies’ fate is one of the funnier ones I’ve seen. But once the crime boss (Gary Cole, legendary as Office Space’s Bill Lumbergh) enters the story, most of the laughs evaporate in the gunfire. There are several half-ideas, including the young girlfriend and her unapproving parents, the drug dealer’s devotion to his grandmother, and the competing “Asian” syndicate pulled into a turf war.
Losing one or all of these false starts, and focusing on the buddy relationship would have turned this from a harsh toke to a mellow ride. Franco is funny and likeable, dropping squinty non-sequiters and worrying about his new “BFFF” (the extra F is for what you think it’s for). Rogen plays the straight man (no pun intended, I swear) but takes on a little bit too much for himself. The movie is best and most real when the two are together, arguing about how to escape or how to realize their dreams (Franco’s dealer wants to be a civic engineer, so he can design things like “septic systems for playgrounds, so that little kids can take a shit”).
Choosing Pulp Fiction as an influence (instead of Dumb and Dumber, which it also resembles) means that those dreams gotta take a couple bullets. But the bullets used in Pineapple Express, while plentiful, don’t seem very lethal — I don’t quite understand how someone shot in the stomach twice can eat as many meals in the following 24 hours. And where did all those facial injuries disappear to? And even if a pot warehouse explodes in the woods, and there are no cops to hear it, doesn’t it attract some attention? Is there something in pot that makes a movie reviewer suspend all his disbelief?
Sorry if I’m bumming you out. I liked Superbad a lot more, but Pineapple Express isn’t a bad way to waste a couple hours.
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