Ξ December 28th, 2009 | → 0 Comments | ∇ Movies |
2008. Directed by James Toback.
Mike Tyson’s face is the most convincing proof that he was a boxer. He was shorter than nearly all his opponents. His peculiarly high voice, filtered through an odd lisp that you’d be surprised to hear uncorrected in an adult, made him an easy impersonation, easy to ridicule. His chaotic and scandalous personal life cost him years of freedom, the loss of his fortune, and much of the respect he’d gained in the ring. But I remember his fights. I remember thinking that there was no one more terrifying than Tyson in the ring, fixed with an unblinking and ferocious glare, waiting for the bell so that he could inflict pain.
There was a time that I wouldn’t have surprised to read about Tyson’s death, whether in the ring or in a jail cell. He seemed like an animal — such a loaded term, but a term he applied to himself — when it involved women or opponents. He acted without self-respect or restraint. He seemed almost too conditioned to be a fighter, almost without the personality and character we celebrated in heavyweight champs ever since Ali. After he bit Evander Holyfield, I dismissed him as a wasted soul, beyond redemption as a human being.
James Toback’s documentary challenges your assumptions about Mike Tyson. Nearly the only voice outside of fight clips and TV interviews is that of Tyson. He talks for 90 minutes, steadily and urgently, edited sometimes so that he overtakes his own thoughts, knocking down your expectations and forcing you to confront him through an unguarded, amazingly candid narration.
It’s revealing to listen to this once-furious fighter, renowned for his early and brutal knockouts, to hear him talk about being afraid, being bullied, feeling cheated, at the mercy of an impulsive nature he clearly can’t explain. His narrative mixes metaphors, plows past non sequiturs, earnestly searches for the right words only to settle for something vague and not quite appropriate. But in the hour-and-a-half of recounting his training and career and life since, he says some amazing things for a guy I thought incapable of reflection.
He talks about his pre-fight approach, emerging without a robe and already drenched in sweat, turning his fear into power with each step: “The closer I get to the ring, the more confident I get. Once I’m in the ring, I’m a god. No one could beat me. I walk around the ring but I never take my eyes off my opponent. Even if he’s ready and pumping, and can’t wait to get his hands on me. I keep my eyes on him. I keep my eyes on him. Then once I see a chink in his armor, boom, one of his eyes may move, and then I know I have him. Then once he comes to the center of the ring he looks at me with his piercing look as if he’s not afraid. But he already made that mistake when he looked down for that one-tenth of a second. I know I have him. He’ll fight hard for the first two or three rounds, but I know I broke his spirit.”
Unfortunately, Tyson excuses himself for his abusive behavior toward his wife of eight months, Robin Givens. (Watching him clearly and calmly growing furious during a Barbara Walters interview is unnerving.) And he viciously attacks Desiree Washington, whose charges of rape sent him to prison. But the same angry face with its framing Maori tattoo struggles to stay composed while describing the encouragement and support of Cus D’Amato, the man who first believed in him and trained him to be a champion.
And two amazing post-defeat moments that end Tyson’s career, as well as the film, help illustrate the complexity of the fighter. In the first, after a brutal rout, he gently wipes blood from the face of a triumphant Lennox Lewis, then, in a moment after a humiliating loss that ended his professional career, admits to an interviewer that there’s no fight left in him, that he knew he couldn’t win even before the fight, then graciously wishes the new champ luck with his life and career.
Stories capable of changing your established viewpoints don’t come along everyday. I knew what I thought of Mike Tyson before watching this film, and now I’m not sure. I think boxing is brutal and I think the sport is cynical and exploitative, and I think Tyson was already a dangerous and angry kid before they taught him how to destroy others with his fists. But after listening to him, without the bluster necessary of the ring and without asking anything of him other than his candid recounting of his life, flaws and all, I believe he is a fragile and confused human being, like all of us. And like each of us, I think he is redeemable.
Ξ December 20th, 2009 | → 0 Comments | ∇ Movies |
Seeing old photographs at a garage sale or in an antique store bothers me. Once separated from an ancestor, those photos become untraceable. The faces lose their names, and that person, so real and human during their short toil on earth, becomes a ghost.
My ancestors have been diligent at saving and identifying photographs. Among them are a handful of tintypes, a means of photography in the late 1800s created through an emulsion made on a piece of metal. Several of the ones I’ve got are identified, but one has always puzzled me — a tintype of two Civil War soldiers, one wearing a very comfortable-looking stocking cap.
I’d guessed that the standing soldier is my Great-Great-Grandfather Luther, but couldn’t be sure of the other man, sharing the rare occasion to be photographed with him. This week, my cousin, Jim Frasier (whom I’ve only ever met online, after connecting with him a few years ago), helped shed light on the mystery. Jim guesses that the sitting man is Luther’s brother-in-law, Lorenzo, who enlisted at the same time, back in 1862.
Luther would fight at Fredericksburg, be wounded and discharged to eventually make his way to Wisconsin. Lorenzo would fight at Harpers Ferry, in Florida and Virginia. He would be taken prisoner and held in Illinois, then be killed in an explosion in North Carolina before he was 20 years old. I don’t know much about him. All I’ve got is this image and the details of his service. I don’t know if he was married or had a sweetheart, but I know that when I hear this song, I think about the young men like him who said their goodbyes knowing they likely wouldn’t return to their once-happy lives.
When The Roses Bloom Again (written by Will Cobb and Gus Edwards)
Performed by Laura Cantrell
Well they’re strolling in the gloaming when the roses are in bloom
A soldier and his sweetheart brave and true
And their hearts are filled with sorrow for their thoughts are of tomorrow
As she pins a rose upon his coat of blue
Do not ask me love to linger when you know not what to say
For duty calls your sweetheart’s name again
And your heart need not be sighing that I’ll be among the dying
I’ll be with you when the roses bloom again
When the roses bloom again and the sun is on the river
The mockingbird will sing its sweet refrain
In the days of auld lang syne I’ll be with you sweetheart mine
I’ll be with you when the roses bloom again
With the rattle of the battle came a whisper soft and low
Our soldier has fallen in the fray
I am dying I am dying and I know I’ve got to go
But I want to tell you before I pass away
There’s a far and distant river where the roses are in bloom
And a sweetheart who is waiting there for me
And its there I pray you’ll take me, I’ll be faithful don’t forsake me
I’ll be with you when the roses bloom again
When the roses bloom again and the sun is on the river
The mockingbird will sing its sweet refrain
In the days of auld lang syne I’ll be with you sweetheart mine
I’ll be with you when the roses bloom again
Cantrell’s version of the song is one arranged by Wilco and Billy Bragg, who found the lyrics among those belonging to Woody Guthrie — the lyrics they used to create the Mermaid Avenue record — but Guthrie didn’t write the song. Johnny Cash recorded a very similar version, with a different arrangement. Both are probably based on a traditional song, which wouldn’t surprise me since every generation has sent young people off to die for a cause, and finds reasons to sing about their heartbreak.
Happy revelations like this don’t happen often enough when doing family research. I feel like I’ve got another relative, even though his life was short and long ago, and his story so tragic. Welcome back to the family, Lorenzo Frasier.
Glacier Park Magazine editor Chris Peterson set out to chronicle 100 days in Glacier National Park in preparation for the park’s centennial celebration next year. From his photographs, he chose one for each consecutive day, and they are all amazing. Glacier is one of the most-beautiful places I’ve ever seen, and seems wilder than your average national park. The photos here reflect that. There are bear and moose, but many birds and incredible landscapes.
Peterson adds short anecdotes to each photo, and the best of them add to the enjoyment of the photo. He describes being in the middle of a forlorn mountain trail, setting up his tent among the mosquitoes and an approaching thunderstorm, suffering from a stomach-cramping illness, and accompanies the description with a photo that makes me want to trade places with him.
I’d recommend going to the page, immediately scrolling to the bottom and reading the entries in order. I didn’t want the 100 days to end.
Link: 100 Days in Glacier National Park
Ξ December 5th, 2009 | → 0 Comments | ∇ Music |
I read a statistic this week that a quarter of teenagers today have sexted another; that is, they’ve “shared sexually explicit photos, videos and chat by cell phone or online.” The speed at which we can communicate now is not only immediate, but is faster than common sense can keep up with. Technology has yet to perfect the means to pull back a poorly considered, quickly composed thought.
I’m sure text-messaging kids would be fascinated to learn that, just a few decades ago, people wrote letters, and the wait for a response may have been weeks or months. Not all letters composed were literary masterpieces, but they required a measure of effort and, sometimes, much consideration went into the choice of every word. You didn’t always have a lot to say, but you had to imagine how each word would be received.
Love letters were even more difficult. Finding the right way to say something, or to ask something, when you couldn’t read the look on the recipient’s face was far more daring than sending a nude photo. Awaiting that reply, and dissecting the words enclosed took courage. There’s a reason we still rely on the phrase, “reading between the lines.”
Among the many great songs written by Charlie and Ira Louvin is a mournful waltz with lyrics that fit a sad and lonesome letter. Because so many of their songs were written about soldiers far from home, I can’t help but imagine the anguished voice in this song belongs to a guy in a foxhole somewhere who can’t do anything but scribble his desperate words, wait and wonder.
Lorene (written by Charlie and Ira Louvin)
Performed by the Louvin Brothers
Lorene, write me a letter
Answer the last one that I wrote to you
Lorene, I hope you’re still waiting
But your last letter is way overdue
I know many times you have started to write
Darling I wonder what’s taking your time
Lorene, you seem to be near me
But your last letter is way overdue
Lorene, stop me from hurting
All it would take is a letter from you
Lorene, you said I could trust you
But your last letter is way overdue
If you’ve found another since I went away
Don’t let me return for it’s best that I stay
Lorene, I feel I have lost you
For your last letter is way overdue
There’s something in the song that suggests that even as he writes the words, he knows the reason she hasn’t written back. That long overdue letter is going to be toughest one he’ll ever have to read, and all he can do is sit and wait for it to arrive.
1956. Starring Randolph Scott and Lee Marvin. Directed by Budd Boetticher.
A reference somewhere to Budd Boetticher as a “cult director” was enough to get me to see one of his late 1950s westerns, so I thought I’d watch the first, Seven Men From Now, and build up to the better-known and much-respected The Tall T. I love westerns but have had my fill of the conventional ones, and it’s not often that someone tinkers with the old formula enough — with a great story and performance like Unforgiven, or the ensemble masterpiece that is Deadwood — to make an horse opera worth its oats.
Budd Boetticher, from all accounts, was an outsider to the Hollywood way of making pictures. He began his film career unconventionally — after training as a bullfighter, he became a technical advisor on the bullfighting epic, Blood and Sand. This gave him a chance to direct his own film, The Bullfighter and the Lady, for John Wayne’s production company. This naturally led to directing westerns, which fit Boetticher’s preferences of directing from a saddle and using natural backgrounds instead of studio sets. He made a series of seven westerns known in the world of cinema as the “Ranown Cycle” and hailed, as is usual, in retrospect rather than box office receipts.
Seven Men From Now is a great start to that series. Randolph Scott stars as Ben Stride, the silent, square-jawed ex-sheriff on the trail of a group of seven outlaws who robbed the Wells Fargo office and killed his wife, who was working as a clerk. On the trail — and after dispatching the first two of the seven — he rides shotgun for a married couple (Walter Reed and the pale-blue-eyed Gail Russell) who clearly need help from the mysterious stranger to avoid a scalping. Soon, they are joined by a pair of troublemakers, including Bill Masters (Lee Marvin) who hangs around in case that Wells Fargo box with $20000 in gold goes up for grabs.
Stride once arrested Bill Masters, who claims not to hold a grudge but will clearly do whatever is necessary to end up with the gold. That includes recognizing Stride’s interest in the young wife as a way to divide the whole wagon train. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Lee Marvin turn in a less-than-fantastic performance (doing everything I can to avoid thinking about Paint Your Wagon), and he’s great in this role. Boetticher is credited by fellow directors with creating the “likeable villain” and Marvin fills that role as Bill Masters — funny and with a sense of justice one minute, willing to cross and double-cross the next.
I was also impressed and surprised by Randolph Scott’s performance. His portrayal of the silent, simmering loner seeking revenge rather than reward seemed a bit ambiguous, and I like that. You’re never sure that you like Ben Stride (a role originally meant for John Wayne), but you want him to be the last man standing.
Seven Men From Now feels so much different from other westerns of its time. With the exception of a passing drunken prospector, the characters feel original and unburdened by western movie cliches. The Indians who threaten the travelers early in the film aren’t bloodthirsty, but starving and desperate, and Scott’s character shows compassion for them. Even the character’s motivation is original for a western — he is driven by guilt for having refused a deputy job, forcing his wife to work in the dangerous Wells Fargo office. It also features one of the best and most-memorable shootout death scenes ever choreographed.
Several times, Boetticher makes the unusual choice of cutting away from the action — a gunfight where you don’t see the fatal draw, for example. His instincts to film the opposite of what you’d expect pay off in every instance. It was only after watching the extras on the Seven Men From Now DVD that I learned how much I liked and appreciated his unconventional attitude toward his work. While watching the film, I couldn’t shake my irritation of the inclusion of a godawful theme song over the opening credits. And I happily learned that Boetticher hated it too, had been forced by the studio to include it, and tried to get it removed when the film was restored. It’s no wonder that Boetticher doesn’t wrap things up with a simple ride off into the sunset.