Matt Reeves' (Really, J. J. Abram's) "Cloverfield"

I'm in the ranks of the senescent reviewer, a creature rare but to be prized, because we're immune to the foul contagion of viral advertising (although we frequently fall prey to real state scams- you can't have it all.) What's the advantage of not wetting my pants over tactics that peer-pressure me into anticipating a gimmick-driven film no one will care about a week after it comes out? I can give you the honest, uncompromising take on it. Several months later.
I'm so on the outside, it's almost like I'm on the inside. "Les extremes, ils se touchent."


So, yeah, "Cloverfield". That was some scary shit.
What more are you allowed to ask from a movie about a ginormous monster rampaging though New York? You don't ask for a quality education from the public school system, you don't ask for affection from a Korean masseusse, and you don't ask for intelligence from "Godzilla" meets "The Blair Witch Project." Some things in life are that simple.
Still, the sad report from the new millenium can be gleaned from "Cloverfield". First of all, it's fitting that J.J. Abrams' name pops up more often than that of its director, Matt Reeves- this kind of movie isn't directed, but "produced". A bunch of guys (sadly, it's almost always guys) sit around a table, get loaded on fast-food and energy-jolt drinks, and plan for maximum commercial viability. The odd innocence of the Godzilla movies is gone. Godzilla arose out of a sense of atomic awe, emerged out of Hiroshima and Nagasaki in his frightened, destructive path, but there was something almost optimistic about the way he eventually became a protector of sorts- in the same way that that mushroom cloud is a talisman against its repetition.
The creature in "Cloverfield" is, of course, born out of September 11, and the movie is keyed on to the fact that the devastation of New York is no longer impossible or implausible: Heck, it's ALREADY hapenned. But you won't get a sense of purpose from "Cloverfield" because its (AMAZING) images are all it has to offer. It's tempting to think that the film-makers were after some sort of commentary about SOMETHING (militarism, post-9/11 fears, excessive reliance on technology), and that's a delusion they will gladly encourage, and I'm sure they believe it, but it's still a delusion. This movie is about SCARY SHIT GOING DOWN.
That it does, but it's not as original as it thinks. The Statue of Liberty destroyed? Again? Isn't that one of the most hackneyed images of Imperialist failure? Sure, it worked in "Planet of the Apes", and I liked how it was done in "Across the Universe", but this is something that's EXPECTED to happen. For once I would like to see a monster bring down the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, while devastated on-lookers break down in tears: "Oh, NOOOOO! Jimi Hendrix's scarf! America will never be the same!"

ABOVE: Both Some Dude and Some Chick showed great range of dramatic ability. The Academy should be paying attention!

Let's gloss over "Cloverfield"'s dino-cockroach-octopus-spider-snail-whatever-monster. While it's no different from the ones that crawled out of "The Mist" it's so FREAKING HUGE that I'll gladly admit its coolness.
Let me comment instead on the self-documenting fetish that fuels "Cloverfield"'s logic; an eye-to-eye conversation is so impossible for this monstrous cast that a girl will give her tearful valediction to a camera while the departing boy is IN THE NEXT FREAKING ROOM!!! This movie is an advertisement for both indestructible Sony Handycams and emotional retardation. One has to wonder what is going on with people who, when confronted with hordes of monsters, ensure it all ends on tape. (In case they don't get ate up and can sell the footage to CBS Evening News?) Forget about the FUCKING CAMERA and RUN WHILE SCREAMING OBSCENITIES like REAL HUMAN BEINGS!
Yes, the documentary aspects of "Cloverfield" are strained- but I doubt its intended target will feel the same. (They're probably recording choice clips of the movie on their cellphones and sending it to their friends.) It's never real if it's not down on a screen. It's always gotten my gall how audiences invited to the live taping of a TV show will often NOT LOOK AT THE LIVE TAPING and look at the TV monitors instead... Darned fools, unable to relate to anything but the glow of their machines. No wonder they all shoot each other down and then feel disappointed when it doesn't look as cool as in "Medal of Honor"
I told you, I'm 90 years old.
In all fairness, inappropriate documentation has been a boon to the horror genre from its very origins:
"September 28, 1867- I write these words as the darkness nears; I can hear the scratching outside the door; there is no time, the creature, that CREATURE of abominable abhorrence reaches its tentacles towards me and aaaarrgghhh it is killing me arrrgggh ripping me apart aarrggghhh ooh there goes my inkwell acccckkkk must finish diary entry..."

CHAPTER THIRTY NINE: COMPIEGNES

Now let’s transport all the in-door splendor of Versailles out-doors, to the fields of Compiegnes, the next day. Dumas, who’s kept us waiting for a while, is now ready to lump all his characters together. Rolling in from the left are King Louis XV, Madame Dubarry, Viscount Jean Dubarry, The Marshal of Richelieu, the Duke of Choiseul and the Dolphin-Boy, (soon to be Louis XVI). Rolling in from the right are Dolphin-Girl, (a.k.a Marie Antoinette), with the Taverneys: statuesque Andree, dignified Philip, grumpy old dad, and Nicole Legay.
There’s also 78,945 courtiers at hand to honor the momentous meeting between Dolphin Boy and Girl, and what a jolly place for this multitude to converge! Triumphant impromptu arches of evergreen, lilacs, roses! As tradition demands on such joyous occasion, country girls are dressed in white, municipal officers in black, monks in grey, and the clergy in filthy lucre.

ABOVE: I imagine the village of Compiegnes is as charming as this one.

The Dauphin (remember, it’s Jason Schwartzman, so he’s looking surly and snobby) has been inspired by his personal instructor, Monsieur de Lavanguyon, to follow a curious but wise tradition honored by Henry IV, Louis XIII, Louis XIV and Louis XV. He’s taken his younger brothers, the Count de Provence (15) and the Count D’Artois (13), and ridden ahead to catch a glimpse of Marie Antoinette before the official collision between the two groups, the idea being to catch her wearing one or two less layers of lead-based make-up.
Well, now the three of them have returned from their reconnaissance and their thoughts go like this:
Dolphin Boy (surly and concerned): “She’s pretty!”
Count de Provence (horny and jealous): “She’s pretty!”
Count D’Artois (innocent and inbred): “She’s pretty!”
At ten o’clock a white flag flies from the top of the nearby Church of Cleves, doves are released and finally, FINALLY, we can say with propriety that Marie Antoinette has entered France and the protection of King Louis XV, who descends from his Technicolor carriage to meet his grand-daughter-in-law.
Marie Antoinette graciously bows before him but he gives her a very appreciative hug before putting her down and pointing to his grandson:
“Let me present to you the Dauphin, your beloved boyfriend, may your arranged romance bloom for all time!”
No one cares about their arranged passion; everyone is holding their breath for ANOTHER presentation. The Countess Dubarry hmmm and haaaws and then taps the King in the shoulder.
“Oh, yeah,” the King blushes. He has to remember that after the presentation, Dubarry is going to be around a heck of a lot more than he would prefer. “Let me also introduce to you my, er, special friend.”
Is Marie Antoinette going to get all huffy and snarky? Everyone’s wondering. Dubarry most of all.
Marie Antoinette: “Well, I can see what the deal is. She’s very charming.”

That’s it? That’s the big witty put-down we’ve been building to? M.A. better step up her game if she wants to make it in France. You’re not in Austria anymore, baby.

ABOVE: I imagine the village of Compiegnes is as charming as this one too.

Anyway, if it was a put-down no one noticed. The Duke of Choiseul, not wanting to be left behind, rushes up behind the King, hoping to be introduced next.
Choiseul: “Your Majesty, may I…”
The King is like: “Music, Maestro” and De Choiseul is silenced by loud trumpets and the firing of celebratory cannons.
Dubarry is overall quite pleased. At least until Viscount Jean draws her aside imperiously:
Jean: “Over there, sister! See that young man on horseback by the Dauphiness?”
Dubarry: “No… Did you hear what the Dauphiness said? She said I was very charming!”
Jean: “That’s Philip de Taverney! That’s the soldier who stabbed me! And do you see that pale, majestic beauty he’s talking to?”
Dubarry: “No… Did you notice how everyone ignored De Choiseul? Walked right by him!”
Jean: “Listen to me! That’s Philip’s sister, Andree de Taverney, and by the way the King is looking at her, she’s as much a problem as her brother.”
Dubarry: “You’re so paranoid, Jean! Next thing you’ll tell me I should worry about that little old man next to them!”
Jean: “Yes! You’re right! That’s the Baron of Taverney! He’s connected to the Marshal of Richelieu!”
Dubarry: “The Marshal of Richelieu is my good friend.”
Jean: (mumbles) “This week. Oh, if only Gilbert hadn’t escaped from under my admittedly authoritative patronage! He had a lot of dirt on the Taverneys.”
Dubarry: “Gilbert? I stopped seeing him around and I assumed you'd killed him. What DID happen to him.”
Oh, yeah.
What DID happen to Gilbert?
We will learn next chapter. But first here’s a funereal, ominous line from Dumas:
After having passed the night in Compiegnes, the two courts, the one the sunset, the other the dawn, of an age, set out on the following day for Paris, that yawning gulf which was to entomb them both!”
He was a great lover. Of commas.

Fen Xiaogang's "The Banquet" (Or "Legend of the Black Scorpion")

Those sneaking Dragon Dinasty people thought they would let this curveball fly by me, but no way! Here's the plot of "The Banquet", and stop me if you've heard this old nugget:
"Thoughtful young prince must revenge the murder of his ghostly father by an evil usurping uncle."
That's right!

I'm calling rip-off! Starring Ziyi Zhang (from "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon") and Daniel Wu, (from "Chronicle of the Flying Hedgehog"), "The Banquet" (or "Legend of the Black Scorpion" as it was retitled for maximum kick-ass-ity) is brazenly inspired by the Disney classic, freely borrowing motifs and scenes but insterpersing some impressive action scenes that confirm my worst fears about the Chinese people: The Yellow Man has learned how to FLY! The Free World is NOT safe! If you ask me, the government needs to take a closer look at these movies and study Communist gravity-defying techniques, because after the imminent invasion the price of soy sauce is going to go through the roof... and who can live without won-tons?

3-EP: GREEN FAIRIES

MANET

Eight months now
Since they showcased the woman
Who's not human
But deserves a new bouquet of hands
Where she stands
Painted like an autumn shadow
On the Frenchman's El Dorado
At the gallery of shame
She has no name
But she comes unexpected
And rejected
By her master who's a bastard through and through
The same goes for you
You who slave for the corporation
With a charity donation
To the Devil's right hand man
If that's your plan
Then you can paint with all the colors
Of your dollars
And impress no one but them
Who cling to the hem
Of your
Blood stained tunic
While the Eunuch
Is displayed
Next to the new Manet.

TESTIMONY

I’m cooperating officer
I do the best I can
But the evidence is jumbled
And the perpetrator ran

And my eyes are blinking quickly
Can you make the light go dim
Because I was not the culprit
And I’ll like to point at him

I found corpses on my table
I found corpses on my bed
Yes the Mafia wants to frame me
Make example of my head

If I give you the description
If I give you the routine
Will you let me use the toilet
Will you let my hands get clean

All the voices talking loudly
On their uniforms of fear
All these aliens dripping blood
Talking nonsense in my ear

What a very nice policeman
He just noticed how I shiver
And he’s bringing on a jacket
And a needle for my fever.

TO LOSE

From dawn until sunset
He plays with his trumpet
The angel with magazine wings
Who's clear on tomorrow
So he knows he can borrow
Your wife among some other things
He heralds the day
When the Lord's mighty ray
Can declare its infinity truce
But there's no love to lose

Hostility pours
On the rich and adores
All the poor men that gather for soup
And while breaking their bread
They comment on the dead
Who have marched into town on a troop.
All the zombies of hate
Are proclaiming that fate's
In the form of the businessman's noose
So there's no love to lose.

I thought you could cure
All the wounds that will sure-
Ly bring one day my heart to the stop
I'm cuffed to the bed
What you did to my head
I would never forgive from a cop
You will never feel much
At my sight or my touch
That's all right, I'm just here to abuse
And there's no love to lose.

Alvis Rockett (lead singer, guitar): “Green Fairies” is highly conceptual, Matt brought in paintings by all these French guys to the session, and the songs were supposed to feel like Impressionistic, right, like it’s a bunch of rocking dots and you gotta walk back before you get the whole big idea, like a cinema of sound or something. It’s been really informative too. Like did you know that Monet and Manet are two different guys? That was pretty eye-opening. That said, “Testimony” is one of our fastest songs, and it’s about some pretty psychotic shit. When Matt wrote that I was all like: “Awesome, man, that’s pretty anti-establishment”, but he had this weird look on, like: “You don’t understand the pain in my soul”. Hahaha, that Matt, he sure is a kooky guy.

Matthew Porfirio (main lyricist, bass, backward-talking aliens in “Testimony”): So this French girl, my copine I’m supposed to call her, she smuggled in some bottles of absinthe from Lyon, and so I was inspired to write songs that I dedicated to, in order, Manet, Monet and Toulose Lautrec. (We also wrote a song called “Degas”- that may be a bonus track in the next one.) It’s like I told Alvis, we’ve become part of an artistic tradition in which the visual and the aural arts are linked to each other, and that’s why we’re almost VISIONARY, even if we’re working with sound- SOUNDANARY would be more appropriate. By the way, there’s been some fascinating research about absinthe and its rumored properties, scientists used to believe that this drug called ‘thujone’ was the cause of hallucinations. It turns out they were wrong, and the thing about absinthe? It’s alcohol by the gallon. 140-proof. No wonder I was seeing the face of my ex-girlfriend, Betty, all in green, hovering above my bed for like three nights. It was disturbing but made me realize maybe that wound hasn’t healed.

Helen Sandborg (drummer, temperance activist): If I hear Matt talk about being a SOUNDANARY one more time I’m going to jab him in the eye with my drumstick.

Steve Bendelack's "Mr. Bean's Holiday."

Mr. Bean himself is as divisive as it gets: retarded buffoon or subtle explorer of physical comedy? You already know where you stand, and "Mr. Bean's Holiday" is not a movie that sways anyone. It is too gentle for that- even Bean himself has come down to a G-rated level of sanitation that makes one miss the cheerfully amoral Bean of the TV show. Seldom had a character been so bent on solipsistic mischief, but here Bean is helping a KID find his FATHER, for God's sake! (The father is a filmmaker at the Cannes film festival, for which Mr. Bean is headed, and where, naturally, over-budgeted and self-indulgent American film-makers will be lampooned.)
A clear homage to Jacques Tati and "M. Hulot's Holiday", "Mr. Bean's Holiday" is also built on sight gags- (Rowan Atkinson's face is God's sight-gag to the world.) Some work, a lot don't, but I for one was amused by this harmless touristic detour. It IS not in any way equal to that spiritual predecessor, a film that was soothing in its lived-in choreographies. But still, if you're holding some kids for ransom and need to keep them entertained while the police are scouting the neighborhood, this movie will do.

Perverted American Conundrum or Random Rant that Makes it Look like I'm 90

Cursory glances at Internet cesspools suggest America, (not unlike Japan) is a nation of pedophiles in denial, crowning tween queens and Little Miss Sunshines and then guiltily wagging fingers when the true nature of their obsessions is laid bare. So there just was some brou-ha-ha when Annie Leibowitz (unwittingly?) let the genie lose in a set of "Vanity Fair" pictures that show Miley Cirus artsily naked (and waaaay closer to her big daddy than any teenage girl should be). Miley, who've been originally "proud" of the shoot, is now "embarrassed". I'm not surprised some inane pop tart has a backbone like Quasimodo's, I'm just surprised at all the people who were upset because the photos were "too sexy."
What an admission!
Things aren't "sexy", YOU find them sexy. If you find the little girl sexy, the problem is not with the little girl, the problem is with your pedophiliac mind. I'm not saying you should pluck your offensive right eye out or anything, but at least don't glaze your perversion with a veneer of self-righteousness. Is this another instance of the "Nevermind" cover?
If you'll recall, (I'm probably being insulting with this visual aid), it looks like this:

At the time there was some controversy about the baby's pee-pee, and Kurt Cobain pointed out that if the pee-pee bothers you, it's because you're a pedophile. Perhaps it may be time as a nation to admit that sex is on our heads- and if you're seeing sex where it isn't, the flaw lies with you. Saddest of all is how this obsession with the Disney stars of this world bubbles up in society, so that I see more and more grown up women dressing like there was a pink sale at the Sanrio outlet- and tuning their thoughts to the according level of maturity.
But since I feel bad criticizing women for dressing like Nabokovian allusions, I blame it on men.
Bunch of peds, I tell you.
Not me, though, I don't even have the Disney Channel anymore.
Besides! Is it just me, or is this Hannah Montana chick kind of common looking? And her accent sounds like she's one of those girls who does fund-raising for the Ku Klux Klan? I miss Lizzie McGuire! I know, I know, I'm a hypocrite.

CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT: THE PRESENTATION

IT’S here! Maddening delays beside- I apologize- Madame Dubarry’s presentation is here, it’s queer, black and proud, and not going anywhere. Picture, if you will, Versailles, (the French palace, not the crappy Cuban restaurant on 8th Street where old Cuban men have gathered daily for the last 50 years to argue about which of them hates Fidel Castro the most.)

And tonight of all nights its halls shine brightest, although some who have heard of Marshal Richelieu’s Fifth Conspiracy are a little uncertain of the outcome.
The King appears to be among those, and as it almost 10 o’clock, his brow is knit, sewn and crocheted.
Remember how Richelieu had made all the ladies of the Court swear that they would abstain from showing up to the presentation?
They’re all there right on time.
You know who else is there? Richelieu himself, flitting from lady to lady and admonishing them:
“Oh, you perfidious little so and so! You swore you wouldn’t come! You’ve betrayed our conspiracy!”
“Hello,” say the ladies, “you are here too!”
“It’s different! I didn’t come for myself, I came to cover for my daughter, who couldn’t make it! Oh, it’s the Bastille for me! And I’m too pretty for prison!”

ABOVE: Richelieu imagining himself behind bars. He seems resigned to his fate, almost beatifically happy.

Indeed, the King is NOT happy with Richelieu, De Choiseul or the Prince de Guemenee, the three men who have female relatives missing- brings out a little black book, makes some notes, pierces darts with his eyes. Could it be that all these conspirators have succeeded in stopping the presentation? Everybody’s holding their snobby breaths. Someone mumbles: “Perhaps she couldn’t find a hairdresser, a dress, a carriage!”
“DAMN IT!” Says Louis XV. “I spent a million francs on pastries alone!”
And right there and then, a hush is made at the doors and all heads move to see the usher bow as he announces: “The Countess Dubarry! The Countess de Bearn!”
And WOW- you know that scene in “My Fair Lady” when Eliza makes her grand entrance? Pretty much! All the nay-sayers stop saying nay.

“She is not a woman! She’s an angel!” whispers Richelieu as loud as possible.
The King, grateful for Richelieu’s comment, mentally decides to give him a prison cell with a nice view. His love for Madame Dubarry is more than renewed and he runs to her- as the Countess of Bearn makes the routine introductions and all the ladies of Court act hypocritically happy. Madame Dubarry makes such a deep curtsey before the King’s three daughters that they spontaneously break out of character and hug her happily. Madame Dubarry, full of joy and triumph, advances next towards Marshal Richelieu.
Dubarry: “So we meet again! I haven’t seen you around my house lately.”
Richelieu: “I thought it would be even cooler if we met here!”
Dubarry: “I didn’t even know I was going to make it, my dear Richelieu. You know the story about Aesop? He was being a vagrant when a cop stopped him. “Where are you going?” says the cop. “I don’t know,” says Aesop. “That’s a lie! For that, I’m taking you to prison!” says the cop, and Aesop replies: “Ah, see, I wasn’t lying, I didn’t know I was going to prison!”
Richelieu: “Madame is as beautiful as she is versed in obscure Greek anecdotes.”
Dubarry: “I wasn’t sure I was coming here, because I suspected there was a conspiracy against me! For starters, they stole my hairdresser, my dress, and my carriage!”
Richelieu, whose eyes suddenly acquire a meaningful twinkle: “Why didn’t you tell me so? I would have sent you the wonderful Leonard, who always does my daughter’s hair… Or I would have given you a beautiful dress of my daughter’s, that, now that I think about it, looks exactly like the one you’re wearing… And perhaps my daughter’s carriage would have done, although it is a simple one, decorated only by…”
Dubarry: “A rose.”
Richelieu smiles: “Exactly.”

And thus Richelieu’s brilliance is revealed! He’s the one who’s mysteriously been helping the Countess Dubarry all along! And his Fifth Conspiracy was just a way of making himself look good with every side! What a tactician!
The King makes an announcement to the court then: “Ladies and gentlemen! Her royal highness the Dauphiness Marie Antoinette will arrive tomorrow at noon, at Compiegne. All the ladies who could make it tonight are invited,” he then casts an evil look at the Duke de Choiseul, at the Prince of Guemenee and the Marshal of Richelieu: “The ladies who COULDN’T make it tonight- well, who needs their sorry asses around, right?”
Madame Dubarry quickly whispers in the King’s ear, and he amends:
“Huh, well, what do you know? Marshal Richelieu, you and your daughter are out of the shit-list, after all. See, Court? It pays to be nice to Madame Dubarry. And now, CELEBRATE GOOD TIMES COME ON!”

Much merry-making!
Until out of the swirling, dancing masses, a mysterious dark face emerges and stares hypnotically at Madame Dubarry. She gasps:
“That man! That man! He’s the man I’ve been looking for! The one who predicted my future!” (Remember that? A mysterious dark man told Dubarry she would be like a queen?)
The King hmmmphss: “Well, I’m sure he is not your prophetic sorcerer, that man is some officer of rank in the Prussian army. His name is THE COUNT OF PHOENIX.”
Madame Dubarry forces his ways through the throng, her heart beating quickly, and apparently in the throes of an orgasm, as she whispers to the Prussian “unknown”:
“Monsieur…Count of Phoenix.”
“So you recognize me, Madame? Was I not correct in predicting you would become Queen?”
She flushes, blushes and slushes: “And now, let me fulfill my part of the bargain. I will give you anything you desire. ANYTHING.”
The man smiles: “Well, obviously this is a terrible time and place for this conversation. I will come to you, sometime soon, when you least expect it. Just leave your door open for me. Also, do not call me the Count of Phoenix. That’s just one of my names. I would like it a lot better if you just called me Balsamo. Joseph Balsamo.”
Wow, that was completely surprising, except not!

Jenny Lens' "Punk Pioneers"

Apparently the fun ended just as I was born, (wouldn't that be just like the Universe?) The photographs in Jenny Lens' "Punk Pioneers" chronicle that magical, musical stretch between 1976 and 1980 when a punk singer's charms were measured by their ability to "ironically" snarl Nazi propaganda mid-show while hurling fesces at their fans.
Where have you gone, Joey Ramone?

(Reincarnation-wise, I wouldn't mind coming back as Debbie's panties in this picture.)

Osamu Tezuka's "Apollo Song"

The Japanese transmogrification of global myths is old news to fans of manga- manga is ripe with universes in which a giant mecha called Zeus can conjure his Ragnarok ray to blow away a mutated angel Gabriel. I would hazard this comes as much from Japan's need to acceleratedly redeem itself from isolation as it does from Osamu Tezuka's influential visual vocabulary. "Apollo's Song" may putatively take off from the myth of Apollo and Daphnee, but it puts it through the spin-cycle of Eastern reincarnation, while indulging on Freudian interpretations that must have seemed as odd and magical to Tezuka as anything else.
Our main guy this time is Shogo, who is traumatized by his incursion into the adult world of sexuality via his promiscuous mother- Shogo learns to disdain sex and react with a violent repulsion to tenderness, a stance for which the Godess of Love condemns him to an eternity of heartbreak.
YES, an ETERNITY of heartbreak- and here is where Tezuka strays from convention as he tends to- Shogo gets just that. He perpetually meets the love of his life, in story after story, to watch it NOT WORK OUT in tragic ways. NO release, and here's where Tezuka wounds the reader. Like Shakespeare, he warns you early on that you'll be meeting star-crossed lovers, but unlike Shakespeare, he doesn't even give you the release of death. Shogo is only going to go through it again... and again... On the slightly happy side, you could conclude that love is eternal... On the downer side, all love is eventually trumped.

After "Zbigniew Herbert: The Collected Poems 1956-1998"

FOR ZBIGNIEW HERBERT

When and if they speak of him
May they laugh:

"There goes a poet!
His own words! A poet!
Embarrassingly tender towards birds
Known to test pools head first
Bound to hang his looks from silver chords
As black as the memory of a stove hat
But twice as funny
Let us bury him"

Or may they turn to him with apostolic awe,
Anoint his penmanship, canonize his prose
Let them say he opened their eyes with words like keys
That he taught them:
Forty-seven words for joy
Forty-seven words for grief
And one for the sound a napkin makes when it says goodbye to the mouth

May they say everything and anything except:
“He was just some man who said things pretty”

Sidney Lumet's "Before the Devil Knows You're Dead"

Yeah, classic film-maker in his '80s, wonderfully acted tale of sin and the dissolution of family and yadda yadda yadda...
But SERIOUSLY, check this:

MARISA, hon, you've been holding out on me for almost twenty years!!! I have to wait until you're almost 50 to realize you're the woman of my dreams?!?
MAN SHE'S HOT.
One more for the road:

"The Professor of Desire"; "The Abstinence Teacher"

What you want to be:

What you're actually qualified for:

They Don't Make Them Like That Anymore...

Any writing instructor will go on about the FIRST line: it's the maker or breaker, what the unwitting mark is pulled in with; once their wallets are out, who cares? Billy Wilder was good at starting, but he was the BEST at ending.
Look at this classic moment:

“Did you hear what I said, Miss Kubelik? I absolutely adore you.”
“Shut up and deal."
*sigh*
SHUT UP AND DEAL! IT'S SUCH BRILLIANCE!
(Ok, out of context it shines slightly less, but it is what you've been waiting to hear Miss Kubelik say all along- it's what you come back for again and again.)
The ending to "The Apartment" is utterly unbelievable, but I certainly fall for the scam everytime. I'll say this in kindess to reality: The hot girl WILL sometimes end up with the nice guy...
But it's usually after the bad boy has given her herpes and a shiner.

(After Finishing "Endless Nights") "Death: Live and Let Princess Di."

(Draft of the Vertigo proposal: “More Sandman! Because 'Mirrormask' and ‘Stardust’ Didn’t Go Too Well.”)
Script by: Nail Gaymen.

Panel 1:
Di opens one eye- a curtain of blood glimmers in the ambulance’s stern glare. Two paramedics, phantom-white:
Paramedic #1: “Supp’se they’ll get them bloody paps what did this?”
Paramedic #2: “Coppers couldn’t catch a cold if they had AIDS!”

Panel 2:
Close up on limo wheels.
“It all happened so fast- but what was new about that? Her guts poured out on concrete now, for them to photograph- business as usual.”

Panel 3:
Let’s have a panoramic shot of London seen from the perspective of the Angel Achellemiel. The panel should taste vaguely like lemon swirl. It would be dandy if we can squeeze an ironic but insanely obscure movie poster in there, (how about “Sissi the Young Empress”? Bingo!)

Next page:
SPLASH!

Morpheus and Death looming over a gurney in which lies a seemingly dead blonde woman. (Make sure one strap of Death’s flimsy black top is down. Fan service, fan service.) Chapter Title:
“Admonishments and Recriminations, or The Charterhouse of Parmesan Cheese, or The Gloomy Abattoir.”

Next page:
A lot of talk. Divide into a whole bunch of little panels all showing variations on the three talking heads. Make sure the page becomes increasingly ominous. Panel 37 should randomly show Morpheus transformed into American President Warren G. Harding.

Princess Di: “Where- where am I? Dodie?”
Death: “Di! And Dodie! I like D in a lot of things!”
Morpheus: “You’re in an ambulance. The hospital looms. The way-station between planes.”
Princess Di: “Oh my Gosh! It’s Tim Burton and Helena Bonham-Carter!”
Morpheus: “Silence! I am Dream, and this is my older sister.”
Death: “Hiya! Can I interest you on lots of fine Hot Topic merchandise?”
Princess Di: “You must be Decay. No, wait, Detox. Devastation? My head hurts an awful bit.”
Death, (sweetly inappropriate): “It SHOULD! It nearly was loped off!”
Princess Di: “Is this what I think it is? But I am relatively young- and moderately attractive! Well, as long as Elton writes a song about me?”
Death: “Ha! You WISH! Lazy bitch going to recycle an old one! He’s saving all the good stuff for ‘Lestat: The Musical.’”
Dream: “See then, all empires, gathered before me as dust/ and ponder not if God’s decrees be just.” Keats.
Death: “It sounded like Coleridge.”
Princess Di: “Or Madonna? Who cares! What awaits me now?”
Death: “What would you WANT to await? Perhaps it is not so much what awaits you, but WHO awaits you? It’s not whether a waiter may be awaiting or not, but whether you will await on her or him?”
Princess Di: “Blah blah blah, off your meds, are you? Hurry up! I’ve got Cambodian orphans to be photographed next to.”
Death: “Fine, but first I must relate to you this complicated vaguely relevant fairy tale that deftly mashes up Slavonic folklore and Samoan copulation rituals.”

Next page:

“The Tale of Loki Ho’luianii- Or The Ghostly Minibar”
Get Dave to illustrate the page. A third of the text should be written in cuneiform scripture from the era of Hathummabi II, NOT Hathummabi III. I cannot stress the point enough. The middle third will be cockney slang from 1837, interrupted only by a bawdy, previously unreleased poem by Baudelaire. The final third will be the word: “ABOMINATUS!” spelled out in dead cockroaches. Work your magic, Dave!

Final page:
One big panel. The legions of the dead will cover the half bottom. (Artist: Make sure one of the corpses looks slightly like a forgotten 1940’s DC superhero, say, The Nazi-Clobbering Lamppost.)
Death: “So you see, what Loki learned wasn’t as important as what the Serpent UN-learned.”
Princess Di: “Huh? What? No, I skipped over that last page, are you kidding?!? Half of it can only be read in front of a mirror- who has time for that shit?”
Dream: “The mortal is right. Let her bid goodbye to her frail, foolish shell.”
Princess Di: “Are you sure you’re not that guy from ‘The Cure’?”
Dream: “I’m going to smack you so hard it’s going to bring you back to life and then kill you again. TWICE.”
Death: “Hehehe. I sure am cute.”
Dream: "Rain washes them all away. Princes and paupers. And yet, their dreams remain. Clinging to the polluted clouds- over Bristol and Glasgow, New York and Bombay. Like the fleshy peels of bananas rotting in the tropical suns, like the mirthless martyrdom of Galileo as he struggled for a glimpse of God in a night sky. Such is the atomic membrane that unites all. Despair is the laughter of the spheres. The Smiths and the Pogues, "How Soon is NEVER"! Shakespeare and Marlowe, reference reference, allusion allusion, Goddard and Boggart, Zeus and Daphnee and Chloris and Edmund Spencer's “Shepherd’s Calendar”, that raging glory, nonsense nonsense, the Old Gods that have come to die on the eternal endless bullfighting ring of the-"

Death: "Jesus, Morpheus, shut it. The panel ended half an hour ago."

DEDICATED TO THE LOVING MEMORY OF PRINCESS DIANA- THE MOMENT YOU GOT TO HEAVEN, THE VIRGIN MARY WAS SENT PACKING.

Jennifer Westfeldt writes "Ira and Abby"

The second most horrible thing to happen to the Jewish people is therapy, (the first being, of course, those matzoh balls- how can people like those?!?)

Therapy-happy Jennifer Westfeldt is the writer/star of "Ira and Abby", her quasi follow-up to "Kissing Jessica Stein"- and she's charming, really, but her deliberate stab at being the female Woody Allen keeps her movies hewing too close to the "Manhattan" formula Allen himself has subsequently dragged to the ground. (Half the shots in here are so directly stolen from the Allen notebook it makes me nervous for the movie's lawyers.)
I suppose worse formulas can be followed, and Jennifer does add her own little twists to this tale of adulterous, neurotic New Yorkers creating ridiculous romantic complications for themselves after over-thinking every panicky reaction. If you stick through you will find an unexpected bitter wisdom behind all the layered "When Harry Met Sally" cliches:

You'll never secure anyone's love, you will never truly know anybody or ensure that they won't leave you. The best you can do is stack the deck for you: have some kids, share a lot of memories together, look the other way when they stray, and basically lull them into sticking around, or else you'll find yourself alone with 37 cats, none of which can help you feed your senile self.

Damn, that's some grizzled truth. I didn't get that from "Pretty Woman"!

Jenny, advice: crank these things up quicker, 'cause it's been a while since "Kissing Jessica Stein", and you've got four or five years as romantic comedy star, tops. After that, it's Sitcom Mom for you.

John Turturro's "Romance and Cigarrettes"

Wow, did I hate this movie on, like, twenty diferent areas. The worst, most failed of all the "serious" American flicks I've seen in a while- and by serious I mean something that was made in earnest, with love, and artistic intent, (as opposed to shit like "Epic Movie"). I hate how it has wasted most of its cast, I hate how every line emerged from Pretentious Playwriting 101, I hate how it's a musical without rhythm or understanding of what makes musicals work, I really REALLY hated the way it happily debased Kate Winslet.
But one man's cancer stick is another man's yummy cigarrette, so someone might appreciate those very elements. I'm guessing it would be someone who thinks Christopher Walken's every cameo turns a movie into gold, the kind of jerk who says things like: "Oh, you haven't seen anything until you've seen Christopher Walken dancing!"
Listen, bub, I've SEEN Christopher Walken dancing HUNDREDS of times by now. It's ALL he does. I've had it. It was funny once or twice, but now I am revolted by the mere sight of him... "Hairspray" might have been the happy exception that proves the rule. Walken... Learn how to WALK, dude. It's in your name. And learn how to act, too, while you're at it.

Craig Gillespie's "Lars and the Real Girl"

Joe Matt's porn-addiction is quaint. Not too long ago it would have been one notch below pederasty (there's that word again, notch!)- but in these Rapture-ready days a man who doesn't know his Jenna Jameson from his Aria Giovanni just ain't got no culture.
Sex dolls, though- that's one love that dares not speak its name, which is what makes "Lars and the Real Girl" so shockingly cute.

Ryan Gossling (who, I swear, it's not David Arquette!) is wonderful as the troubled innocent who falls tenderly in love with a sex doll, manufacturing a world of dellusion he invites all his friends and family to join in- and darned if it doesn't change everyone for the better!
On paper, kooky Lars' love for his plastic girlfriend sounds like something the Farrelly Brothers might get their grimy paws on, but the end result is one of the sweetest odes to good-ol'-small-town-neighborliness: "We've got our freaks on Mainstreet, but with some love and patience we can all be healed." This is more genuinely Capra than something much-too-aware like "The Amateurs", because if there's any condescension towards its characters, it certainly hid it from me.

Joe Matt's "Spent"

Much more successful is Joe Matt's "Spent". It's squirm comedy, TMI with a dose of recognition. Interesting that I find the character's obsession with collecting old Gasoline Alley strips far more depressing than his obsession with collecting (and curating) porn- at least with porn there's something happenning, some drive towards the future. Gasoline Alley has had its say.

Either way, Drawn and Quarterly can "add a notch to their belt". I have absolutely no idea where that expression comes from. It sounds very Goldrushy, 49er talk. I guess it means that as the fat cats got fatter they needed to put another hole on their belts to accomodate their expanding waistlines... But couldn't they just afford a new belt if they were doing so well? Adding a notch to your belt sounds like something someone real poor and skinny would do with a nail.
Where were we?
"Spent"!
Good stuff!

Paul Hornschemeier's "The Three Paradoxes"

You know Zeno's paradoxes- or rather, the variation on his one big idea: the runner can't get to the end of the track because first he has to get to the halfway-point, but before that he has to get to the half-way point of the half-way point, and before THAT the half-way point of the half-way point of the half-way... You get the idea. It's a wonderful exercise on philosophical worthlesness, (The runner DOES get to the end of the track while Zeno is letting the Aegean sun fry his brains)- and it was easily refutable even in its day. Still, it forms a wonderful lynchpoint in Paul Hornschemeier's "The Three Paradoxes": that feeling of never quite arriving at one's aim permeates this experiment of a graphic novel- I say experiment because I don't think it quite comes off. It's a little too Chris Ware, a little too Daniel Clowes, and when a graphic novel sets me off pondering on calculus instead of its characters, something went bad.
But Cute Little Socrates kicks ass! I would read a spin off just for him...

Crappin' on Someone's Childhood

ABOVE: Shel Silverstein, also went by "Uncle Shelby". Now that's the face of a man skilled at pleasuring minors!

I had some delightful five minutes reading Shel Silverstein's re-released "Don't Bump the Glump". Five minutes! And if it took him half an hour to write it, it's because he got distracted prowling outside the local K. See, that's the problem with suckers like me: we want to spend one or two years sweating over hundreds of continuously revised pages.

Meanwhile, all the wise guys are running the children's book racket:
"Slow down there, Pynchon! You've already got five paragraphs about your bunny losing his socks! Cut it down to four, you don't want to intimidate the tots!"

And it's not like you have the most critical audience in the world, kids never went: "Awwww, "Horton" again? But muuuuum, I was so looking forward to 'Samson Agonistes'!"


SO. Ideas? How do I get into writing for kids? I know my Madonna, my Seuss, my Silverstein. Watch this:

"The Babblety Blob
And the Ninnie-Go-Nob
Decided to rob
The Frippeting Froo
The gun went bang bang
They're going to hang-hang
And you're an accomplice so you're hanging too!"

Maybe I need to work on my whimsy, but I can fill one of those kid's books by lunch time- Get me an agent, pronto!
And goodbye, moon.

"Origin: Spirits of the Past"

I may never understand the anime "split". On the one hand, the most influential design ideas of the modern era; on the other, embarrassing musings of this nature:
"Earth is mother to springtime- are we then as winter, fading with snow? Our ancestors knew."
I KNOW! Why do I watch anime then?!?

Led Zeppelin's "The Song Remains the Same"

Was music laced with a little magical something back in the days? Maybe it’s easy to buy into the myths of the past. Either way, Led Zeppelin does more for me than any number of emo bands captured on cell-phones. “The Song Remains the Same” chronicles them at the height of their powers, Madison Square Garden in ’73. Something monumental is constructed out of Robert Plant’s lion mane and exposed paunch-in-the-making, of Jimmy Page’s decision to play his guitar as though it was a cello, of John Bonham’s 97-minute drum solo on “Moby Dick”. (There was another dude in Led Zeppelin, but he’s boring.) This is not a particularly successful concert film. Some of it is ridiculous BBC tomfoolery that would fit in a Monty Python skit, some is just traditional shots of zonked-out crowds, and too much is absurd, manufactured backstage drama, (someone’s selling pirated pictures of the Zeps! Oh no, they might be slightly less wealthy for it!). Did anyone ask what the Dick Tracy prologue signified? What were our ancestors on?
Led Zep would trudge on for a long while, but this already has the feel of a swan song: they were starting to seem long on the tooth- or rather, since they’re British, a little short of teeth, (Plant’s moldy smile would dazzle no teeny boppers now, it’s hard to imagine him on MTV. He eventually had his teeth fixed.) There’s too much telling bitterness when Plant asks the crowd during “Stairway to Heaven”: “Does anyone remember laughter?” He might as well be trying to jog his memory. Still, if they weren’t having that much fun at playing in their Tolkienish world as they pretended, they telegraph it well enough for the folks at home, and the performance itself is as tight as their pants.

She's 17. He's 78. How can love resist?

Juno's best friend loooves Woody Allen. It's, apparently, a thing about cheerleaders with Daddy issues.

Like Moliere, Woody Allen was always torn between his comedic aptitude and his dramatic ambitions. After the “early, funnier films” he struck gold with “Annie Hall” and its perfect symbiosis of anarchic gags and honest look at relationships. I suppose this emboldened him to abandon that previous world, in which Marshall McLuhan could be convincingly brought out to intercede in discussions, for the realistic, lengthy circular arguments of “Manhattan”. Perhaps the second “best” Allen movie, “Manhattan” is also the beginning of the end- a long end so drawn out that it STILL sprinkles with ocassional successes. But aside from the inspired “Stardust Memories” (his “8 ½” riff) his movies have lacked the visual cleverness of “Manhattan”. After that they were claustrophobically set in the apartments of obscenely wealthy New Yorkers that barked at each other from room to room. Can you imagine him these days trying to compose anything as cool-looking as the succession of scenes that open “Manhattan”?
Fessin' up: this is one my all time favorite movies, so if I talk smack it's to distract attention from the fact that I've seen it way too many times. It always has some emotional resonance for anybody who’s let a good thing go. But is his relationship with the little Hemingway girl not the creepiest of Allen hook-ups? Aside from his real-life ones, I mean? At least back then he seemed aware of how ludicrous it was.
Somebody should do a list of Allen hook-ups in order of disgustingness.
Bette Midler in “Scenes from a Mall”? JULIA ROBERTS in “Everyone Says I Love You”?

ABOVE: Wow! If Neil LaBute says that, it must be true!

Oh, and The Carpenters' "Superstar" is waaaay better than Sonic Youth's "Superstar"

So I finally saw "Juno" after everybody had pretty much described it scene by scene and my imagination had nothing left to do. I have a bad relationship with the world of "word of mouth" sucesses. As soon as someone says: "There's such and such movie you would like to see" I am sucked into the whirlwind of my indecisiveness.

First of all, what makes you think I would like to see that, eh? You think you know me so well? I'm that predictable, eh? A little sterotype dancing around your simplifying head? Maybe I won't like it AT ALL! Just like I don't like YOU! Douche!

The horrible part is that naturally, they DO know me real well, so I'm a sucker for the movie, but I keep on fighting it because I know I'm liking it, so I end up having a bad time watching a good movie, or end up having a good time but deciding the movie is bad, or...

My brain is the city that never sleeps.

I can think of only two or three ocassions in which I have encountered movies tabula rasa, and those have been the most rewarding movie experiences of my life. Lukas Moodyson's "Together" and David Fincher's "Seven" come to mind... I didn't even know Brad Pitt was on that last one! Does something kill a movie as much as knowing it has a "great twist ending"? You and no preconceptions and a black screen that turns into colors, that's the best- not marching into a flick after Richard Roeper has decided if it was bad or good. I may already have said this. That Roeper dude annoys! I mean, back in the olden days I kind of knew how Siskel and Ebert thought, so I could gauge my own reactions by theirs- but Roeper has the tastes of an insurance lawyer who's seen enough of the Criterion collection to drop in a reference to Eric Rohmer, and Ebert just wasn't the same after his fourth heart attack. So when Ebert says "Juno" is "the best movie of the year", I think: "Geez, I dunno... It's really cute and all. But BEST? Shut yer frigging gob!"

And yet it beats "No Country for Old Men" in my admittedly unorthodox view. I've always admired the Coens more than I've LIKED them. My sin, maybe. The movie playing in my head as I read the book was a little better... and even that was just about your average Elmore Leonard.

Cormac McCarthy- bad: punctuation and ^^^ stealing Biblical quotes doeth not maketh you ALL THAT= Harold Bloom be damned)
Javier Bardem is my hero, though.

My most viewed movie of 2007 is STILL "Across the Universe," though, so what the hell do I know?

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN: NO HAIRDRESSER, NO DRESS, NO CARRIAGE!

We’re fast approaching that magnificent hour in which at long last Madame Dubarry can parade her sluttiness freely at court. With the help of Jean, Chon, and some random servant called Doree that Dumas has just sneaked upon us, Dubarry has secured the essentials: the hair-dresser, the dress, the carriage.
Or has she?
At the end of the last chapter, it looked like Marshal Richelieu was quite confident that Madame’s dreams were going to be dashed.
Or was he?
The people of Paris, like the dust at the bottom of a lake that is sometimes disturbed by on-goings on the surface, are anxiously awaiting the presentation.
Or are they?
They totally are. Unlike other pretties at court, Dubarry is much seen about town, and since she's always accompanied by a little black kid, the gossips can’t miss her. She's the Angelina of the time.
Now, if you’re wondering what the big deal was about the hair-do: this ain’t your typical blow-drying service. Madame is expecting a certain Lubin, hairdresser to the stars. The hairdresser was then something akin to a sculptor, forced to arrange pyramidal structures on hoops of whalebone, stab it through with jewels and flowers and hidden metal wires that could keep the thing aloft. Dumas suggests that it’s almost like the noble ladies, sensing that their heads were not entirely at safety, wanted to elevate them as high above the vulgar crowds as they could, while they could. Hairdressing was an act of heroism, and at the time it was the only trade that was legally allowed to wear a sword. Isn't that informational?

Well, it’s six o’clock, and Jean is biting his nails to the bone while Madame stares fixedly at the door through which Monsieur Lubin should show up, but hasn’t.
“Very well,” says Jean. “I will have to go kill the hairdresser.”
“It’s rush hour, Jean, calm down. The hair can be done while I’m half dressed. That’s what should worry us now, the dress.”
At this Chon is announced:
“Sister,” says she, “you dress is beaaaaautiful, woven with the silky tears of the Muses-“
“Yeah, yeah, bring it over.”
“I don’t have it! The dressmaker sent it ahead! It’s supposed to be here already!”
“Very well,” says Jean. “I will have to go kill the dressmaker.”
Madame Dubarry growls: “Relax, Jean! The new carriage- say the new carriage is outside.”
Jean says: “And the carriage-guy, I have to go kill him too.”
Zamore trots in carrying a note, which has been slipped through the bottom of the door by an unseen visitor.
The note?
“Madame: Be not too confident. This evening you shall have no hairdresser, no dress, no carriage. I hope this information will reach you in time to be useful to you. As I do not desire your gratitude, I do not give you my name. Guess who I am, and you will have discovered a sincere friend.
Something very much like defeat flashes through Madame Dubarry’s eyes, and she looks for a chair in which to sink:
“Go ahead, Jean, go kill anyone you have to.”
But there being no fit body to quench his rage, Jean destroys a set of vases from the Ming Dinasty, stamps on their rich history, and generally makes such a raging noise that no one hears when an unassuming young man in a light green coat introduces himself into the room.
“Who the holy crap are you?” says Jean, ready to cut the newcomer’s throat with a slice of porcelain.
“My name is Leonard. I’m a hairdresser. I read your ad in the ‘Pennysaver’. So’s I came to help.”
Chon examines the man suspiciously: “We didn’t put an ad. And no one knows your name, Monsieur Leonard.”
The hairdresser: "That’s right-o, they don’t yet, but that’s because I haven’t had the honor of dressing Madame’s hair. Once I do, I’ll open the bestest salon to the left of the Seine. Now, let me help you! Where’s that dress you’re supposed to wear? I want the hairdo to harmonize with it!”
Madame Dubarry’s eyes lose their momentary shine:
“No dress.”
And no sooner has she said this that a window is forced open from the outside and in comes flying a large band-box, containing, obviously, the most stunning dress of Chinese satin and lace trimmings.
They all stare out the window into the evening darkness.
“No carriage?” says Madame Dubarry, and ducks, in case a large coach flies through the magical window and kills them all.
But no.
Madame looks towards the Heavens: “Father on High. You magically sent me a hairdresser, and you magically sent me a dress. I know two out of three ain’t bad, but don’t dick out on the carriage.”
They all hold their breath for a few seconds.
What miracles can’t Faith accomplish? For the sound of carriage wheels outside make everyone exhale.
A handsome carriage, drawn by two splendid bay horses, and decorated on the panels by elegant roses, is standing there in the courtyard. When interrogated, the servant who’s holding the horses by the reins says that a MYSTERIOUS STRANGER handed him the carriage before disappearing into the shadows.
Jean turns his confusion towards Leonard the hairdresser and grabs his arm:
“Ok, you rascal, enough with the lies. Who’s behind this all, who sent you?”
“You’re doing the honor of squeezing my arm reaaal tight, and it’s hard to dress hair with a broken arm.”
Chon pries the hairdresser loose: “Let him go, Jean, you’re cutting his circulation!”
Leonard does wonders on the hair- the dress is prêt a porter- the carriage scented with roses in and out.
Madame Dubarry has grateful tears in her eyes, but when she turns to thank Leonard, she finds the hairdresser has poofily vanished.
Jean: “Now, let’s grab the Countess of Bearn and run to Versailles before the carriage turns into a pumpkin.”
“Yes,” says Madame, “but first let us pray to the Almighty in thanksgiving.”
For it is well known that God takes good care of his hoes.

I wonder who Dubarry’s mysterious, powerful benefactor is? HMMMM.
...
Oh, and can you believe that the next chapter is actually, no fooling, called THE PRESENTATION? It’s happening, folks! It took a mere 500 pages, but we got there!
On the other hand, Marie Antoinette and the Taverneys STILL haven’t gotten to Versailles! Did they detour through Australia?

Eugene O'Neill's 'The Hairy Ape"

ABOVE: A production of "The Hairy Ape" that many affluent, sophisticated theater-goers saw. I was nearby, robbing an apple cart.

Trenchant literary criticism:

People used to talk soooo funny in the way back days!!! Now all we do is mumble and let forth languid ‘whassups’. I like the cut of O’Neill’s jabber:
“Shut yer big gawp or I’ll hoit you, you lawzy wop!”
“Why you wann-a hurt-a me, Connelly, whass-a-matter wit’ you?”
“Oy, keep on floppin’ those gums, I’ll gallap ya so hard your ma’s gonna cry sweet moider, see?!?”

Ah, those were the days when the sun shone hardest. You hardly ever hear anyone get called a dago anymore...

End of trenchant literary criticism.

H.L. Mencken: The war has been declared!

Fat Unicorns

Tad Williams intros “Fantastic Dragons”, a collection of fantasy shorts I am in no way recommending and that is only mentioned here a) because I will read any sort of crap someone leaves lying around and b) because it made me think about unicorns.
Williams make the excellent point in his intro that all the other mythological creatures are puny nothings next to the mighty dragon. There's Smaug, there's Dragon Tails, even Beowulf has a dragon. The scaly ones hold an endless fascination for fantasy readers of a certain girth- they’re varied in shape, color, size, temperaments- the dragon-related plotlines are legion…
So I wonder: why do unicorns get the shaft? Sure, they get Peter S. Beagle’s “The Last Unicorn” and Ozamu Tezuka’s Unico, but in the meantime you can’t wander in a fantasy section without being slapped in the face by another novel about dragon-raising, some of them genuinely terrible. Begone, Eragon!
I should pick up the slack and give unicorns the richly imagined universe they deserve, a universe in which horny horses are free to roam, a universe for fat unicorns, warrior unicorns, slutty unicorns, grape-colored unicorns, jellicle unicorns.
Anne McCaffrey Inc.: The war has been declared!

Battlestar Galactica Season 3

I find words to be almost unfortunate hindrances when it comes to expressing my ever renewing passion for you, my dear Battlestar Galactica Season 3.

Tim Dorsey's "Triggerfish Twist"

More mayhem. In April. Aprilhem? This is the one where Dorsey realized he'd killed off one of his funniest characters too early in the series, and he went back in time for a resurrection. Remember when Sir Arthur Conan Doyle killed off Sherlock Holmes, but popular demand made him retract? It's just like that, but with more crack.
Actually, I take that back- no one smoked more crack than the Holmester.

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX: THE MARSHAL RICHELIEU'S FIFTH CONSPIRACY

The King’s debauches alternate in location between the palaces at Versailles, Fontainebleau, and Marly. Tonight, it’s Marly’s turn, for a sedate game of Texas hold'em. Louis XV is hiding behinds his cards but doesn't miss a thing. The courtly hens are gossiping about the infamous presentation at the other end of the room.
Who’s gossiping? Well, who ISN’T? We got the Duke de Choiseul, his sister the Duchesse de Grammont, (remember she was trying to get her claws on the King?), we got Sartines the cop, we got Rag, Tag and Scrap, a whole bunch of the usual supects and wits, and a new, but rather old, character:
Marshal Richelieu.
This Richelieu is a descendant of the Cardinal Richelieu that was always fucking shit up for The Three Musketeers. He’s done his share of shady deeds too, having been involved in four big time conspiracies, and is now in his 70s, but he’s still primping around court like a young buck.
He will be played by Jack Nicholson.

Richelieu sneaks up to where the Duchesse de Grammont is leading the choir against Madame Dubarry:
“That hussy is still trying to be presented among us! Fortunately, it is not such an easy thing to accomplish, even if one is cunning enough to find a chaperone out in the country. Sometimes these chaperones have the good sense to accidentally burn their legs, saving us all from embarrassment.”
The King chooses this moment to walk towards the huddled gossipers, who zip their lips, and casually says:
“By-the-by, there will be a presentation tomorrow at Versailles. Be there, or be square.”
Then he exits. After a few seconds of stunned silence, more clucking:
“Oh my God how can this be blah blah blah the Countess of Bearn must have recovered we should all kill ourselves this is too scandalous!!!”
Sartines and the Duke of Choiseul wisely know to keep their comments to themselves and slink out of the room, but Richelieu is all like:
“This is the most fun I’ve had since the 1740s! Ladies, ladies, come here, my sweets, we don’t have to worry so much about this presentation, all we have to do is work SMART to show the king the error of his ways. For instance, can he really make a presentation if, for whatever reason, there is no one in court tomorrow?”
Ladies: “Huh? Spell it out, s’il vous plait.”
Richelieu: “Suppose that instead of going to Versailles, I tell my coachman to go visit my cabbage patch in Chanteloup? Or you, Betty, maybe tomorrow you have a high fever and need to be leeched. And hey, Wilma, didn’t you just sprain your ankle? I think you need to rest on that for a week, or you could develop consumption.”
Ladies: “Aaaaaaaaah. Gotcha. But the King is going to be pissed if no one shows up.”
Richelieu: “The King is only going to be pissed if you ladies chicken out, and I’m the only one looking like an asshole. Then I’ll be exiled for sure. But he won’t dismiss the entirety of his court. This is a perfect plan, and I think it will officially be known as ‘My Fifth Conpiracy’. Everybody swears to be absent tomorrow?”
The assorted ladies swear, except for Rag, Tag and Scrap, who know better than to bite Daddy’s feeding hand (too much) and therefore make themselves scarce.
“Besides,” Richelieu continues, “there is one more reason why I am sure the presentation will not take place. See, to be presented before the Court, a lady needs three things: a new hair-do, a new dress, and a new carriage.”
He devilishly raises his Jack Nicholsony eyebrows:
“Supposing- and here I am merely supposing- that this person can’t get any of those things?”

Next: “No Hair Do, No Dress, No Carriage- No Soup for You!”

Moliere in Love

Jean-Baptiste Poquelin, alias Moliere, is one of the many real folk who find themselves caught in the plots and machinations of "The Vicomte de Bragelonne": Dumas suggests Moliere's meeting with Porthos inspires the French farceur to come up with "Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme". I definitely haven't read enough of Monsieur Poquelin's stuff, which I mean to correct, so it was a total pleasure to see his world come alive fully colorized in Laurent Tirard's "Moliere,."

Romain Duris is quickly becoming the ubiquituous Gerard Depardieu of his (our?) generation, but he's up to the task and, in this particular flick, very funny. I hope this one becomes a staple of high school French courses, because talking from experience, Cocteau's movies are NOT what the seething high school masses consider entertainment.
Not that this is a masterpiece. It's sumptuous fluff: an amiable farce that owes a debt it can't repay to "Shakespeare in Love". But you won't mind too much between the corseted eye candy, the slapstick business, and the frequent wit- I'm sorry, "l'esprit". The movie does attempt to say something about the act of creation: Moliere is torn between wanting to write "seriously" about the human condition and the success of his "earlier, funnier plays", but, lucky for us, he eventually warms up to the hilarious imperative of his muse.
Besides, history redeems him. No one reads Racine.

Alexandre Dumas' "The Vicomte De Bragelonne"- Not to be confused with the SUPER ABRIDGED MARIE ANTOINETTE SAGA!

It is done.
D’Artagnan no more.
For almost 15 years I had postponed reading Alexandre Dumas' "The Vicomte De Bragelonne", correctly intuiting that ending the last stretch of the saga of "The Three Musketeers" would also mark the end of...something.
Longer than “The Three Musketeers” and its sequel, "Twenty Years Later", put together, “TVDB” covers some 2000 pages and 13 years in the history of France. Printing necessities and sensibility split it into three volumes, usually called “Ten Years After”, “Louise de la Valliere” and “The Man in the Iron Mask.” To keep things spicy and confusing, you’re only likely to find the last segment at most bookstores- (that’s the bit that got butchered into a bad movie starring Leonardo DiCaprio.)
To say that this is sprawling is a kind assessment- I leave that to an ardent fan like Robert Louis Stevenson was. The fact is you live with this book for a while out of necessity, and so it lulls you into its rhythms even as things slow down considerably. Alexandre Dumas has some major novelistic balls: It takes someone EXTREMELY confident to title chapter 78: “In Which At Last the True Heroine Of Our Story Re-appears.” (Louise de la Valliere has been missing since the third chapter!!!)
There are many ways in which “TVDB” is a high wire act of delayed and even frustrated expectations. Our four heroes, Athos, Porthos, Aramis and D’Artagnan, never ONCE coincide on the same scene. If “Twenty Years Later” saw the powerful, indivisible friendship of 20 turn into the cold, disbanded acquaintanceship of 40, “TVDB” goes one bitter twist further and turns our four heroes into downright enemies. And as for the supposed beautiful love story between Raoul de Bragelonne and Louise de la Valliere, which Dumas has sort of promised since “Twenty Years Later”?
WHAT A DOWNER!
Dumas is accused of being too much of a romantic- but is there a more matter-of-fact depiction of a youthful fling fizzling before our very eyes? The chaste, pure love that Raoul has for Louise can’t help but make him look ridiculous once she goes into the city and meets more hands-on bad boys. In modern parlance, Louise “is just not that into him.” And when the naughty King starts seducing her, forget it! Raoul gets an earful of “it’s not you, it’s me... I’m the one who's having sex with the King.” OUCH.

And this is a relative minor bleep on the chain of all too real disappointments that make “TVDB” the bitter read it is. Consider the great D’Artagnan, who has spent his life in the same position, whose ambitions have been sedated at best, whose heroic feats have been forgotten. It’s no spoiler that the book ends with his death, a death that's unexpected, anticlimactic, and fitting: A stray bullet offs him just as he's about to finally get his damned promotion. Success evades him to the end.
Really, really, what a DOWNER this all was.
I guess finishing “The Vicomte De Bragelonne” does mark the end of something: the youthful romaticism which tinges one's reading of “The Three Musketeers”. If all of Dumas’ generous imagination can’t conjure happy endings for any of its heroes- what can one expect from reality?