CHAMPS AND CHUMPS: DISPATCHES FROM THE 2012 NATIONAL POETRY BLOWOUT

ABOVE: Levitoff Arriving at the Final

“You sit there. Just you. The page. And the clock starts. And you gotta work the words. We’re not in it for the fame, it’s just the game, y’all!”

So says Abraham Levitoff, Main Poet for the Boston Bardsters. He’s sweating. I watch the glistening beads form on that formidable forehead. Stadium lights flash on every drop. There are 90,000 people in the bleachers, waiting for the act of poetry that will turns the tables. If you look closely, all those 90,000 people are reflected in every single sweat drop that covers Levitoff’s face. He isn’t a man anymore. He’s the sweaty reflection of his verse-loving fans.

The 2012 National Poetry League Finals have not gone smoothly for the Bardsters. They had to struggle for poetic laurels against the Arizona Naturalists and the Cincinnati Sensitives. Meanwhile the Miami Jammers (a multi-ethnic team of poets who have benefited, and some would say cynically profited, from Central American and Caribbean influences) EASILY obliterated the Harlem Renaissancers and the Alabama Folkers. The Jammer’s Main Poet, Pablo DaRuda, has had a flowing streak of romantic and epiphanic visualizations that have audiences across the country breaking into revelatory tears.

            “It’s words,” says Levitoff. “And DaRuda’s words are fine. They do what they do, we do what we do.”

            “Goo-goo-ka-choo,” he added. Rhyming just spouts out of him, like the water that now covers him fully. He can pretend, he can act cool, because it’s what Levitoff does. He alone gets paid 50 million for each creative season. He’s a professional. But it’s just a pretense. It has to be. Too much rides on tonight’s final poetic creation. Each 30-second ad costs 2 million dollars. And there’s a lot of ads. Everyone’s eyes on America’s greatest poets.

This is gonna be a night of revelations. Words are gonna come together to unlock gates to the universes within you. You didn’t know there was so much WITHIN YOU. But Levitoff… or DaRuda… are going to make you FEEL. UNDERSTAND. You’re going to GROW and be TRANSFORMED because of this. Of COURSE you’re watching them do it! You’re wearing your “Favorite Poet” Jersey. How could you not? Everyone else is doing it. This is truly life-changing stuff happening RIGHT BEFORE YOUR EYES. Beauty is being created!!!

It’s come down to this. The main Jammer vs. the main Bardster.

And they each got five minutes left to express themselves poetically, to blast away the crowds with the searing, blinding beauty of their ideas.

ABOVE: As thousands cheer.

Oh, there’s been highlights all around in 2012. The New England Frosters had a premature hit with their: “Do I dare to buy a pear?/ Oh hell, yeah I’m gonna dare!” Six million shirts sold on that one line! There was titillation, when Dolan Bobbins from the California Objectivists brought twenty five poetry groupies to simultaneous orgasms by rhyming “My dick likes to throb” with“high-paying job.” “Oh, that’s facile and reductionist,” critics were quick to point out. But it happened, and it was humorous. There was also a dark side to 2012. Words like “classicist” were being thrown around. True, it rarely happened in front of the cameras. But when you have an event like the NPL Finals, there’s a lot of cameras.

So it was bound to happen. Carlos Williams Gonzo from the Jammers got caught calling Abraham Levitoff a “Rhymer.” Is “Rhymer” a slur? It certainly sounds like one in the controversial video where Gonzo, clearly intoxicated and with one arm around Kristen Stewart (the star of “Emily Dickinson: Zombie Killer”) unambiguously says:

“Levitoff ain’t nothing but a Rhymer. He was born a rhymer, and he ain’t never going to rise above being a rhymer. He just does NOT CARE ABOUT MODERN POETRY.”

Of course Gonzo was fined $10,000 dollars and made to apologize the very next day, explaining that he was, like most poets, very fucking high a good 80% of the time and nothing he said should be taken seriously. Some people thought that was too little, too late. For Gonzo, $10,000 dollars is a dashed-out sonnet, a lazy Sunday night's work.

ABOVE: Anxious crowds outside the Williams Gonzo Conference.

Philly Rollins, who teaches Etymology at Columbia University, was quick to point out on the Huffington Post: “’Rhymer’ is NOT necessarily a slur. At one point, rhyming was a NECESSITY, it was what qualified you to become a poet. If you were UNABLE to rhyme, then you would simply have to move into fiction. Sometime around the turn of last century the tables turned, and a rhyme seemed stilted, facile… low class, even. People’s feelings were hurt when they were called ‘Rhymer.’ But it’s just a word. If we give POWER to the word, it becomes destructive. If we CENSOR the word, it adds mystique. There’s some bad neighborhoods, and yeah, let’s face it, you might have a problem if you call the neighborhood’s elected poet a ‘rhymer.’ People love their poetry, it’s one of the most important aspects of humanity, so naturally, emotions cloud the facts. But ‘Rhymer’ is just a word. Rhymers can say it to each other, and somehow it’s fine, isn’t it?”

+++

ABOVE: The ubiquitous portrait of Levitoff. The original, of course, hangs in the Green Room of the White House.

The bell is about to ring, Levitoff’s agent, a forbidding man with gold teeth, reminds me I get one more question. I waste it: “Do you care that Gonzo called you a ‘Rhymer’?” He replies:

“Look, I’ve been called worse

Since my mom was my nurse

This life ain’t no rehearse

You deal with jealousy

They envy you at the embassy

But between you and me

It’s all a fantasy.”

“Right, right,” I say. There is no way to conceal the fact that I am nervous. This is the man who gave us the line: “Summer, I stare at the eye at your reason” in the 2008 NPL finals, with ten seconds to go on the clock. This is the man who invented 20 rhymes for “orange” in the decisive 2010 beat down of the Kansas Stanzas. This is the man who made the Main Poet of the Louisiana Limmerickers, Sandra Bluth, go into a dead faint when he said, RIGHT IN HER FACE, and televised before 90 million people:

“Nothing, not even the sparrow spared by the spear

Can compare to the arrow of my love through the hole of your fear.”

Whatever that meant.

But then I relax.

Because all that sweat tells me I’m just looking at a guy. Sure, he’s got the millions, the adoration of the entire country. Love, freely flowing unto him. He’s a poet. Who doesn’t love that? But I look past the sweat. He’s just a man.

We all know what happened next in the 2012 NPL blow-out. It couldn’t have been scripted. DaRuda stepped out to the stage. Lights pulsing down on him. He had five minutes to find a poem and an inspiration. He looked into the crowd. There is a woman there, someone who is only a friend, does not find him attractive, and has resisted the ridiculous exposure of his heart. There. What more does a poet need? Failure. Rejection. That’s inspiration! Around the world, translated instantly in 85 languages, billions hush as he recites to her:

“I love that you don’t love me

It’s reassuring, it confirms

Fears I held close, and meant to strangle

(Elbow bent at an unlikely angle.)

Well, I gave all of my body, unimpressive, to you.

Surrendered some far fortress to you.

I love that you don’t love me

Because it makes certain

That you and I are meant to flirt behind a curtain

Two people who agree you’re far too worthy,

And me, I’m only dirt and far too Earthy.”

ABOVE: The Muse.

And then, it happens. Abraham Levitoff’s ruin. He can’t help himself! He madly cackles:

“That was a fuckin’ RHYME! You’re a RHYMER TOO!!! Rhymer, Rhymer!!! You’re just an old timer!”

The plentiful sweat must have dehydrated him into the drought of madness. How else to explain the slur? The crowd goes quiet on the bleachers. Levitoff wildly jerks his head about:

“It’s true! It’s true! Oh, why are you all so shocked? Oh, like this is a big deal? Guess what! It’s just some fucking poem! It's not 'powerful' or 'devastating'? An ATOMIC BOMB is powerful and devastating! Grow up, everyone! We don’t deserve to be paid millions for this! It’s not a great drama! It’s not a triumph of the human spirit! You’re just fooled into believing that by advertisers! We’re just some useless guys whose one sad talent is to come up with cute words! If we didn’t do this, we would be worthless junkies! Don’t worship us, you morons! Don’t give us your every hope and dream! Don’t tolerate our childish behavior! We are FUCKING SHIT! Turn off your TVs right now! You want to do something worthwhile? Go home and WRITE YOUR OWN FUCKING POEMS!”

+++

No, it’s not been a smooth season for the Bardsters. I think of Levitoff. A man. Not the King of Poetry. Just some guy. Sweating and about to lose it. I think of the immortal words from Euscalius’ “Astromachia”:

“Why should we worship the Olympian

As if we thought he were more of a man

When he is less than most

A brute obsessed with the body?”

Euscalius was talking about sportsmen (men who dedicated themselves to running around while moving rocks from one end of a field to the other to no particular avail.) People in his time were weirdly obsessed with watching OTHERS exercise their body thusly to obscene, unprofitable extremes, instead of exercising their OWN to pleasing moderate shapes. But we don’t have to smugly smirk at their primitive, nearly animal ways. Look at the absurd, overblown way we treat poets nowadays. Look at the exorbitant paychecks, the unearned acclaim, the sexual worship, the insatiable obsession with their every act of creation. Are we really any better? Do we want to spend all our attention on some visionary obsessed only with intellectual beauty and clarity of expression? Why do we idolize? Fantasize? Fetishize? 

ABOVE: Sandra Bluth before a worshipping audience.

I'm not saying that poetry shouldn't remain one of the pillars of our societies. Who would want to live in a world where schools don't have poetry teams, where children aren't taught to exercise their ability to express themselves, where the greatest poets aren't acclaimed and cherished? I'm not proposing that kind of prosaic, soulless nightmare. I just want us to stop. Step back. Examine our cultural obsession with poetic achievements- like Levitoff’s breakdown during the 2012 NPL finals. Because that’s what it was, wasn’t it? A poetic achievement. 

The lesson he taught us was his greatest act of creation:

At the end of the day, it’s only poetry. Sure, it can move you, show you new ways to see the world, make you smarter, wiser. But that’s about all it does. Let’s not be fanatics. Let’s keep it in perspective.

It’s not like it’s the BALLET!

The Heat is On (The Radio)

GO HEAT!!! WE WON!!! NOW EVERYTHING WILL BE DIFFERENT IN OUR LIVES!!!
I do wanna celebrate the NBA Finals, so here are the top five jumping tunes about the transcendental act of putting a ball through a hoop.
Kurtis Blow- "Basketball" (It's all in the title: They're playing you know what, and his favorite move is the alley oop.)



Public Enemy: "He Got Game" (F**k the game if it ain't sayin' something.)

Skee-Lo: "I Wish" ('Cause it comes to playing basketball/ I'm always last to be picked and in some cases never picked at all!)



You may be noticing a certain... lack of variety... Something missing... You're right: none of these songs are by a duo! But here is Hall and Oates to solve that with "One on One" (I want to play that game...)




But no one could argue with the best basketball jam of all time. And it goes something like this:



"I swear that I'm telling you the facts/ And that's how I beat Shaq!"

Not Your Young Kind of People

Shirley Manson, from Garbage, is 45.

ABOVE: This, my friends, is the PAST.

Oh, she's the GOOD kind of 45. The millionaire ex-kitten kind, the kind that can afford an island built out of Botox. Plus, she's always flourished under those bright studio lamps that burn models away into flawless (if featureless) blanks of beauty. What wrinkles can survive there? 
"But," you say, "age is just a number! And it's not like she's Madonna or someone embarrassing like that! I will not let the current pathetic youth culture dictate what SEX (or, for that matter, ROCK) should look like!"
Ok. Good. You're not age-ist, you're not shallow. You've MATURED, you are not the superficial kind. Everyone heard you. Pat yourself in the back. 
Now walk with me to the next room. Close the door. It's alright. It's a safe place. Just be honest.

This?

Or This?

Uh-huh.

Definitely this.

OH YEAH? You sicken me, you shallow shell of a person. You can go back outside now. I'll stay in here, listening to "Not Your Kind of People," Garbage's new, perfectly aged, album. 
Check out lead single "Blood for Poppies."



And, for old times' sake, let's get stupid.

An Exclusive Interview with the Van from "Jon Benjamin Has a Van"

His voice work for "Home Movies," "Archer," and "Bob's Burgers" has made Jon Benjamin a household name in nearly .05 percent of American households, so the little balding guy is getting a little too big for his breeches and wouldn't sit down with HALLUCINA to talk about his Comedy Central series "Jon Benjamin Has a Van." Instead, we got an exclusive interview with the titular Van, which drove by to ruminate  on the state of American's highways, bitchin' side-panel artwork, and the rumored affairs with at least three motorcycles from "Sons of Anarchy."

ABOVE: The van from "Jon Benjamin has a Van." Also pictured: Jon Benjamin.

HALLUCINA: First of all, I want to say that "Jon Benjamin Has a Van" is the best Van-related thing since Jean Claude Van Damme toured with Van Halen. Why is it that this kind of progressive brilliance alienates audiences?


VAN: *starts engine.* 


H: The show begins as a familiar parody of inane news- and then things get pushed into truly unique comedic landscapes. For instance, what begins as a visit to Little Italy detours into a visit to a miniature town within Little Italy (called, of course, Little Little Italy ). Most shows would have braked at that particular gag, but you guys didn't even slow down: soon Jon is caught in an elaborate tiny gangster epic- and then a sensual affair with a 5-inch girl- and THEN the 5-inch girl turns out to be underage, and THAT freaks Jon out.


V: *vroom*

ABOVE: Little Little Italy, where people will tell you there is no such thing as the Little Little Mafia.

H: Sorry, you're right, there wasn't really a question in there. Let me ask you, in the episode where you crash into a "Star Door" and run over a family of aliens, was that emotionally taxing? How do you prepare for something like that?


V: *vroom vroom*


H: I imagined it would be something like that. I have to say, my favorite gag in the whole series involves the kidnapping of the sound guy, (two thirds of that episode are absolutely silent.) Or the one where Jon gets big by a gay man and a Jew, and then turns into a Gay-Were-Jew. That was INSANE. Did you have a part in any of that? How involved are you with the creative process? Or is it just a "boy's club, no vans allowed' sort of atmosphere?


V: *drives away*


H: Oh, I see, pardon me, you're too busy for interviews as well? Got some porn to film in your backseat? You and Jon Benjamin can go drive your cancelled asses off a cliff!

ABOVE: A fitting end to genius.

The Heart is a Lonely Hunter S. Thompson

ABOVE: "'Once upon a time...' No, too cliche. 'In the beginning...' No, no, it's been done. Grrr. 'We were somewhere around Barstow when the drugs began to take hold.' I like that one!"  

Unless you're Anne Frank, a DIARY doesn't offer much conclusion; only the sense of a progression, a trip, a journey.

That's the problem with the Johnny-Depp-produced adaptation of Hunter S. Thompson's "The Rum Diary." We get the progression (Thompson was only 22 when he wrote the entertaining-but-immature original); we get a first LSD trip (of course); and we certainly have a journey (a sun-drenched vacation to lovely San Juan). But the conclusion to the movie lies elsewhere, (namely in Terry Gilliam's cult-starting version of "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas") and while this isn't exactly a prequel, it only makes sense as one, (the closing screen practically reads: "And now, wait for the MAIN FEATURE.") It falls kind of flat for it: Director Bruce Robinson is not given to Terry Gilliam's seemingly uncontrolled visual whims, and "The Rum Diary" is, for most of its length, a shockingly sober movie.

Johnny Depp predictably plays Thompson stand-in "Paul Kemp," a rookie reporter looking for a gig in 1960s Puerto Rico. He gets it, working for a crumbling English language newspaper lousy with Ugly Americans: The superior cast of Richard Jenkins, Michael Rispoli  and Giovanni Ribisi, (who runs away with the movie as a menacing, beyond-dysfunctional alcoholic wreck covering the religion beat.)Yes, Johnny Depp is the nearly normal observer again. Pity.

ABOVE: If Giovanni Ribisi had won an Oscar for Best Supporting Actor, you know what? That would have been alright.

There are many terrific moments sprinkled throughout (a tense run-in with locals, that eerie LSD experience), but the novel's innate immaturity creeps through with a cliche love story. Or, really, lust story: Hunter S. Thompson loved drugs and guns but he wasn't all that keen on fully realized women, and so we get a skinny-dipping siren named Chaneult (Amber Heard, giving an aging Scarlett Johansson reason to look over her shoulder.) I have no qualms with skinny-dipping, but in a movie with so many eccentric, lively men, why is the one and only woman so flat she might as well have been played by a cut-out of a pin-up?

ABOVE: She sure is pretty though.

Hunter S. Thompson's zealots should (and will) like "The Rum Diary"- the rest might wish it gelled better- and practically all will feel the need to squeeze in "Fear and Loathing" for a double feature.

OH MY PAPA!

Dear Imaginary Reader:

I love my Dad.

ABOVE: Clockwise: Father, Hansel, and Gretel.

But he won't read my blog. ("Yeah, that's cute. Essays no one pays for. Great. Write a best-seller already.") He's not the blog-reading type, and the Internet has no appeal for him, except for that week when he became inexplicably obsessed with Lady Antebellum and his laptop was set to YouTube 24/7 in a nightmarish repeating cycle of I-need-you-nows. (What a weirdo! I get it from him.) 

So it's not likely he'll see this. But if he does, I want him to know: Te quiero, Papa. 

Happy Father's Day. Let's get cheesy with some of my favorite "endorse the patriarchy" songs.

Eddie Fisher singing "Oh My Papa." It's like it puts a suction-pump right to the tear glands.

Mike and the Mechanics. Wordlessly tell your Dad you love him by playing him this. Then watch him laugh his ass off at your simple-mindedness.

Cat Stevens used to be so cool. I hate it when people disown their best work in the name of religion. And then go do lamer work.

Paul Simon gives us one for the daughters. Daughters have fathers too, I hear.

"Cat's in the Cradle," "My Father's Eyes," "Dance with my Father" and "Butterfly Kisses" were all intentionally uninvited.

---

Finally the best Father's Day song of them all:

I love it when you call me Big Poppa!

All Four One: Pythagoras and the States of the Soul

Animal. Vegetable. Mineral. Dear Imaginary Reader.

Those are the four states through which we pass, according to Pythagoras of Samos, he of the hypothenusal theorem.

ABOVE: He's got the whole world in his hands.

Kids pay begrudging homage to him every time they take the SATs, but in his time Pythagoras was spoken of on nearly divine terms, known as the founder and prophet of a secretive religion that appears to have stressed transmigration (before it was violently suppressed in a Waco-style incident.) He was also the first person to call himself a philosopher, to suggest that the cosmos could be explained mathematically, and to figure that the length of a string altered musical pitch (worship him, guitar enthusiasts!) Add that he was one of the first animal rights activists: a famous anecdote has him stopping the beating of a dog because he swore that he could hear a dead friend's voice in the pup's yelps.

Pythagoras would have loved "Le Quattro Volte" ("The Four Turns") where we follow one such hopping soul from an old goatherd in the Italian province of Calabria to a goat to a tree to charcoal. At least I think that is what the movie suggests, because director Michelangelo Frammartino doesn't tell us anything.

ABOVE: You are a man.

ABOVE: You are a goat.

ABOVE: You are a tree.

ABOVE: You are a charcoal kiln.

There is no dialogue in "Le Quattro Volte." We see most of these changes from long shots that only slowly reveal action but offer absolutely no commentary. We are freed to meditate. It's not unlike strolling through goat country with a Trappist monk, which means that most viewers have never seen anything like it, and realistically, most viewers won't WANT to see anything like it unless they're feeling simultaneously very adventurous and very chill.

They will miss out on a rare lyrical gem that encourages contemplation, silence and patience, and understands that nature isn't background scenery as we drive from home to work. The Universe is more than just people.

And, according to Pythagoras, PEOPLE are more than just people. We are also the Universe.

My Shadow Days Are Over

ABOVE: Staring off at Laurel Canyon

I'm so glad I ain't no teenage girl, no insecure hipster. I'm fine not knowing a thing about John Mayer's hook-ups (he boinked Angelina Kardashian, right?) I don't have to keep tabs on his douchebaggery quotient, or worry whether he's aging cutely (he's been at this for a while, hasn't he?) I just listen to a fine mellow rock album like "Born and Raised" in a delightful void and go like: "Ah, this Mayer man has talent and charm and can squeeze out a fine verse-chorus-verse song, the way the Good Lord intended them to be, none of that 'featured-guests-jacking-each-other's-dubstepping-swag' nonsense."

Yes'm sir, "Born and Raised" is a good old singer-songwriter album strummed right out of the '70s, with harmonicas filigreeing all over the place and nice sentiments about how "love is a verb" and "you've got a face to call home." He says it right in the first track: he's looking for the sun that Neil Young hung after the gold rush in 1971. Ain't we all, brother John, ain't we all.

And if that Olivia girl he sings about in "Something like Olivia" happens to be Olivia Wilde from "House"? Well, that just ain't none of my bizness.

ABOVE: My God, this woman actually exists. She is made of the same basic compounds as you or  me. Unbelievable.

Warnings and Gentle Reminders

Dear Imaginary Reader:

I made you a video mix CD! It's All a Blur. Here's some of Blur's less seen videos for your viewing delight. I truly believe that Damon Albarn, Graham Coxon, Alex James and Dave Rowntree are every bit as legendary as, say, the Kinks or the Who.

Bang! I don't need anyone.. But a little love could make things better.

In the absence of a way of life, just repeat this again and again.

 I don't know about you, but they're putting the holes in. Yes yes.

We're drinking far too much and neither of us means what we say.

There must be more to life than stereotypes.

Someone stumbles to the bathroom with the horrors, says: "Lord, give me Faith for I've jumped into space."

It's over, you don't need to tell me. I hope you're with someone who makes you feel safe in your sleeping.

There ain't no war in my head now and you seem very beautiful to me.

Two Doors Down

ABOVE: Henry is ballin' Boleyn.

So British Protestantism grew out of petulant Henry VIII's quite understandable need to get rid of a boring wife? Maybe it wasn't as simple as all that. But historical dramas necessitate that history grow out of personalities, (whereas in reality personalities are caught in historical forces.) "The Tudors," an underrated Showtime drama, did that wonderfully in its first season, pitting personalities like Cardinal Wolsey (Sam Neill) and Thomas More (Jeremy Northam) against each other. In the role of Henry, Jonathan Rhys Meyers is fantastic, forceful, arrogant, his sweat drenching historical wenches like Anne Boleyn, (Natalie Dormer). If "The Tudors" ignores the British people outside the royal gates, it makes it up by going inside, letting us know what was going down a few doors away, in the bedrooms. It's a colorful, gossipy, sexy look at all the banging that took place in those four-postered Tudor beds.

ABOVE: "So, you gonna break up with the Church and start a new Religion for me? Awwww, that's so cute."

3 Times the Vengeance.

VENGEANCE is at the core of most violence. Corrosive never ending pay-back. You hurt me here, I hurt you there. Rationalize as you will and dream up conspiracies 'til the moon shines low, but vengeance is the sordid word behind the Iraq War... and the war before before that.. and the war... before that.
If the Devil ever had a real name, it was "Vengeance."

And yet... "'Vengeance is mine,' said the Lord."

ABOVE: Live by the Water, die by the Water.

Some 400 centuries B.C. E. Aeschylus wrote "The Oresteia" to show, quite explicitly, how vengeance engendered only further vengeance. If I kill you because of this, then your son kills me, and then my son has to kill your son, and then YOUR son's son... and so on. (Notice it's sons. Women, generally, knew when to stop.)

Never satiated.

ABOVE: It's Hammer time!

"The Count of Montecristo," that delightful tale of revenge now being serialized HERE, also shows how an eye for an eye quickly turns into a whole unsatisfactory bowlful of eyeballs. No one was sated by the death of Osama bin Laden.

It takes the Christian turning of the cheek to stop the cycle. But we may never learn.

Vengeance is devilishly enticing.

ABOVE: And that's why the Lady is a Vengeance.

Chan-Wook Park's "Vengeance Trilogy"- "Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance," "Oldboy" (which directly quotes "The Count of Montecristo") and "Lady Vengeance"- are a modern "Oresteia," a brilliant trilogy that any lover of cinema needs to get into, like, NOW. Chan-Wook Park makes sure that every single scene is an orgasm to the knowing eyeball. But, like Mick Jagger, expect no satisfaction.

It's John Carter OF MARS, Consarn It!!!

That's problem #1 right there: The big-little-flop-that-couldn't should have been called "John Carter OF MARS!" No one knows who John Carter is. No one knows who John Clayton is, for that matter. (That would be TARZAN, Edgar Rice Burroughs' other grand creation. If I make a new Tarzan movie, I wouldn't call it "John Clayton". It would be TARZAN OF THE M*****F****** APES!!!)

ABOVE: JOHN CARTER OF MARS!!!

Certain camps have been extra generous with "John Carter" and blamed it all on Disney's marketing and the bad buzz of its reported of $300 million budget. They showed kindness because of ecause of pulp nostalgia, because Andrew Stanton made the universally beloved "Wall-E," because Michael Chabon had a hand in the script, (not that you would notice) and because it's not a terrible movie.

But it's an underwhelming one, and a disappointment, and it has too many problems.

Problem # 2 is that they didn't get the BURROUGHS spirit right. The Barsoom adventures were EXCITING and TITTILLATING, with an emphasis on the TITTY. There was also lots of male nudity. ERB could not find enough excuses to get his characters, male and female, as naked as possible: "What's that, ma'am? Your skirt got a stain from the Barsoomian drool monster? Might as well get rid of it!" "Sir, you say nakedness is better for leaping with low gravity? Let's get rid of these stodgy pants!" It was the primal, physical, sexual, raw atavism that made his escapists stories so thrilling. It wasn't about mythology, it was about action scenes: a naked guy wrestling down giant monsters while a kidnapped, equally naked girl waited to reward her hero.

But they HAD to make it about mythology.

Problem # 3: That mythology is convoluted, old-fashioned and uninteresting. Sub-AVATAR. For all of Avatar's verbal lameness, that WAS a beautiful world. More importantly, a COLORFUL world. Wasn't Mars- pardon me, Barsoom- the RED PLANET? Full of canals and craters? Why is the sky so blue? Why does it looks like Arizona?

ABOVE: "This is Mars? You sure? Not Earth. Mars. Ok I'm just checking."

Problem #4: The actors. I love "Friday Night Lights" but Taylor Kitsch brings no charm to this movie, there's no wink in his eye that says "GOLLY GEE, I was in Virginia and now I'm IN MARS! Now let's get me a PRINCESS!" That princess, Dejah Thoris (Lynn Collins) was supposed to be a very sexy and compelling character, remember the first book was called "A Princess of Mars", but here she's on the PC side trying to be some sort of chaste,dignified, feminist Pocahontas. Have we gotten so absurdly reverent that we are trying to present a sensitive, non-offensive portrayal of MARTIANS? Go watch "Flash Gordon"- THAT ludicrous movie understood pulp. And just because I love "The Wire" doesn't mean that Dominick West does much here. And I love "Breaking Bad" but Bryan Cranston is absolutely unnecessary in an overly detailed prologue.

Problem #5: Those overly detailed, confusing PROLOGUES. There's not one, not two, but THREE of them before we actually get to Mars, which is the actual trip everyone signed up for. What should have happened in five minutes happens in twenty. The prologues in the books were just a conceit to explain how a man could travel to Mars (Burroughs wasn't interested in spaceships or the mechanics of travel, he wanted to get to the fights.)

Dear John Carter of Mars, this would-be franchise failed. Sorry.

Noobs to the John Carter of Mars or Edgar Rice Burroughs: Watch this quick clip. Beware, it makes the movie sound much more amazing than it actually is.

The Diablo You Know

"Devil." From the Greek "Diabolos". "The Accuser." "The Slanderer." Horny pagan goat? Slick snake? Metaphorical evil? God's sworn enemy, or complementary betting buddy? Handsome Milton devil? Keyser Soze? Cute anime character?

ABOVE: Burning in Hell is soooo Kawaii!

Correct answer: "Devil" is a neglected death-in-an-elevator thriller, reminiscent in structure, style and intent to "Saw," although more timid in the gore department, and more "Christiany" in the judgment area.

I'm not clear how M. Night Shyamalan went from "beloved cinematic auteur" to "worse than a face-eating Miamian," but few writer-directors have ever seen their likability factor vanish so quickly. I suspect it was his creator credit that doomed "Devil" to the loneliest, bargainest corner of your local going-out-of-business Blockbuster. (Maybe it was the lack of a star? When Chris Messina is the big on-screen attraction, you can't expect people to reach for their wallets with "Avengers"-like impetus.)

Five strangers are trapped in an elevator. The lights go off. One dies. Lights go on. The survivors bicker over who did it. Lights go off. Repeat repeat repeat. It's silly in a million levels, but even though this movie requires that you not so much suspend your disbelief as drop it down the elevator shaft, I wanna give it some credit. Not for the forced happy ending or the quasi-religiousness (it's the ACTUAL Devil instigating all the bickering, you see? It's right in the title!) but for the claustrophobic setting. Disclosure: a friend and I once put on a play about an elevator that went to Heaven. 'Cause I'm an optimist. So this elevator to Hell gets some sympathetic mercy from me.

ABOVE: "Great! She farted so loud it broke the glass and now we all have to stand here and pretend we didn't notice for the next twenty floors. Awkward!"

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Biblically speaking, there is very little "devil" to be found. His appearances in the Old Testament are rare. Identifying the serpent in Genesis with the Satan that gets a co-starring role in the book of Job is what comic book nerds would call retconning. Retroactive Continuity. People forget that the allegorically generous Garden of Eden myth is also a "Just So" Rudyard-Kipling-esque story that explains why snaky, sneak reptiles move without legs. It's a punishment! A snake is basically a punished lizard. Its crime? Telling the TRUTH. It is interesting to note than in the Genesis narrative, it is GOD who blatantly lies to Adam and Eve about the effects of eating from the magical fruit. (IT'S GOING TO KILL YA!) The snake is the one telling the truth about the fruit. ("He's just scaring you, IT'S GOING TO MAKE YOU KNOW THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN RIGHT AND WRONG!") The snake is instigating rebellion, always a no-no in theocratic terms. The snake is merely the whistle-blower.

But everyone from Dante through Milton to George Lucas knows that every story needs a good bad guy.

ABOVE: That's Spanish for "Game that Sells a Crapton of Copies."

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Talking about the devil:

"Juno" genie Diablo Cody redeemed herself from the flop that was "Jennifer's Body" (a movie which I still intend to see one of these days). She did it with the script for "Young Adult," a movie that has absolutely no hamburger phones or stylized lines, but makes up for it with a performance by Charlize Theron that I found subtle but fearless. Folks seem to like it when actors play up physical imperfections, (like Patton Oswalt does in this movie to charming effect) but Charlize Theron does him better by playing a good-looking emotional cripple. It's a vulnerable, discomforting performance that might make more than a few alleged grown-ups wonder whether we need crutches for our souls.

ABOVE: Hello Kitty shirt. Dog in purse. Sunglasses in the parking lot. Red flags! 

Mavis Gary is a vain, selfish alcoholic wreck who ghost-writes the "Waverly Prep" series (half-way between "Sweet Valley High" and "Gossip Girl"), which suits her fine because she's still in adolescent mode. When her ex-high school sweetheart (Patrick Wilson) has a baby with his new wife, Mavis goes back to her hometown bent on home-wrecking. (They were always "meant to be", and he would see that if he just got divorced! Duh!) The resulting sabotaged baby-shower is painful to watch, disastrous, but honest and darkly funny. We all know someone like Mavis - and I suspect we've all been Mavis at one point. "Young Adult" perfectly captures the way sometimes people try to impose their juvenile romantic agendas on reality, always to tragic effect. This is not a feel good movie, but it is a daring, unusual, perceptive portrait of delusion. Sympathetic adults should GO WATCH NOW.

(I do quibble with the ending, which condescendingly suggests that Mavis may suck but she's better than everyone else, because at least she moved out to Minneapolis, the "Mini Apple." But the moment was treated with enough ambiguity that I'll give it a pass, and I hope Jason Reitman and Diablo Cody keep teaming up.) 

Friends Get Shout Outs

ABOVE: I Wanna Hate Crime Myself for all This Gayness. Luv ya guys!

The wheel of Fortune turns and turns. Last night I had the pleasure of hanging with... let's call them "Ana Cristina" and "David Freer" (Real Names Changed to Protect the Innocent)... two of my favorite Earthlings and Dear Imaginary Readers,  WHO WON BIG ON WHEEL OF FORTUNE. This reminded me that other wonderful friends are also rocking it out there. Get ready for sappiness, but I truly believe that friends are what make us fortunate, so I want to celebrate the recent accomplishments of a few of my Dearest Imaginary Readers:

Awesome, thought-provoking writer/philosopher Ian Mathers just contributed to THE comprehensive "JOSS WHEDON", an essential book for anyone who's interested in pop culture criticism  or has been touched (in the good way) by Whedon's work, whether it was through "Buffy," "Angel," "Firefly," "The Astonishing X-Men," "Cabin in the Woods," "The Avengers," my well-defended "Dollhouse," or- why the heck not- "Toy Story" and "Speed."

Sweet Caroline Hagood (don't let her convince you otherwise) is the writer of the much mourned "Culture Sandwich" blog. She's currently an English PhD at Fordham University, where she works with literary magazine CURA, and has just published her first collection of poetry, "LUNATIC SPEAKS." You know this is a friend, so when I say that to my ears she is one of the most joyful, observant, penetrating minds toying around with the English language, you might think I'm biased. But I'm not. Friends can be wonderful and still write shitty poetry. Not the case with Caroline. If I hated her, I would still love her poems, because they move me, and I am rarely moved by modern poetry. She is truly a genius, and I don't know how she walks around with all that beauty in her head.

Last but not least, my biffle Vanessa Lopez (who's an editor with Random House) and ex-roomie Alex Segura (who currently does PR and Marketing for Archie Comics) somehow found time in their hectic lives to become one half of THE FAULKNER DETECTIVES. Their first EP, THE MODERN HANDSHAKE, has just been released. You can check it out at Amazon or Spotify! Their jangling, velvety undergroundy sound provided the soundtrack for this post. (My favorite? "New Blood"!)

The Year of Living Graphically

The Canon, the (admittedly Western) Consensus of Literary Greatness needs to be celebrated. Give me Shakespeare, Dante, Cervantes. Give me the Brothers Karamazov and the Bronte Sisters. Give me Joseph Conrad and Hemingway and- why not?- David Foster Wallace.
Or, as it suits the current "ready-for-the-zombies" mood, give me REVELATION:

ABOVE: Drugs are so much fun!

But I'm not sure that Russ Kick's "The Graphic Canon" is the way to celebrate it. On paper, (and it's a book, so it IS on paper), this is the year's MUST BUY: A gigantic, luxurious, three volume compendium of classics adapted graphically by some of the greatest names working the panel circuit. (Crumb, Peter Kuper, Gareth Hinds.) It's a beautiful concept and a beautiful book...

Except...

Some classics just don't translate well to comic book form. I feel that more than a few of these artists are selling themselves short in ill-fitting work. We've spent such a long time forwarding the idea that comics work on an inherently different level than paintings or novels... and here we go and subjugate them to "important stuff"? 70% of the pieces in "The Graphic Canon" are stilted, awkward, overly reverent. A Shakespearean sonnet simply does not need pretty artwork to trap it.
Also off-putting is Kick's self-congratulating role as visionary editor in the prologue. Dude, it's been done, this is NOT the revolution:

ABOVE: Come, Hamlet! To the comic book section!

But I'm being cantankerous. Some pieces on the first volume, (the only one released as of this writing) do work beautifully, and there's doubtless gems in the two follow-ups. How about this: It's a WHY-NOT BUY. (And I can't wait for Dame Darcy to tackle "Blood Meridian" on Volume 3.)

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Too much reverence also proves to be a problem for A. J. Jacobs in "The Year of Living Biblically: One Man's Humble Journey to Follow the Bible as Literally as Possible."

ABOVE: Baa. Baa. I need a baaaath!

Jacobs, (the agnostic editor at large for Esquire) sets out to follow ALL the Biblical rules for a year, (yes, even the stuff that contradicts the other stuff). SPOILER: It can't be done. The result is a hilarious look into religion that comes with a surprisingly spiritual uplift. It could all have been a bizarre experiment on growing an unruly beard or stoning the adulterous neighbors, but Jacobs' journey is well researched, loaded with historical and religious tidbits you won't soon forget. Did you know it's wrong to say "Mazel Tov"? (It means "Good stars" or "constellations" and smacks of astrology, a.k.a witchcraft.) You're probably aware that your clothes and haircuts are at this very moment sinfully violating some Biblical rule (Are you wearing mixed fabrics, infidel?!? Harlot, hast thou had a SUPERCUTS haircut?). You probably knew that watching TV and movies is an idolatrous sin because thou shalt not make images of any gods, (man is in God's image, sayeth the good book!), and everyone can agree that watching "American Idol" or "Bruce Almighty" might as well be instant damnation. But did you know that you can talk about Serena Williams but not her sister, because it's a sin to say the name of any god other than... well, it's actually a sin to say God too. G_D, recall. Praising Thor on Thurs Day and making him an Avenger? No, no, no! Oy vey!

Jacobs may strike a Mosaic pose on the book cover- commandments in one hand, Starbucks cup of coffee on the other- but this isn't a mockery of religion. His initial points are well-taken: it takes high levels of psychopathy to literally transplant the mores and fashions of bygone eras into the present; people who quote given Biblical lines to attack others are themselves stomping daily past hundreds of ridiculous, outdated regulations. But things deepen as the wacky adventures confront him with his own lack of spirituality and, after a series of hilarious and moving epiphanies, he finds that the Bible is more than some sort of dictatorial manual, but also a depository of wisdom, faith and comfort.

Ultimately, he learns what I hope most Dear Imaginary Readers can get down with: You take the worthwhile bits from the past, and grow from there. The detailed instructions for the Yahweh-appeasing, lamb-slaughtering holocaust? They can stay in the Good Book.