Thursday
9/18/04
Movie Curmudgeon Redux. Redux.
It was a balmy autumn afternoon in 1974 that saw a tousled haired youth enter the cool darkness of the Admiral Theater with two of his friends for a showing of Jason and the Argonauts. A mere ninety minutes later the tousled lad, who was otherwise only remarkable for his striking resemblance to me, reemerged into the blinding afternoon sunlight with sticky shoes, a mild stomachache caused by two boxes of Ju Ju Bees and rather too much Dr Pepper, and a newfound love of special effects driven cinematic kitsch.
And now, thirty years later to the day, I found myself, with my own tousle-haired lads in tow, entering our local Lowe’s Colosso-Huge-Googleplex theatre for a screening of Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow. And… sure enough, 110 minutes later we reemerged not into the blinding afternoon sunlight, but into the mall’s pallid neon glow with sticky shoes, mild tummy-aches and, most importantly, the sort of wide, satisfied grins that can only be caused by post-cinematic bliss.
In short, Sky Captain is a truly fine movie, and unlike anything I’ve ever seen. It is, apparently, the first movie made without a single set or location; every shot is completely CGI with the actors having been filmed in front of a green screen. The resulting soft focus and watercolor palette, combined with impossibly beautiful and epic backgrounds, lends an almost surreal, dreamlike quality to the whole affair.
The movie is not without its problems of course, such as its awkwardly bad and occasionally anachronistic dialogue, or the mildly odd and uncomfortable chemistry between Paltrow and Law, but these are mere quibbles. The action sequences and settings are so incredibly creative and original, and the locations are so extraordinarily beautiful in a distinctly Maxfield Parrish sort of way, that I found the whole thing absolutely irresistible. Early on in the movie, for instance, Paltrow gets caught up with giant robots marching through Manhattan in a sequence that is simultaneously the most surreal, dreamlike and absolutely stunning action sequence I have ever seen.
So, during the drive home I wondered if perhaps I should be just a little wistful when recalling the old fashioned simplicity of Jason and his Argonauts fighting a brace of stop-motion skeletons. How, after all, can they compete with the brute force of today’s digital monsters? But I thought better of it; Sky Captain and his tricked out P-40 clearly rule. And hell, Angela Jolie in a black leather uniform and eye patch? I’m still getting chills.
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Movie Curmudgeon Redux. Redux.
It was a balmy autumn afternoon in 1974 that saw a tousled haired youth enter the cool darkness of the Admiral Theater with two of his friends for a showing of Jason and the Argonauts. A mere ninety minutes later the tousled lad, who was otherwise only remarkable for his striking resemblance to me, reemerged into the blinding afternoon sunlight with sticky shoes, a mild stomachache caused by two boxes of Ju Ju Bees and rather too much Dr Pepper, and a newfound love of special effects driven cinematic kitsch.
And now, thirty years later to the day, I found myself, with my own tousle-haired lads in tow, entering our local Lowe’s Colosso-Huge-Googleplex theatre for a screening of Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow. And… sure enough, 110 minutes later we reemerged not into the blinding afternoon sunlight, but into the mall’s pallid neon glow with sticky shoes, mild tummy-aches and, most importantly, the sort of wide, satisfied grins that can only be caused by post-cinematic bliss.
In short, Sky Captain is a truly fine movie, and unlike anything I’ve ever seen. It is, apparently, the first movie made without a single set or location; every shot is completely CGI with the actors having been filmed in front of a green screen. The resulting soft focus and watercolor palette, combined with impossibly beautiful and epic backgrounds, lends an almost surreal, dreamlike quality to the whole affair.
The movie is not without its problems of course, such as its awkwardly bad and occasionally anachronistic dialogue, or the mildly odd and uncomfortable chemistry between Paltrow and Law, but these are mere quibbles. The action sequences and settings are so incredibly creative and original, and the locations are so extraordinarily beautiful in a distinctly Maxfield Parrish sort of way, that I found the whole thing absolutely irresistible. Early on in the movie, for instance, Paltrow gets caught up with giant robots marching through Manhattan in a sequence that is simultaneously the most surreal, dreamlike and absolutely stunning action sequence I have ever seen.
So, during the drive home I wondered if perhaps I should be just a little wistful when recalling the old fashioned simplicity of Jason and his Argonauts fighting a brace of stop-motion skeletons. How, after all, can they compete with the brute force of today’s digital monsters? But I thought better of it; Sky Captain and his tricked out P-40 clearly rule. And hell, Angela Jolie in a black leather uniform and eye patch? I’m still getting chills.
9/15/04
Finishing the Race
It occurred me recently that one of life’s little mysteries is that the world appears to be full of people who seem to be entirely immune to the myriad minor annoyances that are clearly tailor made to annoy the bejesus out of people like me. I am, in short, susceptible to every banal pet peeve there is.
To wit: I'm intensely annoyed by people who give you wrong directions to their own homes. Inexcusable. Or, shoppers who leave their carts unattended and squarely in the center of any given supermarket aisle, blithely unaware that I would like nothing better than to grab that box of Cheese Nips and be on my way. Or, even worse, bloggers who insist on public hand wringing over their recent lack of blogging... usually in an entirely unjustified tone of guilt at having deprived the world of their blindingly brilliant insights.
That said, I must admit that standing before you is a blogger who not only enjoys nothing more than the clean, surgical cut of irony, but has an admission to make about my recent lack of blogging as well. Indeed, I too have been depriving the world of my staggeringly brilliant insights recently… but I actually have a reason worthy of my complete lack of production: I was busy finishing the last papers in the last class for my degree.
Yes, it has taken me an a extra fifteen-some-odd years to graduate after I went back to school a couple of years ago; but, as it’s frequently been pointed out to me, the tortoise and hare taught us that the point is not how fast you finish the race but that you finish at all.
So, finally, even though I’ve never been one to indulge in blatant self aggrandizement, I think I may just this once dip my toes in the cool, clear waters of apotheosis: "I’m a college graduate, I’ve got me one of them there degrees in journalism and writing, and I’m feeling pretty darn snappy about it. Huzzah!"
…oh crap. It just occurred to me that now I’m just going to have to find some sort of "real" job. Oh well. Anybody?
8/24/04
The End Of A Season
I would be hard pressed indeed, as would most anyone I presume, to think of any time of year that is as bittersweet as are the closing days of summer. The days are getting shorter, the sun is setting noticeably farther south, and the night air brings a chill not felt since spring. The heady days of rough and tumble fun at the beach are now behind us as is the heady excitement of first kisses shared as a campfire somewhere slowly burns down.
Good Lord, what a load of nonsense. I’m way to old for all that. Bottom line: the lads are going back to school, and despite my mildly conflicted feelings about the freedom that summer brings, I know it’s best for everybody to be done with it. Sure, it’ll be tough to get back into the grind of our over-scheduled lives, but at this point the lads and I have had about as much fun as we can stand.
The boys have played through every video game we have, and I’ve gotten tired of being beaten by Splinter Cell and Prince of Persia. We’ve read books, done puzzles and watched more Godzilla movies than I would have ever guessed existed. ( Twenty-six apparently, not including Godzilla Meets Bambi and the unwatchable Matthew Broderick Godzilla of 1998.) There have been trips to kid museums, science museums and aquariums. We’ve done day trips here and weekend trips there. We’ve played tennis. We’ve played soccer/football/Frisbee in the back yard. We’ve played basketball in the driveway. We’ve been pruned up in the town pool more times than I care to remember. I am now, simply put, pooped.
So it was with a renewed spring in my step that I took the lads to Target yesterday and collected a shopping cart full of pencils, markers, notebooks and all the related educational tools that will, apparently, make them smarter. The boys actually took it all rather well, including the news that the second and fourth grades, respectively, are upon them. And, my guess is that they’ll continue taking the end of summer well… at least until they find out about girls and smooching by a dying campfire.
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The End Of A Season
I would be hard pressed indeed, as would most anyone I presume, to think of any time of year that is as bittersweet as are the closing days of summer. The days are getting shorter, the sun is setting noticeably farther south, and the night air brings a chill not felt since spring. The heady days of rough and tumble fun at the beach are now behind us as is the heady excitement of first kisses shared as a campfire somewhere slowly burns down.
Good Lord, what a load of nonsense. I’m way to old for all that. Bottom line: the lads are going back to school, and despite my mildly conflicted feelings about the freedom that summer brings, I know it’s best for everybody to be done with it. Sure, it’ll be tough to get back into the grind of our over-scheduled lives, but at this point the lads and I have had about as much fun as we can stand.
The boys have played through every video game we have, and I’ve gotten tired of being beaten by Splinter Cell and Prince of Persia. We’ve read books, done puzzles and watched more Godzilla movies than I would have ever guessed existed. ( Twenty-six apparently, not including Godzilla Meets Bambi and the unwatchable Matthew Broderick Godzilla of 1998.) There have been trips to kid museums, science museums and aquariums. We’ve done day trips here and weekend trips there. We’ve played tennis. We’ve played soccer/football/Frisbee in the back yard. We’ve played basketball in the driveway. We’ve been pruned up in the town pool more times than I care to remember. I am now, simply put, pooped.
So it was with a renewed spring in my step that I took the lads to Target yesterday and collected a shopping cart full of pencils, markers, notebooks and all the related educational tools that will, apparently, make them smarter. The boys actually took it all rather well, including the news that the second and fourth grades, respectively, are upon them. And, my guess is that they’ll continue taking the end of summer well… at least until they find out about girls and smooching by a dying campfire.
Wednesday
8/14/04
Gay Old Mystic
I suppose one upside to having a perennially tardy spouse is that it gives one time to finish up some of life’s more mundane chores. Clipping the toenails and checking for bellybutton lint. That sort of thing.
As I write this I’m waiting for my Lovely Bride to ready her lovely self so we can escape for a little grownup-only vacation, so I figured rather than performing bellybutton maintenance I would amuse myself by adding this quick note to the blog. The boys are staying with Abuela, the car is packed and before you know it we’ll be on our way to gay old Mystic, Ct.
All right, so it is a little hokey/touristy, but I don’t care. By nightfall I plan to have a heaping plate of freshly fried clams and a ridiculously large and very willing lobster in front of me… Good lord, she’s actually got her shoes on… Gotta go!
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Gay Old Mystic
I suppose one upside to having a perennially tardy spouse is that it gives one time to finish up some of life’s more mundane chores. Clipping the toenails and checking for bellybutton lint. That sort of thing.
As I write this I’m waiting for my Lovely Bride to ready her lovely self so we can escape for a little grownup-only vacation, so I figured rather than performing bellybutton maintenance I would amuse myself by adding this quick note to the blog. The boys are staying with Abuela, the car is packed and before you know it we’ll be on our way to gay old Mystic, Ct.
All right, so it is a little hokey/touristy, but I don’t care. By nightfall I plan to have a heaping plate of freshly fried clams and a ridiculously large and very willing lobster in front of me… Good lord, she’s actually got her shoes on… Gotta go!
Saturday
8/09/04
The Enemy Within.
It was not so very long ago on a bright summer afternoon that the lads and I were engaged in a time honored tradition: I was cruising the aisles of my local supermarket while carefully checking labels for calorie count and fat content, and the lads were busy as bees scheming how to fill the cart with sugar/junk cereals without me noticing. In short, we were passing an amiably mundane afternoon together.
Soon enough I had the cart full with all the necessary staples, and, after double checking for any stow-away Cap’n Crunch that might have slipped aboard, we made our way to checkout aisle number twelve. Then, only moments later as I was busy surrendering a box of granola to the scanner, I made a grim discovery that was to forever shatter my boyishly innocent view of the world. Right there in front of me, in bold, living color, was a newspaper whose terrifying headline read simply: "Dolly’s Breasts Killing Her!"
Killer breasts? Good lord, I thought to myself. Who would have imagined such a thing was possible? I quickly shielded the boys’ gaze from the grim pronouncement and shooed them away. Certainly they’re too young to have to face the grim reality that breasts can be so dangerous. And certainly I wouldn’t want their fond memories of my Lovely Bride’s boobs to be sullied in such a churlish way.
Worse still, it wasn’t until I was driving home in the minivan freshly packed with groceries and boys that the full ramifications of my ghastly discovery began to dawn on me. How, exactly, were Dolly’s breasts trying to kill her? Was it a full frontal assault involving suffocation? Or perhaps they’re more devious than that and are waging psychological warfare against her.
By the time we arrived home I was truly in a state. What if, I wondered, the occurrence of traitorous appendages isn’t confined to malicious mammaries? Would it be possible to fall victim to a pair of rogue buttocks, for instance? Or a pair of disloyal elbows? Or a pancreas, perhaps. Now that I think about it, my pancreas and I never really got along after that Christmas party in 1998 when it had too much eggnog and started a fight with my spleen.
Anyway, I still haven’t warned my Lovely Bride about the potential danger her breasts present as I don’t want to spook them or frighten her. I have though, as a sensible precaution, taken to sleeping with a flashlight and a bat by my side just in case her boobs are considering a nocturnal offensive. My Lovely Bride thinks I’m nuts of course, but then again she always has.
So take that as a warning you… you… sneaky boobs you! Thanks to Dolly’s valiant fight I’m on to you now!
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The Enemy Within.
It was not so very long ago on a bright summer afternoon that the lads and I were engaged in a time honored tradition: I was cruising the aisles of my local supermarket while carefully checking labels for calorie count and fat content, and the lads were busy as bees scheming how to fill the cart with sugar/junk cereals without me noticing. In short, we were passing an amiably mundane afternoon together.
Soon enough I had the cart full with all the necessary staples, and, after double checking for any stow-away Cap’n Crunch that might have slipped aboard, we made our way to checkout aisle number twelve. Then, only moments later as I was busy surrendering a box of granola to the scanner, I made a grim discovery that was to forever shatter my boyishly innocent view of the world. Right there in front of me, in bold, living color, was a newspaper whose terrifying headline read simply: "Dolly’s Breasts Killing Her!"
Killer breasts? Good lord, I thought to myself. Who would have imagined such a thing was possible? I quickly shielded the boys’ gaze from the grim pronouncement and shooed them away. Certainly they’re too young to have to face the grim reality that breasts can be so dangerous. And certainly I wouldn’t want their fond memories of my Lovely Bride’s boobs to be sullied in such a churlish way.
Worse still, it wasn’t until I was driving home in the minivan freshly packed with groceries and boys that the full ramifications of my ghastly discovery began to dawn on me. How, exactly, were Dolly’s breasts trying to kill her? Was it a full frontal assault involving suffocation? Or perhaps they’re more devious than that and are waging psychological warfare against her.
By the time we arrived home I was truly in a state. What if, I wondered, the occurrence of traitorous appendages isn’t confined to malicious mammaries? Would it be possible to fall victim to a pair of rogue buttocks, for instance? Or a pair of disloyal elbows? Or a pancreas, perhaps. Now that I think about it, my pancreas and I never really got along after that Christmas party in 1998 when it had too much eggnog and started a fight with my spleen.
Anyway, I still haven’t warned my Lovely Bride about the potential danger her breasts present as I don’t want to spook them or frighten her. I have though, as a sensible precaution, taken to sleeping with a flashlight and a bat by my side just in case her boobs are considering a nocturnal offensive. My Lovely Bride thinks I’m nuts of course, but then again she always has.
So take that as a warning you… you… sneaky boobs you! Thanks to Dolly’s valiant fight I’m on to you now!
8/05/04
A Confederacy Indeed.
Despite the many and varied advantages there are to being an at home dad, it can at times be, well, a bit dreary. It’s ok to admit it. We all have those moments when the hobgoblin of doubt comes to visit and suddenly the act of running the dishwasher for the 845,000th time seems just a shade less than fulfilling.
This very morning was just such a morning for me, although in this case I was in the midst of scrambling my lifetime 3,651st egg for the lads’ breakfast. Sigh… But then, just as the hobgoblin of doubt was preparing to climb into my head for an extended visit, I heard these words clawing their way through the ambient drone of my kitchen radio: "Our enemies are innovative and resourceful, and so are we. They never stop thinking about new ways to harm our country and our people, and neither do we." *1 There it was. Once again the suspiciously simian George W. Bush had selflessly gone out of his way to brighten my day, only this time he had truly outdone himself.
I slid the newly minted eggs from the pan onto two freshly toasted waffles and presented them to the lads with a subtle flourish and just the hint of a wry smile.
They both piped up with the fairly unusual and unexpected response, "Thanks Dad."
"Any time, boys," I replied with an affectionate rubbing of tousled heads, "anytime at all."
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A Confederacy Indeed.
Despite the many and varied advantages there are to being an at home dad, it can at times be, well, a bit dreary. It’s ok to admit it. We all have those moments when the hobgoblin of doubt comes to visit and suddenly the act of running the dishwasher for the 845,000th time seems just a shade less than fulfilling.
This very morning was just such a morning for me, although in this case I was in the midst of scrambling my lifetime 3,651st egg for the lads’ breakfast. Sigh… But then, just as the hobgoblin of doubt was preparing to climb into my head for an extended visit, I heard these words clawing their way through the ambient drone of my kitchen radio: "Our enemies are innovative and resourceful, and so are we. They never stop thinking about new ways to harm our country and our people, and neither do we." *1 There it was. Once again the suspiciously simian George W. Bush had selflessly gone out of his way to brighten my day, only this time he had truly outdone himself.
I slid the newly minted eggs from the pan onto two freshly toasted waffles and presented them to the lads with a subtle flourish and just the hint of a wry smile.
They both piped up with the fairly unusual and unexpected response, "Thanks Dad."
"Any time, boys," I replied with an affectionate rubbing of tousled heads, "anytime at all."
Tuesday
8/04/04
Movie Curmudgeon Redux.
It has, on occasion, been pointed out to me that I am not without my fair share of quirks and foibles. And, on occasion, I am rudely awakened to the fact that one of these quirks is a little habit I have of thinking in absolutes.
Thinking, for instance, that frogs and model rockets were absolutely the coolest things possible… until I found out about girls. All soft and curvy. Who knew? Or thinking in a similarly boyish way that Ulysses S. Grant was absolutely the most self-serving and corrupt president the United States could ever possibly have. Boy was I wrong again.
Anyway, a few days ago a bright red Netflix envelope appeared in our post box that enclosed a surreal little treat featuring Howard Keel and Kathryn Grayson... and in short order another seemingly cast iron absolute was stripped from me. Up until then I was sure that the violent and clearly felonious abductions that take place in Seven Brides for Seven Brothers were at the heart of Hollywood’s oddest musical, but now I know better. Kiss Me Kate has them, all seven, beat hands down.
Now lest anyone be tempted to cry out "Philistine" and beat me about the head and neck with a pair of opera glasses, be assured that I have a deep fondness for Hollywood musicals in general, and all things Astaire in particular. In short, there are few things I enjoy as much as a stage full of hoofers as they dance their little hearts out for my enjoyment.
That said, the photo of the DVD displayed above says it all. The comically wooden Howard Keel is truly a sight to behold. Granted, his character Fred Graham is meant to be a pompous, self-absorbed jackass, but Keel’s portrayal of him is just a heartbeat away from Jim Carey at his worst.
Ms. Grayson generally turns in a fine performance, but why her character would be drawn to Keel’s remains an immutable mystery. I know it’s just the modern man in me peeking out, but for heaven's sake, there's a difference between being attracted to bad boys and being attracted to broke, two-timing buffoons. Odder still, later in the film she engages in a little solo number called "I Hate Men," and plays it with such ferocity that it quickly turns from amusing to just a little weird.
Now this is where you say: "Hey, just a minute there, you… you… movie curmudgeon, you. Watching musicals requires a special kind of suspension of disbelief and maybe, just maybe, a childlike sense of wonder at the magical imagination that those musicals can give us."
And my response? Yeah, yeah, I know, but all the weird goings on in Kiss Me Kate are only really annoying because they’re mixed in with a lot of great moments as well. Ann Miller is not only truly fetching, but has two great numbers in which she really does shine. (Particularly fine was the chemistry between her and Tommy Rall.) Moreover, Keenan Wynn and James Whitmore are bang-up as the would-be thugs Lippy and Slug; their number "Brush Up Your Shakespeare" is wonderful indeed. And of course it’s a lot of fun watching a young Bob Fosse dancing with all the boundless energy and intensity that eventually betrayed him.
All right, so maybe I jumped the gun a little by declaring that Kiss Me Kate had dethroned Seven Brides as the world’s weirdest musical, but jeez, it just makes me so cranky when you really want to like something and you know it could have been good… but isn’t. I guess that’s just another little frailty that I’ll have to add to my list of foibles and quirks.
Anyway, never one to wallow in self pity, I’ve put Kate behind me and ordered up a boxed set of three movies I’ve never seen: Heaven’s Gate, Ishtar and Gigli. I’m sure they’ll cheer me up.
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Movie Curmudgeon Redux.
It has, on occasion, been pointed out to me that I am not without my fair share of quirks and foibles. And, on occasion, I am rudely awakened to the fact that one of these quirks is a little habit I have of thinking in absolutes.
Thinking, for instance, that frogs and model rockets were absolutely the coolest things possible… until I found out about girls. All soft and curvy. Who knew? Or thinking in a similarly boyish way that Ulysses S. Grant was absolutely the most self-serving and corrupt president the United States could ever possibly have. Boy was I wrong again.
Anyway, a few days ago a bright red Netflix envelope appeared in our post box that enclosed a surreal little treat featuring Howard Keel and Kathryn Grayson... and in short order another seemingly cast iron absolute was stripped from me. Up until then I was sure that the violent and clearly felonious abductions that take place in Seven Brides for Seven Brothers were at the heart of Hollywood’s oddest musical, but now I know better. Kiss Me Kate has them, all seven, beat hands down.
Now lest anyone be tempted to cry out "Philistine" and beat me about the head and neck with a pair of opera glasses, be assured that I have a deep fondness for Hollywood musicals in general, and all things Astaire in particular. In short, there are few things I enjoy as much as a stage full of hoofers as they dance their little hearts out for my enjoyment.
That said, the photo of the DVD displayed above says it all. The comically wooden Howard Keel is truly a sight to behold. Granted, his character Fred Graham is meant to be a pompous, self-absorbed jackass, but Keel’s portrayal of him is just a heartbeat away from Jim Carey at his worst.
Ms. Grayson generally turns in a fine performance, but why her character would be drawn to Keel’s remains an immutable mystery. I know it’s just the modern man in me peeking out, but for heaven's sake, there's a difference between being attracted to bad boys and being attracted to broke, two-timing buffoons. Odder still, later in the film she engages in a little solo number called "I Hate Men," and plays it with such ferocity that it quickly turns from amusing to just a little weird.
Now this is where you say: "Hey, just a minute there, you… you… movie curmudgeon, you. Watching musicals requires a special kind of suspension of disbelief and maybe, just maybe, a childlike sense of wonder at the magical imagination that those musicals can give us."
And my response? Yeah, yeah, I know, but all the weird goings on in Kiss Me Kate are only really annoying because they’re mixed in with a lot of great moments as well. Ann Miller is not only truly fetching, but has two great numbers in which she really does shine. (Particularly fine was the chemistry between her and Tommy Rall.) Moreover, Keenan Wynn and James Whitmore are bang-up as the would-be thugs Lippy and Slug; their number "Brush Up Your Shakespeare" is wonderful indeed. And of course it’s a lot of fun watching a young Bob Fosse dancing with all the boundless energy and intensity that eventually betrayed him.
All right, so maybe I jumped the gun a little by declaring that Kiss Me Kate had dethroned Seven Brides as the world’s weirdest musical, but jeez, it just makes me so cranky when you really want to like something and you know it could have been good… but isn’t. I guess that’s just another little frailty that I’ll have to add to my list of foibles and quirks.
Anyway, never one to wallow in self pity, I’ve put Kate behind me and ordered up a boxed set of three movies I’ve never seen: Heaven’s Gate, Ishtar and Gigli. I’m sure they’ll cheer me up.
8/03/04
Brevity. Apparently it's the soul of wit.
Today, August third, is a special sort of breakthrough day for me. Today I’m breaking with my longstanding habit of employing painfully longwinded whimsy to make a rather simple point; today I just get right to it. To wit:
Suppose George W. Bush found a paper hat. I imagine it might go something like this.
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Brevity. Apparently it's the soul of wit.
Today, August third, is a special sort of breakthrough day for me. Today I’m breaking with my longstanding habit of employing painfully longwinded whimsy to make a rather simple point; today I just get right to it. To wit:
Suppose George W. Bush found a paper hat. I imagine it might go something like this.
