Showing posts with label books. Show all posts
Showing posts with label books. Show all posts

Saturday, March 3, 2012

Of Pigs and Seeds


































Today was our annual Kid's Character Event at the bookstore, this year featuring Olivia. There is always, always a lot of anxiety for me surrounding this thing: even though we have it down to a science, and one just has to color between the lines to make it happen, still, it's an event that brings several hundreds of people through the store, and the responsibility for making it happen is 100 percent mine.

So, the words that would describe me in the couple of weeks leading up this thing are:

**FREAKING OUT***

and that's in a GOOD year.

And this was not a good year, oh no. I've been deathly ill, and in the past week I've been metaphorically worked over by my boss with a rubber hose for a crime that I did not know I was committing at the time (although I did commit it), had the police in my living room giving me the third degree until three AM, AND been ordered back into mandatory counseling!

Well, it came and it went and everything turned out OK, although only thanks to a few last-minute heroes who stepped up to the plate to save me. As it turns out, even though the tickets were not flying out the door in the weeks prior to the event, this year it was HUGE, with at least a third more people in attendance than in the past two years. I ran out of cups for lemonade. I ran out of balloons. I sold out of Olivia dolls (at sixteen bucks a pop) within the first thirty-five minutes.

I wished that my boss was there, not just to see how well-recieved Olivia was, but because she is a steadier and calmer hand on the controls than I am, and she might have been able to smooth out some wrinkles.

Because -- it was REALLY BUSY. Not since Clifford the Big Red Dog stopped by the store four years ago have we drawn a crowd like the one we drew today.

Even if I had been feeling well, I'd be tired right now. As it is, soon as I finish typing this I am headed for the couch and a Nice Relaxing Evening that will most likely feature easily prepared frozen food at dinnertime.

Here's one nice thing: I stopped by the stupormarket on the way home, for quat fud and other necessities, and guess what? The seeds were out! It always really cheers me up when the garden seeds appear in the late winter, early spring. It proves to me that Spring is coming. I bought my first two packages of Nasturtium seeds, and it -- along with the simple fact of having the annual Character Event squarely behind me -- really cheered me up!

-- Freder

Friday, February 10, 2012

The Paper Age





















All doomster predictions aside, I don't believe that the paper book is going away anytime soon, if at all. I can tell you what is going away, though, and soon: the paper catalog.

Especially in the book industry, publishers are falling all over themselves trying to put an end to the paper catalog -- and I suppose there are lots of benefits, to their budgets, to the environment, to my desk. But I hate it.

The industry standard is currently Eidelweiss, a bit of web-based software owned by a company called Above the Treeline that allows publishers to easily share their catalogs online. And it stinks. The sales reps "mark up" (add comments to) the catalog and send us an email link. When we click on the link, what we get is a plain, uniform list a hundred books long, with a tiny thumbnail of each book cover, the ISBN, price, and the sales rep comments, if any. In order to get the details for any one of those books, you have to click through on another link.

Here's the deal: I can not be bothered to click on a hundred links to a hundred separate pages to look at the details of a hundred books. When you do click through, every single page is uniform, identically designed, no individuality for any title. This is not an enticing way to sell books to a book lover. It's like browsing books at Amazon, I defy any book lover to actually do it.

With a paper catalog, you turn the page and all the information you need is right there. Usually there's an image of the book cover that's actually large enough to see, a description, some review quotes, the print run, it's all RIGHT THERE. No clicking to do. Also, if the catalog designer is worth anything, he or she can customize the design of each individual page to suit the book that's on display.

When Penguin's adult hardcover line published paper catalogs, I used to order between sixty to ninety titles from them every season. This spring they went exclusively to Eidelweiss, and you know what? I ordered just twelve titles. In a way, it was kind of a relief. A lot less work for me.

I can't believe that I'm alone in this. At a time when the book industry is whining about how their sales are shrinking, they seem to be doing everything in their power to make their sales worse. People in the retail business do not have the time to be farting around on the internet clicking links for hours. Plus, in order for me to do the purchase order up, I have to print out the damn Eidelweiss listing anyway, and that costs us money. Until they can devise an online catalog that actually looks and works and is as easy to use as paper ones, I predict their sales to retail stores will plummet.

Macmillan is going Eidelweiss this spring, Random House is going Eidelweiss this summer, and the death of the paper catalog is in sight. It's just one more way that the world is changing, not for the better.

-- Freder.

Thursday, August 11, 2011

A Blooming Tragedy





















We interrupt our regularly scheduled post with the saddest news. Terry Pratchett, British author of the Discworld novels, has been diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer's and says he will consider assisted suicide when the time comes. Presumably, when he can no longer write or work for legalizing assisted suicide in England.

Here's a link to the NPR story.

I can't say that I've read all, or even most, of his novels. The man is prolific. The one bitter little gripe that I have about him is that nobody who is that prolific has the right to be so good.

Lots of writers have attempted the comedy-fantasy, but none, to my knowledge, have brought such humanity to their work. Pratchett isn't just a genre writer -- the stories are character-driven and the humor is a full-blooded mix of satire and verbal slapstick that masks an underlying seriousness and concerns some of  the big questions of life. It's not for nothing that Death is a recurring character in Pratchett's novels; in Reaper Man (one of his best) The Powers that Be actually sack Death because he's developing a personality. Can't have that happen!

The bumbling witches and warlocks that populate his early novels aren't shallow characters. They bumble not in the form of pratfalls but because they are human.

A friend of mine is a huge fan of P. G. Wodehouse. I don't know why I was surprised to learn that she is also a big fan of Pratchett's, but it's easy to see the connection once you think about it. They share the same lightness of touch and a distinct British-ness that colors their work. Like Wodehouse, you can pick up any one of Pratchett's books, start anywhere, there's no one beginning point, all avenues into their worlds are good. But there the similarities end: where Wodehouse draws eccentricity out of the natural world, Pratchett draws humanity out of the most eccentric of fantasy worlds. More so than Wodehouse, Pratchett has something to say. If you haven't read him, you should.

I don't feel sorry or sad for Pratchett. My sense is that he is as emotionally well-equipped to face the challenges ahead of him as well as anyone. And although the prospect of Alzheimer's must be worse for a writer, who makes his living and defines himself out of his own head and personality, all the evidence indicates that Alzheimer's is harder on the family than it is on the sufferer.

I'm sad -- and angry -- for us. It's not fair. More damn tears to hold back. Pratchett might have had more than twenty years of activity and as many more books ahead of him. It's a crime. We're being robbed. Why couldn't this have happened to Nicholas Sparks or Danielle Steele, instead of Pratchett? Why does this sort of thing have to happen to people who bring good into the world?

Thank you, Mr. Pratchett. You will be missed.

-- Freder.


Sunday, July 10, 2011

The Way Some People Die




















. . . is the title of a book by Ross MacDonald. I'm reading a collection of short autobiographical pieces by MacDonald (real name Kenneth Millar). Millar describes emotional and practical difficulties at various stages of his life, "seismic upheavals" such that I think anyone could appreciate or identify with. The real difference is that Millar never seems to have suffered from a creative block.

He could always write it out within his fiction. That's what I had learned to do as well. But it's not there anymore.

These days off, or at least the unoccupied hours, are deadly to me. Not being able to write is like not having a mouth. Beating myself up over it doesn't help at all.

If I were to hire MacDonald's detective, Lew Archer, to help me solve the case, he would find several causes (as I have done), but perhaps he could find solutions that are evading me.

First, and possibly foremost, I used to drink while I wrote. Not "get drunk," mind you -- if that happened, the work came to a screeching halt. But a drink or two or three, taken over a few hours, would lubricate the gears, get them turning again, unlock my imagination and free my hands from restraints.

I don't have that tool anymore. My gears are frozen and rusted badly in place, and my imagination seems to be bolted shut, barring only the random images of horror that sometimes burst out when I'm trying to lie at rest.

The other thing I've come up with is the feeling that, with all my grandparents gone and now my mother gone, too, there's nobody left that I need to prove myself to. My friend BC would likely say to this, "Prove it to yourself!"

Myself. That's the person I least care for. The only person I hate more is my sister, who helped make me this way.

I honestly believed that a few days off, some down time to gather myself, would be all that I needed to get going again. Instead, it's having the opposite effect. It's almost as if the outrageous craziness of the last nine months kept me from experiencing a level of the grief and despair (which hardly seems possible), and now that things have calmed down a lot, the silence and the vacancy has allowed a fresh tsunami of emotion to hit me. Not being able to work at any creative pursuit (not even my scrapbook of the old house, which is filled with associations that I can't bear to reflect upon anymore) -- and beating myself up about it -- is having real emotional consequences for me. It means that I have no outlet.

Blogging about it all seems to be the only thing I can manage. But it makes me feel that I should change the title of this blog to "The Broken Record."

*

I came to the Millar book yesterday when Annie Proulx's Bird Cloud fell through for me. Proulx is an alum of the college that employs me, making Bird Cloud the no-brainer choice for Book of the Month when it comes out in paperback this October. So, I thought for once it would be nice to have actually read the book of the month.


The book is a memoir of Proulx's experiences building her Dream House in what used to be a protected reserve, which is now privately owned by her. Right away it got off to a rocky start for me with a long stretch of present-tense writing. As a young man, the present tense never bothered me much, and I even used it myself on occasion when immediacy seemed an important element of my story. But now that I'm a crotchety Olde Farte, present tense just really deeply annoys me, especially when the writer seems to be using it for no good reason. That was the case here.


Then Proulx launches into a far-ranging history of her family, and although there were small points of interest I largely didn't give a damn. Something is wrong in the "Reading and Dozing" process when the dozing starts to take up much more time than the reading. Proulx was still in the middle of this preliminary ancestral ramble when the chapter abruptly ended. I realized that I'd plowed through the whole first chapter, and Proulx had yet to begin the story that I showed up to read.


Fortunately, it was an advance reader's copy (the home shelves of most booksellers are full of these, I imagine), so I had no money in it and could take it back to the store. It went straight into my bag. Life is too short for books that can't come to the point.


*


On Friday afternoon I drove all the way out to South China in my Highly Illegal car. My lawyer had said that she wanted to see me. I was then as I am today keeping the fact of being emotionally overwrought just under the surface. It turned out that she wanted to make a distribution from my mother's estate.

As a result of this meeting, my father and his wife are now completely paid off in what they loaned me to buy this house, and this house is now 1/3rd mine, free and clear. I was given an additional amount. I won't type the number, but it's enough for me to pay off all my credit card debt and buy a car outright, without having to go into additional debt. This amount still leaves a considerably larger amount left in the estate, that will come to me later.

So -- things should be looking up, right? I should be feeling better about life.

I am not. It's actually deeply upsetting to me. Tears are running down my face as I type this. I cannot escape the fact that in order for all of this good to come about, Mom had to die. I'd give it all back, and more, to have never had that happen.

-- Freder.

Friday, July 1, 2011

Chance of Showers


















I honestly thought that with the move behind me, things would soon be hunky-dory. All I needed was some downtime to gather myself, and I would be off again, working on personal projects, moving right along, right as rain.

But things are so not hunky-dory and the rain is a depressive one that, some days, is stronger than the drugs. I seem to be stuck. Still can't seem to get through a day without tears. Whenever Pandy Bear hears me crying he comes over to me and looks up with an expression that seems to say, "I understand. Don't be sad. We love you." and that makes it worse.

I think that the activity of the move and the focus it provided was the thing keeping sadness, relatively speaking, at bay. At least it was a distraction. There was little time to think about anything other than what needed to be done, and little to do other than forge ahead.

It shouldn't be like this. I have a nice new home filled with memories and I'm grateful for that. I'm trying to do all the right things. I talk a walk around the neighborhood every night. I'm keeping my brain fed with books and telly. I'm eating well, although lately I have begun to lose my appetite again. Can't give in to that, it had disastrous consequences for me last year.

But I feel like I'm hiding all the while, from things that are only growing stronger while I pretend they don't exist.

Then again, maybe I'm over-thinking it. I shouldn't blog when I'm in this kind of a mood. I don't know whether it releases those feelings or makes them worse.

Here's something funny: The book I've chosen for our Book of the Month here at the store has this in its description: "[Funeral for a Dog] tells the parallel stories of two writers struggling with the burden of the past and the uncertainties of the future." Hmm. Wonder why I chose it. Maybe I should read this one.

-- Freder.

Wednesday, June 29, 2011

The Internet May Indeed Be a Playground. . .


















. . . but David Thorne's book with that approximate title is more like the paperback equivalent of trowelware. This is why the world needs editors, and why the world is a little bit worse off without them.

I'm one of those people who found Thorne's website (which I will not name or link to here, because I'm afraid that Mr. Thorne would follow the link back with dire consequences to myself) really hysterically, laugh-out-loud funny. But the book, which contains a complete archive of the site plus, seemingly, everything else Mr. Thorne has ever written, is a classic case of not knowing when to stop.

I can hear the publisher thinking "We have to give them a reason to buy the book. We have to give them lots and lots of stuff that they can't get for free right on Thorne's website. Let's jam-pack the thing with everything David has ever written, even if it's just a laundry list!"

This is like a dump truck being emptied onto your front lawn.

To be fair, I was ill yesterday and I turned to the book for cheer. Instead, I grew increasingly depressed as I realized that this was the same thing over and over and over again, and that I could predict pretty much exactly how each piece would go. "He's going to go into a deliberately ridiculous digression with a story from his youth now," and yep, there it was, right on cue. I began skipping over whole sections, in search of the good stuff, and finally I just had to stop about a third of the way short of finishing the thing. I'd had more than enough.

Thank goodness I didn't pay money for my copy -- it was an Advance Reader's Edition that I got through the bookstore. In the end, I didn't even want the thing in my house. I brought it back this morning and put it on the shelf with the other Advance copies. Let someone else enjoy it, if they can.

By all means go to Mr. Thorne's website and enjoy the mischief there. The internet is the perfect vehicle for him. If the book brings him some income, then good on him. But I can't recommend it to anyone who isn't, almost literally, a glutton for punishment.

-- Freder.

Monday, June 27, 2011

"Exactly, Brigadier, Exactly!"

















A friend on Facebook left me a message asking me to post EXACTLY how I am (capitalization his). Well, that's exactly the thing: exactitude is not exactly a strong point of mine in the best of times. As exactly as I can express it, this is exactly how I am: I am somewhat like The Doctor.

I'm an eccentric non-neurotypicical who has just been through an explosive, year-long regeneration, and I'm not done yet. "Still cooking." Unfinished. I have good moments and bad ones, and the good can change to the bad in the blink of an eye.

Anyway.

Been away from the computer for nearly the whole week-end. Sunday last I had my father and his wife over again for what I thought was a very successful Father's Day. It came off well enough that I felt up to managing company again this weekend. D_____, a friend that I haven't seen in, what, a decade or more? came by in the afternoon. It was fantastic to see her again, I'd nearly forgotten why she was one of my favorite people from the old bookstore days. She could only stay about forty-five minutes, but even so it was a bit like no time had passed at all.

Then around six, S_____ and C____ came over to dinner. I'm afraid this was a bit more like a visit to a local museum for them than it was a relaxed social outing! I forget that although the house is, for me, uncluttered and open, to others I think it must be a bit like the stepping into a TARDIS.

Yesterday I spent almost the whole, entire day reading. I cannot tell you when was the last time I did that. No, really, I can't tell you, because I don't remember, it was so long ago. Used to do it all the time. I took an hour or two at three o'clock to mow the lawn and clean up after -- the rest of the day I was out on the porch sofa, stretched out with a varying array of quats sitting on or around me (at one point I had all five on the sofa with me!), nose buried in a book. Nothing high-toned, mind you. But I was determined to finish Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children just on principle, just so that I could say that I'd finished something.

It's a bit derivative -- X-Men wrapped in a fairy-tale setting, and pocketed with isolated lapses in taste and careless writing, but on the whole it's an entertaining diversion with its own flavour. At least it's not another Harry Potter knockoff, although it does revolve around the old saw of a so-called normal kid discovering that he has a special ability.

Of course it ends, not so much in a cliffhanger, but in a clear set-up for another book to follow. I enjoyed reading this one, but not so much that I need to pursue any further installments in the series.

I wish that I had a special ability, I mean other than making friends with animals (which is also my Indian name: "Makes Friends With Animals.").

During my dinner break I watched a vintage Doctor Who show with William Hartnell, and then I went right back onto the porch, where I started in on something even lighter-weight: David Thorne's The Internet is a Playground. I still haven't decided for certain if his stuff is for real, or if he's made it all up. It's a lot funnier if it's real.

And just before bed I returned to a favorite, King Aroo. Have I burbled about King Aroo on this blog? Do yourself a favor and follow that link. Then follow this one. I don't care where you buy it or even if you buy it -- get it from the library if you prefer; after all, it's pricey; but King Aroo really is the greatest thing since sliced bread. Nothing makes me smile inside like King Aroo. I'm so glad that I decided to nibble a few pages before sleep.

Other than mowing the lawn (and I wonder what my neighbor thought about that after I'd already done the side facing them early on Wednesday morning, just after midnight!) I did nothing more productive. I've decided not to beat myself up about not working on the new website as I should be doing. After all, I'm still cooking, and I've decided that's all right. When it's ready to happen, it will happen.

--Freder.

Sunday, June 19, 2011

It's Duck Soup





















At the height of the Bad Stuff that was going down both publicly and privately surrounding the anniversary of my mother's death, my friend Donna G___________, known to some of you as a frequent commenter here on this blog, made a beautiful gesture and sent me a copy of Roy Blount Jr.'s latest book, Hail, Hail Euphoria!: Presenting The Marx Brothers in DUCK SOUP, The Greatest War Movie Ever Made.

I never saw the box that it arrived in (so Donna, if there was a return address, I never got it). I came in to work one morning, and Stephen, a student worker, had just opened it. There was a general level of mystification, as there always is among the receiving crew when something arrives that has no discernible paper trail. Stephen handed the book to me, and I noticed there was a card, which I opened. "Oh!" I muttered in surprise. "It's from a friend." And then I beat a hasty retreat out of there so that they would not see my tears.

The D__ sisters and I (the initial can stand for their first names or their maiden names, you take your pick) go way back. But it's not what you think, although a part of me wishes that it were. Donna's sister D____ wrote in my senior class yearbook, "I'll let you know. I love you." Should have been a clue, right? But hey, I had Asperger's and didn't know it, it wasn't even a real diagnosis yet; anyway, I didn't have a clue and wouldn't have known where to start. Dating in High School? For me, beyond the pale. The closest I came to having a girlfriend in High School was a girl named Deanna who had sat in front of me in home room for four years without ever saying a word to me or even, to my knowledge, looking at me, suddenly wanted to hold my hand in the hall between classes. I liked her -- but I didn't understand any of it. My efforts to understand included talking to classmates -- and that was the end of that.

When I played the John Travolta part in Grease and it became very much a grafted-on part of my make-up, that was the first time I really started to have any kind of a real social life. The whole company went out together -- to MacDonald's, where we were in full character and were very nearly arrested; to the Hukilau, where, cash-poor, I drank water while the others feasted on Chinese; to the famous Cape Elizabeth Lobster Shack, where, in full Danny Zuko mode, somehow it came about that I had to kiss every girl in the place, and the third D__ sister, D___, was the only one who demurred. I thought she hated me.

The book is neat, and I knew after the first few pages that I had to get my hands on a watchable copy of the movie, which, believe it or leave it, I didn't have. That was OK. I needed to read my books about Asperger's first anyway.

The main title of the book is based on a pun made by Gummo at the Algonquin Round Table, wrapped around the word "euphoria." I'll let you work it out for yourself. It's the last line in Blount's book, so I'd hate to five it away. Clue: although there are five Marx Bothers, only four of them are in Duck Soup.

The book is a self-proclaimed DVD Commentary track, but on paper. It's good fun to read, and full of good information. Like, did you know that the director of Duck Soup, Leo McCarey, a flawed great who worked with the best of them including Laurel & Hardy and Charley Chase, so deeply DEEPLY did not want to work with the Marx Brothers that he actually left the studio? Only to find himself, through a circle of events worthy of Duck Soup itself, having to work with them anyway.

Well, I mean, think about it. You're a movie director. Would you want to work with the Marx Brothers?

Quoth McCarey, "They were madmen!"

Blount has done his research, but he still makes one glaring (to me) mistake. Of course Woody Allen's Hannah and her Sisters must come into the narrative, because Woody's character in that picture is actually saved from suicide by watching this movie (a fact which Blount finds extraordinary, but which I understand completely. Feeling suicidal? Put on Duck Soup and you will know that you have to stay). Anyway. Blount refers to the Woody Allen character in Hannah as "Alvy Singer," and that's just wrong. Alvy Singer is Annie Hall. Sorry Roy.

But that's a nothing, really. That's just me showing off -- Ha ha! I've got something on the expert!! Blount's book is full of Good Stuff, and a delight to read in conjunction with a viewing (or multiple viewings: Duck Soup really is a picture that demands repeated exposure) and I can't do either the book or the movie justice in just one blog post.

On the whole, I find actual DVD commentaries to be distracting and annoying. I can only do one thing at a time: listen to a discussion about a work of art, or experience the work of art itself. This is absolutely perfect, and I wish that more DVD commentaries came in book form.

Duck Soup may not actually be my favorite Marx Bothers movie -- but I'm working backwards through time, so I won't make the call as yet. The thing is, Chico doesn't get to play the piano and Harpo doesn't get to play the harp, and I can't regard a Marx Bothers movie as being complete without at least a glimpse of the soulful Harpo, the spiritual Harpo, the Romantic Harpo -- that side of my favorite of the Brothers that actually made his character complete. Harpo was in no way "on the spectrum" -- all of the Bros. Marx were perhaps more neurotypical than your average neurotypical -- but he played someone who was. . .

Thank you Donna! I have to stop typing now, but I'll have more to say in the time ahead. . .

-- Freder,

Monday, April 25, 2011

That's Gotta Hurt...























The Man Who Laughs must be one of the most casually grotesque movies ever made. Excepting only Mary Philbin, everyone in it is hideous, especially including Olga Baclanova, who could be prepping herself here for her work in Tod Browning's Freaks. The light that comes into her eye as she forces Conrad Veidt to lower his cloak is probably the most horrifying thing in the picture.

Even with Paul Leni at the helm to explain it, it's hard to believe that this is a product of Hollywood. The Man Who Laughs is as German as they come, baby, and no two ways about it. It's Caligari with a budget.

And yet I found it curiously uninvolving. I've had that problem with Leni's work before. Everything about its appearance is terrific, but Appearance is all that it's about, and we get the message early on. At an hour and fifty minutes, I found it impossible to get through in one sitting. The parade of grotesquerie combined with the inevitability of the plot was just too much.

It's possible, too, that the type of disfigurement is a problem. Why is the Hunchback of Notre Dame sympathetic, while The Laughing Man is not? Is it because Quasimodo is so challenged that he doesn't even understand why he's being whipped, while Gwynplaine, the title character here, is intelligent and seems to be asking for what he gets? We are repeatedly asked to feel his pain, and I wasn't buying.

The one thing I was not expecting was a Happy Ending. A final fade-out with everyone reunited, hugging all around weeping tears of Joy -- in Victor Hugo?

Thankfully, the DVD includes, as an extra feature, some text from the end of the original novel, where it's revealed that Leni and Universal didn't so much change the ending as lop off about four pages of Hugo's Purple Prose. Oh yes, everyone is Happily reunited -- but then the girl dies of a heart attack and Gwynplaine throws himself into the ocean and drowns. Now, that's more like it!

You left out those minor, nagging details, Leni! And, literally, in the end it kills your picture.

Conrad Veidt gets a special medal for his performance as Gwynplaine. Most likely, it should be a Purple Heart: the device that distorts his mouth has got to be an instrument of torture. And to convey so many other emotions with, essentially, the whole lower half of his face taken away as an instrument had to be a challenge. Veidt delivers, and it's hard to understand why this picture didn't make him a major star.

Just by the way, is there anyone out there who does not know that Jerry Robinson used Veidt as his model when he created The Joker? Just thought I'd throw that out there as my daily entry into the Bleedin' Obvious.

The Man Who Laughs is probably not a movie that I should be watching at this moment in my history. I ordered it up about a month ago, before the latest blow came. That I wasn't particularly bothered by it says more about the movie's failings than it does about me. It's all face, no feeling.

-- Freder.

Friday, April 15, 2011

Curse You, TCM!

Does Robert Osborne think that I don't have anything better to do than sit around and watch movies?
There was a good stretch over the past few weeks where I got a few things done, because TCM was running pictures that I'd seen before, or things that weren't so appealing that I was willing to take the time, or else just running the good stuff at an hour that didn't work for me. This week they could almost have been thinking, "Let's target that idiot up in Maine! He hasn't been watching for a while!"

First came So Evil My Love, with Ann Todd and Ray Milland, part of their tribute to Milland going on this month. It was a good contrast to The Uninvited; Evil being the operative word, Milland does it like a champ, making his seduction of Miss Todd credible enough that her own descent into evil takes on a level of inevitability. Todd gives a marvelous performance herself, going on a deep journey with some ups and a whole lot of downs. Her looks give her a natural advantage, as she has a kind of cold beauty, the Ice Princess ready to melt, given enough reason. Soon she's up to all manner of trouble, including murder for the sake of an undeserving love.

The ending is that rarest of things, a shock ending that really is shocking, both in its unexpectedness and its detached savagery. Had the same scene been filmed today, it would have been much more graphic, and far less effective. Leo G. Carroll (Mr. Waverly from The Man from U.N.C.L.E.) gets the last word, and he ain't just whistling dixie, Missus.

Wednesday night was A Southern Yankee. I broke a rule for this one: Never come into any movie from the middle. Out of pure monkey habit, I am compelled to watch Survivor in all of its idiot incarnations, oftentimes marveling at the stupidity of the players while blithely ignoring the level of stupidity it takes to watch the thing. On Wednesday nights I don't even check the listings. Redemption Island, here I come! Just don't ever call it a "reality" show.

So I missed the first third or so of A Southern Yankee and now I want to watch the whole thing. I'd never seen one of Red Skelton's movies before, knowing him only from his decades on television (he was a favorite of my wee years) and stage. I think Red must be one of the hardest working comedians in the biz, but he is an acquired taste: with his facial ticks and his crossed eyes and his arms cocked this was and that, it's a little bit like the School of Schizophrenia. It was nice to see him not doing Clem Cadiddlehopper for a change, and this picture, while far from a classic, goes down easy and pleasing with some real laugh-out-loud moments. According to Osborne, Buster Keaton worked as a consultant on this picture -- so Red had good taste in advisors, although there's little of the trademark Keaton manipulation of reality on display.

The plot? I'm not sure that there was one. Anyhow, if you glanced at the poster above, you get the drift. Civil War spoof, just an excuse to hang gags on. Most implausibly, Red gets the girl in the end, or she gets him. I'm not sure which.

Then last night my plans for the evening were foiled when The Glass Key appeared on my menu at eight o'clock. Before last night I never knew that this had been filmed, much less twice, and the second time with such a great cast including Brian Donlevy, Veronica Lake, Alan Ladd and William Bendix (the kind of actor who, once you've seen him do comedy, is hard to take seriously in dramatic roles like this one). 

I don't think that The Glass Key is one of Hammett's more compelling novels, and that shows in this screen adaptation. It's hard to really fall in love with a movie when absolutely everyone in it is a villain, including Ladd, albeit a villain who goes through a kind of violent redemption in the hands of the Bendix character. But it does have all the hardboiled elements including a hero who can take a lot of punishment (and does) and a femme fatale capable of giving looks, as Raymond Chandler writes, that men "can feel in your hip pocket."

Actually the thing I found most remarkable about Veronica Lake was how very young she seemed. Before this, I'd only ever seen her in Sullivan's Travels. and although that picture was made earlier, somehow she looked as though she'd been around the block a few more times.

Apparently Ladd is one of the few actors who didn't mind working with Lake; whether or not that's true, they certainly do perform some chemical magic together on screen, and the sparks between them are the picture's main draw. Unfortunately, John Huston or Michael Curtiz didn't direct this, and it shows. Except for a few scattershot scenes, the movie lacks both the mood of The Maltese Falcon and the lightness of touch in The Thin Man series. 

It's interesting to watch the way violence is portrayed in The Glass Key, and I strongly believe that, nine times out of ten, this is the way it should be done. We never see the actual beatings in any great detail: the director inevitably cuts to reaction shots of the bystanders, and by watching their faces we are allowed to sense the brutality of the scene. Only the consequences of the beatings are shown in detail, and this is pretty much unflinching, as real as they were allowed to get in those days.

I liked all three of these pictures, although I didn't love any of them. I'm hoping that tonight the TCM programmers will opt to go with something along the lines of "Giant Gorilla Night." I've seen all the giant gorillas I need to see, and Getting Something Done tonight sounds like a good direction to head in!

-- Freder

Thursday, April 14, 2011

Things that Make you go "GAH!"





















As an alumni of C____ College, Cicely von Zeigesar came to speak and read from her books this week.

She has her fans among the student body, although, as it was pointed out to me by one of my student workers staffing the event, they all tend to look like the people on the covers of her books.

I wrote about von Z. a couple of weeks back just to say that the kind of people she writes about are exactly the kind of people that the movie Heathers so gleefully kills off! Which is kind of harsh -- sometimes I think all they really need is a good spanking.

It turns out that she never thought about becoming a writer and that Gossip Girl just dropped into her lap, was not even technically created by her. .Again, as reported to me by my student informant, the way von Z. tells it is that she was working in a cushy job at an Agency or a Syndicate where her duties were basically to do nothing all day. Until the time when an editor came out of his or her office, handed her a sheet of paper and said, "Write up an eight-page outline about these characters and send it to Little, Brown." At that time, there was "nothing on the market written for or about rich kids in the city," and this was the beginning of a loose concept to -- I'm already starting to gag -- fill that void.

von Z. had never written anything professionally before, and didn't know how to make anything up, so she sat down and wrote about the people she went to school with.

The publisher loved the presentation. The editor said, "Great, we'll hire a writer and start cranking them out." The publisher said, "No, we want the person who wrote the presentation to do it."

And another rich and famous "author" is born.

Do I need to tell you how galling this is to someone who worked for years to pursue a writing career and got nowhere?

She was literally at the right place at the right time. God waved his magic wand, said, "The world needs a series about arrogant, rich brats," and there you are!

But there is something worse I have to tell, and surprise! von Z. is actually the victim.

I am told by two separate students that the English Department, the very people who presumably invited von Z. to speak, have been publicly mocking her to their students both in the days before the event and during the event itself.

One professor was quoted as telling her entire class how awful the Gossip Girl books are and what a joke von Z. is. Which may be true -- in which case, why did you invite her? Presumably no one was holding a gun to your head.

During the event, while von Z. was talking (and talking and talking -- this was to be a co-reading, but von Z. took up the whole time), the English Department, I am told, sat behind her where they could not be seen, and snickered, and gestured, and mocked her literally behind her back.

I don't care how bad the books are, this is just bad form and not something that a college professor should stoop to. If nothing else, the woman is an Alum and as such the Professors should act as an example to the current students.

I'm sure that they are just as jealous of von Z. as I am, and that this is how it manifested itself. But for my part, I reserve the right to post honestly about her on my personal blog, but when she came to the store to sign books for me I damn sure took a respectful tone. It's what you do.

Robert B. Parker was another egregiously untalented writer who happened to be an alum of this college. I had the displeasure of typesetting some of his books when I worked in the production department of Thorndike Press. His novels were labor intensive because every one of them consisted of about a hundred and eighty-seven chapters of two pages each. I sell his books here, and I'm not a fan, and I tell people so, but that's the way I say it: "I'm not a fan." To go into detail and make fun of his work to another alum or anyone associated with the college would be inappropriate.

Rule number one: a professional person should behave like one. No matter what we think about her work, von Z. handled herself with grace (even inviting one of my students to visit her office in New York this summer) and the English professors could take a lesson from that.

-- Freder.

Sunday, April 10, 2011

Plunder




















Yesterday I went out to the old house again for what I can honestly say was the next-to-last time. I wanted the rest of the ornamental rocks and I wanted the giant children's blocks in the little barn. No, I don't have the keys anymore (and anyway they have changed the padlocks). But I lived in that place for more than thirty-five years, I know its idiosyncrasies, if I want to get in, I can.

It took some of the sting out of the drive to take a different route. I needed to swing by my lawyer's house to pick up a sign that my mother had painted many years ago. I hadn't been able to fit it into my car on the last day.

This was a nice drive that ends along the south edge of C____ Lake. Pulling into her driveway I passed a sign reading WHAT PART OF NO TRESPASSING DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND? and the near-lifesize plywood cow that I had given J___ earlier. I found my sign standing outside of her garage. She wasn't at home. When I looked into her garden I got a rude surprise: there on the end of a metal pipe was my mother's large copper rooster, the rooster that had been her shop's trademark and was a feature in our front yard for many years.

This just didn't seem right. She must have bought it at the auction, because I certainly didn't give it to her. It's one thing to part with some of Mom's treasures and know that I'll never see them again; it's quite another thing to have a special one re-appear in a completely new context. Well, it was J___'s right to buy anything she wanted at the auction, of course, and I knew that she had bought several pieces. But this felt like a little bit of a slap in the face. I stood and looked at it longer than I needed to or should have. Then, metaphorically at any rate, I shrugged and got into my car. It's not something that can be helped.

I had another shock when I reached the old house. The nice copper mailbox that I was thinking, at the suggestion of my friend L____, of swapping out with the black one that my mechanical man is holding, had been completely destroyed.

This must have taken some doing. Even the very strong, swinging iron "arm" that the mailbox had been mounted on was mangled. This thing has withstood years of being battered and hit multiple times every winter by the town snowplow, so I don't believe it was that. Either it had been worked over by someone with a lot of determination, spite and elbow grease, or someone had crashed a vehicle into it.

I would have been crushed to see this if I were still living out there. Even so, it made me sad. But once again, it was something about which there was nothing I could do.

The yard seems quite strange without any quats in it.

I loaded up the rocks. This was not an easy job. When I took two of them the last time I was out there, I hadn't imagined how much I would like seeing them at the end of my walkway here at the new house. Technically, they belong to the new owners. Not any more.

I also took my garden hose. I'd been planning on leaving it for them, but . . . I changed my mind. As my friend BC has been known to say, "I bought it, I paid for it, it's mine."

Then I got into the barn. There were two old advertising umbrellas that I had forgotten about, but needed for the yard. There were some small things, a set of Donald Duck bowling pins, a children's book, that I decided not to leave behind. I filled a couple of the giant blocks with these, and loaded them into the car. I could only fit three of the blocks inside, they were so huge. So, two remain behind. I'll get them when I pick up the jailhouse.

Back home once again. I off-loaded everything, set the rocks out along the front sidewalk, made a run to the supermarket. It was such a nice day that my neighbors had pulled out their lawn furniture, and instead of working some more in the house I decided to do the same.

I made good on my promise to the wooden deer and fixed his antlers. Then I carried him around to the front of the house. The Panda Bear, The Turkeys, The Indian, The Concrete Dog and his Doghouse, the Gas-Cannister Pig, a large ornamental pot, the second concrete bird bath, the Boinger, trellises, the Chickens, a wooden Blue Jay, the Crocodile, all came out of the garage and took up places in their new home. The Indian needed his headdress remounted and the male turkey needed to have his head glued on, so I did that. I brought out the metal table and chairs and carried them up onto the deck. I had opened most of the downstairs windows, so the quats sat there watching me whenever I came around with something new.

By the time I got done with all of this I was so pooped that I wasn't good for much more than flopping onto the porch couch. I put my feet up on The Thurber Carnival. Patches, Honey and Pooky all came to join me.

Today hasn't been nearly so productive. I've been on edge, fussing with little things.

But there's still time.

-- Freder.

ADDENDUM: Accent on the DUM. I left out the best part of the story! As I was collapsed on the porch trying to gather up enough energy to, say, stand up, a couple of kids came walking down the street. They were probably between the ages of ten and twelve. As they passed my front yard, one of them jumped up onto the rocks and skipped from one to the other all the way to the end. I thought, "Yesss!!!" That's exactly what they're for! That's exactly what I used to do when I was their age! I'm glad I went to the trouble of carting them over to a place where they will see their proper use.

Also, I finished in the Halloween Room this afternoon. It looks great if I do say so myself. And I do. Now there's just  just the Studio and the Laundry Room remaining with piles of boxes. Oh, and the upstairs hall. Still, things are coming along.

Friday, March 25, 2011

Everyone's a Critic





















It's an old expression, but it's more meaningful today than ever. Back in the day, when Vincent Canby and Pauline Kael and James Agee and others were plying the trade, criticism was an art.

Today, any idiot with a keyboard and a blog (including myself) can and does put more than their two cents worth before the panting public. Sometimes, their thoughts are considered, informed, and well-written. Most often it's the opposite. Still, no one's holding a gun to our collective heads and forcing us to read blogs, right? So where's the damage? Sometimes we just like to hear as many different opinions as we can.

But it has damaged the formal culture in the sense that professional critics are less influential than ever before, in the sense that many newspapers and magazines aren't even employing critics any more, and in the sense that the standards of mainstream media criticism have, in some areas, dropped off markedly. Janet Maslin is still writing about books, thank goodness, but where are the Vincent Canbys and Pauline Kaels of today? (And don't even mention David Denby of The New Yorker -- The man is an moron.)

I read a lot less criticism than I used to. In part it's because there's so much of it out there, cancelling itself out, but it's also because most mainstream critics are nothing more than logrollers, crying out "The Best Movie of the Year!" at every opportunity. "Brilliant! Breathtaking! Stunning!" -- oh, now there's a good one. I see "stunning" all the time, and I have to believe that some people must be easily stunned. I don't recall ever being "stunned" by a book, even the ones I love, except maybe when a heavy one falls off of a tall shelf onto my head. I don't always agree with Roger Ebert, but I can usually count on his opinion to be well-informed and well-written. That's more than you can say for most.

When I hopped online and read some of the commentary about Heathers, a picture I wrote about on this blog last week, I had to wonder if some of these people had seen the same movie that I did. They could not even describe it accurately. It is not a movie about teenage suicide, as I read over and over again in one misinformed article after another. It's a movie about bullying. That many can't seem to grasp the basic concept makes me mistrust their judgement in a big way.

Years ago I read a review of The Exorcist that claimed there was a shot in the movie showing Jason Miller's head hitting every step on the way down when he's thrown from the house. I watched for the shot. It isn't in the picture. I could probably name numerous examples, if I wanted to do the research, of critics describing things that don't exist in the films that they write about, things that came out of their own heads..

One good example comes to mind: William K. Everson is one of the best, a man whose work I respect as being carefully thought out and backed up by solid experience and knowledge. But he was writing before the era of VHS and DVD and video on demand, and his otherwise wonderful book The Films of Laurel and Hardy (a must-have item for anyone who treasures that team as I do) does contain errors. He probably hadn't had a chance to review some of these pictures in years and years, with the result that I can go through his book and point out at least five instances in which he misremembers details, attributes individual scenes to the wrong movie, or describes scenes that flat-out never existed.

The thing that got me started on this today was a book review from Time magazine, one that the publisher thought good enough to use as an endorsement on the paperback edition of the book itself: "Then We Came to the End is that rare novel that feels absolutely contemporary, and that rare comedy that feels blisteringly urgent."

There's some danged stinky writing going on in that sentence, and it scores high on the BS-ometer at the same time. Is the word absolutely absolutely necessary? Did the writer feel a need to distinguish between this and, say, a novel that feels only slightly contemporary? And rare? Actually there's a boatload of "absolutely contemporary" novels out there. I can smell them a mile off. I've also seen plenty of urgent comedy in my day. But "blisteringly" urgent? That's a new one. I think I'll stay away. I don't want to have to bandage my fingers after reading a couple of pages.

Nice going, Time!

-- Well, Doug, what did you think of this post?

"An astonishing depiction of teenage suicide!"

"Two thumbs up!" (I won't say what portion of the anatomy.)

"Un-putdownable!" (No, really, I spilled a bottle of crazy glue and now I can't put the book down!)

"Breathtaking!" (No, really, I'm hyperventilating right now!)

In this atmosphere, I'm kind of surprised that no one has ever typed: "I had seven orgasms while reading this book, and I wasn't even touching myself!"

Onward.

-- Freder.

Saturday, March 19, 2011

Some Lessons Never Get Learned



































Heathers, the 1989 black comedy about murder and high school, has aged well. The cinema has grown markedly more savage since then, but also, curiously, more provincial and shallow.

Compare Heathers with its modern counterparts, notably the Gossip Girl series (created by Cicely von Ziegesar, an alum of the college where I make my living -- don't blame me!) which portrays unashamedly and with straight faces the shallow lives of the very kind of insufferable kids that Heathers is intent on blowing away. With titles like Because I'm Worth It and Only In Your Dreams, the Gossip Girl series glorifies the sense of superiority and privilege that Heathers quite rightly savages.  Some of those kids should watch Heathers. Nobody deserves to be murdered, but a slap across the face might do them some good.

Heathers is not perfect -- there are individual lines and scenes that hit the floor with a desperate klunk. But taken as a whole it is kind of inspired, and especially today its deeply radical streak is as welcome as fresh Spring air. This is a picture that could not be made today, although the world needs it more than ever. It succeeds in part because it makes you laugh at some appalling things, and then throws cold water on you, asking "Why are you laughing? This isn't funny."

Indeed, for a comedy the subject matter is deeply serious. High school bullying is nothing to laugh about, as the filmmakers are very well aware. Heathers is deeply exploitative in the sense that it takes its audiences back to school and reminds them of how badly this behavior hurts its victims. It preys on your own memories of the despicable people you knew back then, and who made themselves known to you in evil ways. You're not sorry to see Heather #1 and the jocks die. At the same time, the murders are both funny and terrifying. Heathers walks a razor-thin line with great skill.

While we're on the subject, it always amazes me when people are surprised by things like Columbine and other school shootings. I want to say to the parents, Actions have consequences, and your kids are helping to create the stresses that cause these things to happen. You and your kids are, perhaps, not as guilty as the actual shooters, but are conspirators nonetheless, carrying part of the responsibility and the blame.

But kids don't change. I see random acts of cruelty all the time at my workplace, usually on the Digest of Civil Discourse, which is rarely civil or discursive. On the other hand, the atmosphere here is better than it used to be. Instead of just devising a plan of action to take in the event of a shooting (which they have done) the college has been pro-active and banned all fraternities and sororities from the campus. It's made the place much safer and kinder overall.

Still, we produce alums like Cicely von Ziegesar, a real-life Heather whose books, at least on the cultural level, are swinging the pendulum right back into the most dangerous territory of all: youthful arrogance.

-- Freder.

Sunday, February 27, 2011

A Humane Noir












































I'm told that Raymond Chandler once made a comment along the lines of "Everything that James M. Cain ever wrote smells like a goat's behind."

As I'm a big fan of Chandler's I took his comment as a word of warning and have steered clear of James M. Cain's works ever since, despite the uncharacteristic harshness of Chandler's words, which might be an indicator of some other feelings. I have my problems with the Noir genre, as I've written before on these pages, and if Chandler thought that it wasn't worth investing time in, that was good enough for me.

I think it's important to distinguish between Noir and Hardboiled Detective. The two genres are not interchangeable, though they bear similar qualities. Chandler, Hammett and Ross MacDonald all wrote hardboiled, while Cain and writers like Charles Willeford, David Goodis and Jim Thomspon wrote Noir. The two styles really could not be more different: in Hardboiled, shrewd men with a code of ethics often take a beating while trying to unravel the sad affairs of others. In Noir, largely stupid and unsympathetic people make one bad decision after another and find their  lives sucked down in a swirling vortex of Trouble as a result.

So Chandler, when making his comment, may have been referring to the specific differences in the two forms, and lamenting the fact that his kind of work sometimes got classified in the same category as Cain's.

Whatever the reason, after watching Mildred Pierce on TCM just now, I am persuaded that Chandler may have been wrong in regards to Cain.

In Mildred Pierce, here we have a strong, intelligent, hard-working woman who doesn't fall into any of the obvious traps, whose life doesn't tumble out of control, not until close to the end, and whose only real misjudgment is to love and indulge her daughter.

This is, easily, the cleverest and most humane Noir story that I've ever encountered, one that doesn't satisfy our expectations, but plays with them. If this is what Cain is capable of, I'm suddenly very much interested in reading him.

Meanwhile, Crawford is magnificent in the title role, richly deserving the Oscar that she won for it. I don't think that she ever looked better, before or since, and I don't think that she ever turned in a better performance than this. She has to walk a pretty fine line to sell the audience on this, by the way, because a lot of us would just slap Midred's daughter Veda into the next century, would just give her the spanking that she so richly deserves; in order for this whole thing to work, we need to feel Mildred's love for her daughter. . . and Crawford makes us feel it. How odd that the Crawford legacy would become so stilted by her own daughter's accounting, and how sad that an actor of this ability would wind up a caricature of herself in foul pictures like Straight-Jacket.

Michael Curtiz's name on a picture is always an indicator that it's worth watching; here, I think he evokes the most perfect Noir atmosphere that I've seen, while getting absolutely everything that he can out of the plot.

"Bruce Bennett" plays MISTER Pierce; Bennet is better known to some of us as Herman Brix, an Olympic swimmer who got his Hollywood start in several of the better Republic serials, especially including Daredevils of the Red Circle, in which he, Charles Quigley and stunt ace David Sharpe all tilted against the villainy of none other than Ming the Merciless himself, Charles Middleton, here playing an escaped convict known only as 39-0-13.

If Republic had ever made a serial based on the Street and Smith pulp hero Doc Savage, Bennett/Brix would have been my choice to play Doc. He had the voice, the looks, the athletics; and in Mildred Pierce he proves that, if he's not John Barrymore, at least he has the chops to be taken seriously in a part that doesn't call for running or (much) punching.

But I digress. Again.

I'm getting a lot of gaps in my education filled lately, thanks to TCM. Mildred Pierce isn't just a great night at the movies. For me, it's proof that you can't always trust everything that comes out of the mouths of your heroes, and that any genre needs to be judged not by its limitations, but by the strengths of its practitioners.

I'mm 99% certain that I have a copy of Double Indemnity kicking around here somewhere. I'm going to have to track that down and acquaint myself first-hand with Mr. Cain.

P.S. Eve Arden is terrific in this picture, too.

-- Freder.

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

La Chaine

A poster that tries to make Tony Curtis and Sidney Poitier look like a Lynd Ward woodcut.







































Somehow, it doesn't seem as much fun to comment, as I'm about to, on something that aired on a network rather than something I chose for myself, on DVD, as my own personal Programming Director.

When you make your own choices, it's something suspiciously like a creative action, and when you can comment on it, you're a lone voice. But when potentially millions of other people have seen the same film at the same time, and drawn their own conclusions, you're just one voice in a million with an opinion that's no better or more well-informed than anyone else's -- and you know, possibly it's worse and less informed than some! We live in an age where any idiot with a keyboard can call himself a critic, and I'm no less of an idiot than most.

TCM, until last night, had been obliging me by running pictures that I'd already seen before, or perhaps even owned a copy of, and that was good because it freed me up to do other things. But last night they aired The Defiant Ones, one of those significant gaps in my experience, and I had no choice but to glue myself to the telly!

It's a genuine classic, hard to take your eyes off of, even though it's riddled with Creeping Hollywoodisms that sometimes threaten to bring down the whole affair.

In particular, at first I had a real hard time buying Tony Curtis in his part. It's not that he didn't do everything in his power to sell it, but he's fighting history -- in this case, a history that occurred both before and after he made this movie. It's hard to look at Tony Curtis and not see Tony Curtis, if you catch my drift.

You'd think the same would be true with Poitier, but it's obvious that Poitier put on some weight for this role, and he looks physically different from the man who made To Sir With Love and In the Heat of the Night.

It goes deeper than that, though, to the script. I had a hard time believing that these two characters with their reputed backgrounds, would have the kind of conversations that they sometimes have, and use the very self-consciously scripted words that they sometimes use.

Then there's the Good Cop / Bad Cop subplot, with the parts played by actors who don't really bring anything to the roles that goes deeper than the surface, the bumpkin with his omnipresent radio playing sophisticated jazz, and worst of all the Girl.

Yes, the Girl. The Single Mother living out in the middle of nowhere who still manages to look like, well, like a Hollywood Actress in full seduction mode.

But the other things in the movie are so strong that they manage to just plow right over these contradictions in the sense of reality. It's beautifully shot, acted powerfully by both of the leading men -- -- and by Lon Chaney Jr. in a small part, dipping most effectively into his seemingly bottomless well of Inner Conflict and Despair.

I'm going to digress here and pass on a rumor about Chaney that I can't substantiate and that may already be known to you. It is said that Chaney was a repressed homosexual. If this is true, then the key word (repressed) would explain a lot of the conflictedness that Chaney brought so successfully to most of his screen roles.

I've heard a story that I can't attribute, because I can't remember the source, that Chaney and Raymond Burr worked on a picture together, and Burr was very cruel to Chaney, berating him in front of everyone for being a "faggot."

Which says particularly nasty things about Burr, who was himself a closet homosexual.

As you can see, I have faults, too: in order to make the writing interesting for me, I have to stray away from the subject and try to show off how much I know.

My father met Raymond Burr, once, on an airplane. He reports that Burr was about as flaming as they come, and made some advances.

But then, my father has his faults, too, and one of them is homophobia.

My father also met Sidney Poitier on an airplane. Mr. Poitier gave my father a copy of the novel Parnassus on Wheels, by Christopher Morley. Ever since that day, many years ago, when Poitier was at the height of his success, Parnassus on Wheels has been on my reading list. And I still haven't read it.

I figure that I still have time, and that some things should be saved.

Let's see. In the roster of celebrity meetings, among others, my father met Leo McKern, in a hotel bar in Florida, while McKern was in America for the filming of Rumpole's Return. I'll have to ask him about that one, to see if there are any juicy anecdotes. But his memory has always been a convenient one, and he's not a Spring Chicken anymore, and it wouldn't surprise me if he no longer remembered the encounter at all.

Where was I?

The Defiant Ones. Yes. Beautifully shot and acted. Highly contrived, yet quite compelling. Not a favorite, by a long shot, but completely worthy of its reputation. Holds -- and rewards -- your attention. Quite possibly hobbled a bit by it's own success, in that it was later imitated by lesser pictures and television series.

That about says it.

Incidentally, a Google search for the poster revealed a French version with the title I used in the header of this post -- and I'm not sure but that The Chain wouldn't have been a better title for the American release as well!

-- Freder.

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

The Return of Miss Bianca and Bernard the Brave
































I blogged about Margery Sharp's Miss Bianca series a few weeks back -- it wasn't a very good post, I was tired and distracted. Thankfully, you don't need me to write about this subject any more, because just yesterday I learned that the New York Review of Books (an imprint of Random House) is bringing the first book in the series, The Rescuers, back into print this summer, in a nice hardcover edition!

Run, do not walk, to your nearest bookstore and order your copy today! Discover for yourself why I love these books unreservedly. If enough folks buy this one, I've no doubt that NYRB will follow up with Miss Bianca and The Turret, books two and three. I know it says "Children's Collection" on the front, but these are not just for kids. Anyone who likes a good gothic, romantic adventure will appreciate these stories. Just put the Disney movies right out of your heads, and step right up to Miss Bianca's Porcelain Pagoda for your ticket into a richly imagined world, where platonic love, honor and redemption are still possible for the smallest among us.

--Freder.

Wednesday, January 5, 2011

Finally, something worth watching



























I took last night "off" from moving and stayed at home with the quats. They seemed glad to have me around, and it was a good thing for me, because I got some rest, and had a chance to watch I Capture the Castle, a film based on Dodie Smith's lovely first novel, on DirectTV.

Smith is better known as the author of The One Hundred and One Dalmatians, a book that is every bit as much fun to read as the animated Disney version based upon it is to watch (don't even mention the abominable live-action remake with Glenn Close). Smith, I must say, was an accomplished Romantic, and both of these works are infused with a classical Romanticism (not to be confused with the kind of thing we call "Romance" today) in both style and substance.

The movie of I Capture the Castle is faithful to the content of the book, if not exactly to its structure and words. The screenwriter has changed much of the novel's dialogue, I suppose to expedite the story, but it has the effect of dumbing down the subtleties of the novel, and making the characters seem harsher. I hate it when screenwriters put words into the original author's mouth, for whatever reason, and at first this was as bothersome to me as was Steve Tesich's screenplay for The World According to Garp. . . a ham-fisted adaptation of Irving's novel, and not one of George Roy Hill's better pictures.

But the look of the movie is perfect, and it captures the atmosphere of the novel so well that after a while I started not to mind about the other. At first I had doubts about the casting as well, but was quite quickly won over as I settled into the picture. Although predictable, this was a nice way to spend the evening.

But I have to ask what in hell the MPAA was thinking when they slapped an R rating on this very gentle movie. There is one very necessary and very mild nude scene. That's it. The rest of the picture is tamer than some things I've seen on Masterpiece Theater (the very dreadful and offensive Moll Flanders starring Alex Kingston first comes to mind).

For crying out loud, torture porn like the Saw and Hostel movies goes out with an R rating, plays in our friendly neighborhood cinemas and fills the racks at Wal*Mart. To say that they are depraved is a gross understatement. And here we have a lovely, gentle, quite chaste coming-of-age story about a young woman who must become the glue to hold her family together and save her father's life -- and it gets the same rating.

People have been complaining about the ratings system for years, and rightly so -- but I think this goes deeper. This is not, I think, about standards, but about Organized Crime. What kind of payola are Lion's Gate and the other distributors of vile films shoveling into the MPAA's collective pockets in order to get their trash into wide circulation? I have no doubt that it's happening. No reasonable person could put these two eggs (the one white and clean, the other rotten and stinking of filth and degradation) into the same basket.

Readers of this blog know that I often get off the subject. So I'll just end with the words, Dodie Smith, I Capture the Castle. Read and watch.

-- Freder.

Tuesday, December 21, 2010

The Real, Original Rescuers



























I don't want to write about moving today, although it is much on my mind, a weight that never seems to get any lighter.

Instead I will write about Miss Bianca and Bernard the Brave. Not the Disneyfied version of the movies (although the first one was okay despite its departures), but the source material, the original books by British author Margery Sharp.

Regrettably, the Miss Bianca series is completely out of print. This is a crime. Although I cannot speak for the later books in the series (my family stopped at four for some strange reason, and until later years I never knew that more existed), the first three are among the books that I most fondly remember.

They are Gothic Victorian Romantic Adventure stories -- with mice. When Disney made their version, it was Americanized and transplanted to the Louisiana Bayou, but the books are ornately European and much richer in texture. As illustrated by the great Garth Williams, the books are filled with what Williams himself referred to as "a soft furry love."

But they are also filled with darkness and wonderful villains. In The Rescuers, a young girl is forced into servitude by The Grand Duchess, who with her faithful valet lives in a decaying old mansion attended by clockwork handmaidens.

I have to stop. I may revisit this post later on. I'm not doing it justice. Just too tired. Suffice to say that you should seek out The Rescuers, Miss Bianca and The Turret, and devour them by candlelight at night.

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

No Forwarding to the Afterlife






















On Monday morning it was time to close my PO Box and set up forwarding of my mail to the new address. This was a little bit sad to start with: I've been using the C____ V________ Post Office for thirty-five years, have known the postmistress as long as she's held the job. So this would be yet another goodbye.

While I was filling out the form an older woman came in to pick up her mail. On her way out she poked her head in from the lobby to say hello. The postmistress greeted her, asked how she was doing. I looked up at that point. She sighed, and smiled, and said, "One day at a time."

When she had gone, the postmistress told me that she and her husband had been in a bad car accident just the week before, and that her husband had died. "They were very close," she said.

I think I must have bit my lip and said, "Oh, God." Then I said, "The misery just never stops, does it?"

She said, "There's more than enough to go around."

I told her that I hated the business of moving, because it was just like having to say goodbye again to my mother every damn day.

She nodded. She said, "I've been without my mother for nine years now."

I said, "Does it ever get any easier?"

There was quite a long pause. Her eyes were glistening. She looked down at the desk. At last she said, "A little bit. You start to remember the good things."

I held it together long enough to finish my business, but was sobbing by the time I got to the car.

When I arrived at work, there was a rolling counter unit that needed to be stripped so that J___ could use it later in the week for Book Buyback. It had some of our Last Chance Book Sale items on it -- things that I'd pulled to go back to the publisher. As soon as I change these books to Returns in the system, they sell at 25% off the cover price until they go out the door.

One of the books that found its way into my hands was the hardcover edition of Patti Smith's Just Kids, the memoir of her longtime friendship with Robert Maplethorpe. The paperback is currently on the bestseller list, and it's been getting many recommendations and favorable reviews. I opened it up to take a quick peek. This is how it begins:

I was asleep when he died. I had called the hospital to say one more good night, but he had gone under, beneath layers of morphine. I held the receiver and listened to his labored breathing through the phone, knowing I would never hear him again.
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