A pinch of This, A Handful of That, and a Swift Kick to the Gut

Item! Jetta’s back. Jetta the car. The body shop only had her for all of two days. That’s hardly anything for a facelift. She looks as good as new, as good as if nothing ever happened.  To look at her, a person could almost dare to believe that the last couple of months were just a bad dream. I basked in that fantasy for a couple of days. . . One clings to to the little hunks of driftwood that come our way. . .

Item! ‘Twas Movie Night at the DuckHaus this past Friday, and three-quarters of the Maine Branch of Confuse-A-Cat Ltd., otherwise known as the kind folks who took care of my feline friends while I was detoxing at 4 East, gathered to watch Hugo. I believe it’s fair to say that the feature got a thumbs up all the way around, although I think there was some disappointment when they realized that Spy Smasher’s sidekick actually perished  getting the title character out of the cliffhanger in this week’s installment of the serial.

I’ve written about Hugo before here on the blog, so won’t flog that horse again (but do get your hands on a copy, flat or 3D, it makes no difference, just see it. If you care about movies at all. If you’ve ever wondered who that old couple down the street used to be. If you once were someone yourself, but got stuck somewhere along the way. This is your movie. Once again I had to brush away tears, hoping my guests didn’t notice). 

As it turned out, I had room for another guest and two candidates to fill the seat. But one of them, I strongly believe, had a curfew that needed to be met, and the other -- 

-- I’m too ashamed to call her anymore. She put some work into my well-being, and I shot that full of holes. I did hope early on that we could carry on in some way out here in the real world, but my sense is that I gave up that right with my last hospitalization. 

The last time we did Movie Night, I had jumped off the wagon and I broke the surface only briefly to get through the event before drinking myself into oblivion again. I did my best under the circumstances, but I was not much of a host, and my house was a pit. Thank heavens the movie (The Assassination Bureau, with Oliver Reed and Diana Rigg) was a good one. 

This time the house was clean, I was sober, it was a better experience for everyone. Whenever I think that a drink might be a good idea, allI have to do is look back on that other weekend.

Item! Of course, what should come in the mail the very next day but the notice that my driver’s license is suspended effective August 16. I didn’t know that they could do this before there was even a hearing, so yes, this came as a surprise and rather a blow to the nether regions. On the other hand, I guess the sooner we get this over with, the better. And thank goodness I live in town now, within walking distance of the grocery store. Although it makes looking for work virtually impossible.

It dawns on me that I may not have have come out and said it in so many words here on the blog: I’m facing charges of OUI and Leaving the Scene of an Accident in Maine criminal Court, stemming from that fateful day when I didn’t just vacate my old job, I poured gasoline all over it and tossed a match in its general direction. I guess I don’t do things small. Or, rather, I guess my thing is to let issues stew too long, stoking and stoking the fire well past the time when I should have done something, until I just blow and god help anyone that’s in the path of destruction.

Anyway. On the second charge I strenuously plead Not Guilty. I didn’t believe that I had been in an accident. If I had known that I’d been in an accident, I certainly wouldn’t have walked away. Don’t they have to prove intent?

Item! There’s still so much free music on the internet that if you know where to look you can fill iTunes near to bursting without spending a cent. That’s what I’ve been doing this afternoon. I’d spent a few minutes over the weekend flipping through my collection of vinyl records, and that got me all nostalgic; I needed to plug a few holes. 

The tour through the vinyl happened because I wanted to share some memories with J___, the coordinator at the outpatient therapy group. She told me this morning that she thinks there’s a happy person inside me somewhere. Maybe so, but I don’t have the key.

-- Freder.

News from the Mental Health Factory

When J__, the Blythe Danner of the headshrinking set (some of you may know that I worship Blythe Danner hopelessly from afar), put the address for this blog on the blackboard early last week, my first thought was, thank goodness I haven't written anything about the group...

Oops. I just did. My typing fingers are always getting the better of me. 

J__ is the coordinator of the program, and the other morning I caught her restocking the snacky treats. I was shocked, shocked I tell you. Eight years of college and lord knows how many degrees and they have her doing the snacks. Which only goes to show that into every job a few thankless tasks must fall.

At the Mental Health Outpatient Program, J___ in particular seems to take pleasure in mortifying me in front of the whole group. I don’t know what it is about me that inspires this quality in women, but it seems to be a Common Theme. Thank the powers that I haven’t given her too much ammunition to use against me. This blog and The Partridge Family were more than enough.

Right away, the group leapt to the conclusion that a blog typed by me would be funny. I thought, Gad, are they in for a disappointment. . . Fortunately, I haven’t seen any click-throughs from the home address, and enough time has passed that I believe the burden of being funny has dropped off my shoulders.

Honestly, I think this must be the un-funniest blog in the history of blogdom. It is funny, though, that anyone would come to the conclusion that my diary would be funny based on the things that I’ve said in a group where the main topics of conversation are depression, heartache, disillusionment and thoughts of ending it all!

My time is nearly over in the group, and I’m kind of upset about that. This hasn't been at all like the experience of the Substance Abuse sessions held in the same building and sometimes by the same people. There’s been a lot less time-wasting, a lot less kerfuffling about, a lot more focus on the actual problems that trouble people, and on practical steps that can be taken to view the monster from the outside in. Not every session has offered earth-shattering breakthroughs or insights, but taken as a whole I can feel them nudging, gently nudging... Can’t say which direction the wind is blowing, and anyway the points on the compass have all been rearranged. That’s why I wish that I had more time. It would be reassuring to note a safety net down there below.

I was reminded this week that although I may not be ready to leave the group, the group may be ready to leave me: the familiar faces keep dropping out and new faces keep appearing. Soon there will be no one who knows anything of my backstory, and no one whose backstory I know. 

Attending the outpatient program got me out of the house and gave me an excuse to drag myself out of bed and play dress-up every morning, although I can’t say that I’ve come even remotely close to accomplishing the goals that J__ set down for me at the beginning of my time in the program. Well, yes, I’ve stayed dry, that’s been the relatively easy part. But when it comes down to finding an excuse for my continued existence, a sense of purpose, something to look forward to and work towards. . . well, I suppose that was a pretty tall order anyhow. Prune away to your heat’s content, you can’t imbue a gorse bush with a sense of hope. Even the Blythe Danner of the headshrinking set has her limits.

-- Freder.

The (Broken) Heart of Things

I realized, just this morning, one more thing about AA that rubs me the wrong way: it’s the degree to which they have embraced the Victim Mentality, as specifically stated in their core documents: “I admit that I have no power over alcohol...”

Perhaps this is what’s bothered me the most about them, all along. Because for me, this is not the case at all. I am not the victim of alcohol: I am its deliberate abuser. I turned to alcohol relatively late in life because I can’t stand myself, because I don’t want to think about being alive, because I can’t think of one single reason for my continued existence,  and because drinking, while I am / was doing it, takes me away from those feelings.

Does that sound to you like I am alcohol’s victim?

Even now, when I desperately want a drink, it’s not because of the abstract craving for a substance that has its biological grip on my system. On a purely biological level, I can do without alcohol just fine, and do, every day. No, when I want a drink, it’s because self-loathing and a sense of pure worthlessness are so strong upon me that it feels as if gravity has been turned up to the tenth level; as if I cannot move or breathe; and I know that the simplest, easiest thing I can do to feel human again -- and which also brings with it eventual Oblivion (another plus) is sit down and receive the relief of Vodka.

This is the opposite of being victimized by drink. If AA addresses the issues of self-hatred, false hope, wasted time and dashed aspirations at all, it does so only tacitly, and then only by substituting alcohol with other avenues of escape: in their case, the extended family of AA members, and God.

But that’s where it falls down for me. I feel no kinship with their “family,” and I want no part of their God.

-- Freder.

The Scorned of Mars

Speaking of distant planets, which I always feel like I’m doing whenever I speak of whatever passes for “normality” in this world, one of the pleasures of John Carter is sitting back and watching other critics (including some pretty high-powered ones) fall all over each other trying to make Uranus out of themselves.

Because some of them did try to insist that the movie was in some way a rip-off The Matrix, or Star Wars, or was “influenced” by many a melange of the other big-budget, rock-the-theater, CGI summer-stock tentpole Fantasy Spectaculars that have become Hollywood’s bread and butter since Star Wars and Jaws essentially rewrote the Hollywood DNA all those years ago in those still-naive, still-exciting summers of the seventies. 

Of course the truth is the reverse and ninety percent of everything that we've seen in this genre over the last quarter-century is indebted to some extent to the Mars novels of Edgar Rice Burroughs, also the creator of Tarzan and the Pellucidar series and other lesser known pulp adventure romps. Even A Princess of Mars (the first novel of the series, upon which John Carter is more or less based) didn’t start it all -- but Burroughs combined a wild imagination with an instinct for narrative suspense, a masterful ability to write action, and a shrewd sword-thrust to the reader’s libido.

The problem with John Carter the movie, aside from two things that I’ll get to at the end of this piece, is that it arrives too late. So many movies have so shamelessly stolen from ERB over the years, that John Carter of Mars (to give the title revealed in the closing credits), appearing after something like fifty years of the ultimate, most prolonged Development Hell ever (Bob Clampett was trying to make an animated movie version as far back as the ‘40s. Since then, I do believe that somebody, somewhere, has been trying to get this movie made virtually all the time, and the rights have bounced from studio to studio, from creative team to creative team. The Burroughs estate must have loved this, since they always got paid for the option and never had to deal with a lousy movie damaging the property), is forced into the unenviable position of seeming like a rehash of things that we have seen before, of seeming to steal from itself. 

And so even fans of the original books, which are marvelous by the way, especially if you are thirteen years old, may have to remind themselves from time to time as the movie unfolds that this, at last, is the real deal, and we should not fault John Carter just because we are exhausted by the onslaught of big-budget CGI spectaculars.

What’s evident from the opening scenes is that this picture has been made by people who know and love the books. The plot details may not jibe exactly with A Princes of Mars, the actors and the settings and the visualization may not look exactly like the characters and the places that you had in mind when you read those same books all those years ago -- but how could they? As witness the many artists who have illustrated Burroughs over the years, especially including Frank Frazetta, ERB left a lot open to interpretation, which is part of what drew us into his stories in the first place: he had a knack for making us an active participant in the story. That said, The filmmakers cannot possibly please all the fans; but they have done a remarkable job trying, because they are fans themselves. 

Just as it should, the movie begins in Civil War-era USA, with Burroughs himself discovering the story as it is passed down to him in a wonderful journal. It’s this framing device that gives the story its central Romantic tragedy, one that allowed Burroughs to end his first novel on a cliffhanger (which the filmmakers thankfully have chosen not to do, as I doubt there will be a sequel) and that ultimately gives the movie its heart: because you can’t have a Real Romance, can you, without having something to tear it asunder. Other critics complained that this device made the movie overlong and shattered its focus: I insist that it gives the picture its heart. 

Because the Mars novels are Romances, first and foremost. That they take place on another world and are populated by eight-armed tharks and mad scientists and giant wooly monsters only makes the mushy stuff go down easy for boy readers. There are also themes of loyalty, devotion and elements of charm that you will not find in modern fantasies. It’s not all blood and thunder. At its core, underneath the spectacle, John Carter is humane.

Of the casting, I originally had my doubts. But even with his unfortunate last name, Taylor Kitsch won me over both as the burned-out Civil War veteran and the rejuvenated warrior of Mars ultimately motivated to new heights by the most unexpected and powerful of loves. As the object of that love, Lynn Collins technically only had to be “incomparable,” as that’s how the princess of Helium, Dejah Thoris, is described over and over again in the books. She is that -- oh boy, is she ever -- but she takes it one step further, and one look at her resume tells me why (it’s up at imdb.com. Go look it up for yourself). 

In the end, John Carter is a solid entertainment in its own right and a real pleasure for fans of the books, brought down by a lousy title and a marketing campaign that really fell down in its duty. When you’ve got a property like the Mars books, part of the job of the marketing department is to educate that part of the public that never heard of Edgar Rice Burroughs. You can do this in two sentences. There is a fan-produced trailer out there on the interwebs that is miles, light years, better than the ones that came out of the Disney marketing department. 

You need to let people know, first, that Edgar Rice Burroughs is the creator of Tarzan. You need to let people know, second, that from this unique talent came a story that inspired every fantasy that has graced the screen since. You need to let people know, third, that one of the most beloved fantasy series of all time is finally coming to the screen. And then you need to show Lynn Collins in all her red-skinned, tattooed glory, standing against the Martian suns. After that, all you need to do is simply say:

A Princess of Mars.

-- Freder.

Into Every Life New Music Must Fall

For much of my life, I have not been self-determining even in terms of the music that I listened to, instead relying on friends and acquaintances to point me in this direction or that. Sometimes this worked, sometimes, not so much. I remember my friend BC knocking out a cassette of tunes for me by an artist named Dick Feller. Twangy country ballads. This would fall into the category of “not so much.” But then BC’s tastes always did run in that direction, with the Cash family and Asleep at the Wheel being the picks of his that I can not merely tolerate but also enjoy.

Among the very few musical artists that I ever discovered for myself through my own devices were Renaissance (in their second iteration with Annie Haslam on vocals) and Steeleye Span, and I’m proud to say that I think I pointed a couple of friends in their direction.

The whole time that I knew her, my sister did only one good thing for me: she brought stuff home from college. She brought books home and so as a sophomore in high school I was exposed to, and devoured, William Faulkner, Summerhill, P. G. Wodehouse. And she brought music home: in particular, Jimmie Sheeris and Orchestra Luna. Sheeris is dead now and Luna has been defunct a long time with one of its key members dead from AIDS. The two have little in common other than that they travel well beyond the mainstream of music, Spheeris into Jazzy drug-addled mysticism, Luna into a kind of retro-funk-Broadway-pop-classicism. Both were absolutely great in their own way, and I was overjoyed to be able to replace the vinyl records last year.

Left to my own devices, I realized at last that I really like that sort of stuff, the odd and off-beat, the unusual, the kind of music that still holds together melodically but carries a healthy dose of eccentricity in one way or another.

But, left to my own devices, I go for long periods of time, years, without discovering anything new. When I realized this a month or so back, I decided it was high time to change that and go looking for some New Tunes that would be all to my own taste.

I hate labels and this is a subject for another post, but I had a sense that it might produce some interesting results if I went to the music section and typed in the word steampunk. I was right. Oh, yes, I got a lot of junk right off the bat that I was able to dismiss outright: anything with the words “steam” or “cog” in the title, anything with the band members dressed up in souped-up Victoriana, the Dr. Steels and that ilk. There was a band called Abney Park that the Steampunk crowd seem to have crowned their official band. I listened to samples, and wasn’t impressed. 

(Oh, I take that back: I did spring for one item with the word “steampunk” in the title: The Roots of Steampunk 1903 - 1929, and I ask you: forty cuts for $8.99, among which are songs like these: “Yes Sir, That's My Baby” (Ace Brigode & His 14 Virginians); “Minnie the Moocher” (Cab Calloway); “You're the Cream in My Coffee” (Colonial Club Orchestra, Scrappy Lambert); “Darktown Shuffle” (Seattle Harmony Kings); “Ain't Misbehavin'” (Eva Taylor); “Make Believe” (Ben Bernie, Scrappy Lambert); “When the Red, Red Robin Comes Bob, Bob, Bobbin' Along” (Ben Selvin & His Orchestra, The Keller Sisters); “Blue Skies” (Harry Richman); “With a Song in My Heart” (Franlyn Baur); and “It Had to Be You” (Broadway Broadcasters) -- if labeling music like this “steampunk” will bring it to a new audience, I’m all in favor of that; meanwhile, there’s lots of great stuff in this collection that I didn’t have!)

Discounting the obvious crap and moving on down through the list, spending a lot of time and following links of things that were connected to other things that were connected to other things, gradually the mine started to produce some results, and -- with some bands and albums still ahead of me to try -- I came away with a handful of new “discoveries” that are all, to one degree or another, pleasing me very much, thank you.

Right at the top of my list was Rasputina. We are just beginning when I tell you that their music is nearly all performed on cello. Some banjo. Some drums. Melora Creager, the bandleader, songwriter, cover artiste, founder -- Man O Man, that woman is what we used to call a “character,” which makes her one of My People. Rasputina’s songs dart about like Victorian butterflies that have been imbued with an ancient familial curse. Imagine a string quartet that has gone slightly wrong, that’s missing an instrument or two, that’s covered in cobwebs, that’s reaching out to grab you by the sleeve. A warning seems to lie underneath the elaborate tapestrywork of the melody. Their latest album is Sister Kinderhook, and I wish I’d had it in my head during my last stay at 4 East. The song titles tell you something: “Calico Indians,” “Sweet Sister Temperance,” “Dark February,” et all. It’s not Easy Listening. It’s the kind of music that’s intended to alter your DNA, and I like that sort of thing very much indeed.

Next I went with another compilation, The Electro Swing Revolution, Volume 2. If you’ve seen the delightful French animated film The Triplets of Belleville (which was Really Unjustly stiffed for a Best Animated Film Oscar in 2003 in favor of the egregiously sickening Finding Nemo, in my opinion far and away Pixar’s worst movie), then you know exactly what kind of music is collected here. It’s the Jazz Age all over again, baby -- only this time it’s been plugged in, turned on, amped up, the Big Band era filtered through Fritz Lang’s Metropolis; with exciting, pleasing results. The names of the bands meant nothing to me, but one listen to the first cut (“Box of Secrets” by Zarif) was enough to make me push the “buy” button. I can’t put this album on and listen to it from beginning to end, because after a while it becomes too enervating, but taken in small doses, it’s like a straight shot of excitement to your cerebral cortex. 

In the same vein, the French band Caravan Palace is remaking the 1930’s in the image of the Space Age. The very expressive cover of their latest album, Panic, which shows a giant retro robot atop a redesigned Empire State building being menaced by Flying Saucers, says it all. In a very real way, the band are jazz traditionalists, with some of the basic riffs of their music sounding just like they came off of a scratchy old 78 RPM record. But from there, it’s almost as if the music has been filtered through a bizarre, gigantic, Max Fliesherish cartoon Bop Culture Machine; you know the kind of machine I mean; the kind that belches and whirrs and beats like a heart and burps steam and grows a face, chugs on coffee, sticks its tongue out at you and then receives a shock so deep that it lights up so that you can see its bones clear through. That’s Caravan Palace. Again, it’s not Light Fluffy listening, but music to chew on. I guess all these albums have that in common.

Finally, and in a completely different vein, and I do mean vein, I came upon The Birthday Massacre. I really like these kids. They’ve chosen violet as their official color, and it suits them perfectly. This sort of thing doesn’t usually appeal to me; the  music is L-O-U-D with a capital L, the guitars don’t do anything so much as create an almost physical wall against which the rest of the band can throw anything they want. And yet. . . and yet. . . there’s a really invigorating mix of sinister gothic punk themes (“You build it, we break it / You feel it, we fake it”) and, believe it or not, bright and light, almost cheery melody-driven pop (the keyboard player shapes most of their music), all brought into focus by lyricist and lead vocalist “Chibi” (the band uses nicknames, birth names unknown), who often manages to be vulnerable, menacing, evocative and seductive all at the same time.

Of all the albums I’ve discussed here, their 2007 effort Walking With Strangers has been getting the most play here at the all-new, all-different DuckHaus. Its driving loudness seems to help push me on. Its violet anti-social qualities ring true. Except for its eccentricity, its combining of genres, it’s not like anything else I’ve ever chosen for myself before. Perhaps this is part of what I need: New music for a new life. 

-- Freder.

Little Ducks All in a Row

One of the dozens of character bisque figures from my mother's collection

My action plan in the days following my latest release from the hospital has been more or less one of inaction. On the whole, I wouldn't recommend this approach to most people; and yet, within the last week, and seemingly without much involvement from me, a surprising number of the "stuffs" on my plate have either resolved themselves, or are in the pipeline to be resolved.

My car is on the way to being repaired. It just sort of happened. I didn't ask the insurance company to fix it. We were on the phone to talk about . . . ehm, the other person's car, and they just took it over from there. By the end of next week it will be done. All other ramifications of the accident are now fully in the hands of the insurance companies. Legal help for my October court date has been, if not secured, at least contacted.

My furnace has been cleaned for the year. I have a Will in the works (which is kind of a dangerous thing to have in the works in my state of mind, but needs must where the Devil rides, or something like that). The temporary disruption to my phone and internet service was nipped in the bud quickly and easily. Been to the doctor to get my prescriptions adjusted. With the exception of the weekend, which I'd rather not get into, I've been a little Worker Bee. I've been Making Things Happen.

This all feels to me like . . . a band-aid has been applied to the most glaring boo-boos. It's what you do, right?

At the mental health outpatient program we are. . . working on things. There's a lot to work on. For starters, I have all the self-esteem of a tapeworm. No, I take that back. . . a tapeworm has more self-esteem than I do.

I did my first comprehensive job search a few days ago. Lawsy, Miz Sca'lett, after that, a person needs to swallow a whole bottle of Welbutrin! Oh, there's work out there -- if you're happy doing telemarketing for T-Mobile. I guarantee you that after a couple of days at T-Mobile I'd be grinding the Deadly Nightshade plant that's growing in my back yard into a fine paste and downing it with a vodka chaser.

Yeah, Job search. That's an instant trip into Depression City.

Anhyhoo, that's wagon before the elephant stuff. I need to get my resume in order first, so that I can spring, like a wolf upon its prey, when that perfect job comes strolling down the path to grandma's house.

But, you know, my desk is in order. My desk is really neat and organized. I'll never miss an appointment because they're all perfectly entered onto my computer calendar and synched with my phone and iPad. I'm really, really organized. . .

... except I still manage to get about half of my appointments wrong, somehow. Go figure.

If you keep busy enough, you don't notice that your life is essentially empty. My old job at Colby had reached the point where it wasn't even good for that anymore.

I had to laugh in the IOP today, one of the facilitators was trying to think of something positive to offer me, and what she came up with was that I'd managed to establish a really good relationship -- with my cats! I about busted a gut on that one! Talk about praising with faint damns! It reminded me of the old joke about the comic book character Ant-Man: "Wooooooo! I guess you really clean up on those ANTS!"

Yes, my Indian Name is "Makes Friends with Animals". That's also my Mutant Power.

And now I can see that this post has begun to follow the example of my Action Plan and meander off in no particular direction. OK. yes, I'm getting something done. But is it Art?

-- Freder

Lost and Found Metropolis

I often wonder when I write a post about movies, books or any kind of media, if it isn't just literary masturbation; if I really have anything worth saying, worth adding, to any given discussion about any given piece. That's especially true when I have a weekend like the one I just had, which was self-destructive and fatalistic to put it mildly; and it's especially true when the subject is something like Fritz Lang's Metropolis.

Who doesn't know about Metropolis (and, if they don't, who can't find out about it, with much more scholarly information than I could give, at the click of a mouse)? If you don't know it, the story behind Metropolis is almost as good as the movie itself. Maybe better. We didn't think a complete version would ever turn up. We were wrong.

Maybe the best thing to do in the case of Metropolis is to go all personal on you. In the early '90s I was working as The Night Guy in a small College Library in rural Maine. At that time, the lower level was a large computer/study hall and a fully enclosed A/V room that didn't see much use. I came up with the idea of running an informal weekly film series in the A/V room and my boss bought it. That was a great time!

So, once a week, usually on Thursday nights, I'd run a full program beginning with a cartoon, a comedy short, a cliffhanger serial (it was Republic's 1941 Spy Smasher, more on that later) and at last the feature. Attendance was usually pretty light, ranging from a couple of people at worst (for my Halloween show, The Abominable Dr. Phibes) to about twelve (surprisingly, for the animated feature Batman: Mask of the Phantasm).

There was one young student who came to every show. In most cases she stayed to see the features, but she wasn't there to see the features. She was there to see Spy Smasher. I remember as the group filed out after the first showing, she turned to me and asked, "What happens to Spy Smasher?" I said, "Y'gotta come back next week to find out!"

And she did. She came back every week. I overheard her talking to a girlfriend about Spy Smasher once, towards the end of the run. She said, "It's the craziest thing I've ever seen!"

Also towards the end of the run, as the semester was winding down and summer was rising, there was one night when a couple of the students hung around for a while afterwards while I broke down the set up, just to talk. The gal who liked Spy Smasher was one of them. She said, "D'you know which movie was my favorite? Metropolis."

Well, you could've knocked me over with a feather. A silent movie.

She was referring to the Georgio Moroder version, which I ran from a second-generation bootlegged VCR copy. It had only been a few years since the release of the Moroder version, but it was already out of circulation and hard to find.

Like it or lump it, at that time, the Moroder version was the most complete and also the most sensible version of Metropolis out there. But let's be clear: it's not Fritz Lang's Metropolis, and I don't think anyone -- least of all Moroder himself -- ever said it was. It's Georger Moroder's version of Fritz Lang's Metropolis, all decked up with color and bombast, and as such it's kind of a neat example of the pliability of cinema art.

I have a friend who loathed Moroder's pop/rock soundtrack... I rather like it, and furthermore, if that soundtrack -- which featured the likes of Pat Benatar, Adam Ant, Freddie Mercury and Loverboy -- can  help Metropolis reach and speak to a new audience of young people -- as it seemed to do in that little screening room way back then -- I'm all in favor of it. If it plays a bit like Metropolis MTV, thems the breaks. It was a noble effort, and didn't deserve to fall into complete obscurity.

Which of course is what happened. Released in 1984, by 1990 it was almost as lost as Lang's original.

You know by now, don't you, that after almost a hundred years of existing with over a third of its original runtime cut and presumed missing forever, a nearly-complete print of Lang's Metropolis was found in Buenos Aires? You know that this is the Philosopher's Stone of moviedom? This is the Golden Goose that no one ever expected to find. This is like finding the arms of the Venus de Milo.

Which is not to say that every frame of the missing footage is a priceless treasure. Especially in the final third, there's a lot of extra running about that doesn't add a great deal to the movie's profundity. But there is some great stuff in those newly discovered twenty-five minutes O my Brothers and Sisters. I won't spoil it for you. Suffice to say that one of the great missing images, and one that binds Frederson and Rotwang, is finally here, and that Freder's sickbed vision of the Robot's dance at last makes sense. There's much that finally makes sense. There's much that is simply fuller, that breathes more deeply. Metropolis hasn't changed with the discovery of its missing third -- but it has become more solid.

Kino has a habit of doing things up right, and in conjunction with their release of The Complete Metropolis they have also reissued Moroder's version. I highly recommend both of them to you. The two complement each other. And I must say, Moroder got one thing spot-on right that the original version, while authentic, just blows: the final shot.

Now then, you might ask. Freder. Yes. I took it from the main character of Metropolis. I don't flatter myself that I'm some mediator, but I do feel, have always felt, a sense of not belonging in any of the established walks of society. Oh, and it's a derivation of my middle name.

-- Freder.

An(other) open Letter to My Father, or, "Issues, I Have Issues..."

I'll try to keep these as simple, unemotional and objective as possible, but I have to get them off my chest.

Issue #1) I see M__ as feeling somehow "betrayed" by the events of father's day and furthermore putting the house up for sale as being at least in part a reaction to that.

And it's a huge OVER reaction. I have ONE relapse and she falls all to pieces and feels all betrayed. And she is not even kin to me. My only relationship with her is that she is your wife.

The only person I really felt that I'd betrayed was C_____, because she was the only one who put any real WORK into my sobriety, and when I wound up back in 4 East d'you know what her reaction was? She put her hand on my shoulder, looked me in the eye, and said, "You didn't betray me. You didn't betray anyone. This is a disease of relapse."

So, as far as I am concerned, M__ can either climb down off her high horse, or she can ride off into the sunset on it, and either way, I don't give a damn.

You, on the other hand, I give a damn about. I suppose you realize that if you sell the house and move out west we most likely will never see each other again. I know we haven't seen each other much this year, but in case you hadn't noticed, I've been having a rough year. 

And -- even though the money may have come from one or the other partner -- it's a marriage, and that's a partnership, and that means you have a say, too.

Issue #2) I've swallowed this one for years and years and I'm not going to swallow it any more: Who ever decided that YOU get to choose the Agenda for Topics of Conversation when we get together for lunch? For that matter, why do we have to have an Agenda at all? When the guys and I all get together, there is no agenda. We just all talk about whatever pops into our heads at the moment. If we do come to the table with something we want to say, we know we'll get a chance to say it sooner or latter. Why are you so frightened of silence? Silence gives someone else a chance to formulate a thought.

It is really, really off-putting to know that when you and I sit down for lunch, you are just going to yammer out straight, tick off the items on your agenda, and then when you're done, lunch is over -- goodbye.

That's not a relationship.

For my part, I live alone and it takes me a while to work up to a point -- if I even have a point to work up to. Sometimes it's nice to just sit with someone in silence.

Issue #3) I've been trying to be subtle about this by spelling out on several occasions that this is a **MENTAL HEALTH** outpatient program; likewise I've made several references to thoughts and even plans of suicide and those references just seem to have bounced off your head unnoticed. 

My official diagnosis at the hospital and IOP is: "Major depressive disorder, recurrent, severe, nonpsychotic. Alcohol abuse." Please note the word abuse, not addiction. So yes, we are dealing with alcohol consumption specifically in my treatment plan, but as a symptom,  in the context a larger illness, not as an addiction: "Douglas describes depression that he has felt all of his life. He has used alcohol to numb himself. He reports feeling loss of a sense of purpose and meaning in his life. Douglas reports that he has constant, intense thoughts of wanting to die.  . . . He recently had a plan to hang himself at home."

All of this is pretty heavy shit to lay on you, but hear it you must. Just holding it in and sweeping it under the rug isn't going to do me a damn bit of good. 

Knowing all this, if you still feel like lunch sometime, I still think a neutral location is best. You know my schedule!

-- Freder