Everyone's gone to the movies

The futuristic movie SURROGATES (2009) unexpectedly blew my mind... a culture in which affluent humans prefer to stay ensconced in their homes, behind closed doors, directing their (good-looking, able-bodied, young) android-selves (through which they see, smell, hear, taste reality as experienced by the android) was not as far removed from everyday experience as I thought it would be. I mean, I am typing on this contraption that people now use like a 'surrogate'--right? Various events are already not regarded as "real" to people unless they've seen them on TV, and it is through a similar smallish screen that people in SURROGATES engage their world. The people who don't, are either too weird or too poor, and are therefore dubbed "meatbags" for not getting with the surrogates-program.

Scificool.com gave the movie a mostly-negative review:

It is the future, and lifelike robotic surrogates have become commonplace. In fact, they’re so commonplace that only a small portion of the population don’t use them, and these “dregs” of society have cut themselves off from the rest of the world to live in inner city reservations. They are led by The Prophet (Ving Rhames), a mysterious, homeless-looking fella who preaches revolution against the machines. The story proper begins when two surrogates are destroyed, resulting in the death of their human hosts – impossibility, we’re told by the creators of the machines.

This is, in fact, the first-ever recorded murder of a human while “jacked in”. In a world where crime is no longer a viable human endeavor, and murder is practically non-existent thanks to the presence of surrogates, the FBI, led by Greer (Willis) and Peters (Radha Mitchell) are understandably shocked. But as Greer and Peters chases the killer, they begin to realize that a larger conspiracy is at work.

But it wasn't the plot that bothered me, it was the underlying IDEAS the plot was based on. The kids at Scificool are already shrugging, but *I* was disoriented by the basic premise.

It was disturbing. I assume that's why it went straight to DVD ... nobody will pay money to go to a theater (their surrogate might) to ponder at length how seriously messed-up we are.

Because, you know, if there were surrogates, it would be just like the movie... that is the truly disturbing, disorienting thing. The perfection of the androids (like the perfection of movie stars) is intimidating, and the meatbags are at a clear disadvantage. A world of beautiful, fit androids means that more people would opt to live this way... in so many ways, we are herd animals. What if the herd stayed home en masse and sent androids out to work? Lots of people have said (when I have described the movie to them) they'd love the option of sending the android to work for them. But would that persona take over your life, becoming the only acceptable facade you can present to the world?

Mr Daisy has met the authors of the graphic novel, Robert Venditti and Brett Weldele, who say they weren't inspired by Philip K Dick or JG Ballard, but were most assuredly inspired by William Gibson. Bruce Willis doesn't mind going back and forth in his role; in the first half he looks like a movie star, blond hair, about 32 years old... then he abandons the surrogate for his true meatbag self, and he is bald, obviously aging, and banged up in a fight with scars on his face for the rest of the movie. The juxtaposition between him and the beautiful androids is striking. (I found Radha Mitchell largely unrecognizable, so she made an excellent android.)

The ideas in this movie gave me nightmares and continue to do so.

~*~

During the last couple of Thursdays, I huddled up with my bowl of popcorn to watch a night of fabulous Merchant/Ivory films on Turner Classic Movies... but wait. What?

Ask yourself, if a married couple made a slew of amazing, fantastic, Oscar-winning movies, do you think they might mention that? They mention Tracy and Hepburn, who were not even legally married. They mention Bogart and Bacall. They mention Judy Garland and Vincent Minelli. And these are only off the top of my head.

Ismail Merchant and James Ivory were partners. You know, PARTNERS? THOSE KIND of partners?

I recently got the smackdown on another blog for fulminating about this after the recent death of Ismail Merchant; I was self-righteously informed in short order that Merchant, in particular, was a "private man" and IF he was gay, it's nobody's business.

Really? And who decided that? Why is it nobody's business? Bullshit, of course it is. When Spencer Tracy protested that he and Katharine Hepburn's affair was nobody's business, did anybody listen? (Tracy was already married and as a Catholic, would not get a divorce; their decades-long affair was always technically an "adulterous" affair.) Why are we suddenly being polite and respectful when some celebrity tells us something is not our business? Since when?

I think some people don't WANT to know.

The fact that these great movies were made by loving partners, is a major reason why they are so wonderful. It is clear that the director and producer had a unified vision, and worked in harmony to bring it to the audience. Just as people enjoyed the witty repartee of Tracy/Hepburn or the sexual electricity of Taylor/Burton or Newman/Woodward... these couples crackled onscreen and made audiences curious about their private lives. Movie magazines delivered all the goods. They were not allowed to declare their private lives off limits, try as they might.

It was the stunning beauty of these films, that we now call "Merchant-Ivory" (a trusted brand name, a sign of high quality) that first made me curious also. How could these men, from such different backgrounds, make such identifiable, signature films, with such a definable point of view? When I discovered they were life-partners, I was not surprised. In fact, it explains so much about their work.

But alas, nobody will mention their domestic partnership when introducing their work on classic movie networks. They are officially "artistic collaborators" only.

Again, we see how gay people are disappeared by the culture at large, as heterosexuality, even openly illicit heterosexuality, is heralded.

~*~

NOTE: Today's blog post title is of course from STEELY DAN. I'd add the song itself, but I could only find a demo version, an outtake version and a 90s live version... arrrgh, if I can't have the exact version I first heard on KATY LIED, I won't print any of them. (musical snobbery)

But the one I linked is the closest.

Old movie musings, part 8723

Mr Daisy is watching Fate Is the Hunter (1964) on Turner Classic Movies, featuring the very beautiful and talented Nancy Kwan. (at left, on the cover of LIFE MAGAZINE)

Kwan first hit the big time co-starring with William Holden in The World of Suzie Wong (1960), a movie I admit I loved as a little girl. (Yes, we all freely consumed racism and sexism with our breakfast cereal, didn't we?)

One of my favorite blogs, Restructure!, once addressed that signature "Chinese" riff that always pops up in old movies like Suzie Wong. Really a great post, and I just thought of it, so decided to link it now (better late than never!). Short version (but read it all): the little tune is a western invention. Who knew? I had always assumed it was from a real song, possibly a Chinese nursery rhyme (or equivalent):

This riff [click on link to hear sound file] appears in orientalist American and British pop songs like “Kung Fu Fighting” (1974) and “Turning Japanese” (1980). However, the “proto-cliché” or rhythmic pattern of “da-da-da-da, da da, da da, daaah!” originated in the 1800s, and has since been ubiquitous in pop culture to signify (and other) Asian culture or Asian people.

As I said in the comments of the post, my grandmother had an old music-box with a "china doll" figure that spun around, as a variation of the tune played. I was surprised to learn it was a westernized fake.

This in turn reminded me of the first record by Japanese band Yellow Magic Orchestra back in 1978, in which they made various "American sounds" (including a song that sounded like the well-known Marlboro cigarette commercial from the 60s). They imitated raucous American laughter, doing impersonations of white American male haw-haw-hawing. I was jarred by it and wondered if that was how Americans sounded to Asians? (I always wonder about stereotypes of Americans in other places.)

~*~

My blog has been linked again (oh goody!), but the comments are so uniformly hostile and negative, I've decided not to go back and read the rest of them. Sorry kids, grandma is sitting this one out.

Self-preservation in Blogdonia! I am learning, at long last. :)

Puttin on the Ritz

We survived the ice storm this week; now awaiting the next arctic blast... ugh.

Meanwhile, staying mellow with Fred Astaire.

Watching BLUE SKIES (1946) on Turner Classic Movies, and just beheld this gem:

Puttin on the Ritz - Fred Astaire

Odds and Sods - Night of the Hunter edition

I love how Halloween has taken over October. For one thing, it's lots of fun. For another, it stops the capitalists from foisting Christmas on us too soon. Without Halloween, Macy's would be decorating Christmas trees in September.

And the best thing: OLD HORROR MOVIES.

If you have never seen Robert Mitchum's deranged preacher (movie still at left) in Night of the Hunter, your big chance is tonight at 8pm on Turner Classic Movies:

The Night of the Hunter (1955) is a truly compelling, haunting, and frightening classic masterpiece thriller-fantasy, and the only film ever directed by the great British actor Charles Laughton. The American gothic, Biblical tale of greed, innocence, seduction, sin and corruption was adapted for the screen by famed writer-author James Agee (and Laughton, but without screen credit). Although one of the greatest American films of all time, the imaginatively-chilling, experimental, sophisticated work was idiosyncratic, film noirish, avante garde, dream-like expressionistic and strange, and it was both ignored and misunderstood at the time of its release. Originally, it was a critical and commercial failure.

Robert Mitchum gave what some consider his finest performance in a precedent-setting, unpopular, and truly terrifying role as the sleepy-eyed, diabolical, dark-souled, self-appointed serial killer/Preacher with psychotic, murderous tendencies while in pursuit of $10,000 in cash. Lillian Gish played his opposite - a saintly good woman who provided refuge for the victimized children.

The disturbing, complex story was based on the popular, best-selling 1953 Depression-era novel of the same name by first-time writer Davis Grubb, who set the location of his novel in the town of Moundsville, WV, where the West Virginia Penitentiary (also mentioned in the film) was located. Grubb lived in nearby Clarksburg as a young teenager.

Once you start watching, you won't stop. The movie literally sparkles in some places, the black-and-white cinematography gleaming and beautiful. And Mitchum is utterly incredible. His serial-killer/preacher was famously tattooed with the words "Love" on one hand and "Hate" on the other, which has since become part of pop-culture legend--later resurrected on Robert DeNiro's hands in Martin Scorsese's remake of Cape Fear:

Spike Lee's Do the Right Thing (1989) referenced the love/hate, left and right hand theme, when Radio Raheem (Bill Nunn) explained the love/hate dichotomy. In The Rocky Horror Picture Show (1975), LOVE and HATE were tattooed on Eddie's (Meat Loaf) knuckles, and in The Blues Brothers (1980), the two brothers (John Belushi and Dan Aykroyd) have their names tattooed on their knuckles. In The Simpsons episode "Cape Feare", the menacing Sideshow Bob (voice of Kelsey Grammer) had similar tattoos on each set of knuckles as well - but since the characters in the cartoon show had only three fingers and a thumb, the tattoos were humorously "LUV" and "HAT" - (with a bar over the A).

The hands war with each other, love vs hate, and which will triumph?

Don't miss the movie, if you've never seen it.

~*~

Over at Twisty's blog, I blame the Patriarchy, there was a discussion of Meghan McCain's boobs. OOooops... I mean, McCain's Twitter photo. And for a bunch of feminists, it got kinda rough in there, as "advanced patriarchy blamers" (a group I am not sure I can claim I even belong to, as a bad Catholic) sounded just like my dear, deceased Aunt Mae:

Looks to me like the requisite lips out, head tilted downward but eyes up’ boob showin’ crap teenage girls post on myspace all day long. A joke, perhaps? Or just business as usual. How old is she anyway?

... which promptly set off a fascinating conversation. Go read! Warning: the thread is now up to 170 replies.

And then, Twisty outdid herself in her subsequent post on the conversation:

[Certain feminists commenting in the aforementioned thread] seem to be placing a pretty high premium on McCain’s intent. And they seem pretty comfortable in asserting an infallible familiarity with McCain’s innermost nature, for they have somehow divined this intent precisely. Maybe they have access to 8th-dimension vortex-portals through which they may mind-meld with Internet personalities. They assert, peering through their vortex-portals into the mind of Meghan McCain, not just that her intent was to titillate, but — and here is the critical jump — that this odious species of intent (slutism!) releases them from their oath of feminist solidarity.

You know how when a rapist is prosecuted, and the slutty intent of the victim is so acutely divined by the defense (’she didn’t fight back hard enough; she must have wanted it,’ etc) it may be used as a psychbomb to dehumanize her to the jury? It’s like that.

Or take women who post self-portraits on the Internet. Say we get our hands on one of those vortex-portals, so we know without a doubt that their intent is to titillate. Does it logically follow that they then desire a torrent of sex-based hate speech? Meanwhile, do even the feminists buy the whole women-are-masochists myth and just sit idly by while misogynists rip the titillators to shreds?

Anyway, intent, schmintent. I would urge the reader to recall how little intent has to do with anything. Particularly with the experience of the end user. The result is all that matters. Your boyfriend — if you haven’t taken my advice and dumped him yet — possibly loves you, but when he farts in bed and flaps the covers, who gives a flip about his intent? Do you not gag and think him a Philistine?

Which, before all you fart-flappers get lathered up, is my little metaphor for the metaphorical odor that metaphorically drifts, unbidden, from the condition of male privilege into the metaphorical nostrils of the oppressed.

That last paragraph may be the best thing I ever read.

Check it out.. the follow-up thread is up to 77 posts already.

~*~

More on what we in South Carolina are calling "Jim Demint and the Jews" from David Paul Kuhn writing in Real Clear Politics:

The Op/Ed was published Sunday in the South Carolinian newspaper The Times and Democrat. Chairmen Edwin Merwin, of Bamberg County, and James Ulmer, of Orangeburg County, wrote:

There is a saying that the Jews who are wealthy got that way not by watching dollars, but instead by taking care of the pennies and the dollars taking care of themselves. By not using earmarks to fund projects for South Carolina and instead using actual bills, DeMint is watching our nation's pennies and trying to preserve our country's wealth and our economy's viability to give all an opportunity to succeed.

This is only one small story from one small town newspaper. But it is likely to make some national news.

That news will not be well received by the national Republican Party. The GOP has long attempted, albeit with little success, to make inroads into the Jewish vote. Of course, this incident will not help. And it may not be big enough to hurt that much. But the news comes in the context of the GOP's macro push to portray itself as a more inclusive party of late. And every anecdote exemplifying otherwise undermines that push.

That the offensive language was penned in an Op/Ed, rather than made in an offhand remark, makes it all the more politically foolish (and almost too stupid to believe).

Not if you live around here, it sure isn't.

~*~

And finally, the coveted Dead Air literary award goes to my favorite mom-blogger, Sheila, for her very gifted, postprandial haiku.

This was inspired by her first trip to Sonic:

anticipation
cold crappy food wrong order
tarnished cravings

Sidney Poitier receives Medal of Freedom

Sidney Poitier and his Oscar in 1963, photo from Aliya S. King.




One of the most awesome men in the entire world, one of the regular cast of Daisy's feverish young adolescent dreams, has just received the MEDAL OF FREEDOM!!!! I am so thrilled!



Sir Sidney!!!

Yes, lots of other people got medals today, but I admittedly fixate on Sir Sidney:

At his first Medal of Freedom conferral, President Obama ran a tight ship of a ceremony, which began slightly after 3 p.m. and clocked in at about 40 minutes' worth of speechifying and medal-bestowing in the glittering East Room, the largest room in the White House. This year, actor Sidney Poitier, Archbishop Desmond Tutu, Broadway star Chita Rivera, Sen. Ted Kennedy (D-Mass.) and former Irish president Mary Robinson were among the 16 who received the nation's highest civilian honor.

Although the president spoke to the recipients and their enthused crowd of guests for about 20 minutes before breaking out the medals, his comments betrayed very little about his personal feelings toward (or relationships with) any of the honorees he'd selected. The silence signaled humility, and, of course, diplomacy: Robinson, for example, was the object of enmity outside the building, as supporters of Israel had deemed her undeserving after a particular rough career moment when a human-rights conference she helmed in 2001 was dominated by attacks on Jews and Israel.

In the afternoon ceremony, Obama praised Robinson as "a crusader for women and those without a voice in Ireland," saying she "shone a light on human suffering" during her work on human rights and hunger. A military aide read her citation, which praised her for "urging citizens and nations to make common cause for justice."

The president did get personal on a few occasions, his own subtly conveyed intimacy never upstaging, say, the exuberance of tennis star Billie Jean King, who entered the East Room with a victorious pump of her fist and a mouthed "Yessssss!" In the president's estimation, King gave "everyone, regardless of gender and sexual orientation, including my two daughters, a chance to compete both on the court and in life." Upon receiving her medal, she gave it a kiss and flashed the audience a grin.

The president's introductory remarks (smoothly delivered, apparently without written notes) continued in this manner, bowing more to the medal recipients' achievements than to his own experiences with them. After pronouncements were pronounced, Obama clasped medals around 16 necks, engaging in a great deal of hugging, cheek-kissing, whispering and back-patting -- a prolonged bout of physical affection that the recipients happily returned.

Without written notes, she emphasized. (Isn't it so nice to have a literate president?)

Certainly, Sir Sidney deserves it, and more, and everything else, too. Tomorrow, Turner Classic Movies will feature A WHOLE DAY OF SIR SIDNEY! And it's my day off, too! (Can we STAND IT?!) The day begins with The Long Ships (1964) at 6am and ends with Brother John (1971) at 4am the next day--with some utterly fabulous movies in between.

If you have a few minutes, flip over during the day, and watch the master.

You knew I would use this as an excuse to play this dopey song, dincha?



To Sir With Love (1967) will be on TCM at 6pm, right after Guess Who's Coming to Dinner (also 1967) at 4pm. (You can never watch them enough!)

In this life, one thing counts, in the bank, large amounts...

Vivien Leigh and Hattie McDaniel in GONE WITH THE WIND, for which McDaniel won an Oscar, the first for an African-American.


Discussion question:

What do we do about works of art that engage in harmful stereotyping, but we don't want to get rid of the art?

I have included one example below, for no other reason than it was the example that started me thinking--and because it's on Turner Classic Movies today. Whether you think this musical necessarily constitutes great art, is not where I want to go with this. I chose this for the example of stereotyping, in this case, pretty blatant antisemitism. What is pertinent is that this movie got the Oscar for Best Picture (1968) and is a staple of mass-culture; the musical OLIVER! is also performed by high-schools and small-town theater groups throughout the land.

It is also notable that the movie was based on the novel OLIVER TWIST by Charles Dickens, still widely read and circulated. Also notable is that the (Jewish) actor who plays Fagin (Ron Moody) was nominated for an Oscar as Best Actor, and won a Golden Globe award. (For all of the talk of Jews running Hollywood, can anyone explain that?)

In this discussion, we could also add such mass-culture staples as (of course) GONE WITH THE WIND and John Ford's numerous John Wayne-kicks-Indian-butt movies. I love THE SEARCHERS, but I have very mixed feelings about loving it. (I am smart enough to know that if I were Native American, I would NOT love it.)

What about old movies/plays that display severe sexism? I am terribly partial to (example) the old Doris Day movie THE THRILL OF IT ALL. Doris really shows herself to be a first-class comedienne, and brings down the house. But by the end, would-be career-mom is dutifully chastened, quits her job and goes back to being James Garner's obedient wifey, and my blood just boils. But until this happens? The movie is funny and very good.

(sigh)

And so, what's a mother to do? And indeed, as a movie-addict, I always wanted to show my daughter these movies, but felt like I had to conduct a freaking political seminar every time.

Okay, at the risk of offending, here are the OLIVER! clips... And to make it worse, I just love this, too. (There, I admitted it.)

But I have guilt for loving it. Does that count?

WARNING: DO NOT WATCH IF YOU WILL BE OFFENDED. FAGIN IS AN ANTISEMITIC STEREOTYPE. Even the music (by Lionel Bart, also Jewish) is designed to "sound Jewish"--as Fagin's hat is also an obvious reference to his station in life. In the novel, Dickens actually referred to Fagin as "a merry Jew"--but the movie never does, using these cultural symbols instead. (And as always, there is Fagin's obsession with money.)



Check out Ron Moody's fabulous singing and dancing in this one. (Watch how the boys salute the flag as they leave; I just love that.) Moody made no apologies for playing the role.



What is your guilty pleasure? Yes, we all have them. Don't fib to me! :P

What can we do about this situation? Any ideas? Just continue the endless political seminars?

Okay, consider this post as one.

Happy Birthday Elizabeth!

For those of you who worried that I would end up gaunt from my calorie restriction, never fear. Fat Tuesday to the rescue! I ate bowls (plural) of fabulous vegetarian gumbo, as well as cinnamon rolls slathered with sugar. At this rate, I won't be a fashionably-thin ascetic saint any time soon.

And you all know what day it is!!! YES, it is the birthday of Dead Air's official Goddess, Elizabeth, as we all turn towards Hollywood and bow. (((bows, blows copious kisses))) My gallery of photos from last year is still regularly Googled! I am so proud to add to the pantheon of stunning Liz images! At left, Elizabeth in Suddenly, Last Summer (1959). She looks too beautiful for mere words. I have always loved that dress. Most mental patients, as you know, have to wear ugly white hospital gowns, but not our Elizabeth! Montgomery Clift himself brings her pretty dresses while she argues her way out of a lobotomy.

For those unaware, the sister of the play's author, Tennessee Williams, was actually lobotomized in 1943. Her name was Rose, and there is a "rose" reference in virtually every one of his plays (even a play with "rose" in the title, The Rose Tattoo).

Wikipedia notes:

The "mad heroine" theme that appeared in many of his plays seemed clearly influenced by the life of Williams' sister Rose.

Characters in his plays are often seen as representations of his family members. Laura Wingfield in The Glass Menagerie was understood to be modeled on Rose. Some biographers believed that the character of Blanche DuBois in A Streetcar Named Desire is also based on her, as well as Williams himself [...] Characters such as Tom Wingfield in The Glass Menagerie and Sebastian in Suddenly, Last Summer were understood to represent Williams himself. In addition, he used a lobotomy operation as a motif in Suddenly, Last Summer.

Sebastian, in addition, is known unofficially as the "gay saint"--later joked about in the gay-themed play, The Boys in the Band.

From St Sebastian as a gay icon:

Saint Sebastian's appeal to gay men seems obvious. He was young, unmarried, and martyred by the establishment. Many gay writers and artists have taken Saint Sebastian's life and suggested that he may have been gay himself.

Sebastian is portrayed as a patriotic and loyal roman despite his subversive faith. While serving as a Roman soldier he became one of the Emperors favorites. Some stories say that the Emperor Diocletian made romantic advanced upon Sebastian and was enraged when Sebastian rejected him on Christian grounds. Other stories suggest that Sebastian and Diocletian may have had a homosexual relationship.

Imagery of Saint Sebastian has pictured him young, with a strong shirtless physique. He is beautifully receptive to the arrows penetrating his body but he has a look on his face of exquisite pain. Sebastian has become a homoerotically charged image of desire symbolizing isolationism, and persecution of the establishment.

Embracing a subversive faith, he is both strong and brave. Those who have wrestled with psychological demons, issues of sexuality, or have suffered publically can identify with Saint Sebastian. As a healer and patron of plagues, he has been linked with the devastation of AIDS. Catholics derive comfort from his possible representation of their sexuality before God.

I first saw Suddenly, Last Summer as a child, and didn't understand any of it. However, I was utterly terrified by the graphic finale, which I think is still pretty hair-raising, even after all these years. The story appears to mirror Tennessee Williams' own guilt (and possibly Gore Vidal's, author of the screenplay and the one who inserted the freaky images of the boys chasing Sebastian through the unnamed Third-Worldish streets) about paying impoverished young men and boys for sexual favors.

The play is about Sebastian's mother, Violet (Katharine Hepburn), who is attempting to have her niece (Elizabeth) lobotomized by handsome (and also gay) Dr Montgomery Clift. Elizabeth traveled abroad with Sebastian and witnessed his death. Hepburn instructs Clift to "cut this hideous story out of her brain"--one of those lines Williams was famous for... I have thought of it ever since, whenever hearing of lobotomies. (What did they "cut out of their brain"?--I have always wondered.)

At left: Sebastian has purchased a stunning white bathing suit for Elizabeth to wear. In the water it becomes virtually translucent, and she therefore doesn't want to go in. As the boys watch from a fenced-area (to keep the poor locals divided from the rich tourists), Sebastian forces her to go in the water. As always, his face is never shown.

As a kid, I didn't get the sexual references, about how Elizabeth was used as bait to draw the poor local boys to Sebastian (as Violet had been used previously, before growing too old). In the movie flashbacks, Sebastian always wears a white suit, symbolizing his whiteness. And his face is never shown; he stands in for all white men.

In the final harrowing flashback sequence, as Elizabeth narrates, the poor, ragged boys of all ages gather with clanging pots and pans as primitive instruments, making a clattering, scary racket... finally surrounding Sebastian. As a child, I was mesmerized: Why were they so angry with him? What do they want?

He throws money at them.

The boys just stare, unmoved. It is horrifying.

Sebastian runs.

He careens through twisting and turning narrow roads in his immaculate white suit, up, up, up, until he is at the top of a hill and there is nowhere to go. The boys surround Sebastian, and you only see his hand--stretching upward, as if to heaven--as they are on him.

And from Elizabeth's hysterical account, the secret emerges: the boys ate Sebastian alive.

As a 10-year-old, I knew not to ask any older people what any of this weird stuff meant, or why the boys were so pissed off. I knew the adults wouldn't let me watch it again, which I did every time it was on TV, trying to figure out the mystery. And at the age of 15, I finally did. (It wasn't until I was a bit older that I understood the cannibalistic reference.)

But even as a 10-year-old, I knew one thing for sure: I loved Elizabeth!!!!!

~*~

And I wish her a Happy Birthday!

Ending with Paul Newman's tribute to Elizabeth at Turner Classic Movies. Features the famous slip from Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, but unfortunately, not the amazing party dress she wears in A Place in the Sun. (I also loved the sexy-pants outfit in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf, one of her Oscar-winning performances... but I can't find any photos of her dancing with George Segal anywhere. Go to approx 2:21 here to watch the scene.) (NOTE: may trigger, etc.)

Feminists will enjoy the verbal bitch-slap of snotty sexist Laurence Harvey at 3:12. (From Butterfield 8, her first Oscar!)

Behold your QUEEN!

Odds and Sods - Bunny Lake edition

Currently watching the creepy Otto Preminger movie, Bunny Lake is Missing (1965) on Turner Classic Movies. It always bothers me. I first saw it as a child and had nightmares, even though it isn't a horror movie. It's more like a long, British Twilight Zone episode. I find it totally hypnotic and never miss it whenever it's on TV.

Unmarried American mother Carol Lynley is hysterical that her daughter is missing, while investigator Laurence Olivier, narrowing his eyes as only King Lear could, is skeptical that Bunny even exists. Keir Dullea (years before he visited Jupiter and beyond the infinite) plays Carol Lynley's wholesome journalist brother, who nonetheless gives off a very weird, mysterious vibe. And then Noel Coward, of all people, shows up to freak everyone out with a whip he claims once belonged to the Marquis de Sade, if you can believe it. In 1965, no less! (As a child, I had no idea what any of this meant; but thought the whip signified he was a dangerous person.) Also, the excellent 60s band the Zombies, appear in a pub scene.

It's a great psychological thriller:

In adapting the original novel [by Merriam Modell], Preminger re-set the story from New York to London, where he enjoyed working. He created a dark, sinister vision of London which provides much of the film's appeal, making creative use of real locations, including the "doll hospital" and a house that belonged to the novelist Daphne du Maurier. Preminger found the novel's denouement lacking in interest and credibility, and drastically changed the plot -- a process that required a large number of re-writes from his British husband-and-wife scriptwriters John Mortimer and Penelope Mortimer before the director was satisified.

It's a very feminist movie, but I have to say, I'm not sure why. Perhaps the fact that the authorities simply disregard the words of Carol Lynley? And then, we start doubting her, too? Isn't that the way conventional male-supremacy works?

If she didn't have her brother on her side, they wouldn't pay any attention to her at all... but IS he on her side?

The cross-cultural tensions in Bunny Lake remain subtle throughout. On learning that the detectives back at her new home have discovered that all of Bunny's things are "missing" as well, Ann [Carol Lynley] breaks down. Again the camera follows her, this time diving in for harrowing close-ups: "What would anyone want with Bunny's things?" she wails, "It's like a nightmare." The smart framing and sharp shadows (brilliant cinematography by Denys Coop) both illustrate and exacerbate her fright, increasing distrust, and self-doubts, as does Paul Glass's strikingly abstract, jazzily spare score. And here director Otto Preminger is surely on familiar turf, making psychological interiors rather distressingly visible. Following the discovery at her flat, Ann is pressured to prove that her daughter "exists," as the police and Steven (during off-screen conversations with interested parties who then report them to the police) insinuate that she's made up the child, a sign of her fragile mental state. Steven [Keir Dullea] lets slip that when she was young, she had an imaginary friend named Bunny, and yes, she and Steven have shared a somewhat too-close relationship.

As she's unable to find neighbors or even fellow bus passengers who recall seeing the child, Ann begins to come undone -- her own existence is understandably wrapped up in her daughter's. And because the film doesn't grant you a glimpse of Bunny before she goes missing, and the men -- Newhouse anyway -- appear rational, you might be inclined to share their skepticism (unless, of course, you have previous experience with the twitchy deceptions performed so masterfully by the charming Dullea (at this point, he was best known for his turn as the young and frankly charismatic psychotic in 1962's David and Lisa; his disquieting encounters with Hal were yet to come, in 1968).

If you ever get a chance to see this gem, and you like old Twilight Zone episodes, don't miss it!

~*~

IN THESE TIMES features an interesting interview with economist Ha-Joon Chang, author of Bad Samaritans. He is known as "the free-trade heretic":

The current dominance of free trade is overwhelming, but it won’t last forever. Free-trade policy of the last quarter of a century has failed to deliver the prosperity that it had promised, and too many of its “losers” have not been compensated for their sacrifices. An increasing, although still small, number of mainstream economists are coming out against free trade (Nobel Prize winner Joseph Stiglitz being the most prominent example).

Read the whole thing!

~*~

Help save the doggies!

Animals Voice magazine is also excellent animal-rights reading material... and for those who seek major involvement, ANIMAL RIGHTS 2008, a national conference, will be in Washington DC, August 14-18, featuring the ever-popular and very rich Heather Mills McCartney.

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Listening to: Passions - I'm in Love With a German Film Star
via FoxyTunes

Radio Days

Woody Allen's charming and dazzling cinematic childhood remembrance, Radio Days (1987), will be shown tonight on Turner Classic Movies at 10pm, part of their 31 Days of Oscar film series.

I love this movie passionately and beyond words! Don't miss it, if you love nostalgia as much as I do.

And I'll leave you with what is usually called The Communist Scene:

On the boardwalk in Atlantic City, life will be peaches and cream

Don't miss the fabulous ATLANTIC CITY (1980) tonight at 11:15 PM on Turner Classic Movies.

According to several of the movie-fangirl-type books I have perused over the years, Burt Lancaster was not a nice guy. He acted like a stereotypical, spoiled, studio-pampered movie star, bragging in Hollywood meetings about what he had been able to convince various women to do. And I've never had any trouble believing that. After all, this is the man who brought Elmer Gantry to technicolor-life. This is the man who embodied conniving JJ Hunsecker. Rich, famous and handsome, there was nothing that was not his, at some point.

What is so hypnotizing about Atlantic City is Burt's old age, and the way he inhabits it. He was 66 when he starred in Louis Malle's second American film, and he doesn't hide it. He huffs and puffs up the stairs; he coughs. One senses in the way he wears his hat, the way he carries himself on the boardwalk, the way he peers through the window of his seedy apartment to watch Susan Sarandon... this is a man who once had as many women as he could shake a stick at. This is a man who once had money and status, who was on top of the world. Watching this man now reduced to running numbers all over the forgotten neighborhoods of Atlantic City, we are saddened, even though fully aware that this is, after all, Burt Lancaster. But of course it is, that's the whole point: Burt Lancaster is an old man who was once a king. But no more. The way of all flesh. This man was a Matinee Idol, as they were then called. He was an old-style Hollywood star. And now, as Lou, impoverished bookie, he sits alone in a dark room and simply wants to sleep with the pretty young waitress next door. (I wondered, is this the way he felt about his own old age, or is this the way we all feel, eventually?) We get the Hollywood-persona and the movie-role all mixed up. Which is exactly perfect.

Throughout the movie, Atlantic City is being landscaped, paved-over and re-arranged for the Donald-Trump-transformation of the 80s. This movie lovingly gives us the old Atlantic City, and is something of a Valentine for days gone by. Just as Lou/Burt and his crew have gotten old, so has Atlantic City. And Old is Unacceptable, as Lou feels that HE has become unacceptable. The movie makes actual building construction an ongoing reality of the film. Blasts of noise and half-constructed parking garages constantly intrude and serve as background and plot devices. To Europeans like Louis Malle, the constant construction going on in the USA is a metaphor; we don't like it, we pull it down and start over. And Lou wonders, why can't he do that, too?

Left: Susan Sarandon and Burt Lancaster, photo from The Villager.


If we are truthful, we've all wondered what would happen if a large sum of money was suddenly dumped in our laps. Lou acts out some of our dreams for us. We don't actually begrudge him his con-artist routine, acted out on sweet Sally (Susan Sarandon) from Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan. We grit our teeth, waiting for payback.

As the shit hits the fan, watch Lou. Watch the pro, Burt Lancaster. He is having a good time. It's better than sitting in the room, doing nothing. It's better than watching the world go by, rather than participating in it.

Atlantic City is filled with fabulous performances from Robert Joy, Kate Reid, Hollis McLaren and Al Waxman, as well as the magnetic leads. As if to punctuate the passing of Atlantic City, even the late Robert Goulet shows up. Most of the hotels in the film were gone within two years of filming.

"The Atlantic Ocean was something in those days."

Nothing changes on New Years Day

Left: One of Busby Berkeley's famous female kaleidoscopes, in 42nd Street. (1933)



Sitting here on New Years Day, relaxing with Turner Classic Movies, watching That's Dancing (1985), which I have seen before, several times.

For those of you who believe blogging (and the attendant political blog-wars) are a waste of time, rest assured, they are not. I am seeing the movie quite differently now. I thank bloggers such as Donna Darko, Blackamazon, Bint, Sylvia, Vanessa, BFP, Donna J., The Angry Black Woman, and Kevin at Slant Truth. Watching this movie, one would think white people had invented tap dancing.

Why did I not notice this before, or if I did, explained it away?

Certainly, since this a documentary (of sorts) about the history of dance in movies, one could say they are accurate in leaving out people of color other than Bill 'Bojangles' Robinson. But of course, that isn't true either. The then-called 'race movies,' popular from 1927 - 1948, showcased plenty of African-American choreography, particularly in St Louis Blues, Juke Joint and Harlem is Heaven, all of which are resolutely ignored.

I am interested in when black dancing styles were stolen for mainstream Hollywood movies. Other than an arresting clip of a tiny, very young and adorable Sammy Davis Jr. juxtaposed with a clip of precocious mimic Shirley Temple, there is no account of this process.

Similarly, Busby Berkeley's gay-nightclub sensibility and Bob Fosse's prodigious riffing on stripper-style, is also ignored. Such explanations of their origins might prove embarrassing. Instead, they are presented as white-guy choreographers who sprang fully-formed from the forehead of Zeus, even though both men were very open and honest about their influences.

As for women of color, forget it. Not even Oscar-winner Rita Moreno gets a mention; the West Side Story segment instead chooses the Jets in the garage, doing COOL. Admittedly, I love that, but AMERICA* is also an amazing, fabulous rave-up. But that was the Sharks, wasn't it? Should I wonder why the white gang gets to be in the movie but the Puerto Rican gang doesn't?


The first women of color presented in That's Dancing are the dynamic Paula Kelly and Chita Rivera, flanking beautiful Shirley MacLaine in Fosse's Sweet Charity. They are indeed worth the wait, but hey, that movie was made in 1969, forgodsake. No women of color dancers in film until 1969??? And how many of Busby Berkeley's thousands of dancers were actually women of color? (I know little about him, except his movies and his reputation for being something of a tyrant. And by the way, yall, seeing this movie again has started me on a search for a good book about him. If you know of any, recommendations welcome!)


~*~

In addition to this being the best dance number ever committed to film (no arguing the point please, this is MY blog), the stunning leads (Rita Moreno and George Chakiris) also won Academy Awards, probably for blowing everyone away with how utterly fantastic and good-looking they are.

This amazing work of art was choreographed by (gay) Jerome Robbins (changed from Rabinowitz), subject of the fascinating and entertaining book, Dance With Demons: The Life of Jerome Robbins by Greg Lawrence. Highly recommended reading for movie fangirls and boys of all ages!


*This song also contains an excellent critique of race in the USA that sounds almost contemporary... kinda scary since it was filmed back in 1961. However, you will notice the following lyrics are in the original film (see clip), but omitted (!!!) from the lyrics-link, above:


Life can be bright in America
If you can fight in America
Life is alright in America
If you're a white in America

Lyrics by Stephen Sondheim...and with lyrics like those, no wonder it was left out of That's Dancing, as well as subsequent versions of West Side Story!

Enjoy these beautiful people, and once again, have a great New Year!

Positively no refunds: Carnival of Souls

I have to blog about the Turner Classic Movies Underground Film Series earlier and earlier every Friday, since yall keep saying you MISSED IT. Okay, it's Friday morning, so no excuses!

Tonight, we get Herk Harvey's infamous B-movie, CARNIVAL OF SOULS (1962), which has an ending that unfortunately, has been cannibalized countless times since, and you'll therefore have no trouble guessing it. But it's nonetheless a haunting, moody, frightening, consistently startling film; like being in a black-and-white nightmare, or being held underwater. Richard Harland Smith writes:

Though fondly remembered by many horror fans, Herk Harvey’s Carnival of Souls (1962) was close to being a lost film for thirty years. Seminal studies of the horror genre from the late 60s through to the late 80s lacked reference to the film, their indices skipping from The Car (1977) to Carrie (1976) without so much as a by-your-leave. Thanks in great part to the efforts of Texas-based film historian and restorer Gordon K. Smith, Carnival was reborn in 1989 amid renewed interest and appreciation, not all of it backhanded. A subsequent re-release on the midnight show circuit allowed cult film fans to appreciate Carnival’s singular charms on the big screen. In 1990, the feature debuted on video cassette, a milestone heralded on the cover of the first issue of Video Watchdog magazine. The next year, Herk Harvey licensed Michael H. Price and Todd Camp to adapt his “weird show” as a graphic novel, illustrated in the monochrome starkness of a Jack Chick comic. (The less said about the 1998 remake rubber stamped by executive producer Wes Craven the better.) In 2000, Carnival of Souls was included in the prestigious Criterion Collection, keeping company with the expressive masterworks of Alfred Hitchcock, Ingmar Bergman, Carl Dreyer, Jean Cocteau, Georges Franju and Henrí-Georges Clouzot.

As well it should. It burrows deep into your head and stays there. Perhaps it is because, like the best horror, it plays on those fears we all share; those fears we don't readily admit to others. Danel Griffin writes:

I think what I like best about Carnival of Souls is the way that it plays on our natural, everyday fears of isolation and the unknown. When I lived in the lower forty-eight, I used to drive alone in unbending streets in the darkness of the night, and it was easy to give into the sensation that I was not alone out there. You have also found, I am sure, that in the quiet solitude of night driving, it is easy for your imagination to get away with you: Is that a reflection in the passenger-side mirror—some demon or lonely ghost staring at you from the outside? Or when you are alone in the room of an old, dark house of some distant relative: As you smell the ancient dust in the guest bedroom, you think you see a face staring at you through the old, faded curtains. Our wits, of course, eventually get the better of our fears, and we tell ourselves that there is no one in the passenger side window or through the curtains. What is truly terrifying about Carnival of Souls, of course, is that there really is a white, evil face staring back at us. It smiles at us devilishly, with a look that notifies us that it wants no less than our souls.

Cue The Twilight Zone theme.

And for Godsake, watch out for that deranged, spooky-weird organ-music!!

~*~

Trailer:



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Listening to: The Black Crowes - Remedy
via FoxyTunes

Too much to dream: the Monkees' HEAD

One of the more bizarre artifacts from the 60s is on display tonight on Turner Classic Movies Underground film series: The Monkees' very weird, trippy HEAD (1968), which must be seen to be believed.

The Monkees were, as you probably know, prefabricated teenybopper idols manufactured in Hollywood. They were also (yes, I admit it!) beloved by your humble narrator, whilst still a scruffy, rust-belt ragamuffin, subsisting mostly on TV-dinners and Velveeta cheese. The Monkees mass-marketed bubblegum cards fit right in with the Velveeta. One memory I have of the fourth grade: my tiny bedroom mirror lined with Mike, Peter, Davy and Micky, smelling faintly of bubblegum.

American culture shifted very suddenly during that era. The prefab Monkees took LSD and became conscious beings. Subsequently, they decided to make a movie with Jack Nicholson about what it's like to be conscious beings, while also experiencing major intergalactic teenybopper mega-fame at the same time. You have to admit, that's something else!

In HEAD, you get all manner of bizarre acidhead-slapstick repartee, later perfected by the Firesign-Theatre, and other 70s comedy troupes. There are several blatantly Beatlesesque musical knock-offs, one memorably accompanied by a psychedelic underwater swimming sequence. From Jeff Stafford at TCM:

Initially called Untitled, HEAD was an unconventional project from the beginning. According to author Patrick McGilligan in Jack's Life: A Biography of Jack Nicholson, "Bob [Rafelson, director], Bert [Schneider, executive producer], and Jack, with the four Monkees in tow, went to Ojai [California] for several days. They smoked "a ton of dope" (as Davy Jones recalls) and tossed ideas into a running tape recorder...The script was set up to have the least continuity imaginable, and only the slenderest plot trigger - the four Monkees leaping off the Golden Gate Bridge in an effort to escape the mental prison of a black box, which was "Head," meaning pothead, but also meaning all the rules and straitlaced conventions inside one's head that inhibit enjoyment of life. With their tapes and notes, Nicholson and Rafelson went away to the desert for inspiration. According to at least one account, they scribbled a treatment while tripping on acid."

By the time filming began on Head, The Monkees were less than happy with their circumstances. Not only were they feuding with Columbia over their contracts and salaries but they felt betrayed by Rafelson and Nicholson after they were informed that none of them would receive a writing credit on the film. "We were disappointed and angry," Micky Dolenz said. "Mike was furious. He took all the tapes and locked them in the trunk of his car!" As a result, Micky, Davy and Mike (without Peter's involvement) refused to show up on the first day of shooting which infuriated Rafelson and Nicholson. After a day of negotiations, filming resumed with all four band members but relations between the Monkees and their director were decidedly strained after that...and Mike, Davy, Micky and Peter never received a writer's credit for their contributions.

When Head was completed, Rafelson and Nicholson launched a guerilla advertising campaign in New York City, plastering stickers for the film everywhere on taxicabs, signs, police helmets, you name it. At one point they were even arrested for being public nuisances but their efforts were in vain. The critics were unimpressed and the film held little appeal for anyone who wasn't a fan of the Monkees' TV show. Dolenz stated later, "Because the film was rated R, most of our fans couldn't even get into the theatre to see it in the first place and those who did just didn't have any idea of what we were up to." Nicholson, however, maintains even today that Head is one of his proudest accomplishments and still calls it "the best rock-'n-roll movie ever made." Despite its commercial failure, Rafelson was equally pleased with it, comparing it often to Fellini's 8 1/2 (1963).

In HEAD, the Monkees finally play their own instruments, attack a coke machine in the desert, play dandruff in Victor Mature's hair, and jump off the Golden Gate bridge. In general, they finally get to do whatever they want.

They rebelled mightily against their own Velveeta-hood.

In the process, they became Real, and as you good children know, once you are Real you can't become unreal.

~*~

Trailer:



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Listening to: The Electric Prunes - I Had Too Much to Dream (Last Night)
via FoxyTunes

Pay the cost to be the boss

Sitting here in a relaxed state, watching Turner Classic Movies' excellent Underground movie series (which I look forward to every Friday!) and tonight, we get Black Caesar, one of the more infamous Blaxploitation movies of the 70s. (Coincidentally, the remake of SHAFT, starring Samuel L. Jackson, just ended on another channel.)


Fred Williamson is so beautiful, it's impossible to believe he wasn't a multimedia star of galactic proportions... but then, this was the 70s.

David Kalat (on the TCM website) writes, about Black Caesar:

Despite Fred Williamson’s riveting star turn and the memorable James Brown soundtrack, Black Caesar is generally stronger in its ideas than its style. Put another way: [Larry] Cohen’s a better writer than a director (at least at this early stage in his career).

For all that Tommy Gibbs does to build his empire, spend lavishly, and dispense extravagant gifts and violent payback in equal measure, none of these measures ever hide the hurt. Sure, he gets his revenge on McKinney, the corrupt and racist cop who maimed him, but the problem is Gibbs’ wounds are deeper and more intractable than his limp. Getting even with Whitey is fairly straightforward but ultimately unsatisfying, because what he really needs is to reconcile with his parents. Coming to terms with his painful childhood is a prize that eludes him to the last.

During a particularly nasty rape scene, Black Caesar/Tommy Gibbs does not seem to be enjoying it. This made an impression on me; I remember thinking, "Why is he doing that? He isn't having fun." And so, a Blaxploitation movie was one of the first places I ever saw rape portrayed as a simple act of aggression, rather than uncontrollable male lust.

As the film builds to its brutal climax, Cohen has gradually yet masterfully turned Gibbs’ story into an epic myth about American race relations. Gibbs and McKinney square off over a tin of shoe polish—a small prop, but by now imbued with enough symbolism to represent not just Gibb’s hardscrabble youth but centuries of white-black inequality. Now, this is a movie that features a severed ear in a plate of spaghetti, an exploding turkey, a rape scene, and a phony priest who launders dirty money through his collection box. For a film jam-packed with two scoops of outrageous ideas, this one little can of shoe polish becomes the most powerful and evocative of them all.

Any favorite movies of this genre? Do you think they were (on the whole) a negative or positive cultural phenomenon? I always liked the movies (they were very popular where I grew up, with whites at the drive-in, too) but I later learned they were tacky and low-rent, and was ashamed to admit to my fondness for them. After Quentin Tarantino's blatant thievery (homages!--he would say) and Pam Grier's comeback, they seemed to be getting another look.

Bright Lights Film Journal: Blaxploitation
Sticking it to the man: Heroes of Blaxploitation
Black Cinema: Blaxploitation

Excerpt from the great funk score, by James Brown:

The Boss - James Brown

[via FoxyTunes / Black Caesar]