So it's come to this...using my real name on a blog. In trying to get more independent work, it is a confusion to want my real name credited on a DVD, but have the post authored by Lyrad Simool. It happened once before early on, for my review of Deepa Mehta's Water, and it has irritated me since the day it posted. Who knows if this Daryl guy will actually blog more, but that's in the future.
For now, Lyrad Simool, c'est mort...vive Daryl Loomis!
This is very likely the dumbest thing I've seen in months. For a mere forty clams, you can get some crappy vodka that has a goddamn screen on it. You can program it to say whatever you want. Amuse your friends! Ask your sweetheart to marry you with the gift of booze. I might get a bottle and never touch it (swear), but program it to read when it is picked up, "This was a test. Your intention to drink from this bottle proves you're an asshole. Get out of my house."
This probably isn't the dumbest gimmick given to a vodka bottle, but it still nears the level of dumb that I call the "Steve Miller's Lyrics Level."
I ordinarily go out of my way to avoid films that star Robin Williams, but when there’s a second directorial effort by Bob Goldwait, I don’t care if it stars Paris Hilton and Miley Cyrus (actually, that might be brutally funny). The last time I saw a film he directed was 1991’s Shakes the Clown, which certainly has its detractors, but is one of my very favorite comedies. His brand of humor (if we forget his turn in the miserable Police Academy movies) veers sharply into the dark and me; he never for a second pretends like it’s going to be nice. Those were certainly my expectations going into World’s Greatest Dad, but it’s shocking to find those expectations not only met, but resoundingly exceeded. Is that a good thing? Is it funny? Depends on whom you ask.
Williams plays Lance Clayton, a failing writer and failing father. He has written four novels with no takers, and has resolved to quit writing if he can’t get his fifth published. His son, Kyle (Daryl Sabara), is about the biggest scumbag kid you’ll ever have the displeasure to meet. Because he’s such a little dickhead, everybody at school treats him badly, which causes him to act worse, and it becomes a never-ending escalation of shitty behavior. Lance is the poetry teacher at Kyle’s’ high school, but all of it goes over his head. His self-absorbedness makes him blind to everything except the fact that none of the kids give a damn about his poetry class and his belief that his girlfriend is cheating on him with the physics teacher, which he thinks he sees all too clearly, though he shudders to admit it to himself.
Just as he starts to think that things have started to turn around, he comes home from a date to find Kyle dead--autoerotic asphyxiation (naturally). In spite of his grief, a light comes on in his head. He cleans Kyle up, dresses him, hangs him in the closet, and types out an overly eloquent suicide note. After the initial shock of his death, the school publishes the note and, all of a sudden, everybody was his best friend. He becomes a martyr in the minds of the students and, now, Lance can rewrite Kyle’s life…literally.
Especially when they die young, people have a tendency to lionize the dead (see Kurt Cobain or Pat Tillman). The real story never matters as much as the narrative, and Goldwait skewers this attitude brilliantly. People begin to clamor for more details of Kyle’s life, so Lance starts to release pieces of “Kyle’s” journal and, eventually, publishes it as a book. He’s able to turn Kyle not only into a misunderstood genius, but also into everything Lance. Among other things, he makes Kyle’s favorite musician is Lance’s: Bruce Hornsby, a beautiful running gag that culminates in an appearance from the artist and a live solo performance of “Mandolin Rain.” As confusing as some of the details are to the students, they accept them without question. Lance makes himself relevant through his son and his life feels like it has meaning, even though it’s all shallow and based on lies.
Over the years, Goldwait has been something of a Comedy Central darling, directing episodes of Crank Yankers, The Man Show, Chappelle’s Show, and currently Important Things with Demetri Martin. Though this experience, the comedian has clearly developed his chops. Improvement is readily apparent in every aspect of the filmmaking, from the performances to the pacing to the camerawork. Where Shakes was this weird anomaly and technically deficient despite its charms, World’s Greatest Dad moves well and makes sense from start to finish. The screenplay, which he also wrote, is full of great quotes and surprisingly realistic dialog. The film flows really well, providing some very dry laughs up until the suicide (a gut-wrenching scene of emotional cruelty), and then moving into some truly brutal territory. At this point, the comic foils change from Lance, Kyle, and their poor relationship to the world at large. As a two-act story, the switch makes a lot of sense. All the conflict lies within Lance, and the people at large follow along because, as against logic as all of it is, they choose to believe what he tells them about Kyle; they decide not to question his stories. Robin Williams does really well in his role, better than I could have expected, which may have more to do with the fact that I can more easily swallow an actor I don’t like playing a hateable character more than anything special he did.
In the end, World’s Greatest Dad is a good comedy, if not a great one. On the strength of the writing, there is plenty of repeat value, but Goldwait is not Fritz Lang, and for as much improvement as he displays, there are some limitations in the film. Mainly, we have the issue of a complete lack of likeable characters. In Heathers, the king of modern black comedy, at least we know that Veronica Sawyer is an inherently good person and, for all that goes on, easily redeemable. There are no secrets for us about Lance Clayton. When he says, “You guys didn’t like Kyle. That’s okay. I didn’t either. I loved him. He was my son, but he was also a douchebag.” we know that the acorn doesn’t fall far from the tree, and that’s a problem. It would have been fine if we thought he was decent and Goldwait pulled the rug out from under us, but Lance goes from totally pathetic to an utter asshole, so we still have the question of why we’d want to watch these characters torture each other. To my taste, the film is extremely smart and funny, if not nice, and that’s enough for me. Your mileage may vary; it will solely depend on your tolerance for assholes being assholes to other assholes. It’s well worth watching, though; Bob Goldwait is a unique voice in comedy and his films are almost singular in their dark hilarity.
Via Digby--House Minority Whip Eric Cantor has spoken out on the rash of threats and violence against Democratic members of Congress over our Maoist/Fascist healthcare reform but, not to worry, it wasn't helpful. His disgusting statements simply boil down to blaming the victim for the crime.
"That is why I have deep concerns that some, Chris Van Hollen and Tim Kaine in particular, are dangerously fanning the flames by suggesting that these incidents be used as a political weapon."
Nice, he even gives particular names, just in case the Tea Partiers are confused about who they're supposed to attack next. Apparently, reporting violence foments violence. How well did this work for the Catholic Church? Covering up child abuse clearly caused a decline in the abuse. The only kids who actually got molested were those who had previously reported molestation? What kind of sense does this make?
What happens if Cantor uses this argument about rape victims? There's no shortage of blame for rape placed on the victim, but he won't stay in office too long if he says, "Don't report the crime because you'll get raped again." Or on domestic violence, "Now, ladies, I know that abuse is wrong and terrible, but don't go to the police; you'll just make your husbands angrier. Do you really want that?" Absurd as all of this is on the face, he really is giving us the "I'll give you something to cry about" line. I guess that, because the threats, the violence, the blatant racism is happening to elected Democrats, it somehow makes it all excusable.
Cantor and the rest can try to deflect this stuff away from their party and onto crazy extremists, but who initiated the cries of Socialism? Whose media outlets discuss constantly the rising need for revolution? If Democrats became part of the axis of evil for questioning the veracity of WMDs in Iraq, I can hardly imagine the outrage and investigations if a Democrat faxed Michael Steele a picture of a noose, but I guess you deserve it if you have a D by your name and hold some crazy idea of justice. Up yours, Cantor, if the violence that appears to be coming happens, some of this blood will splash onto your hands, though you'll never accept that responsibility...asshat.
12:20--Lost coverage completely, but it was a great show. While Pacquiao won the decision, it was garbage. I had Clottey winning 7 of 12 and I would have been okay with a normal Pacquiao decision win, two judges had Clottey winning a single round. One douchebag had Clottey swept. Garbage. That's Pacquiao winning off his celebrity and, while that's indeed boxing, it doesn't make it right. I'll write more tomorrow when I'm able to use an honest keyboard.
9:24--Castillo quits on his stool after 5 rounds. So sad; please never fight again.
9:06--Gomez has the worst tatoo ever. www.hy3pad.com. I'm not kidding; it's huge and sprawled all across his back.
8:55--Lost coverage but, meanwhile, Duddy wins an extremely entertaining fight by split decision. Now, the fight that should not be. Alfonso Gomez is about to beat up a very old man, Jose Luis Castillo. Please retire, man, it's so hard to watch you now. Is 70 fights not enough punishment?
8:26--Halfway through the fight and I have Duddy up 3-2 (10 rounds). He's working a tough jab that's really bothering Medina.
8:03--Show has begun. First bout, middleweights Irish John Duddy vs. Michael Medina. Michael Buffer is making me mad as we speak (long story). Duddy has to win this fight if he ever wants a step up in class. Otherwise, he's little more than a St. Patty's special.
7:57--I don't know what the hell the trashy Cowboy cheerleaders have to do with boxing, but at least it means the ppv is starting.
7:25--They treated us to an extra bout; nice of them. Unfortunately, it lasted a grand total of five minutes, as undefeated Rodrigo Garcia knocks local sucker Chester Pitts down three times before the ref calls a stop. Now we wait....
7:11--I was gone, so missed the majority of the last fight. 2nd round KO, Dallas on Dallas violence, though, which is always nice. Now, a very long break before TV starts at 8:00.
6:42--"Seventies" Sanchez isn't so good, but makes villa quit in the 6th. Underwhelming fight; one more until the ppv starts.
6:26--iPhones are stupid. No cursor?! Anyway, gotta start from the top down now. This is not the most thrilling fight ever, but Sanchez is a fun throwback.
6:21--Sanchez sports one of histories greatest naturals.
6:13--Nope, not long at all. 2nd round clash of heads, a ton of blood, and a no contest. Too bad. Up next, more featherweights. Salvador Sanchez vs. Jaime Villa.
6:04--Featherweights Michael Farenas vs. Joe Morales in a huge mismatch for the latter fighter. Morales won't last long.
5:58--Eden Sonsoma KOs Maurico Pastrana, whose trunks appear to say pastrami, in brilliant fashion, with a minute left in the 8th and final round. Sweet stuff, indeed.
5:41pm--Okay, we're going to try this out. I'm working on my roommate's iPhone, and virtual keyboards are bullshit, so please forgive any spelling issues. In any event, Cowboys Stadium is nutty huge and, as a major plus, booze is everywhere. Seats are comfy, but the tv is such a fucking distraction. Still it doesn't look like there's a bad seat in the place. Yet, at the same time, you can smell plenty of hints of cowshit still left from season's end. The first fight is about over, this is going to be a hell of a good time. By the way, $8.50 Blue Moons. 12oz, naturally.
I am off soon to sit in attendance at the first boxing event of the monstrous Cowboys Stadium, with Manny Pacquiao taking on Ghana's Joshua Clottey in the main event. Seeing the fights will be fantastic; if I can find a choice piece of Cowboys history to relieve myself on, so much the better. This is my first time of seeing live boxing and, if my phone was smarter, I would have loved to live blog it. But I can't...so I'll return tomorrow with a report.
I have $10 on Clottey at 4 to 1, but he won't win. It won't be a landslide, though; Clottey's a game fighter, really tough and really skilled. Plus, the man is huge. It's going to be a good fight.
In general, to make a film satire work, the writer and director have to pull next to all the emotion away; it’s not easy to laugh sardonically at characters you care about. When the film relies on a doomed romance to move its plot, satire seems untenable. Yet, you can throw all generalities out the window when discussing great filmmakers. Contempt proves the viability of such an idea, but I’d never try such a thing myself. Jean-Luc Godard masterfully balances emotional weight with barbed commentary to create the saddest film ever to work as a satire.
Godard pulls out all the stops in the casting department, making it immediately appealing to classic film fans, both today and in 1964. Our leads and players in this fallen love are Brigitte Bardot (by no means a great actress, but always fun to watch, and is at her pouty, self-parodying best here) and Michel Piccoli (a staple actor of the French New Wave with a filmography so large that the Carradines flinch). Piccoli, as a playwright, is getting his first taste of Hollywood screenwriting or, at least, script doctoring. He’s been hired by producer Jack Palance (playing a man out of his league intellectually, artistically, every way but financially) to fix a version of Homer’s Odyssey that director Fritz Lang (playing himself in what would have been a caricature if Lang himself wasn’t such a nut) has turned into an artsy mess. This setup allows Godard to show the filmmaking process onscreen. While this is a world few members of the audience will understand, the director’s intimate knowledge of and acidic venom toward the industry come out in very clear storytelling. The film is instantly relatable for this, especially if you’re familiar with the myriad of horrid American-funded international productions common in the ‘50s and ‘60s (see, not coincidentally, the 1959 version of Ulysses with Kirk Douglas). We get to see the daily progress on Lang’s film, and it gets increasingly ridiculous. He’s creating something that appears closer to an Ed Wood film than to M, but hey, Lang’s just in it for the money at this point. Lang revels in his performance of himself mailing it in, while Palance prostrates, yelling and screaming about the film, but insisting it continue on unimpeded. Lang throws up his hands and follows along, Piccoli looks increasingly bemused as he wonders how he got himself mixed up in this horrible industry, and Palance’s assistant (the incredibly charming Giorgia Moll) spends her time trying to keep peace amongst all parties while serving as Palance’s whipping post for all his frustration.
As satire, all of this works very well, and that’s fine. What the supporting story brings to the table, however, is what makes Contempt a classic. Bardot and Piccoli make an attractive couple and, in the opening moments of the film, they are very clearly in love. The kind of tender bedroom placations Godard uses to show us this are simple but effective. Bathed in a thick red light, the lovers lay together as Bardot asks Piccoli if he loves this or that part of her body, while Piccoli comes up with florid words to tell her he does. There is a sweet post-coital serenity here that I hope they enjoyed, because it doesn’t last. By morning, Piccoli must meet his producer, and there will be no more peace. Bardot comes with him and, moments after the meeting, we can already see the end coming. A single incident starts the chain and, while it’s a simple misunderstanding to Piccoli, it’s a deal-breaker for Bardot. She isn’t in a position yet to express her thoughts, however, so she stews. Every perceived slight compounds the issue until finally, Bardot has had enough. Piccoli isn’t some confused cuckold; he knows something is deeply wrong in their relationship; he simply loves her too much to let her leave without a fight. The final split is heartbreaking, but after all the torment, becomes necessary. That the end of the relationship is no surprise only makes it hurt worse. Like a spurned lover, the audience hopes against hope that, looking down the barrel of dead romance, they will find a way to be happy. The devastation lies in its inevitability. Does Bardot deserve her comeuppance? No, she’s done very little wrong, but Godard leaves us with no doubt that the relationship is over, no chance for redemption, and this is ultimately the point.
I have described two wholly different films, but the stories intersect enough that they never feel like different entities. Picolli finds meaning in his relationship by reading Homer’s Odyssey, and he interprets the epic poem based on his relationship. The stories work in conjunction in many ways, not just this, and they work very well. I found myself at turns delighted by the absurdity and the satire, but angered and frustrated by the romance. That both sides could move me so strongly, never with the sense that either side got the shaft, this is a sign of great art.
New England Patriots (12-4): Was last year a simple setback, or have we witnessed the end of a dynasty. The loss of Brady last year might indicate the latter, but the return of everyone's favorite supermodel impregnating quarterback also comes with an agin team that lost a number of leaders on defense and just sent one of their best defenders to Oakland (poor, poor Richard Seymour) in the hope of gaining future glory. Randy Moss and Wes Welker are both getting older, the rushing game is poor as always, and all we're left with is the return of Brady. They'll win the division this year, but the Grim Reaper may be knocking at the door. They have to answer it sometime.
Miami Dolphins (9-7): Miami will take a step back this year. Not because they're necessarily a worse team; I think they're better, but because last season's bounceback was as anomalous as the previous year's disaster. Now they'll come back to where they belong: a better than average team with a fair shot at another playoff birth. Pennington remains efficient and, though many teams have drafted players and installed formations for a Wildcat option, the Dolphins' draft of Pat White will keep them ahead of the curve. The defense is somewhat solid without much big name talent and a few big holes. This and their lack of credible receivers are the two big causes for concern.
Buffalo Bills (7-9): Two weeks ago, I would have picked Buffalo as second in the division, but the firing of their OC is huge cause for worry. Edwards has struggled in his career and, though he is running in a comfortable no-huddle offense with one of the best receiving tandems in the game, this team may be a mess. Luckily, this is TO's last stop. He's getting older and knows he isn't the number one option for Edwards. He must recognize these things and, if he does, he should be an excellent addition for the remainder of his career. For whatever problems face the offense, such as oft-suspended Marshawn Lynch, I like the defensive unit quite a lot. Their success is going to depend on the offense not forcing them on the field for the whole game but, if they can stay fresh, they might have a decent shot.
New York Jets (5-11): Mark Sanchez has fail written all over his stupid Trojan face. When a team carries a draft policy of taking the best-looking player available, you know they have problems. I know they want another Joe Namath, but as Tony Romo can tell you: magazine covers do not translate into playoff wins. Second-rate offensive and defensive units make for a fourth-rate teeam. Possibly the most overrated group in the NFL.
Here's the next installment to get in before the start of the season in ninety minutes. That sounds good to me.
Indianapolis Colts (10-6): How much longer can Manning do it? After this year, it's up in the air, but he and this team are still among the best in the league. Harrison was aging, so his exit is no big loss, and their younger receivers benefit dramatically from Manning's skill. The defense, seemingly questionable every year, has shown little change, though Bob Sanders, the single most overrated plater in the game today, is--surprise surprise--hurt again. They should put up big points, but Dungy was integral to the chemistry of this team and Manning has already called the new coaching staff into question, so this year could just as easily represent a changing of the guard.
Houston Texans (9-7): This is the year Houston finally breaks through. Gary Kubiak had better hope so at least, or he might be back with Shanahan wherever he is next year. Matt Schaub has received big press this season, but I don't really see it. Steve Slaton, however, should be fantastic and Andre Johnson is the best target in the league, so that combination should help Schaub look pretty good. For the offense to really succeed, however, their defense has to finally live up to its reputation. Mario Williams and DeMeco Ryans are both great, but the rest of this group, littered with prospects, has to play like it. This is especially true for DT Amobi Okoye, who has backslid since a spectacular first few games. If he and the secondary can live up to their hype, this team is playoff bound.
Tennessee Titans (8-8): Well-coached by the mousatchioed Jeff Fisher, the Titans will long be a team in contention. This division is so tough, however, that another trip to the post-season doesn't look likely. The loss of Albert Haynesworth is big, but the defense is still very strong and full of potential stars. They have a very good, and less drunk, running game, but the passing situation is terrible. Kerry Quitter had a banner year in '08, but without anybody to throw to, I don't see them being the ridiculous force they were last year.
Jacksonville Jaguars (6-10): I really like the Jaguars, and especially Jack Del Rio, but they're a far cry removed from the darkhorse division contender of a few years ago. I guess their big mistake, somehow, was getting rid of Byron Leftwich. This is David Garrard's last chance, or he's looking like a career backup. The defense has gotten old and has always underperformed. Though their receivers have improved with Torry Holt, their only true offensive weapon is Maurice Jones-Drew. He's a ton of fun to watch, but I'm not convinced he can handle a full workload. Like Julius Jones with Marion Barber a few years in Dallas, the loss of Fred Taylor will diminish Jones-Drew's reputation. Both look a lot better with the other than they do apart. Del Rio may be in trouble after this year but, if all goes wrong in Denver and Josh McDaniels gets fired, I wouldn't mind seeing him come in to coach the Broncos.
Though McNamara was the far bigger prick, it's always good to see the bad die. Saturday marked the end of Allen Klein, one of the most egregious bastards in the history of the entertainment industry. As business manager of the Rolling Stones and the Beatles, he signed them to deals that screwed them, buying up the publishing rights for himself through his Abkco brand. He swindled John Lennon, maybe not so hard to do by 1969, and Lennon, completely in the man's thrall, led him to other artists he could bamboozle. I wouldn't have cared much about Klein at all were it not for the specific screwjob of Alejandro Jodorowsky, whose El Topo Lennon loved. He convinced Klein to buy the rights to the film and then finance Jodorowsky's next film, The Holy Mountain, one of my favorite films ever made. Because Jodorowsky refused to make a porno adaptation of the "Story of O" for Klein, audiences were only ever able to see either of these films on cheap bootleg copies. Klein suppressed the two films for over thirty years, releasing them after a settlement (that was not his idea) in 2004.
Klein died of complications from Alzheimer's Disease, an affliction that, unfortunately, likely caused him to forget all of the artists he screwed over and all the money he stole in the name of advocacy. He's no bastard on the level of the orchestrator of the Vietnam War, hardly even in the same world, but the world is a little brighter today as a result.
Wow, am I actually blogging again? Ridiculous is the only thing to call my lack of attention to the blog, but I have a hard time concentrating on more than one thing at a time. We'll see if my concentration lapses now or not, but my big project is through (see below) and what better way to get restarted than a quality book meme. Having gone to Old White Male Writer College (St. Johns, that is), my list is unfortunately skewed by such, but this is something I'm trying to rectify, for as much fiction as I find time to read anymore. In any event...
1. Ulysses--James Joyce: Numbers one and two on my list are really 1 and 1a; I'll never choose one over the other. Ulysses is absolutely both the most difficult and the finest piece of work I've ever read. In college, during our third and fourth years, we actually had an elective, called our Preceptorials. Senior year, I spent eight weeks studying this damned book with sixteen others, while we came away with a ton of confusion, never were two months in study better spent. As obnoxious as it can be sometimes, the book is hilarious and the final chapter, those two sentences, punctuated brilliantly by "yes", are the most invigorating I've ever read.
2. In Search of Lost Time--Marcel Proust: It's hard for me not to call this the best I've read, and it's truly a tie. It was the first major work I read out of school and, compared to Joyce's obtuse difficulty, I found Proust downright breezy. I first fell in love by translating sections of Swan's Way in school and finally read the whole thing after I was out. The Guermantes Way and Cities of the Plain are my favorites of the seven books, but that probably has as much to do with when I read them as anything. It took me two years to finish the set and, no matter how rewarding it was, it convinced me that life is too short to spend such time on a single work. I haven't read anything of its breadth since and I doubt I will again. There are simply too many things to read, but I wouldn't give up my experience with it for the world.
3. The Defense--Vladimir Nabokov: Sure, there are plenty of more ambitious works in Nabakov's catalog, but this one always stood out to me as one of his best pure stories. It doesn't carry the same kind of literary weight as Pale Fire or Lolita, but his ability to turn the plot of a novel into a kind of chess match, along with his sporting descriptions of chess, make The Defense my favorite of his work. Honestly, the next four on this list could be Nabokov books, but I didn't want to double up authors.
4. Outer Dark--Cormac McCarthy: Again, not the popular choice amongst McCarthy fans and, again, maybe not his most spectacular work, but this one influences my work more than any other and is sheer existential brutality. His Appalachian setting is as claustrophobic as anything I've read and it's the only book of his that I can think of with a female protagonist...big stuff from McCarthy. Anyway, the big scene where Rinthy finds her child is one that makes my stomach turn to this day, and it's been years.
5. Story of the Eye--George Bataille: Bataille was a freak and I love him. His considerable body of philosophy doesn't really prepare one for his literature and poetry. Story of the Eye is, simply put, the best work of literate pornography ever written. Nothing tops it; nothing ever will. It smashes taboos with glee and revels in its filth with a beautiful literary flair. A film was actually made of the book, which I have yet to find, but making it took some balls.
6. Jurgen--James Branch Cabell: I'll never get away from obscenities, but Jurgen is a whole different animal. A near perfect farce and an innovator of the fantasy genre, Cabell is a near unknown outside of this work and, while it's all I've read of his, this is a hilarious, intelligent, and dirty book that will never leave my mind.
7. The Trial--Franz Kafka: Fifteen years have passes since I picked up Kafka, and his influence is still great in my life. Before Kafka, I hadn't ever really considered allegory, and his work has taught me a lot in that area and many others. His short stories are really what get me but, for the purposes of a full book, The Trial will certainly suffice.
8. Kiss of the Spider Woman--Manuel Puig: I can say that Proust was the last really difficult book I got into, but it's not really true. I fell in love with the film by Hector Babenco (director of the superior Pixote) long before I read the book, and was blown away by the way Puig layers fantasy upon reality. I liken this to my experience with Nabokov's Pale Fire (good thing I worked another one in), though I found Puig's work much more relevant.
9. In Our Time--Ernest Hemingway: There's been some complaining about Hemingway recently, and Sator Arepo commented correctly when he said that the guy's better in small doses. Look, don't read Hemingway's novels...they're garbage. He betrays himself with his extended language in his long works, but he is a master of the four word sentence. Hemingway taught me to write; taught me to consider how to cut my verbage down. He's the antithesis of the irritating David Foster Wallace-s of the world and intelligent modern writers could learn a lesson from Hemingway's terse language.
10. Paradise Lost--John Milton: Not only are we old and white, but we're Christian, too. Ordinarly, a piece like this would be anathema to me, but the beauty of the language is astounding and the questions he poses confound the most ardent of his fellow believers. I was exposed to this book originally in high school, for what reason I can't say, by Janice Stark, one of two good teachers at that prison. I don't know if she's still alive but, in exposing this book to me, she finally wrested me of my last Christian ties, and I couldn't be more thankful for such a gift.
11. Faust--Johann Wolfgang von Goethe: No matter how hard I try, there is no way I'll ever be able to get past Faustian themes. Every story I write has them and I look for them in everything I read. Between science, poetry, literature, and philosophy, Goethe may be the best writer of the last three centuries, and the depth of Faust has proven near limitless for me.
12. Hard Times--Charles Dickens: I probably have some eyes rolling at this one, but I've always loved Dickens. I know that a lot of his verbage was based on his pay scale, but this is hardly his fault; I'd do the same thing. For whatever reason, however, Hard Times is a short, consise work that represents the best Dickens had to offer. In part a screed against the effects of the Poor Act of 1834, this is his most socially conscious work and, by far, his most readable.
13. Lone Wolf and Cub--Kazuo Koike (writer) and Goseki Kojima (artist): Now, like Sarah, it's comics time. I see this epic piece, some 2500 pages in its American release, as the War and Peace of graphic storytelling, intricate and nuanced in its storytelling but emotional in its characters. On top of it, the last few hundred pages, as an American reader, are near unfathomable to me in the way that enemies come together for a greater good. The Western esthetic has a hard time with such compromises but, ultimately, this is one of the most satisfying experiences of my life.
14. Stray Bullets--David Lapham: This is, by far, the newest entry on the list, and my final honest one, as well. It hasn't been long since I finished what exists of Stray Bullets, but few works have spoken to me as truly as this. He hits the lurid aspects that have always driven me to silent film and the novels of Hammett and Chandler, but the story of Virginia Applejack carries an emotional weight for me that few pieces ever had. Watching her watch her father die of cancer is not the stuff of your average comic. While unfinished (get with it, Lapham; to hell with Young Liars), Stray Bullets has everything I could ever want in a story.
15. Jewel of the Dragon Queen--Daryl Loomis: Sure, it's arrogant to place myself on a list with those above. Don't get me wrong, though, I don't actually equate myself with them on any level. At the same time, as the longest piece I've ever finished and the first I've written with a specific eye toward publication, this will stick with me for a long, long time. It will be a ten issue comic that is currently in storyboarding by the artist, whose skills I have the utmost faith in, and we'll just have to see. Worse comes to worst, it's a self-publishing deal, but plenty of good work gets published this way. All I can say is that I've never worked so hard on something in my life. Killing these characters after the two years I lived with them was one of the hardest, most guilt-ridden things I've ever had to do and is a big reason why I've had such a hard time focusing on the blog, my reviews, or anything else. It's done though, and the ball's in the artists court, so there's only hope ahead. Anyway, sorry for the shameless self-promotion, but the other books are good and, if you haven't read some of them, I certainly recommend them all.
When I first heard that Darren Aronofsky, one of my favorite young directors, was making a movie about wrestling, one of my great loves, starring Mickey Rourke and Marissa Tomei, two of my favorite actors, I know there was no way I would miss it. Yet, The Wrestler came and went from the theater and I sat at home. Really, I have a hard time justifying an hour drive to see a movie, but this was one I really was looking forward to seeing. For a long time, the only person I knew who actually had seen it was Erik, decidedly not a wrestling fan. He described it as a solid film, yet it took me until very recently to watch it.
I loved it almost entirely. The simplicity of the story allows the characters to breathe and take shape on their own without too much influence from plot contrivances. With only three essential characters, there is time to burn and I think two of these three are over-the-top good with the third standing out as my sole complaint about the film. Rourke is phenomenal, but the surprise at this was ridiculous. Not only had he already "come back" with his role as Marv in Sin City, his performances through the years, at least in those years that he cared, have been consistently solid. I'm not going to sit here and claim that Wild Orchid is great cinema, but he's still good at what he does. Tomei is equally good and possibly better that Rourke. She is given considerably less to work with, but the strength of her performance gives her character much more depth than the script allows. And then there's Evan Rachel Wood, who has even less to do than Tomei, but can't even rise to the level of the character skeleton handed to her, adding absolutely nothing to the role. She doesn't bring the film down too much simply because she doesn't have much screen time, but what time she does spend with Rourke makes for the worst moments of the film.
I don't want to get into a breakdown of the story. There's no point in equating wrestling and sex work; saying that both professionals sell their bodies for an industry that will spit them out as soon as their bodies break is like telling me that water is wet. Unlike Aronofsky's other work, I barely find this story worth discussing. Instead, what makes this film such a great experience is its realism and not its sometimes ham-fisted plotting. After he saw the film, Erik asked me about the really violent stuff, the staple guns and barbed wire, etc., and whether that was the norm in independent wrestling or a marginalized extreme. My response was to describe a match from Sacramento's SPW (Supreme Pro Wrestling) show that I attended in around 2001. The contest was billed as a "death match" and, for wrestling fans, this one's a big seller. At the finale of the match, one of the wrestlers set up a contraption that could only exist in wrestling. A plywood plank covered in barbed wire and attached by small dowels to a sheet of glass was placed on the floor of the theater. The losing wrestler was then laid across this brutal little table while the winning wrestler climbed a ladder inside the ring. He jumped from the ladder to finish the guy off, but his opponent moved, leaving this poor bastard to land face-first through the glass and into the barbed wire. He lost the match, but watching this guy wallow in the wire and glass is one of the truly disturbing things I've seen. The answer to Erik's question, of course, is yes, this kind of hardcore style is extremely common on the independent circuit and thousands of "Randy-the-Rams" are wrestling on cards this week across the country for likely little more than gas money and some dinner.
The real reason, however, that I like The Wrestler so damn much isn't for anything I said above. I laughed during much of the film, a reaction I doubt many non-wrestling fans had. I didn't laugh because it was funny; I laughed because it was correct and I reacted very much as I would to a quality wrestling match. The fact is that The Wrestler is a spectacularly sad film, but not for the performances or the script or the style. It's sadness comes from its truth. I have devoted many hundreds of hours to professional wrestling during my life and you don't have to tell me how the story of Randy the Ram ends. The Wrestler is an elegy for all those dead wrestlers who made the same choices the Ram did. So many of my favorite wrestlers growing up: Brian Pillman, Chris Benoit, Eddie Guerrero, Rick Rude, Owen Hart, and I could go on forever. I love wrestling as much or more than any form of entertainment and this love is what makes me sad.
Dan’s Silverleaf hasn’t exactly been burning Denton down with their hot shows lately, and those that have been there I’ve missed for various reasons. I did have the pleasure recently, however, to see Terri Hendrix perform with Lloyd Maines. I wasn’t terribly familiar with Hendrix outside of a couple of radio songs, but Maines is a legend of country music. An expert on multiple instruments and a master of the steel guitar, he has played with and produced albums for an amazing array of artists over three decades, including all of Terry Allen’s best work. At this point, his name may be most associated with his daughter, Nathalie, of the Dixie Chicks, but his talents far outweigh those of his offspring.
Terri Hendrix is a strange artist, traditional in a way you don’t see very much. She is a storyteller, first and foremost, more than a singer, who sets her spoken words to a simple guitar line. All of her songs have spoken and sung parts and her style is not one I’m immediately in love with, though her country demeanor is very endearing. For my taste, she’s better when she breaks into actual song than the spoken parts. She sings in a straightforward, no-frills manner with a delivery that conveys just the right feeling of childlike innocence and wonderment while keeping a very good report with her audience, engaging them directly in her stories.
That said, I didn’t particularly care for her songs, though I don’t mean the music is bad, just not for all tastes. I went with two others and one felt just like I did. Neither of us thought she was bad, we just weren’t terribly enthralled and found ourselves often distracted. The third, however, left the two of us entirely, found a seat in the crowd to sit and watch every last moment.
I loved the musicianship; Maines is an unbelievable musician. He had with him a guitar, a mandolin, and a lap steel and played all three with equal dexterity. Once song, which I believe is titled “You Belong in New Orleans,” has Maines performing a near-perfect imitation of Django Reinhardt, my #1 all time favorite guitar player. He worked as hard as he did all night and pulled it off brilliantly.
Musically, the entire show was fantastic, if a little short at just over an hour. I just wish I had liked the songs better. Her earnest delivery works well for some people, the crowd in general seemed thrilled with her, but not so much for me. This earnestness is much better, however, that he opposite in a guy like Jesse Dayton, who’s too busy telling his audience about his close friendship with Robert Earl Keane to actually sing a damn song. No matter my lukewarm feelings toward Hendrix, the show was worth more than the purchase price to watch a legend like Maines play. Hell, I’d probably buy a ticket to see him if he was backing up Barney on Ice.
It was the biggest story involving the Broncos since Elway retired and I was remiss in not blogging about it. Now, with new coach Josh McDaniels set with two first-rounders for the next two years as a result and, with a little time to mull over the situation at a mile high, the day has come…to be followed by a more general, division-based off-season/draft talk in the days leading up to the finest day of the non-regular season.
After Shanahan was fired and McDaniels was brought in, I felt like the new coach would be perfect for Jay Cutler, which would be perfect to retake the AFC West. I had no way to realize that, however, that trouble sat some five thousand feet above me. The firing of QB coach Jeremy Bates (now at USC) angered the petulant quarterback and, within days and while down, McDaniels slapped his franchise player across the face.
I’m inevitably a fan of the team over the player, but McDaniels was stupid to think that a Bruce Campbell lookalike in Matt Cassel was worth trading Cutler away. Who to believe in the scenario is impossible to know; the only certainty was the ridiculously immature stance Cutler took in the wake of these trade talks. He’d already made motions toward a traded after Bates left, but now that all he could talk about. The whole thing seemed so ridiculous that I thought it would blow over, especially after the lack of word in the two weeks after the talks began. My ambivalence about Cutler remaining in Denver, however, was waning with each passing day. All of a sudden, with no word for days, Cutler was a Bear and Kyle Orton was a Bronco. Much to my surprise, my most powerful reaction was a shrug of the shoulders. Football is a team-oriented game more than most; if one player, no matter where they line up, doesn’t to the job, the whole team crumbles. Cutler is aloof and, if he doesn’t want to play for the Broncos, where is the guarantee he’ll give everything each game? Good riddance, Jeff George, Jr.
The reality, whomever was to blame, is that the trade was a boon for the Broncos and probably not so great for the Bears. Granted, the team takes a big loss in the switch to Orton. Orton is going from a smashmouth team with no receivers to a spread offense. Cutler, on the other hand, has Devin Hester to throw to. Wow, hot stuff. It’s hard to compare their relative performances with their former teams; Orton should perform a little better and Cutler a little worse. The real story comes in the draft picks. Denver’s holes are almost exclusively defensive so, this year at picks twelve and eighteen, they have a golden opportunity to add two defensive starters in the first round. My guess is two of the following three: Boston College DT BJ Raji, LSU DE Tyson Jackson, and USC LB Brian Cushing.
Next year is when it gets good. Let’s give a best-case scenario of 11-5 for Chicago in 2010 and a worst-case of 5-11 for Denver. Cutler plays phenomenally and Orton sucks it up. Denver has something in the neighborhood of the fifth and twenty-fifth picks in the ’10 draft along with a dire need at QB. In that draft, two quarterbacks are leaps and bounds better than the top two this year in Oklahoma’s Sam Bradford and Texas’ Colt McCoy. Denver will easily be able to snag one of these two. Neither one may be Jay Cutler; both may be better. Either one, certainly, will outshine Matt Stafford or…snort…Mark Sanchez.
In spite of the turmoil in Denver, I still find this off-season the most productive in recent years. The 2009 Broncos are a team I barely recognize but, for now, a team I find beautiful. If, in the draft, they can pick up a DT and a middle linebacker, the words of Michael Stipe will finally come true: “I’ve got my spine; I’ve got my orange crush.” More will come clear after the weekend and, until then, go Neckbeard Orton, go Josh McDaniels, and go Broncos!
It’s hard to believe it’s taken me this much time to get the second of these four reviews up but, what the hell, I’ve been sick and busy….
After deemed poison at the box office, despite the relative success of Bringing up Baby, Katherine Hepburn left the screen for the stage, where she began, to star in The Philadelphia Story. Phillip Barry wrote the play specifically for Hepburn and she took to the role of Tracy Lord like almost nobody had before or has since. Fully embodying the erudite, yet fun loving character, Hepburn was a huge hit on the stage, far from box office poison and, quickly, Hollywood came crawling back. Now, Hepburn held all the cards. Howard Hughes had purchased the film rights to the play and gave them to Hepburn, which she then sold to MGM of a relatively small sum. What she got in return, however, was guarantees that her choice in director and leading men would be etched in stone. George Cukor was her choice for director and, while originally slated as Clark Gable and Spencer Tracy, she finally settled on Cary Grant and James Stewart as her leading men. With a wealth of talent on hand, Hepburn settled into the filming of one of her most famous roles and a film that would become part of the model for producing high comedy in Hollywood.
At its heart, The Philadelphia Story is a very simple story about the paparazzi trying to get into a wedding and the family fooling the reporters into thinking they’re welcome. To this end, George Cuckor directed one of the seminal romantic comedies in Hollywood history. Hepburn plays Tracy Lord, old money, who is marrying “Man of the People” George Kittredge (John Howard), new money. She once was married to Cary Grant’s C.K. Dexter Haven, also old money, still very popular with his former in-laws. This old money/new money love triangle may have made a fine little movie on its own, but playwright Philip Barry throws a wrench in the spokes by adding no money into the mix, present in the characters of Macaulay Connor and Liz Imbrie (James Stewart and Ruth Hussey). Their lack of capitol makes them the fish out of water, but instead of gaping awestruck at the fine chandeliers and garbage like that, they are scornful of what they see, happy to write their stories and take their pictures and go home to a simple world. At least, it was enough for Connor, but then he got to know Tracy Lord.
Just like Bringing Up Baby, Hepburn’s performance is in a class by itself as she plays two things simultaneously. Tracy’s cold defensiveness at the start remains in shades through her change and into the end when she has shown the capacity for warmth and love. Likewise, though she is rightfully accused by the rest of the characters of looking at herself as an “unattainable goddess,” she always lays a playful touch on her scenes (such as when she delivers a clean back heel trip to Howard to get him dirty after mocking his pristine new riding pants). Hepburn was an acting phenom. This would only become more clear later, but her skills are one of a kind even at this point in her career.
Her supporting cast is also very good, but they don’t really rise to the heights of the film’s star. Grant plays a far more secondary role than I’m used to from him, but as the character that the action revolves around, he is very solid. Though Grant has significantly less screen time than the other stars, his name actually appears first in the credits. He had clauses about name placement in his contract, but the main reason he appears first is the changing attitudes toward film marketing. Hepburn and Grant, essentially, were stars of equal clout, unchanged from two years earlier. In Bringing Up Baby, however, Hepburn’s name appears first. In the ‘30s, actresses were the focal point of the marketing, but this changed quickly and would continue this way, more or less, until today. Stewart had not yet gone to war and made himself an icon; he was still a character performer here, but does a great job as the intellectual everyman. It’s clear why his character falls for Lord, but his change from scorn to affection is quite believable. Special commendation to Ruth Hussey as Stewart’s photographer girlfriend. She had a spotty career, but he is by far the most appealing person in this film. She has an air of intelligent resilience and, though she is treated the worst of anybody in the film, she takes it with a knowing, mocking laugh, letting Connor have his fun until Lord gets on with her life, and she'll be standing there waiting; laughing at his stupidity. The character and the performance are equally good; it's a shame that her biggest role otherwise was as the nanny in Another Thin Man. Between Hussey and Asta, the dog in Bringing Up Baby, I'm starting to think there is a Thin Man pattern. Who'll be in the next movies? Myrna Loy? Tom Neal?
The Philadelphia Story definitely doesn't have the laughs of Bringing Up Baby, but the film is a lot tighter overall. It's simple, but is a perfect template for a high comedy, though it doesn't have any of the fun subtext of the later two films on the set. Brilliant comedy.
Next...hopefully soon...Woman of the Year.
Last week for DVD Verdict, one of my assignments was a four-film collection presented as part of the TCM Classic Films series, specifically in this case, romantic comedies. I had seen none of the films and, because of word limitations and the general tone of the site, doing full reviews of each film is impossible. Instead, I'll do that here. All four films star Katherine Hepburn, tow star Cary Grant, and two star Spencer Tracy. I'll go in chronological order, so we begin in 1938 with Bringing Up Baby.
Katherine Hepburn + Cary Grant + a leopard = hilarity. This is the equation that makes the king of screwball comedies and I'm most struck by how funny and how sweet the film has remained in the seventy years since its release. In 1938, however, it wasn't so much known this way. Hepburn was part of the group that the studios dubbed "box office poison" and, maybe at the time, they were right, though I have a hard time believing it. The film wasn't the bomb it had been purported to be, but it was not a huge hit, especially given the names in the cast and crew. We are a country, however, that will make films like Shakespeare in Love and Titanic super hits, so what do we know.
We begin with a bespectacled Cary Grant sitting atop the skeleton of a brontosaurus. He comes down to talk to his assistant about what he must do tomorrow. First, he must pick up the just discovered final bone in his four year dinosaur restoration and, second, he must get married to his assistant. The scene is stuffed with innuendo; his assistant/fiance telling him in no uncertain terms that this marriage is simply a culmination of their working relationship and nothing, not even a honeymoon, will get in the way of his research. His look of unsurprised dismay is priceless, but he promptly heads out for a golf game with an attorney who, if he plays his cards right, may be able to secure a million dollar grant for his museum.
The action really begins at the club during his game when he finally meets Katherine Hepburn. Her persona would be solidified a couple of years later as Tracy Lord in The Philadelphia Story and she is playing anything but that character. Here, she is a ditz to end all ditzes, totally self-absorbed and totally fun-loving. She steals his golf ball and steals his car and Grant loses the attorney while chasing after her trying to get his stuff back while she sits there not caring. He agrees to meet the attorney later at a restaurant and, when he arrives, Hepburn is there, too. She is doing some stupid trick, flicking olives into her mouth and drops one on the floor, just in the path of Grant. He slips on it, falling on his top hat, resulting in the following classic exchange:
-I'm so sorry! Oh, hello....you're sitting on your hat.
-I know it
-That's silly. Get up. I'm awfully sorry. I couldn't be more apologetic, really.
-Well, I might have known you were here. I had a feeling just as I hit the floor.
-That was your hat.
-Look at it. Look.
-Yes, well it's too bad, isn't it. Well, Joe here was showing me a trick and the olive got away.
-First you drop and olive and then I sit on my hat. It all fits perfectly.
-Oh yes, but you can't do that trick without dropping some of the olives. It takes practice.
-What, to sit on my hat.
-No, to drop an olive. Now, if your going to be angry with me, what can I do?
-Go away!
-No, I was here first. [he walks away in a huff]
While he hates her right now, she's already fallen in love with him and begins her pursuit, culminating the next morning with a call to his house to help her with "Baby," a leopard her big game hunting brother has sent her. She has mistaken him for a zoologist, so he is the only one who can help her with a wild cat. He's about to hang up when she feigns being attacked by Baby, and he jumps to save her, in spite of his marriage that afternoon. We can clearly see that he's fallen for her as well, even if he can't. All of this in only the first fifteen minutes of the film! From here, she takes him to her aunt's house where the comedy really gets going.
I've gone into enough plot already, but suffice it to say that the resulting mistaken identities, farcical chases and general craziness is some of the funniest stuff I've seen in some time. Hepburn's determination and manipulative sweetness is absolutely charming and, though she'd never play this kind of role again, her performance is appealing and memorable. Grant is far less a heartthrob here than I'm used to and, instead, he plays this sap with relish. At one point, at the aunt's house, Hepburn steals his clothes so he can't leave and he's forced to put on a frilly bathrobe where, of course, he meets the aunt who has just come home. He opens the door for her:
-What do you want?
-Who are you?
-Who are you?!
-Well, who are you?!
-What'd'ya want?
-Who are you?
-I don't know. I'm not quite myself today.
-Well, you look perfectly idiotic in those clothes.
-These aren't my clothes.
-Well, where are your clothes.
-I've lost my clothes.
-But why are you wearing these clothes?
-Because I just went gay all of a sudden!
His little hop while saying that final line is perfectly flamboyant. This would be the first time "gay" was used in this context in Hollywood, though the remark would only serve to make the aunt believe he's completely crazy.
Situationally, the film is utter chaos, often as reminiscent of the Marx Brothers as anything, but this anarchy is held tightly in check by director Howard Hawks. His direction is very straightforward, featuring exceedingly long takes that let the performers pull their lines and pratfalls (which they perform themselves) with a realism that is virtually non-existent in film today. This is testament to the actors' abilities and Hawks' trust in them, which all works to near perfection., While I have a general disdain for animals in film, it is really pretty well-done here. I certainly can't guarantee that no animals were harmed in the making of the picture (there was certainly no ASPCA on the set), the leopard lends a fairly innocuous level of danger and the dog who steals the bone (of course) is a total pro and is the same terrier who plays Asta in the Thin Man films. He's no Rin-Tin-Tin, but he's pretty good.
Honestly, there's a little bit of bloat in the second act; they spend a little too long building for jokes that have minimal payoff. It could be about ten minutes shorter, I suppose, but those ten minutes are a small price to payu for one of the finest screwball comedies ever conceived. If you've never seen Bringing Up Baby, do yourself a favor and watch it; it's a hell of a lot of fun.
[Next: The Philadelphia Story]
Last night, I had the pleasure, for the third time, to see Chris Knight perform. Erik and I have said plenty about him in the past, and this show was just as fantastic as the other two times he's come. He was with his band this time, so it's the second time I've seen him this way and once as a solo act. I'm not sure which I like better. The solo voice and guitar is certainly easier to understand and allows you to better take in the power of his lyrics, which is significant. With a band, however, there's a great energy both on stage and in the audience. I suppose I like both equally.
I see a fair number of shows, and Knight is uncanny. Where equally good acts can't draw beans on a Thursday night, understandable for a relatively small town, he packs the place; most of the audience had to be at work the next morning, myself included, but that didn't stop anybody from staying the whole time and drinking themselves silly (two separate shipments from the Budweiser man arrived during the show), singing every song. Not only that, most of the crowd was able to identify every song after the first couple of notes. These people really love their Chris Knight. For a dedicated country artist, he draws a more diverse crowd than anybody: mixed races, equal parts women and men, old men, eighteen year olds, cowboys and punks, all united under the banner of Slaughters, KY's favorite son. Twice, old men randomly pulled out song sheets they hoped to hear, like kids at a Christina Aguilera show thrilled to death that they'd heard all but one song on their lists. If I can help it, I'll never miss a Chris Knight show and, for any fan of country, even marginal ones, I recommend the same.
A couple of observations, though. I was disappointed to find, at the Danny Barnes show, that Dan's had ridded themselves of Pabst Blue Ribbon. A lot of you may be gagging, but it's the cheapest beer there, so fuck it. Dan had a plan, though: he now has it on draft, for the same price no less. This means a full 1/3 more Pabst for $2 and, in the glass, it looks like I'm drinking something high tone...I felt like some kind of tycoon with my pint glass in hand without the expense.
Finally, as some of you may know, I've done on-camera work (and a little voice over work, which is way more fun) for the past two years for ol' Sally Beauty training videos and, last night, it finally bit me. I was standing in line for the restroom when I got a tap on the shoulder. I turned around and some guy is looking and smiling at me. I give a standard, banal response that is supposed to let somebody know that I'm not much for talking right now, but instead, he introduces himself to me...ok, I tell him my name (though I think he heard "Dan," which is not my name, but it's better he doesn't really know it, I suppose) and we shake hands. While still smiling at me, he tells me that he recognizes me from the videos. Wow, buddy, should we kick everyone out and lock the bathroom door? Now, I'm not a man who much likes to be recognized by people I don't know, so this made things uncomfortable to me for a little while, though I was able to shake him and not have to see him again. Jeez...is this how I'm to be known? Some jerk on a video that talks about salon mats? This was before the show, though, and Chris Knight made it all better.
A great time, all in all, and I'm going to see the reunion of Slobberbone tonight. You know what that means. That's right: $2 PBR!
After a few months at Dan's Silverleaf with a constant barrage of cover bands, the best bar that I can walk to starts at least six weeks of consistently good shows (though, sadly, next week's Lloyd Maines/Terri Hendrix show has been canceled). Last night, I saw the king of the avant garde banjo, Danny Barnes, formerly of the Bad Livers.
The crowd was sparse, maybe forty people, though not as bad as some of the shows I've seen there (see the eleven audience members of the phenomenal Hacienda Brothers show a few months before the death of Chris Gaffney). As usual, Barnes didn't seem to care and played like there was no tomorrow. By himself on stage, accompanied only by a sampling machine, it was a quiet but thoroughly enjoyable show.
Danny Barnes greatness comes from the variance of play styles he employs. He doesn't focus on the bluegrass aspects of the banjo, playing music of all different stripes: western, folk, jazz, and classical styles all roll up into one. What I didn't expect was for him to play a solo show in an identical way to how Buckethead performed when I saw him in a corporate office in '99. Barnes starts playing and eventually stops, though the music doesn't stop. He samples himself, loops it, and plays more over top of it. Sometimes that's a full line, sometimes it's a couple of plucks of the strings, which he then samples, and on. Occasionally, he includes pre-recorded vocal samples, including somebody ranting about playing with Bill Monroe at the Grand Ol' Opry. He even played a mashed-up version of Beck's "Loser" which, though the original was distressingly overplayed, Barnes' version was hilarious.
This is not banjo like I'd ever heard before. His skills on the instrument, his humble homespun banter (including 20 second banjo lessons that aren't very helpful), and his generous attitude enthralled what crowd there was. He was a pleasure to see and I hope he comes back. I guarantee that the next show will be entirely different than the last.
It was a hard and shocking fact to learn that, after a decade and a half, the Denver Broncos fired Mike Shanahan. I didn’t say anything about it when the announcement was made (though I haven’t chimed in about anything in a while, but no matter). Now, however, as the new coaching staff shapes up, I've come to grips with it, the depression has eased, and I can finally discuss it.
--First and foremost, I absolutely do not agree with the decision to fire Shanahan. Granted, there’s only been one playoff win in a decade now and no Super Bowls since Elway retired (or was forced to ride off to the cool mountain stream of Coorsland, however you want to look at it). Nonetheless, losing seasons have been kept to a minimum and, especially this year, injuries trumped talent with gusto. No new coach can combat seven running backs on IR. Defensive problems abound and have seemingly gotten worse, so there was justification for change, but I didn’t expect it and I do not like it.
That said, no matter how I feel, acceptance is the name of the game and, based on the decisions owner Pat Bowlin has made since then, I am thrilled at the prospects.
--Head coach Josh McDaniels: No 32 year old has a proven track record with anything (except maybe for fucking up), so hiring McDaniels may wind up a mistake. Still, he was going to get a head coaching job somewhere so, instead of teams like the Raiders and Chiefs conducting the experiment and succeeding, I’m okay with the Broncos hiring him, even if he fails. With his time guiding Tom Brady to record success and turning Matt Cassel, who hadn’t started a game since high school, into a viable commodity, I think he’s worth the risk. If his personnel choices are any indication, this will be a smooth ride.
--DC Mike Nolan: as a head coach, Nolan was an abomination. Such is the risk with hiring coordinators as head coaches, and such could be the fate of McDaniels. Nolan as a defensive coordinator, however, is a much different story. His first NFL job was linebackers coach under Denver’s Dan Reeves regime, played safety at Oregon (hook ‘em Ducks!!), and was defensive coordinator for the ridiculously good Ravens’ defense, from ‘02-’04, and looks sharp in a suit. Most importantly, this strongly signals a change back to the 3-4 alignment, which is far superior to the 4-3, given the right people (which the Broncos don’t really have right now). The Orange Crush will live once more!
--The first of two important position coaches that have been retained: RB coach Bobby Turner, who was one of Shanahan’s original hires, will return in that role, one that last year, in spite of all those injuries continued to make people like fullback Peyton Hillis and former Aurora mall cell phone kiosk manager Tatum Bell look like decent back. It is unclear how much rushing the Broncos are going to do next year with Cutler coming around, Marshall continuing to improve, and the revelation that is Eddie Royal (my big crush last year), but he has proven himself in this role.
--The running game only works in Denver, however, if the offensive line plays as it has for years, which is why the retention of Rick Dennison is so exciting. I was worried about the cheating but, with Dennison on-staff, I know the cut blocks continue. Go cheating! It’s what makes the Broncos the Broncos. When Cutler snaps the ball, the center drops to his knees and elbows a guy in the side of his knee…7-yard gain. March it down the field.
This is all that is certain as of now. My hope is that Jeremy Bates, last years QB coach and friend of Cutler, will be placed in that role. He has clearly helped Cutler improve significantly and Cutler is known to express his discontent. I want to keep him happy and McDaniels will be calling the plays anyway, so I don’t see how his role will change too much. Denver appears to be stealing KC’s special teams coach. This is great if it hurts the Chiefs, and the Broncos’ special teams can’t really get much worse, but I don’t know anything about him except, for one to work with the Chiefs, they must be of somewhat questionable character. Speaking of questionable character, there is currently talk of the abhorable Bill Romanowski being brought in as some kind of nutrition coach. Last I checked, Big Bill’s nutrition comes out of a syringe. I would find this a disturbing, albeit fairly amusing move (though, if Romanowski actually reads this, he might come to my house, tear my leg off, and eat it in front of me so, for the sake of walking, I didn’t mean it Bill; you’re awesome and totally not on steroids). We’ll see…we’ll see. Until then, go Broncos!
Via GreenCine...apparently, Spain's Goya Awards committee has to scrape some pretty deep barrels to find Lifetime Achievement Award winners....
Picture, if you will, a lush and misty meadow; a grove of bare trees stand in the back blocking a hill. Chamber music softly swells through the air and, after a long look at this landscape, from the left comes a woman walking slowly among the trees, their shadows casting down on what appear to be flowing robes. She's far off, but turns to face the camera and, from that distance, her beauty is clear. Not speeding her pace, she glides toward the meadow. We see that the robes were not robes at all, but a sheer scarf that does little to cover her. She walks closer and closer, then still closer. So close that it seems unnatural, yet she's still coming. Now we can see her pores, and it's starting to ruin the fantasy. Then, she hits the fucking camera.
I think I'm going to be sick.... The economic crisis has finally reached critical mass. Coors has decided to finally discontinue Zima for good. Stock up people, this amazing beverage will only be in stores until December and it will be gone for good. Oh, how I'll long for the days of listening to my Boyz II Men and Blues Traveller CDs while sitting down to a couple frosty, refreshingly clear malt beverages. I was going to tie a sweater around my neck and relive those days tonight, but now I'm too sad. Please, Coors, please restart the clear revolution. In these tough economic times, won't somebody think of America's thirst?
