52x52x52x52: Film #5: June 17, 1994

I often wonder why sports movies are so inferior. In some ways movies like Rudy or Hoosiers can be guilty pleasures, but for me it is difficult to cope with the cornball sentimentality of these films. Indeed, sports films are so often mishandled that it makes one wonder if these two things are simply incompatible: the live urgency of a sporting event, and the predetermined film narrative of a movie. One of my dreams is to remake Jim Carroll’s The Basketball Diaries because of this reason… because it was so mishandled the first time around. This has to be an impossible sell, though. Picture Sleepy E in a meeting: “So what I really want to do is take this critical and commercial flop… and remake it!” (I'm talking about the 1994 movie version, of course.) But that is another story.

ESPN has come out of nowhere, though, and legitimized the cinema of sports in their new 30-for-30 series, in which 30 directors were commissioned to make one-hour documentaries about sports. The films are exceptional, even when they’re mediocre (I think there’s a Woody Allen joke in there somewhere: “Even my worst orgasm was right on the money!”). These documentaries contain all of the inherent pathos and regret and drama of sport that is normally absent in sports movies. Some standouts that I’ve seen so far: Billy Corben’s The U (about the thuggish Miami Hurricanes football team of the late 80s), Without Bias (about Len Bias), Barry Levinson’s The Band That Wouldn’t Die (about the Baltimore Colt’s marching band), The Guru of Go (Paul Westhead and Hank Gathers), and Muhammad and Larry (the Maysles Brothers take on Muhammad Ali getting crushed by Larry Holmes).

The finest so far, however, is June 17, 1994, by The Kid Stays In the Picture director Brett Morgan. June 17 was the day that OJ Simpson took off in his white Bronco, but there were other momentous things going down as well: the ticker tape parade for the NY Rangers first Stanley Cup in 45 years, game 5 of the NBA finals, the beginning of the World Cup in Chicago, Arnold Palmer’s final round of golf ever, Ken Griffey Jr.’s 30^th home run (the fastest to 30 ever) in what was to be a strike-shortened season).

June 17, 1994 cuts between all of these events as the day unfolds and the OJ Simpson drama gets more and more surreal. There are no interviews and no narration – it’s an editing exercise in some way, just a bunch of footage and an editor and a director putting it together. They have access to communication between the police and OJ that wasn’t admissible in court, and they show outtakes and off-air communication as the media tries to cope with this (Tom Brokow telling his producer that there is no way to elegantly segue from Game 5 of the finals to OJ’s narrative without it sounding “totally callous.”) It is a whole new kind of media circus, that prefigures TMZ and the Internet and Twitter.

The result is epic storytelling. “A modern tragedy and drama of Shakespearean proportions,” Brokaw says. It is a good feeling to see a movie this great! And even though the film isn't really about sports (even though it's ostensibly ONLY about sports), that's the right call because sports contain the seed of something unique in culture -- something combining athletics and battle and celebrity -- where the stakes of winning and losing are amplified and the biggest winners are all eventually cut down to size. The tragedy of losing escapes no champion if one waits long enough.

Photowalk #1: Skirball

K and I have decided to renew our love of photography and long walks by committing to a twice-monthly Photowalk of our design. Walking L.A., a book of interesting urban hikes, is on the way from the sales-tax haven of Amazon. In the meantime, feeling the urge to get out of the house but lacking any direction, we decided to head off to the Skirball to check out the Maira Kalman show there and to see the Los Angeles leaves turn color (in January?)

This is a picture of Maira's work. You've seen her on a ton of New Yorker covers and in In the Pursuit of Happiness, a series of micro-essays done for the NY Times with pictures and text during the run-up to the 2010 election. Maira is awesome! (I don't think this is a self-portrait, just in case you are wondering).

Since this was our first time to go out and shoot together, we really had no idea what we were doing... I focused mainly on landscape, it seems, and K on patterns.

Here are some of my shots:

Here are some of K's:

Hopefully we can improve if we do this often enough!

Heal Thyself

Today's quiz:

What do the following foods have in common?

1. Barley

2. Buckwheat

3. Cacao Bean/Chocolate

4. Cow's Milk

5. Garlic

6. Hazelnut

7. Malt

8. Pistachio Nut

9. Rye

10. Sunflower Seed

11. Wheat

Yup, you guessed it. I am officially allergic to these foods... Let us consider the ramifications of this. No beer, no chocolate, no dairy, no wheat.... but no garlic? Come on!!!!

I feel immense sadness but also relief as well, knowing finally that these foods have been isolated... (my amazing insurance is not so amazing when it comes to food allergy diagnosis and treatment).

Since this year's New Year's Resolution is to "heal myself" I suppose I might get used to eating the rice gruel and green tea and forget about ever going out again!!!!!

Don't get me wrong, I will be in incredible shape after cutting all of this stuff out of my diet. But the foodie in me laments...

52x52x52x52

Last year was a disaster on the reading and writing fronts. Some stats:

-3 movies watched in the theater: Inception, Social Network, True Grit

-3 books or fewer read.

-7 blog posts (5 of which accomplished in November)

This is unacceptable. Truly. So to honor the 10x10x10 ladies, I've decided to embark upon the 52x52x52x52 Project.

-52 weeks

-52 books

-52 movies (one-hour episodes and documentaries only count for half!)

-52 blog posts

I've already read more this week than I did all of last year.

See you in a week!

You Should Feel Lucky to Fall Victim to Somali Pirates

Well, the documentary has just been pirated by some punk and it's up everywhere for download. Here is an image of the action from 2am on the 20th, at :

Chris Anderson of Wired would have you believe that this is a good thing, that 1500 downloads in 20 hours is better than selling 150 units in a month.... And he might be right. But why does this make me so sad?

Air Hockey and the Male Gaze

Where was this image when I was fourteen years old?

Venice and the Moneyed Boho Elite

Spent an hour in a Venice cafe this morning waiting for K to finish her yoga-and-spinning class. Afterwards, I asked her to distill into a single human that essence of Venishness, and what that person might be like. "A rich bohemian," she said.

That's about right.

There's something to say about this, but I'm not smart enough to say it. But I think areas like Sedona, or parts of Brooklyn, or even Park City (never been there) have a similar thing going on.

I personally think there is an irreconcilable schism between these two concepts of bohemianism and material wealth, since bohemia traditionally was a theoretical place where artists and free spirits where could live and work cheaply and behave unconventionally. There was poverty, and maybe some poor hygiene as well.

Which does not describe Venice. Not anymore. So then who are these folks?

Frankie and the Bride

You might have heard that they are re-remaking the Sting/Jennifer Beals movie "The Bride." Or maybe you haven't!

Photos by Middlebrow used without permission.

The Bloggo is Blotto

Middlebrow in town very recently to celebrate the DVD release of the air hockey movie, Way of the Puck.

Discussion about blogging v. Facebooking, blogging v. essaying, blogging v. tweeting, blogging v. fishing, blogging v. drinking beer, blogging v. not blogging.

Felt twinge of something, resolved to blog more. Middlebrow, to blog even less.

All writing and actual creativity sucked out the room in the last few years by the gorilla air hockey movie. Now that that is over I hope to actually begin blogging again.

We shall see about that.

Not so happy with the Facebook, no.

Don't Hate on The Facebook

I already cannot stand The Facebook. I cannot stand The Twitter either. The good thing about the blog is that only a couple of people read it. The Facebook tends toward some kind of Friend Acquisition Contest, which I do not like. As one friend put it: "The fact that you're on Facebook isn't the most surprising thing. It's... why now????"

That is all I'm going to write because I'm trying to get more life out of life. I think this grand return to blogging by the SLC crew is a good thing, though. They say blogging is dead. Good for them. Long live The Facebook.

Chat Roulette Funny Piano Improv #1

It Wouldn't Hurt Us To Have a Nick, So Now We Do

Texas Tech's madman genius coach on why he made quarterback Taylor Potts wear a jersey with the name "Nick" on the back:

"I never had the opportunity to meet a guy named Nick Reed who was a linebacker for Kansas. And I always felt like he personified what a football player is and what a football player should be. I'd actually like to have a picture of Nick Reed.

But anyway. We decided as Potts was going through his tough times, we decided all of our players, we'd like them to be more like Nick and led by Nick would be even better. We figured it wouldn't hurt us to have a Nick, so now we do."

I love that, I really do.

It's Time For Your Close-up, Ron

So a month or so ago I’m working on a Toni Braxton video, of all things, and I’m sitting there all numb and demoralized, and I hear the assistant director calling for Ron to come to set, Ron, who will play the shirtless ripped black Romeo to Toni Braxton’s R&B middle-aged goodness.

So the love interest comes in, confused, and he is large, larger than me, perhaps, and very very awkward, and I see that Ron is, in fact, Mr. Ron Artest, former Indiana Pacer, former Sacramento King, former Houston Rocket, and the perpetrator of the largest brawl in NBA history, an incident from a few years back when he vaulted into the stands and beat the shit out of some Pistons fans and then was suspended for a year.

Ron.

This shoot took place before the NBA season had started and I didn’t know he had been acquired by the Lakers so having him just appear as the SENSITIVE LOVE INTEREST in a Toni Braxton video was just too amazing to comprehend. It is still amazing to comprehend, even knowing that he lives in LA now. The caressable pecs, the unhinged smile, the curious angularity to his face, like some flesh-and-blood gemstone.

Ron is crazy.

I was going to post links to the infamous riot, but I came across something even more incredible and offensive than that bit of thuggery. It seems he has a new rap record out and the single is called “Afghan Girl.” The video has to be seen to be believed. It’s documentary footage of abused Afghan women intercut with footage of Artest leaning on trees and rapping about how he would take care of these women and caress their hair, faces, etc.

Somebody please explain this video to me:

Oh, and here’s some great stuff of Artest battling with the Jazz from two seasons ago. Highly entertaining!

NO LAYUPS! NO LAYUPS!

Mid-century Modernism and the Spacesuits of 2001

I forgot to add a detail to my last post re: screening a 70mm print of 2001 recently. At some point in the evening it occurred to me that the three spacesuits (red, yellow, blue) on the ship Discovery looked exactly like our Fiestaware!

Instead of the puffy white marshmallow suits we’re used to, these strange and beautiful suits wore their exuberant non-primary mid-century color palettes proudly! I’d never noticed it watching the pan-and-scan VHS version of this film, but the red is more like a brick red, the yellow a mustard yellow, and the blue approaches something more of a cobalt blue. Just like our plates!

I like that each astronaut has his a different color suit; they are easy to tell apart that way. Bowman gets the red one, no doubt due to the violence and rebirth that accompanies killing off HAL. Or something like that. The blue dude died already in peaceful hibernation. Poole wears an innocent yellow before HAL cuts his breathing cord while working on the “broken” dish out in space.

These vibrant suits are an interesting choice, especially within the blank white context of Discovery. Once could say these suits have way more personality than the astronauts themselves, which seems to be much of the point of the movie (that AI computers have evolved past humans – HAL is irrational, breaks the rules, is vindictive, etc.. more human than the blank-slate astronauts). Perhaps it’s when the astronauts put on the colorful suits that they begin the transition toward (more evolved) machines?

Oh, and did I mention we have a Fiestaware gravy boat that looks like this:

Sleepy E and the Cinema of Flying Machines

K and I went to a few movies this week; kind of unprecedented, really. I also walked in on the 2^nd half of a DVD screening of Twilight, which proved divisive in our household… the debate afterword exterminated our entire evening. But we shall not focus on that.

First was District 9, which was terrific and ultraviolent and completely satisfying. “More stressful than work even!” K exulted later. We loved the economical storytelling: No time is wasted explaining why the ship from V broke down over Johannesburg or why aliens were cruising over to begin with. It also doesn’t really explain why exactly the man’s hand is transforming into something nasty (whoops, spoiler!). No time for explanations, full speed ahead! No backstory, no problem…. Bravo!

Last night we caught a screening of a 70mm print of 2001, which K had never seen. It was beautiful and impenetrable, just like in 1968, no doubt. I did some reading online afterword when Karen was relentlessly demanding a literal interpretation of the film, and discovered that Clarke’s story, “The Sentinel,” which is what 2001 was based upon, is reportedly very clear about all of the weird and opaque story elements that populate the narrative, especially the last third.

From Wikipedia: “Clarke's novel explicitly identifies the monolith as a tool created by an alien race that has been through many stages of evolution, moving from organic forms, through biomechanics, and finally has achieved a state of pure energy. These aliens travel the cosmos assisting lesser species to take evolutionary steps. The novel explains the hotel room sequence as a kind of alien zoo—fabricated from information derived from intercepted television transmissions from Earth—in which Dave Bowman is studied by the invisible alien entities. Kubrick's film leaves all this unstated.”

I love that last line: Kubrick’s film leaves all this UNSTATED. I love that.

Kubrick to the world: “Fuck you!”

Too funny.

This film would never be made today… not even close.

What I really want to write about though, is Philip Kaufman’s “The Right Stuff,” which screened at the Aero last weekend. I was twelve when this came out in 1983 and probably watched it the following year on laserdisc.

I was quite shocked to be blown away by this movie. Three hours and fifteen minutes long and never a dull moment. Terrific writing, lush long-lens cinematography, an incredible ensemble of actors, wonderful documentary and stock footage, a great score, a lyrical side and an art film side as well, and most of all, a rowdy sense of humor that I did not remember at all. Who remembers that Jeff Goldblum and Harry Shearer are in this movie? Hilarous!

I did some reading after this as well, and discovered that Roger Ebert is a huge champion of this movie and included it in his Overlooked Film Festival. Ebert also gave Terry Gilliam’s Brazil two stars, so what does that prove…

Anyway, this made me think Kaufman is some kind of genius, being the sole writer and director of this film (okay, he had some good Tom Wolfe source material to start with, but still… there was no list of 7 credited writers like you see these days). Kaufman made the exquisite Unbearable Lightness of Being but he also was responsible for Rising Sun (with Connery and Snipes), and other abominations. One can’t be perfect I guess.

I’m surprised this movie doesn’t get more respect, especially among film directors. It really is a tour de force. It’s got a huge canvas and a stable of brilliant actors and it’s epic in scope and certainly in length, way up over three hours long. One would think this movie would have inspired a generation of directors. It’s the Dr. Zhivago of the early 80s! But no. Perhaps it’s no surprise that Terms of Endearment won best picture that year.

The Pivot - or- Damn, This Is Totally Different, and Undeniably Better, Than Everything Else That Came Before It, Ever

I think I might have blogged about this before, but when I first saw PT Anderson’s Punch-Drunk Love, I was so blown away by it that I ferreted out his manager's contact info and sent a fan letter to PT. I was 31, sending a fan letter. Probably I was just ecstatic to find that I could still be moved, that I could still be surprised and amazed by a motion picture…

The fact that that movie got mixed reviews just intensified my righteous fervor.

I began thinking about how many times in my life I had viewed a film that then immediately surpassed all others that came before it, and vaulted into my number one position. When was the last time I had a different favorite film? Before that? When was the last time I left the theater, giddy with excitement because of newly revealed cinematic possibilities?

I tried this exercise with books and music and found that all of these disciplines had a half-dozen or so PIVOT POINTS, points at which I was forced to reconsider what was possible with that art form, where I was forced to say, “Damn, this is totally different, and undeniably better than everything else, ever.”

For me, observing the graph (make your own) and the timeline proves to be more interesting and revealing than the listing of the movies themselves. What can I learn from these statistics? How often did I get my mind blown? There is definitely a slowing down that occurs in the later years as I harden into my current self.

Here are the pivotal movies of my existence. I cannot think of anything I was really passionate about in the junior high/early high school years. Back to the Future, perhaps, but that was really just more of the same, hardly anything too mindblowing.

Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981)

Return of the Jedi (1983)

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Who Framed Roger Rabbit (1988)

Miller’s Crossing (1990)

Naked (Mike Leigh) (1994)

Magnolia (1999)

Punch-Drunk Love (2002)

On the literary front, I have to start from university, because I can’t remember what I was impressed with before that. The years represent the year in which I intersected with the book, not necessarily the year it was published:

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Notes From Underground (1990)

The Information (Martin Amis) (1995)

The Dead Father (Donald Barthelme) (1998)

The Fermata (Nicholson Baker) (2003)

Like the movies listed above, these titles don’t necessarily still hang amongst my favorites (I read the Information a couple of years ago and found it to be sort of unpleasurable). But in 1995, it was exactly what I wanted to read. I was amazed to have discovered it.

So for me there seems to be about 7 or 8 pivots, per discipline, increasing in frequency during the collage years and tapering off more and more as I age.

This seems natural.

I wonder if others have 30 titles on their lists (a new favorite every 6 months)? Or 2 titles on their lists (after the Breakfast Club it’s all been downhill)? What does it say about how impressionable we are as people?

I confess, these lists are excruciating to look at. To think that as an 18-year-old legal adult, Who Framed Roger Rabbit was the ultimate expression of cinematic possibility? It's humiliating, really -- but necessary to chart one's growth into adulthood, I guess, into the human I've become.... Each pivot neatly represents a change in my life, and in my worldview.

I guess it only makes sense that these moments come more and more infrequently, if ever, these days...

Honeymooners

K and I just got back from our honeymoon in beautiful Tulum, Mexico, about 2 hours south of Cancun.

I never thought I would have enjoyed such a stereotypical honeymoon -- white sand beaches, mojitos, hammocks, and lounging. Lots of lounging.

Our days consisted of reading, and eating, and swimming, and eating, and reading, and walking on the beach, and reading, and napping, and reading, and drinking.

It is easy to be cynical about our little resort, which had eco-spa pretensions and Gilligan's Island-chic architecture. We loved it, however.

It was a thirty-minute bike ride from our cabana to the little town of Tulum. In Tulum there was a cash machine, pistachio ice cream, taxis, and an honest-to-goodness supermarket!

It was pretty stifling, but on the beach the cool-to-the-touch white sand and perpetual ocean breeze made it quite comfortable. Out on the main road, however, there was no cool-the-touch white sand beach or perpetual ocean breeze. Instead, you got mosquitoes and rank sweat and butt bruise... 

But a little punishment always makes the good times so much better... I can make a mean mojito now, in case anyone is wondering.

Our rehearsal dinner in Los Angeles took place at a little Yucatan place near MacArthur Park called Chichen Itza. During our honeymoon we rented a car and drove to the real Chichen Itza, the ruins of a Mayan city two and a half hours away. We came very close to running out of gas in the middle of nowhere - thanks mostly to... well... my male stupidity.

We did not run out of gas. Look at how exuberant we are!

Married? Yeah, married! Sheesh!

Not a lot of time to file a complete report on the events of last weekend. Let's just say it was an exuberant wedding. Dr. Write read a villanelle written for the occasion and Middlebrow gave a wonderful speech.

The weather cleared up and a fine time was had by all. Ross tweaked his back doing spastic pop-locking on the dance floor. More to report when we return from our honeymoon in Tulum, Mexico.

Here is my only picture from the event (so far):

Great Old Photos #2

This is a photograph of my mother's mother and father. Grandma died when I was young; I can only recall her as a stern (and sturdy) farm lady who yelled at me for running around in her little  house. I remember her chastising me for not knowing how to tie my shoes and for needing her help in doing so. In my memory, she comes at me with the "Give a man a fish, feed him for a day; teach a man to fish, feed him for a lifetime" parable, and forces me to fumble with my laces until I can do it by myself. It is likely that this "teach a man to fish" dialogue has been retroactively inserted into the memory, but that is the way scene plays out in my mind. I remember it like it was yesterday, standing in their unpaved driveway, the midday Eastern Washington sun beating down, the muscular walnut tree and postage stamp yard off to the left, the rusty horseshoe marking the entrance to the small garage behind (filled with a museum of old farm tools), the pulse of sprinklers irrigating the surrounding corn fields, the buzz of dragonflies in the air. I'm sure this is romanticizing it; my cantankerous grandmother would probably have something to say about this kind of sentimentality. 

The picture tells a different story, however. It is hard to believe that my grandmother and this handsome young woman in cute shoes are the same person.

I love this picture so much that a few years back I included a passage about it in "Baleen," a short story about an old man who transmogrifies into a right whale. Some of the details have been fudged, just like in my memory.

"In the picture Gramps and Grammy were standing up against a Twenties-model Ford, the kind with running boards below the doors. They looked so young that it startled him. Gramps was skinny and cocky, with a long nose and pointy jaw just like Kevin. His mouth was open in a laugh and the hat on his head was tilted at an angle, like a fashionable Scandanavian gangster.

"Grammy looked like she wasn’t even twenty years old. Her hair was dark and curly and longer than he'd ever seen before. She was strange and beautiful at the same time. She had her right foot on the running board and her left hand on Gramps’ leg, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"You could tell she thought she had a pretty good catch."

Great Old Photos #1

K and I are currently in the process of creating a wistful, comic "growing up" slideshow to play at our wedding and get the guests all weepy. Let's play get the guests!

I've going through thousands of old photographs and come across some real gems. It's not always the content of these pictures that is spectacular (although the content is often remarkable), but it's something else, something invisible that makes these pictures really stand out for me.

I'm starting a short series in order to wrestle with these photographs.

Here is Great Old Photo #1

The scan of this picture doesn't really do it justice. The blacks look kind of washed out and the whites are dirty. Try to view the screen at an angle to really bring the contrast back to make the whites sparkle and the blacks black.

I love this photo for a lot of reasons, mostly because of its noiry starkness. Mom and Dad are so young here (I think it is 1965, probably Christmas by the look of the Christmas cards attached to the wall) -- Dad would be 29, Mom 25. They would have been dating for about three months at this point. It looks like a house they are in, and not an apartment, which could make it the house of Dad's brother-in-law, Uncle Louie. Or perhaps it is the house of some random couple hosting a party. It is hard to say.

The first thing one notices is the bright flash perfectly positioned in the mirror on the far wall. This is what makes the picture so wonderful. Imagine if the flash did not exist. It would still be a decent photograph but it would lose its interrogative shock. We see the very thing that is causing Mom to open her mouth in protest, a bright flash illuminating their secret (risque?) embrace. She is in his lap and his tie is rumpled. The rest of the house is dark and quiet. Dad's smirk puts him in league with the faceless photographer, but Mom's mouth is forming the shape of admonishment. She has seen the photographer approaching and is yelling at him to stop. This sense of fun is what takes the picture out of the realm of Weegee, although the aesthetic is the same. They are up to no good, and so is the photographer.

I love the beautiful square frame, something usually reserved for portraits and medium-format photography. Mom's face, which is foregrounded and receiving the glare of the flash full-on, is in the virtual center of the frame. They have too much headroom and the camera is tilting dynamically to the left. Do we feel tense because we have seen Orson Welles movies and others like it and we have learned that angled frames are a harbinger of bad things to come? Or do we innately feel tense because vertical lines are not vertical anymore and all is not well and right with the world? There is no time to set up this shot; the photographer is moving forward and the horizon is jostled. It is not so much composed as it is aimed. I imagine the camera continuing to tip counter-clockwise, becoming more and more dutched. Mom's head remains in the very center of this image as the stark world whirls chaotically around her.

A conical lamp hovers above her. It looks like a party hat that has just popped off her head, due to the sheer force of her surprise.