CleverDonkey.com …Musings, Commentary, Opinions, and Drivel

This weekend Mynagirl and I surveyed the movie scene looking for something we’d like to see. There are a lot of serious and/or meaningful and/or thought-provoking films out that we plan to see someday, but we’ve both been working our donkeys off at work and decided to opt for some escapist fare. Which brought us to Dawn of the Dead, the big-budget, Hollywood remake of the old George Romero zombie classic. We serendipitously hooked up with our friend Bruce, who is a bit of a horror-film-buff, and headed to the local Googolplex.

My expectations were that we would see a splattery, mindless zombie film, and that’s exactly what we got, with a bit more humor and touch more flair than I was expecting (but not much). For those of you who may not already know, the story follows the conventions of virtually every zombie film ever made, which consists of:

1. Extraordinarily normal people go about their daily lives.
2. People start turning into zombies.
3. A cast of survivors quickly coalesce in some last-stand location with zombies right outside.
4. There is friction among the survivors.
5. People you like die.
6. People you don’t like die.
7. Dead people tend to come back to life as zombies, somehow surprising the people who have spent the last 45 minutes of screen time fighting off undead zombies.
8. People wander off by themselves, even though that means death in zombie movies.
9. The movie does not resolve itself until the verrrry end – in this case that means staying and sitting through the credits!

Two of the best things about this film are Sarah Polley as the plucky heroine and Ving Rhames playing the strong, smart, menacing type that he plays so well. The rest of the cast is also strong, surprisingly so for such a throwaway movie. The cynical side of me says that the producers were able to attract such heavy talent by telling potential cast members that this would be 28 Days Later with a bigger budget and a deeper message. So, they all signed up, shot their scenes, then the filmmakers went in the editing room, yoinked out the “message” parts, put in some slow-motion zombie head explosions and called it a “film”.

There are a couple of other ways that this “Dead” is different from previous incarnations. For one thing, the zombies here are quite speedy, as opposed to the stereotypical zombie from the past which attacked with the speed of a fast-growing mushroom. We also learn that zombies ignore dogs (although I shudder to think about the “table scraps”), and that infected women give birth to infected babies (yuck). We also learn that there are a lot of zombies who (to their detriment) look like Jay Leno, Burt Reynolds, and Rosie O’Donnell.

And while the new “Dead” is certainly gloppy, it’s not really scary. There are some tense moments where our survivors try to outrun the Zombie Olympic Track Team, and there are (of course) obligatory “shriek” cuts of zombies popping into frame when the music tells you to pretend that you least suspect it. The movie also manages to work in a nod to the fad-du-jour of Monster Garage-like vehicle transmogrification.

The movie also has a fair bit of humor. For example, there’s another survivor on the roof of a gun shop across the way, but they can only communicate with him via written placards and binoculars. This doesn’t prevent him from becoming a beloved member of the group, and it is subtly hilarious when we see him and Ving Rhames’ character playing chess via written signs, using a chess set themed after “The Alamo”. The soundtrack also has a hilarious rendition of the song “Down with the Sickness” done Sinatra-style with lyrics like “C’mon, c’mon get down with the sickness…open up your hate and let it flow into me…” as we watch scenes of zombie carnage.

So, all in all it was an enjoyable moviegoing experience that exceeded our expectations just a bit. If you really want to see a well-done, scary, thought-provoking zombie film, go watch the vastly superior 28 Days Later. If you want a creepy gorefest, check out the original Night of the Living Dead or Dawn of the Dead. But, if you want a reasonably entertaining film that’s in current release so that you can sit in the dark for a couple of hours and eat popcorn and have a soda and walk out feeling that you haven’t been ripped off, you might want to check out the current version of Dawn of the Dead.

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When I was a younger man I regularly watched Johnny Carson on the Tonight Show. Then, one day, a new show came on after Carson…Late Night with David Letterman. I watched it a few times…it was sort of weird, and the host was a gap-toothed former weatherman from Indiana with a very skewed, strange sense of humor, an acerbic manner, and a very low tolerance for self-important celebrities and BS, which was a very new (and seemingly counter-intuitive) concept for a talk show host.

He did strange things, like drop stuff off of buildings, run over stuff with steamrollers, and he put on a Velcro suit (and used a trampoline to launch himself up and stick to a wall), a suit of suet (and went into an enclosure and let birds feed off of him), and a suit of Alka Seltzer (and was lowered into a tank of water). He did segments from the perspective of his dog Bob, and he strapped cameras to monkeys and let them run loose in the studio. He had the show’s writers and crew members, who were obviously not polished performers, participate in skits and segments with varying (but almost always funny) results. He had weird recurring segments that only became funny after several repetitions, like “Camping with Barry White”, where the R&B legend would be onstage in a mocked-up campsite, and Dave would join him and get sage outdoor advice. It was weird, it was funny, and it was un-Carson-like.

And I found that I began watching Letterman more regularly than Carson. It eventually became obvious that Johnny was winding down, only hosting a few times a week, and although he was one of the greatest talk show hosts of all time, you could tell he had hit the wall and was just going through the motions. Meanwhile Dave was getting funnier, smoother (for Dave), and more creative. It looked like a shoe-in for Dave to take over the Tonight Show, as he was the natural heir to the late-night throne.

Changing of the Guard

At this point Jay Leno had been installed as Johnny’s permanent guest host, and his ratings were good. Jay was (and is) one of the great stand-up comedians, and he seems like one of the few genuinely nice people in show business. When Johnny finally announced his retirement, NBC was faced with a decision — Jay or Dave. As we all know, they picked Jay, so then Dave moved to CBS to go head-to-head with Jay. I followed Dave over to CBS, but I also would check out Jay from time to time, since I was a fan of his stand-up comedy.

And what I found was that Jay usually had a strong opening monologue, and it was usually longer than Dave’s, and often funnier, in a “stand-up comedy” sense. However, Dave’s monologues were usually wittier and more sublime/absurd, as opposed to punchline/rimshot funny. And for me, ultimately, Dave’s sensibilities stood the test of time and also held my attention and my interest. Jay’s monologues feel like they would be more accessible to sporadic viewers or (and I don’t mean this as an insult) those who just want to have a couple of laughs before bedtime, but don’t really want to have to think too much, or track details over time, or feel they aren’t “in” on the humor because they aren’t regular viewers.

And that’s a real concern with Dave’s show. His humor is a combination of things that are immediately funny, things that are funny only if you know the whole back-story, things that are funny only if you think about them for a while, things that are only funny if you watch the show regularly (and pay attention), and things that are funny only if you have a sense of the absurd. For example, at least once or twice a week Letterman is sure to make a Clinton/Lewinsky joke or reference. Now, if you are an occasional viewer seeing one of these jokes, you may think that you’ve tuned into a *very* old rerun, but what you’re really seeing is a bit that has been played out over years and years and now has a subtle wit to it, even though the actual jokes themselves are usually low-hanging fruit.

And “On Cape” Tonight…

Another recurring bit is that the band will play a song (I Love You More Than You’ll Ever Know by Blood, Sweat, and Tears), and Paul Shaffer will perform the vocals as they go to commercial. Then after a couple of commercials we come back to the show, and Paul will step out from behind the keyboards, go to the middle of the stage, grab a handheld mic, and do a *very* melodramatic couple of bars of the song, ending up on his knees on stage in faux exhaustion (a la James Brown). At this point someone (famous) will come onstage with a cape, wrap it around Paul, and console him as they lead him offstage, since it is obvious that there’s no way he can continue, given his state. However, Paul refuses to leave the stage, and throws off the cape and returns to his keyboards, causing the cape-bearer to stare after him, sadly shaking their head in mock pity at how hard Paul is working, and how heroic his effort is to continue the song, even though he is (pretending to be) exhausted. Here is a partial list of people who have appeared “on cape”:

Greg KinnearThe show then returns to commercials, and when we come back the band finishes the song, and Dave thanks whomever was on cape. They come out and take a bow, and that’s it. They don’t get to talk. They don’t come sit by Dave. They don’t get to plug their latest project. In fact, in many cases the person “on cape” doesn’t really have anything to plug, and seems to be doing it just to do it. The occasional viewer might end up asking themselves what the hell was that??? when they see an unlisted, uncredited, unannounced celebrity of the stature of a Bill Murray or a Jane Pauley just come out to do some weird little shtick with no PR upside. The occasional viewer might get excited that the person “on cape” will be interviewed, but then be disappointed when they take a bow and leave. The occasional viewer (as well as the regular viewer) might see somebody who is not instantly recognizable (like George Stephanopoulos) come out “on cape” and ask themselves who the hell is that??? and have to wait to find out until the show comes back from commercial.

Tim Robbins

Don Rickles

Donald Trump

Whoopi Goldberg

Al Franken

Jack Black

John Malkovich

Jane Pauley

Marv Albert

Bill Murray

Kareem Abdul Jabbar

James Earl Jones

 

It’s one of those bits that, again, may be confusing and even irritating at first, that may even seem stupid after a couple of times, but over the years it develops into something sublime and enjoyable. When Marie and I hear the opening notes of the song we cannot wait to see who might be on cape. It’s one of those things that makes us smile (because of how absurd it is), and sometimes laugh (at the varying effectiveness of the emoting of those “on cape”), but it only works because we’ve seen it so many times that we “get it”. There’s no punchline, no setup, no dialogue, no “joke” of any kind, but it sure is funny and entertaining. This bit is a microcosm of what makes Dave’s show funny.

The list of these strange little humorous bits goes on and on, and I will not belabor this article by describing them all in detail, but they include Will It Float?, Is This Anything?, Potatoes or Gavin MacLeod?, Know Your Current Events, visits with Rupert Jee (owner of the “Hello Deli” next door to the Ed Sullivan Theater), sending pizza to the strippers at the joint across the street, dressing staffers in costumes and seeing if they can hail a cab on Broadway, etc, etc, etc. It’s all very weird and strange, but also funny and absurd.

Absurdity And Wit Are The Keys

And that really sums up the differences between Jay and Dave, for me. Dave is absurd and witty, while Jay is humorous and funny. I have met many people in my life who are missing the absurdity gene, and will classify anything that isn’t ha-ha funny as “stupid”. Monty Python and the Holy Grail is stupid, The Simpsons is stupid, the stand-up comedy of Steve Martin is stupid, anything that isn’t clearly a “joke” with a “punchline” is stupid. And I find that these same people almost always dislike the Letterman show. Dave is “rude” and “stupid”, where Jay is “nice” and “funny”. But to me, Dave is a witty and incisive interviewer, while Jay is content to lob scripted, softball questions and straight lines to his guests. Dave is absurd, witty, and sarcastic, where Jay is funny and sometimes a bit mean-spirited. And the Letterman show, while always building on tried-and-true bits, also seems unafraid to push the envelope and experiment with things that they’re not always sure will work. This feels especially true since Dave’s bypass operation, and it seems that he returned with renewed vigor and fearlessness, and the show feels more like his old NBC show (brasher, funnier, more creative).

And, finally, the birth of Dave’s son has given him a more grounded, earthy feel. It’s been pretty amazing to hear him talk about his son, and to watch him be simultaneously humbled, awed, and inspired by parenthood. Dave had always been just a touch too arrogant for my tastes (said the pot to the kettle), but parenthood seems to have dialed that down a notch or two to a more accessible level (but without making him an Arsenio-like star-butt-kisser). I’d be willing to bet that Dave is on his way back to the top of the late-night ratings, but I’d never do that because I know it is only an exhibition, it is not a competition, so please, no wagering.

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“There’s Simon Cowell, who folks wanna disembowel, he opens his mouth, always says something foul, they’re dyin’, wow, wannabes are cryin’ now, he votes ’em off, time to throw in the towel” — from “Couch Potato” by Weird Al Yankovich

This is the third season of American Idol. Until recently I had been snidely proud of the fact that I had never watched one single episode of any reality TV series. I even averted my eyes in disdain/disgust from commercials for reality shows.

But no longer. Three nights ago, purely out of curiosity, we (well me, but then Mynagirl got interested, too) tuned into the season premiere of American Idol. Then two nights ago we watched the second installment. Then last night we watched the third. Tonight we are lamenting that we have to wait until next week to see more. We’re hooked.

There had only been three shows that had hooked us in recent memory. Alias, 24, and anything related to poker. Now there are four. We put American Idol on a TiVo Season Pass, which is the highest compliment we can pay to a show. Is it Tuesday yet??

Mea Culpa
There are very few occasions when I am this wrong about how much I would like something. For example, I was sure that I would hate the movies Nine to Five and Moulin Rouge, but I loved them. Also, when the TV series Friends was in its fourth or fifth year, I worked with a group of folks who loved it. Loved it. I had never seen an episode, but I could tell from what I knew about the show that there was no way I could ever care about, nor be amused by, the cavorting and canoodling of six young Manhattanites. I was quite disdainful, mocking the show and my cow-orkers inexplicable interest in it to no end. Now I love the show, love the characters, know their life stories, care about what happens to them, and regret mocking my former cow-orkers. Could I be any more sorry?

And now add American Idol to the list. I don’t specifically recall ever making fun of the show to any fans, or mocking anyone for liking it, but I’m sure that I did, and I must say that I apologize. I have always known the shtick of the show…go to different cities and have wannabes try out in a singing contest, bring the finalists together and let the people choose. The finalists are selected by a panel of judges: Simon Cowell, Paula Abdul, and Randy Jackson. The whole thing is taped and the highlights of the tryouts and the finals are televised.

And in watching the first three episodes this season, I’ve discovered what Idol fans have always known, which is that the tryouts are grueling, funny, painful, and inspiring. They condense the highlights of the tryouts of a particular city down to a one hour broadcast, but it’s clear that the process lasts much longer, and that the three judges sit and watch/listen to hundreds contestant. They then vote on if they make it to the next round, and a simple majority wins, so you only have to convince two of the three judges. The contestants are a VERY mixed bag, with some so talentless that you know the Idol producers allowed them to audition simply for the entertainment value of their awfulness.

In fact, that’s probably my only objection to the show, at this point. The talent coordinators, who screen the thousands of wannabes down to the few hundred who actually perform for the judges, let through quite a few talentless weirdoes, apparently for the simple reason that there’s entertainment value in watching their painful performances. It’s a bit off-putting, however, to hear the judges then lambaste these contestants for “wasting everyone’s time”, but the truth is that it’s the show itself who allows them to consume screen time, and if the judges should be yelling at anyone it should be at their own talent coordinators. To me, the show is interesting enough without having to manufacture embarrassment and outrage in this fashion.

Broken Dreams
The most excruciating part of the show is watching the contestants who have a small modicum of ability, but somehow have magnified their “not-sucking” into “my-talent-is-my-ticket-to-the-top”. These people walk in fully expecting that the time of their discovery is finally at hand, and with complete confidence and joy step in front of the judges and croak out their auditions. The judges, particularly Simon, don’t always soften the blow, and in these auditions you actually witness the dashing of dreams. The sad truth is that if most of these folks had spent 30 minutes with a tape recorder and actually LISTENED to themselves, they would not have had such outsized confidence in their own abilities. But dreams die hard, and many of these people stalk out of the auditions and into the post-game interviews convinced that the judges are making a mistake, and you can feel that they’re going to go right back after their dreams with their drive undiminished. It’s actually awe-inspiring and heart-breaking at the same time.

There’s also a subset of contestants who can sing, but seem to feel the need to obscure that fact by doing something stupid like performing magic, singing nonsense songs, dressing strangely, and/or attempting complicated choreography. Some contestants walk in with a bad attitude, such as one young man who, when the judges were chatting with him before his audition and asked if he were excited, basically said that no, he wasn’t. When the judges prompted him for more information, and gently tried to lead him to at least admit that he cared about the contest, he became more and more surly, in that pseudo-tough teen way, to the point where the judges dismissed him without even letting him sing. I can’t say that I disagreed with them.

Great TV
All these ingredients add up to some very entertaining television. You never really know what’s going to happen next, such as a dissatisfied contestant dousing Simon with a glass of water, people refusing the leave the stage and continuing to sing even after the judges have left, and, finally, people who can sing. Really sing. One contestant began her audition, sang for about 10 seconds, and was immediately passed through to the next round because she clearly had the pipes for it. The judges are entertaining, and in most cases attempt to give the contestants constructive feedback. Simon can, of course, be a bit quick with the insults, but after watching the parade of semi-talented contestants, along with their penchant for disputing the opinion of these obviously qualified judges, I can certainly understand him getting snippy. Especially when I realize that they sit through hundreds and hundreds of these auditions, which must be nerve-wracking. It even got to the point where the judges were sniping at each other.

And the primary thing about the show that differs from my preconceptions is that it all feels very real. Yes, the coordinators occasionally stack the deck with talentless ringers, but for the most part the auditions, the judges reactions, and the contestants post-game interviews all ring very true. These people are, in most cases, putting their very sense of self up for judgment, because they think “I Am A Singer”. When they have that affirmed, their joy is unbridled and contagious. When they have it rejected, their dejection is palpable, but not unfair.

American Idyll
So I’ll be there next Tuesday night, couch-potato-ing my way through another episode along with millions of other viewers (including Mynagirl). I freely and humbly admit that I was wrong about this show, and consider my change-of-heart to be one more humbling lesson on the road of life. Two weeks ago I would have told you, unequivocally, that I would never, EVER, be taken in by the obvious parlor tricks of this show. But now this old dog is a new American Idol fan.

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Mynagirl and I went to see The Hustler last night on the big screen at the Alamo Drafthouse here in Houston. You can read her review of the Alamo Drafthouse (which we both love) right here:

https://www.cleverdonkey.com/ViewArticle.asp?ID=116&Cat=Houston

I have seen The Hustler many times over the years, but never on the big screen, and Mynagirl had never seen the film before in any format. The print was a touch scratchy in places, but overall it was a wonderful experience. The film is very powerful and moody, shot in black-and-white, and almost all of the scenes are set in dank pool halls, dingy apartments, or dark flop houses. I am no fan of film noir, and moody black-and-white is usually an immediate turn-off for me. In my experience, many directors used the moody *look* of film noir to try to *set* the mood, rather than having the mood flow from the combination of plot, characters, sets, and cinematography. In The Hustler the mood is oppressively gray, but not just because it *looks* gray, but because of the grayness of the characters, their lives, their surroundings, and their actions.

Our protagonist is “Fast” Eddie Felson, an extraordinarily skilled pool hustler who has hit the felt ceiling on his way to the top. You see, Fast Eddie has a lot of skill, but at the beginning of the film he has not yet developed the temperament or intelligence necessary to consistently beat equally skilled players. Now, there are only handful of opponents in Fast Eddie’s class, and one of them is Minnesota Fats, the smooth, suave, un-rattle-able, undisputed best there is. Near the beginning of the film, Fast Eddie and Fats engage in a titanic, marathon contest, which ends just as it begins, with Fats as the best there is, and Eddie as a talented loser.

After reading thus far, you may think that this is a movie about shooting pool. It isn’t. Pool is merely the backdrop, the arena in which the male characters contest their manliness in the way that men do. The Hustler is the story of men who think that the arena is all there is to life. The men in this film have no lives outside the arena…no wives, no children, no jobs, no hobbies, no joy. They either compete at the tables, or bet on the outcome of other men’s competitions. The story of this movie is the story of Fast Eddie slowly learning that there’s more to life than shooting pool.

Fast Eddie is played to perfection by a young Paul Newman. Newman plays Fast Eddie as a charming rogue with a razor-sharp pool game. Fast Eddie wants nothing more or less out of life than to beat Minnesota Fats and be acknowledged as the best there is. When his first shot at Fats fails, Eddie starts a downward spiral, abandoning his longtime manager (and friend), and moving in with a woman with her own set of problems.

That woman is Sarah Packard, played by Piper Laurie. Sarah is an attractive, intelligent woman who does not need to work for a living, and so does nothing except attend school sporadically and drink diligently. You can see that with just the slightest of efforts Sarah could drastically improve her lot in life, but she doesn’t seem to care enough to try. She’s content to share her booze, her bed, her roof, and her depression with Eddie, and Eddie is content to take advantage of this damaged soul.

Eddie at least has enough drive to take another run at Fats, and he agrees to be managed by Bert Gordon, a successful, ruthless loan-shark/gambler. Bert Gordon is played by George C. Scott in a performance that could have been the prototype for Bruce the shark in Jaws. Bert is a winner, and he wins at all costs. His philosophy is (and I’m paraphrasing here) that life isn’t like football, where they pay you for yardage. Life is about the final score, and at the end of the day you count up the money, and whoever has the most is the winner. Period.

Bert recognizes the inherent talent in Eddie, and knows that he can exploit it to make a little action and a lot of money. However, as Eddie starts developing character, he also starts realizing that he is falling in love with Sarah. Bert understands that this new love will distract Eddie from his game, and so methodically tries to destroy the already fragile Sarah. He does this right in front of Eddie, but does it subtly, through smiling teeth, with little phrases and smiles and knowing glances. Eddie isn’t even aware of the subtext, but both Bert and Sarah understand that there is a contest going on for poor Eddie’s soul.

The finale of the movie involves another match between Fast Eddie and Minnesota Fats. Fats is played with stunning authority by the late, great Jackie Gleason. Fats is dapper and polite, completely cool at all times, even when utterly destroying his opponents. He is the best there is, and knows it, and knows that everybody else knows it, too. Every day he shows up at the same pool hall at the same time, sits in the same chair, reads his newspaper and waits without passion or fear for the next gunslinger to come along and try to take him. But they always lose, because the fat man has it all…talent, intelligence, character, and experience.

On his way to the final showdown, Fast Eddie loses it all. He splits with Bert Gordon, loses the girl, and is left with nothing but $3,000 and a burning desire to prove himself. He walks into Fats’ lair one last time, and challenges him to shoot pool for $3,000 a game. One loss and he’s out. Suffice it to say that at the end of the film there are no winners, but lessons have been learned.

Paul Newman, Jackie Gleason, Piper Laurie, and George C. Scott were all nominated for Oscars for their roles. The film was nominated for several other Oscars, including Best Picture and Best Director, and ultimately won two golden statues and probably should have won Best Picture (which went to West Side Story). The Hustler is an amazing film, in that you don’t have to understand the game of pool to understand the games that are played, because the ultimate truths are not in the physics of the billiard balls, but in the actions and reactions of the characters. The lessons that Eddie learns are universal – don’t be consumed by material desires. Setbacks in material pursuits may be painful, but the true tragedy is a wasted life or love destroyed.

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There are people who really enjoy socializing, there are people who merely tolerate it, and there are those who dislike it. I am in the latter category. It’s not that I dislike people, particularly, it’s just that it takes tremendous effort for me to make small talk and be “sociable”. I’m not socially awkward, or anything, and am pretty personable when I put my mind to it. But that’s the issue…I spend my workdays with my professional face on, and the last thing I want to do with my leisure time is put on my sociable face. I want to relax and be myself. And there is a very small circle of people around whom I’m comfortable doing that, and (more importantly) whom are comfortable around me in that mode.

You see, my basic nature is that I’m a surly, sarcastic curmudgeon. I feel that being myself in “socializing” situations is not appropriate, so I have to sort of tone it down and be a bit more sociable, and this takes effort and concentration, so socializing is not relaxing for me in any way. Now, my family knows me and understands that with them I’m all bark and no bite, and don’t take any of my curmudgeonliness seriously (because it’s not meant seriously).

Alone <> Lonely

Also, when I’m not with my close circle of friends/family, I’m very comfortable with my own company. I *like* solitude. In fact, when I’m not with my inner circle, I prefer to be by myself. I know that there are people who are energized and recharged by spending time with people, but I am the opposite. I find time alone to be soothing and rejuvenating, and time spent with non-close friends and acquaintances to be a draining chore. That’s not a reflection in any way on people in general, and does not indicate that I find the individuals themselves to be draining chores. It’s just that I will invariably prefer to spend my time with my inner circle or alone rather than with someone with whom I am not close.

You see, I have come to the conclusion that my available time is divided between four primary categories – Career, Life Maintenance, Family/Leisure Time, and Social Obligations.

Career – I spend a lot of time on my career, but I am fortunate in that I can bring a fair portion of it home and do not have to be chained to my desk to be effective. And in our house there is a routine that the time after work is sort of unstructured, but most evenings includes the whole family at the dining table working on stuff at a sort of a low-intensity, while also interacting and playing things by ear. So, the work at home doesn’t consist of being locked away working intensely and hoping to not be “disturbed”. After-work time is a bouillabaisse of working, talking, watching TV, cleaning, playing with the dogs, kanoodling, kibbitzing, knoshing, etc. So, the nice thing about my career is that I can work hard at it without abandoning my family life.

Life Maintenance – Life Maintenance is stuff like cleaning, cooking, home repairs, paying bills, haircuts, yard work, renewing driver’s licenses, getting the car inspected, grocery shopping, doctor/dentist visits, etc. Trust me when I tell you that I expend the minimum amount of time on these activities as is humanly possible while still *having* a life to maintain.

Family/Leisure time – This is the category that I try to maximize, while still having a career and a life that’s organized enough to be livable. However, I *have* to do the first two (Career, Life Maintenance) to be able to have Family/Leisure time. We don’t have a lavish lifestyle, but neither are we independently wealthy. we have to earn our own money, and we can’t afford to pay others to organize our life.

Social Obligations – So, after all of the above, the “Social Obligation” category gets the short shrift from me. The combination of being low on my priority list plus being something that I do not enjoy means that I spend as little time as possible on Social Obligations. Now, Mynagirl and TheGIRL are both more social than I am, so we compromise on a mutually acceptable amount of socializing, but it’s not something that I seek to do on my own.

We Are Family

Most importantly, I love every moment I spend with my wife and daughter, and prefer spending time with them over just about anything else in this world. And that is not a canned platitude for this column, that’s the literal truth. I like playing golf, but not enough to give up 1/4 of my precious weekend time away from my family on a regular basis. I like going to the movies, but it’s only worth it to me if it’s a family activity. In fact, I can’t comprehend people who feel the need to “get away” from their families, for some reason. How sad that must be. Nothing makes me happier than having unstructured, footloose time at home.

For example, over Christmas we spent hours playing poker, which Mynagirl and The G-I-R-L are just learning, and we had a blast. We played for chips, not money, and spent the whole time talking and laughing and joking and just being together. I cannot think of any way to spend my time that I would enjoy more than just being with them playing cards (or doing whatever).

My Blind Spot

I know it’s not a zero-sum game where you either spend time solely with your inner circle or you are a social butterfly. I’m sure there are people who feel exactly like I do about their close friends and family, but then also enjoy socializing with semi-strangers (for lack of a better term). And that’s something I just cannot comprehend. I mean, I know people who like sushi, which I loathe, but I can understand them liking it, because it’s fresh and clean and healthy and interesting.

But I cannot fathom the desire to spend time with semi-strangers. If I could interview a social butterfly, I’d have so many questions. How can you possibly care about the stories or problems or opinions of semi-strangers? You socialize with them for the most random of reasons, such as they work in your office, or hang out at the same bar, or belong to the same gym, or live in your neighborhood. Are you so desperate for companionship or attention that the company of Random Person Number #37 is fulfilling? Are you so non-selective that these random people seem like good friend-candidates simply because they are right there in front of you?

”You know, Bob sits in the cube right next to mine. Gosh, I hope he’ll be best man at my wedding!”insert names of people whose names you won’t even remember in five years

“Hey, Mary gets her nails done at the same shop as me. I should tell her all the true feelings that I keep inside and don’t tell my husband or family!”

“Well, I know that I’ve been working late all week, and haven’t seen my family, but I think I’d like to spend Saturday golfing with .”

“My wife is feeling a little self-conscious about her weight lately. I think I’ll respond to that by sneaking off to a strip club with my Neanderthal friends.”

“Jane lives in the same building as me. That fills me with such strong feelings of sisterhood that I know we’ll be friends forever!”

Now, those are slightly over-simplified exaggerations, but only slightly. To me, the actions of social butterflies basically look like the above. Suffice it to say that I don’t understand what drives social butterflies, and I’m old enough and set enough in my thoughts and ways that I never will.

Caveat Rantor

All of the above being said, I do have one point of clarification – if you are new in your town or single or just looking for a new set of friends, I totally understand wanting to socialize and mingle and try new folks on for size. The things I am talking about here don’t apply to people in that situation. What I don’t understand is people who HAVE close friends and HAVE a family and a full life but STILL willfully choose to make the time to regularly socialize with semi-strangers.

Sanctum Sanctorum

What it comes down to for me is that I find peace, rejuvenation, and joy from being with a small circle of close friends and family. My inner-circle is my sanctuary, where everybody knows my name (and my game), and where I feel completely safe, completely fulfilled, and completely happy. Anything else (less) is simply in the way of me having my life. Socializing with semi-strangers is a chore to be dispensed with as quickly as possible so that I can get back to my real life with my close friends and family. I’ll never be a politician, a cruise director, a game show host, or a party planner, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

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I am comfortable with the food chain, and I’m no PETA-belonging tree-hugger. I eat meat, wear leather, smush bugs, and own pets (dogs and cats, maybe an aquarium soon). I try to choose products like free-range chickens and eggs from nesting hens, and I eat beef because it seems that most cows have a pretty cruelty-free life (up to the last part, at least). I stay away from things like veal and pâté, which can’t be produced in non-cruel ways, and I don’t wear (nor buy as presents) any type of fur, since most fur bearing animals are raised solely so that their fur can be harvested for adornment, whereas the vast majority of leather comes from cows that were processed for meat, which is a necessity of life (sorry, vegetarians).

So, while I believe that man has the right to exercise his place at the top of the food chain, I also think that it is the very definition of humanity that we not objectify the natural world or feel that we have to right to do anything we want to animals, no matter how cruel or selfish, just because they are animals.

There’s a summary of my animal politics. I’m pretty much in the middle of the pack, in my experience, and I’m certainly not an extremist of any stripe.

David the Deer, Meet Goliath the Goober

However, I cannot even begin to understand “sport” hunting. In fact, I assert that there is no such thing as “sport” hunting, as sport implies some sort of contest between competitively matched opponents, and the last time I checked deer hadn’t started carrying high-powered rifles, or even wearing bullet-proof vests. No, in today’s world hunting is nothing more than ritualized killing. Slaughter for pleasure. Torture for gratification.

I can hear some of you out there saying that I don’t understand hunting (or fishing). But I do. I was raised in South Texas, and the opening of deer season was a national holiday for the males (and some of the females) in my family. Also, my family members ate what they shot or caught (for the most part), and were all from an income bracket where the game and fish brought into the household helped extend the meager family budgets. As a boy I had pellet guns, shot birds around my house, went hunting with my uncles, and fished 2-3 times a week in the summer. However, as I got older (mid-teens) I lost my taste for it, realizing that I did not experience the “thrill of the hunt”, and instead started to question my own humanity because I was attempting to kill simply for sport.

Bloodbath and Beyond (turn of phrase courtesy of The Simpsons)

And that’s really what it comes down to. Hunting is about killing. Period. Hunters can try to rationalize that it is about being outdoors, applying skills that allow the hunter to get close enough for the kill. But you can do all that without killing. Take a camera with you – no zoom lens – and try to take a close-up of the animal you used to try to kill. Taking a picture has every single other element of hunting except the kill. So, if it’s not about killing, then don’t kill. So simple, yes?

No. Some hunters will say that since they use a bow and arrow, they’ve leveled the playing field. Actually, what bow hunting does is lead to more wounded animals running off to die from painful infections or to be caught by predators because they are slowed by their wounds. Is bow hunting more “fair” than high-powered rifle hunting? Yes, but that’s beside the point, because the point is actually why do you feel you must kill innocent animals?

Other hunters will say that the natural order of things puts man at the top of the food chain, and the soul-less, un-self-aware animals are there for us to terrify/torture/slaughter as we see fit. Now, I partially agree with this, in that I think that the human body was designed to need meat to be healthy, and I’m okay with animal husbandry that puts meat on my table. However, the assembly-line slaughter of meat-producing farm animals, while certainly not pleasant, is in no way comparable to a self-aware human who willfully chooses to spend their time hunting down and attempting to kill simply for their own gratification and blood-lust.

No Reasonable Doubt

I’m pretty open-minded, and can usually see both sides of most hot-button issues, but in this case I really see no way that anyone can dispute that sport hunting is solely about taking pleasure from killing. Some say that there is a challenge involved that gives satisfaction, and it’s not about the kill. To them I say why not go camping in the woods, find an old stump, and face down the challenge of trying to dig up the stump. Now there’s a challenge for you.

If you need the thrill of the hunt, then try paint-ball against humans. If you need to prove your sniper-like rifle skills, take up the biathlon (for the goobers who think this involves lesbian action, the biathlon is a winter sport that combines cross-country skiing with target shooting). If you think you must hone your hunting skills to be able to survive the coming collapse of civilization, please seek professional help. If you think you’re doing good by helping to control the animal population, that’s a crock, unless you hunt reluctantly and with great remorse, and even then you must have some sort of psychopathic bloodlust to pick this one area in which to practice your philanthropy.

The One Exception

The only justification for hunting, in my book, is survival. But then it is not “sport” hunting, it is a survival skill. There are people of limited means who actually can’t afford to put enough store-bought protein on their dinner tables, and must hunt in order to make ends meet. They are exempt, in my opinion, from any condemnation of “sport” hunting.

Ask Why

But with that one exception, I ask all “sport” hunters to ask themselves why they hunt. Why they feel the need to use incomprehensibly advanced weapons and tactics against innocent beings. Why they cannot take joy simply by being outdoors and experiencing nature instead of having to destroy it. Why their own lives make them feel so powerless or weak that they must somehow demonstrate their power and strength by killing defenseless creatures.

Study after study have shown that there is an irrefutable link between violence against animals and psychotic, sociopathic tendencies. A hunter who can desensitize himself to the obvious terror and pain he inflicts on his prey also becomes desensitized to violence against humans, most frequently his own family.

So, stop the cycle. If your father taught you to hunt, you may have nostalgic feelings about it, but that still doesn’t make it right. Hunting does not “make you a man”. In fact, it makes you sub-human. So stop. Don’t teach your children to hunt. Don’t tell them that it’s what men do. Don’t take glory from the carcasses adorning your wall. There is no glory in slaughter, only shame.

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The existence of this movie fills me with happiness and awe at the creative audacity of the human race. If you don’t know anything about this movie (although I’m not sure how you would find this review otherwise), and you have an open mind about movies, I urge you to stop reading and go see it before reading any further.

Go on, go.

When I ask if you have an open mind about movies, what I mean is can you set aside preconceptions about what movies should be and just experience what’s on the screen in the spirit in which it is given? Roger Ebert summed it up best in his review of this film, in which he said that to enjoy this film you have to not so much care what it is about, but you must care HOW it is about what it is about. Bubba Ho-tep is an amazing transference of an artistic vision to the screen, without care for the marketability of the story and without compromises to please the multiplex masses. In fact, this film doesn’t even have a proper distributor, so there’s almost zero advertising, it’s only playing in a few theaters, and will certainly not get the recognition (or box office) that it deserves.

So go on, go see it.

I’m warning you, I’m about to talk about the plot, and if you don’t already know the plot you shouldn’t read any further. In any case you should go see it. And if you’ve already seen it, go see it again, just so Hollywood can see that it has horrible taste in picking which movies deserve distribution and promotion (uh, Gigli? Texas Chainsaw Massacre? In the Cut?) and which don’t. Mind you, this isn’t Shakespeare, but it sure isn’t the dreck that Hollywood keeps excreting for the mindless herds, either. So thumb your nose at factory filmmaking, reward those involved with this unique near-classic, and be part of the grass-roots movement to show the so-called entertainment industry that you are not a mindless horde-member, but are instead a discriminating consumer who can appreciate a film like this.

Last chance, the next paragraph talks about the plot. Really, it does. Okay, you’ve been warned.

Bubba Ho-tep starts with an outrageous premise…well, three Outrageous Premises, actually. Outrageous Premise number one is that Elvis Presley is still alive and living in an East Texas nursing home. You see, at the height of his career he got fed up with all the glitz, glamour, fame, money, sex, and drugs and decided to switch places with an Elvis impersonator. Unfortunately for Elvis, the contract he had with the impersonator burned up (in a trailer park fire), Elvis (who was touring as an Elvis impersonator) fell off the stage, broke his hip, and ended up in a temporary coma, and the Elvis impersonator died. So now Elvis (the real Elvis) is living out the rest of his years in ill health, obscurity, loneliness, and regret.

Outrageous Premise number two is that another resident of the nursing home is none other than John F. Kennedy, or at least, he believes he is. You see, according to our elderly, obviously African-American JFK, the assassination attempt in Dallas failed, and Lyndon Johnson (et al) filled the hole in Kennedy’s head with a bag of sand, dyed him black, and put him in a nursing home, knowing that nobody would believe the ravings of an old black man that he was actually JFK.

Outrageous Premise number three is that many years ago a couple of thieves tried to steal the mummified corpse of a lesser Pharaoh (Tut’s brother, maybe) that was touring the US, but the bus they were driving ran off a bridge during a storm, dumping the sarcophagus into the river that just happens to run below the nursing home. Somehow the opening of the sarcophogus freed the mummy from the curse of death, and now he walks around at night looking to consume souls, which he needs as sustenance to remain undead (as opposed to dead). He has found an easy feeding ground at the nursing home, as nobody can put up much of a fight, and nobody is considered to have died an untimely death, since they’re all just there waiting to die in the first place. Elvis and JFK figure out what’s going on, and team up to try to stop the creature, who is dubbed Bubba Ho-tep (Bubba because he’s in the South, Ho-tep because it was an Egyptian royal family name).

At this point you’re either intrigued or you’re about to quit reading. If you’re about to quit reading, let me first say that once you accept the three Outrageous Premises, the movie plays it pretty much straight with the rest of the story. Elvis and JFK are walker and wheelchair-bound (respectively), and don’t suddenly gain heroic powers or manage to overcome the ravages of age. Bubba Ho-tep isn’t the fiercest undead creature ever to walk the earth, either, and he feeds on the elderly because they seem to be the only ones he can catch and overpower, and nobody listens to their outrageous claims.

If you’re still skeptical, I’ll also point out that if you go see this film you’ll see a performance by Bruce Campbell as Elvis that should, if there is any justice in the world, be nominated for an Academy Award. I have never in my life wondered what Elvis would look or sound like if he were still alive, but after seeing this film I’m sure it would very close to Bruce Campbell’s portrayal. There’s even a voice-over by the Elvis character, and while I usually find voice-overs to be annoying and pointless devices used by lazy directors to tell their story, in Bubba Ho-tep I found it to be a funny and poignant stream-of-consciousness from the man who would be King.

Also, this is not a slasher/horror movie, or even a horror/comedy. It sort of defies classification (which is why Hollywood won’t touch it with a ten foot pole…they can’t figure out what division it fits into), but if I were forced to describe this film in one sentence, it would be that it is a heartfelt commentary on the hell that is aging in America, coupled with incisive commentary about the ravages of fame and the human faults and foibles of man-made kings, wrapped up inside a story about two old geezers fighting off an undead mummy (who one of them thinks just might be Lyndon Johnson), and, if you accept the premise, is played straight and not as camp or satire, but is told with humor and intelligence. That’s a long sentence but there’s no shorter way to adequately describe this film.

Add to that the fact that JFK is portrayed (with appropriate gravitas) by the always-reliable Ossie Davis, and you have a movie made up of Grade B (and even C) movie parts, but which is put together with such skill and love that it overcomes its humble origins to become transcendentally great (sorta like Elvis). This film was made on a low budget (it probably could have been financed by sunglasses budget from the Matrix films), but it has enough heart and soul and humor that it ranks as one of the most enjoyable movie-going experiences I have had in years. So, relax, free your mind, shed your inhibitions, and go see this movie. And for being open-minded enough to do so (or to at least have read this entire review), I can only say thank you. Thank you very much.

P.S. I’m not kidding about Bruce Campbell’s performance as Elvis being Oscar-worthy. I’m sort of a fair-weather fan of his, having seen and loved his performances in Evil Dead and Evil Dead II. But I didn’t really care for Army of Darkness, I’ve never sought out any of his TV series, and I didn’t buy his book. I went into this film with expectations that I would see a Bruce Campbell film, and I didn’t. He is virtually unrecognizable, and not just because of the hair, makeup, muttonchops, and groovy shades. He becomes Elvis in this role.

There’s a scene in the film that I think should be shown to all Academy voters. In a flashback, we see Elvis (played by Bruce Campbell) meeting with the Elvis impersonator who will take his place (also played by Bruce Campbell). Even though they are both in costume and both look like Elvis (and like each other, since they’re the same actor), there is NO question as to which one is The King, as the “real” Elvis simply exudes greatness and power, while the impersonator just sort of looks like Elvis, but he sure doesn’t FEEL like Elvis.

I doubt that it will ever happen, but if any Academy voters read this, I urge you to seek out this quirky little gem of a movie and judge Bruce Campbell’s performance for yourself. By nominating him the Academy could instantly regain the credibility and respect that is slowly being frittered away by the ever-more-obvious fact that you seem content to suckle at the mainstream teat of the big studios while turning an ever-more-blind eye towards films without marketing budgets.

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This excellent swashbuckler borders on being an epic, but actually doesn’t try to be. It tells a medium-sized story (not big, not small) about a particular ship of the British Navy (during the Napoleonic Wars) on a particular mission (to sink or capture a bigger, faster French ship). It tells this story very, very well. The British ship, the Surprise, is chasing the French ship, the Acheron, down the Atlantic side of South America, around the Cape, and back up the Pacific side. The Surprise is smaller and slower, with fewer guns, fewer men, and a thinner hull. The Acheron is bigger, faster, has twice as many men and guns, and has a hull that seems impenetrable by British cannon fire.

The captains seem equally matched from a naval tactics perspective. Much like the crew of the Surprise, we don’t get to see or know the French crew except as a cunning and dangerous enemy, a chimera that hunts us and haunts us with equal effectiveness. The captain of the Surprise is Lucky Jack Aubrey, played with complete authority and believability by Russell Crowe. Captain Aubrey is tough but fair, and has (and deserves) the unquestioning respect and loyalty of his crew. Dr. Stephen Maturin, played by Paul Bettany, is the ship’s surgeon. He’s a skillful doctor, but his true calling is that he is a naturalist, and joined the Navy simply because it would take him around the world to see unrecorded new creature and species.

Aubrey and Maturin are long-time friends, and frequently spend evenings together in the captain’s cabin practicing music. This actually works within the story, and does not seem as stilted or affected as it sounds writing it. Their practice seems to flow naturally as part of the British Naval tradition of preserving culture and manners within the ranks of serving officers. We see the officers drinking tea from china cups as they fight raging seas or await the start of a battle, and it does not seem effete or incongruous, and in fact feels the way I presume it was designed to feel, which is that it brings a touch of normality and the familiarity of home to the strange society that is a warship halfway around the world.

The movie itself is nearly flawless. To put this review into perspective, I fully expected to hate this film. I don’t have any special affinity for historical or military stories, I have a love/hate relationship with Russell Crowe (grudgingly love most of his performances, tend to dislike what I can glean about him as a person), and the previews and trailers for this film were nothing but fodder for jokes and derision, as the film, quite frankly, just looked ridiculous to me. Pile on top of that the overlong and overblown title, and I knew this one was a “must miss” for me.

But I kept hearing very good things. And not from paid mouthpieces, but from my usual, trusted sources. So I set aside my skepticism and we went to see it last night, and I’m glad that we did. Russell Crowe does an amazing job as Captain Aubrey – so good, in fact, that within moments of the film starting I forgot that I was watching a “Russell Crowe film” and simply found myself watching the story play out. The acting by the entire cast is nearly perfect, and I qualify that with a “nearly” only because I’m sure somebody somewhere made a mistake or rang false, but I didn’t see it or notice it.

The film takes place entirely in and around the Surprise, so the vast majority of scenes are either on deck or below decks, and these scenes all feel completely authentic. The effects are seamless and unnoticeable, and even though I know they didn’t film scenes with the cast on deck during the vicious storms and high seas depicted in the film, I couldn’t see the effects, only the effect, which is very real. The filmmakers also seemed to pay very close attention to historically accurate details, but in the film they are not highlighted or paraded in front of the audience, but merely serve as backdrop, and their authenticity adds to the reality of the story.

And the story is very complex and real, with two major threads. The first is the pursuit of the Acheron, with the ships changing between hunter and hunted with each new day and shift of wind. Some of the strategy and tactics of naval warfare of the time are shown, but this is not a procedural, and these details are not the gist of the story and are only revealed as necessary to tell the tale. The second major thread is life aboard a British Naval vessel of the period. Aubrey is a good captain, and dines frequently with his officers, even getting tipsy and singing seafaring songs with them and visiting the decks in his inebriated state, which seems to bond him even further with his crew.

But he also doles out lashes where appropriate, even to good seamen who have simply crossed the line. And he is also willing to sacrifice his crew members when necessary in the heat of pursuit or battle, but it is done strategically, without malice and with much later regret, the curse of every good military leader. His officers range from seasoned hands to young boys, all loyal and dedicated officers, but with human faults and foibles that play into the story. The crew are a motley but hard-working bunch, and while mutiny is never a possibility in this story, we see that it is only the crew’s trust and love for their captain coupled with the iron-fisted chain of military command that keeps this from happening.

So, if you are skeptical, like I was, and don’t have any particular affinity for swashbucklers or military stories, or any great affection for period pieces or Russell Crowe, I urge you to put all that aside and go see this film. There are no martial arts, no sunglasses, no serial killers, no sex, no (gratuitous) gore, no quick cuts, no anachronisms, no time travelers, no robots, no teen angst, no May/December romances, and no hip soundtrack. Thank god.

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King Biscuit
1606 White Oak Dr
Houston, TX 77009
Phone: (713) 861-2328

The King Biscuit restaurant is tucked back in an old Houston Heights neighborhood along White Oak bayou. The menu is fairly extensive, including soups, salads, hamburgers, sandwiches, seafood, steaks, pork chops, etc, and the ambience is sort of kitschy-Heights. The building appears to have grown organically from an old gas station, and is tucked into a V in the road. There is almost zero designated parking, so you usually have to park on the streets of the surrounding neighborhood. There is a nice patio with a good view of the bayou, but it is usually infested with hard-core smokers making anything you eat out there taste like you’re licking it out of a used ashtray.

We have not been impressed with the food quality on our last couple of visits, and while the food isn’t terrible, it’s really nothing special. So, given the wide variety of excellent eats in Houston, I think King Biscuit is going to drop out of our restaurant rotation, at least for a while. A few years ago the food was noticeably better, and we hope that the quality starts to improve again, as we like this place and want it to be good.

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Oh, man, did this movie suck. Directed and co-written by Jane Campion, it stars Meg Ryan in her birthday suit for the first time on film. We went hoping to see an erotic thriller, and we’re still hoping. Yes, Ms. Ryan does bare it all, but it was completely (to me) un-erotic…in fact, it was de-rotic. And there’s nothing thrilling or mysterious, other than the mystery of how long they can drag out the lame story, or the mystery of how many men that Meg Ryan’s character thinks is a psychotic killer will she be aroused by and sleep with over and over and over and over again. The only “ic” that this movie is is idiotic, and it is that in spades. Here are some examples:

Example #1: At the beginning of the movie Frannie (Meg Ryan’s character), a high school English teacher, meets one of her students at a bar to discuss a paper he’s writing (a bar?). She heads down the dark, dingy back stairs of the seedy bar towards the restroom, and sees a man with a very unique and distinguishing tattoo being…serviced (ahem)…by a young lady with very unique and distinguishing blue fingernails. Later, when the decapitated head of the murder victim, who just happens to be the same young lady with the blue fingernails, is found beneath Frannie’s bedroom window in her garden, the cop who shows up has the same distinguishing tattoo as the guy from the bar. Frannie’s reaction to this? Sleep with him.

Example #2: When Frannie is unsure of her relationship with the cop, she seeks out the advice of her sister. Her sister recommends that she continue sleeping with the cop, which Frannie does. Frannie’s sister’s advice is trustworthy to Frannie, even though in her own personal life the sister is stalking some poor doctor, stealing the doctor’s wife’s clothes from the dry cleaner, and her biggest worry is what to wear to court when they slap her with a restraining order. Oh, and she lives in an apartment directly above a strip club, and appears to be sort of a den-mother to the dancers, running a sort of empowered-naked-women’s day care center, or something like that, where the strippers leave their babies while they go out front and grind for the customers. Heartwarming.

Example #3: The student from the bar, an obviously troubled young man who is writing a paper (in blood) defending notorious serial killer John Wayne Gacy as a misunderstood nice guy who loved his victims, also flirts with Frannie in that street-tough fashion of youth. Later in the story, after Frannie has discovered the body of her violently murdered sister and sat on the floor with her sister’s disembodied head in a plastic shopping bag in her lap until the police show up and pry it from her hands, Frannie promptly goes home, finds her young student waiting for her, and takes him upstairs and proceeds to make out with him. That’s a perfectly normal reaction, wouldn’t you say?

Example #4: At the beginning of the film Frannie relates to her sister the story of how their father proposed to her mother (they’re half-sisters – same father), and it’s a beautiful, romantic, sepia-toned flashback to her father and mother silently skating on a glorious winter’s day, and her father getting down on one knee on the frozen lake to propose. As the film progresses we learn more of this story through intermittent flashbacks, and find out that the father actually came to the lake with a different girl, his fiancé, no less, who is taken aback by how much attention he is paying to Frannie’s future mom. So the fiancé takes off the engagement ring and flings it at him, and he proceeds to pick it up, skate over to Frannie’s mom, and propose to her with the same ring. Of course, in that true, hackneyed cinematic tradition, he ends up slicing her legs off with his razor-sharp skates and spreading blood all over the frozen lake. Quite Kapra-esque.

Example #5: Kevin Bacon plays a former romantic interest of Frannie’s, who just happens to be instantly recognizable as a red herring, because he’s just too loony and stalker-like to actually be the killer….or is he?? Who cares.

The list goes on and on (and on and on). When we got home I double-checked the running time, which is just under two hours. It felt like a lot more. The absolute worst part of the film, however, is the grand finale, where the killer is finally revealed.

READ NO FURTHER UNLESS YOU WANT TO KNOW WHO THE KILLER IS!!!!

So, as we begin wrapping up this circus we find that Frannie is almost positive that the detective is the killer, so she invites him up to her apartment, for some inexplicable reason puts on a sexy, red, night-out-on-the-town dress, provocatively handcuffs him to an exposed pipe with his own handcuffs, has her way with him, then stumbles off blindly into the night (in her provocative red dress), where she runs into the detective’s partner, who thus far has been nothing but a bit character. He takes Frannie to a huge red lighthouse under the George Washington Bridge. The red lighthouse both physically and metaphorically resembles a bloody penis, so given Frannie’s romantic choices thus far I just assumed that she’d start humping it. At this point it is clear to everyone, including the audience and Frannie, that the partner is the killer.

So Frannie does the smart thing and follows on foot as he unlocks the gate and lets her in to the lighthouse grounds, where she seems to be inexplicably trapped by a 7 foot high, easily climbable wrought iron fence, even though she knows (because he tells her) that he’s going to kill her. But first he puts on a little easy-listening music, has a drink, and asks Frannie to marry him, at which point she does the first smart thing she’s done during the entire film and shoots him with the other cop’s gun that coincidentally happens to be in the pocket of his jacket, which she coincidentally decided to bring with her on her run out of her apartment, into the partner’s car, on the long drive through the country, and into the red lighthouse/weiner. Even though she shoots him in the leg (they show it), the overhead shot shows him dead laying on top of her bleeding from a chest wound. Call the Warren Commission, we’ve got another magic bullet.

It’s a shame that the wonderful Meg Ryan chose this piece of dreck as the first film where she bares her assets, as this film is not worthy. Ms. Ryan does a good job with what she’s given, and shows acting chops that make me very interested to see her first (good) serious film. This film, however, does not work on any level. I can’t see that it could be empowering for women (but I await correction on that assumption), it’s not a thriller, it’s not a police procedural, it’s not erotic, it’s not dramatic, it’s not funny, it’s not deep, it has no message, it has no layers, it’s not metaphorical of anything interesting/important/serious enough to care about, and it’s not anything but a complete waste of everyone’s time, effort, and money.

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