A Powerhouse Performance! "Chicago Ex-Patriate" Has Never Been Better!

In a way, this essay is a continuation of the theme of my last full post. I'm still going with "Ramblings About Films That Opened Two Weeks Ago That I Probably Won't Actually See." This was supposed to be up awhile back, but traveling and planning got in the way. Film advertising and promotions are the primary focus today, in relation to the maddening television spots for the film Swing Vote.

TV commercials have, especially in the past ten years (based on my own developmental awareness), been a double-edged sword. On one side, you can't help but keep in mind that ads have only one goal: to generate revenues for the given company. Yes, this is an obvious declaration, but no matter how witty or inventive a given ad can be, the company presenting it wants the viewer to buy something. I'll leave the necessary outrage and outcries against corporate greed to other bloggers, but I don't want to come across as someone who can be consistently driven to buy something based on a commercial. On the other side, everyone of us has, at least once, seen the opening of a familiar commercial, turned to the person sitting next to us, and said "Oh/Oh God, this commercial is great/awful."

Over a month ago, I saw the first commercial for Swing Vote. Kelsey Grammer, portraying a political candidate, walks with a group of gay Americans, stating assuredly that gays deserve equal treatment and rights. This ad works on two levels. One, it's not something that a real candidate would normally say, and two, it's clever. It doesn't say what the film's plot is, and it leaves the viewer wondering: "What is this movie really about? Is it about an equality-driven, honest candidate? Is it tongue in cheek? Is there more to it?"

A few weeks later, full ads for the film started to run. The curiosity was still there, but the intended effect totally backfired. More characters were introduced: Kevin Costner, Dennis Hopper, Stanley Tucci, and Nathan Lane. The spot reinforced that Swing Vote is a political comedy (more specifically, an election comedy), but there was no indication of what the film is actually about. By this time, it was infuriating. It was only after watching the theatrical trailer online and reading the review in The Seattle Times that I found out the plot--Costner's character has the lone vote to elect the next President, with the two candidates played by Grammer and Hopper. As of this writing, I've read three reviews of the film, all of them marking the film as mediocre at best. The advertisers started off well with the original Kelsey Grammer spot, but the follow-up trailer brought it down, all due to the lack of a tidy, easy summary.

The aforementioned ad nearly led me to devote a full essay to the Quote Whores--the Earl Dittmans and Gene Shalits who slap hilariously rave quotes on posters and trailers for awful movies. However, the Quote Whores (I feel they deserve undeserved capitalization, just like the movies they promote) have already been properly lambasted by everyone from Jim Emerson of The Chicago Sun-Times to Stephen King in Entertainment Weekly. However, despite their incompetence and lack of film knowledge, they have gotten lazy in their hyperbole. I did not catch the name of the reviewer who said, about Swing Vote, that it's a movie that "will make you stand up and cheer!" I can only hope that the quote came from a Q.W., because respected film writers should certainly know better. I've seen many, many great films, but I've never, ever been compelled to stand up and cheer. The same goes for my fellow audience members. The closest I've ever come to that kind of emotional display was when Haley Joel Osment's character died in Pay It Forward, only because it was a horrible film.

Am I just a lethargic movie-goer? Do I sit with medicated audiences? If anyone has ever stood up to cheer during a film, I'd love to hear the story. I also welcome sarcastic ones as well.

Hiatus

Hey everyone--

I'm out of town for a wedding, so I probably won't have any new posts before next week. I might be able to get one or two done, but as of now, they'll probably resume in about a week. Any comments or critiques? By all means, keep them coming, and I'll respond accordingly.

The Brendan Fraser Hypothesis

The Mummy: Tomb Of the Dragon Emperor opened today. I have no plans to see it, and the review in The Seattle Times was negative, citing bad dialogue, a trait that's evident in the commercials for the film on television. I've only seen the first installment of the Mummy series, many summers ago, and I actually thought it was quite enjoyable, taking these points into consideration: it was a hot summer night, it was a two-dollar rental from the video store near my house, and I was looking for some quick entertainment. I'm sure this latest installment will reach the top ten in the weekend box office receipts on Sunday, slowly descend as the weeks go on, and will make a quiet DVD debut before Christmas. Also, I'm sure the same can be said for the recently released Journey To the Center Of the Earth. In addition to being harmless, mindless summer blockbusters, these two new films share a common thread: Brendan Fraser.

A couple of months ago, I Netflixed (does anyone have a trademark on this verb yet?) the 1998 film Gods and Monsters, and found it really enjoyable. The acting was strong, and I'm a sucker for what seem to be faithful recreations of Old Hollywood. As I was watching it, I remembered the largely forgotten film The Quiet American. I saw it with a couple of friends at a late Saturday night showing back in 2002. I don't remember too much about it, but I do remember liking it. The reviews were favorable, Michael Caine was nominated for a Best Actor Academy Award, and the film seemed to quickly disappear afterwards. However, now that Mr. Fraser has two summer movies in theaters right now, I feel that audiences are due for another one of his serious dramas. Simply put, we need another installment of "Brendan Fraser and An Old British Actor."

This is not a knock against Mr. Fraser. He always does what's expected of him in any given film, whether it's an action movie or otherwise. However, whenever he's gone in the direction of a serious drama, he's shared the screen with either Ian McKellen or Michael Caine. Also to his credit, his acting when paired up with one of these legends is decent, even if he's just looking like he's deep in thought during the dialogues. Perhaps he's the go-to "buff American foil" when filmmakers have a Caine or McKellen on their hands. (Note: When I discuss Fraser's forays into drama, I omit Crash for two reasons. One, I have not seen the film. Two, despite the fact that the Academy Award for Best Picture cannot be taken seriously sometimes, has there ever been a Best Picture winner that's been forgotten as quickly as Crash?)

The more I think about it, the Fraser/Old British Actor pairings have both followed the same basic acting themes: Fraser is the straight man (no pun intended for Gods and Monsters) to the British stars. While the venerable old actors have more memorable scenes and dialogue, Fraser is more subdued and pensive. In a way, it's a nice subversion of stereotypes. If these movies had been comedies, one would have expected a tired formula of the Ugly American and the Stuffy Brit. As I hinted before, I'm sure it's really a testament to Fraser's screen presence. He never looks out of place, whether he's shooting mummies or engaging in a psychological battle for the affections of a Vietnamese beauty. I think in the future, we should have some control experiments to see if this hypothesis holds any water. I hope that Fraser eventually gets paired up with Gene Hackman and Robert Duvall in two different films, to see how he does with two Old American Actors.

For now, we have to wait until 2009, when the theory takes a bold new turn. Fraser is starring in the fantasy film Inkheart, along with Jim Broadbent and Helen Mirren. Fraser on screen with an Old British Actor AND an Old British Actress? I cannot wait.

Wallace Stevens, Neko Case, and Jean-Luc Godard Walk Into a Bar...

As I've mentioned before, I'm currently working on a novel, trying to get a cohesive outline done, and tentatively drafting the opening two chapters. Once I get the first two chapters done, it's back to the drawing board, so to speak, since I have a few plot points that need to be carefully laid out. In addition to this, I have a few other fiction projects in the works, so I'm bracing myself for the next couple of months, when I'm sure to alternate between feeling productive/happy, and stalled/disgusted. I'm not at all saying that I'm going to have the novel done in a couple of months; far from it. I'll be happy if I have those first two chapters completely finished, let alone the entire project.

As I get to work (in addition to keeping this blog running at a consistent schedule), I know that I need to take a few moments to breathe and not get too caught up (I'm a master of beating myself up, especially when it comes to writing). In a wonderful case of coincidence, I've experienced three outside creative moments this week, little slices of wonder that have put me at ease and helped me savor the idea of creativity in all its forms. These have no bearing or relation to my fiction projects, yet they've been strangely peaceful, and I feel like there's some connection.

First, last week I bought a used copy of The Palm at the End Of the Mind, a poetry collection by Wallace Stevens. His name has come up a few times in my readings and research in the past couple of weeks, added to the fact that I'm way behind on poetry studies. As I read through parts of the book, I stumbled across a stanza in "Thirteen Ways Of Looking at a Blackbird," a sampling of lines that I read several times at once, astonished by the emotions and imagery packed in such a small space:

VI
"Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause."
(Stevens 20-21)

I didn't know why it caught me so suddenly at the time, but now that I read it yet again, I'm stunned at the simple construction of eerie foreshadowing.

Then, a few days later, I was listening to one of my favorite albums, Neko Case's Fox Confessor Brings the Flood. Everytime I listen to the song "Star Witness," I get chills when I hear the lines:

"The look on your face yanks my neck on the chain..."

The atmosphere does not diminish no matter how many times I listen to it. I can think of dozens of awesome (in the literal sense) song metaphors by many different bands/musicians, but that one line hits me in the stomach everytime, always carrying the same impact.

Finally, yesterday I watched a movie I've been meaning to see for a long time, Jean-Luc Godard's Band Of Outsiders (1964). Overall, I enjoyed it (mildly disappointing, but that's besides the point). The cafe dance sequence is one that has been cited and referenced many times, but seeing it for myself made me smile. It's so spontaneous and fun, and viewers can easily tell that the actors are enjoying it.

I'm always analyzing works as a whole (including my own), so I like being able to take these little moments at face value. Perhaps I was reading too much into my above statement of trying to make a connection. As I go about my projects, it's reassuring to know that great sequences can easily come in small samplings, in addition to complete works. The poem, the song, and the film were like therapy to me this week. Plus, don't most things come in threes?

Work Cited:

Stevens, Wallace. The Palm at the End Of the Mind. Copyright 1971 by Holly Stevens.

Diving Into the Abyss

"While we search for the antidote or the medicine to cure us, the new, that which can only be found in the unknown, we must continue to turn to sex, books, and travel, even knowing they will lead us into the abyss, which, as it happens, is the only place we can find the cure." --Roberto Bolano

It's been probably four months in the process, but I've finally finished reading Roberto Bolano's 1998 novel The Savage Detectives (first published in English in 2007). Once or twice, I've mentioned it in one of my postings here, probably as a reminder to finish it. Other readings and writings interfered, and my hope was to have written an essay about the book awhile ago. Many an evening I'd be reading a different book and glance at the off-white spine of The Savage Detectives on my desk, feeling irked that I wasn't focusing on it. Now that the story has been bouncing around my head in a completed fashion for the last couple of days, I've realized a few things. One, without hyperbole, it's one of the greatest books I've ever read. Two, now that I look back, I've excitedly mentioned it in roughly ninety percent of the e-mails I've sent in the past couple of months. Finally, and most importantly, there was no need to kick myself for not finishing it sooner. The reading, much like the events of the novel itself, is about the journey rather than the set destination.

The following description will pretty much read like every available summary of the book, whether in print or online: Three Mexican poets (Arturo Belano, Ulises Lima, and the primary narrator, Juan Garcia Madero) devote their lives to writing poetry, living and experiencing everything they can for the sake of poetry, and eventually searching for an elderly, elusive poet (Cesarea Tinajero). Most of the book is composed of interviews and testimonies of the people they've met, known, or merely crossed paths with at various points. Since Belano and Lima are so uncompromising in their self-proclaimed Visceral Realist poetry movement, the interviewees have mixed opinions about them, ranging from admiration to unabashed loathing. And yet, the book is about so much more, especially the necessity for poetry (and all writing styles, in my opinion) to be a lifestyle and a mission, not just a product.

"For Bolano and the others, rejecting a career in poetry was a way of taking poetry as seriously as life itself--and vice versa. If the author lived what he wrote in this spirit, Bolano liked to say, the reader would naturally feel the urgency and live it too (Wimmer xiv)."

Admittedly, this barely scratches or truly identifies the book entirely, but doing so would be impossible. Bolano (who died in 2003) created a treasure for readers with willing time and energy--The Savage Detectives requires several readings (which alone could take months or years, depending on time), references scores of real poets and writers (as well as fictional ones), and has metaphors that run wild. I know, after a single reading, that I've missed several pages' worth, simply due to my sore deficiency in Latin American literature. Also, creating a list of the characters would take up a full sheet of notebook paper, probably including the margins.

I mentioned hyperbole in the first paragraph, and the paperback edition of the book is rife with examples: "mesmerizing, glittering, utterly unique," to name a few. As much as I have a problem with book and film blurbs, the descriptions fall into the same category of trying to summarize the novel's contents. There is simply no way to adequately describe it with just a few adjectives. Since it's a partly autobiographical, and it's meant to represent the true meaning of poetics (according to Natasha Wimmer's wonderful introduction), a reviewer cannot be blamed for having to rely on grand descriptions. Before I realized myself that descriptions of this work are tricky, I went online to find opinions and reviews. One blog complained about keeping track of the characters, and someone commented on the blog expressing irritation of not knowing "the point" of the book.

"Bolano...had always been fastidious in his work habits (Wimmer xxiii)." Since we know of his great attention to details, it's obvious that nothing is intentionally vague in the pages. The dozens of characters are essential, even if they only appear once or twice. On top of that, as wonderfully dense as the book is, there is nothing out of the ordinary as far as his descriptions or the novel's layout. To me, it's a sign of Bolano's genius and restraint. With so much narrative available, he could have easily added more metaphors and cross-sections, creating a Rubik's Cube of Pynchon or Gaddis-like proportions. It's as if he wanted to challenge any potential critics. "If you think this is confusing," he might have said, "you should see what else I'm capable of doing."

This isn't supposed to be an overt review of The Savage Detectives, since it has been available in English for over a year. As I've mentioned, reviewing it would be a Sisyphean undertaking. This essay is more of an appreciation of the power of writing and literature, both in the book and reflected in Bolano's lifestyle. An understood rule is that a reader should never confuse the author with the written product, but an exception can be made in this case. Bolano was the true definition of a poet/writer--traveling, living, experiencing, and cavorting. Artists of all mediums should look to him as a model, since he came awfully close to personifying the answer to the age-old question, "What is art?"

Appreciation also has to be given to Natasha Wimmer for her exceptional translation and important introduction. I don't read Spanish, and even if I did, I do not have an original copy of The Savage Detectives. However, while reading, I had the fullest confidence that nothing had been lost in translation, since even in English, the book maintained a wonderful lyricism that is no doubt multiplied in the original Spanish copy. While Wimmer's introduction might seem like a basic short biography at first, she provides much needed insights into Bolano's personality. Read the introduction for a second time after finishing the book--it's amazing how various passages from the novel will come to mind.

Finally, during my browsing for articles on The Savage Detectives, I found this video clip. The title is "SirJack Recommends The Savage Detectives." I was hoping that the dog would do something cute like pull the book off the shelf, but it's a strangely compelling clip nonetheless. Probably because the dog is so cute, even while doing nothing.

Work Cited:

The Savage Detectives. Copyright 1998 by Roberto Bolano. Translation copyright 2007 by Natasha Wimmer. Introduction copyright 2008 by Natasha Wimmer.

In Defense of Satire

If you glance to the right-hand side of this page, you will see a link to the webpage of the Flying Spaghetti Monster. I remember reading about the site in passing several months ago, but only visited it recently. The open letter to the Kansas School Board is a wonderful example of satire, one of a few pieces that truly deserves the misused label "Swiftian." Bobby Henderson (the author) wrote the letter as a humorous, yet smart attack on the theory of Intelligent Design. He makes an excellent point: If Intelligent Design backs the claim of an unidentified Creator, then any diety can be plugged in, hence the Flying Spaghetti Monster. I added the link button because anybody who knows me well knows my love of sly humor and satire (The Onion being one of my favorite publications).

However, I almost took the link down when I read that the Flying Spaghetti Monster is becoming a symbol for athiests. I personally don't have any strong religious beliefs, and there's no need for me to get into my own thoughts on the existence of a God (whatever the definition may be). My grappling with the subject is no different from anybody else's. However, I do try to take a benevolent approach. If someone is religious and religion plays a healthy part of his or her life, I support that unequivocally. Two things I don't support are the theory of Intelligent Design or religious fundamentalism. To me, it seems that some athiests sometimes adhere to a sort of fundamentalism, not much different from the strict fundamentalism (whether it be Christian, Jewish, Islamic, or otherwise) that it tries to attack and discredit.

Yes, a wild card can be dealt with the idea of agnosticism, but I want to stay focused on athiesm. The subject has been relevant in the past couple of years, evidenced by the sales and publicity of Richard Dawkins' The God Delusion and Christopher Hitchens' God Is Not Great. I have not read these books, nor have I done any serious research for this topic, save for some skimming at Wikipedia. However, it seems that public, outspoken athiests are trying to "convert" people, insisting that their views are wrong. Again, how is this not a (anti)religious fundamentalism? Using religion wisely, as a guide to do good personally and for meditative purposes is wonderful. It's when fundamentalism comes into play that problems arise. If an athiest wants to respectfully speak out to defend science, to explain the dangers of fundamentalism, to point out the hypocrisy of Intelligent Design, and to ensure the separation of Church and State (an idea that seems lost today), that's honorable. However, there are scores of people who believe in the same things but happen to identify themselves with religion. To shoot them down because they attend masses is embarrassing.

I'm keeping the link up for its intended purpose, in my mind: intelligent satire against Intelligent Design. I only post these thoughts because using the Flying Spaghetti Monster as a symbol of athiesm takes away from that purpose. As Mr. Henderson is quoted on his website: "I don't have a problem with religion; I do have a problem with religion posing as science."

Movies and Life: The Self-Involvement Blog-a-thon

This is my contribution to The Self-Involvement Blog-a-thon that is being hosted at Culture Snob. All of the submissions I've read so far have been wonderful. I run the risk of sounding like an Academy Award presenter when I say this, but this project truly shows it's impossible for films to not impact us day-to-day. This essay recounts my early experiences with Nicholas Ray's Rebel Without a Cause (1955).

"You know something? You read too many comic books."

This line, spoken by Jim Stark (James Dean) to Buzz (Corey Allen) is perfect, especially followed by the derisive laughter of Buzz's gang. While watching Rebel Without a Cause at twelve years old, I knew exactly how Jim felt at that moment. When you're being bullied or picked on, there is nothing you can say to defend yourself. Most of the time, even the wittiest, sharpest comebacks fall on deaf ears. He did not get the satisfaction of talking his way out of the situation. As the film went on, I identified with him, given my own problems with being an easy target.

As it's been said and written many times over, the film does appear dated and occasionally silly at times (especially as a precursor to 1990s television shows starring twenty-somethings as high school students). However, during tough junior high and high school years, I found solace in and a connection to Jim Stark. Sometimes, I found myself secretly wishing that I didn't have loving, supporting parents, just so I could yell out "You're tearing me apart!" ( it's an early scene in the film that still causes me to slightly jump, since it's such a jolt in the dialogue). Life doesn't always imitate the arts to the extent that we would like.

Some backstory: When I was eleven, my eldest brother joined the Army. At that point, I had looked up to him immensely, and quickly moved into his bedroom. The items he left behind captivated me to no end. I have distinct memories of walking into the bedroom and being hit with the atmospheres and emotions of the black and white posters on the walls: Frank Sinatra, Marlon Brando, and a small, crumbled poster on the bedroom door: A wonderful shot of James Dean, unshaven, looking away from the camera as if he couldn't be bothered (there's no doubt it was a posed shot, but remember, I was eleven). The bookshelves were filled with poetry, plays, and a handful of 1950s actor biographies. I was immediately drawn to James Dean: The Mutant King by David Dalton and a stunning collection of Dean photos taken by Dennis Stock. Not much later, my father took me to Best Buy, where I used some birthday or Christmas money to buy Rebel Without a Cause on a Special Edition VHS.

I was immediately hooked. I had daydreams of getting into knife fights ("Who's fighting? This.... is a crazy game") outside planetariums. I wanted a girl who would spurn me, fall in love with me, and kiss me within the confines of a single day (I had the "spurn" part down quite well). I didn't realize this at the time, but I probably wouldn't have minded a sexually ambiguous male classmate following me around like a puppy (Jim Stark didn't seem to mind). I wanted to get drunk and picked up by the police in the early hours of the morning (even though, at that tender age, I had no clue what being drunk felt like). Since the actions were beyond my reach, I happily settled for the looks.

I looked through old coats in my parent's basement and found a red jacket, purely by chance. It wasn't flattering, but I wore it constantly, unzipped halfway, standing in the junior-high parking lot trying to look as melancholy and brooding as a pudgy, thick glasses-wearing kid could look. When my parents weren't home, I'd take one of my father's cigarettes and just hold it in my mouth to complete the transformation. Most importantly, when I'd get picked on, since I was normally too afraid to seriously stand up for myself, I'd shoot deep glares, squinting like James Dean. No, it didn't work, but it felt great, channeling those cinematic influences. Two years later, my eighth grade class put on a play, part of which was set in the 1950s. The girls wore poodle skirts, most of the guys slicked their hair and wore white t-shirts and jeans, and I wore the red jacket, hoping at least one person in the audience would get the Rebel Without a Cause reference. Looking back, I was obviously very nerdy, but it didn't feel that way at all. I was Jim Stark.

As I got a bit older, those movie posters came down and were replaced by posters of Michael Jordan and Sammy Sosa. It wasn't until my senior year in high school that films became a serious part of my life. I signed up for a cinema studies elective, taught by the same English teacher who inspired me to major in English in college. Thanks to that class, I never looked at films the same way again, having been taught how to study and screen effectively. However, my fascination with Rebel Without a Cause was really the start. I didn't know it at the time, but I was mentally dissecting every scene, color, and angle.

Sadly, it seems that today those iconic (a word that is used too often, often inappropriately) images of James Dean's rebellious poses have turned into marketing, still being plastered on t-shirts, coffee mugs, collector's dolls, and wall clocks. I wasn't aware of it at that age. My love of that film went beyond escapism; it was my attempt to inhabit that world and those meanings.