AbNorman

This evening in procrastination

2009-06-01T20:52:00.000-07:00

Tonight I stayed late at work in the hope of getting some writing done. Instead, and among other things, I:

Anxiously talked to a coworker with a wicked, hacking cough while thoughts of germs and of the imminent arrival of my own symptoms impaired my ability to listen.

Considered homoeroticism between Ygor and the Monster in Son of Frankenstein (1939) and how it develops and deepens in The Ghost of Frankenstein (1942).

Took the Munsell Hue Test (courtesy of Shandon) repeatedly, getting worse each time and wondering if I could be suffering hysterical colorblindness.

Fantasized about the crossword puzzle I would work later this evening. (I mean really work.)

Leafed through one of the Office Manager's books, Working with a Transsexual: A Guide for Coworkers. Realizing I share the name of one of the book's subjects, I hope Norman's "transition" went well.

Engaged in lofty talk of personal entropy and then looked up the word "entropy."

And finally, with the other Norman's courage as my inspiration, vowed to do better tomorrow.

Turn your head (or avert your eyes) and CoFH

2008-08-06T15:38:00.000-07:00

Last night, Shandon and I narrowed down our list of 30 or so candidates for this year's Cavalcade of Filmic Horrors (CoFH), the annual program of horror flicks we screen, mainly for ourselves, in anticipation of, and culminating with, Halloween. (The tradition of the last several years has been to watch Halloween, John Carpenter's seminal slasher, on the film's namesake day, but we've decided to impose some distance between the film and ourselves. All the better to enjoy it once we decide to return to this immensely entertaining and truly frightening film we've already committed to memory in its entirety, as though it were one of our little cult's sacred texts.) We take all this programming very seriously, even if we're pretty casual about the scheduling of any given title. August seems as good a time as any to start the series, what with the month's lengthening shadows and whiff of late-summer decay.

Nine titles (ones I think Shandon -- watch this space -- will address in greater detail) made the cut, and I became fixated on any potential significance held by that particular number. I thought to myself, Well, a black cat could have nine lives, while wondering whether a complete set of 10 wouldn't make more sense, as in this season's "top ten." Top ten what, I wasn't quite sure, as the enterprise of finding good horror movies becomes increasingly difficult with each new "festival." Then eleven, a Shandon fave, sounded like a good, odd number. But once you're there, why not simply bypass twelve altogether, holding out for an unlucky baker's dozen (a la Friday the 13th), given that this is a horror series?

Anyway, I finally decided to let go of this numerology obsession, but I did come up with a tenth title. It is the one I kept vaguely referring to as "that movie, you know, where the completely automated house rapes its female occupant." Yes, house. Based on my uncertainty and Shandon's facial expression, I prayed I wasn't making this shit up. I am happy to report that there is such a movie, something called Demon Seed (1977), starring Julie Christie no less, and featuring an uncredited Robert Vaughn (naturally) as the creepy voice of the house. Most people familiar with the movie's basic premise were exposed to it in a segment from Treehouse of Horror, The Simpsons' yearly Halloween-season anthology. In this segment, entitled "House of Whacks," Marge's "Ultrahouse," resembling HAL 9000 from 2001: A Space Odyssey and silkily voiced by Pierce Brosnan, becomes infatuated with her and plots to kill Homer. (The Ultrahouse's scheme, in an especially delicious touch, involves luring Homer to the kitchen in the middle of the night by frying bacon.)

I have some bizarre need to see the original source material, and, er, saints be praised, Demon Seed is available on DVD.

Happy 4th, all

2008-07-03T15:07:00.001-07:00

And, if anyone's asking, I still support the troops.

Death wish fulfillment (and then some)

2008-07-02T17:27:00.000-07:00

Did you know there are four sequels to the movie Death Wish, that paean to vigilantism that makes Dirty Harry appear restrained? I knew there were at least two, and probably three, installments in this series, but five? I noticed this excess when I was leafing through my wonderful 800-page TCM Catalog (in association with Movies Unlimited) and came across the Charles Bronson subsection in "Action & Adventure." I think I may be forgiven for conflating two or more of these titles because, according to the catalog's descriptions, they all share the same storyline and other key elements [emphasis mine throughout]:

Death Wish (1974)
Original vigilante thriller that spawned a slew of sequels [you don't say] and "copycats" still packs a potent punch. Charles Bronson takes the law into his own fists when his wife is killed and his daughter raped by local toughs. ["Original"? Wasn't this a "copycat" of Dirty Harry?]

Death Wish II (1982)

Charles Bronson is back...and meaner than ever. His daughter's been assaulted [Again? Yeesh.], so once again he goes on a one-man vigilante spree against the crooks, rapists and muggers of the city.

Death Wish 3 (1985)

Crime-busting vigilante Paul Kersey (Charles Bronson) returns in the third action thriller, defending the terrorized residents of a New York apartment building from a horde of marauding gang members and blowing the punks away as only Bronson can. [Filling the breach left by law enforcement with all its rules and red tape!]

Death Wish 4: The Crackdown (1987) [The series graduates to "colon" level, indicating its seriousness!]

He takes the law into his own fists, on a one-man vigilante spree, blowing the punks away as only he can. Yes, Charles Bronson returns to the streets, and viewers of "Death Wishes" One, Two and Three know what that means! [I.e., you know what you're gettin', and no explanation necessary!]

Death Wish V: The Face of Death (1994) [And returns to a Roman numeral! Unless that's V for Vigilante . . . ]

Charles Bronson's Paul Kersey is back, this time returning to New York with girlfriend Lesley-Anne Down. When she's killed in the crossfire of her ex-husband's protection operation, Bronson hunts down the scum responsible in his legendary vigilante style.

So, I guess if these films have a "moral," beyond legal process being for pussies, it's that you shouldn't cross, get close to or even hang out with Paul Kersey. You'll be in for a world of hurt.

And, Chuck, I hope you've achieved the peace you denied (or supplied) so much street "scum."

Actually, there is a lot that could be said about vigilante "justice" and cinematic depictions thereof. Is vigilantism justified under any circumstances? Are nonjudgmental or even glorifying treatments of vigilantes and their actions, by their nature, pernicious? Do they reinforce or activate our most base instincts and impulses or, alternatively, provide something of a safety valve or outlet that could reduce the commission of acts of real-world violence or both, depending on the particular presentation or state of mind of the viewer? Does the appeal of movies of this sort reflect a powerlessness many feel in day-to-day life? Does the particular vigilante hero, say, a rape victim seeking vengeance against her attacker(s), make a difference? Was Pauline Kael fair when she excoriated Dirty Harry for its "fascist medievalism"?

Discuss. With me. I'm lonely. And unarmed. I promise.

Sex-shooter, Or: A rambling discussion of unseen films

2008-07-01T14:37:00.000-07:00

I’ve known for some time that my knowledge of western films, as a genre, is woefully lacking. In response to Shandon’s film noir program (which commenced last night in fine form with The Petrified Forest), I decided to schedule a set of oaters, for my own education as much as anything else. As I was finalizing the seven titles that would make up this series, Shandon shared a sensational one-sheet for a lurid little “western” feature entitled The Female Bunch.

Intrigued, I watched the film’s trailer, which was so entertaining – “Independent women. Turning women’s lib into a menacing reality!” – that I couldn’t imagine the full-length feature possibly living up to it. Moreover, I had limited my western program to seven slots, and while I was open to pulpy fare well outside the sanctioned western canon, The Female Bunch didn’t quite fit the bill. It is clearly not a western but rather desert-set sexploitation and is, in all likelihood, quite tedious after a few minutes. My “discovery” of this film, however, did dovetail with my dawning interest in another title, Hannie Caulder, a rape-and-revenge* western starring Raquel Welch and featuring a gang of tormentors played by an almost unbelievable troika: Ernest Borgnine, Strother Martin and Jack Elam. This film, notwithstanding its higher production values, seems to appeal to some of the same prurient interests as The Female Bunch. If its promotional materials are any indication, Hannie Caulder traffics in its star’s sex appeal without addressing the true horror of sexual assault or any moral quandaries presented by the pursuit of vengeance. Not that, from a filmgoing perspective, there’s anything wrong with that, I do hope it goes without saying.

Hannie Caulder also didn't make the program even though it happens to feature Christopher Lee(!) in his only western. According to his autobiography, he wishes he had appeared in more of them. Lee further relates that throughout his career he “[p]ranc[ed] from genre to genre, like the devil on stepping stones.” His experience with “erotica,” for instance, reveals the horror icon’s overriding gentility and perhaps hyper-sensitivity:

Erotica was a genre I did not fancy. It was true that as Dr. Sadismus in The Torture Chamber of Dr. S [Netflix it! – ed.] I was surrounded by a sea of nude women, and the effluvium that rose from their bodies as the lights grew hotter was like marsh gas, but I could not believe the picture incited to erotic indulgence.

Mr. Lee goes on to address his varying levels of involvement in soft-core projects such as Stud, The Story of O, Philosophy of the Boudoir and Eugenie’s Journey into Perversion.

In retrospect, maybe it’s too bad that, in the case of The Female Bunch, Christopher Lee, unlike Russ Tamblyn and Lon Chaney, Jr., was not available, affordable or even considered. And speaking of due consideration, I have perhaps, in light of this discussion’s clear (and inevitable?) drift away from westerns back into my exploitation comfort zone, unfairly given this movie short shrift. On the off chance I seek to rectify my summary dismissal of this Bunch, all apologies to Sam Peckinpah in advance.

* Amazon.com reports that certain customers who purchased Hannie Caulder (VHS, the only format in which it’s readily available in the U.S.) also bought, among other items, the Millennium Edition DVD of another film involving the rape of its protagonist and her quest for violent revenge, the non-western I Spit on Your Grave (aka Day of the Woman), which was the subject of some controversy upon its release. I don’t find this overlap inherently problematic, just curious. Is “rape and revenge” its own subgenre? Were a set of grad or seminar students recently assigned these materials so that they may study such depictions?

Next time: More on cinematic rape and revenge (a little "r & r") and vigilante justice more generally.

Memoirs and consequences

2008-03-05T16:19:00.000-08:00

The latest literary cause célèbre, the exposure of the fabulism (read: rank deception) of author Margaret Seltzer (under the pseudonym Margaret Jones) in connection with her book Love and Consequences: A Memoir of Hope and Survival, saddened me for two reasons, one fairly trivial and self-interested and the other, uncharacteristically not. As for the first reason, I had some interest, beyond its corny subtitle, in reading Ms. Seltzer's now-discredited "memoir" of coming of age in an inner-city gang environment, although in truth (whatever that is nowadays), I might never have read it and certainly won't now. (For an account of an independent bookseller's "on-the-ground" response to the book's recall, go here.) More importantly, the book represents a missed opportunity to address, in a compelling way, some of the alternately demoralizing, tempting and crushing facts of life in areas of South-Central Los Angeles or, according to Ms. Seltzer, "to put a voice to people who people don’t listen to." She states further, in what reads more like an attempt at an explanation than a defense, "Maybe it’s an ego thing — I don’t know. I just felt that there was good that I could do and there was no other way that someone would listen to it." Her ploy to pass off fiction as some sort of reportage is compounded by the added hubris of inserting herself into the middle of a story that seems to be, at least in part, a composite of moments taken from the real lives of others, others without publishing deals.

With objectives similar to Ms. Seltzer's expressed intent, other authors have, through "real" fiction, very movingly covered similar urban terrain, whether it be in David Simon's Baltimore, George Pelecanos' D.C., Dennis Lehane's Boston or Richard Price's fictional Dempsy (something of a stand-in for Jersey City across the river from Manhattan). Mr. Simon, a former reporter for the Baltimore Sun, is best known for being the driving force behind HBO's seminal series The Wire, and the other "crime" or "mystery" writers, in their novels, demonstrate a shared desire for authenticity and social realism. These novelists have, not surprisingly, participated in the creation of Simon's series to varying degrees, from writing individual episodes to contributing overarching storylines, key characters and critical plot developments. Although they collectively strive to maintain the show's essential veracity while shedding light on social issues that are generally dismissed as intractable or otherwise ignored, the creators of The Wire appreciate that any serialized drama, like a novel, must make concessions to the traditional demands of narrative. The show's highly dramatic moments, couched as they are in a richly textured, pulsing environment, are all the more arresting and moving for having been earned. Notwithstanding the palpable authenticity of their five-season epic, the writers, who have together produced what is, to my mind, probably the greatest television series ever, understand that life, to its disadvantage and credit, is not a story. Craven attempts to blur this distinction and denigrate the truth damage the fundamental credibility needed by writers of memoirs and fiction alike, particularly those with ambitions to, through their work, do good in the world.

Oddly enough, news of Ms. Seltzer's deception appeared in the print edition of The New York Times and elsewhere yesterday, the same day the paper featured a review of author and Wire contributor Richard Price's new book by one of the critics who had been duped by Ms. Seltzer's own claims to authenticity. (The reviewer, describing Price's book as "his most powerful and galvanic work yet," acknowledges that "[n]o one writes better dialogue.") The Times article first detailing Ms. Seltzer's lies reported that her editor, Sarah McGrath, was shocked by the revelation. McGrath's father is, as the article discloses, Charles McGrath, a regular contributor to the paper who had supplied an extensive author profile for Sunday's edition two days earlier. The author profiled? Richard Price.

Yesterday the world of books just seemed small, incestuous and a little untrustworthy.

Happy(?) Leap Day

2008-02-29T17:55:00.000-08:00

While astronomy and its arcana don't particularly interest me -- whatever interest I have in science fiction doesn't seem to carry over to fact -- the concept of a leap (or intercalary) year, the "extra" day and the history and lore surrounding both have suddenly and inexplicably become fascinating. The mere fact that, as we are reminded, the duration of the solar year is 365 and a quarter days, or more accurately, 365.2425 days or 365 days, 5 hours, 49 minutes, and 12 seconds, seems relevant to me only as the basis for social and cultural responses to both our calendar's imperfection and its necessary corrective. (Perhaps I'll add this current preoccupation to my long list of obsessions/compulsions that includes, among other disparate items, the ongoing election cycle, crossword puzzles and my short-lived all-beef jerky diet. Don't ask.)

Until recently, today in fact, I did not appreciate the historical import and potential of leap year. Most importantly to my mind, during leap years in earlier centuries, women in certain countries were permitted, against otherwise prevailing law and custom, to propose marriage to the (unmarried) man of their choice. The man who refused might face punishment in the form of a fine or the like. Fearing such levies, the advances of an unappealing mate or, in some cases, presumably, the brazen overtures of any woman whatsoever, men sometimes succeeded in limiting the legal exercise of this special "freedom" to Leap Day, February 29. (Even as a single-day affair, it is distinct from Sadie Hawkins Day, which didn't exist before the 1930s.) The following postcards, generated (I think) well after the rejection of a woman's marriage proposal carried any legal consequences, nonetheless capture the residual insensitivity, anxiety and perceived risk associated with a practice in which women assumed a traditionally male prerogative:

This next card is a doozy, conveying a historical practice that temporarily reversed the "natural" order only to reinforce it, that became, in effect, an exception that proved a rule: The women here appear desperate, predatory (notice the teeth on that bear trap -- yikes!) and, in one case, a bit mannish (as evidenced by a phallic holstered gun and what appears to be a pipe). The none-too-subtle message seems to be, "Hey, fellas, wouldn't we be in dire straits if this state of affairs wasn't temporary (or merely a joke) and became the norm?!?"
Anyway, the archaic language of this excerpt captures the flavor of female-initiated marriage better than I can:

And, for the record, I'm open to offers from women of "high estate" -- but low taste.

As mentioned, this tradition has not always been -- and need not be -- limited to Leap Day but may extend through the end of the year. Therefore, ladies, you have only about 300 more days in which to pounce. Tick, tick.

This month has been exceedingly tough, what with its competing and confusing demands for romance (Valentine's Day), patriotism (Presidents' Day), equality (Black History Month) and, in this leap year, vestigial sexism. Good riddance, February.

Then again, March looms like a long, brutal slog . . . . Wait, February! Come back!! All is forgiven!

Charles Laughton: Lodestar

2008-01-09T17:59:00.000-08:00

I had hoped to create one of those real-critic year-end top-ten movie lists, but I am finding it exceedingly difficult to remember much of anything I saw before October. I've enjoyed quite a few fall and holiday offerings, but the summer was especially abysmal. Did any would-be blockbuster work? I didn't see Transformers, Shrek 3 or the third and final -- for the love of God, let it be the final -- installment of the Pirates of the Caribbean franchise and probably won't under any circumstances short of penalty of death (my own, that is).

Speaking of death, one movie released earlier in the year that has stayed with me is Zodiac. (My other favorite so far is Before the Devil Knows You're Dead.) Now that Zodiac has appeared on many critics' own top-ten lists and was released yesterday in a two-disc deluxe edition DVD, I thought this was as good a time as any to add my own plaintive (and unheard) plea that it not be forgotten to the chorus of support for the film. Given its subject matter and director (David Fincher), this stellar procedural exhibits remarkable restraint and is all the more riveting for it. I have yet to see the eagerly anticipated There Will Be Blood, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly and Persepolis as well as apparent Oscar bait like Atonement. I'm sure there are others I can't recall offhand.

In an effort to see more movies, particularly time-tested or simply old ones, I created my first moviegoing calendar, for the current month. The calendar is, for the most part, a consolidation of the respective schedules of the American Cinematheque (both the Egyptian and Aero Theatres) and the ArcLight (Hollywood and, now, Sherman Oaks). I've augmented the calendar with a couple offerings from other venues, including the UCLA Film & Television Archive and The Silent Movie Theatre. The schedule I ended up with has no fewer than 35 titles, some of which I am especially eager to see. I'll consider seeing the other titles, provided that my mood, energy and other obligations permit. (I'll be doing fine, I think, if I see roughly 20% of these movies -- 7 titles -- on top of whatever current releases I happen to catch. On the basis of title alone, A Dandy in Aspic stands out.) This overall endeavor won't necessarily help me keep track of what I've seen for purposes of a 2008 best-of, but maybe it is part of a broader project of memorializing what was available and what I saw this year.

Peeking ahead to the UCLA Archive's February slate of pre-Code films, I came across the most enticing movie description I've read in some time. Paired on a double bill with Hot Saturday (1932), Ol' Chuck is at it again, posthumously of course, in a screening of White Woman (1933):

Banished from Malay nightclubs for "arousing" the natives, torchsinger Carole Lombard absconds with a sadistic plantation owner (Charles Laughton) who takes turns tyrannizing his new wife and his pet monkey. This wacky precursor to APOCALYPSE NOW offers a heady brew of tribal insurrections, sexy ex-convicts and a delirious Laughton as self-appointed "King of the Jungle."

Actually, as exciting as all that sounds, I can't brook non-euphemistic monkey abuse. I love animals, particularly the cute ones I don't eat. And in case anyone was wondering or asking, I still love the troops, too.

Sounds of the season

2007-12-26T17:59:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, my mother and I were about to leave for my sister's to exchange and open gifts when she asked whether my sister would have appropriate holiday music.

Norman: I could take the Elvis CD.
She nodded curtly.
Norman: Also, I noticed earlier that their digital cable system has a couple of those channels featuring Sounds of the Season.
Mom (muttering, heading for the door): That's too pansy for me.

I snatched up the Elvis almost as quickly as she had passed severe -- and, in this case, unimpeachable -- judgment before scurrying after her.

Norman agonistes

2007-11-28T18:27:00.000-08:00

Until recently, I hadn't felt much sympathy for the the Hollywood writers in their ongoing strike. I'm usually running late during the morning rush hour, and they don't help matters by, at every legal opportunity, marching (straggling, really) across the street I turn into to get to work. They don't walk against the light or anything, but the resulting delay is nonetheless annoying. (Full disclosure: I am the tiniest cog or an ineffectual monkey wrench -- I've yet to decide -- in a vast entertainment-industry machine, which itself is, if I may mix metaphors, an ever-smaller segment of a sprawling, many-tentacled corporate leviathan, but even assuming I was up on these labor issues, I doubt I'd have a dog in this particular fight.) Moreover, my modest work cubicle is within earshot of the most lame chants ever coopted (with minor modification) from the struggle for civil rights in this country. Even the "original" mantras (e.g., the comedy-oriented "No Money, No Funny" and the Housewives-specific "Eva Longoria, we write the story-uh"-- yeesh) leave the distinct impression that these writers' services will not be missed.

Everything changed yesterday, however, thanks to the Horror Writers of America. Now, before you incredulously (and obnoxiously) ask, "Horror movies are written?," hear me out. Ostensibly to cast out the mortal sin of avarice, the horror writers had staged, just outside the Warner Bros. lot, a mock exorcism of the studio that had some 34 years ago released that little demonic possession flick some consider the scariest movie of all time. I missed the religious ceremony itself but on my way to lunch noticed a habited nun among the throng carrying signs that screamed, in shades of forceful black and red, "Horror Writers on Strike" and "Out, Demons, Out!" I won't take the opportunity here to defend the once-disreputable horror genre -- most offerings indeed suck, as with any genre, and the recent glut has been particularly uninspired -- but I must credit these horror writers with a demon-stration (tee-hee, I could be a professional writer, too!) of authentic creativity best exemplified by the most deliciously worded placard: We Eat Scabs.

Now that I kinda, uh, care, I think the writers' grievances have something to do with the Internet. Like everything else.

Yours in solidarity & struggle,

Norman

Night of Nights

2007-11-09T12:33:00.000-08:00

I've been asked what I'd screen as one of Turner Classic Movies' guest programmers. My first instinct is to program a night of Nights (featuring absolutely nothing by M. Night Shyamalan).

Night of the Living Dead (1968): One of my all-time favorites. A seminal horror film and simply great movie, it ushered in a new cycle for the genre, one featuring an almost documentary approach, graphic violence and a bleak (read: realistic) view of human nature. If, during the Vietnam era, you had feared that the United States, if not the world, was going mad, that it was coming apart at its seams, you'd find no comfort whatsoever in George Romero's masterpiece. His zombies only accelerated the process by clawing at the social fabric along with everybody else. Some programmers might hold this title over for the midnight or cult-film slot, but it would be my centerpiece. Watch this space (without holding your breath) for a more detailed assessment.

Night of the Demon (1957): Speaking of detailed assessments, I have already discussed this title, the British -- and extended -- version of the stateside Curse of the Demon, at some length here. This film, which resides at the nexus of horror and noir, features a guy (Dana Andrews) and a girl (the fetching Peggy Cummins, who, as Shandon notes, also co-stars in the delightfully lurid Gun Crazy) endeavoring to get to the bottom of a supernatural mystery and has inspired me to create, along with Shandon, a story involving those basic elements.

The Night of the Hunter (1955): A wonderful American Gothic nightmare and the only feature-length directorial effort by Charles Laughton, renowned British actor and professional weirdo. (That's a compliment, by the way, as I aspire to that level of strangeness. And he married the Beard -- I mean, Bride of Frankenstein!) Shandon has featured this movie as part of her evening of noir, and I fondly recall the evening we saw it together on the big screen. The film is sui generis, occurring not in any real-world locale, but in a highly stylized and symbolic representation of the darkest recesses of our individual and collective imaginations. A place where we are frightened children fleeing a dark force as much as we are that dark force itself. I'm still haunted, in particular, by a lingering underwater image. Brutal, exhilarating and heartbreaking.

Finally, I do have a midnight-movie double feature. The first is Night of the Creeps (1986), in which these sluglike parasites enter their victims' mouths, rendering their hosts zombies (the homicidal, Romeroesque variety of zombie, not the lobotomized Britney Spears VMA-performance strain). Bodily invasion is central to sci-fi horror -- think Alien and a good portion of the Cronenberg oeuvre -- but Creeps is just good, silly, late-night, late-slasher era fun. (Cool tagline: "The good news is your date is here. The bad news is . . . he's dead." Perhaps not as uncommon as the filmmakers thought.) Many of the victims are campus Greeks, too, so there's that to recommend it as well. The second half of the double feature is Night of the Lepus (1972), featuring personal fave Janet Leigh, along with Rory Calhoun and that "Bones" guy from Star Trek. The plot is simply and breathlessly detailed on IMDb: "Giant mutant rabbits terrorize the southwest!!" I have nothing to add.

Happy Halloween

2007-10-31T14:33:00.000-07:00

Kinda worth returning for, eh?

I love that her broom's clearly hanging from wires, indicating that she's not a witch witch -- no warts or skin discoloration with this game gal. (I hope she's at least naughty year-round, though.) What a delightful nod to Halloween as a pretext for self-expression and to artifice in general.

Speaking of self-expression, you may have heard or read that this year I was a dead cowboy for the parties last weekend. I guess I was under the influence of all those elegiac horse operas I've seen of late: The Assassination of Jesse James . . . , 3:10 to Yuma (original and remake) and a screening of Sam Peckinpah's The Wild Bunch. I saw all but the original Three-Ten with my regular viewing companion, who, as the unofficial queen of Halloween, hosted an excellent party on Sunday. In fact, she brings a little bit of that wonderfully dark spirit to every day of the year. But this Halloween season in particular has been choice, thanks in no small part to her tireless or, more accurately, sleepless efforts.

Long live Fante & Mingo

2007-06-13T16:17:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I received my second and final email reminder from Turner Classic Movies regarding this evening's screening -- and the TCM premiere -- of The Big Combo (1955), a touchstone film noir directed by Joseph H. Lewis, who also helmed the similarly thrilling Gun Crazy (1949, aka Deadly Is the Female). Combo, which actually airs in less than an hour but is available on DVD, is a highlight of TCM's ongoing program Screened Out: Gay Images in Film. Each night (Mondays and Wednesdays) of the monthlong series, presumably timed to June's gay pride celebrations, is devoted to a particular era, genre, theme or, as the case may be, setting. For instance, last Monday's offerings, with titles ranging from the perfunctory (Women's Prison) to the irresistible (So Young, So Bad), were organized under the subheading "Men and Women Behind Bars"[!] -- I really should have posted earlier -- and next Monday's slate addresses homosexuality and horror [!!]. The Big Combo and others, including The Maltese Falcon and Gilda, are featured today, maybe right now in fact, under the banner "The Dark Side: Film Noir & Crime."

Combo's gay credentials come in the form of the bold, matter-of-fact relationship between two seemingly inseparable gay thugs, Fante (Lee Van Cleef) and Mingo (Earl Holliman), who interact much like any married couple. (Although the signifiers of the true nature of their relationship may have been largely lost on the audience during its original theatrical release, those cues couldn't really be more clear today without risking painful obviousness. Lewis et al. should be credited for this refreshingly direct depiction -- from the Eisenhower era, no less.)

I often regard gay villains like Fante and Mingo with the same fondness I do femmes fatales. Sure they may, in either case, reflect or betray the homophobia or misogyny of the filmmakers. But these characters are often more complex and therefore more realistic, or stronger and therefore more appealing, than their counterparts in sensitive, politically correct and often preachy treatments. Just like the Jews of Munich, as acknowledged to comic effect in current release Knocked Up, what these characters do may be morally murky, highly problematic or just plain criminal, but they fight -- and fight back. They provide an alternative to the victims, and their stories may provide a temporary escape from authentic victimization.

The term "gay pride" always struck me as inaccurate if perfectly understandable. Ideally, sexual orientation is a source of neither pride nor shame. To my mind, whatever its genesis (a topic for another place, time and blog) and wherever one fits on that continuum, sexual orientation, like Fante and Mingo's love (if not their brutal chosen profession), is simply a matter of fact.

As for The Big Combo, beyond its pivotal and, ultimately, moving gay characters, the movie has something for everyone: exquisite photography (courtesy of the great John Alton), sensational violence and, so no one's left out, a strong suggestion of cunnilingus[!!!]. This ain't your parents' 1950s. Or, if it is, try not to think about it. And disregard the movie's title, which is particularly unfortunate in our era of fast-food supersizing.

Happy Gay Pride.

Wait, is that redundant?

Depressing paragraph of the week

2007-05-17T19:37:00.000-07:00

Courtesy of the NY Times:

The network has another big star, Juliana Margulies of “ER,” set for “Canterbury’s Law.” She plays a defense lawyer with personal issues and secrets.

For what it's worth, those two sentences appeared on the Times site next to a virtual billboard advertising the Met's new Greek and Roman Galleries. Will someone please tell me what it's worth? I can't process the juxtaposition. Is it a sign that Western civilization is to end in numbing banality? Chaucer and FOX, together at last in Canterbury's Law.

Full disclosure: Haven't seen a single episode of the show. Sure it's great.

Double-feature fantasies

2007-05-11T12:33:00.000-07:00

Thanks to Lucy, apologies to all women. Nonetheless, the naughty-girls-get-punished-and-incommensurately-so is a noble or, more accurately, delightfully ignoble tradition in movies. Except when it's not.

Mother's Day cards and their discontents

2007-05-11T12:01:00.000-07:00

Greeting cards are bad enough, what with their entirely unfunny "humor" cards (à la the newspaper's "funny pages") and the nauseatingly earnest ones, which only work, if at all, ironically. (It's fun, for instance, to give atheists, pagans and assorted others the solemn Christian ones, just as it might be worthwhile to give the white racist in your life a particularly righteous, Afro-centric offering from Hallmark's Mahogany line. If that same person seems fixated on immigration, maybe a Spanish-language card is in order.) But Mother's Day cards, as much as any others, seem to exemplify the worst greeting card tendencies, tendencies that seem to achieve some grotesque apotheosis in the form of unconventional cards, such as those ostensibly from infant children or house pets to their respective "mothers."
While the mere idea of them is not nearly as offensive, Mother's Day cards for grandmothers -- yes, I'm a good boy this year -- are, on the whole, horrendous. This particular subset, like a disease, seems to consist entirely of two strains. The first group appears so generic and austere that they could, with minimal editing, serve as condolence cards. The U.S. Postal Service isn't that slow. Still, that type of card is clearly preferable to the other variety of grandmother cards, those that look like they were created by, or speak in the voice of, a small child, one who, by all appearances, is sweet but probably slow or at least dyslexic. Bless their hearts. I'm sorry, but even if you've ever referred to your grandmother as "Nana," is it something we should encourage?

No guilt, no pleasure

2007-04-26T17:17:00.000-07:00

I've been tagged. (It was some time ago, but I have slow reflexes.) The results could have been worse. Much worse. Though I can't explain Melt w/ You -- if I were in the mood for some of that breathy Brit New Wave, I'd opt for something else. I hope.

This Sad Song -- Alison Krauss & Union Station
The Tide Is High -- Blondie
Burn in Hell -- Moonshine Willy
Mrs. Leroy Brown -- Loretta Lynn
Hold On, Hold On -- Neko Case
I Melt with You -- Modern English
Maybe -- A. Krauss & U.S.
Black Math -- The White Stripes
How to Be Dead -- Snow Patrol
Feng Shui -- Gnarls Barkley

To eliminate any potential ambiguity, I love our troops.

Unceremonious

2007-04-26T17:13:00.000-07:00

In the spirit of the interminable political season, when several shopworn presidential candidates are being refashioned, buffed, rebranded and peddled as a fresh bill of goods, I have similarly returned from the wilderness -- sans beard, by the way -- to reintroduce myself to my devoted reading public. Uh, Let the Conversation Begin.

At the risk of singling her out -- there's enough disappointment, disgust and outright enmity to go around, after all -- Hillary Clinton, a known quantity laden with baggage (carpet baggage?), can't convincingly pull off her own extreme makeover. She doesn't possess the political and social instincts of her husband. Or the chameleon-like talents of a truly great actress like Barbara Stanwyck, who eluded typecasting and pigeonholing over the years and whose would-be centenary is being celebrated this year. (She died in 1990.) Although Ms. Clinton is undoubtedly busy, dividing her time between senatorial duties and a nationwide campaign, she might benefit in terms of believability from one or more of the offerings being screened (here and here) in recognition of Ms. Stanwyck's singular contribution to American film. In the course of her career, Stanwyck delivered a host of indelible performances, most notably those in The Lady Eve and Double Indemnity, that stand as a collective testament to her defining traits of consummate professionalism and brilliant versatility. When Stanwyck hesitated in taking on the role of Phyllis Dietrichson, Indemnity's scheming femme fatale, thinking she had perhaps moved on from such disreputable characters, director/co-writer Billy Wilder reportedly confronted her: "Are you an actress or a mouse?" She was an actress. She is Phyllis. She's every woman. Yet there's no one like her. She deserves a happy 100th.

I wonder if the junior senator from New York would accept a campaign contribution in the form of movie tickets.

Forgive shows their pilots

2006-09-19T12:57:00.000-07:00

The series premiere of Aaron Sorkin's Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip, broadcast on NBC last night, suffers from that affliction endemic to pilots: their multi-purpose agendas -- introducing a host of new characters, teeing up the series itself, giving the audience a flavor of what subsequent episodes will be like and maybe even resolving a simple plotline or two -- are so steep that they can't be wrangled into a natural, compelling narrative. (This is one of the reasons that I, hoping the series will settle into some sort of stride, generally give a new show with a sufficiently appealing premise, creative pedigree, cast or some combination thereof no fewer than three episodes in which to hook me for a more extended commitment.)
I never watched Sorkin's other show, The West Wing, which also aired on NBC, in much more fortunate days for the network, before or after the highly publicized termination of his involvement. It is unfair to judge that now-cancelled show on the basis of a couple moments in isolation (as opposed to three episodes, for instance), but on the rare occasions I decided to check it out, I would catch it in the middle of some character's speechifying or a snatch of too-cute-by-half banter, usually exchanged while rushing through some corridor of power. Such dialogue, in either case, struck me as smug or preachy, and I would quickly turn the channel. But again, I never gave the show a chance. (Repeatedly robbing my beloved 24 of its Dramatic Series Emmy had nothing to do with it.)
I will afford Studio 60 the chance I never gave The West Wing, but it better pick up considerably. In the interests of fairness and full disclosure, I had previously seen an extended trailer for this pilot, a sampling that, in retrospect, was a highlight reel that had culled the key developments of the premiere. Moreover, I had had several margaritas before watching the episode, but drinking, if anything, relaxes my critical faculties (such as they are), making these shows better. Last night's premiere involved the return of a creative team, played by the exceptionally bland duo of Bradley Whitford and Matthew Perry, to the helm of a sketch comedy show (not Saturday Night Live, we're supposed to believe) from which they had been fired by the network (not NBC, we're supposed to believe) a few years back. This rehiring occurs in the wake of the former producer's (Judd Hirsch) Peter Finch-like on-camera meltdown, in which he tore into NBC, er, NBS and its pathetic programming slate. Although its decision to broadcast such a thinly veiled critique of itself may be thrilling evidence of the current depths of the real NBC's ratings-induced self-hatred, such a Network rehash is no less derivative when the characters themselves repeatedly acknowledge it (e.g., Amanda Peet, as a ballsy programming exec, on the ensuing media coverage: "At least they’ve heard of Paddy Chayefsky, and that’s a step in the right direction.") To retain my interest, the show must demonstrate virtues beyond its by-smarties-for-smarties self-congratulation and tell an involving, dramatic story. As it is, my favorite moment of the hour came during a commercial break, as part of the teaser for the local 11 o'clock news: "I'm Colleen Williams. He struck again today -- Is the Orange County flasher accelerating?" Sex. Crime. Fearmongering. MOMENTUM. Now that's good drama.

_______________

* Actually, vomitoria, as commonly understood, did not exist.

The ribaLd Lady?

2006-07-24T17:17:00.000-07:00

OK, now Norman hates the predictabLe, the cLichéd, the obvious. But even he cannot deny the irresistibLe sensuaL power of the letter L. Much has been made of the particuLar tongue gymnastics on dispLay in articuLating this most euphonious member of the aLphabet, particuLarLy in the context of certain appropriateLy suggestive words and phrases (e.g., luscious, lick, Laundromat -- you get the idea), and also of the tragic and embarrassing difficuLty experienced by certain East Asian speakers in verbaLLy tangLing with the Letter. But Norman doesn't pander to the Lowest common denominator by trafficking in either vuLgarity or ethnic stereotypes, at Least not today.

Last night, my viewing companion and I watched The LibeLed Lady (1936). Finding the titLe especiaLLy sexy and appeaLing in that mid-thirties, earLy-Code era sorta way, I had seLected it for our viewing pLeasure. Knowing fuLL weLL it couldn't possibLy Live up to its titLe, I enjoyed the movie nonetheLess. In retrospect, I should have reaLized that the sound of the fiLm's titLe, with no fewer than three prominent, aLLiterative L's(!), and the LiteraL meaning it conveys do work at cross-purposes. "Libeled lady" is sexier to the ear (and eye, if someone is saying it to you), as it were, than to the mind. If, as she aLLeges, the tituLar Lady (pLayed by Myrna Loy) was indeed LibeLed, she was not up to the Lurid shenanigans of which she stands accused (that is, ahem, "aLienation of affection" or, more pointedly, "husband-steaLing"). In addition to the always LoveLy, magnetic Loy, the fiLm stars the brassy Jean HarLow, the ideaL Loy foiL; the charismaticaLLy dissoLute and funny WiLLiam PoweLL; and, in a decidedLy charmLess, thankLess role (no L's grace this actor's name, after aLL), Spencer Tracy. In the face of the defamation suit, newspaperman Tracy et aL. attempt to undermine the cLaim by seducing Loy's character into an indeLicate situation with a married man and catching her in fLagrante deLicto for the benefit of the paper's readers.

In aLL candor, notwithstanding its powerhouse quartet of principaL actors, Norman chose the fiLm on the basis of the titLe and its aLLuring sound aLone. He hates to admit it, but he is onLy human. ALL too human. It's truLy disgusting, but he had hoped that, on the basis of vividLy depicted procLivities, the Litigious "Lady" Loy's LibeL Lawsuit would prove to be frivoLous, if not LaughabLy Ludicrous. Shit outta Luck. Oh, weLL.

Norman's top 10 (subject to change)

2006-07-13T13:31:00.000-07:00

Sorry I've been MIA for so long. It seems like an eternity -- in blog terms. (In the meantime, I had a lovely trip visiting family and friends back east.) After such an extended absence, I wanted to provide the following list as an indication where, in the vernacular, my head's at, at least culturally:

10. Superheroes

9. New Yorkers

8. Polygamists

7. Gay Jews

6. Teenage Gumshoes

5. Consummate Hostesses

4. Counter-Terrorists

3. Cruciverbalists

2. Zombies

1. Nieces

Honorable mention: Anti-heroes, Pirates, Serial Killers, Femmes Fatales

On deck: Cowboys, Doctors, Suburbanites, Kidnapers

8/22/06

2006-06-22T13:33:00.000-07:00

As I mentioned earlier this month, in celebration of what would have been Billy Wilder's centenary, Turner Classics is showing several of his best films and premiering a documentary on the famed director. Following and preceding the doc, which airs twice this evening, is my favorite Wilder film, Double Indemnity. Yes, yes, I know, his other movies, including The Apartment, Some Like It Hot and particularly Sunset Blvd., have their partisans, and I certainly take no issue with those three titles. But to my mind, for many reasons I can't fully explore (or even enumerate) here under current time constraints, Indemnity is hands down Wilder's best all-around movie. (It's a difficult choice, but my second favorite is Ace in the Hole aka The Big Carnival, but that's a subject for a later discussion.)

I've seen Indemnity several times in the past year or so and may have to miss it tonight. Nonetheless, I'm delighted that TCM will be broadcasting this seminal film noir that has for too long been unavailable on DVD. (It was released some time ago on a bare-bones disc that is now "out of print.") Heartened by developments like the release a few years ago of the "Special Collector's Edition" of Sunset Blvd., I would occasionally check sites like Amazon for updates on the status of Double Indemnity's reemergence on DVD, ideally in a deluxe edition befitting its magnificence. In preparation for this post, I looked up Indemnity on IMDb, which happened to feature new artwork on the site's "main details" page for the film. Holding back a wave of euphoria, I feverishly linked to Amazon and confirmed that the "Universal Legacy Series" version of Double Indemnity will indeed be released two months from today, on August 22, 2006. (The fact that my own birthday is less than a mere six weeks from that date, generous readers, did not factor into my ecstasy in the least.)

Among other extras, the new DVD features audio commentary from critic, biographer and film historian Richard Schickel, whose slim BFI volume on the film is a little dry and prosaic. Nonetheless, along with the other included commentary, he should provide ample context for the movie. (Schickel's most important insight has been to single out Fred MacMurray as Walter Neff, the insurance agent who realizes too late that he is out of his depth when dealing with Barbara Stanwyck's femme fatale and Edward G. Robinson's claims adjuster. Although most of the critical praise has been heaped upon Stanwyck and Robinson, the performance delivered by MacMurray, who is similarly stunning as Jeff Sheldrake, the entitled cad of The Apartment, is, as pretentious types say, one for the ages.)

As great as news of Double Indemnity's DVD release is, nothing compares to seeing the film on the big screen, or even one of the small big screens at Manhattan's incredible Film Forum, where the film will be screened June 30 and July 1 as part of the repertory theatre's "Essential Wilder" program. (It was with no shortage of cruelty that a friend of mine informed me that, with my own trip to New York scheduled for the 2nd through the 9th, I shall miss this opportunity by a single day.) New York readers, of whom I have none, please take note.

Blood- and noir-stained

2006-06-13T14:34:00.000-07:00

On Sunday evening, my viewing companion and I saw, as part of the American Cinematheque's continuing tribute to classic British horror, Jacques Tourneur's Curse of the Demon aka Night of the Demon (1957). We actually saw the British version (Night), which includes approximately 10 minutes of footage originally excised from the stateside version. (The currently available DVD includes both cuts of the film.)

Demon follows the trip of an American psychologist, John Holden (Dana Andrews), to a conference in England, where, along with a comely, more open-minded schoolteacher, Joanna Harrington (Peggy Cummins), he is drawn into an investigation of the mysterious circumstances surrounding the death of Dr. Harrington, a professor who had been Holden's colleague and Joanna's uncle. Dr. Harrington had sought to debunk the theories of the local occultist, Julian Karswell (Niall MacGinnis), and ultimately expose him as a fraud and criminal. As a man of unimpeachable science and rationality, Dr. Holden shares the objectives of his dead friend, and in his quest to apply a logical explanation to the strange occurrences in and around London, he confronts Karswell, who in turn confronts the man of science with a dark, unsettling truth.

One of Demon's treasures is its characterization of this suspected dabbler in the dark arts. Karswell simultaneously plays the part of good citizen and Devil's minion. This soft-spoken, portly, balding man demonstrates his largesse by inviting the local children to his sprawling estate for a Halloween party featuring ice cream and a magic show performed by Karswell himself in full hobo clown regalia. And yet, in addition to making casual threats, this curious fellow exhibits other traits of unambiguous, old-movie evil. He has a satanic little beard (not quite a Vandyke), dyed jet black. Moreover, although his live-in mother is not at all domineering, the bachelor Karswell is nonetheless a "fussy" (her word) mama's boy, if you catch my drift. In any event, Karswell is much more engaging than Holden, the skeptical, ostensible hero of our fable. I, for one, kept waiting for the genial demonologist to bring a rain of hellfire down on Mr. Scientist's smug, unbelieving ass.

Demon entails far too much to fully catalogue here, including a séance, catatonia, hypnosis, electrocution, a children's-party windstorm, creepy rural-Gothic townsfolk, intensive library research, a vicious stuffed-animal jaguar attack and, yes, the titular demon. The demon's mercifully limited appearances are the only moments marring the film's real triumph: its rich visual presentation. (Most commentators speculate that the shots of the demon were included against Tourneur's wishes, an interpretation substantiated by the director in later interviews. I don't particularly mind the distant, full-length views, showing the marauding beast's approach. In close-ups of its visage, however, it appears more temperamental real-world animal than terrifying emissary of Hell. But it's easy to grasp the commercial rationale for this less subtle approach when at least one of the film's posters screams "Demons! Monsters from Hell!" and hyperbolically promises "You will actually SEE them on the screen!" No coonskin cap-wearing patron wanted to feel "gypped" after all. My own friend, too, has a soft spot for this creature, but her soul was consigned to Hell long ago.) Considering he's working in black and white, Tourneur has an amazingly extensive palette at his disposal. He soaks the proceedings in dread, alternating subtle and stark shadings to depict less an interplay of light and shadow than an age-old battle between the two, one in which the insidious darkness has gained a distinct advantage. Tourneur cut his teeth on projects like the Val Lewton-produced Cat People (1942), another moody horror entry that opts for suggestion over shock and obviousness.

Throughout Demon, I was struck by how much it looked like a canonical film noir, as dark, pristine and elegant as Tourneur's own Out of the Past (1947). Demon's noir credentials, as it were, extend to its leads, Andrews, who starred in Laura, another classic (and classical) noir, and Cummins, the femme fatale of the B-movie thrill ride, Gun Crazy (aka Deadly is the Female). I was again reminded that, by their existence, certain films toy with that loose conceptual thread, threatening to pull the entire noir classification asunder. Is it noir? Is it horror? Does it matter? In addition to its explicit supernatural elements, Demon diverges from noir in its comparatively unshaded depiction of good and evil as embodied, respectively, by Holden and Karswell. But in the film's still noirish (and Biblical) universe, knowledge comes at the price of innocence. Victory feels like loss. The horror genre, including Expressionist nightmares and Hollywood monster movies, had informed noir, providing stylistic and thematic cues. With Curse of the Demon, noir returned the favor.

OverHEXed

2006-06-09T19:53:00.000-07:00

I'm very generous with new TV series I think I might like. When something about a given show's premise, its featured players or its creative pedigree appeals to me and yet the pilot is underwhelming, I generally give the show three episodes, including that series premiere, to improve before abandoning it altogether. (Similarly, I have a tendency to stick with the truly good series long after they've lost their luster. I'm nothing if not loyal, often to the detriment or complete exclusion of other virtues. Like critical discernment.) This approach has worked quite well with HBO's Big Love, for instance.

There are shows, however, for which such indulgence is untenable. Which brings me to last night's two-hour premiere of Hex on BBC America. Hex takes place at a tony, bucolic boarding school where the best of Britain are presumably being groomed for Oxford and Cambridge. Oh, and where 250 years ago, before the former landed-gentry estate had been converted into an institute of higher learning, an overheated Hollywood version of voodoo was practiced by the servants and the wayward lady of the manor. Today, the students seem to have that air of blasé (read: zombified) entitlement and the corresponding disregard for their instructors that together are instantly endearing.

Our heroine, Cassie (Christina Cole), an easy-on-the-eyes but unremarkable-looking student unconvincingly packaged as the introspective wallflower of her crowd, steals away to a hiding place for a smoke and discovers, along with a ritualistic cross made of chicken bones, a cheap-looking objet d' art. In examining this urn thing, she pricks her finger, losing a single, elegant drop of blood to the urn's gaping maw. As a result, Cassie soon experiences, in addition to general distress and maybe constipation, creepy visions edited in the standard rapid-fire style. (Trust me, the actual episode doesn't do my description justice.)

My viewing companion and I gave Hex roughly 40 minutes, including what seemed like numerous commercial breaks, before checking out. While we certainly didn't expect anything rising to the level of the heyday of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, we hoped this apparent blending of supernatural hokum and abilities with young-adult concerns and crises would be a worthwhile summer diversion. The show was painfully slow and soporific, notwithstanding a juvenile obsession with sex that seems to plague Hex's entire campus, young and old alike. The premiere featured classroom innuendo and brief nudity that would be verboten on American network TV. (In a blow for equality, a few of the female students enjoy a Porky's reversal, taking casual advantage of peephole access to the boys' locker-room shower.)

Hex's characters, including Cassie, were indistinct and elicited as much sympathy as the overprivileged and petulant generally do. The only character who stands out (only because she must) is Cassie's roommate. I don't remember her name, but that is no matter. The creators of Hex seem concerned only with the fact that she is a Lesbian. They forego no opportunity to remind the audience as much, as though it would have forgotten during any of those regular commercial breaks. I don't know which was insulted more, my sensibilities or my intelligence. I kept thinking -- hoping -- there was more to this sidekick than thinly veiled proclamations of her sexual orientation. The powers behind Hex crafted situations and dialogue that reduced her to a single recurrent note. The ham-handed treatment of this lesbian character reeked of shallow self-congratulation, and the failed attempt to generate an authentically sexually-charged atmosphere smacked of desperation.

I suppose it is somewhat reassuring to know that the United States doesn't have a monopoly on small-screen schlock. And in all fairness to Hex, its actors and its creators, the premiere may have really picked up in its final two-thirds, and the characters may have eventually demonstrated greater nuance. If viewers who endured the full two hours claim that is indeed the case, I'll take their word for it.

Wistful for June gloom

2006-06-05T18:03:00.000-07:00

So, as planned (and mentioned), we headed out this past weekend to Palm Springs' Film Noir Festival. We had decided to attend, and purchased tickets for, two screenings but were only able to take in one before succumbing to heat (high: 187 degrees) and lack of inspiration in the middle of a punishing, 7-hour-plus stretch between showtimes in which we were left to our own devices. My traveling companion and I were equally relieved the other was just as eager to get the hell out of Palm Springs (or get out of the hell that is Palm Springs) -- What prevents its legions of elderly residents from dropping like flies from dehydration? -- and back to the relative comfort of greater Los Angeles. (After that joint resolution, we did manage to salvage a good time from our road trip, stopping at a wonderful interstate diner for dessert and, well, more. But such unalloyed delights are not in the true spirit of noir, so I won't dwell on them here.)

Anyway, the film we did catch at 10 a.m. Saturday, an ungodly scheduling considering we awoke that morning in Pasadena, was The Madonna's Secret, the screening of which, we were repeatedly told, is incredibly rare. We saw one of the very few prints, maybe the only one, in existence. The movie was fun, and you'll probably never see it. Nonetheless, I won't bore you with a detailed plot description or offend you with any spoilers in the off, off chance you encounter it at some point in your life. Notwithstanding that title, it really has nothing to do with Christianity or, thank God, the erstwhile Material Girl. Neither its dialogue, which features a few amusing lines, nor its plot sets the world on fire, but it does showcase several interesting characterizations and excellent cinematography by John Alton, who eventually won an Oscar for his work on An American in Paris(!). After Secret, Alton photographed T-Men, a substantially better film but one also classified (perhaps inaccurately) as noir and similarly graced with Alton's stark, striking imagery.
Speaking of T-Men, I would be remiss if I failed to mention its reairing on Turner Classic Movies tomorrow evening as part of month-long celebration of the work of director Anthony Mann, an auteur known foremost as a director of westerns. This retrospective comprises 22 of the director's films, which TCM has spread out over Tuesdays in June. The first batch of his work, airing tomorrow, has been designated "Mann Noir - Night One" and features, in addition to T-Men, Raw Deal, Border Incident, Railroaded! and Two O'Clock Courage. I've only seen T-Men but would see any and all of the others on the basis of their titles alone. (Who, for instance, can resist a title with an exclamation point? Who?!?) The remainder of the Mann noirs, including The Great Flamarion, Desperate, He Walked by Night and, finally, Side Street will be shown next Tuesday evening.

June is a banner month for televised noir; there are an abundance of titles in addition to the Mann offerings. The next several days feature The Postman Always Rings Twice (tonight at 5:00 p.m. PST -- I hope I post this blog entry in time to make the notice worthwhile), Double Indemnity (the touchstone noir adapted, like Postman, from a James M. Cain novel), Tension and Sunset Blvd. Sunset airs three times this month, twice this weekend alone; on Sunday afternoon it is paired with The Maltese Falcon, the film that, in retrospect, arguably ushered in the era of classic noir. (Sunset and Double Indemnity, both directed and co-written by Billy Wilder, are being shown in conjunction with the TCM premiere of a documentary on the famed director, an additional factor contributing to a current programming slate flush with noir.) And Monday offers a trio of sensational, evocative, unambiguous titles: Born to Kill, Cornered and Kiss Me Deadly. What an embarrassment of riches! What a glorious time in which we live! We're not worthy, Turner Classics! Please don't ever leave, thereby placing us at the mercy of American Movie "Classics"!

I understand that, as cold and dark as these films noir are, they only stave off the oppressive Southland heat as long as you stay indoors at all times, turn off all appliances other than the television (and any air-conditioning units, which should be going full blast), regularly hydrate, shut down all bodily systems other than the eyes and brain (the heart has no place here) and bask in the faint yet powerful glow cast by these movies. Doctor's orders.

Oh, and sorry about the late Postman notice.

Fata morgana

2006-06-01T11:55:00.000-07:00

What better way is there to enjoy a nice early June weekend and experience Palm Springs and its environs than to take in one or more offerings of the desert town's annual Film Noir Festival? I've never attended but plan to take refuge from the heat and the light in an air-conditioned theater this Saturday, relishing the darkness of the venue and of the films' outrageous characters, shadowy photography, fatalistic themes and nasty goings-on.

It does seem strange to escape Los Angeles, perhaps the ultimate noir backdrop, for this purpose, but maybe that's the point. The fans of noir will track its films down wherever they surface, just as inevitable fate will find true noir protagonists wherever they may hide; it's the tail they can't shake. Idyllic settings, including Palm Springs, are transitory and deceptive, only lulling their denizens into fat complacency. The patient Devil claims the known world, or at least all of southern California, as His playground.

Sweet, sweet Adrienne Barbeau

2006-05-24T17:23:00.000-07:00

Last night I met AE at a local independent bookseller for a book reading/signing. The author was none other than Broadway performer, film actress, sitcom star, erstwhile scream queen and now author Adrienne Barbeau. She is promoting her career autobiography, There Are Worse Things I Could Do, a title cribbed from the song featured in the musical Grease. (Ms. Barbeau performed this number as the character Rizzo, a Tony-nominated role she originated. Although the song is intended to generate a little sympathy for the poor, misunderstood lead Pink Lady and chief tormentor of new girl Sandy, I imagine that thoughts of what those "worse things" could possibly be set tongues wagging.) I remember Ms. Barbeau most vividly from Swamp Thing, a film adapted from a comic book, directed by Wes Craven and released at a time in my life when all movies were good or at least made a distinct impression. Swamp Thing and, in particular, Adrienne Barbeau made an impression. Let me address the elephant(s) in the room, as it were: She does have large breasts. Although such endowments were undoubtedly an object of my surely innocent curiosity, they do not fully account for a 10-year-old's fascination. Incredibly attractive, she was never conventionally beautiful. Softer now, her facial features were in her youth forceful and sharp, and even with her abundant curves, she had an Amazonian quality about her. (This is but one reason she is so effective as a castrating harridan, relentlessly belittling Hal Holbrook, in Creepshow.) Perhaps for reasons of commercial necessity and genre requirements, though, some of her roles, including those in Swamp Thing and The Fog, a film directed by horror maestro (and her ex-husband) John Carpenter, retained an unfortunate damsel-in-distress component. The movies suffered for it, for anyone who watched her on screen was keenly aware of her physical prowess and vast inner reserves of strength and knew she could more than handle herself. More than anyone I can recall, she was a real-world superheroine, the whole package. Sexy and resourceful as she was, she could really take care of you. But if you crossed her, she would, well, really take care of you.

As last night's event demonstrated, Adrienne Barbeau is no less appealing for no longer (or ever, actually) being that woman. Time (she's 60ish) and, I suspect, motherhood (she has twin nine-year-old boys in additon to an older son) have both conspired with the inherently diminishing effect of appearing off screen to render her a little less larger than life. Having traded thrilling intensity for earthy sweetness, the author was generous with her time and eminently patient. She completely indulged certain of her fans who had crawled out of the woodwork, perhaps literally, for the occasion. (Of which fans, I swear, I was not the worst. But for the grace of God go I.) The anecdote that seems to best capture the dichotomy between the flesh-and-blood woman she is and the demi-icon she nonetheless remains is one she told about the collision between the two personae. Someone in the audience had asked if her tweenage children are familiar with her earlier work. She doubts that her kids have any awareness of her tenure as Bea Arthur's daughter on Maude, and as a good mother and someone who herself is "not a horror enthusiast," she is not inclined to show them the fright films in which she starred. She related that once, while entertaining friends, she did try to occupy the boys with The Cannonball Run, in which their mother appears alongside Burt Reynolds, Dom DeLuise and many others as a road vixen competing in an cross-country race. She was surprised to discover that this film holds greater risks for her kids than its lame comedy and that the horror movies might have been the safer choice after all. Watching Cannonball, the still-young children of Adrienne Barbeau were terrified by character actor Jack Elam's disturbing insect eyes and scandalized by Mom's ample cleavage, exposed to evade a traffic citation.

I have yet to read Ms. Barbeau's book, but I hope a lot of people buy it. I further hope she enjoys a continued life and career sufficient to warrant a second volume of her bio.

ADRIENNE BARBEAU

The Creepy Fan with the Unyielding Grip

Just deserts

2006-05-09T13:13:00.000-07:00

From Sunday's New York Times:

It is not true that horror movies are a mindless, wasteful form of entertainment with no redeeming social value. From a studious viewing of horror flicks, one can learn several important, even life-saving lessons. The importance of sticking to paved highways, for example. As countless movies have demonstrated, most recently Wolf Creek and The Hills Have Eyes, Alexandre Aja's remake of the 1977 Wes Craven classic, the detour down a dirt road is almost always a mistake, especially in the desert.

A couple friends of mine recently completed their own horror film, Death Valley (not pictured), the mayhem of which also transpires in the desert, and I occasionally wonder what it is that makes the locale such a potentially effective setting for the genre. Granted, there are few, if any, places for a "monster" to hide. Of course, there are equally few places to hide from such a creature. And that is the particular horror of the desert: whatever dangers it may present, it leaves one vulnerable, naked and exposed to the elements and any threats. Moreover, the desert, as its name pointedly suggests in verb form, has been isolated, abandoned or forgotten by law, civilization (and all of its niceties) and probably whatever higher power you prefer. (I am told all this by the put-upon yet plucky Death Valley caterer.) Remote places like this are termed godforsaken for a reason. Under the circumstances, the desert's vast expanse, so idealized in country music and Hollywood westerns, generates its own claustrophobia, and that brilliant desert sun, its special brand of darkness.

More urgently, watch the season finale of that other delightful blend of light and dark, Veronica Mars, which airs tonight at 9 p.m. on UPN.

"I didn't think it was possible, Ronni, but you are even cuter when you pout."

Considered medical judgment

2006-05-01T18:26:00.000-07:00

"Uh, you know, at your age you really should consider some regular physical activity."

Thank you, Hippocrates, but I have considered -- and rejected -- it.

I like to play with dolls

2006-04-25T17:28:00.000-07:00

This "exclusive accessory," which ably captures my prevailing mood this week, comes with Sideshow Collectibles' Friday the 13th Pamela Voorhees doll, er, action figure. It is comforting to know that this denizen of Crystal Lake, mother of Jason and [**SPOILER ALERT**] original slasher of the long-running film franchise has been so memorialized. This Mrs. Voorhees, according to her purveyors, possesses "over 30 points of teen-slaying articulation, and . . . many tools for dispatching -- hunting knife and sheath, axe, machete, and a bow and arrow!"

If only all mothers defended (the memories of) their sons with such ferocity.

"Kill 'er, mommy. Kill her!"

Overheard at lunch

2006-04-17T14:58:00.000-07:00

n my community, I'm what's considered a soft butch.

Anticlimactic

2006-04-17T09:43:00.000-07:00

OK, so the eagerly anticipated Notorious Bettie Page isn't so good. This is through no fault of Gretchen Mol, who strives mightily to elevate the material. As someone who in snapshots and stills doesn't look much like Page, Mol employs facial expression and physical movement to channel the pinup icon. (It takes real knowledge to embody the titular naïf so convincingly.) Mol is most effective in re-creations of photo sessions and performances for silent reels. Particularly appealing are moments like those in the cheap little bondage films where, clad in elaborate lingerie and truly punishing heels, she shakes her finger at a naughty, often hog-tied captive. She seems less the dominatrix than a little girl scolding her doll. Unfortunately, such endearing aspects are almost lost in an uninspired story and script. The filmmakers don't do Ms. Mol or Ms. Page any favors by stranding actress and character in a tedious narrative that skips along the surface of what is presumably a more interesting life. The film version of Bettie is like the movie itself: they're not engaging when she's not posing. Especially finger-wagging.

Oh, did I mention that Mol's performance is fearless?

On to the next obsession . . . hmm . . .

No, I'm not ready yet for Snakes on a Plane.

Patiently waiting

2006-04-13T17:09:00.000-07:00

One more day.

Heart of darkness

2006-04-13T15:19:00.000-07:00

I know I had promised that the last entry would address noirish melodramas, but I couldn't resist that Trog one-sheet featuring the late, great J.C. (As I've explained to A & L, Norman doesn't worship Jesus Christ.) That exploitation-cheapie poster is not entirely unrelated, as Ms. Crawford happened to star in -- and garnered her only Oscar for -- Mildred Pierce (1945), which may be the most effective blend of key elements of melodrama and film noir.

Last weekend I went to a screening of two other such blends, Ruby Gentry (1952) and Beyond the Forest (1949). By way of introduction, a talking head remarked that, as so-called woman's pictures, this pair of films are not strictly noirs. But, to my mind, some of these weepie hybrids are closer to noir's dark heart than certain policiers, procedurals, detective stories, heist films and so on. For instance, in T-Men (1947), which as it its title suggests, follows a couple of treasury agents' crime-busting exploits, the agents are immovable figures of rectitude, who never succumb to the temptations of their undercover lives and identities (if they're tempted at all) as they navigate and unearth an elaborate criminal enterprise. T-Men indeed employs the dramatic chiaroscuro lighting typical of noir -- its cinematography is a real standout -- but the film's dark, grasping shadows do not extend to its themes. T-Men's noir credentials are ones of visual style, not narrative content. (In Mildred Pierce, Ms. Crawford's title character is basically a pure victim, but other characters and institutions we would normally expect to be good, most notably the daughter of a devoted, self-sacrificing mother, are corrupt or thoroughly rotten.)

Ruby Gentry and Beyond the Forest, which were directed by King Vidor and are, in all fairness, ripe for earnest revival, share certain elements. The films' respective central characters, Ruby (Jennifer Jones) and Rosa Moline (Bette Davis), are unstable, at times scary women with unfulfilled longing and proficiency with a shotgun. In comparison to Rosa, Ruby is more victim than villain, though she tends to wield her hammer of justice like the blunt, unforgiving tool that it is. Although both films are overwrought but unfairly maligned, Forest is more coherent, effective and entertaining. Neither its critical reputation as a "camp classic" nor any mere plot summary does the film justice. Its appeal lies largely in well-crafted dialogue, particularly admittedly outrageous lines delivered by Ms. Davis in a casually devastating manner; her overall performance as Rosa, who remains remarkably sympathetic for much of the picture; and an extravagant visual style. Ostensibly made, like most melodramas, for a predominantly female audience, both Ruby Gentry and Beyond the Forest nonetheless seem, no less than certain hardcore noirs featuring a ruthless femme fatale, to reflect a paranoid male fantasy: Beware women with ambition. And deadeyed aim.

Ruby Gentry, which is available on DVD, and Beyond the Forest, which inexplicably is not, were featured last weekend at the Egyptian here in L.A. as part of the American Cinematheque's annual noir program, which concludes this weekend. T-Men, which recently had its Turner Classic Movies premiere on cable, has been included on the programming slate for the yearly Film Noir Festival in Palm Springs in early June.

Speechless

2006-04-12T18:28:00.000-07:00

Are you there, God? It's me, Norman.

2006-04-12T11:05:00.000-07:00

As a general matter, I experience sufficient difficulty slogging through a day of work without writing about it. Every now and then, however, the constant low-level agitation and dread explode into full-fledged Grand Guignol. For instance -- don't blame the messenger! -- this morning, as I was turning into the corridor from our offices, I overheard the tail end of a co-worker's litany of grievances as she and another emerged from the ladies':

"And on top of everything, I got my period. (beat) It stained my underwear."

Seriously, God, are you there? Please deliver me from this place. And restore my hearing.

Although I wanted you to be aware of another of the petty indignities that beset poor Norman, I am truly sorry, gentle reader, for the vulgarity and insensitivity of this post. As penance, I will attempt in my next entry to take up the cause of melodramas, the so-called woman's pictures or weepies, in a noir context. Bear with me, though; I'm still convalescing from my unfortunate encounter.

Turn it off. Turn it off! Turn it ARRRGH!

2006-04-07T15:07:00.000-07:00

The latest Netflix fix came in the form of Paul Schrader's Hardcore (1979), a curious mix of exploitation and self-loathing, with a priceless tagline: "Oh, my God, that's my daughter." The film follows the quest of a strictly religious Midwestern father, Jake Van Dorn (George C. Scott, RIP), to find his runaway daughter in the urban jungles of California and rescue her from a seedy funhouse milieu of porn, peep shows and prostitution. (Drugs, too, presumably, given the legions of young, slow-witted, dead-eyed skinflick performers and sex workers. Lots and lots of narcotizing drugs.) He is assisted in this endeavor by a sleazy private dick and guide (Peter Boyle), whose screening of a scratched, grainy reel featuring Van Dorn's daughter in a group sex scene prompts the "Turn if off" paroxysm and kicks off her father's search in earnest. In all candor, I didn't pay close attention to all the clues on the scummy, winding path to Van Dorn's daughter. Under the circumstances, some of the nuances of character and personality were probably lost on me; I couldn't really tell you the difference between a Ratan and a Jism Jim. I was absorbing the gritty atmosphere and relishing Scott's blustery bull in a sex shop. If you haven't already, see the movie, if only for Scott's, ahem, sartorial 70s splendor, including groovy 'stache and roadkill wig, as he goes undercover as a bottom-feeding porn producer; moments like the one where an apoplectic Van Dorn, triggered by an insult to his daughter's oral sex technique, beats a scrawny, pockmarked porn actor with a table lamp and tosses him into a shower stall, further threatening the (in the words of Boyle's detective) "faggot hustler" with the shower head; and, most importantly to Hardcore's value as a historical artifact, a listless stripper reenactment of a Star Wars light saber duel.
Hardcore. Quality: **. Entertainment Value: ***** (on a four-star scale).

Norman's grab bag

2006-04-05T18:23:00.000-07:00

It's depressing to be suffering from this writer's block after only a few entries. The blog form certainly lends itself to a certain mundanity and casualness (what former pop star Jewel refers to as "casualty" in her poetry), but I've never been good at small talk. (Have I told you about all the rain in "sunny" California?) Maybe it's the diary-like intimacy that gives me jitters. (I mean "journal." Journal.) But I don't want my blog to suffer some form of crib death, so I thought I'd check in and share some of my inchoate ideas and failed attempts. Please let me know whether I should move from simple neglect to active infanticide and kill the blog I've sired. (I'm not quitting, but I am given to melodramatic gestures.) Without further ado, here's what's been gestating:

Slither review: Last weekend I saw the sci-fi horror comedy Slither, which was written and directed by James Gunn, director of the well-received 2004 remake of George Romero's zombie classic Dawn of the Dead. Of special interest to me, naturally, were Slither's zombies, classical, slow-moving, individually manageable but collectively deadly hordes that represent a welcome development away from the sprinting undead of Mr. Gunn's Dawn. This development alone, however, is not enough. The knowing (practically winking) attempts to mine the outlandishly horrific situations for their comic possibilities keep the audience at arm's length and drain the scenes of much of their power to frighten and disturb. I don't know if this broad, goofy humor reflects any lingering shame surrounding the (formerly?) disreputable horror genre and serves as a hedge of irony against any disapproval an earnest, fully committed approach might face. As a horror fan, I await something truly scary. That being said, Slither had a few good moments and one particularly exciting sequence involving a teenage girl's encounter with a merciless (and darkly funny!) gauntlet of horrors. And I was disheartened to read in today's Hollywood Reporter that, for industry execs, the upshot of Slither's disappointing opening-weekend grosses is that, in the words of one "insider" at Universal, the film's distributor, "there is no audience for horror-comedies." That's too bad, for a well-crafted horror comedy, like any genre hybrid, can be very effective. The overall implications for such blending and for horror in general remain to be seen.
Quality-of-life kvetching: I can't stand people who don't wait for you to disembark before barging into the elevator, subway car, etc. But what plagues me even more profoundly is the blindingly high wattage of the headlights of apparently every car or truck manufactured in the last 5 years or so. SUVs, with their eye-level lamps, are the most egregious offender in this regard (not to mention several others). Are these people lighting a path or completely irradiating it? I wonder what I look like from the perspective of these oncoming drivers. Do they see a little skeleton shielding his eye sockets? I don't believe in Hell, but I could design it: A crowded elevator I can't escape, lit on all sides by state-of-the-art beams from Japan/Germany/Detroit.
The long shadow of M: I saw M (1931) last Saturday, and as with Metropolis, I am in awe of Fritz Lang's vision and mastery of narrative and technique. In this film credited with giving birth to both the serial-killer movie and the modern procedural, Peter Lorre's child murderer is haunting, particularly when facing a novel form and process of "justice." Lang's even-handed depiction of the killer, his crimes, the hysteria surrounding them and the mob mentality that seizes an entire city is chilling, breathtaking and always timely. It is a testament to Lang's powers that he can, without diminishing the acute suffering such a predator wreaks, critique the society in which he prowls. (I went to see M a few short hours after seeing Slither. One of the reasons I abandoned a comprehensive assessment of Slither was that, before I could record my fresh impressions of it, M had wiped it almost entirely from my mind. Lack of recall and comparisons that would be unfair to almost any movie conspired to poison the review, making it unduly negative.) M had been paired on a double bill with another masterpiece of German Expressionism, The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1919). The themes and style of Expressionism, with its then-lurid preoccupations and creeping shadows, were a precursor to and critical influence upon two personal favorites: early Hollywood horror, particularly the Universal classics, and film noir, the subgenre/style closely associated with the studio films Lang directed after fleeing his homeland in the wake of the Nazis' ascension to power. (His wife, staying behind, opted to join the Party.)
Lost fan fiction: It has come to light that, in addition to Ana Lucia and the other "tailies," a small band of stewardesses (NOT flight attendants) on Oceanic Flight 815 separately crash-landed on an idyllic yet mysterious area of the island. In keeping with the enormous tease the show has become, this blog will bring you up to date, filling you in on their story up to now, a tale of survival, sexual exploration and madness! (Never let it be said that this blog doesn't pander to the lowest common denominator and its basest instincts.) Now it can be told!
Today's fortune: Nothing is impossible to a willing heart. (Not knowing what this means, I won't disagree.) Lucky numbers: 3, 14, 18, 33, 34, 37.

Fearful (both meanings) actresses

2006-03-31T18:34:00.000-08:00

For more on the particular problems facing Hollywood actresses, check out this review of Basic Instinct 2 and Sharon Stone's performance therein. (registration required)

_________________

"Uh, if it's OK with you,

I'll just drink it neat."

In praise of fearless actresses

2006-03-31T16:25:00.000-08:00

As you can tell from the previous entry, I'm excited to see The Notorious Bettie Page when it opens two weeks from today. (Of late, it seems A and I talk of little else.) I finally saw a trailer for it last weekend before Thank You for Smoking (which itself was pretty good). The trailer as a whole was no great shakes, but I was thrilled to see images from the movie at long last.
As Bettie, a nearly unrecognizable (to me) Gretchen Mol nonetheless bears little physical resemblance to the hypnotic pinup queen. More importantly though, like Bettie, she appears game. I don't think I've seen Ms. Mol in anything, but I am familiar with the basic outline of her late-90's Hollywood narrative, a story in which, to destroy her nascent career, the celebrity-entertainment complex did everything short of awarding her a Best Supporting Actress Oscar (all apologies to Marisa Tomei), including lavishing (damning?) her with the excessive or, at best, premature praise most notably captured in that now-notorious Vanity Fair cover article and photo. (Pursuant to the tired Hollywood clichés, we'll dispense with any distinctions between praise and coverage.) The magazine asked, "Is she Hollywood's next 'it' girl?" History answered with a resounding no. I don't know whether her own unfortunate Hollywood experience gives Ms. Mol special access to any maltreatment and manipulation in Bettie's story; in any event, I can't wait to see this biopic of the "dark Marilyn."
The role required Ms. Mol to perform nude and, from what I can tell, to gain a staggering amount of weight to place her just inside the normal-range minimum. I predict, when the film opens, certain middle-aged (heterosexual) male film critics will breathlessly praise the actress' fearlessness in what to them will seem like the second coming of Maria Bello. Don't get me wrong; I like Ms. Bello, especially her performance in A History of Violence. I find, though, it can be difficult to parse the notices for performances in which an actress removes her clothes because it appears that some reviewers have every interest in keeping the T&A pipeline open (a possibly noble but nonetheless distinct goal from that of assessing a performance's quality, I would think).
Another form of "fearlessness" is suggested by Ms. Mol's Bettie but is often calculated to other, more grandiose ends: a clear and sometimes showy attempt on the part of an otherwise beautiful actress to appear unattractive or merely plain or "raw" by gaining substantial weight (by their standards) or abandoning the usual public demands of hair and makeup. Julianne Moore, Naomi Watts and, yes, Maria Bello have all done this to great success, but the statuesque Charlize Theron's Oscar-winning performance in Monster is the ne plus ultra (or nadir) of this aesthetic slumming. Her serial killer was scary and naked! (Of course, male actors have undergone dramatic physical transformations for a role -- Robert DeNiro's Jake LaMotta and Tom Hanks in Cast Away are obvious examples -- but they are usually not similarly regarded for their striking beauty and red-carpet appearances.) Take heart, then, Gretchen: if you want to be thought of as fearless, you are well on your way as a result of exposing your new curves. Now, if you could just do the same while looking positively frightful, you might follow Charlize's gilded path, bypassing altogether the supporting actor awards and any associated curses.
The Notorious Bettie Page opens in limited release April 14.

Spring Movie Showdown: Battle of the Bangs

2006-03-29T20:25:00.000-08:00

V vs. B

Go, Bettie!

You know where I stand/stumble/lurch

2006-03-28T14:27:00.000-08:00

Add my voice to the din.

From Sunday's New York Times:

Perhaps the biggest debate in the zombie world is whether zombies have to move slowly, as they do in the Romero movies, or whether they may run. Some of the first sprinting zombies appeared in the 2002 film "28 Days Later." In [the novel] "The Rising," Mr. [Brian] Keene's zombies can sprint and even drive vehicles, qualities some zombie purists object to.

"I gave them an upgrade," Mr. Keene said.

Warren St. John, "Market for Zombies? It's Undead (Aaahhh!)" (registration required)

"Upgrade"?!? Hmph.

Death stalks

2006-03-27T09:44:00.000-08:00

Driving in to work today, I passed some middle-aged jogger mid-warmup or cooldown. From the telltale sheen on his bald pate, I guessed the latter. But beyond mild Monday-morning contempt and a vague instinct to jerk my wheel and swerve over his healthy-for-his-age body without slowing, I wasn't preoccupied with him or anything. I did notice, though, that his regimen involved raising his hands to the sky in worshipful obeisance to the false god of exercise. (It really wasn't that pious. His stretching merely made him look like some kind of official or referee acknowledging some kind of score or goal in some kind of sport or pastime. Then again, if we are to believe professional ballplayers and the like, maybe there's little difference between the two activities: God's active involvement in the play and outcome of such games, not to mention the Grammys and, of late, reality TV, no longer seems a legitimate subject of debate.) It's not that I'm some anti-jogger fascist, and these sentiments aren't quite as callous as my former hope that cell phones actually do cause brain cancer. (I had to moderate my opinion in light of my own begrudging acquisition of a mobile.) I just don't understand the chosen activity of running and find it unattractive in any form. Like many boys my age (29ish), I love zombies, an evergreen topic as far as I'm concerned, but was disheartened to see the titular characters of the Dawn of the Dead remake (2004) giving vigorous chase like a pack of wild dogs after their human quarry. Zombies, for the most part, are part of the prestigious tradition of the lumbering but single-minded movie monster, a tradition that includes, for instance, Halloween's masked Michael Myers and extends at least as far back as Karloff's mummy. (Willing suspension of disbelief permits me to accept that the dead could be reanimated, but not without some resultant loss of motor functioning, skills and speed. I forgive 28 Days Later and its clever gloss on zombie lore. Its "zombies" weren't strictly undead but had contracted a disease that had immediately manifested itself in hyperaggression, no doubt making neocons in the Pentagon salivate with envy.) These slow yet deliberate villains are, like death itself, an implacable force. The stories in which they appear often have added resonance because it is only through royally fucking up that we, the stupid and petty living, whether individually or as part of some band of survivors, fall prey to these monsters' patient persistence. With or without zombies or some other bugaboo, the risk of death is a constant presence from the moment we are born. Death stalks, and no amount of jogging or other exercise will alter his endgame. Run all you want; he'll wait.
Happy Monday, and thanks, A & L, for your own version of persistence.