Mute Monday: Old Man

Mute Monday: Change

Mute Monday: Weird But Good

In (dis)honor of tonight's Academy Awards:

Mute Monday: Valentine's Day

You took a white orchid turned it blue.

Why won't you dance with me? I'm not no Limburger.

You're such a wonderful person; but you got problems.

What some call love? Well, that's like hypnotizing chickens.

I told you from the start just how this would end.
When I get what I want and I never want it again.

I might like you better if we slept together.

I dare not drown my sorrow in the warm glow of your wine.

You're perfect, yes it's true. But without me, you're only you.

Throw down your umbilical noose, so I can climb right back.


In honor of this V-D week; what's your favorite anti-love song?

Insert Requisite Yeats Quote Here

(NOTE: *Spoiler alert in seventh paragraph.*)

No County For Old Men is shockingly heavy for a Hollywood production. Usually, Tinseltown deals with issues of right and wrong, good versus evil, with all the dexterity of a three year old wielding a blowtorch. In fact, the entire industry seems run by increasingly short-distanced thinkers trying to pass off undersized ruminations on sex, football, the flag, and the occasional misbehaving businessman as Big Ideas.

But directors Joel and Ethan Coen thankfully prove themselves up to the task of creating a film that, for all its violence, serves as an unusually multi-layered morality tale – nerve jarring, hauntingly beautiful and, yes, cautionary. Although flashes of their signature deep black humor serve on occasion as relief from the persistent violence, the movie is not a satire nor does it ever for one moment sink into tongue-in-cheekery.

The soundtrack alone clues us into the fact that the Coens are dead serious about their topic. You won’t hear swelling strings or screeching horns (much less one single inappropriately interjected pop song). Instead, about the only accompaniment to the action other than dialogue are the staccato bursts of gunfire, the desperate gasps of men facing death, the stealthy crunch of truck tires along a lonesome gravel road, and the animalistic howl of the relentless, ever-present wind.

The Coens have also managed to coax some of the year’s most inspired performances out of their actors: Tommy Lee Jones doing what he does best; Josh Brolin's revelatory balance of intense physicality and spare emotion; and Javier Bardem, who gamely sports one of the weirdest hairdos known to modern filmdom yet nonetheless manages to create a walking personification of evil so bone deep chilling it’s right up there with Peter Lorrie in M. Kudos as well to the always welcome Woody Harrelson (please, work more), and to the Scottish actress Kelly Macdonald who dons a Texan accents as easily as sipping a glass of water.

Then there’s the landscape itself. The movie opens with the vision of a west Texas so stark and bleached-out, it can only be meant for tragedy. We meet that tragedy soon enough, precipitated by a middle of nowhere drug deal gone wrong and the theft of its cache of millions by a discontented, nothing-to-lose welder (Brolin). Into the mix is thrown Tom Bell (Jones) the stalwart long-time sheriff who is nonetheless still capable of incredulity in the face of violence. At one point in the movie, after reading a newspaper account of a couple who not only rob their neighbors, but then torture them to death and bury them in the backyard, he asks his deputy, “Who ARE these people?”

Denizens of some formless nihilistic milieu that escapes everyday understanding? Or, as a minor character describes later on, part and parcel of an ever-present, ever-shifting tidal wave of havoc and horror?

* Either way, we're introduced to one of these denizens soon enough, a killer-for-hire named Anton Chigurh (Bardem) who possesses a near supernatural, Terminator-like unstoppability and an offhand tendency to decide his victims’ fate with the toss of a coin. When one of them refuses to make the call, saying a coin toss is no way to decide if one lives or dies, the killer will just have to decide, Chigurh shrugs and says, “But I got here the same way the coin did.” *

Indeed. Although Chigurh has been sent to recover the stolen cache, profit, another character tells us, is not his goal. Instead, he operates off not just a peculiar, but a wholly unfathomable set of motives.

If then, as the story suggests, evil is relentless, purposeless, and as haphazard as the toss of a coin, and good is the conscious decision to try and stop it, one hand crossing its fingers, the other on the butt of a gun, then what of those who reside in the gray spaces in between? Well, let’s just say, you don’t dance with the devil in the pale moonlight and then not return his calls the next day.

If there’s any relief at all, it comes in the moments that make up the movie’s ending. Yes, contrary to the bitching and moaning of about half the theater after the lights come up, this movie does have one. Listen for it. You’ll hear in its final words a message that almost wipes the entire bloody slate clean.

I Want Your Sex – But Only if You Can Spell It

This ever happen to you? You meet someone new and you're discussing your likes and dislikes and the person tells you they just love to read and then you go over to their house and the bookshelves are filled with nothing but Danielle Steel and Harlequin Romance titles?

Okaaaaaay, not really what I was talking about . . .

So, what is it with us women and this stuff? Men have porn. They need, like, 1.5 seconds of it – literal or visual, doesn't matter. Women on the other hand, we have bodice rippers. We need 250+ pages and pirates and lusty wenches and increasingly clever ways to describe one's body parts and all the things you can do with them. Only with a back story.

And this literary trend is only getting worse.

Recently, my buddy Bob the Copy Editing God sent Moi an email about the possibility of him working for a bodice ripper-type purveyor.

Apparently, the Internet has set the genre ablaze. Suddenly, the virtual world is filled with scads of POD (print on demand) publishing houses that also serve as on-line bookstores for readers rabid for a seemingly endless stream of bodice ripping yarns. Unlike traditional publishing houses, these companies contract with writers to produce X number of books a year and pay them X amount (sometimes up to 50 percent) of the retail price of a book whenever X number of readers log onto the site and place an order for their book(s).

And good gawd, what all you can order! Everything from lite romance to full on, out-and-out smut of the smuttiest kind involving everything from – I kid you not, Party People – space aliens to vampires to house pets. All with, you got it, actual story lines.

Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against romance books. Or smut lit. Or pornography. Or erotica, or whatever you want to call it. After all, I wrote my senior history class thesis on the Marquis de Sade. Well, okay, not really because of the smut. But because, in addition to his filthy little mind, the Marquis was quite the literate libertarian and had some interesting things to say about personal freedom and responsibility and the tyranny of gub'ments: "Social order at the expense of liberty is hardly a bargain." for instance. So naturally, I felt a bond with the man.

Anyway.

Even when not couched in scathing political allegory, smut is fine with me. So long as it's written well. Which most of this POD stuff is not. Where, in today's churned-out-by-the-pound bodice ripping set is Erica Jong's ribald humor? Sidney Sheldon or Jacqueline Suzanne's über hip renderings of a specific time and place? Henry Miller's fluidity? Hell, even half of a sixth grader's dexterity with the most basic of adjectives? Way, way too much of this is an embarrassment and not because of the subject matter but because of the poor way in which it's conveyed. Bottom line: sucks the big one applies in more ways than one.

But what really puzzles Moi is this: why do so many women gobble these tales up?

All I can say is, let's hope Bob gets put on the job. Then at least then the stuff will be spelled correctly.

Lazy Ass Excuse for a Blog Post

This is one of those what I like to call LAEFABP posts: In other words, I'm trying my durndest to keep my content fresh, but sometimes, hell, you know. I just don't have it in me to comment on the train wreck that is Britney Spears' life or Posh Spice's welded-on canteloup boob job or the fact that more children are killed each day by relatives than they are in a whole year by dogs.

Hence, what I like to call my Lazy Ass Excuse for a Blog Post, posts. In which I make instead half-hearted attempts to convince you that your life will be as devoid of light and meaning as a raging black hole if you don't watch, read, or listen to what I tell you.

Ergo:

DOWNLOAD THIS:
"This Wreckage" – Gary Numan










With his grinding moody Moogs and lost-in-psychic-space vocals deadpanning bargain basement existential clichés like And what if God’s dead/we must have done something wrong/This dark façade ends/We’re independent from someone, Numan was a grunge/goth/industrial guilty pleasure way before anyone else (you listening, Trent Reznor?).



READ THIS:
Geronimo: His Own Story: The Autobiography of a Great Patriot Warrior by Geronimo, S. M. Barrett, and Frederick W. Turner

When you're down and feeling blue, just ask yourself: What would Geronimo do?

Bad ass mother fucker (I just put that in here to see if the Censor Police would come after me, too.)








WATCH THIS:

If loving you is wrong, I don't want to feel right.

Making Trash 1 Percent More Acceptable?

I know that time is flying by faster than Lindsay Lohan's career if Hollywood is now remaking movies I remember watching like it was just last week. And doing a crap weasel job of it, if you ask me.

Look, there's little about John Waters's original Hairspray, made in 1988, that could possibly be improved upon today. It was the director's first really "mainstream" film and it starred Waters staples like Divine, as well as some heavy-hitting pop icons: Deborah Harry, Iggy Pop, Pia Zadora. Remember Pia? One of the decade's great It Girls for sure.

So why retread the tire? About the only thing to recommend the new version (not directed by Waters) is Michelle Pfeiffer as Velma Von Tussle, the role originally inhabited by La Harry. Pfeiffer has long been one of my favorite actresses because beneath that California cool chick surface of hers lurks a steely intelligence and just a hint of self mockery. She always seems to be on the verge of busting out a sly smirk, half directed at herself for her public position, half directed at the outside world for stupidly worshiping that position. And any gal who can say, and mean it, "I used to smoke two packs a day and I just hate being a nonsmoker . . . but I will never consider myself a nonsmoker because I always find smokers the most interesting people at the table." has got my vote.

But in the end she can't pull the boat all by herself. Not when John Travolta insists on continuing his quest to become the Queen, uh, sorry, King, of Overblown Emoting. The guy had me once, at Saturday Night Fever. And then promptly lost me forever and ever with Moment By Moment. And no, I did not like him in Pulp Fiction. The only good thing about that drag of a movie was Bruce Willis. And we all know I'd follow Bruce to a film if he were wearing a diamond-encrusted tutu.

Where was I? Oh, yes. Remakes rarely improve upon the original. What they mostly do is fuck with precious memories. The original Hairspray represented Waters at his most giddy. It was trash gone good, maybe even slightly smart, as the movie also managed to make deft commentaries on body imagery and racism without sacrificing all the fun. The remake just burns the gummy image of John Travolta in a fat suit into our brains forever and a day. Nothing Divine about that.

Who's With Me on This?

Justin Timberlake's HBO Special

Okay. So he teeters just a hair on the not-so-cutting-edge of dweebie. But consider this: How many dweebazoid boys (or girls, for my 1.75 male readers) did you know in junior high and high school who grew up to know exactly what they were doing and now you could just smack yourself silly in the forehead for passing them right on by?

Uh-huh.

S.B. rolls his eyes like the end of the world were 2.5 seconds away and I was still figuring out what to wear whenever I mention just how underfreakingestimated I think Mr. Timberlake is in the greater pantheon of Popular Music. But I don't care. I've always been able to sniff out the diamonds amongst the rough. And I'm going with my instincts here: Justin Timberlake is very sparkly.

Besides, he's from the south, despite S.B.'s protestations to the contrary. (To my beau if it ain't Louisiana, Mississippi, or Alabama, it's "up north.")

Anyhoo. Admit it. You know you wanna turn around so he'll pick up the slack.

Fabulous Fashion Moments in Film

Ooo, I just love rediscovering the films of my youth.

This one is a goody, goody, with plenty of terrific '70's high fashion gloss, vintage Faye Dunaway bug-eyed emoting, a screamingly cliched sound track (culminating in one of those overwrought "rock ballads" that Barbara Streisand was known for during her l-u-v affair with ex-hairdresser-cum-movie-producer Jon Peters.)

All the fashion photos in the move were shot by one of my favorite artists ev-ah, Herr Helmut Newton. Here's a typical example.


See the girl on the far left? That's Lisa Taylor, one of the world's first Super Models. Back when Super Models were just that, that is – lusty and busty and full of their own fuck-it-all Amazonian power. Who could have predicted at that glorious moment in time that the Waif Trend would soon come scuttling in on its boney little feet and turn us all back into concentration camp victims?

Oh well.

Oh, and can you believe Tommy Lee Jones was ever this young? What a sexpot.


The film is also filled with marvelous grins and giggles. Like: Why, despite being 30-something when this was made, does Faye Dunaway look for all the world like a 50-year-old-nanny throughout the entire movie?


My theory is this: Jon Peters wanted girlfriend Bawbwa Streisand for the role. He was voted down. So he turned Dunaway into a dowdy little bitch. Or maybe that's the film's irony. Whatever. I just wish she'd looked more glam, ya know?

Even Laura Mars's car is a puzzle. Why, with all her money and fame, would she cruise the fabulous streets of 7th Avenue in the Family Truckster from National Lampoon's Vacation?


No matter. The Eyes of Laura Mars is over all a fabulous film. Go rent it today.