I just finished these four Max Corrados stories, by Ernest Bramah (written in 1914). Corrados, an amateur detective unusual for his blindness, is amusing and clever. The reading, done by Andy Minter and offered by Librivox, was delightful.
Interesting moments from the stories (Spoilers ahead!):
by John M. Barry; Narrated by Scott Brick
Stuff I learned:
In short, influenza is frickin scary.
I am glad Zach is back, but I felt bad for the interim Zach. I like the move toward a longer, multi-episode villain, and cannibalism is always a creepy way to start.
was very funny and enjoyable. I liked the Kevin Smith-isms (as when the TV Jack Black suggested that our main character’s parents “still do it.” It looks like this show has potential.
Still haven’t watched Heroes.
“The difficulty with the information stage is that it can no longer be made critical or reflexive. The only thing” one can do is reject it or totally accept it, nothing else.”
– Jean Baudrillard, “The Murder of the Sign”
I’m never sure what to do, critically, with movies that are self-aware. A detective film that knows it’s a detective film defies my critical eye, in some ways, by being critical of itself. Add to that problem that the film is a comedy and I’m in BIG trouble.
Oh well, here’s an anecdote instead of critical evaluation. Come to think of it, perhaps this is right up your alley, Brian. Here, then, is my anecdotal criticism of Kiss, Kiss, Bang, Bang.
My sister-in-law (who grew up in Michigan, lived in Indiana, and now lives in Illinois) has narrow taste in movies. Films that are too weird, too slow, too old, or engage any of numerous traits exhaust her goodwill and make her reach for the remote. Kiss, Kiss, Bang, Bang is one such film. About one-third of the way through, she remembered why she didn’t like the film (too much swearing), and stopped watching it with us. At the end of the film, when Perry and Harry are telling us to go home, Perry says
And to you nice folks in the middle of the country, sorry we said fuck so much.
Kiss, Kiss, Bang, Bang takes several critical turns based on the “young starlet goes to Hollywood” motif. The first and most obvious is Harry, who has come to town to do a screen test (and, unbeknownst to him, scare Colin Farrel into dropping his price for a new film). Stumbling into the detective game, he finds that the private eye biz is exactly like the movies, Perry’s warnings aside. His improvisation betrays him, but only in the same way such bull-headedness ALWAYS betrays the detectives at the root of such films. Note the grin in Harry’s eyes above — it never stops being a game to him. The botched Russian Roulette game has the same problem. Harmony and her sister both bring middle America to the coast too, and their naivete shows in their unsuccessful search for fame and fathers.
Despite Harry’s gruff exterior and his faux-Hollywood attitude, his honorability defines the trope. The contrast with the sleazy skirt-peeker from the beginning of the film, the one who beats the shit out of Harry, marks the contrast in natures too. We never see Perry show regret or emotion about the men they encounter, though he clearly sees Harry’s pain about the deaths.
I don’t have a grand conclusion to draw, but the throwaway line about Middle America ties to several themes in the film. Voila.
The other day, while I was out walking with my daughter, I overheard two funny things:
We stopped for a short while by a baseball field to watch a few minutes of pee-wee baseball. The boys were old enough to be pitching themselves, but underhand. I would guess about 5th grade. One team, clearly far better at hitting than the other, scored two runs in one play. One of the boys who scored, in noticing that no-one in his team’s bleachers seemed to notice, hollered
We just scored two runs and nobody cares!
Later, Avery and I were at a playground where a group of about four sixth or seventh-grade girls were playing (hide-and-seek, oddly). As Avery led me toward the group from the far side of the jungle gym (and thus out of sight of these girls), one of them muttered
PMS sucks monkey balls.
(also called Hollow Triumph) Starring Paul Henreid.
A thoroughly enjoyable film, with excellent film noir twists and characters who betray one another. One key moment in the film revolves around Muller’s doppleganger, Dr. Bartok. The only difference between the two is that Bartok has a scar on his left cheek. Muller takes a photo and imitates the scar by cutting his own cheek. Alas, the man at the photo lab printed the image backward and his scar is on the wrong side. Ha ha!
Worth my thirty-eight cents:
When Muller decides to steal another man’s life and identity. He does so while looking out a window that, in classic noir fashion, faces a blinking neon sign. The shadows of the blinds across his face are lovely, as is most of the film.
Side note: It turns out Linux DVD players don’t have that pesky crap that keeps you from doing a screen capture. YES.
We didn’t watch Heroes yet, but we did watch
Enjoyable. Funny. Directed by McG. Features Jane from Firefly. Main guy works at “Buy More” for the Nerd Herd. That’s just funny.
His sister’s boyfriend is called Captain Awesome.
His brain substitutes for a pattern-matching computer created by the gvt. An interesting intersection of the notion of the brain as computer and the idea of emergent processes. Also, since the information is transmitted entirely through image and works through pattern and recall, his thought processes might very well be called electrate.
I watched Revenge of the Creature last night on Svengoolie. Jenny (pretends she) doesn’t like the cheesy format and jokes, but I love it. I noticed a couple things about the movie:
1. One of the major subplots was the scientist-ness of the heroine. As a woman working toward a career as a scientist, she faced major obstacles in 1955. The characters often commented on her fitness as such. Here are a couple of the comments I remember:
The film was also remarkably frank about the challenge career women of the 1950s faced. Lying on the beach with Clete, Helen ponders the unfairness the choice she has to make between being a scientist and a mother. When she asks Clete about it, he says “Well, I don’t have to make that choice. I’m a man. I don’t think that’s right, but that’s the way it is.”
2. The police in Florida must deal with an awful lot of crazy stuff. When the police on the patrol boat heard that “the gill man has attacked someone near pier 77,” they showed no emotion at all, and when alerted that their boat was needed to respond, they accelerated with all the interest a traffic cop shows for someone going 16 over the speed limit–enough to react, but not to get excited about.
3. Two lads finishing high school talk, as they drive in their car, about their post-h.s. plans. One of them says he was supposed to go to college, but that he probably wasn’t going to. His father did just fine without a college degree. “I don’t know,” his buddy says, “my dad says that you need a degree to get a job. College degrees are like high school degrees used to be.” 1955. Jeez!
4. The gill man is frickin’ strong. He can turn over a car (see above) and hurl people through the air. His attack on the college boys (from point 3) was one of the most hilarious special effects I’ve ever seen.
Lee Marvin spends long stretches of this film, particularly at the beginning, silent. In this, if nothing else, the film contrasts with the Mel Gibson remake (Payback) I’m so fond of. This movie’s a lot more moody, too. There’s hardly any room for the gleeful sadism Mel’s audience expects; Marvin’s Walker plans and executes viciously, but without the panache Gibson’s Porter shows. Point Blank‘s violence also defies enjoyment. Unlike the more stylized moments of violence we find in even the most mundane action movies today, Walker’s fights are brutal, awkward things involving kidney punches and various body-tossing moves.
The end of the film also denies viewers the pleasurable resolution we found in Payback. Walker won’t find what he was looking for any more than Porter did.
One intriguing moment from the film, other than the still above that captured my attention, was the tacit acknowledgement of gay men, seen in the apartment Walker uses to spy on his quarry. Most depiction of gays I’d seen in films of the late 60s were more on par with the creepy transexual from Beyond the Valley of the Dolls, so these characters were a welcome relatively neutral couple.
Inadvertently, I found myself reading/ listening/ watching four apocalypse stories simultaneously. This catastrophe of sad stories occurred because I avoid sad stories. When I’m reading something grim that I don’t want to quit reading, I just slow down and read other things simultaneously. It had to happen that eventually I’d be reading one grim thing slowly and pick up another to avoid the first. This is one of those cases.
EDIT: (2008-01-01) When I first wrote this post, I included a photo called “Road to the Sea” from flickr. I thought the photo was posted with a creative commons license, but the license on the photo now says “All rights reserved” so I’ve taken it down.
Random Acts of Senseless Violence by Jack Womack
John Walter recommended this book to me, and I’m excited to read it. At the same time, I’m terrified. Urban apocalypse scares me most of all, and this entire book, an epistolary novel written from the perspective of a young-teen girl, drips with it. It also features what 1970s horror movie makers knew was the worst thing: dread. We know bad things are coming–epidemics, continuous rioting, economic strife–but Womack keeps pushing them back a little further. At least Octavia Butler, in The Parable of the Sower, got the collapse of society started with haste. This book, not so much. (This is the only one of the four I haven’t finished now.)
The Road, by Cormac McCarthy
My father-in-law insisted I should read this as an audiobook, since the narrator (Tom Stechschulte) does a fantastic job. I didn’t know it was a father-and-son road book about a post-apocalyptic landscape. Talk about dread: the characters shamble from one horror to another, running for their lives from cannibals and murderers. McCarthy makes a scavanged tin of peaches seem like heaven on earth, but I’m still quaking from the bit about the people being kept in the storm cellar as food.
Monster Island by David Wellington
Perhaps zombie novels don’t fit the same seriousness as the two books above, but this one is still creepy. The need to have the zombies be more than zombies makes sense. I’ll have to write something more sustained about why zombie novels can’t just be zombie films in novel form; at least the good ones can’t. The short answer is that zombies are a visual monster. They tap into the uncanny, and that fear works best as a visual, not language-based, one. The human-and-yet-not-human shape of the zombies, along with their dead eyes and lumbering walk, make them frightening. In books, this doesn’t translate the same way, and action becomes the way one interacts with them.
Thus, zombie novelists must come up with something else for the zombies to do. Some make it funny (Al’s All Fright Diner, The Stupidest Angel), some make it large scale (World War Z), and some give the zombies an unheimlich intelligence (Cell, Monster Island). My favorite twist with Wellington’s book was his decision to have the zombie epidemic be something other than a virus. That way, pigeons, horses, and mummies can all rise from the dead as well.
Children of Men
Good God! Why do all the beautiful movies (save Searching for Bobby Fischer) have to be do damn heartwrenching. There I sat, watching Cuaron’s brilliant film in my living room, my muscles clenched with tension, my stomach seizing. The moment arrives when Ki passes through a crowd with her baby and everyone stops shooting to listen to the baby cry. Then, as the baby’s crying died out I heard Avery crying in her bedroom. Scared the bejeezus out of me. And I think I over-comforted her, at that.
So having seen the film now, why did I think Ben Kingsley was in it?
From the Star Tribune, “Firefighters Rescue Drunk Man Trapped in Chimney”
“I told them to leave him in the chimney and let him die,” she said.
Whenever I hear They Might Be Giants’ amusing and lyrical “Who Put the Alphabet in Alphabetical Order?”, from Here Come the ABCs, I can’t help but think of the Will Farrell / Ana Gasteyer singing sketches from SNL.
Back in ancient times, you know that things then weren’t that easy.
So many different tribes: so many different ways of writing.
I wonder, who put the alphabet in alphabetical order?