Great Moments in Literature

“Outside the morning was bright. I liked the holy, rejoicing look of it: the many gray Christmases of my childhood had depressed me. And apparently not just me: one year the holiday card my mother sent out was an October photo of my brother and me, with a caption that read The children. In some dead leaves.“

                     --Lorrie Moore, A Gate at the Stairs, 2009

“SPEAKING IS A PRECIOUS WASTE OF SILENCE. IT IS DIRTY, IMPURE TRANQUILITY. BESIDES, YOU’RE NOT PEOPLE. SO JUST REMEMBER THAT I’M NOT SPEAKING TO YOU. SERENITY, SHATTERED WITH A CHAOS OF SOUND.”

                     --Doug Moench, MARVEL PREVIEW, Vol. 1, No. 12,
                            "Slinking Through the Psycho-Ward," 1977

(Posted simultaneously to “Jelly-Town!”)

 

One for Friday: John Kruth, “Here When You’re There”

As I sit and type, the snow is piling up outside. It’s been nearly nine years since we moved from Wisconsin for parts south, so it’s been nearly that long since I’ve looked out my own window and seen a sight like this.

It seems beholden upon me to select an appropriate song for the day, so naturally I gravitate back to the artists who logged their time in the endurance test of American Dairyland winters. It was in the springtime of 1990 when I saw John Kruth play live at Milwaukee’s Shank Hall, opening up for Irish songsmith Luka Bloom (though it’s worth noting that springtime in Wisconsin can feel like winter in most other parts of the country). He was exactly what my stalwart concert companion and I needed that night: loopy, clever, and delighted with his own flagrant geek tendencies. Each of snapped up vinyl copies of his latest release, the irresistibly titled Greasy Kid Stuff, also asked for his signature on the inner sleeve, still only one of two occasions when I’ve asked for an autograph.

This was one of those albums that went into my record crate and resided lonely as different technologies dominated my listening, and since Kruth is not one of those artists whose catalog has been meticulously updated to the digital era, I went for years without hearing any of the songs that I once loved, songs that I routinely dropped into my old college radio shows. That absence continued until I lamented it online. My typed out moans were met by my old cohort bestowing a CD copy of the album upon me, along with a few other shared favorite rarities that will undoubtedly get their Friday in the sun in this space.

So where does the snow come in? Good question. The song I’m posting here includes the following lyrics:

I was in Oshkosh, stuck in the snow
It was forty below
There was no hope in sight

That encapsulates the feel of a Wisconsin winter as well as any eighteen words ever could. And what I see outside my window this evening may be North Carolina, but it sure looks a lot like Wisconsin winter.

John Kruth, “Here When You’re There”

(Disclaimer: It sure looks to me like Greasy Kid Stuff is out of print and has been for quite some time. Mr. Kruth has other music available for purchase, but I don’t believe this record can be acquired through the exchange of American dollars. It is posted here with that understanding. However, if anyone with due authority to do so asks me to remove the file from the Interweb, I will gladly do so.)

 

Top Fifty Films of the 00s — Number Eight

#8 — The Incredibles (Brad Bird, 2004)
Those whose entire knowledge of superheroes derives from visits to the cineplex–and I still find it remarkable that a working background acquired through such means could be so much more thorough that I ever would have imagined ten years ago–can be forgiven for not realizes precisely how much Brad Bird’s The Incredibles is indebted to The Fantastic Four. This assertion is in reference to the comic book stories crafted by Stan Lee and Jack Kirby beginning in the early nineteen-sixties and extending across more than a hundred issues into the next decade. The most significant similarity doesn’t lie in the powers wielded by the protagonists of the respective adventures–both teams include a strong man, a person that can stretch their body like it’s constructed of especially pliable rubber bands, and someone who can use to power of invisibility to not just disappear but to cast spherical force fields around herself and others–but in the concept of the familial nature of a team of superheroes made literal.

In each of these invaluable pop culture artifacts, the simple innovation is to build the story around characters first, fantastical exploits second. Just as Lee and Kirby were breaking free of the simplified norms of comics with their creation, so too is Brad Bird hammering out something richer and more rewarding than the stitched-together collection of set pieces that is the default approach to superhero movies, or, for that matter, animated films. This doesn’t mean the film compromises the effectiveness of its action in favor of something more staid or cerebral. Quite the contrary. It is filled with exciting, perfectly directed sequences of kinetic wonder. Bird has his thrills and thinks them, too.

The film finds our heroes living a dreary suburban existence several years after the damage left in the wake of their daring exploits led to lawsuits which in turn led to regulations making costumed vigilantes illegal. Bob Parr, the former Mr. Incredible, is especially miserable, sneaking out at night to engage in illicit do-gooding until a mysterious benefactor starts offering him hefty paychecks in exchange for secret missions. The occupational woes of Bob Parr may make the littlest viewers fidget a bit, but it’s all part of the valuable depth that Bird builds into his film. It’s simply a story of retired superheroes drawn back to their grand crime-fighting but it carries a metaphorical weight that relates to anyone who longingly dreams of past glories, the fearlessness and ease of youth that they’ve left behind. Having the heroes return from exile builds a few spare plot twists into the film. More importantly, it adds greater greater urgency to the moments when they’re needed, greater triumph to their successes. It is that ever common theme of embracing one’s own identity, bolstered by reaching it on a completely novel path.

The characters are vividly drawn in every respect. Each member of the uniquely enhanced nuclear family at the core of the film virtually pops off the screen. Besides the previously mentioned Bob Parr, there’s his wife Helen, the former Elastigirl, who realizes that holding a family together is even more fraught with danger than any fierce battle she ever engaged in. Their daughter Violet (as in shrinking) is a typical teen burdened by self-esteem issues, using her power to literally disappear as a more effective means of retreat from a world that seems incredibly unaccommodating to her. Then there’s Dash, about to graduate from the fourth grade, acting out and fiercely unhappy about his inability to use his speedster powers to realize his full potential. He knows full well that the sentiment that everyone’s special, as well-meaning as it may be, is just “another way of saying no one is.” Every aspect of the characters is well thought out and depicted with telling details.

That same care extends to all the ancillary characters with a particular achievement in the creation of Edna Mole, the mildly maniacal seamstress who once specialized in costumes for superheroes, or as she puts it, she “used to design for gods.” Visually, she looks like Linda Hunt merged with one of those cylindrical little humanoids that populated old Fisher Price playsets. As voiced by Bird himself, Edna is a spectacular firebrand, a fashionista diva with a gleaming glee at the idea of stretched spandex across the most powerful beings on the planet, and railing against the deadly folly of capes as she does it. Another fascinating character is, appropriately, the villain of the piece, a cauldron of slighted malevolence that dubs himself syndrome, so envious of the heroes streaking across the skies that he concocts a scheme to dabble in their world. He can’t achieve greatness; he can only concoct a bastardized version of it that’s as phony as Clark Kent’s eyeglasses.

Bird’s is unyieldingly dynamic in the construction of the film. He’s working in animation, but clearly doesn’t see that as a excuse to avoid thinking cinematically. It is, in fact, an impetus to push that part of his creativity to greater heights, injecting scenes with the verve of effortlessly achieving the impossible. Heroes careen and bend across the rooftops, and their arch-enemies reside in the secret hideouts that Bond villains can only dream about, with entry ways through split open waterfalls and walls made of pulsating magma. The film bounds and crashes, spins and tickles, and then finally settles into its own brand of domestic bliss, one that redefines the notions of equality, partnership and togetherness. Young Dash would be pleased to know that The Incredibles proves decisively that “special” is a term that should only be ascribed to certain films, those that possess the same sort of daring that might cause a masked wonder to leap into the arms of peril for the benefit of all mankind. The Incredibles is indeed special.

(Posted simultaneously to “Jelly-Town!”)

 

It’s getting kind of hard to believe things are going to get better

Craig Ferguson is my new hero, if only for creating a thematically sensible reason to have the following featured musical performance on his show.

(Posted simultaneously to “Jelly-Town!”)

 

Cassavetes, Dick, Donaldson, Frankel, Mottola

Adventureland (Greg Mottola, 2009). Clearly Greg Mottola decided the Superbad path was the one to follow. He edges ahead a few years, focusing on college-aged youth who are all spun around by their romantic anguish and general horniness. Noticeably autobiographical in nature, the film is set in the late nineteen-eighties and features Jesse Eisenberg as a bright young man whose plans for graduate school are derailed causing him to seek summer work at the crummy amusement park in his hometown. It’s amusing enough, but also shaggy to the point of being aimless. Nothing sticks beyond the suspicion that Kristen Stewart has only developed one emotion–sullen self-pity–in her acting repertoire.

A Woman Under the Influence (John Cassavetes, 1974). Gena Rowlands delivers a masterful performance in her husband’s wrenching drama about a woman’s mental instability reaching a breaking point for her family. Cassavetes lets scenes run on, their length allowing for more revelation as characters gradually open up and conflicts play out to the point of discomfort. Crucially, the extra time brings more clarity to the ways in which Rowlands’ character is playing a role, struggling against her own instincts by trying to act as normal as can be, cheerily introducing herself to the fellow workmen her husband has invited over to a meal, the repetitive nature of her greetings leading to increased concern for those gathered around the table. Cassavetes doesn’t depict any of this as clear cut. Much of the film is about the ways in which the condition is reinforced, even exacerbated, by those around her, those who care about her the most. Peter Falk gives a excellent performance of his own as her husband, a man whose frustration and devotion bubble up with equal forcefulness.

The Bank Job (Roger Donaldson, 2008). There’s an interesting movie in here about a bank robbery in early-seventies London and the way the powers that be swooped in on the perpetrators because they wound up pulling some unseemly secrets out of the safe deposit boxes they pilfered. But the casting of Jason Statham in the leading role betrays either a disinterest in exploring the interesting elements, or at least a willingness to compromise them to the point of their near-complete evaporation in the name of getting the film made. Where the film could have benefited from an actor, it got an action hero, and the flutters of depth in the script and the stretches when Donaldson’s direction displays a sleek but gritty command can’t overcome Statham’s leaden presence. He’s supposed to be a regular guy who’s getting in over his head, but he plays his scenes with a displaced brutish self-assurance that knocks the tension completely out of the picture.

Outrage (Kirby Dick, 2009). Kirby Dick lets his indignation fly in a documentary that aims to expose the hypocrisy of closeted gay politicians who use stridently anti-homosexual stances as one of the most prominent thatches in their public beard. Dick has to traffic in an awful lot of hearsay and innuendo to make his points–sometimes the absence of decisive evidence to the contrary is enough for Dick to draw a conclusion–but he’s definitely on to something in examining the way that these political figures gladly, callously, heartlessly use bigoted policy statements as bulwarks to preserve their own power. On the basis of the talking head interviews he got, Dick may have actually been able to create something more interesting and more meaningful if he had settled for a sober-minded, even dry survey of the current state of gay issues in American politics. The urge for stunning revelation grows tiresome.

Marley & Me (David Frankel, 2008). While it’s polished up like a typical Hollywood feel-good bauble, there actually the kernel of something more interesting here. The film is packed with frantic, pooch-driven comedy, but it also depicts the way the lifespan of a family pet can carry through tremendous changes for the humans in the household. Passing across the years like a skipping stone, the film has a nice feel for the ways the consistency of a relationship with a beloved dog can give its humans something dependable to hold on to when uncertainty and sadness creep in elsewhere. That’s probably a product of the script, credited to surprisingly accomplished screenwriters Scott Frank and Don Roos, since the direction by Frankel shows the same literal-mindedness and lack of flair that marked his previous effort, The Devil Wears Prada. In the end, the film has no emotional heft, though, an especially unexpected flaw given the subject matter. Part of the problem is that Owen Wilson, while always engaging, shows no facility for digging deeper into his character. The same is true of Jennifer Aniston, but I will commend her for accurately capturing all the different ways a dog’s name can be spoken by his master.

(Posted simultaneously to Jelly-Town!”)

 

Top Fifty Films of the 00s — Number Nine

#9 — Up (Pete Docter with Bob Peterson, 2009)
Let’s start where everyone starts in discussing Up, with the sequence that seemingly inspires universal agreement about its excellence. With just a few minutes of screen-time, Pete Docter and Bob Peterson lovingly depict the arc of an adult life, or, more precisely, a pair of adult lives intertwined. The marriage of Carl and Ellie Fredericksen is glimpsed in a few brief moments scattered over their years together: picnics on a hill, maintaining their home, making plans for the future and watching as fate, sometimes unkindly, changes those plans. With inspired economy and an absence of dialogue, fully drawn people emerge and we come to understand them deeply–their joys, disappointments, humble accomplishments, and little compromises that accumulate until entire dreams have been consigned to deep storage on the uppermost shelf of the closet. This passage does not stand out just because of its profound artistry, its note-perfect encapsulation of the pieces that make up a person’s passage across the years. It doesn’t stand out because it is unique. In fact, quite the opposite is true. It exemplifies everything rewarding about the approach common to films issued under the Pixar banner–the investment in character, the tender understanding of human emotion, the commitment to visual storytelling–to such a degree that it serves as a fresh evidence that the group of creators that sign their name to the studio’s product collectively stand as the finest, most consistent filmmakers working at the dawn of the 21st century.

While entertaining, bright and ultimately hopeful, the film begins with melancholy as Carl, now elderly and alone, is suffering as a busy, indifferent world literally closes in on him. Inspired by a childhood pledge, and bolstered by his occupational experience with helium-filled diversions, Carl figures out a way to affix enough colorful balloons to the andirons of his fireplace to lift his clapboard house toward the heavens, bound by air for South America and the promise of adventure. That is fanciful and strangely inspiring all on its own, something that could serve as the grand ending to another film. Here it is just the beginning, leading into a plot that sets Carl, accompanied by a stowaway scout and a communicative canine, off to confront his boyhood hero, who’s evolved into a megalomaniacal poacher. Docter and Peterson, who are also the credited screenwriters, get every last possibility out of the material they set into motion, taking special glee at the ability they’ve afforded themselves to both defy gravity and use it as the greatest danger their characters face.

The computer animation makes them the absolute masters of everything within the frame, a responsibility they fulfill with striking design work and incredible attention to detail. The characters carry some of their personality with them in their respective visual designs from the series of squat blocks that make up Carl to the rounded, rolling energy of his youthful companion, Russell, to the battalion of dogs they eventually encounter, all of them constructed to convey some facet of who they are and how they fit into the story. What’s more, within those designs and the imagery they move amidst, there is a broad mass of information, all of it lovingly rendered. When hundreds of balloons emerge from the chimney of Carl’s home like a multicolored cloud, the way they move, shift, bob and flow into place it is a lush spectacle, but one that is meant to convince just as assuredly as it is designed to dazzle. When the abode held aloft casts a shadow on the streets below, the patches of colorful light thrown down by the balloons move with it, a trail of translucent beauty. The animators have clearly thought about how that would look, and, even though we only see it for a fleeting moment, made sure it was depicted exactly right. It’s bits and pieces like that, and the care that goes into them, that amass to make the film gripping and oddly believable. Up may be rife with wild invention, but it also follows the rules it establishes. It never cheats. It asks us to believe that a house can fly, but also allows that a house has weight, and popping some of those balloons will have an impact.

Thematically, the film operates as a set of fascinating contradictions. Carl follows through on the deferred conquest of the outside world, striking out for the imposing, distant waterfall that represented his beloved Ellie’s ideal, but he does so from the safety of his own residence, literally taking his house with him as he travels. Then there is the simple, disarmingly sweet message that the best way to find one’s self is to look outside, spotting the inherent truisms of one’s own person in the reflection of someone else’s eyes, or, more importantly, someone else’s heart. Carl accomplishes this with young Russell, but he’d also had that with Ellie, from the moment they met as kids and her rapid verbal cascades helped fill up his silences, completed his very thoughts, flooded his imagination, made him better. One of the great achievements of Up is that Ellie is a bold character that is vividly present throughout the entire film, even though she is not seen after the first few minutes. She is there in the pages of a scrapbook, in the memories encased within a home, in the parts of Carl that give him the strength to get past his hesitancy and his curmudgeonly disinterest in those around him. Indeed, the most moving aspect of Up is watching Carl come to the realization that Ellie may be gone, but she will always be with him.

This is all proffered up with elegance and insight. The mechanics of narrative that are simultaneously the simplest and the most rewarding are used by Docter and Peterson like highly familiar tools, like a hammer in the hand of a lifelong carpenter. Details that initially seem to have little purpose beyond getting a laugh or revealing something about a character prove to have greater value as the film progresses. The character dynamics are well thought out, and remain true from beginning to end, developing notably but naturally. The film becomes radical through reasserting the fundamentals of cinematic storytelling. It reminds us that, for all the toil and energy that goes into generating emotional responses in moviegoers, often the greatest impact can come from a single image if the necessary work has been done to give that image weight, even (or especially) if that image is of nothing more than a bottle cap pinned to a shirt.

(Posted simultaneously to “Jelly-Town!”)

 

No Man Can Be a God and Win At All

The mad rush of Academy Awards precursors is underway, and one of the biggest hit today as the Los Angeles Film Critics Association announced their annual awards. It’s so very early in the process, but this is already looking like another one of those years where the eventual Oscar winners will practically lock in early, and the critics’ organizations and other groups will be spending as much time ratifying those nearly predetermined selections as they do hashing out bold proclamations of merit. I note this because I take offense at any of their choices. Indeed, as a movie observer who operates from a home base distant from the hubs of cinematic activity, I’m especially ill-equipped to render my own judgments at this late point in the calendar year. Still, by citing the work of Jeff Bridges, Christoph Waltz and Mo’Nique, the L.A. group has beaten the drum for performers who already have thunderous percussion sections working in their favor, performers who are already the prohibitive favorites in their respective categories. Indeed, Bridges, probably on his way to his fifth nomination without a prior win, is as clear of a lock as you can get this far in advance of celebrities shuffling their way nervously down the red carpet.

This isn’t a complaint, just an observation. While I remain interested and even invested, I’m long past the point of caring passionately about how these groups summarize the year in film. It’s less interesting to look at their award as the fought-over determination of a group of committed film fans. As a barometer of where the critics think the awards season is going, on the other hand, there’s at least one very interested detail that can be gleaned from this grouping, and that’s the presence of Kathryn Bigelow’s name next to Best Director, hardly the first such award she’s won lately. She seems certain to become only the fourth woman to receive a nomination for the Best Director Academy Award. What’s more, it’s increasingly looking like she’s the front-runner. When the time comes to cast the final vote, enough Academy members won’t be able to resist the chance to cast a ballot that makes Oscar history, and even if The Hurt Locker isn’t perfect, it is an undeniable feat of directing. Even if there’s not much suspense that night, there may very well be something very worth watching.

(Posted simultaneously to “Jelly-Town!”)

 

Anybody hear the forest fall?

My day at work involved a scene that looked a little like this.

So I’m tired. Too tired to post much more than that.

As with most comic book covers that grace this site, the image comes courtesy of one of the greatest Websites ever.

(Posted simultaneously “Jelly-Town!”)

 

One for Friday: A Speedbump

As opposed to last week’s digression, this week I’m plainly having technical difficulties.

So, in lieu of fresh content, I’ll sheepishly direct you to the spot on the Interweb where I was able to meet my weekly Friday obligation.

 

There’s Always Time for Ball

(Posted simultaneously to “Jelly-Town!”)