Each year, for the last several years, I've said that I'd take Halloween off and celebrate it the way I wanted. I wasn't quite sure what I wanted to do, but I knew it wasn't dressing up or getting drunk or giving out candy. It wasn't--or might not be--watching scary movies. I knew I needed to somehow pay attention to the dead, to reflect on people I'd known, loved and lost. I thought I should take one day a year and allow time for mortality.
And yet, each year, that isn't what happened. Usually, work interfered. Halloween isn't a national holiday, and it doesn't appear on most businesses' paid days off lists. Maybe if we treated the event more like Mexico...but, that isn't the case. I was also thwarted by other circumstances, most of which I don't recall. Finally, I didn't commit. Death is hard enough to face without seeking it out. That doesn't sound quite right, since my idea wasn't to seek death, but to seek the dead. Not just remember them, though I'd be doing that. In metaphor, to converse with them.
I'm not religious or spiritual. I don't believe in the supernatural. The dead are dead, and I can't communicate with them except through memory. Since I own the memories, a psychologist or psychiatrist might say that I'm having a conversation with myself. I'm tricking myself. And, for what purpose?
One clear reason is to grieve. Some people dwell on misery. They are leeches, attaching themselves to the horrible in life and filling themselves with sad blood. Others refuse to see anything but goodness and light. In their worlds, murder, deceit, corruption, madness, perversity...all of these are distant fiction, as long as they aren't affected. They can "tsk tsk" the stories, dismiss them with a momentary "well that's just awful" that is no more meaningful a mantra than "pass the ketchup".
Most of us are in between. We deal with the dead by habit and by upbringing. We're forced into confronting them at funerals, or when we hear of an accident that our wives or friends or parents might have been in. We may, for a few minutes, imagine being told of their deaths, and of going to their funerals. Maybe we wonder what we'd say, if we had to deliver the eulogy. In those moments, I think we do more than rediscover our love, and we do more than momentarily grieve. We actively hug the future, we let go of trivia, and we can more easily accept our own impending deaths. We practice how we'll behave when invited to Death's court.
...
So, what have I actually done today?
The very first thing I did, after the usual morning shower, was to check email. I promised myself I'd only do this once, and so far (as of 6:50pm) I've stuck to that promise. In fact, I haven't done much of anything on the computer, except write. This morning, I had a good breakfast of Huevos Rancheros at First Watch. I usually take a book with me, something that can stand interrupting. I've been working my way through a series of pulp novels from the 1930s and 40s featuring a character named Doc Savage. These are perfect light reading. My current title is The Spook of Grandpa Eben.
After breakfast, I watched the special features for the film A Prairie Home Companion. I had watched the film last night. If you're a fan of Garrison Keillor's radio show, the movie will surprise you in both what it is and is not. It is not merely a lifting of his radio work, nor a light hearted afternoon's entertainment. It is an oddly affecting, sensitive, tale that at times plays like an art film. It's very funny, featuring brilliant performances from award winning (or nominated) actors Kevin Kline, Meryl Streep, Lily Tomlin, Tommy Lee Jones, Virginia Madsen, Woody Harrelson, and John C. Reilly. It is also sad, and it's the sadness that I didn't expect. I recommend this rich, textured movie.
A long time ago--sometimes it seems like another life entirely--I was headed toward a career in classical music. I still play my violin every once in a while, as I did today, especially when I need to remember who I am. My fiddle belonged to my great grandfather on my mother's side. I'm lucky to come from a very musical family. Whenever I play, I hope that some of their brilliance will leak through time, space and genetics into my fingers. There's nothing better in life than making music.
Lunch was had at the Glendale Pub, and consisted of a blackened salmon sandwich and a finely crafted brown ale from Bell's brewery. Dessert was a pumpkin cheesecake. I went to the bank, then returned my movie and rented The Butterfly Effect, which had been on my list for a long time. But I promised myself I'd write today, so I composed the first half of this entry before watching it.
I remember reading reviews of the movie that were mildly complimentary, but not overly. I'm not sure why. Maybe this is one of those cases where the director's version was superior to the theatrical release. I don't know, because I only watched the director's cut. I was not only impressed with the script, I was impressed with the story and the very dark presentation. It's a difficult movie to watch. In the end, I'm glad I did. At any other time, I'd have merely praised it for its many merits. Today, it helped provide a much needed release from serious personal issues in my life. I got lucky. The Butterfly Effect fit perfectly--and unexpectedly--with my day.
After recovering from the film, I went to dinner at the Glendale Gaslight Cafe (not to be confused with the Pub). It's a nice place, somewhat of an "old people's restaurant", which was perfect since it's usually quiet and the staff are used to giving good service. I enjoyed a top sirloin, green beans and garlic mashed potatoes, peppermint tea, and carrot cake.
And now I'm back home, writing this second part of tonight's entry. Coming up are a hot bath, then my annual viewing of Something Wicked This Way Comes, the film based on Ray Bradbury's novel.
And after that, more writing. Aren't you happy?
...
Here's a little untitled Halloween poem. Very rough, but might be worth editing.
My candles don't lie, when they give shifting light to the walls
Truth isn't incandescent. No ninety watt epiphanies here. Instead,
what's real is revealed among the horse shadows chasing behind the flame.
We're temporary, oxygenated, awaiting our day of snuffing. We waver
like belly dancers who wear yellow silk, and whose waists promise dances
that never happen.
Have you breathed in a room with a thousand candles? The air tastes
like scorpions, you expect a lava sun, yet it's always twilight. Monks
meditate on the missing places--so they say. Like designers who construct
the impression of walls by how they arrange chairs, the pillars of candle
flames pretend to be day, but just move night around.
Kids will stare, retinas protesting, for an hour, waiting for a black
wick to cough its fire and return to burnt string. They recognize, no
adult prompting needed, that the candle eats itself, swallows its wax,
puts itself out. They notice themselves the instant it's gone. Their
skin chills when a passing parent says, "Good night!" and extinguishes it.
Maybe this is why we light them in churches, in monasteries, at dinner
when we want things special and, a few minutes before our date arrives,
we remember our grandmother, how she smiled serving ham, we laugh
and strike a match. We hear a gloved hand knock. We answer, kiss,
walk her inside. For a moment, independently, its melting arrests us.
And yet, each year, that isn't what happened. Usually, work interfered. Halloween isn't a national holiday, and it doesn't appear on most businesses' paid days off lists. Maybe if we treated the event more like Mexico...but, that isn't the case. I was also thwarted by other circumstances, most of which I don't recall. Finally, I didn't commit. Death is hard enough to face without seeking it out. That doesn't sound quite right, since my idea wasn't to seek death, but to seek the dead. Not just remember them, though I'd be doing that. In metaphor, to converse with them.
I'm not religious or spiritual. I don't believe in the supernatural. The dead are dead, and I can't communicate with them except through memory. Since I own the memories, a psychologist or psychiatrist might say that I'm having a conversation with myself. I'm tricking myself. And, for what purpose?
One clear reason is to grieve. Some people dwell on misery. They are leeches, attaching themselves to the horrible in life and filling themselves with sad blood. Others refuse to see anything but goodness and light. In their worlds, murder, deceit, corruption, madness, perversity...all of these are distant fiction, as long as they aren't affected. They can "tsk tsk" the stories, dismiss them with a momentary "well that's just awful" that is no more meaningful a mantra than "pass the ketchup".
Most of us are in between. We deal with the dead by habit and by upbringing. We're forced into confronting them at funerals, or when we hear of an accident that our wives or friends or parents might have been in. We may, for a few minutes, imagine being told of their deaths, and of going to their funerals. Maybe we wonder what we'd say, if we had to deliver the eulogy. In those moments, I think we do more than rediscover our love, and we do more than momentarily grieve. We actively hug the future, we let go of trivia, and we can more easily accept our own impending deaths. We practice how we'll behave when invited to Death's court.
...
So, what have I actually done today?
The very first thing I did, after the usual morning shower, was to check email. I promised myself I'd only do this once, and so far (as of 6:50pm) I've stuck to that promise. In fact, I haven't done much of anything on the computer, except write. This morning, I had a good breakfast of Huevos Rancheros at First Watch. I usually take a book with me, something that can stand interrupting. I've been working my way through a series of pulp novels from the 1930s and 40s featuring a character named Doc Savage. These are perfect light reading. My current title is The Spook of Grandpa Eben.
After breakfast, I watched the special features for the film A Prairie Home Companion. I had watched the film last night. If you're a fan of Garrison Keillor's radio show, the movie will surprise you in both what it is and is not. It is not merely a lifting of his radio work, nor a light hearted afternoon's entertainment. It is an oddly affecting, sensitive, tale that at times plays like an art film. It's very funny, featuring brilliant performances from award winning (or nominated) actors Kevin Kline, Meryl Streep, Lily Tomlin, Tommy Lee Jones, Virginia Madsen, Woody Harrelson, and John C. Reilly. It is also sad, and it's the sadness that I didn't expect. I recommend this rich, textured movie.
A long time ago--sometimes it seems like another life entirely--I was headed toward a career in classical music. I still play my violin every once in a while, as I did today, especially when I need to remember who I am. My fiddle belonged to my great grandfather on my mother's side. I'm lucky to come from a very musical family. Whenever I play, I hope that some of their brilliance will leak through time, space and genetics into my fingers. There's nothing better in life than making music.
Lunch was had at the Glendale Pub, and consisted of a blackened salmon sandwich and a finely crafted brown ale from Bell's brewery. Dessert was a pumpkin cheesecake. I went to the bank, then returned my movie and rented The Butterfly Effect, which had been on my list for a long time. But I promised myself I'd write today, so I composed the first half of this entry before watching it.
I remember reading reviews of the movie that were mildly complimentary, but not overly. I'm not sure why. Maybe this is one of those cases where the director's version was superior to the theatrical release. I don't know, because I only watched the director's cut. I was not only impressed with the script, I was impressed with the story and the very dark presentation. It's a difficult movie to watch. In the end, I'm glad I did. At any other time, I'd have merely praised it for its many merits. Today, it helped provide a much needed release from serious personal issues in my life. I got lucky. The Butterfly Effect fit perfectly--and unexpectedly--with my day.
After recovering from the film, I went to dinner at the Glendale Gaslight Cafe (not to be confused with the Pub). It's a nice place, somewhat of an "old people's restaurant", which was perfect since it's usually quiet and the staff are used to giving good service. I enjoyed a top sirloin, green beans and garlic mashed potatoes, peppermint tea, and carrot cake.
And now I'm back home, writing this second part of tonight's entry. Coming up are a hot bath, then my annual viewing of Something Wicked This Way Comes, the film based on Ray Bradbury's novel.
And after that, more writing. Aren't you happy?
...
Here's a little untitled Halloween poem. Very rough, but might be worth editing.
My candles don't lie, when they give shifting light to the walls
Truth isn't incandescent. No ninety watt epiphanies here. Instead,
what's real is revealed among the horse shadows chasing behind the flame.
We're temporary, oxygenated, awaiting our day of snuffing. We waver
like belly dancers who wear yellow silk, and whose waists promise dances
that never happen.
Have you breathed in a room with a thousand candles? The air tastes
like scorpions, you expect a lava sun, yet it's always twilight. Monks
meditate on the missing places--so they say. Like designers who construct
the impression of walls by how they arrange chairs, the pillars of candle
flames pretend to be day, but just move night around.
Kids will stare, retinas protesting, for an hour, waiting for a black
wick to cough its fire and return to burnt string. They recognize, no
adult prompting needed, that the candle eats itself, swallows its wax,
puts itself out. They notice themselves the instant it's gone. Their
skin chills when a passing parent says, "Good night!" and extinguishes it.
Maybe this is why we light them in churches, in monasteries, at dinner
when we want things special and, a few minutes before our date arrives,
we remember our grandmother, how she smiled serving ham, we laugh
and strike a match. We hear a gloved hand knock. We answer, kiss,
walk her inside. For a moment, independently, its melting arrests us.
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It's been a week and a half since I watched The Bridge on the River Kwai (1957). This is a superb film, full of complex characters behaving in expected ways. That may seem an odd compliment, but something I don't like in movies--old or new--is when a character's behaviors alter for no good reason. In other words, when the film becomes plot driven. Thankfully, this movie doesn't suffer from that at all. The characters' motivations and actions are consistent and clear.
Highly recommended.
Alec Guinness and Sessue Hayakawa
Jack Hawkins, William Holden and another fine actor who's character name I forgot and couldn't find in any review.
Beautiful women in the film.
Two images of the bridge.
Highly recommended.
Alec Guinness and Sessue Hayakawa
;)
Jack Hawkins, William Holden and another fine actor who's character name I forgot and couldn't find in any review.
;)
Beautiful women in the film.
;)
Two images of the bridge.
;)
;)
While recognizing the craftsmanship and art of The Searchers (1956), I admit I didn't really care for the movie. John Wayne's characteristically laconic and flat readings grated on me, and on the whole I found the story and presentation somewhat sickening. Now, that can be seen as a compliment, since this isn't a good guys/bad guys shoot 'em up western. It's a character drama, and I should probably watch it another time--give it another chance. Still, particularly distasteful was giving Wayne's character a redemtive and somewhat heroic ending that isn't deserved.
If the film is about any one thing (which isn't fair--it's about many things), it's the changing relationship between Wayne and a lad played by Jeffrey Hunter as they search for a little girl who's been kidnapped by "ko-manch", that is, Comanche Indians. Unfortunately, the 50s seems to be when melodrama took hold of Hollywood far more than the stereotypes associated with the 30s.
My apologies to The Searchers fans everywhere for not including below a photo of wonderful character actor Hank Worden.
Future Jesus and starship captain, Jeffrey Hunter.
Vera Miles and, in a very small role--but maybe my favorite character--Ken Curtis
Looking nothing like a native american, german-born Henry Brandon.
John Wayne
The lovely Natalie Wood
And, the fierce and beautiful Vera Miles
If the film is about any one thing (which isn't fair--it's about many things), it's the changing relationship between Wayne and a lad played by Jeffrey Hunter as they search for a little girl who's been kidnapped by "ko-manch", that is, Comanche Indians. Unfortunately, the 50s seems to be when melodrama took hold of Hollywood far more than the stereotypes associated with the 30s.
My apologies to The Searchers fans everywhere for not including below a photo of wonderful character actor Hank Worden.
Future Jesus and starship captain, Jeffrey Hunter.
;)
Vera Miles and, in a very small role--but maybe my favorite character--Ken Curtis
;)
Looking nothing like a native american, german-born Henry Brandon.
;)
John Wayne
;)
The lovely Natalie Wood
;)
And, the fierce and beautiful Vera Miles
;)
Giant is a film as big as its title. Bigger, probably. The movie runs about three hours, and it takes that long to tell the stories of the Benedicts, specifically the (short) courtship and (long) marriage of Leslie and Jordan, played superbly by Rock Hudson and Elizabeth Taylor.
I could go on and on about this movie, but really it needs to be viewed. There are several stories and/or themes, but the main one is prejudice, especially racial and class. Director George Stevens also directed A Place in the Sun, another movie I admire. His direction is precise, his actors' performances complex, and he is inventive but always focused on what improves the story telling.
Lots of pictures, below, and yet not nearly enough.
Rock Hudson. I never really appreciated his craftsmanship before.
Elizabeth Taylor. She--that is, her character--is somewhat heroic and definitely admirable. Leslie Benedict has her own mind, and is determined to use it. Taylor is charming and...what's the right word?...
If this wasn't filmed it Texas, it might as well have been. As I always say, there's simply more sky there.
Jane Withers has a small role, but this scene made me teary with its simple subtley. She was clearly in love with Hudson's character, and disappointed that he married (so suddenly, too). Taylor's gracious response made me love her character for the next two and three quarter hours.
Beef!
Mercedes McCambridge, making the most of her short screen time. Excellent!
It's hard to praise James Dean's performance enough. Here's a guy who mumbles half his lines--and is perfectly in character.
Perfection.
That, my friends, is one big animal.
James Dean, aged to about 40.
Sal Mineo, who appeared with Dean in Rebel Without a Cause
Likewise in Rebel, who's this handsome man? Dennis Hopper, of course!
I could go on and on about this movie, but really it needs to be viewed. There are several stories and/or themes, but the main one is prejudice, especially racial and class. Director George Stevens also directed A Place in the Sun, another movie I admire. His direction is precise, his actors' performances complex, and he is inventive but always focused on what improves the story telling.
Lots of pictures, below, and yet not nearly enough.
Rock Hudson. I never really appreciated his craftsmanship before.
;)
Elizabeth Taylor. She--that is, her character--is somewhat heroic and definitely admirable. Leslie Benedict has her own mind, and is determined to use it. Taylor is charming and...what's the right word?...
;)
If this wasn't filmed it Texas, it might as well have been. As I always say, there's simply more sky there.
;)
Jane Withers has a small role, but this scene made me teary with its simple subtley. She was clearly in love with Hudson's character, and disappointed that he married (so suddenly, too). Taylor's gracious response made me love her character for the next two and three quarter hours.
;)
Beef!
;)
Mercedes McCambridge, making the most of her short screen time. Excellent!
;)
It's hard to praise James Dean's performance enough. Here's a guy who mumbles half his lines--and is perfectly in character.
;)
Perfection.
;)
That, my friends, is one big animal.
;)
James Dean, aged to about 40.
;)
Sal Mineo, who appeared with Dean in Rebel Without a Cause
;)
Likewise in Rebel, who's this handsome man? Dennis Hopper, of course!
;)
The disk I received for High Noon (1952) wasn't in good shape. It played fine in my stand alone unit, but not in the computer I use for capturing images. Still, I was able to get good shots, and I've included plenty of them. I recognized lots of actors! (The only actor I didn't include was Lon Chaney, Jr.. Not because he didn't give a good performance. Maybe because I was disappointed; for a second I thought he was his father (he was billed only as Lon Chaney). For all of Mr. Chaney, Jr.'s fans, forgive me.
From the beginning, the film gripped me with its feeling of menace and conflict. The famous ballad that plays repeatedly--yet, somehow, not repetitively--adds to the immediate sense of danger. Gary Cooper delivers a complex performance. I found his line delivery surprisingly flat, but most of his time on screen involves showing his inner fear, sincerity, and mounting desperation. He has to show all these, and more, within the contex of the strong, granite lawman. It's as if you had to paint a rainbow, but could only use four colors. Cooper's acting is a marvel of restraint. By the end, he is at once completely human, and completely a larger than life hero.
A marshal hangs up his badge and prepares to leave town with his new bride when he learns a killer he put in jail five years earlier is returning by train, along with three other members of his gang. The train arrives in an hour and a half--high noon--and the marshal tries to rally the reluctant and cowardly town to his aid. That's the setup. The movie is effectively in real time. This is not an adventure. It is a morality play and study in human behavior. It's a love story, too. And, it's a story that touches on the paradoxes of morality and integrity. If written four hundred years ago, it would have been Shakespeare.
(Read more about this film being an allegory against Hollywood blacklisting on its Internet Movie Database trivia page.)
No one was cooler than Lee Van Cleef. In fact, he became more cool with age (see Escape From New York).
A young Lloyd Bridges. The resemblence of father to son Jeff Bridges is remarkable.
Harry Morgan, who went on to fame as Col. Potter in M*A*S*H.
The impossibly beautiful, talented...adjectives fail me...Grace Kelly.
The ever-excellent and dependable Thomas Mitchell.
Grace Kelly and the equally beautiful Katy Jurado.
Gary Cooper, facing his future.
From the beginning, the film gripped me with its feeling of menace and conflict. The famous ballad that plays repeatedly--yet, somehow, not repetitively--adds to the immediate sense of danger. Gary Cooper delivers a complex performance. I found his line delivery surprisingly flat, but most of his time on screen involves showing his inner fear, sincerity, and mounting desperation. He has to show all these, and more, within the contex of the strong, granite lawman. It's as if you had to paint a rainbow, but could only use four colors. Cooper's acting is a marvel of restraint. By the end, he is at once completely human, and completely a larger than life hero.
A marshal hangs up his badge and prepares to leave town with his new bride when he learns a killer he put in jail five years earlier is returning by train, along with three other members of his gang. The train arrives in an hour and a half--high noon--and the marshal tries to rally the reluctant and cowardly town to his aid. That's the setup. The movie is effectively in real time. This is not an adventure. It is a morality play and study in human behavior. It's a love story, too. And, it's a story that touches on the paradoxes of morality and integrity. If written four hundred years ago, it would have been Shakespeare.
(Read more about this film being an allegory against Hollywood blacklisting on its Internet Movie Database trivia page.)
No one was cooler than Lee Van Cleef. In fact, he became more cool with age (see Escape From New York).
;)
A young Lloyd Bridges. The resemblence of father to son Jeff Bridges is remarkable.
;)
Harry Morgan, who went on to fame as Col. Potter in M*A*S*H.
;)
The impossibly beautiful, talented...adjectives fail me...Grace Kelly.
;)
The ever-excellent and dependable Thomas Mitchell.
;)
Grace Kelly and the equally beautiful Katy Jurado.
;)
Gary Cooper, facing his future.
;)
;)
;)
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