Innocent Bystander

This week's new favorite words...

I have learned some new words, and I thought I would share them with you all, so you can learn them, too.

Gobsmack: to be completely dumbfounded, shocked. From the Irish word "gob" meaning mouth.

Kerfuffle: a disturbance or disagreement.

Let's use them in a sentence, shall we?

"I was completely gobsmacked at the kerfuffle outside of the Hard Rock Cafe, which woke me up at 2:00am on Saturday morning."

There...I whined about something while teaching you something. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it.

The Complete Dick Tracy, vol. 7

My love for Dick Tracy, the comic strip, has been documented numerous times on this blog. IDW's high-quality chronological reprinting of the strip is a dream come true, and quite quickly we've come to the classic years of the strip--The Complete Dick Tracy, vol. 7, contains strips from January of 1941 through September of 1942--when creator Chester Gould unleashed his rogues' gallery upon the world.  It may have been the coming storm of World War II and the horrifying news that greeted people each morning when they opened their daily newspaper that inspired Gould to ramp up his storytelling. In that time, the newspaper was everyone's main lifeline to news. Today, as papers struggle and even go out of business, it's hard to imagine the importance of the newspaper to people of bygone decades. It's even harder to imagine how comic strips were an essential part of them each and every day.

But this is the volume in IDW's ongoing series where it all changes: new size, new format, new editor. Dean Mullaney, who won an Eisner Award for his Terry and the Pirates series has taken over as editor. The format has increased to the size of the Terry books, which presents the daily strips 3 to a page and the Sundays--still in black and white--at a much larger size. And while the collector in me curses the publisher for abandoning a format mid-stream, the new look and size is a major improvement, and it does come along at a time when the material warrants such an upgrade. Along with Max Allan Collins' ongoing thoughts about Tracy, a new series of essays by Tracy historian Jeff Kersten has been added, chronicling Chester Gould's life. These essays contain information provided by Gould's daughter, Jean.

There's one underlying theme in this volume that I don't think the publishers realized (and of course, neither did Chet Gould) and that's how much of a countdown to history it is. Besides the beginnings of Tracy's Golden Age--the likes of Little Face Finny, The Mole, and BB Eyes make their appearances in Dick's ongoing saga, just warm-up acts for the super-villains to come--the strips in this volume slowly make their way to World War II. It's interesting to read the Sunday for December 7, 1941, and to finally see the war rear it's ugly head on March 11, 1942, as Tracy, hot on the heels of tire bootlegger BB Eyes, is told by a service station attendant, "There's a WAR on..." You can count backwards and see the lead time of the strip, when Gould and company were working away, blissfully ignorant of what was to happen. On that fateful Sunday in December, Dick Tracy was involved with the Mole and just about to meet him face to face. The rest of the country met history face to face that day, and nothing was the same afterward.

Friday Foto #80...

Rainbow outside my window.

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Netflix Chronicles: 6 more films...

I've been doing my "homework" and keeping up with my little red-and-white envelopes that arrive each week. However, I've been remiss once again in chronicling my thoughts on what I've been watching. Let's catch up, shall we?

Nothing But the Truth is one of those "ripped from the headlines" stories, but it's a damn fine one. It's ostensibly the story of Valerie Plame, the real-life CIA operative outed by the Bush administration, but this version has a number of twists and turns which make the story oh so much more compelling. Writer/director Rod Lurie gets one of the best performances I've seen out of eye candy/sometime action star Kate Beckinsale as the reporter--Rachel Armstrong--who writes the story on soccer mom/secret agent Vera Farmiga. When she's arrested by gung-ho U.S. Attorney Matt Dillon and sent to jail for refusing to reveal her source, Armstrong's life goes to hell, losing her husband and son, and a whole lot else. We learn why at the end she so zealously guards her source  in a neat twist. The film also contains an excellent performance by Alan Alda as Armstrong's attorney. This one is definitely worth a look: it's engrossing, well-written and media-savvy.

Last Chance Harvey pairs the unlikely duo of Dustin Hoffman and Emma Thompson as a romantic couple. In London for the wedding of his enstranged daughter, Harvey (Hoffman) loses his job and watches his only child being given away by her stepdad (James Brolin). Thompson plays an airport information gatherer who meets Harvey when both are at low tide. It's the last love story for either character and Hoffman and Thompson are so charming--as is wonderful London as a backdrop--that you root for them the entire time.

Keanu Reeves, Jennifer Connelly and Will Smith's son remade the classic science fiction film The Day the Earth Stood Still. Why, I'll never know. As wooden as Reeves' performance, if you really feel you HAVE TO see this, just rent the original and bask in its 1950s Cold War zeitgeist.

What Doesn't Kill You concerns two small-time career criminals, Mark Ruffalo and Ethan Hawke, both of whom do a long stretch in the state pen. Ruffalo comes out and tries to get his life together, Hawke--his best friend--tries to convince him to stay a criminal, for at least one big last score. WDKY is a bit preachy at times, and comes off like an extended commercial for Alcoholics Anonymous, but it's still a compelling and well-acted film.

Somewhere along the line I got this memory of Peter Bogdanovich's Nickelodeon being a definitive movie about the early days of filmmaking in the United States. There are elements of that thread in it, but boy...is it a stinker. Made at a time when Bogdanovich was the current Golden Boy (coming off The Last Picture Show, Paper Moon, and What's Up Doc?), Nickelodeon features Burt Reynolds, Ryan and Tatum O'Neill, Brian Keith and others in a film that should have been called Slapstick, because that's the road it goes down. The new DVD release contains both the theatrical release (in color) and the "director's cut" in black and white. I chose the latter and probably wasted even more precious minutes of my life that I'll never get back.

Finally, Mickey Rourke was robbed. The Wrestler is a wonderful film, directed by Darren Aronofsky, chronicling the fading career of one of the '80s biggest stars of the ring, Randy "The Ram" Robinson. Reduced to high school gym weekend wrestling matches, sad autograph signings, and a grocery store day-job, Rourke is a tragic figure. Estranged from his only daughter, Evan Rachel Wood, and in love with an aging stripper (Maris Tomei), The Ram's problems are only beginning. All those years of physical and drug abuse are taking their toll. Everyone--especially the frequently naked Tomei--is wonderful, and Rourke should have won the Oscar for this film, not the other guy whom I've already forgotten.

The Secret Speech by Tom Rob Smith

One of my favorite books of last year was Child 44 by Tom Rob Smith. It was Smith's debut novel and it introduced the world to Russian state security office Leo Demidov, who chases down one of the USSR's most heinous mass murderers in the early days of the Cold War.

Both Smith and Leo are back with The Secret Speech, the new novel featuring the now head of the secret homicide department in Moscow. It's the early days of Khruschev's reign and in the days following the death of the dictator Stalin, the new premier takes a rash step and releases a "secret speech" denouncing the dead tyrant and promising change. Unfortunately, it also denounces anyone who followed Stalin, including the military and secret police. And that means Leo.

From out of Leo's dark past comes a threat which uses this secret speech as a means to get revenge. In the days following Child 44, Leo and his wife Raisa have adopted the two young daughters, Zoya and Elena, of a couple whose unfortunate death Leo was a part of. Zoya, the older of the two children, holds Leo responsible and plots against him. She's the perfect vessel for revenge when that threat mentioned above comes home to roost.

The Secret Speech is an incredible follow-up to Smith's first novel and Leo, Raisa, and everyone else are compelling and well-etched characters, trying their best in one of their country's most trying times. Smith's depiction of 1950s Russia is harsh and uncompromising, and his story takes Leo across the country to one of the Gulags, a place that makes maximum security in the U.S. look like Disneyland. The story is an epic--aren't all Russian dramas?--and ends with an extended sequence during the Hungarian uprising of 1956. Thrilling, thoughful and sad, The Secret Speech is one of my favorite books of 2009. I can't wait to see what Smith comes up with next as he moves Leo, Raisa, and company through the Cold War and Russian history.

Dream a little dream...

Last night I woke up with this dream in mind...

I was somehow involved with a huge, televised awards ceremony. The show was being produced and directed by Tim Burton and had some kind of comics/science fiction/movie connection. The soundstage we were taping on was gigantic, it's ceiling hundreds of feet off the ground. The control room was in the rafters, up a long flight of steps from the actual stage. I kept telling myself I had to go up there and introduce myself, but the stairs were so many and so daunting, I kept putting it off.

The entire affair had a giant catering set-up and the food was amazing, everything from sandwiches to a raw seafood bar, and even cooked lobster tail. I walked by a trailer and someone came out with a tray of food and threw it in the trash can. It was a huge stack of open clam shells and 5 live kittens! The fluffy, orange tabby variety. As I stood there shocked at 5 mewing kittens in the garbage, a voice behind me said, "Now who in the hell would throw those out?" As I turned to look who was talking, a giant claw reached out, grabbed one of the live kittens and promptly stuck it in its huge, open mouth. It was a Where The Wild Things Are/Muppet-like creature, not threatening in the least (other than size-wise, and kitten-eating wise). It burped daintily and turned to lumber off and then paused, slowly wheeled back around, politely said "pardon me," and reached back over and gently grabbed another kitten.

"One for the road," he said.

And then I woke up.

Netflix Chronicles: Bolt (2008)

I have been working way too much the last two weeks on a major project (a 224-page book for my work), and Sunday night I decided to just chill for an hour or two and watch a movie. Unfortunately none of what I had from Netflix turned me on very much, but I popped in one of them, Bolt, and was blown away.

Bolt is the best non-Pixar CG-animated film I've ever seen. I know, the Ice Age movies are fun, Shrek, too, and I'm sure all those penguin ones are great, also, but nothing compares to Pixar, except, ironically in this case, Disney. With Bolt they finally did a wonderful computer-animated film.

Bolt is the story of a dog who acts in a TV adventure show with his human, Penny. She's an adventurous young girl, using technology to try and locate her scientist dad. Said dad did some work on the doggy, turning him into a super-pup. Bolt has all kinds of powers, including heat vision and a "super-bark" (ala Black Bolt from the comics), but it's all fictional. Only Bolt doesn't know that. The only way the TV show producers can get him to act natural is to make him believe he has the powers and is always saving Penny.

The ruse soon ends and Bolt finds himself in the real world, befriended by a cat named Mittens and a fanboy hamster named Rhino, who happens to watch way too much TV and might just be Bolt's biggest fan (especially among hamsters). The three of them travel cross-country to get back to Penny. Along this incredible journey, Bolt learns the truth about his "powers" and becomes a real dog, but that doesn't stop him from finding his human. The story is funny, fast, and touching and skewers everything from the film/TV industry (quite nicely) to animal/human relations, to how pets interact in our lives. As Bolt becomes more like the dog he really is, you grow to love him even more (yes, I'm aware of the fact that he's a fictional character).

Bolt also contains--opens with, in fact--one of the most exciting and fast-moving action sequences I've ever seen in a movie, live-action or animated. It's so well-done and beautifully choreographed that it's worth watching again and again. Even if you're on the fence about an animated movie and you've brought this one home for the kiddies, pop it in and watch the first 10 minutes or so. I guarantee you'll be hooked.

The animation itself is Pixar-worthy, from the way it moves to the character design to the textures (I've never seen such realistic hair on an animated human before as Penny's). Even the unfortunate continued use of Hollywood talent for voices--in this case John Travolta as Bolt, the overly-exposed Miley Cyrus as Penny, and Susie Essman as the cat, Mittens--is pitch perfect and effective. The best parts of the film were the charm of Bolt's animation, the pigeons--numerous trios of them, all with their locales firmly in beak--and the hamster, Rhino, a TV-stimulated rodent who spends most of his time in a little plastic ball rolling around. Voiced by animation story artist Mark Walton, there isn't a funnier laugh-out loud character in ANY film in recent memory.

I sealed Bolt back up in its little red and white Netflix envelope, but someday very soon, I'm going to buy my very own copy on Blu-ray. This doggy is a keeper.

Late last night...

I got up about 2:00 am last night to make my first trip of the evening to the bathroom, something I've become increasingly good at (no stubbed toes, no disorientation, no missing the bowl, thank you very much). I peeked at the clock on my way back into bed and noticed it was 1:59am. Seeing as how there was a one-day jazz festival downtown on Saturday, the joint was still hoppin' as the bars closed and everyone made their drunken way to their cars to head home.

And then I heard it: BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM. It sounded like 5 gunshots.

And today I found out it was. A young woman was gunned down ONE BLOCK from where I live. She was out celebrating her 21st birthday and someone shot her and two men, killing her and wounding the guys.

I was pretty sure once I heard it that it was really a gun making the noise. It was followed by the sounds of pure pandemonium: people yelling, screaming, running. I got up and looked out through my blinds (note to self: not a great idea during an earthquake, probably not a good one when you hear gunshots, either), and saw people looking up the street, towards E Street. In a matter of moments, the requisite sirens started, lots of them.

I didn't find out until this evening that what I thought to be true was. The local news covered the story (the shooter got away...so far). And it all brings home the harsh reality that I live in an intense urban area, one where innocent bystanders (no joke meant whatsoever) do come into contact with crime. I feel safe here, in reasonable areas around where I live at reasonable times, but it is a large city, it is sometimes "party town" and shit happens. It's a shame when someone dies because of it.

Magazine Rack...Entertainment Weekly goes up in smoke, Esquire still sucks.

I'm sure there are plenty of magazines that still accept cigarette ads, but I never seen them. I don't read Playboy, Sports Illustrated, GQ, or any typically male magazine, with the possible exception of Esquire (about which, see below). So imagine my shock, surprise and utter disdain when I find a big, honkin', stiff-paper insert for "American Spirit" cigarettes in my new Entertainment Weekly, which arrived yesterday in the mailbox.

Just the other day, while perusing the EW.com website, I was assaulted by a giant American Spirit banner ad, which expanded onto my screen, covering up everything I was reading. These kind of ads are annoying enough, but when they're for cigarettes, it seems even more annoying to me. I'm guessing EW, like every other print publication, is hard up enough for ad revenue that a big cigarette campaign is welcome, both in its print and online editions. But whatever happened to doing the right thing? Sure, American Spirit bills itself as a "natural" cancer stick, but there it is FOUR times on the insert: "No additives in our tobacco does NOT mean a safe cigarette." (And, yes, they added the all caps on NOT and bolded it, too...not me.) It's organic, it has no additives, it has a pipe-smoking Indian on the cover! It's American, dammit! It's also a cigarette. Plus $20 gift certificates--hey kids, free cigs!

Entertainment Weekly...I am incredibly disappointed in you.

As for Esquire, I sometimes think it's the most incredible waste of paper on the newsstand. They're still flogging to death those type-heavy covers where the "star" of the issue floats on top of text. It was cool the first time, annoying the second, now it's so overdone it's ridiculous. The current issue--with the incredibly over-rated Megan Fox (Angelina Jolie-lite) on the cover--is ostensibly a movie issue, but you won't want to read any of the articles. Their Terminator Salvation article is about two things only: a scene containing a scream and why McG isn't a dick because he calls himself McG. The Pelham 1-2-3 article talks about the original movie (The Taking of Pelham 1-2-3) starring Walter Matthau and Robert Shaw and goes on about how bad it is (he'd never even heard of it before--and he's writing about MOVIES?), but leaves out the fact that it has one of the coolest endings ever and then goes on to give Tony Scott, the director of the remake--starring Denzel Washington and John Travolta--the equivalent of a blowjob in print. So much for a movie issue.

I'm still waiting for a publisher to come along and do a serious movie mag again. Premiere was great in its hey-day, and with the American box office ramming its way to a record year (in this economic climate!), shouldn't there be a market for us movie lovers? The UK has the great Empire magazine (the one on the newsstand right now here in the States is a beauty, guest-edited by Steven Spielberg). At 10 bucks a throw, it's a pricey import, but it's pretty much all we got here in the US (plus the other Brit imports, all equally expensive and not as good). If the French can keep Premiere going, why can't we?

Friday Foto #79...

Still life, at home.

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