Innocent Bystander

That time of year...again.

I will never for the life of me be able to figure out what the deal is with New Year's Eve. Maybe it's because I am not now--nor will I ever be--a party person. The thought of being in a crowd of drunken revelers makes my skin crawl, and my skin rarely crawls.

A small part of me (no, not THAT small part) does understand the whole New Year thing, though. The resolution-making, the time to start over, etc., etc., ad infinitum. Like a lot of people, I try to make New Year's resolutions, and like most people, I fail. Last year I got a freebie when I gave up soda and carbonated beverages, and by default, caffeine. But that happened early in 2009 as a fluke, not as any real conscious decision to do it in advance. I got sick, the stuff made my skin crawl (okay, there's a time my skin crawled...satisfied?) and I stopped. I haven't had a soda since Jan. 16, 2009. The end.

But--and I know I've written about this before, so please forgive me--when you come down to it, one second it's 2009, and the next it's 2010. And why celebrate or even acknowledge that ONE second? I don't get that part of it. I don't get the whole let's go out and get drunk with a bunch of strangers and possibly start the New Year by vomiting on our--or some stranger's--shoes. 

So you'll find me at home tonight, trying to dampen the noise from party central outside my window here in San Diego. In some ways, I'll be doing what I do best: Being a stick in the mud, albeit quietly and alone. Hmm...maybe there is a New Year's resolution here after all...

The Rocketeer Deluxe: The Complete Adventures by Dave Stevens

One last great comics book for 2009 arrived at my doorstep yesterday. The late Dave Stevens carved his name in the pantheon of comics history with his creation, The Rocketeer, back in the 1980s and into the 1990s. It's not that Stevens did that much work—The Rocketeer amounts to less than 150 pages of actual published work—it's that it was that good. Stevens' art is lush, design-oriented, and magnificent. You can look at it and see touches of Frazetta here, Russ Manning there, Doug Wildey over there, and there's a little bit of Jack Kirby, too. But his style was all his own, full-blown, rich and evocative. His time frame of choice, the late 1930s, added to his work, making it seem timeless. And oh, his women...no one could draw women like Dave (Frank Cho comes closest, but he's still miles away). Dave almost single-handedly brought Bette Page back into the limelight and we're all glad he did.

At last someone has collected all The Rocketeer stories into one sumptuous volume. IDW--fast becoming one of my favorite comic book companies, if only for their wonderful comic strip reprint volumes, especially Chester Gould's Dick Tracy--has produced the ultimate Rocketeer volume, The Rocketeer Deluxe: The Complete Adventures. Sure you can buy just the stories themselves, but hey...it's still Christmas-time, right?--go all the way and spring for the Deluxe edition and get over 130 extra pages of Steven's preliminary art, along with his covers and other Rocketeer oriented-material. It could more correctly be called "The Rocketeer Archives," there's so much wonderful material here. Sadly, Stevens left us in early 2008, dying at the too young age of 52, after a long bout with leukemia. He gave his blessing for this volume, and approved Laura Martin as the person to recolor the original Rocketeer stories. She does a fine job, as does everyone else involved with the production of this slipcased volume, especially designer Randall Dahlk, whose work does Dave proud. We'll never see the likes of Dave Stevens again, and anyone else doing The Rocketeer would be heresy, but here's a chance to visit the character once again, almost for the first time.

(500) Days of Summer (2009)

I have a thing about movies that end with one line that makes the whole film suddenly come alive. It dates back to the original version of The Taking of Pelham 1-2-3 in 1974, where the entire movie hinges on a sneeze and the look on Walter Matthau's face. It happened again at the very end of Casino Royale, where one line from Daniel Craig totally redeemed the entire movie for me. And it occurs once more in the quirky rom-com (500) Days of Summer, when Tom Hansen (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) comes totally to grips with losing his girlfriend with the very last spoken line of the film.

(500) Days is about the relationship between Tom and Summer (the always beguiling Zooey Deschanel, destined to greatness on the strength of her real name, no doubt). Their quirky (there's that word again) office romance is shown through a series of flashbacks and flash forwards over the 500 days that they know each other. Tom and Summer work at a greeting card company, and a fairly lame one at that, run by nice guy boss Mr. Vance (Clark Gregg from TV's The New Adventures of Old Christine, and--surprisingly--an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. in the Iron Man movies). Tom is a failed architecture student who pays the bills by exerting minimal creative energy by writing cards ("Have you tried...'merry?'"). He falls for Summer the minute he sees her, wrapped up in a since-childhood obsession with finding "The One." (No, it's not like The Matrix.) Tom thinks Summer is "The One" right away, but Summer doesn't agree. She's leery of love, relationships, and such affairs of the heart.

Their relationship progresses until it falls apart, a victim of "life" as Summer puts it, and as we go through the days (charmingly shown out of order), we see Tom's life on a roller coaster ride. The end comes when they go to see The Graduate together. Tom has a tragic misunderstanding of the movie, one that Summer evidently doesn't share. And that's where life intervenes.

Both Gordon-Levitt and Deschanel are wonderful in (500) Days. In fact, both seem to be born to play their roles. Gordon-Levitt, who came to fame as a child actor in the awful and hammy 3rd Rock from the Sun TV sitcom, has grown up to be one of the indie world's most versatile actors, with starring roles in great films such as Brick, The Lookout, and The Brothers Bloom, all quirky (sigh...) and wonderful flicks (we'll forget his role in G.I. Joe: The Rise of Cobra this summer). But (500) Days is a film apart, one of those memorable movies that will have lasting power for everyone who sees it. It's a 2000s equivalent of great rom-coms of "yore," such as When Harry Met Sally (albeit for a different audience), and on a par with that film when it comes to great performances and characters.

Friday Foto #109: Special Christmas Day Edition!

Farmers Market, Los Angeles, CA. One of my favorite places in the world. I hope you're spending your day at one of your favorite places in the world, too. Merry Christmas, everyone! To see more of my photos, Friday or otherwise, click here!

Merry Christmas, everyone...

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, Seasons Greetings, whichever it is you prefer...I hope this is the best holiday season ever for you and yours.

Decrease in temperature + darker window coverings = more sleepy time...

The weather outside here in San Diego isn't exactly frightful, but it is chilly this morning and was downright cold last night, as a wicked wind ripped off the ocean and through the city streets. I should know: I was out with 3 friends celebrating Christmas night and all 3 of them whined like frigid New Yorkers battling a 45-mile wind gust when the temperature is already a cold, cold 20 degrees. But I didn't whine...oh, no not me. Any change in the boring weather here is welcome as far as I'm concerned.

But here's the thing I have noticed. I'm normally up around 7-ish every morning (partly to see that really cute weather chick on the morning news who wears super-short skirts--you know who you are, Chrissy Russo), but with the falling temps I find myself lingering longer and longer in bed, covers up to my neck, cold bare feet rubbing against each other (sadly only one pair of feet, and as far as I can tell they're attached to me and me alone). Now if I could just work out some kind of retractable dark curtains into the scenario, I could probably sleep until noon, like I used to do back in Pittsburgh. Of course, back then, it WAS 20 below (even in my cold little apartment on the top floor of an ancient house with no insulation and poor heat conductivity), and I didn't have floor to ceiling windows facing due east.

Those windows are a big part of my sleeping-in problem. They're too big, bright, and open to make this work. Not that I miss sleeping in. It's nice--and it's much easier for me to do so in a hotel with blackout drapes, like I had in October when I was in NYC--but I do get a lot done in the early morning hours. E-mails, blogging, bathroom reading. Stuff like that. So I'm not complaining...just observing.

Just constantly observing.

Me and Orson Welles (2009)

It's amazing to me that Richard Linklater's latest movie, Me and Orson Welles, was even made. That's not a negative statement, it's one with a certain amount of awe behind it. It's a great little movie, and I guess I know the answer to the question inherent in my opening statement: Zac Efron. Without the reining teen dream star's involvement, I doubt if MaOW would have had a chance, even if Linklater used Welles' 1930s style of payment to everyone involved in the film: You work for free for the prestige of working with the great Orson Welles.

MaOW is the story of one week in the life of teenager Richard Samuels (Efron), a theater/acting buff who literally walks into a role in Welles' Mercury Theatre adaptation of the Shakespearean play Julius Caesar. Titled simply Caesar, Welles' adaptation--updated and with characters dressed as fascist soldiers--put him and the Mercury on the map; the company went on to do The War of the Worlds radio show that further cemented the wunderkind's reputation, and then signed a deal with RKO, which begat Citizen Kane. And, as Welles himself put it, he began working his way down ever since.

But that was the future, and MaOW showcases Welles at the beginning of his fame. He's a sought-after radio actor (he proclaims to Efron in one scene, "You can learn everything you need to know about radio in one hour"), who sinks his earnings into his theatre company. That company is riding on the premiere of Caesar, its opening production. Along the way we meet Mercury Theatre players Joseph Cotton, George Coulouris, and Norman Lloyd, along with company manager John Houseman (played by Eddie Marsan). Welles' assistant is the comely Sonja Jones (Claire Danes) who takes an immediate shine to Richard (Efron), thus furthering his "education" and immersion in the world of New York the-A-ter.

But the real star of the show is Orson Welles, uncannily played by Christian McKay, who not only sounds like Welles but looks like him, too. If there isn't an Oscar nomination in this for McKay, there's no justice in the world. Linklater and writers Holly Gent Palmo and Vincent Palmo Jr.--working from Robert Kaplow's book--make no bones about it: Welles is an asshole, albeit an immensely talented one. He's manipulative, cowardly, charming, erudite, and a ladies man, to boot. McKay captures all of this in his performance, just one in a film filled with great performances, and like Welles in real--and reel--life, he's lightning in a bottle.

While star Zac Efron is fine--this is sort of his first "adult" movie, even if he is playing a teenager still in high school--one wonders who else in movies today could play the role. It would have been perfect for Michael J. Fox in his Marty McFly days, but the book wasn't written until 2003. I can't think of anyone else here and now who could do it, to be honest.

All in all, MaOW reminds me of My Favorite Year, that wonderful film that also captures a time long past along with the essence of a great movie star (in the case of MFY, it's Errol Flynn). Me and Orson Welles is a pleasant diversion from vampires, superheroes, 3D wonder-worlds, and everything else that passes for a movie these days. I'd like to think even the long-gone Orson would be proud to be involved with this film...after all, it's better than pretty much everything else he was involved with after Citizen Kane.

Inglourious Basterds (2009)

I don't know what to tell you about Inglourious Basterds (mercifully shortened to IB from now on, since the anal-compulsive in me can't stand to continue to type those misspellings), the war epic from Quentin Tarantino (also shortened to QT, with definitely NO pun intended on the pronunciation of said abbreviation). Part of me liked it, part of me hated, Hated, HATED it. I'm just trying to figure out which part is going to win.

First of all, it's 2 hours and 30 minutes long, and the bulk of the film is people sitting around tables talking. Excuse me, TALKING. Endlessly TALKING. The opening sequence alone--where Nazi SS Colonel Hans Landa (Christoph Walz) interrogates a French farmer he suspects of harboring Jews--is 20 minutes long and except for about 30 seconds of shooting, it's all talk, part of it in French, no less. They talk so much that any suspense that would be inherent in the scene is entirely gone, blown out the door by all the talking. While Walz is great (he reminded me of a European James Wood, with a lot less snark and a bit more class), it's still 20 minutes of talking heads. And it illustrates the one thing wrong with every Tarantino movie: The guy has no comprehension of how to edit a script. He's in love with the sound of his own voice.

There are a number of other similar sequences, in this surprisingly plot-less, even more surprisingly action-less action flick. (Okay...Brad Pitt and his merry band of soldiers go around France killing Nazis and taking their scalps: That's the plot. This--to me at least--is a typical QT exercise in filmmaking: A bunch of "cool" scenes thought up and strung together to roughly form a movie.) Pitt really isn't even in it that much, and I think the whole subplot (if a film without a plot can have one, that is) about Shoshana (Melanie Laurent) and her Parisian cinema, is much more fascinating than Pitt and company going around the country scalpin' Nat-zies. Pitt goes for a kind of Clark Gable/GWTW kind of characterization here, with a little more emphasis on the downhome corn pone aspect of the accent. He's charming and effective, but I can't recall a scene where he even fires a gun. And that's part of the problem...where's the action? While QT does blow the doors off the joint at the end, there's really nothing before that scene that makes you think this is a shoot 'em up/blow 'em up movie. Maybe I was expecting too much, but you know...the whole WAR movie thing comes with a certain level of expectation, n'est-ce pas?

So what did I like? Well, as always QT is a witty and fascinating writer, if a bit long-winded and self-aggrandizing, so even those ENDLESS table talks are enjoyable. Pitt and company--and we see far, far too little of the Basterds and barely get to know them--are good, too, and it is a pretty film to watch. I think Melanie Laurent was wonderful as the escaped Jew who gets her chance at revenge. That single final action scene is pretty breath-taking and looked incredibly dangerous to film. And then there is the great pleasure of seeing one person in particular getting killed. That's worth the $12.00* price of admission for this Blu-ray movie.

*Here's my tip of the day: If you buy DVDs or Blu-rays from your local Best Buy, look at the price on their website first, on the day it comes out (usually Tuesdays). The in-store price for IG on Blu-ray was $22.99 (list price $29.99). The online price on the Best Buy website was $17.99. Print out the page where it's listed and take it with you and present it when you check out. They will match the price if it's lower on their own website, but it'll only work in that first week (Tuesday-Saturday) window when the movie premieres on Blu-ray. I also had a $5.00 rewards certificate, so I got this film for $12.99 + tax (which brought it to about $14.00 here in San Diego).

Blizzard conditions...

No, not here in San Diego, where it's a balmy 72 degrees or so as I type this on a warm Saturday afternoon. I'm talking about back east, where a "classic Nor'easter" (I use this term because the dim bulb "meteorologist" on CNN keeps bringing it up every time she's on air, which is like every 5 minutes) is blowing up the coast and dumping tons (well, feet) of snow on the urban metroplex of Washphilanewyorboston and areas inland from there, including my old hometown. I chatted briefly with a friend back east who had just gotten 15" of fresh snow and she told me she was having a Buffy marathon and had everything she needed, including "frozen pizza, chocolate-covered pretzels, root beer, Doritos, and Entenmann's." When I conjectured the only thing she was missing was a penis, she countered with "...got three of them in a drawer."

Attagirl. That's the hearty pioneer spirit that made this country great. (They had Doritos in the covered wagons when they moved west, you know...in fact, some of those bags still exist and can be found on your local supermarket shelf. Those things never go stale.)

How well I remember that bunker mentality. When I lived in Pittsburgh and I knew a big storm was coming and was--thankfully--coinciding with my days off, I did the same thing: Went to the store and laid in supplies for the long haul. At that point in time, that process included a giant backpack and a trek down--and back up--a huge hill upon which I lived. It also included--usually--stocking up on cat food and litter, since I had two tiny--and demanding--mouths to feed. But I loved being all cozy and packed in on the couch with a purring machine on either side of me, watching TV and videotapes (no DVD or Blu-ray then, nosireebob), and occasionally looking out the window to watch the snow gently falling, reflected in the street lights. It was so soft-looking, so quiet and beautiful, and only occasionally marred by the flashing lights and gargantuan noise of the plows going up and down my hill.

But of course the next day it was all gray and slushy--and sometimes yellow--and you had to shovel it and salt it and slog through it. It was especially annoying in later years when I finally had a car. Which of course meant I had to shovel out the driveway. But for just a short, wonderful time it was a little piece of heaven.

This West Coast reminiscence should in no way harm, violate, or anger my East Coast family and friends, who are even now probably quietly contemplating when they should start shoveling.

Friday Foto #108...

Dusk in Central Park. To see more of my photos, Friday or otherwise, click here!