January 2012 - Page 2 of 7 - Ramblin' with Roger

The Lydster, Part 95: Time

I was fascinated by cereal boxes, specifically the various B vitamins and how some of them, such as niacin and riboflavin, actually got their own names, rather than a mere alphanumeric designation.

Someone recently told me that children don’t really develop a strong sense of time until they are eight years old. If this is the case, then I really look forward to the Daughter’s next birthday.

As the person who gets her ready for school almost every morning, I can say that there is no correlation between what time she gets up and when she goes out the door for school. There have been mornings that I have to, almost literally, drag her out of bed, but then she becomes more alert and gets to school in plenty of time. There are other mornings she wakes early, yet we are rushing to get there before the late bell; in the latter case, it also imperils me catching my second bus of the morning and getting to work on time.

Some of the time issues involve play. But the vast bulk of it is her reading something. She reads everything – books, comic books, cereal boxes. And I realize that it is some sort of cosmic payback because I was THE SAME WAY.

When I was a child, I read the newspaper. I read the information on the back of my baseball cards. And I was fascinated by cereal boxes, specifically the various B vitamins and how some of them, such as niacin and riboflavin, actually got their own names, rather than a mere alphanumeric designation. So I was often late to things. I don’t think the Daughter’s quite at that point – YET – but I fear it’s coming because it’s probably genetic.
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Time – Pozo Seco Singers

MOVIE REVIEW: The Artist

It occurred to me that the last three films I’ve seen were all about the cinema.

Shortly after I saw the black-and-white, mostly silent film The Artist at the Spectrum in Albany the weekend before last, someone asked me what I thought of it. “It’s very clever,” I said. “But is it good?” “It’s the best silent film I’ve seen this century.”

None of this is to say I didn’t thoroughly enjoy the film; more to the point, I would see it again. It’s fun, it’s well-acted, and particularly so, precisely because it IS a silent film, though with music, and the actors have to convey so much sans dialogue. It’s just that there are not that many contemporary films to which I can compare them. Which, in and of itself, makes the fact that it even got made a brave and remarkable feat.

The Artist is the story of silent movie star George Valentin (French actor Jean Dujardin) in Hollywood circa 1927. Will the advent of the talkies mean the end of his career, in favor of younger talent, such as the pretty extra Peppy Miller (Argentinian-French actress Bérénice Bejo)? As their fortunes change, their fates, and the fate of Valentin’s dog (Uggie), remain intertwined.

Dujardin, in particular, has to convey a whole range of emotions. Bejo was also wonderful; some suggested that she was too “modern” for the specific period, which may be true, but I think the French writer-director, Michel Hazanavicius (Bejo’s husband) was trying to convey the difference between the old and the new. He even picked the song ‘Pennies from Heaven’, which appears in the film in 1929 but, as the credits clearly show, dates from 1936; this matters not a bit. The Golden Globes nominations for Bejo and two for Hazanavicius and the win for Dujardin were totally warranted. Kudos also to actors John Goodman, who played the movie mogul Al Zimmer; and James Cromwell, who was Valentin’s loyal assistant, Clifton.

It occurred to me that the last three films I’ve seen were all about the cinema: Hugo, My Week with Marilyn and now The Artist. And the book I read was about film critic Roger Ebert. Next time, a NON-movie movie.

B is for Baghdad

In the next millennium, Baghdad was captured by various groups, including the Fatimids, the Mongols, the Ottoman Turks and finally the British.

When I was growing up, Baghdad sounded wonderfully exotic and ancient. After all, it was in Mesopotamia, that area between the Tigris and Euphrates, which is “widely considered to be the cradle of civilization.”

The meaning of the city’s name may be a “Middle Persian compound of Bag ‘god’ + dād ‘given’, translating to ‘God-given’ or ‘God’s gift’…A less probable guess has been Persian compound Bağ ‘garden’ + dād ‘fair’, translating to ‘The fair Garden.’ Regardless of the derivation, I had believed for some time in my youth that there was a literal Garden of Eden at one point, and it was located somewhere around there.

While the city’s roots date back to ancient Babylon, as a settlement as far back as 1800 B.C., in 762 A.D., “the caliph Al Mansur commissioned the construction of the [modern] city… Mansur believed that Baghdad was the perfect city to be the capital of the Islamic empire…In its early years, the city was known as a deliberate reminder of an expression in the Qur’an, when it refers to Paradise.” So it may have been the perfect place in the three major monotheistic religions at different points.

But in the next millennium, Baghdad was captured by various groups, including the Fatimids, the Mongols, the Ottoman Turks, and finally the British in 1917, during World War I. In the spring of 1941, a coup was launched against the pro-British Kingdom, replaced by “a pro-German and pro-Italian government”, but two months later, “the Mayor of Baghdad surrendered to British and Commonwealth forces.

“On 14 July 1958, members of the Iraqi Army under Abdul Karim Kassem staged a coup to topple the Kingdom of Iraq. King Faisal II…and others were brutally killed during the coup. Many of the victim’s bodies were then dragged through the streets of Baghdad.”

Baghdad prospered for a time, but war, first a nearly nine-year struggle with Iran and then a brief conflict in 1991 and a considerably longer war starting in 2003 with the United States and its allies “caused significant damage to Baghdad’s transportation, power, and sanitary infrastructure.” (And no parade for the US troops coming home is imminent.)

There was this 1987 German movie called Bagdad Café, which I saw at the time. “The film is a comedy set in a remote truck-stop café and motel in the Mojave Desert. The plot is centered around two women (Marianne Sägebrecht and C. C. H. Pounder) who have recently separated from their husbands, and the blossoming friendship which ensues…With an ability to quietly empathize with everyone she meets at the café, helped by a passion for cleaning and performing magic tricks, Jasmin gradually transforms the café and all the people in it.” It was a charming film; here’s the principal song from the movie, Calling You by Jevetta Steele, the soundtrack of a Roger Ebert dream about Illinois cornfields after one of his surgeries. The film was made into a short-lived 1990 US TV sitcom starring Jean Stapleton and Whoopi Goldberg.

Somehow, the notion of Baghdad as a place of greater understanding and cooperation appeals to me. I don’t know if the performer here is from Baghdad, but he is from Iraq and has a wonderful, hopeful story. And there’s seldom too much hope.

ABC Wednesday, Round 10

BOOK REVIEW: Life Itself by Roger Ebert

“Most people choose to write a blog. I need to.”

Fairly early on in my reading of film critic Roger Ebert’s memoir, Life Itself, I decided that, if I were ever to write my own autobiography – not that I necessarily would – it should be modeled on this book. Organized thematically, with an overarching, but not strict, chronology, using short chapters (55 in 420 pages).

But I’m probably not going to write mine because I doubt I could be so descriptive. Ebert remembers things from his childhood that would have eluded me writing about mine. More importantly, though, he writes with incredible honesty. The very first line encapsulates the sensation: “I was born inside the movie of my life.” Yet, though known as probably the premiere movie critic of his time, he got the job “out of a clear blue sky,” and without much thought that it would be his life’s work.

Since I’ve started following him on various movie review TV programs, initially co-starring the late Gene Siskel back in the late 1970s, Roger Ebert has had a distinctive and intelligent voice when speaking about the cinema. But since just before the illness that has silenced his speaking voice, and turned him into what he described as looking like the 1925 version of Phantom of the Opera, his commentary on other aspects of life has proven to be extraordinary. And it all started with his blog:

“My blog became my voice, my outlet, my ‘social media’ in a way I couldn’t have imagined. Into it, I poured my regrets, desires, and memories…The comments were a form of feedback I’d never had before, and I gained a better and deeper understanding of my readers. I made ‘online friends’, a concept I scoffed at. Most people choose to write a blog. I need to.”

Ebert writes about family, growing up Catholic, race, and, naturally, a lot about writing. He explains how he collected places, in London, Venice, and elsewhere, that he would come back to again and again; now that he can’t visit physically, he can still experience them in his mind. Alcoholism – his mother’s and his own – is discussed thoroughly; 1979 marked the beginning of his sobriety.

He discusses several Hollywood legends, but my favorite chapters of those are about directors Martin Scorsese, whose first film is a touchstone for Ebert; and Werner Herzog, with whom he has a spiritual bond, though not in a theological sense. Perhaps not coincidentally, they are all about the same age.

Then there’s the chapter about Siskel, his TV partner, with whom he had a complicated but ultimately fraternal relationship of love and respect. It was Siskel’s agent who packaged them together, suggesting that they be seen together, which made their presence more distinctive.

Most HIGHLY recommended! (Great Christmas present.)
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Reviews by Alan David Doane and Jaquandor.

MOVIE REVIEW: My Week With Marilyn

Thinking of the slender Williams as the voluptuous Monroe was not something I would have considered.

My Week with Marilyn was based on a couple of non-fiction books first published in the late 1990s. The Wife and I saw the film last Saturday at the Spectrum Theatre in Albany, NY.

In 1956, Sir Laurence Olivier (Kenneth Branagh) is directing and starring in the movie ‘The Prince and the Showgirl’ in London. He hires American film icon Marilyn Monroe (Michelle Williams) to costar with him. The 30-year-old MM, accompanied by her new, third husband, the playwright Arthur Miller (Dougray Scott), is a sensation to the crowds in England. But artistic differences make the filming frustratingly slow for the director, and stressful for the actress. Marilyn befriends the third assistant director, essentially gofer, 23-year-old Colin Clark (Eddie Redmayne) and he becomes one of the few people she trusts, and ultimately has the title experience.

Thinking of the slender Williams as the voluptuous Monroe was not something I would have considered, but she pulls it off, in no small part, based on an interview I read in EW, of getting The Walk. Interestingly, at the beginning and end of the movie, largely removed from the storyline, Monroe/Williams performs a couple of songs, and she looks even more full-figured.

This was a slight, but sweet story of an actress who was instinctively good at her craft, but wanted to get more skilled, but on her own terms. It was also clear that “Marilyn Monroe” was a role she played, which made her extremely popular but also trapped her. I would be surprised if Michelle Williams was not Oscar-nominated as Best Actress.

Kenneth Branagh may also get a Best Supporting Actor nod as the frustrated director. I was tickled by this casting since both Olivier and Branaugh starred in and directed movie adaptations of Henry V, the Shakespeare play, in 1944 and 1989, respectively.

My Weekend With Marilyn is a surprisingly sweet, even somewhat chaste film, given the subject matter. I enjoyed it.