Batty

While I was attending our neighborhood street fair in Multnomah Village with my kids and mother-in-law, a boy in the parade who was there to represent a local toy store handed me a Magic: The Gathering playing card that featured Vampire Bats. It had on it a picture of a pretty evil-looking bat flying in front of a full moon and a few game related directions that, of course, meant nothing to me. However, beneath the directions was this rather unlikely quote: "For something is amiss or out of place / When mice with wings can wear a human face." It comes from Theodore Roethke's poem "The Bat". What a delightful surprise to get a bit of fabulous poetry at such an unlikely moment--and from one of our own regional poetic superstars at that. Good on you, Magic: The Gathering. Here's the poem:

The Bat

Theodore Roethke

By day the bat is cousin to the mouse.

He likes the attic of an aging house.

His fingers make a hat about his head.

His pulse beat is so slow we think him dead.

He loops in crazy figures half the night

Among the trees that face the corner light.

But when he brushes up against a screen,

We are afraid of what our eyes have seen:

For something is amiss or out of place

When mice with wings can wear a human face.

~cd

The other day I heard an NPR story on how in Russia today (yes, 2012) the Beatles are being blamed by some in positions of authority for the nation's drug problems. Yes, you read that correctly. Apart from the absurdity of the accusation, the story dipped into this further bit of absurdity: A Russian navy band playing "Let It Be" to an enthusiastic crowd who clearly must be made up of stone-deaf people. (Or just stoned people, given the story's theme.) Evidently this has been often cited as the Worst Beatles Cover Ever. I'm inclined to agree. And take a good look at the vocalist: I think Newt Gingrich has been moonlighting. ~cd

I have come across, via Netflix, a funny curio for Orson Welles completists: A short-lived British TV series from the 1950's called Around the World with Orson Welles. It seems there were only a handful of episodes produced, and the "world" was western Europe, but what the hey. In one episode he visits artists and poets on the Boulevard St. Germain, in another he chats with pensioners in a London soldiers' home, in another he observes a Madrid bullfight, and in another he visits Basque country. All in all, it is a rather low-key show--Welles is being his charming, quirky self, performing chatty and good-natured interviews, sharing a laugh with people, and having a good time letting his hair down. It's nice to see another angle of this multi-faceted man. His native intelligence and good humor are on full display. I wish there were more programs like it today...and, no, reality TV doesn't cut it. I mean, it's Orson Welles for crying out loud! ~cd

p-p-p-p, p-p-p-p, Pingu! Pingu!

I've fallen in love with Pingu, an animated TV series from Switzerland that was broadcast, chiefly, in the 80's and 90's with a brief revival in the mid oughts. The show concerns itself with the shenanigans of a young penguin (titular) and his family and friends. It's all done in very spare, sometimes crude, claymation, but it's charming and often hilarious. The voice work--all grumbles, screeches, and babble--is perfect and by itself very funny. The show is for kids, but I think grown-ups will get a kick out of it too. You can find a batch of episodes (all around 5 minutes long) on Netflix, but Net searches will bring up some bits on Youtube and a bunch of web stuff that's more contemporary--games, merchandise, and other nonsense. From what I can see, the best of Pingu  is the old, creaky animation: very Euro, very silly, utterly delightful. Check out this episode, "Pingu Goes Fishing":

And what's a cute little Eurokid cartoon without a Hasselhoff connection? That's right. Check this out too:

Now get THAT out of your head!

~ C.D.

Powell’s City of Books recently added this oddity to the Pearl Room on its fourth floor: a section marked, “From the Library of Anne Rice.” You may read about it in detail here, but in a nutshell it offers several shelf-loads of books from that author’s personal collection, all for sale. The books have her personal ex libris sticker affixed inside (a simple gold rectangle the size of your thumb featuring the words “From the Library of Anne Rice” and a facsimile of her signature) and many even have call letters taped to their spines. Interestingly, most of what Powell’s offers are books which seem to be related to Rice’s recent forays into historical fiction, since almost all of them are concerned with Judaism and Christianity: theological works, historical investigations, Biblical commentaries, surveys of religious art, etc. Many of the books have her own marginalia in them, and, not surprisingly, those volumes have been priced more highly than others. All in all, it’s an impressive collection and, if Rice did in fact read them, an indication that she is a very careful, diligent, and comprehensive researcher.

     When I first encountered this collection, I was bemused by it, I suppose, but didn’t buy anything—I didn’t much see the point in owning what I've since learned is called an “association copy,” that is, a book a famous author once owned and, presumably, read. After all, I wasn’t even much of a Rice fan, although I did enjoy the first two vampire novels (the others I couldn’t finish). But after a while the idea grew on me. After about a week’s worth of hemming and hawing, I eventually picked out a 1983 paperback copy of that classic of bogus history Holy Blood, Holy Grail by Michael Baigent et al. for $6.95. The purchase was largely a lark; it was about the least expensive book in the collection (no signature, marginalia, or underlined passages) and my intention was to send it to a friend who is a fan of Rice and Dan Brown (though she admits the latter is rubbish).  Even so, when I made the purchase I couldn’t help but feel a bit self-conscious and silly. I couldn’t look the cashier in the eye, and I exited quickly, as if I were a 16 year-old buying his first Playboy. I felt a little dirty. Why?
     Aside from the fact that Holy Blood, Holy Grail is a monument of stupidity and that my buying it was a mark of conspicuous consumption (I'm sure the homeless fellow outside could have put that $6.95 to a better use), I guess I didn't want that cashier to think I was some dimwit fanboy who would buy such a thing solely for the reason Anne Rice once owned it! I have a number of association copies in my own library, but all of them were incidental purchases--meaning I wanted the book itself foremost, and the fact that it had been owned by a famous person, another author, or a person who was integrally associated with the book was only a secondary consideration. For, indeed, isn't the whole notion that a book is somehow more valuable because Anne Rice owned it or read it or fondled it really rather asinine? But wait--what if the book had been owned by, say, William Faulkner, bore his ex libris inside the front cover, and was a copy of, oh, Ernest Hemingway's Death in the Afternoon? Might I feel the same way? If I could easily afford it, would I buy it?
     At the end of the day, this question reminds me of those dilemmas so common in the art world: We don't really know if that is an authentic Leonardo or a copy, but by consensus the art historians believe it most likely is; therefore, the same painting that drew little attention two years ago is now hailed a masterpiece and its value has increased a thousand fold. Value is always relative; seeing is perceiving. Hamlet said it best: "For there is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so."
     The same could be said of acquiring a book that once belonged to Anne Rice or just about any other famous person. As one shopper on the Powell's website put it: "[They] are a treat to read just because I know where they came from."

3 Edgars

As you can see it's a series of pictures of Edgar Allan Poe, but something funny's going on--that's his regular portrait on the left, but the pictures in the middle and to the right are altered:

The middle face is made up of two right sides pasted together and the far right face is made up of two left sides pasted together. Weird, eh? They're both recognizable as Poe, of course, but--and here my pop-culture saturated brain will steer me into a Star Trek reference--they are like the two Kirks in that one episode where he gets split into two beings by (if I remember correctly) a glitch in the transporter. You know, aggressive, but self-confident Kirk v. passive, self-critical Kirk? Middle Poe is fierce, a force to be reckoned with, and a little scary. Far-right Poe is pathetic, maudlin, and full of self-doubt. None of this really means anything, but it fits neatly into the kind of pop-psychological silliness that is often foisted upon poor Edgar.

Meh...

Toot toot!

Here's  an annoying press release from Amazon which tries to argue that the nation's "best read" cities are those who buy the most reading material from Amazon. Umm...think there might be a fallacy at work here? Is shopping for reading matter at Amazon really an indication of how well read a city's population is? Portland is 19th on the list, I see. But I know that I, as well as many other Portland residents, like to shop at Powell's City of Books and prefer to buy a book from there rather than from Amazon if I can help it. Not to mention the fact that many readers simply borrow their materials from libraries or read from free online sources. All Amazon has done here is shed light on the shopping habits of some residents of some American cities. Oh and toot their own horn a little in the process. How silly.

Cavity Search

If you can swing it, go and see Werner Herzog's new documentary "Cave of Forgotten Dreams." It's all about the Chauvet caves in southern France where, in 1994, numerous cave paintings were discovered that may date back some 30,000 years. The film is in 3D, a form well-suited to the subject matter (somewhat surprisingly). Herzog's usual dry wit, understatement, and general quirkiness are scaled back here, and one gets the impression that the subject so overwhelmed the filmmaker that he was often at a loss for words. He mostly lets the pictures do the talking--and boy do they.

Visit the French Ministry of Culture's site on the cave here and the site for Herzog's film here.

K and I viewed it at Portland's Livingroom Theaters on 10th downtown, a place where you can have wine or a glass of beer (and I'm not talkin' no paper cup) and sit in comfy chairs with little tables. Well, we were a tad late, arriving during the previews, and couldn't find two seats together. The nice waiter brought in a chair for us so we could sit together in the corner. K sat and found her seat cushion soaked (and thus her bottom), and as she jumped to her feet again she kicked over her glass of wine and shattered it. The nice waiter fixed everything (except K's bottom) and we were able to settle in just as the film began. All in all, it's a cool place to see a flick. Check it out sometime. And right across the street is Clyde Common, an excellent place to have rack of pig, spaetzle, and more wine after the film. 'Twas the first "civilized" evening we've had in quite a while.

CD

and I feel fine...

Hey, I stole this from the letters after an article on Salon this morning. It was about today's rapture, naturally, scheduled for 6 pm (no matter the time-zone). Probably the best comments I've seen yet on this event:

The world has already ended.

Only those with Jesus in their heart can perceive that the world is being gradually destroyed. Everything from climate change to disease to war which is happening now is evidence of the tribulations that are stripping away the material world we knew.


The rapture was not a physical event, but rather the final salvation of the souls of the righteous. The raptured walk among us, but remain untouched by the apocalyptic forces besetting the world.


Are you raptured? If you are, you will believe you are sincerely, with no shred of doubt within you. Let the holy fire of armageddon be the crucible that purges the impurities of doubt.


Of course, should misfortune befall you, it will mean you were not raptured.


That's my new apocalyptic Christian cult idea. What do you guys think? It deals nicely with the whole prediction problem, and it really isn't that different from Calvinism.


Should I declare for tax exemption?


—psalmanazaar

And now I shall write no more forever about this sad instance of mass delusionality.
CD

the bird is the word

Congratulations to Portland chef Gabriel Rucker (of Le Pigeon and Little Bird fame) for winning the 2011 James Beard award for Rising Star Chef (or whatever it was called). If you've never eaten at his restaurants, please do. Investigate here: http://www.lepigeon.com/.

I'M BACK!!!!!!! Ha hA ha HA!

thnx 2 melo-d

I frequently find reviews by laypersons (non-writer/critic types) that just bust me up. Found this "review" of Cocteau's La Belle et La Bete on netflix. Enjoy:

 Beautiful!! Im 47 & I never knew that this movie existed.When I get 2 heaven,Ive gotta chicken 2 tweeze w/my mom.If I could live in fairy-tale land..This is where I wanna live.Everything is wonderful about this film,tho I must say,I dont want my prince 2 look like a dorky-nerdy dweeb in tights.My jaw hit the floor when I saw him.Yuk! Id rather stick 2 being w/la Bete.Hes much more masculine even tho he looks like,oops,Im gonna say it, chewbacca or toto all grown up w/a bone-er.Id just give him a good waxing! I loved the sets so much!The Doors were 2 die 4,& the statues..omg,& magnificent was magnificent! I am so doing my bedrm just like Belles.We should b able 2 post pics on this site.I wanted 2 punch the sisters,grrr.I loved Belles dresses.I want 2 dress like her every day! I agree w/most.I didnt feel the love,I felt her guilt.Dad was great,but the brother reminded me of the modern day crack-head.The editing was a little off,but who cares?Im glad its in bl&wh.Evey1 looks more beautiful that way.2morrow,I start wking on my candleabras! This film will remain in my life.omg..Ive a new fav cinimatic fairy-tale! How luck does strike from time 2 time! & being a pro-dreamer,Ive found a great 1.A must see! If I could give it more stars..I would.If I didnt go 2 stevie Nicks web-site,I never wouldve found this beautiful & magical masterpiece.Thanx stevie 4 the lead 2 this awesome film & thanx nflix 4 being here so I could do so.Beautiful dreams 2 all my movie buff friends!Nighty-night! Melody. o_o

Excuses excuses...

 It's been over a month since my last post, but I have a gooood excuse: Claire Anne Finley, b. October 30, 2010, 10:58 pm. 8 lbs. 4 oz., 20 1/2 " long. Here are some pictures:

Before...

After!

She sure looks good on me.

 My two lovelies.

 She looks even better on you.

 Weighing in at 8 lbs. 4 oz.

 First car ride: 2007 Subaru Outback. Whoopee.

 Arriving home and looking fab (Claire too).

 Ian, Claire; Claire, Ian.

 Wanna play paddle-ball?

 G'ma gets some love.

 Love Love Love.

Ciao, CD

A Hallowe'en Read

I'm about halfway through my first Dennis Wheatley novel, To The Devil--A Daughter (1953), a rather silly (so far) but fun occult thriller. Wheatley was an English writer who lived 1897-1977 and wrote some 50+ novels, mostly thrillers like this, although he wrote crime, espionage, and historical fiction as well. Hammer studios made three of his novels into decent films: the aforementioned title, plus The Devil Rides Out and The Lost Continent (aka Uncharted Seas). The novel, so far, is a bit chatty and full of midcentury English and French stereotypes (the English are tweedy, chivalrous, and full of derring-do; the French are untrustworthy, decadent, and sensual), and everyone, hero and villain alike, is given to speechifying about the perils of socialism. Even so, like I said, it's fun if you don't take it too seriously (how could you?) and just let the story take you away to the French Riviera where, despite the fact that a young demon-possessed girl has just been smuggled aboard a yacht by Satanists determined to overthrow Western Civilisation, there's always time for a pastis, a plate of oysters, and a lecture on occult symbolism.

The book I'm reading was purchased for 30p in a cozy little bookshop in Hastings, England, called Old Town Book Centre (now no longer in existence, I'm afraid), a stone's throw from the famous Mermaid fish & chips shop (now under poor management, I'm afraid). My buying it is connected in my mind with a lovely visit to my dear, dear friends Barry and Jacque, who lived in the nearby town of Denton at the time (about ten years ago). Actually there were two books--the other was The Devil Rides Out--but it has gone missing, probably a casualty from a few months back when I did a little sell-off of unread and unwanted paperbacks from around the house. It's a shame, for according to a website I happened on the other day, they may be from a somewhat collectible series of editions. These were the Heron editions, paperbacks produced in the style of their hardback counterparts--a pseudo Morroco leather soft cover with gilded lettering and framing. (Read about them in as much tedious detail as you could ever want here.) My copy of To the Devil--A Daughter from 1972 is badly abused, unfortunately, (I think Ian had a go at it--the cover's ripped and there are teeth marks), and I believe it was for that reason it survived the purging from some months ago. Here's what it should look like:

But perhaps the most interesting thing about my book is the illustrations by French artist Michel de St. Ouen. There's only three, but they've intrigued me enough to seek him out online. It seems he's a fantasy illustrator/artist whose new-agey pictures--by turns sexy, eerie, ludicrous--have a certain mystical quality, hard to describe, that draws me in. There's some good representative images online if you do a simple Google search. Here's a site he's involved with, the Society for Art of Imagination, which features some of his pictures and those of others like him. As for my book, check these out.. As I said, by turns...

...sexy (not the Tor Johnson look-alike with the man-boobs):

 ...eerie (seriously):

 

 ...and ludicrous (does this not look like something a Twilight nerdette drew on a Pee-chee?):

But they're perfect for this kind of a book, a goofy thrill-ride. As I told K, it's like spending loads of time inside a good, full-blooded Hammer film from c.1965., and perfect for the season.

Happy Hallowe'en!
~CD

Made in Portland

While blogging yesterday, I hit the "Next Blog" button at the top of the screen and was whisked away to a random blog. It turned out to be some person, not unlike myself, with a penchant for sharing oddball items for no good (or bad) reason. He had on there a link to a project by Aaron Trotter, a Portland artist who is seeking financial support for an art project--a deck of playing cards featuring his own drawings of Portland city scenes. He was looking to raise $500 for the venture, and the blog featured a video explaining his project and displaying a number of his prototypes. I liked his drawings, generally (especially the two of PDX bridges), and was intrigued enough to explore his work further on the Net today. Before I had the chance to, however, I had some errands to run with K. I dropped her off for an appointment and then drove up to Alberta street to kill an hour by having a coffee and taking a walk down the street to see what's new (a great "art street"). Amazingly, I came across one of Trotter's prints in an art studio/shop window: a drawing of the "Made in Portland" sign in Old Town! I wasn't sure it was his until I got home again and researched it on the Web. Now I'm generally not a superstitious fellow, but I do sort of half-believe in the notion that if something is consistently making itself known to you without your consciously seeking it out, you should probably pay attention to it. Soooo...here's a link to his own website on which he discusses his project: http://www.aarontrotter.com/. Spend some time there. He's got all sorts of crazy things--but I especially like his abstract drawings and paintings (most of them). There's something good a-happening there...

~CD

Soon to be Viewed!

I can't wait to blog about this, so here goes.

The Mystery of Oberwald arrived in the mail recently, and I'm going to view it very soon (I'll explain). It's a 1980 film directed by my one of my cinematic heroes, Michelangelo Antonioni, and starring his former wife Monica Vitti, certainly my favorite Italian actress (sorry Sophia). The two had long since separated by 1980, but they saw fit to team up one last time to give this project--an experiment, no less-- a whirl. Get this: it's based on Jean Cocteau's play "The Eagle with Two Heads," an historical melodrama (way out of MA's alley) about a 19th century noblewoman who falls in love with the agent sent to assasinate her. Antonioni eschews his usual celluloid for a new-fangled technology: videotape! Yes, he videotaped the entire film, eager to see what innovations might come through tape--speed of production, costs, coloring, and general texture. Most reviews have been lukewarm on the film, though it's never panned; it's got so many intriguing elements at play I can't wait to see it. Now, I just need to find me a VCR...

The cassette came from Facets Video in Chicago (who are also the distributers, apparently), a favorite haunt of mine when we lived there. The second best video rental place in the country, I think. Those of you who live in PDX know very well who number one is.

~CD

Recently Viewed

OSS 117: Lost in Rio. 2009. Anglo-French super-spy Hubert Bonisseur de la Bath is at it again in this sequel to 2006's OSS 117: Cairo Nest of Spies. As with that film, it's a parody of a popular French espionage book and film series featuring the character of the same name (as if the Austin Powers films [which they resemble a bit] parodied a previously legit Austin Powers character). In this one, de la Bath is rooting out Nazis in Brazil with the help of a beautiful Israeli agentess. Plenty of giggles here if not guffaws. **1/2

Bad Timing. Nicholas Roeg, 1980. Brooding, semi-linear narrative about an American psychiatry professor in Vienna (Art Garfunkel) and his love affair with the young American wife (Theresa Russell) of an older Czech man whom she crosses the border to visit at times. Her reckless behavior--sleeping around, boozing, etc.--disturbs the psychiatrist deeply, and his inability to define her, control her, and possess her eventually drives him to commit an atrocious act while she is unconscious (due to an intentional overdose of pills). Harvey Keitel plays a Viennese detective investigating the sordid situation. Not one of Roeg's better films, I think, but hardly deserving of the scorn it received on its first being released (a "sick film for sick people" one reviewer famously said.) However, it's not merely exploitive twaddle--it's an honest attempt to examine the psychology of a controlling narcissist. *** (Great poster, eh? -->)

My Name is Bruce. Bruce Campbell, 2007. B movie stalwart Bruce Campbell plays himself in this send-up of the genre that almost made him a star. Here he's been recruited by a fanboy to fight an ancient evil--the spirit of a Chinese sorceror (or something) who has been unintentionally revived and is wreaking vengeance on behalf of a group of 19th century Chinese miners killed in a cave-in. The plot isn't important. What's important is...well none of this is important. It's Bruce directing Bruce playing Bruce. But I wouldn't mind a little less self-conscious cheese and a few more honest to goodness thrills. Sam Raimi understood that to be be funny and horrifying in the same instant you need to fight the temptation to wink at your audience too much. Here the eye-lids never stop fluttering.**

Here's a link to a great blog discussion of Bad Timing. Enjoy.

http://alsolikelife.com/shooting/2009/04/966-108-bad-timing-1980-nicholas-roeg/

~CD

Another Recent Read

Bardot, Deneuve, Fonda: My Life with the Three Most Beautiful Women in the World. Roger Vadim. 1987.
What a guilty pleasure this was! This kiss 'n' tell by film director Roger Vadim is funnest, for me, when he's not describing bedroom antics so much as the European filmmaking environment of the 50's, 60's, and 70's. Vadim claims that he wrote this to set the record straight for his children and grandchildren--so there would be something to counter the other biographies, news-stories, and general gossip. Still, he comes across as a chauvinist whose narcissism (at times I wondered if he was even sociopathic) makes for a sick but enjoyable read (in a seedy, Eurotrashy sort of way). Best if read out loud with a thick French accent and Serge Gainsbourg's Comic Strip playing in the background. And a pack of Gaulois cigs on your bedside table. **

Here's a link to a discussion of the book and of Vadim et al. Quite an interesting site. I'll put it on my blogroll: http://www.2blowhards.com/archives/001948.html.

Au revoir,

~CD

Recent Reads

The Blunderer. Patricia Highsmith. 1956.
One of the earlier Highmiths and a decent companion, of sorts, to Strangers on a Train. It involves a wife murderer (undiscovered) and a man who "stalks" him, in a manner, and fantasizes about being a wife murderer himself. As with Strangers, the tense relationship between the two men drives the narrative into the strange, cruel world one expects in a Highsmith psychological thriller. I'll admit that I found this to be one of her lesser efforts--gripping at times, certainly, but also tediously bogged down by the main character's foibles and witless behavior. However, I always love the Highsmith "plain-style" of writing--spare prose, studded with gritty details and precise descriptions. ***

Famous Last Words. Timothy Findley. 1987.
A hugely entertaining historical fiction made up of multi-layered narratives and featuring an impressive cast of characters (including Ezra Pound, Ernest Hemingway, Edward VIII, Wallis Simpson, von Ribbentrop, Charles Lindbergh, Hitler, and Rudolph Hess). The plot concerns the rise of Italian and German fascism and the various fascist sympathizers in European high society. What's more, Findley throws in a cabal of behind the scenes Euro power-brokers who go by the codename "Penelope," a kind of Priory of Sion who plans to use the fascists as a scourge to scrub Europe clean before setting up their own pan-European Emporer and Empress--the Duke and Duchess of Windsor. Most of the story is told from the point of view of Hugh Selwyn Mauberley--Ezra Pound's fictional character (here a real guy: a wonderful move!), a fascist sympathizer who turns against "Penelope" and pays the consequences. All in all, a real tour de force. ***1/2


Solar. Ian McEwan. 2010.
McEwan's latest about a Nobel Prize winning physicist who plagiarizes from a newly dead protege to keep himself relevant. The story follows his tumultuous love-affairs (five wives and countless lovers) and his rotten business dealings and pathetic post-Nobel professional life. He's a rotter in almost every respect--selfish, hypocritical, cruel, and amoral. He outdoes himself when he frames one of his wife's lovers for the murder of another of his wife's lovers! Yes, this is a comedy--and at some points it is laugh outloud funny--but it's hard to spend time with this character and not feel a little slimy yourself. As usual, however, McEwan's writing is flawless. What does it mean that you keep reading simply because the book is so well-written? ***

Recently Viewed: Julie & Julia, Sherlock Holmes, Il grido

Julie and Julia. Nora Ephron. 2009.

The praise heaped upon Meryl Streep for her astonishing portrayal of Julia Child in this film is well-deserved. I am in awe of her ability to thoroughly inhabit this character both inwardly and outwardly. What a joy to see this! And to see her play off that wonderful stalwart Stanley Tucci, portraying Paul Child. Unfortunately, as every reviewer has noted and as I will also, the rest of the film just doesn't amount to much. Amy Adams is Julie Powell, a woman who, in an effort to shake off a premature (from my view) middle-aged funk, decides to cook and blog about, over the course of a year, every one of Child's dishes featured in her seminal cookbook, Mastering the Art of French Cooking. The film pops between Powell's personal struggles and victories and Child's, but in the end you can't help but see Powell's side of the film as a sketchy framework for presenting Child's--for otherwise the two simply have no reason, other than the blog (an interesting challenge, but in the end a stunt), to be brought together. Frankly, I think the filmmakers lost their nerve. The real story here is something along the lines of Amadeus: the identity crisis that ensues when the mediocre encounter the monumental. ***** (for Streep and Tucci) otherwise, **

Sherlock Holmes. Guy Ritchie. 2009.

Oh Lord. When I first saw this advertized I cringed--and with good reason, apparently. I was afraid Guy Ritchie would do what he could only do--he'd make Holmes into a Guy Ritchie character. And he did. He's taken the crackling eccentricities of the character (presented, tolerably, in the person of Robert Downey, Jr.), thrown in a bit of Brad Pitt (from Snatch) and Jason Statham (from nearly all his movies) and concocted a Holmes who feels like one part Batman, one part Heathcliffe, and one part Rain Man. But not only that, he's placed him in a CGI Victorian London (all Brunelian oversized chains and smoggy city-scapes) and entangled him in a cabalistic conspiracy plot reminiscent of Dan Brown. Look, I appreciate iconoclasm and revisionism to an extent--but don't fuck with Sherlock Holmes! He isn't a Guy Ritchie character transported back in time. He's enough as he is: Conan Doyle's creation wasn't a 21st century bundle of nerves with martial arts training. Watson is capably played by Jude Law (nice to see him supporting for once), but that's about the only bright spot I found in this grey, bloated film. **

Il grido (The Outcry). Michelangelo Antonioni. 1957.

Here's an Antonioni film I had only seen half of, and it's taken me several years to get back around to seeing it again. This is often viewed as the transitional film between MA's early more melodramatic stories (though steeped in Italian neo-realism) and his middle period alienation films. Having seen most of the former and all of the latter, I'd put it closer to the latter--I might go so far as to say it's clearly one with them. We could draw a line right from Il grido to Red Desert quite easily, I think, and call it all MA's alienation quintilogy (quintet?). But does the prevalence of a theme really make a coherent, 5 part whole? (meh...) The film features rugged American cowboy/gangster star Steve Cochran (way out of type--but excellent) as Aldo, a hapless refinery worker who breaks up with his cheating girlfriend, Alida Valli (who's already born his child, now a 7 year-old), and leaves town to become an itinerant worker. For part of the journey, the girl, Rosina, is with him, and his episodic misadventures in employment, romance, and parenting make up the bulk of the film. Very reminiscent of de Sica's The Bicycle Thieves and Fellini's La Strada, Il grido focuses on the alienation of a dispossessed and marginalized man, but refuses to fully sympathize with him as he is clearly responsible for a fair amount of the misery he lives in. He's a victim of a one-two punch: on one hand, he's guided by outmoded philosophies and brutal machismo, but on the other he's ill-prepared (by a kind of self-sabotage) for the hard realities of Italy's post-war economic reconstruction. All in all it's a devastating portrayal of the ways people aid the powers that be in bringing about their own defeat. ***1/2

Ciao,

~CD