28 March

The Black Sox Scandal of 2008 (or, how I learned to stop sheepherding and respect ugly buildings)

"I do not believe that politics in the long run is about individuals. It is about ideas, the public good, and doing what is best for the state of New York. But I have disappointed and failed to live up to the standard I expected of myself. I must now dedicate some time to regain the trust of my family."

- Eliot Spitzer, March 10, 2008

"You think that I played my career because I'm worrying about the damn Hall of Fame? If you have a vote and it's turned because of this, you keep your vote. I don't need the Hall of Fame to justify that I put my butt on the line and I worked my tail off. And I defy anybody to say I did it by cheating or taking any shortcuts. OK?"
- Roger Clemens, Jan 8, 2008

Roger Stone sent the FBI a letter (through his attorney) detailing how Eliot Spitzer kept his calf-length black socks on whilst having sex with prostitutes down in Florida. Few are wondering how Stone, GOP lobbyist extraordinaire, knew of this fact, since it was revealed in 1996 that he (Stone) and his wife had been placing ads in adult newspapers looking for other couples to join them for sexual romps.

Roger Stone is a player, my dear friends, and you can bet cold hard cash he doesn't keep his socks on while being serviced by a male hustler or his wife, nor does he favor ventro-ventral copulation like my dear friend Eliot Spitzer. He does, however, wear his diamond encrusted horseshoe-shaped pinky ring while fist banging his Filipino maid.

I spoke with various experts on this issue, and they all agree that keeping the calf length socks on during sex is a fear of intimacy. Although just how intimate one is expected to get with a prostitute is debatable; if one wears a condom, who's noticing the socks? On the other hand, just the visual of Eliot Spitzer sodomizing a twenty something year old prostitute with his stockings on is enough to cause nausea, vertigo, and temporary insanity in a prison warden.

Who are the real "liberals" these days? The one's defending Roger Clemens, that's who. The GOP's. The democrats, the one's who are supposed to be about the real issues, are busy trying to burn a seven-time Cy Young Award winning pitcher at the stake. It used to be that the republicans admitted they were assholes. Now democrats are acting like ones, but refuse to admit they are such.

Roger Stone and his wife like to fuck other couples? So what. What's it to you? But any democrat public servant who goes trolling for whores without his wife? Watch your ass, because Roger Stone will nail it to the front door of town hall for all to see. His message is crystal clear; you should be inviting the missus along, like me.

Roger Stone knows how to have a good time, and Eliot Spitzer was busy convincing the world he himself did not. He wanted to be portrayed as Eliot Ness, crime fighter extraordinaire, when really he was only interested in twenty-year old ass. And who could blame him? Your pal Longcipher certainly doesn't. But he made two fatal mistakes; 1) He chose public office, and 2) he got caught.

If a lobbyist, like Mr. Stone, frequents a house of ill repute, nobody cares. But when a politician does it (even though it's expected of him/her), nobody wants him/her caught with their pants down and their socks on. There is no "three strikes" rule on that one; one strike and you're out.

The exception, of course, is an affair with a 'regular' person - a la Bill and Monica. This is deemed acceptable and will not spell the end of a political career. It is more socially acceptable to have an intimate socks-off affair than it is to get one's rocks off with a hooker. And it is at this juncture worth noting the adage that says;

'politicians, whores, and ugly buildings all get respect if they hang around long enough.'

Roger Stone is an ass, but he has a career, as does Dick Morris, the ex (Bill) Clinton aide who was also busted cavorting with prostitutes. But aides, advisors, aide-de-camp's and lobbyists can get away with sleeping with hookers and still appear on Fox News as 'experts' and get paid for it. It is the smarter man/woman who chooses that line of work rather than public office.

Speaking of Dick Morris, he announced back in early 2007 that he was going to release a documentary showing what a "phony" (his word) Hillary Clinton is. He wanted to do a film showing her saying conflicting statements placed side-by-side, exposing her lies to the masses. He ultimately made that film, titled "Hillary: The Movie," and it is available for purchase on DVD. Morris claims it cannot be shown in theatres because of the Clinton's powerful friends on the FCC board who blocked it from being approved for theatrical release.

The one example from the film I find most interesting is an interview between Hillary and Jane Pauley from Sept. 17, 2001 on NBC. Hillary is telling Pauley how her daughter Chelsea had decided to go for a jog the morning of 9/11 down by Battery Park:

Hillary: She was going to go around the towers. She went to get a cup of coffee - and that's when the plane hit.

Pauley: She was close enough to hear the rumble.

Hillary: She did hear it. She did.

Pauley: And to see the smoke...

Hillary: That's right.

Clinton went on to say she didn't locate her daughter until two hours later (by phone). The next day, Katie Couric said about Hillary, "...at that moment, she was not just a senator, but a concerned parent."

Chelsea Clinton later wrote an article for Talk magazine in which she detailed her whereabouts for 9/11. According to Chelsea's article, she wasn't jogging near the twin towers; she was at a friend's apartment on Park Avenue, by Union Square. She watched the towers collapse on TV.

Clinton supporters will find a way to shrug this story off, ignore it, or just pretend they didn't read it. But if you have any brain in your head at all, you will know this is far more despicable than being governor of New York and paying for sex with (possible) state funds.

Hillary Clinton knew damn well what she was doing when she told that straight faced lie on national TV. Katie Couric's remark the next day is exactly what Hillary had in mind all along. Unfortunately for Senator Clinton, either Chelsea wasn't briefed on the plan, or she just decided she wasn't going to lie for mom when her time came to recount her 9/11 story.

However a Hillary supporter spins it, six days after the tragedy that was 9/11, Clinton saw an opportunity to show herself as a warm, "real" parent and not a cold politician. It worked, until Chelsea wrote her article. And even after that, the story was buried under a mound of Clinton money.

So people will talk about what an opportunist Barrack Obama is - and he is, make no mistake about it - as is John McCain - But Hillary Clinton is a true dyed in the wool scumbag who reminds me of the difference between an alcoholic and a drug addict:

An alcoholic will steal your wallet and look you in the eye and tell you she didn't do it. A drug addict will steal your wallet, look you in the eye and tell you she didn't do it, and then help you look for it.

Hillary Clinton can lie like a professional drug addict, and there are people ready willing and able to lend their time and efforts to putting this liar in the most powerful seat in the world. Why?

Because she has more experience, they'll tell you.

More experience lying, indeed.

People need to choose sides, just like sheep. Follow a herd. They cannot imagine a world where they are not identified as a democrat, or republican... something. To them, people are either straight, or they are gay, but there is no middle ground. They want/have children, or they do not want children. They are a Yankees fan or a Mets fan. They must choose sides. They must feel connected to a group, a herd, a pack, a colony... They will have no identity unless they pick Hillary, Barrack or McCain. And still others will hold on to lost hopes like Ron Paul and John Edwards and Al Gore and think that isrebellion.

The idea of admitting that every choice available is a step below sticking a fork in your eye is unimaginable to most. The people of this nation have been told their whole lives that it is a privilege to vote, and that it is their duty to stand up and be heard, etc. etc.

But what happens when I don't want to choose the lesser of three evils? Or worse still, the lesser of two evils? What if I cannot tell the difference? Then shall I judge them by the color of their skin, or whether or not the candidate has a penis, or whether they are a democrat or republican? Is that the "liberal" thing to do?

Most "liberal" democrats I know say they want Hillary because they don't want a nigger as president. Other democrats will say they want Obama because they don't want a woman as president. They're very liberal indeed. These folk think as long as they are voting democrat, they are still more liberal than those damn republicans. They don't hear themselves and their reasoning, of course. They don't realize they sound more like Bill O'Reilly than Bill O'Reilly himself.

Is Hillary Clinton more conservative than John McCain? She just might be. Does that mean your pal Longcipher endorses Johnny? Not on Morgan Freeman's life, amigo.

I am here to remind you of your only real decision in this life.

 

Because in this life you are either a Wolf, a Sheep, or a Walrus.

Most of you will tell yourselves you are a Wolf or a Walrus, even if you don't know exactly what being a Walrus is. So I am going to explain it to all of the slow kids in class (have no shame as your pal Longcipher never had the math).

A Walrus lives in a colony of other Walruses, Wolves live in packs and Sheep in flocks. Nobody is a true lone wolf. We must deal with others. But how do we cope? Are you a follower? Are you a vicious take-what-you-want-go-getter? Or are you a Walrus?

A Walrus doesn't take itself too seriously, and it is able to see life for what it really is; a lovely cruise that sails through waters that get as rough as Drake's Passage now and again.

A Walrus gets a fifty-year shot, and they don't believe in reincarnation. It's a one-shot deal for a Walrus. The males have large penises, and male and female alike eat what they want. They may not be the most attractive animals, but they couldn't give a damn what anyone else thinks about them.

Who are you, dear reader... You may say you are a Walrus, and then turn around and tell anyone who will listen you're for Hillary, or for Obama, or for Nader...

But then you've missed the point.

A Wolf has no time for such matters - a Wolf only wants what serves it's best interests. They are an Alpha dominated society. The weak and crippled are killed by the pack. Wolves prefer psychological confrontation rather than physical. Rank is based on attitude, not size or strength. The Omega wolf may get pushed around and used as the pack's punching bag, but it prefers this to living alone and starving.

Clinton, Obama, McCain: all are Wolves. They are running in packs, and they will surround a one ton bison and bring it down for their own feeding frenzy if need be (read: Iraq). These three folk are what we are being offered, and if you feel a strong pull toward one of them because you believe it is your duty to choose one, then by all means do that, and do it like Hercules.

But do not try and pass yourself off as a Walrus if you are willing to fight passionately for any of these three candidates. A Wolf, perhaps, but certainly not a Walrus. And if you are actively campaigning for one of said three, then it may be time to get honest with yourself, look in the mirror and open up and say "baah."

Edvard Longcipher™ is available for Private Parties as well as Corporate Events. His appearance fee is negotiable yet final. Mr. Longcipher is not affiliated with any church or organization. The views expressed in this column are those solely of the author and not those of Walrus Comix. Mr. Longcipher can be contacted at longcipher@yahoo.com

 

 

27 March

Letters to Longcipher: Which Ant Barn is Faster Than Jesse Owens? Also, Those Voices in Your Head are Mine.

"You're on earth.
There's no cure for that."
- Samuel Beckett

Today I've decided to share some emails I've recently received, and the first one is about my use of the phrase "faster than an Ant Barn, No.7." So here we go, with the very first "Letters To Longcipher." This first letter comes from Ruby Tamarr, of Spokane, Washington. Ruby writes:

"...In regards to 'faster than an Ant Barn, No. 7,' I have decided to share with you my thoughts on what this might mean, and perhaps if you agree with my analysis, you could share it with your readers? Anyway, there's this thing called "A.N.T.'s," which stands for 'Automatic Negative Thoughts,' and I believe that an Ant Barn is where all those negative thoughts hang out in the winter months waiting for Spring to come when they can at last frolic around in the flowers and sunshine and warm grass... OR, perhaps the Ant Barn is where the thoughts go when they are removed... It is there they await anyone who wants to take them out like a rental car, prostitute or possibly even a timeshare... so faster than an Ant Barn would naturally be one of the following:

1. The speed at which negative thoughts take over;
2. The length of time in which one is capable of keeping said negative thoughts at bay;
3. The time taken to remove said negative thoughts.

The Ant Barns would more than likely have to be numbered (because they do fill up, after all), and that's where the No. 7 comes into play... I have not figured out what specific negative thoughts hibernate in Barn No. 7, but I'm sure I will if given more time and barns..."

Thank you Ruby, for sending in this lovely analysis (along with naked pictures of yourself. I especially liked the ones with the heels/garters).

Miss Tamarr, you have expressed the meaning of this phrase far better than I ever could have, and I thank you for that. And just to clarify, there are *either* twelve (12) or eighteen (18) different Ant Barns, depending on who you ask. Specialists in Europe lean toward the number 12, while forward thinkers in California believe the number to be closer to 18. Either way, it seems new Ant Barns are being discovered every year, so stay tuned to this column for an Official Ant Barn Count, coming soon.

"You've been up all night listening for his drum
Hoping that the righteous might just come
I heard the General whisper to his aide-de-camp
'Be watchful for Mohammed's lamp'
Don't it make you want to rock and roll
All night long Mohammed's Radio."

- Warren Zevon, "Mohammed's Radio

The second email I would like to share today comes from a Mr. Anthony Palomine, from Tenafly, New Jersey. Anthony wrote;

Mr. Longcipher,

I have been reading your column since it's inception, and I wanted to ask you how it's possible I hear voices in my head while simultaneously reading your column. Is this your doing? Where did you learn to write this way? How can it be every column I read of yours it's as if there are "sheets of voices" falling into my head? There are the words, printed on the screen, and at the same time there are these voices I hear in my head that flow with your writing and yet at the same time go against what you're writing... How do you do this, Mr. Longcipher? How did you learn this method of writing, and how do you broadcast the voices along with your writings over the Internet like that?

Yours in Tenafly,
Anthony Palomine."

Well Anthony, I learned this form of writing while studying in Tangier about fourteen years ago. This was during the early years of the Internet, and my teacher, Ravi Simian, was way ahead of his time. Simian was later killed when he walked under a backhoe at the wrong moment, and we here at Fallout Shelter miss him every day. But I digress.

This form of writing, called 'Spriting' (speak/writing hybrid) is actually traced back to American Indians who used this form via smoke signals. Men would write on tablets, which were then sent off to other tribes to read while simultaneously sending voices through smoke signals from across mountains, which added to the writings. It's complicated stuff and takes years of hard work and discipline to accomplish. Right now I am the only practicing Spriter in North America, and the only Spriter broadcasting over the Internet.

Anthony, right this very minute I am sending you and you only a very personal message. You heard it correctly, and as crazy as it sounds, I need you to do it for me right this very minute, so just go and do that, OK? The law cannot touch you. Longcipher has sent spirits to watch over you while you do it. You will be safe. I promise.

Thanks again to both Ruby and Anthony for their emails and comments, and to all of my other faithful readers, keep the emails coming...

Until next time; just do half, try to relax, tell the anxiety "no," drink that beer in the fridge, don't watch so much TV, listen to the Jazz Messengers, eat an apricot, put out that cigarette, and for the love of your mother, floss.

L’chaim.

Edvard Longcipher is not a vegan or a vegetarian. He does in fact eat meat and only smokes a pipe on Sundays, whilst wearing his favorite Indonesian handmade slippers. The views expressed in this column are solely those of the author and are not those of Walrus Comix. Any similarities are strictly coincidental.

 

 

26 March

How To Re-Snatch a Snatched Purse (or, how I learned to stop Showboating and love Universal Health Care)

"We are the office block persecution affinity,
God save little shops, china cups and virginity
We are the skyscraper condemnation affiliate,
God save tudor houses, antique tables and billiards
Preserving the old ways from being abused
Protecting the new ways for me and for you
What more can we do?"

- Ray Davies, "The Village Green Preservation Society"

 

Sunday, January 4, 2004, Ray Davies was shot in the leg by a purse snatcher in New Orleans. He was walking along the French Quarter with his girlfriend when some petty thieves grabbed the girlfriend's purse and ran. Davies chased after them, and one thief shot him in the leg.

He was taken to a local hospital, and he was released soon thereafter. The whole thing blew over in a matter of days, actually. And then in 2005, a year and a half after the mugging/shooting incident, Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans, and Ray Davies spoke up.

It seems during his stay in the local hospital, embarrassed doctors apologized profusely for the lack of updated supply and demand (medically speaking, of course). The hospital, they explained, couldn't really give Mr. Davies the care he deserved, as they didn't have proper funding from the State or government.

Mr. Davies was shocked and surprised, he later wrote. How could the most powerful nation in the free world not be able to properly care for it's own citizens? How could the hospital not have the means to care for someone shot in the leg? This was New Orleans, after all, surely there were others who would need care for far more serious gunshot wounds.

He claims that, when he saw the devastation of Katrina on New Orleans, he remembered his experience in the local hospital and knew then that there was no way they were equipped to handle the desperate people who would need medical attention at once. The people of New Orleans were doomed, and Ray Davies knew it from the moment he watched Katrina's damage from the comfort of his own home in England.

"Girl, it's a hard, hard world, if it gets you down
Dreams often fade and die in a bad, bad world
I'll take you where real animals are playing
And people are real people not just playing
It's a quiet, quiet life
By a dirty old shack
That we called our home
I want to be back there
Among the cats and dogs
And the pigs and goats
On animal farm"

- Ray Davies, "Animal Farm"

The moral of the story is to not only let the purse snatchers think they won and let them get away with the purse,but the purse snatchers will have better doctors back at the hide out.**

Chase them down, but do it discreetly. Don't run, but walk fast. When they look behind them, act like you're window shopping. Don't be obvious.

When you arrive at the hide out, quietly sneak inside and surprise them as they are inspecting the booty. Use martial arts prowess to beat them into submission, and be sure to gain control of their firearms immediately. This should be easy to do if you time things correctly by the position of the sun (or moon).

Also, keep in mind that they will be just as scared as you, if not more so. You are now breaking into their home, and this always unsettles both people and thieves alike, to see a stranger appear in their home wielding karate moves.

Be firm, and be curt. Take one of the firearms and promptly shoot one of the thieves in the leg or buttocks. The fleshy part of the thigh will do, also. Then demand your (girlfriend's) purse back in one piece, and insist the thief who hasn't been shot to hand it over to you nice and slow.

Before exiting the hideout aim the firearm at the doctor in residence and demand he fix up his new patient. His instruments may seem crude at first, but his swift patch work will outdo the local hospitals' any day of the week. When the thief has been properly cared for, ask the doctor to take a moment and check you for hernia, as you may have pulled something during the "visit."

Say thank you upon exiting, as they will be less likely to follow you and re-mug you once back out on the street. Keep the firearm with you until you are at a safe distance from the hide out, usually about 50 yards is a good distance. Lay the firearm down on the ground at that point and walk back to find your girlfriend. Do NOT run as a man running with a purse is just begging to be shot at by police.

** If no doctor is available back at the hide out then cancel all of the above. Someone could get seriously injured.

contact Edvard Longcipher at longcipher@yahoo.com

 

 

25 March

Bring Me The Resume of John Cazale!

A film actors resume is often littered with more misses than hits, but there is one man who has what must be the most perfect resume of any film actor of our time. He only appeared in five films during his all-too-brief life, but they were all classics. Ladies and gents, I could only be speaking of the one and only, late, great, John Cazale.

Cazale's resume:

1. The Godfather 1972 (Fredo)
2. The Conversation 1974 (Stan)
3. The Godfather Part II 1974 (Fredo)
4. Dog Day Afternoon 1975 (Sal)
5. The Deer Hunter 1978 (Stan)

Some might argue it was James Dean who had the perfect resume, having appeared in only three (3) films; East of Eden (1955), Rebel Without a Cause (1955), and Giant (1956).

But check the numbers:

John Cazale had a higher batting average than Dean and was far better in the field and in the clutch. All five of the films Cazale appeared in were nominated for Best Picture and three of them won (Both Godfathers I and II and The Deer Hunter).

Cazale's Fredo in The Godfather is one of the more haunting performances in film history. While it may be true that The Godfather insists on itself, Cazale never does. We only hear about Fredo "banging cocktail waitresses two at a time," we never see such antics on screen. What we do see is so tragically real and authentic, we never sense Cazale is overreaching or chewing scenery.

In Fredo Corleone he created a whole character, someone so real and fleshed out you feel you know him intimately like family. You love him, want to look after him, and are as let down as brother Michael in Cuba; "I know it was you, Fredo... I know it was you."

Cazale's Fredo is heartbreakingly real, maybe too real for the film world. It wasn't a cinematic performance on the scale of what Brando did, or James Caan with his scenery chewing, or Pacino's slow burn in the restaurant scene... Cazale's Fredo was the kind of performance that John Cassavetes could have based an entire film on, and it would have been Cassavetes finest picture.

John Cazale didn't act, he inhabited the role and became the real person on screen who stood alongside actors. When you see the famous portrait from the wedding scene of Brando, Caan, Pacino, Duvall and Cazale, (the one which hangs in most pizzerias), you look at all of them and shake your head at what's become of them; washed up has-beens (and in the case of Brando, dead has-been).

But Cazale is no has-been. He is the one legit person in that photo, and even Meryl Streep knew what a class act he was when he was alive; Cazale and Streep lived together, right up until his untimely death of bone cancer at the age of forty three.

The two met while doing Shakespeare's Measure For Measure at the Public Theatre in NYC in 1976. By the time they were making The Deer Hunter in 1977 they were engaged. By then, however, Cazale had been diagnosed with bone cancer and it was too late. He died shortly after The Deer Hunter wrapped filming.

He was born in Boston, but died in New York City. He was Fredo to most, but to Meryl Streep he was a lover. He may have played second fiddle to Gene Hackman in The Conversation, but he was the wild card in Dog Day Afternoon. Pacino was the star, but Cazale was the one you waited to see more of. Charles Durning always kept an eye on Sal, and so did you.

Get humble and recognize John Cazale today. He did more in five films than most actors could ever do in fifty films.

John Cazale drinks Daniel Day-Lewis' milk shake.

 

 

 

 

 

24 March

The Walrus, the Polar Bear, and Ray Charles (or, how I learned to stop racism and love my baculum

"I love her in the Springtime, I love her in the Fall, but last night on the back porch, I loved her most of all." - Lew Brown 

In this life you are either a Wolf, a Sheep, or a Walrus.

 

Male walruses possess a large baculum (penis bone), up to 24 in (63 cm) in length, the largest of any mammal "both absolutely and relative to body size" (Wikipedia). In fact, in 2007, a four and a half foot long fossilized penis bone from an extinct species of walrus (believed by the seller to be the largest in existence), sold for $8,000.

As a human male born with a baculum (a rare condition; fewer than .08% of men are born with one), I can relate to the walrus. Furthermore, doctors have predicted my life expectancy to be more or less the same as a walrus: 50 years. While this is mainly due to life style choices, new evidence suggests that humans born with a baculum have a lower life expectancy rate than those born without. I'll keep you posted on that particular prognosis, as I go in for tests three times a year (usually at the Kinsey Institute, located in Bloomington, Indiana).

World re-known surgeons have offered to remove my baculum free of charge, but they want to keep it and use it for "research purposes." I'd rather wait for a rainy day, or when baby needs a new pair of shoes, as I am sure it could fetch at least $16,000 on ebay today.

Walruses only have two natural predators; the orca and the polar bear. However, according to Wikipedia, "even an injured walrus is a formidable opponent for a polar bear."

I had my own run-in with a polar bear about ten years ago; I got into a scuffle (more of a skirmish) in a bar in Iceland with a local gentleman after I made a comment about Ray Charles being "a blind and ignorant nigger," at which point the Icelandic gentleman promptly cold cocked me (it was well deserved, I'll admit), and the bar's owner, being a die-hard Ray Charles fan (just my luck), released his caged polar bear on me right there in the bar. This too was probably well deserved, but I never saw that damn bear coming. Needless to say, the beast roughed me up quite a bit. It cost me a piece of my left ear lobe and a whole lotta pride.

The irony was not lost on me that I made a racist comment about Ray Charles and I was then attacked by a White Polar Bear for my words. If one doesn't learn a lesson after that, surely one never will. I have since ceased using the word "nigger" in public places, and I have learned to curb my heavy drinking to the safety of my own home, where I am quite sure no Polar Bear can or will attack. However, I am still haunted by dreams of Polar Bears every so often.

According to the Dictionary of Dreams, by Gustavus Hindman Miler, "Polar Bears, in dreams, are prognostic of deceit, as misfortune will approach you in a seemingly fair aspect. Your bitterest enemies will wear the garb of friendship. Rivals will try to supersede you." Gustavus goes on to say that "to see the skin of one (a Polar Bear) denotes that you will successfully overcome any opposition."

These two differing views make things complicated for me, for when I dream of a Polar Bear, the only reason I am sure it is indeed a Polar Bear is because I see the bear's white skin. So, while I must keep a close eye on those who wear the garb of friendship in my life, as they may really be my bitterest enemies, I have no doubt I can overcome their opposition, as I've seen the skin. It should be noted, however, that the Dictionary of Dreams has no entry for dreams about Walruses...

The dictionary definition of a racist:

1) a person with a prejudiced belief that one race is superior to others.

 As a fan of jazz (hard bop in particular), and as a white man to boot, I will be so bold as to say the Black race is the superior race when it comes to jazz music. If that makes me a racist, then go ahead and unleash your Polar Bears. I don't care for Chet Baker, Gerry Mulligan, Stan Getz, and I only listen to Bill Evans when I put on Kind of Blue.

I listen to Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Lee Morgan, Art Blakey, Charlie Mingus, Eric Dolphy, Dexter Gordon, Hank Mobley, Clifford Brown, Sonny Rollins, Sonny Stitt, Elvin Jones, Max Roach, etc. and they are all black and they are the best at what they do. One race superior to all the others.

Next week I'll discuss why the Jews are superior comedians.

"Well George Lewis told the Englishman, the Italian and the Jew

 'You can't open your mind, boys To every conceivable point of view.'

 They got Charles Darwin trapped out there on Highway Five Judge says to the High Sheriff,

 'I want him dead or alive Either one, I don't care."

 - Bob Dylan 

17 March

I Woke Up In a Soho Doorway, a Policeman Knew My Name...

"Give me absolute control over every living soul
And lie beside me baby, that's an order!
Give me crack and anal sex
Take the only tree that's left
And stuff it up the hole in your culture.
Give me back the Berlin Wall; give me Stalin and St Paul
I've seen the future, brother: It is murder."

- Leonard Cohen

Friday: Wall Street is burning, and Dick Grasso is laughing his ass off with two Russian Whores on a yacht docked somewhere off of St Barths. Life is good for Dick Grasso, yet not so handsome for his ex-nemesis Eliot Spitzer. The Spritz is finito, Benito, and he will probably never recover from his downward spiral into a meaningless existence. His fifth avenue apartment is now his Foucaultian Panopticon, and soon he'll sell that and head for the hills if he knows what's good for him.

The stock market is being sucked into the vortex, but the large bonuses will not be going away this Christmas, and you can bet Morgan Freeman's life on it. There is always money to be made on the way down. It goes down, and while it goes down, it dips back up as well. This is where the rich get richer. And there are always areas that are up when others are down. Grasso up, Spitzer down.

Bukowski predicted a time when a steak would cost $500 and there will be people who will say "$500??!! Is that all??!!! I'll give you $800!" and these are the people that will survive, he said. And he was right. And that time is now.

'May you live in interesting times' - Chinese Curse

The Dow will plummet, and grown men will curl up in the fetal position and howl like a gunshot hound. Women will collectively prowl the streets for an even more Alpha Male, and the human race will in the end endure, as it always has. We may never get much smarter than we were a hundred years ago, and yet at the same time we are light years away from those idiots.

The neighbors are beginning to chatter, the IRS is about to come knocking, and the air is getting tougher to breathe, like hiking in Denver with a tight noose around your neck and a penchant for autoerotic asphyxia by the campfire. But there are always those pesky Sherpa's, and they will survive, much like the rich. The air barely ever gets too thick for these folk, and they tend to stick to familiar territory, anyway...

Sunday: Bear Stearns plummeted two (2) days ago. It opened at $54.24 and closed at $30.00 a share. A 47% drop in one day of trading. Men jump off of bridges for less. As of Sunday afternoon, two days after the stock closed at $30, J.P. Morgan is set to buy Bear Stearns for $2 a share.

"Things are tough out there," said Bob Dylan, "High water everywhere..."

Whoever takes over the Oval Office will inherit the Bear Stearns of Countries. America is crashing faster than an ant barn, no. 7, and if you don't know what that means, dear reader, just imagine your daze and confusion when you see zombies roaming down Main Street come Christmas. Don't panic, however, because my good friend George Romero assures me zombies can't run. "Their ankles would snap," he says emphatically. "What did they do? Come back from the dead and join a gym?"

Everyone is getting fleeced, and the NWC (National Weather Commission) has warned that this blessed tornado of Wretched Hatred will come tearing through your neighborhood shortly if it hasn't already clawed at your throat like a chained pre-menstrual tigress today.

They're calling for blood on the streets, and yet everything continues as if nothing's changed. They sell it like they sold us Christian Bale as Batman - they make it out like it's a good thing, but it's not a good thing, it's a bad thing...

I would prefer "Turtle Neckian" Keaton as Batman over Christian Bale. And I would prefer Johan Santana to Phil "Fuck" Hughes. But oh well. We got Hank Steinbrenner instead of George Steinbrenner... Hank will make us wish we had the father. Hank could be the next George Bush; so awful you wished for his dad instead.

"A lot of water under the bridge, 'lot of other stuff too... Don't get up gentleman, I'm only passing through." - Bob Dylan

Now listen here, children, your 'ol buddy Longcipher needs a little time off this week, he's gotta go deal with some Longcipher family business. So I wanted to write something that would last the week, to "make it count," so to speak, as this will be the only Under Protest column I write all week.

It's ironic; I was just bragging on Friday how the editors gave me carte blanche with this column, and now I tell you I need to disappear for the week... Like I said, this is family business.

This week, I will be meditating on how bittersweet life can be.

bittersweet (adj); both pleasant and painful or regretful.

The latest example I've seen is too personal to explain, but you'll have to trust me when I say that it's one of the tougher scenarios that life could throw at somebody, and to watch people I love dearly go through this bittersweet time is so absolutely humbling - I am humbled to my very knees - it is with utter humility I write this tonight from the Fallout Shelter**.

To witness a Stolen Dream, A Reneged Promise; it is enough to lose all faith in the system of the universe. But I already did years ago. The fact is, for everything that life gives, it exacts a price in return. And sometimes that price is just viciously high, cutthroat high, and other times someone's getting it at $2 a share.

There is no rhyme or reason.

Life can be a beautiful, compassionate lover one day, and a cold callous killer the next.

"... where I am, I don't know, I'll never know, in the silence you don't know, you must go on, I can't go on, I'll go on." - Samuel Beckett, The Unnamable

It is a week like this one where I need to remember those things worth living for (in no particular order); Lee Morgan albums. An iced cold beer. A great fuck. New York City in Spring. Girls wearing their skirts come Spring. The sound of a Wave laughing, the sight of a beautiful woman. An ultimate album side. Warren Oates. Dostoyevsky. Dylan. Her. The Orson Welles Frozen Peas outtakes. Pizza. Gambling. Whores. Coffee. Beautiful, intelligent women. Baseball. Live theatre. A good novel, a great film. The memories, the expectations alone... The future is unwritten, the past is done.

Just when it seems the blood suckers are going to drain you from every possible dollop you have in you, somewhere off in the distance you hear Miles Davis, and everything's going to be Ok... Somewhere off in the distance you hear yourself laughing, and you're hoping it's pre-echo, it's a laugh you're going to have... Soon. Just around that corner. Any minute now...

Life is dangerous. Life is beautiful. We could be Dick Grasso, we could be Eliot Spitzer. Sometimes it's not all up to us. And sometimes we have choices. And when we do have choices we all need to make one decision;

Because in this life you are a Wolf, a Sheep, or a Walrus.

And as Pete Townshend asked, "who-the-fuck-are-you?!"

                                    ••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

** The 'Fallout Shelter' is Longcipher's Office Space, where he writes from, lives from, and procreates from.

Edvard Longcipher™ is available for Private Parties as well as Corporate Events. His appearance fee is negotiable yet final. Longcipher is not affiliated with any church or organization. The views expressed in this column are those solely of the author and not those of Walrus Comix. He can be reached at longcipher @yahoo.com

 

 

 

 

14 March

God Is Dead (Redux)

The Editors at Walrus Comix called me from Walrus HQ yesterday, and before I could put on some pants and take off my bowler hat, I was on a conference call with the two head honchos. The Top Brass.

They said they had a proposition for me, wanted to know what I thought of it.

"What's the deal?" I asked. "I quit street hustling years ago," I reminded them.

"No, it's not like that," they assured me.

"Ok," I said. "What is this is, then? Is this about that Wes Anderson article? Are you guys fans of his or something?"

"On the contrary," the editors said.

"We want you to broaden the scope of your column. Write about things other than film."

"Like what?" I asked them. At this point I was busy looking at myself in the mirror and had decided that the jock strap/bowler hat look was indeed beginning to feel right for Saturday night.

"Whatever you want," they responded.

"Really?" I said, "I could just write about anything at all?"

"Sure," they said. "That's what we want."

"Like a blog?" I said with obvious skepticism.

"Well, technically speaking, what you're doing now is a blog," they pointed out to me.
"Right, but not a blog like, 'today I went to buy some milk, or I went to the happy ending massage place and blah blah blah..."

"Wait," they asked excitedly, "you go to a happy ending massage place???!!! What's the address???!!!"

All of this was certainly food for thought. It would *appear* I am here to discuss film. However, I never liked being locked into anything (hence my not paying taxes, my distaste for tattoos, and trouble holding a job for more than two weeks). But we're (me and my alter ego) working on those issues, so we'll try to find a happy medium until I can muster up the courage to fully sleeve my arms, back, legs, and torso in tattoos. As for the whole 'job' thing, I don't really think I want one of those anyway. They sound quite boring, actually.

Instead of locking myself into only writing about film, I thought about broadening the scope to entertainment... after all, a lot of things fall under that category these days... Gambling... porn... and I still love whores... because, you know, they come over, and you don't have to discuss Proust, or films... just, pay them, tell them I want to be tied up, hit me a little bit, and then give me a blow job...

That's entertainment, is it not? Certainly my good friend Eliot Spitzer would agree.
But don't worry about Eliot, folks. Now that Billy Crystal flunked his try out for The New York Yankees, they're making room on the roster for Spitzer. The Yankees, and major league baseball in general, are a magnet for whore masters and cocaine freaks. Eliot will fit right in with A-Rod and the boys...

Drugs are entertainment. I could come here and review the tab of LSD I ate a few weeks ago at the Museum of Natural History... now that was entertainment... that woolly mammoth came alive, boy, I'll tell you that much... I hid out with stuffed owls for what seemed like hours, discussing ancient Rome with them. Very good listeners, those owls.

Gambling, as I mentioned, is also fine entertainment. I could talk about why hockey is one of the more complicated sports to bet on, and that being the very reason it isn't a more popular sport worldwide.

Baseball season is beginning next month, and I am quite fond of discussing that, as well as wagering large sums of money on three-team teasers and various other bets applicable in baseball, one of the finer sports available to the gambelero.

There are really so many things that fall under the umbrella of 'entertainment.'

I could turn this into a column like Larry King had years ago for USA Today (or does he still have that column?) where he just put down random thoughts, a stream of conscience full of non-sequiturs. My column could look like this:

Academy Records on E. 12th street has a great vinyl selection for jazz enthusiasts... I can believe it's not butter, and that's why I use olive oil... is it me or does parmesan cheese smell like vomit... if you see one movie this month, make it "In Bruges"... why do hookers charge two hundred for a half hour, two fifty for an hour, then when you choose a half hour, and it only takes fifteen minutes, they expect a tip which would bring it to the hourly rate... which reminds me, what did the leper say to the hooker? 'keep the tip'... is Brooklyn the new L.A.? Nobody's from there and they all wear hats... if given a choice between Obama and menthol cigarettes, which would the blick choose... I really like Royal-Crown cola, how come I never see it anymore... why is it called a 'philip's head' screwdriver... Whoopi Goldberg won an academy award and is now a co-host on The View... did I mention parmesan cheese looks like foot powder... Mac's are not very porn site friendly, pc's are better for that... I need to buy a pc...

That kind of column might work well indeed. I could cover a broad range of topics in a very quick and concise manner. I don't have to be confined to a column solely about film, as that would become boring for me. In fact, it already has. I have taken to all night binges of ecstasy and cocaine in order to keep the writing process interesting. I order up the in-call hookers and spend money I don't have on oral and spankings. Drugs and fetish notwithstanding, I would need to be able to stretch out and write about all things that might fall under the umbrella of 'entertainment' without becoming bloggy, and so I thought about how this might be done...

And after thinking about it for a solid three minutes, my head started to hurt, and I realized I needed another glass of vodka. I decided to deal with these thoughts next week.

Though first I would like to say a few words on that other form of entertainment known as politics...

Just because a man doesn't want John McCain for President doesn't mean he wants Obama or Hillary. Just because a man (or woman) isn't a Republican doesn't mean he/she must be a Democrat. The Democrats are not a party; they are a divided mess. They cannot agree on anything, even the color of the sky. And saying you are a Democrat these days is nothing to be proud of. In fact, soon it will be all that is needed to throw people in stockades and publicly humiliate them in the town square. Their faces will be smeared with their own feces and children will mock them and throw rocks at their groins. Hyenas have a better sense of pack mentality then Democrats.

People just don't like the woman; she rubs too many people the wrong way. She's not well liked in Washington. I believe the word they use for her begins with a "c" and ends with a "t" and there are two letters between them... As for the blick guy, he's just an aspiring millionaire, he wants to have the bank accounts that Hill and Bill already have. He would like to loot and plunder the earth for his benefit before those greedy Clinton's can suck the Middle East dry of profits. Put Hill in office, and I guarantee Bill spends most of his time wining and dining and whoring with rich Arabs who will throw him kick backs when he arranges more U.S. ports for their control.

John McCain is so crazy he makes Mark David Chapman feel 'normal.' He makes Vince McMahon look like a better choice for President. John McCain is so flat out weird The Republicans don't even feel he belongs to them. Vincent Gallo is more conservative than John McCain. Though for all his tough guy posturing, perhaps he isn't the scariest nominee there is. Sure, he's threatened us with '100 years in Iraq,' but perhaps he's the only one being honest about the situation.

Hillary would get elected, tell us she's going to remove troops, and then give us some more of her favorite bull shit about a right-wing conspiracy that is preventing her from doing just that. She'll tell us her hands are tied. She'll say she really wanted to do that (get out of Iraq), but a mysterious 'they' won't let her. Same with Obama. These puppets won't run the show. Corporate America runs it all, and far too much money is being made over in Iraq to quit now. Besides, we need another outpost in The Middle East. Israel isn't enough. We're not leaving Iraq regardless of who's elected. We need more outposts in The Middle East, and if you can't see that, I've got a bridge to sell you, and it's conveniently located over the river Kwai.

As for John McCain being trigger/bomb happy, I propose that Hillary would be quicker to drop bombs than him. She wouldn't want anyone thinking they could push 'the woman' around, so she'd be more apt to feel the need to prove herself to the boys clubs, and she'd be quicker to bomb countries than your man John McCain ever would. Mark my words. Don't believe me? I've got two words for you; Margaret Thatcher. Hill would have a blood thirst not seen since Vlad the Impaler. And Obama would not only become the first blick President, he'd also become the first blick serial killer.

If you're a man, and you're saying you're going to vote for Hillary (in public), it is only a ploy to get laid. It is thinking women will respect you more because they see how sensitive you are, blah blah blah. The truth is, you are wanting a mommy figure to step in and make it all better. Kiss the boo boos. Leave a night light on for you as you sleep.

Grow up, be your own person, and stop waiting for a mommy/daddy figure to save the day. There is no savior. There is no right choice. Stop deluding yourselves. We are in for such a shit storm you have no idea. God is dead, politicians are evil, and the only one you can trust is yourself.

I don't believe in Zimmerman - I just believe in me.

Yoko and me.

Yoko, me, and Walrus.

And that's reality.

p.s. If you are offended by what I say, then don't read my column. I don't want you here to begin with if all you're going to do is leave comments meant to start fights with me. I won't respond to you anyway, so don't waste your time. If you don't like what I have to say, stop reading my column and go and get your own damn column. Otherwise, happy reading, and nude photos (women only) can be sent to longcipher@yahoo.com

 

12 March

John Wayne Was A Fag

The pride of Jersey City, a spry sixty years old and having already appeared in one hundred and fifty films (149 at press time but I guarantee #150 comes soon), folks, I could only be talking about the one and the only, character actor of all character actors, Tracey Walter.

I first noticed him in 1980’s The Hunter, with Steve McQueen. He played the psychotic ex-con Rocco Mason, who was out to make McQueen’s life a living hell. And he was so believably psychotic he actually scared me as a kid. I really thought this guy was that dangerous in real life. I must have watched that movie fifty times as a kid, a VHS copy worn out from obsessive compulsive viewing. I loved that movie, and it still holds a fond spot in my heart. The Hunter, starring Steve McQueen (in his last role), Kathryn Harold, Eli Wallach, and Tracy Walter. Check it out.

 

 

One hundred and forty nine films is an astounding number. That's not including TV credits, either. I’m sure his Bacon number is one. Let me confirm that... OK, I was wrong. His Bacon number is two. Tracey Walter was in Desperate Measures (1998), with Marcia Gay Harden who was in Rails & Ties (2007), with Kevin Bacon.

Frankly, I’m shocked. I would have expected Mr. Walter to be a one. I would have bet Morgan Freeman’s life on it...

Looking at Tracey Walter’s imdb page is dizzying. This guy was in everything. You may remember him from Alex Cox’ Repo Man, as Miller the mechanic.  “John Wayne was a fag...”  He won a Saturn award for Best Supporting Actor in that film.

You also may remember him as the Cook in City Slickers (why he’s so known for this movie is kind of perverse, when I think about it, but it would seem it’s one of his best known roles). He was the Joker’s (Jack Nicholson's) right hand man in Tim Burton’s Batman (1989) starring ‘Turtle-neckian’ Michael Keaton (with his pubic hair on his head - credit to the editors on that one).

He also appeared as Christopher Walken’s coke head, lose-canon brother in At Close Range, and as Malak in Conan The Destroyer.

You see his face and know you’ve seen him in a whole handful of movies. He’s a journeyman actor, a ‘knock around actor,’ in the immortal words of Richard Dreyfuss, who said that about the late Roy Scheider recently. Tracey Walter is a real deal character actor, amongst the top tier working character actors.

In fact, according to chatter on his imdb message board, some people believe he has actually appeared in a number closer to 250 films and over a hundred television shows since 1971. We may never know. The man just keeps on working, even doing bit parts where he says only one word, sometimes saying nothing at all, only appearing as a glorified extra, or a cameo, depending on your politics.

Not much of all is known about him, he remains an enigma, and that is precisely what we love about Tracey Walter. We only know what we see on film, but we do know (thanks to imdb) he is a close personal friend of Jack 'Bucket List' Nicholson. Perhaps they go whoring together.

Also, according to Wikipedia, Walter has appeared in six (6) of Jonathan Demme's films, and three (3) of Danny DeVito's, but that number is wrong, as they do not list The Ratings Game, so the number is now four (4). Also, according to Wikipedia, he has appeared with DeVito nine (9) times on film.

He also holds the distinction of having played two different Ferengi on Star Trek: The Next Generation. In 1987 and 1989, he appeared as Kayron, and in 1992 he appeared as Berik.

 

Flying saucers are time machines

 

"John Wayne was a fag... He was too, you boys". 

 

And as a note to my good friend who can't stop touting Hillary for President: Get over it. The dream is over. A woman has no place in the office of President. She belongs in the kitchen cooking Bill his steak. Anything else is just penis envy running wild... And you remember what this country did to Janet Reno, don't you???

 

 

11 March

Andersonville

Wes Anderson's latest, The Darjeeling Limited, opens with Bill Murray in the back seat of a taxicab that is racing through the crowded streets of India. The taxi pulls up in front of a train station and Murray hurriedly jumps out, luggage in hand, and races inside to catch his train. His train, however, has just left the station, both literally and metaphorically, so Murray runs after it, suitcase still in hand, until he is over taken by Adrien Brody, who comes out from seemingly nowhere, and he (Brody) runs quicker than Murray and is actually able to jump onto the train.

Murray never does get on that train (called The Darjeeling Limited), and we only ever see him again toward the end of the film sitting alone in a (different) train car. He never speaks.

Wes Anderson's fifth feature film is a study in how not to make a film about three brothers on a spiritual journey through India. At one point in the film, Anjelica Huston says to her three sons (played by Brody, Owen Wilson and Jason Schwartzman), "Maybe we could communicate better using no words at all. Maybe we should try." And then we watch them do just that, although this particular sequence goes by way too quickly and before we know it we're back to neurotic ramblings from a script by Jason Schwartzman, Roman Coppola and Wes Anderson.

It is the combination of dialogue like this, and the opening sequence with Bill Murray, that suggest Mr. Anderson wanted to create a magical, whimsical world on a train that could become yet another tapestry in his film resume.

I'll admit, I enjoyed his first feature, Bottle Rocket, immensely. I still think it is his finest film, and I hope he will return to making films like that one at some point in his career.

After Bottle Rocket he made Rushmore, and with that film Wes Anderson instantly established himself as a major artiste in the world of cinema. He is still a major artiste in that world, but he's losing touch with what made his films so likeable and unique to begin with.

There were elements of surprise and wonder with both Bottle Rocket and Rushmore, and by the time he got around to his third feature, The Royal Tenenbaums, it seemed like he was intent on creating his little make believe world and inviting us inside with a wink and a nudge, and the use of Rolling Stones and Kinks songs was becoming expected and anticipated by his third film.

By the time he made his fourth feature, The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou, it was becoming clear his films were really just giant erecter sets for Anderson; obvious over sized playgrounds where he could invite friends over for a two month long play date (and in the case of The Life Aquatic, six months).

But The Life Aquatic failed to capture the whimsy that was ensconced in Bottle Rocket and Rushmore; it only contains some memorable moments and a vibe. But vibe alone cannot carry a film. For proof of that just watch Vincent Gallo's The Brown Bunny.

Also, The Life Aquatic suffered from a poor sub plot involving Owen Wilson as Zissou's alleged son, along with Wilson's romance with Cate Blanchett. It is also worth noting that it was Owen Wilson who was the weakest link in both The Royal Tenenbaums and The Life Aquatic, and certainly the most annoying personality in The Darjeeling Limited. This is by no means a small feat, considering how annoying Jason Schwartzman and Adrien Brody are themselves. The film is a misguided attempt at exploring fraternity, loss, the cycle of life, spirituality, and existential crisis' that may never end but only subside for the duration of a cigarette break, a quickie in the toilet, or yet another train ride through rural India.

There is a short film that Mr. Anderson made as 'Part One' to The Darjeeling Limited, and it is called Hotel Chevalier, and it is available on the dvd of Darjeeling. I saw Hotel Chevalier many months ago, and the only memorable moment that stands out for me was seeing Natalie Portman's naked ass.

If ever there was an actor who could give Casey Affleck a run for his money as a more boring actor, it's got to be Jason Schwartzman in the Hotel Chevalier short and the Darjeeling feature. Schwartzman, as co-writer of the script, is one third of the blame for an obviousness that shouts from the mountaintops did you see what we're doing here? Did you catch what we said there? Do you see how we're being ironic now?

When Anjelica Huston suggests they communicate with no words at all, it's as if the writers knew they were filling a script with exposition and imagery and no substantial thought provoking material. Everything is so spelled out for the audience that one doesn't have to think at all during this film. The only thing the viewer seems to be asked to do is to look at the fascinating colors that Anderson has framed in his camera's lens. The colors are never Western in hue; when you see red, yellow, or orange, they are of an Eastern bent, and hence there is always something foreign about the look of this film, indeed one of the only strengths of the picture.

The locations, the sets, the wardrobes; all reek of Wes Anderson-ville. Just as you're beginning to think to yourself 'this looks like a Wes Anderson film,' The Rolling Stones come on, or The Kinks, played during a slow motion moment, and your suspicion is then confirmed. It is becoming more and more clear that Anderson simply refuses to grow as a filmmaker; he wants all of his films to look like Wes Anderson films. He wants to imitate himself endlessly, and never attempts to try something different, something new. He has found a voice, and he seems intent on sticking to it.

And while some people might think this is a good thing, I assure you, it isn't. Because gone are the surprises and wonder and intrigue of Bottle Rocket and Rushmore. Instead, Anderson insists on replaying and refining and retuning the same aesthetics and vibe that he began with Rushmore and continued with Tenenbaums and on through Darjeeling. It is all becoming a boring cliche. All the films tie together.

Anderson would benefit from pulling a David Bowie at this point in his career. Reinvent himself as Ziggy Stardust or put out his equivalent of Let's Dance. He needs to shed his comfortable fifteen thousand dollar hand made suits and three thousand dollar loafers and wear T-shirts and flip flops. Overalls and work boots. Lingerie and high heels. Anything but what he's become accustomed to. He's way too comfortable in his own method and aesthetic, and there's no sense of a spiritual journey in his work.

While making a film about three brothers who purposefully take themselves out of their comfort zones to board a train on their spiritual quest through India, Anderson remains in his comfort zone all throughout the journey. He never joins the brothers in trying something different. He observes it all through his practiced Wes Anderson lens, right down the line.

It is said a great director won't ask his cast or crew to do something he/she wouldn't do themselves, but Anderson has broken this golden rule with The Darjeeling Limited. He also asks that we, the audience, join these three brothers on their out-of-their-comfort-zone-quest, however, we watch it all from the confines of our own homes, watching it from the safety of our comfy couches on our very own flat screen TVs. The result is that although the colors of India jump off of the screen, everything else about the country remains distant and out of our reach. We are separated from it all by a thick pane of glass, like the monkey house at the zoo.

Yes, that Indian guy he puts in all his films is here. He doesn't speak, and it's his smallest role yet in an Anderson film (getting the irony now???).  There's Bill Murray running for the train in the beginning... But why? What is Anderson saying with this? Is he saying that Bill Murray could have been in this movie but just missed out? Is it supposed to tie his films together because Murray has appeared in every Anderson picture since Rushmore?

Perhaps the brothers could have communicated better had they tried to communicate in silence instead. Perhaps three writers is two too many chefs. Perhaps they were trying to keep it so subdued they forgot about the importance of not boring the audience.

Earlier I said Jason Schwartzman may take the cake as the most boring actor I've seen recently, but the fact is, Adrien Brody is also brutally boring in The Darjeeling Limited. He seems to either whisper his lines or speak in monotone. It all makes one wonder why Anderson felt Brody needed to be cast in the role. He doesn't do anything.

The three don't look like brothers, anyway. It is totally inexplicable that Owen Wilson speaks with a Texas twang and his two brothers don't. Also distracting is Wilson's face, which is obscured in bandages throughout most of the film.

It's as if it's a failed homage to Chinatown, where Nicholson was commended for wearing an un-flattering bandage across his nose for half the film. But that was Chinatown, Jake, and this is India, and Wilson's face and head are wrapped like the mummy. It isn't just un-flattering, it's excessive and annoying. And when he removes the bandages and looks at his scarred face in the mirror and declares, "I guess I still have some healing to do," it is just more spelling-it-all-out from Anderson, Coppola and Schwartzman.

I wanted to avoid any reference to Owen Wilson's suicide attempt made just before the release of this film, but that would be the work of a better man than I. When you see Wilson, head wrapped like the mummy, you cannot help but think of a very frail and sensitive Wilson who is so damaged that he would consider taking his own life, and then you realize; he spent months on end in India with two of the most boring actors on earth, shooting scene after scene on a train where nothing happens (and not in a good, Samuel Beckett kind of way), and his face is more bandaged than the Elephant Man on a stroll through London. I would wager that Wilson was driven mad while filming The Darjeeling Limited, and the cold hard truth is, it wasn't worth his sanity.

Forget it, Jake. It's Anderson-ville.

10 March

No Country For Old Black Crack Whores

About a month ago I pilfered a couple of vicodin from my drug addict cousin Inga, and went to catch No Country For Old Men to see what all the hype was about. I arrived at the theatre about five minutes before show time, and I chose a seat in the very last row, on the aisle, because that's how Longcipher rolls.

Seated directly in front of me was what appeared to be a sixty-something year old black woman who had that crack addict look about her. A look that said, I could be homeless, but she didn't give off an offensive stench, so I decided she was more crack addict than street urchin. At any rate, I didn't pay her much mind.

I popped a vicodin (M360) in my mouth and washed it down with a swig of bottled water. It seemed appropriate to mellow out with a vicodin whilst taking in the new Coen Bros film. Or maybe I just rationalized it, and I just wanted to pop a vicodin regardless of where I was.

Whatever the case, it was indeed time for my painkiller, and I went to cross my legs and settle in for the long haul, and while doing so my leg must have hit the back of the crack addicts' seat. She turned around in a flash like a rattled hyena in heat.

"Don't be kickin' my chair all night now, you hear me?" She growled. I'd swear she flashed fangs.
"Who's kicking?" I taunted back, refusing to show the hyena any fear. They feed on fear. You must hold your ground when dealing with rattled animals.
She stood up.  She was using all of her psychosis to try and put the fear into me.
"I'll come back there and show you what kicking is!" she threatened.
"Sit down," I scoffed with a dismissive wave of the hand. I offered, "It was probably an accident," taking a casual sip of water.

It was obvious she wanted to scare me off. She wanted the back corner of the theatre all to herself, but I was having none of it. It was her fault for not having taken the seat I was in. My mind was made up at that point; if anyone was going to move, it was going to be her. She sat back down and proceeded to fidget with something wrapped in tin foil.

I had eaten my painkiller, and I was getting settled in for the next couple of hours. I realized at that moment, if I kicked her seat by accident during the film, things could get explosive, and the rush I felt at that very moment was never duplicated or topped by the film I was about to see. Inauspicious beginnings, to say the very least.

Since this was a month ago, and since I was a little viked out, I can't say I remember the film all that much. I remember certain things, like the use of one of the Coen Bros' favorite shots, the shot from the Burnin' Down the House video (Talking Heads). The shot of the road, the jagged white line on the road, where you see David Byrne's face projected onto the road as the car drives with the camera on the hood... I remember thinking, 'they love this shot... they always use this shot... didn't they use that shot in Blood Simple?'

The mood of the film is spacious, open, airy, like Texas.

And I hate Texas. I never liked that state. When I drove cross-country it was the low point of my journey. Every fifty yards on the highway there's that damn sign, "Don't Mess With Texas." I tried to rush through Texas, but it still took two full days to drive across.

I remember watching Javier Bardem and thinking, 'what's the big deal? He's got the hair cut... Ok, but what else? An accent I can't quite place, and what else?'

And the fact of the matter is, he didn't really do all that much else. He was quiet. Still. It's all the rage amongst actors these days when playing a psychotic; stillness. It's that slow burn thing that never boils over. You're waiting for it to explode, like the black crack whore seated in front of me, but you just keep on waiting...

 

James Brolin has a large mustache in the film, and he is very quiet as well. I wouldn't say he's particularly good in the film, I would just say that I was quite certain that it was James Brolin I saw up on that screen. In fact, I know it was him, despite the large mustache that he wore. I did recognize him. And he was... good? Well, he wasn't bad... He's just there. On screen. And then the next minute he isn't.

Tommy Lee Jones seemed to be doing an imitation of Paul Sorvino in Cruising; sad, sullen, injected with heroin before each take.

Tommy Lee Jones may have the best con going in Hollywood, because these days Tommy Lee Jones just shows up and plays Tommy Lee Jones. He seems to have the market cornered on that. He's found a niche. After all, If you want a Tommy Lee Jones type, you're going to have to hire Tommy Lee Jones.

Nobody ever casts him as anything but a Texan, or a southerner... You never see Tommy Lee Jones cast as a New York cop. Or any kind of East Coast person, for that matter... Perhaps he just doesn't have the chops. For all the acclaim he gets, let's be honest here: Tommy Lee Jones plays southern men. That's all he does.

There are numerous British actors/actresses who can do American accents with ease. Why can't Tommy Lee Jones ever sound like anything but what he really sounds like?

The answer?

He's not as great as you thought he was. He's overrated.

Chazz Palminteri plays New York guys, and Tommy Lee Jones plays Texans. There are unspoken rules in Hollywood casting, and nobody ever challenges these rules. You need a New York cop or gangster? How about Tommy Lee Jones? What casting director would ever have the audacity/balls to suggest such a thing?

There are scenes where Javier Bardem is doing his shtick, and the person he's playing against was plucked right from the world of Raising Arizona, like in the gas station scene, where it just reminds you of the guy from the Raising Arizona gas station scene who says he doesn't have any funny shaped balloons "unless round is funny."

And that's why The Big Lebowski is the Coen Bros' masterpiece; because it was so wholly unique and original and took place in a very special world; not the real L.A., but The Dude's L.A.

The Coen's have not written an original screenplay since 2001's The Man Who Wasn't There. Since then they have adapted and co-written screenplays. Things really have not been the same since they stopped writing their own work.

No Country For Old Men, the film, based on Cormac McCarthy's novel of the same name, does not have the makings of a varsity athlete. It could very well be the fact that McCarthy's novels don't translate well to film. This is the second of his novels to be translated to celluloid (there are two others in production as I write this).

The first McCarthy novel to get Hollywood treatment was 2000's All The Pretty Horses, Directed by Billy Bob Thornton. He later disowned it because he claimed the studio (Columbia Pictures) re-cut it, and not to his liking. He felt they ruined it. Perhaps it could never have been saved, even in Thornton's final cut.

Just the look of that film seemed all wrong, and Penelope Cruz was out of her element, as was Henry Thomas. The film is a wreck, and this was Thornton's directorial follow-up to Sling Blade. (He directed one more film after that, 2001's Daddy And Them, with Jim Varney).

At any rate, perhaps McCarthy's novels just weren't meant to be given the Hollywood treatment after all.

But how can this be? you wonder, mouth agape like a child... this film won Best Picture of the Year at The Academy Awards!  It must be a great film!

Well, my dear readers, today's lesson is simple, and yet an inconvenient truth indeed; if a film wins Best Picture of the Year, you can be sure it was not the Best Picture of The Year. That's rule number one.

Number two, in this particular instance, it is a case of what I have come to refer to as the 'Scorsese-Departed-Best-Picture-Award,' meaning that The Departed was not the film that should have won Scorsese the Oscar for Best Picture.

It should have been given to Taxi Driver (1976), Raging Bull (1980), and Goodfellas(1990). (Just for the record, Rocky won Best Picture in 1976, Ordinary People won in 1980, and Dances With Wolves won in 1990).

The Big Lebowski didn't even get nominated for Best Picture in 1998. Neither did Miller's Crossing in 1990 (which means the Academy felt that Dances With Wolves was inexplicably better than Miller's Crossing). Barton Fink won the Golden Palm at Cannes in 1991, but didn't get an Oscar nomination.

Fargo(1996), on the other hand, was nominated for Best Picture, and won Best Screenplay. Fargo is the "safest" Coen Bros film the brothers have ever made. It is the most Hollywood, the most accessible, the most user friendly.

People will tell you that Fargo is one of their favorite movies, and these same people will also be able to tell you who got voted off American Idol the night before.

The Coen Bros won The Best Picture Oscar for No Country For Old Men because they were "overdue." It was the 'Scorsese Award,' and the irony is not lost on me that it was he who presented them with the award.

If you look at a year-by-year list of Best Picture winners and the other films that were nominated, you will see that the winners are mostly forgettable films as time passes, and usually there were other nominees that have aged far better than the winners did. The last time a film won Best Picture (and deserved it) was Annie Hall in 1977.

Thirty years down the road and the Academy still can't get it right.

Then what film should have won this year?

After having reviewed once again the nominations (Atonement, Juno, Michael Clayton, There Will Be Blood), I am reminded of the choices for the next President of this great nation...

And the nominees are... John McCain, Hillary Clinton, and Barrack Obama...

That line up is about similar to the choices the Academy gave for Best Picture; there's nobody on that political list worth fighting for, no film on that list worth voting for. Emotional commitment has no place in politics. Loyalty is a naive weakness in the business of both politics and film. It is inviting the hyenas to attack. They love small, defenseless, naive creatures.

When No Country For Old Men cut to black, I made sure to kick the seat in front of me as hard as I could as I stood up. The vicodin was still floating me along...

(contact Edvard Longcipher at: longcipher@yahoo.com)

 

 

7 March

Will the Real Rob Reiner Please Stand Up?

My brother Ivar pointed out to me yesterday that Rob Reiner directed The Bucket List, the new movie starring Jack Nicholson and my good friend Morgan Freeman. I hadn't realized Mr. Reiner was involved in this very public embarrassment, yet it makes sense in a very tragic way.

How does a man who began his feature film career as a director with a gem like This is Spinal Tap end up making movies like The American President (1995), Ghosts of Mississippi (1996), The Story of Us (1999), Alex & Emma (2003), Rumor Has It (2005) and The Bucket List? How does such a tragic slide occur?

Twenty-four years ago, Rob Reiner co wrote (along with Christopher Guest, Harry Shearer, and Michael McKean) and directed the classic and seminal, This is Spinal Tap. In 1985 he followed up with The Sure Thing, a John Cusack vehicle, very Cusackian in nature. Is The Sure Thing a good film? I don't know. Maybe it's comforting as a memory, like an old warm blanket you had as a child, but would that child's blanket cover you from your toes to your shoulders today?

In 1986 Reiner made Stand By Me, the film based on the Stephen King short story 'The Body.' This film was an enormous success, and it established River Phoenix as a household name. Along with making Phoenix an instant star, it gave Reiner the power to make a film with a much larger budget the next time around.

 And so, with every light in front of him green, he made William Goldman's The Princess Bride in 1987, another seminal film, another oft-quoted film right up there with Spinal Tap. Reiner was on a roll at this point, the toast of Hollywood. No dream was too big for him at this point; he could have done any project he wanted to next. He followed up with what may very well be his biggest hit to date.

In 1989 Reiner released the Nora Ephron scripted When Harry Met Sally, a Woody Allen-esque comedy that probably needs no explanation to readers of Walrus Comix. If you don't know about this film, it only says you were born post 1990, and if that's the case, you would probably hate this movie anyway. I can't imagine any twenty year old being a fan of Billy Crystal or Meg Ryan. Then again, it would appear nobody is a fan of these two anymore, as Meg Ryan has faded into oblivion, and Crystal has been relegated to one man shows on Broadway and two nighters at the Borgata Casino in Atlantic City. But hey - it's a living. At least the man is working.

After the huge success of When Harry Met Sally, Reiner decided to scale back, make a smaller film, a different film, a darker film; 1990's Misery, another film based on a Stephen King book. It did well, received favorable reviews, and not only revived James Caan's career but made Kathy Bates a star. It was a departure in style for Reiner, but he seemed bent on proving his ability to make any kind of film and do it well. At this point he had four consecutive hits in a row under his belt, and he was about to follow with a film that would be his biggest star powered film up to that point.

A Few Good Men (1992), was based on the stage play by Aaron Sorkin, who would go on to create The West Wing and Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip.  It starred Jack Nicholson (in his first collaboration with Reiner), Tom Cruise, Demi Moore, Kevin Bacon, and... Kevin Pollack.

Best known for Jack Nicholson booming the now nausea inducing line "you can't handle the truth!" it was yet another success for Rob Reiner. In retrospect, the triumvirate of Cruise, Moore and Pollack was so awkward, so bland, it's a wonder this film worked at all. With a contrived sexual tension between closeted Tom Cruise and asexual Demi Moore that never went anywhere, we were supposed to assume they would eventually rape each other. But, alas, it wasn't that kind of film at all. They were too repressed, as were the times, as was/is Reiner, as is Sorkin (although it is common knowledge that Aaron Sorkin still loves whores).

Demi Moore has never been more boring than she was in this film, and Kevin Pollack... I still don't know what to say about this guy. One minute he's playing opposite Cruise and Moore in a Rob Reiner film, the next minute he's back at the Ha-Ha Hole on Pico Blvd on Friday nights. Go figure.

After A Few Good Men, Rob Reiner had five hits in a row under his belt, and it was time to make a truly big budget disaster: It was hubris time for Rob Reiner... time to fly just a little too close to the sun... For that he headed North.

Written by Saturday Night Live writer Alan Zweibel, North cost $40 million dollars to make (that's 1994 dollars, btw), and grossed roughly $7.1 million domestically. To say it was a bomb was putting it mildly. Rob Reiner had gone from King Midas back to Meat Head with one film. North was a disaster, and it almost crushed Castle Rock Entertainment with one felt swoop.

And this is where Rob Reiner inexplicably began a downward slide into making simply horrible Hollywood movies. He followed the North debacle with The American President, another Aaron Sorkin scripted sentimental piece of crap. This film is so bad Michael Douglas tried to pool his money with Warren Beatty's (Annette Benning's Husband) to attempt to buy the negative from Universal Pictures so they could burn it so it could never be shown again. It's too bad Universal rejected their bid. Maybe one day the film will disappear, but until then it will pop up on cable like a re-occurring nightmare.

After President, Reiner released the poor man's Mississippi Burning. Featuring Alec Baldwin, James Woods, and Whoopi Goldberg, Ghosts of Mississippi was releasedto lackluster reviews. Critics were polite, due to the films subject matter, but the test of time has proven it to be a flop. How many of you even remember this one?

Next Reiner decided to torture us with The Story of Us, starring Bruce Willis (his un-lucky rabbits foot from North) and Michelle Pfieffer. This is an outrageously horrible movie that should be banned from ever having to be seen by anyone. It's just pure shite and Reiner really should have just hung it up at this point.

With the hubris still in strong effect, Reiner still believed he had 'one more' in him, and he next brought us 2003's Alex & Emma, starring Kate Hudson and Luke Wilson. What's that you say? You've never even heard of this movie? Well, how about Reiner's next masterpiece, Rumor Has It, starring Jennifer Anniston and Kevin Costner? Have you seen this gem yet? Be sure to run (don't walk) to your local video store and grab this one; it's right up there with Krippendorf's Tribe.

And now we come to Reiner's latest tour de force, The Bucket List. I may not have seen this movie, but I'd be willing to bet Morgan Freeman's life that it's worse than Patch Adams and Francis Ford Coppola's Jack combined. The Bucket List looks so bad I can't even believe Jack Nicholson would stoop so low. This is the same guy who did Five Easy Pieces???

Personal note to Jack Nicholson: Jack, you have lost every ounce of dignity at this point. Please stay home on Mullholland Drive and just fornicate with prostitutes from now until your death. No more movies, please.

So how did this happen? How did Rob Reiner go from making hugely successful Hollywood movies to below run of the mill Hollywood trash?

The answer, my friends, is the quick buck.

The fabulous moolah.

The answer seems to lie in the fact that Ted Griffin was the director of Rumor Has It (he also wrote the gem of a screenplay) up until twelve days into principal photography, when he had the good sense to jump off a sinking ship. Reiner was offered big bucks to come on board, and so he did. He wasn't involved in pre production, casting, etc. He just showed up and finished making the piece of shite that Ted Griffin began. And he did it all in the name of the almighty dollar, the only God that Rob Reiner worships these days.

It certainly isn't about script anymore, and it isn't por la amour de la arte. Rob Reiner just wants a big, fat, paycheck. And as long as the check clears, Rob Reiner would direct traffic on Hollywood Blvd if paid to do so.

 

6 March

Jesse James... The Assassination of Good Evening by the Director Andrew Dominik

The Editors at Walrus Comix sent me a dvd of The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford for review, and I have to say, ten minutes into it, I was wishing they had sent me A Mighty Heart Instead. I'd rather watch Angelina Jolie play a black chick than watch Brad Pitt brood for four hours.

The film was written and directed by the Australian Andrew Dominik, whose previous film was 2000's Chopper, starring Eric Bana. Chopper's main attraction is the transformation of Eric Bana into the character of Chopper. The film itself, however, is a disaster. It never lives up to the hope it promises. It is a mirage in the distance in the hot desert, and the closer we try to get to that water hole, the further off in the distance it remains.

Brad Pitt probably signed on to Jesse James hoping that Dominik could do for him what he did for Bana, although Dominik is not a magician. He is not a shaman. He cannot perform miracles. Brad Pitt can only be so good - his ceiling is about as high as your average dog's house. It is precisely when he aims his highest when he tumbles farthest, and Jesse James is no exception.

Sure, Pitt won a best actor award at the Venice Film Festival for his portrayal of James, but then, they are Italians; they know nothing. They were just happy he trotted out his piece of ass girl friend on the red carpet, and voila: he receives a trophy for at least that. His performance, if one can call it that, is not based in any acting method or technique whatsoever; it is based in cinematography alone.

Don't believe me? Watch the film for yourself, and you tell me if Pitt isn't simply sitting/standing in the right shadow, half light, etc. to make him appear more menacing than he could ever be. Are those colored contacts he was wearing? Is that his very own patchy beard, or did some stylist contrive his facial disaster?

Brad Pitt is not a great actor. He is a movie star. He is also the lowest form of movie star; a Hollywood movie star. Acting should never be what he is called upon to do. He should be counted on to appear as his cocky self, as in Oceans 11, 12, 13, 14, etc.

Sure, one might argue he was "pretty good" in Snatch, or True Romance, or... yeah, that about covers it. Every other time you thought he was good, or very good, or even great, just go and watch Ben Kingsley in Sexy Beast. Watch DeNiro in Raging Bull. Watch John Goodman in The Big Lebowski. Watch Mickey Rourke in Barfly. Watch James Gandolfini in The Sopranos. Then you come back and tell me what a "great" actor Brad Pitt is. You start watching real "great" performances, and you will see right through Pitt's Hollywood posturing.

I saw Babel, and Cate Blanchett acted him right off the screen and she was dying in his arms while doing it. He was screaming and yelling, whispering, tearing, etc. and there's Blanchett, dying, and with just her eyes she does more than Pitt can do with all his 'acting.'

As Uncle Junior would say, "he never had the makings of a varsity athlete."

I was happy to see that Sam Shepard was cast in Jesse James as Frank James, Jesse's older brother. However, I soon realized Shepard was there to give the film street cred and nothing else. If a Pulitzer Prize winning playwright is aboard, it makes things look a lot more authentic. But Shepard was under used, and his talents were squandered. Never mind he's twenty years older than Pitt; age was suspended in disbelief the entire film.

Casey Affleck, one of my new favorites (see my review of Gone Baby Gone), plays Robert Ford, the coward spoken of in the title. Now, granted, I did not see the entire Jesse James film. I'll admit to this fact right here and now. This is no Maxim magazine review of the new Black Crowes album. I honestly tried to give this film a go, and after twenty minutes I was so completely bored and offended that I began fast forwarding.


First off, they tell you in the title that Jesse James is going to get killed. They tell you who's going to do it. And they even judge the killer, calling him a 'coward.' So when the film opens, and it's established that this runty kid Affleck is the 'coward' Robert Ford, well, I already know this little bastard is gonna shoot Jesse James in the back. You've told me everything, now you're asking me to sit back and watch the wonderful cinematography and look how cool Brad Pitt looks in this shadowy light.

If I want to watch great cinematography, I'll pop in Terrence Malick's Days of Heaven (also starring Sam Shepard - coincidence? I think not). I don't give a rats ass how beautiful this film looks. Brad Pitt was doing an impersonation of paint drying. Casey Affleck, in trying to play nineteen years old (or however young he's supposed to be), just gets doe eyed and soft voiced, and voila: he's nominated for best supporting actor.

As I said in my last column, watch Sydney Pollack in Michael Clayton, and see what a great supporting actor does. Granted, Pollack has an amount of screen time that would be considered more 'best supporting-supporting actor,' but he does more with his small amount of screen time than Affleck does in the twenty minutes I saw of Jesse James.

And also, when I started fast forwarding the dvd looking for interesting scenes, funny enough, I couldn't find any. I couldn't find one scene where Pitt or Affleck looked like they were doing some real acting. I don't know, maybe that's not the way to watch a film, but...

Mary-Louise Parker is in Jesse James as well, and is so under used (at least in the first twenty minutes) it is criminal. This is an accomplished New York stage actress who has more chops in her pinky than Pitt or Affleck have in their entire bodies, and she gets relegated to a role smaller than Sam Shepard's.

How about Sam Rockwell? Was he even memorable? Not in the first twenty minutes he wasn't. (Will he only be remembered for playing The Gong Show guy, Chuck Barris?)

Look, you can castigate me for only sitting through twenty minutes of this mess and then having the cojones to come here ripping it up. But I'll tell you this; you want to watch a western that is dark, moody, has beautiful cinematography, and has some real acting in it? Then allow me to recommend Jim Jarmusch's Dead Man (1995). I'll put that up against this Jesse James crap any day of the week.

Dead Man has real performances from real actors like Robert Mitchum, Lance Henrikson, John Hurt, Gabriel Byrne, Alfred Molina, Jared Harris, Crispin Glover, Gary Farmer, Billy Bob Thornton, and a Hollywood movie star that has a far higher ceiling than Pitt - Johnny Depp.

Stills from Jim Jarmusch's Dead Man (1995)

Now don't get me wrong; I don't worship Depp, either. He has committed himself to a pirate franchise and making boatloads of money these days. However, there is talent in there, and one has to only look at Dead Man to see how stillness can be effective. Brad Pitt has much to learn about acting, and in this humble reviewer's opinion, he should stick to philanthropy and adopting children.

Now understand, my good people, that I don't hate Brad Pitt. He seems like a nice guy, I'm sure he'd be a great guy to have a beer with. I just don't get fooled when he appears on screen and we're supposed to think he's a real actor. He's a celebrity, a wax figure. An icon. And when people compare him to Robert Redford, they're really just taking away from Redford, who, mind you, couldn't act his way out of a paper bag or the atrocity that was Legal Eagles, directed by Ivan Reitman, father of  Jason Reitman, director of Juno, written by that ex stripper...

 

5 March

Sydney

Last night I watched the film Michael Clayton, written and directed by Tony Gilroy. It’s Gilroy’s directorial debut, and he certainly did many things right, namely in the casting dept.

I won’t gush and glow over the film itself, but what I am going to do is praise the casting; George Clooney? Look, I wanted to not like him, but what can I say? He was good. He was right. He was spot on. He was Michael Clayton, not George Clooney. It could be the first time I was able to enjoy a Clooney performance, because for once he wasn’t trying to be cool; he was just reacting to the fantastic cast that surrounded him.

Tom Wilkinson? This guy is a beast. A true thespian. The real deal. The Waddy Wachtel of acting. He’s a Cadillac. A luxury car. A smooth ride. He can’t be beat.

Tilda Swinton? What a face. What a look. She looks like death. She looks like the sexy younger sister of the Grim Reaper. I want to spend the night with her, but I’m afraid I won’t wake up to brag about my conquest. She’s good. She’s so good you get the sense she’s slumming it in Michael Clayton. She’s just other worldly.

Michael O’Keefe? You may know him from Caddyshack. You may know him as the ex husband of Bonnie Raitt. I remember him best from Neil Simon’s The Slugger’s Wife, directed by Hal Ashby. The guy’s an ordained Zen priest, by the way (he specializes in Zen Buddhies). He’s got that presence, and I thought it was just something that came with age and marriage to a blues woman. Turns out it comes from Zen mastery.

 A great surprise was to see Robert Prescott, best known as Kent from Real Genius. It was great to see him working, actually. I thought he had disappeared, but a glimpse on imdb.com shows he has been around after all. I guess I’m just not watching TV (at all). Apparently he’s been on Law and Order and Third Watch and many other shows. Come to think of it, I do remember him from a Sopranos episode; he was in Chris Moltisanti’s acting class. Anyway, while watching Michael Clayton, I kept expecting him to smile and reveal braces...

But what I really want to talk about is one specific cast member of Michael Clayton, and that’s the great Sydney Pollack, who plays Marty Bach, head of the firm.

It’s time this man was given his due for his great achievements in acting. As a director, he’s not as solid, and we’ll get to that. First, let’s have a look at his acting career.

Pollack began with a lot of TV acting in the early sixties, and he became a TV director around the same time, placing his focus there. After 1962, he disappeared from acting on the screen until 1979, when he made a cameo in his own film, The Electric Horseman. 

In 1982, he reappeared onscreen in Tootsie, another film he also directed. He played Dustin Hoffman’s agent, and he was beyond great in this role; he was perfect. He was seminal. He was larger than life. He made everybody else (including Dustin Hoffman) look like they were acting. Sydney Pollack doesn’t act, he reacts, and he makes every other actor who works with him look better than they really are. He raises the bar for everyone around him. He is so present, so electric, so plugged in, he makes it look easy just like all the greats do.

After Tootsie he did a bit part in Robert Altman's The Player, but that film was so star studded it was easy to get lost in the shuffle of it all. After The Player, he did a cameo in Death Becomes Her, a less than memorable film. But then Woody Allen had a stroke of genius when he cast Pollack in Husbands and Wives in 1992.

For me, Husbands and Wives is one of Woody Allen’s best films of his entire career, and I would venture to say that in a cast that includes Judy Davis, Liam Neeson, Mia Farrow and Woody himself, Sydney Pollack steals the rug out from all of them ten times over. He’s more than real; he jumps off the screen with a truth that is like a diamond bullet to the forehead. When Sydney Pollack is on screen, you cannot take your eyes off of him. He could be standing next to George Clooney, and women will find themselves watching Pollack instead. He’s a force, a magnet, and he shines a light on everyone he reacts against.

Sydney Pollack is our greatest supporting actor. He deserves a lifetime achievement award for being one of the finest film actors of our time. He should be studied and analyzed by young student actors, and more working actors should strive to be like him.

As a director he hasn’t been as solid. And it’s ironic, because that is where his heart seems to lie. As a director he did They Shoot Horses, Don’t They? (1969), The Way We Were (1973), Three Days of the Condor (1975), The Electric Horseman (1979), Absence of Malice (1981), Tootsie (1982), Out of Africa (1985), and in 2005 he did The Interpreter, and I’d be damned if the United Nations would have let anyone else be the first to film inside their building if his name wasn’t Sydney Pollack.

Sure, he’s made a lot of duds since Tootsie (I've never seen Out of Africa, it looks too chick flick for my taste, too Hollywood). The Firm with Tom Cruise? Sorry. Hollywood trash. Sabrina? We could hold Pollack personally responsible for taking Greg Kinnear out of Talk Soup and into feature films... Random Hearts? I’d rather be water boarded than have to sit through a viewing of that crap. The Interpreter? Hollywood crap. Sorry.

His last film as director was 2005’s Sketches of Frank Gehry, which I have not seen, but that’s only because I don’t rent movies to fall asleep to them. There is nothing about that documentary that pulls me in. I may never see it, although Pollack does appear in it, though he's not acting, he's just appearing as himself.

But just when you think it’s easy to get down on Pollack for all he’s done wrong, we remember Sydney Pollack the actor; we remember Eyes Wide Shut.

Did he really replace Harvey Keitel? I don’t know. All I do know is that in the role of Victor Ziegler, Pollack was exceptional. He was the best part of the entire film. It was Kubrick’s final stroke of genius: the casting of Sydney Pollack. When Tom Cruise visits Pollack toward the end of the film and Pollack asks him what he expected to find at that private party... Cruise knew he was way out of his league. Not just because of what Pollack’s character tells him, but because Pollack throws that weight at Cruise and it bounces off the screen and into our laps. We feel the weight, the gravitas.

Tom Cruise can’t stand next to Sydney Pollack and keep his posture erect; Pollack props him up, he tries to make him look good, he tries not to  knock him down (at least not on purpose) - but Cruise knows he’s no match for Pollack’s prowess. Cruise shrinks in Pollack’s presence because Pollack is a commanding presence that even movie star Tom Cruise cannot match. With all his scientology and false idol charisma, he shrivels to nothingness in the shadow of Sydney Pollack.

See Michael Clayton, and watch Sydney Pollack. If you haven’t seen Husbands and Wives, rent it immediately. If you’re a Sopranos fan, re-watch the episode Stage Five from Season Six, Part Two. If you don’t remember Pollack in Tootsie, watch it again just for him. And if you don’t have a smile that stretches from ear to ear when he yells at Dustin Hoffman, “you were a tomato! A tomato doesn’t have logic! A tomato can't move! ” - Then you need to have your pulse checked.

 

Sydney Pollack for President.

 

4 March

Cruising

The editors at Walrus Comix sent me a dvd of the re-release of William Friedken's Cruising, a 1980 film starring Al Pacino. They warned me before hand that it is so gay it is uncomfortable to watch at times. And they weren't wrong. It is definitely gay, and it is most certainly uncomfortable to watch. But not because it threatened my sexuality; it's because the film itself is just not good. It is a prime example of one of those films that raises certain questions like, how did this film get made? Why did this film get made? Does anybody care about this film? Is it relevant today? Is it important work that people need to see?

The answer to the first two questions would probably be the simple fact that it was 1980. The seventies, with it's disco and Village People and 'we're here we're queer' goings on made Friedken and Pacino believe this was important work to do. This film had to be made. They thought it would be timely and they could jump on a bandwagon. Also, Friedken believed the work was subversive and risky, so he liked that as well. According to the extras on the dvd, Friedken also enjoyed researching the underground gay clubbing scene in New York City. I wonder if he still talks about those nights with his wife, Sherry Lansing, former CEO of Paramount Pictures...

Does anybody care about this film? Is it relevant today? Is it important work that people need to see? No. No. And no.

The film is about a series of murders in the homosexual underground of New York City, and Al Pacino plays a cop who is recruited by a sad and sullen Paul Sorvino to go under cover and infiltrate the scene and 'pretend' to be gay, so as to possibly lure the killer into his apartment (or a grasy knoll in Central Park).

Whatever. The murders are just an excuse to show this gay under ground, to make something radical and uncomfortable. Do I think gay people would enjoy this film? No, I don't think so. The gay men are portrayed as deviant leather men who wear colored bandanas in their pockets to indicate whether they are looking to receive head, give head, are a top, a bottom, etc. And it is all explained to us by a young Powers Boothe. The scene is so forced and unrealistic I felt ashamed for Mr. Boothe. Shame on Friedken for allowing that scene.

Let's take a moment and examine Friedken's filmography, shall we? What exactly has this man done that's been so good? Let's see... he made The Birthday Party, a film version of the great Harold Pinter play. Is it any good? Not really. He didn't do Pinter any justice. He made The French Connection, which, although I am not a fan of it, many people consider it a classic. So whatever. I'll leave that one alone. Then he made The Exorcist, another film I really couldn't give a shit about. But this too is considered a classic, so saying anything bad about it would be like shooting the Pope. I'll only get nasty looks. Friedken then went on to make Sorcerer, The Brink's Job, two films that nobody could care less about, and then Cruising. Since Cruising, he's blessed us with Deal of the Century, starring Chevy Chase, Gregory Hines, and the never-was-sexy Sigourney Weaver. This movie was so bad it caused the early demise of Gregory Hines. I'm not kidding; I know someone who knew him, and she told me the shame of having been a part of that movie drove him to an early grave. And I believe it.

Friedken also made To Live and Die in L.A., which is a 1980's nightmare. The look, the music, everything about it is so 80's in the most horrible way possible. Just a horrendous film. He made Blue Chips in 1994, starring Nick Nolte as a basket ball coach. I never saw it, but let's be honest; does anyone give two shits for Blue Chips these days? Nolte? Shaq? The only redeeming factor would be that the late, great J.T. Walsh was in it. Since this TV movie, Friedken has done a host of other irrelevant movies that nobody saw. So, his last film that mattered was 1973's The Exorcist. It's been 35 years since he made a film people really seemed to like, and yet he walks around with an air of importance as if he was Orson Welles. Please. Peter Bogdanovich has more humility than William Friedken.

So we've established that Friedken is just not good. It's pretty simple. He got lucky with The French Connection and The Excorcist. Outside of those two films, he is an overrated hack who happened to have married possibly the most powerful woman in the history of Hollywood. Thanks to her lobbying, he got the job directing the David Caruso vehicle Jade in 1995. And we all know what a great film that was.

As for Pacino, I still don't understand what he saw in the script for Cruising. Maybe he didn't see anything, maybe he just saw a big fat pay check and a chance to work with the guy who made two big seventies films and thought this might become another Friedken classic. Well, Pacino was dead wrong, and he wore the most horrible hair cut in film history in Cruising. His helmet of hair is so disturbing that even Hillary Clinton is said to have laughed at it.

Cruising also features some of the absolute worst ADR I've ever heard. The fact that most of the dialogue had to be over dubbed should have been a sign to Friedken to just burn the negative and jump off of the Brooklyn Bridge. He could have spared us all from Deal of the Century and Jade.

He also used various 'killers' to throw us off, he employed different actors, different voices, all a cheap ploy to keep us confused. If he tried that today there would be a public flogging on Hollywood and Vine. He thought he was being clever, it turns out he was only being an asshole. Too much time researching the clubs, perhaps, and not enough time worrying about making a good film.

I'm trying to think of something good about Cruising... The editors here at Walrus Comix like a song that is featured in the film, by someone who's name escapes me right now, but he sure sounds a lot like Billy Gibbons to me. I think the song is called "It's so Easy," and it's really just as gay as the film itself.

Paul Sorvino sleep walks throughout the film, he looks like he's been injected with heroin before each take. Karen Allen plays Pacino's girlfriend, and if there is a more boring actress, I'd like to meet her, although that honor may go to that bland nothing from Gone Baby Gone. Karen Allen really has nothing to offer, she is so bad one wonders if she slept with Speilberg to get that part in Raiders. Oh well. At least I don't have to see her in anything else these days. Is she dead?

Everyone else in Cruising is so irrelevant it doesn't even warrant speaking of them. Although, the great James Remar is in it, though I didn't even notice him. I just saw his name in the end credits. If you spot him, let me know who he was. I'll always love his performance as Gentry in Drugstore Cowboy.

So, in case you haven't gotten what I'm saying, I would say