Space Schizophrenia

Does anyone ever think about how aliens are portrayed?

There is The Day the Earth Stood Still where a powerful alien armed with a handful of diamonds (not found on this planet) is shot at and wounded as he was about to offer a present from the galactic worlds from whence the alien came. The whole point of the movie/story is that now that Earth has split the atom and is about to venture into space they must make a choice to abide by the galactic rules or have Gort, the silent, massive and somewhat enigmatic robot cop blast them into atoms or at the very least chain humans to the planet Earth so that they may not venture forth and spread their violence and chaos into the galaxy at large.

Contrast that theme with the many others that followed where Martians attacked the Earth to subjugate its peoples only to fall prey to the common cold, spreading chaos, fear, and devastation in their wake beneath the beams of their tripod war machines. Then there are the myriad species that have conquered the Earth and subjugated its peoples from L. Ron Hubbard's overlords to Independence Day when the alien invaders once again succumb to a virus, but this time a computer virus uploaded to their central computer which is much like a hive mind, or at least interconnected and thus vulnerable.

It bothers me that on the one hand humans are seen as violent and without equal in their ability to spread chaos and devastation throughout a peacefully settled galaxy that must be contained, or at the very least taught to control their very human and equally violent impulses, while on the other hand we are constantly at the mercy of warlike monsters that want to bomb our planet with radioactive meteorites (Star Blazers) or take over and enslave the people for some 4th dimension farmers we cannot see who have been busily remodeling our DNA in favor of planetary water that favors estrogen and females to the more warlike males so that we may be more easily herded like cattle (Invasion: Earth).

Oh, there are still Vulcans making first contact to bring us into Starfleet and the world of warp travel and spaceships that double as condos for adventuring scientists and adventurers like the Star Trek galaxy of TV shows. There still remains, however, that oh, so schizophrenic mind set that we are either beings living on a backwater planet that must be subjugated or a dangerous violent stew brewing chaos for a peaceful galaxy. Which is it?

I think it all comes down to one thing: what sells the most because after all the end product is to be consumed by the viewer. Our movies and stories are as divided as our fictional fare and our politics and all must be placated, or at least mollified by a product that will suit -- and sell. The same type of program will not suit the far left still believing that communism will work (evidently only having read the perfect society set forth by Karl Marx) and continuing to pooh-pooh George Orwell's Animal Farm on the realities -- and misappropriation of applied communism.  There are the far right who, much like the ostrich, prefer to hide their heads in the sand until the world is forced to capitulate and come back to its stone age senses when lifetimes were shorter and every day a struggle to survive. There are the ecologists who forget that ancient humans help to extinguish many species of animals in fashioning cloaks of bird feathers of only one specific kind of bird or engaged in driving entire herds of buffalo off steep cliffs, not to satisfy their hunger and store up food for the winter, but so that the buffalo would not communicate with other herds of buffalo that the two-legged animals brandishing the sticks with sharp points were dangerous and should be run over in a stampede for safety -- for the buffalo.

Maybe the dichotomy between what we hope for -- a peaceful galaxy where all life lives together in harmony and plenty -- and the reality that the galaxy is a dangerous place with beings far more violent and intent on inflicting torture on species beginning their first forays into the vastness of space is the way it was meant to be. We are creatures beset by fears of what is and what may be and yet still believe in magic and the innocence of youth. Oh, there are those who will defile the innocent and the youth in the name of purity and religion and expediency, but show me another race of beings that have not done the same.

We remain fearful and expect violence while nurturing the tiny guttering spark of hope just as Pandora did when the gods gave her that box from which she loosed all the ills -- and the hopes -- of mankind. How can we expect less thousands of years later in our furnished and overflowing homes while still wedded to the fear? After all, there are still thinking plants mutated by a meteor storm into huge walking (or root dragging) monsters that see humans as food, especially the ones blinded by the meteor shower that jump started their DNA and evolution and spores and ancient astronauts thawed from Arctic ice that thrive on human blood and dragons and orcs and the all pervasive bacteria that some mad scientist cooked up in a lab and imparted grandiose dreams of taking over to guard against and battle. And then there are zombies. There are always zombies.

That is all. Disperse.

You Big Ape

I'm a fan of fantasy and science fiction stories, like King Kong and Mighty Joe Young. I've seen the Fay Wray version and the Jessica Lange version and even the Jack Black version of the great Kong and the only version of Mighty Joe Young that was ever produced several times. Well, only once for the Jack Black version. As much as I enjoy Naomi Watts's work, let's face it, Jack Black was the star of that show.

One thing I find perplexing is how every time they show Kong in his native habitat, there are other monsters from the dinosaur age, but the trees and plants are the versions we see all the time. If the world in which Kong and his Triassic or Jurassic pals have been cut off from the rest of the world, the plant life would not be sufficient to sustain vegetarians of such massive size, which may also explain why Kong has lived for hundreds of years without skeletal signs of parents or a tribe of gorillas just like him. I suppose some alien visitors took all the prehistoric animals and transplanted them to their fog-shrouded island where time had moved on after injecting the animals with some immortality serum so that living forever wouldn't be a problem even though insufficient plant life to sustain them would be.

I know. I'm forgetting to suspend my disbelief and seeing things in a rational manner which is definitely not a good idea when faced with a fantasy/science fiction movie where scientific fact has been left out in order to further the story. After all, what difference does scientific fact have to do with science fiction? Pure flights of fancy should never have to face such hard realities as how the monsters got to their world forgotten by time and how they could possibly survive without sufficient food. That's a problem for mere mortals like me. And don't get me started on monster manure and what happens to all the urine they excrete. After all, no one goes to the bathroom in movies or books, at least not for anything as mundane as voiding and excretion. (That is urinating and defecating for the low information crowd.) That just muddies up the waters -- or yellows them to be more exact.

That is the main problem I have with hidden worlds cut off from the flow of time that happens everywhere else on this planet. The plant life does not get cut off as well. The plants get smaller and yet the dinosaurs and big apes keep getting bigger. I suppose the plants could supply more nutrition than their gigantic ancestors did to support such a diverse population of monsters, but there still should be evidence of the monsters' forebears to make it easier to swallow that the current crop came from somewhere other than some source of deus ex machina or aliens with a natural habitat-zoo fetish. I doubt gods or aliens work in quite that way.

One thing we now know is that even the vegetarian dinosaurs were likely mammals as the meat eaters certainly were. So much for the terrible lizards since they were all hot blooded. Natural selection, destruction by comet, and the usual sources that killed off the dinosaurs as did dwindling food supplies as the Earth cooled and the greenhouse effect that nourished giant plants and trees gave way to a much cooler environment north and south of the equator. For all we know, the Earth's axial tilt could also have changed. All we have left are the birds, which are the evolutionary cousins of dinosaurs, which by the way, showed evidence of feathers in fossil form. Hard to imagine a chicken or an ostrich coming from dinosaurs, but that is what happened. I wonder why the adaptation for hollow bones came about, other than to make sure the birds could fly. Dinosaur bones were certainly not hollow and were much heavier to support the massive weight of their flesh -- even when they held their tails up and didn't drag them on the ground as scientists once thought. How far we have come in our understanding of the ancient world, even if in the modern world we still can't get the habitats right, or at least right enough for movies like King Kong and The Land That Time Forgot, among other lost world books and movies.

Yes, I still can't shake the part of me that insists on accuracy and something approaching reality. It's a flaw. I admit it.

Basically, the story of King Kong and Mighty Joe Young is the story of Beauty and the Beast. Instead of the fairy tale version where Beauty saves the beast because she realizes she loves him and has treated him badly, Beauty is the reason the Beast dies. His love for his diminutive blonde mate signals his end of life. As Jack said in the 1976 version starring a fresh-faced, scantily clad Jessica Lange, when Charles Grodin took Kong from his hidden island, he took the mystery, terror, and magic from the people who worshiped and sacrificed their virgins to their god. Modern man destroyed their religion and their god. I agree with Jack, but I still wonder how a black race of people got the idea that a blonde virgin would satisfy their god when they had likely never seen a blonde woman -- or a white one -- even though their rituals prominently featured blonde, white skinned virgins. I guess there is some genetic memory of goddesses with white skin and blonde hair even among a people lost from the natural flow of time, but that touches too closely on the theory that the people that created the black races (or brought them from the Pleiades as slaves) were white skinned and likely blonde. Seems to me the fossil records from the American shores show giants with red hair, and then there are those red-haired, fair-skinned giants of legend among the Asian people in Outer Mongolia. Now we're getting back to facts and reality and that is no good for fantasy. Best stick to the story and not think too much or use the dormant side of the human brain. Such mental exercises might increase the use of that 10% and edge into Einstein territory.

Don't get me wrong. I do enjoy the evolving special effects and men in gorilla suits, and eventually the computerized special effects of the King Kong of 2005, not to mention the acting styles of the Beauty that fascinates and brings down the only living specimen of a giant gorilla as much as the next person. I love to be entertained, and all versions are entertaining in their own special way, even if Jack Black outshines Naomi Watts in the 2005 version despite Miss Watts's considerable acting abilities. I guess I'll have to be content with the fantasy and the blonde beauties as they turn a fond eyes toward the monster that first terrified them and eventually brought them to tears.

It was different for Might Joe Young since he was brought up by  white family in Africa and, through love and nurturing, and one would expect a massive quantity of fruits and vegetables, the little gorilla became a giant among gorillas and as protective of Jill Young (played by Terry Moore in the 1949 version and Charlize Theron in the 1998 Disney version) as Kong was of his aspiring starlets. The Disney version of Mighty Joe Young edited out the heart of the 1949 version in favor of a less obvious morality play and more schmaltz and pretty vistas. I don't have as clear a picture of the 1998 version as I do of the 1949 version. The earlier version remains as clear as the first time I saw it on late night TV. It often seems like harsh realities and the clear black and white of earlier days has given way to technology and a movie that tests well with audiences that are not favorably disposed toward the real grit and dirt of getting down to the nitty gritty. Such is life and, one supposes, and the art of story telling in the 20th and 21st centuries.

I am in the minority with my insistence on facts and reality, but then I have no problem with talking (and singing) chipmunks and anthropomorphized ducks, dogs, mice, and various other animals. Go figure.

That is all. Disperse.

Lights! Music! Costumes! Dance!

I've been listening to the sound track from Burlesque. It's one of my favorite movies. It's has everything I love most -- music, dancing, and lovely costumes. I've always enjoyed Cher's music, back when she wore her own nose and her own body. That was in the dark ages when she was half of Sonny and Cher. That's was when I grew up -- in the days before extensive plastic surgery that turned people from human with interesting faces to plastic with Botox and some of the users ended up as nightmares. (Think Mickey Rourke and Melanie Griffith.)  I know what it is to get older and wish you still look fresh faced and youthful; I am 58 with silver hair that has recently decided to go back to brown when I was so hoping it would end up shimmering silver without the brown hairs dirtying things up and making my hair gray. Them's the breaks,

Anyway, I was listening to Christina Aguilera. That girl has some serious pipes. I liked Cher's song too, but I keep watching the movie because of all the glam and music and Christina Aguilera's singing and gorgeous costumes. The story is merely an excuse to fill up the time between musical numbers.

The above picture is from the only torch song in the whole show. I loved it. I still love it -- and the dress. Please! What's not to love about green silk draped over a young body?

I really hadn't paid much attention to Christina before Burlesque and I don't pay much attention to her other music, which, from what I have heard, is all right. It just doesn't have that splash and sass and costuming I love so much. I know. You're thinking I'm more into Lady Gaga. Not really. I find her fascinating because of what she chooses to wear but I doubt I could sing any of her songs all the way through. I can with Burlesque songs. I've watched the movie and listened to the music that often.

We've lost something now that there are fewer musicals being made, and not just the dancing, singing, and gorgeous costumes. With musicals there is something special about settling in to be transported to another world. India is going through that phase with their films in Bollywood. I hope they don't lose that spectacle and innocence to go all French cinema with subtitles and even subbier meanings or Hollywood with the flash-bang of summer blockbusters that spill over into every other type of movie -- and television, too. I wouldn't mind a bit of British costume drama, since that is where England excels, or the fun and slapstick of broad comedy, but please, please, please don't give up splashy musicals with colorful costumes and songs that make you want to sing out loud while dancing on a cloud of sequins and air.

That is all. DIsperse.

It's complicated

I was watching It's Complicated again, for the tenth time, and had one of those ah-ha moments. I never had the kind of relationship that Meryl Streep and Alec Baldwin had as a married couple, not in either of my marriages. Both times I was caught in a bad situation and made the best of things by getting married.

One of the things I've learned by watching It's Complicated is about what brings people together. I've also learned to recognize love. I never had that with either of my husbands. I see that now. I saw it when I asked for a divorce and I knew it then because it was so easy for me to walk away. No tears. No emotional breakdowns. No psychic upheavals. When I found out both husbands were cheating on me I was relieved because I had a way out. They gave me a get out of jail free card and I used it. Divorce was cut and dried the first time and difficult the second time; Nick didn't want to lose his meal ticket (me) and getting rid of him, most of my friends and family heard me say, was like scraping gum off the bottom of my shoe on a hot August day. It took strategy and moving away with no forwarding address, and two years of waiting him out, to get my legal freedom.

There have been two men in my life I have loved. I walked away from the first one because I was tired of being disappointed, weary of him making promises he never kept, and waiting for him to make up his mind about what he was going to do. He wouldn't move ahead, so I moved away, and I cried for weeks.

The other man has kept me dangling for six years and I have decided I'm not waiting any longer for him either. I love him still, but he's never going to be the man I want or need. Fear keeps him from moving forward, fear of losing his stuff and fear of an uncertain future. I cannot offer him a guarantee that everything will work out. I don't know that. I only know that I love him and I'll do everything and anything to work things out. That only works if there are two people willing to work. I cannot do it alone and he's not going to help, so I'm done. I've waited long enough, listened to enough empty words and apologies. He's a coward, and I know about cowards. He won't change so I'm making the decision he won't. I've ended it.

Just as Meryl Streep knew there was no way back with Alec Baldwin, I know there is no way forward with him. I love him. He will always be a part of my life, but I have shed enough tears, nursed enough pain and waited silent and alone for long enough. We are done. I wish him well, but he won't be happy. He hasn't been happy all these years, but he's used to the fear and depression and his stuff. That will have to be enough for him. For me, there is an open door and an open road and I plan to explore them both.

That's what happens with really good movies. They mirror the truths of life and make you think while you laugh and cry and sigh in the darkness. I will watch It's Complicated again and again and yet again because it's a great movie with some wonderful poignant and funny moments (how could it not with Steve Martin as the romantic lead?), and because I find truth and honesty, not only in the actors' performances, but in the story. Someone knows whereof they speak, and they made me think and reassess my life. I don't want to go back, but I can move forward. That's the great thing about movies and life, there's always another good movie and another good day ahead.

That is all. Disperse.

To clone or not to clone

Yesterday the subject of cloning came up in a conversation with my mother. To understand the context, a little background is necessary.

My mother is one of those people who have had so many health problems, she should be dead. She isn't. Even her brother and sister-in-law said they were sure she'd die before Dad. She didn't. She's still here. It's probably my fault because I've always said that when the bomb is dropped and humanity is eradicated all that will be left will be cockroaches, moths and Mom. That's where the cloning discussion comes in.

If humanity were reduced to one individual, then the rise of humanity can only come from cloning -- if, of course, the human in question has the techniques and the skills to clone herself. She'd have to use ova from another source since her reproductive system was cleared out decades ago, but it is possible there would be some fertility clinic or sperm and ova bank still standing with the requisite genetic material available for use. Then again, with all that raw material, there would be sufficient diverse cellular material to use for test tube babies, with a suitable host. Mom's not good with the technical but, for the sake of argument, let's say she could fashion a mechanical womb to grow the cloned fetuses and thus clone herself.

Cloning herself would be necessary since no other human in recorded history, other than my father whose genetic material is now ash, has been able to tolerate Mom for long. A world population comprised of my mother would be a self-limiting species since they would only exist to shop and eat junk food. Once the food stocks are gone, the junk food stocks, the Virginia Annabelle population would be forced to either evolve or die. Without junk food and massive quantities of preservatives to keep them alive, they would die, probably along the lines of the half life of a cesium atom or something similar.

On a more realistic note, it would be possible to rejuvenate the human race, given time and sufficient genetic material, by cloning and thus further advances in that area are necessary -- only in case of nuclear holocaust and the imminent demise of mankind. How do you think we got here in the first place? It's a time-honored tradition that brought us unicorns, centaurs, naiads, nymphs, mermaids/mermen, and assorted half-man, half-animal species.

Is cloning a good idea? It depends on the human being to be cloned. Ira Levin used a cloned Hitler as the basis of The Boys from Brazil and look how that turned out. I think I have shown that, while giving humanity another try, cloning my mother would be a bad idea. However, cloning as a viable option for preservation of species, Jurassic Park notwithstanding, is a good idea and should be pursued. The science is more complicated and less successful than Dolly the sheep seems to illustrate. More information is needed and to get more information, more work must be done. It's doubtful we'd end up with a sociopathic killing machine the likes of Embryo, but when has being wrong ever mattered when it comes down to where the rubber hits the road?

That is all. Disperse.

Melting the meltdown

In between running around on errands, sending books out to family and friends (signed of course) and working, I finally sat down last night and watched Julie & Julia. It was very good.

I loved watching Julia Child cook on TV with Jacques and others, but she was the draw. It wasn't her high nasal whine of a voice, but her love of the art of making art with food, food that was wonderful, flavorful and just plain good. The movie showed that, but it also showed the main character, Julie, taking her cue from Julia's cooking. Making 524 recipes in 365 days was indeed a feat and it was well done, but what surprised me the most was when Julie had a meltdown when things didn't go right. The cream and liver stuffing fell out of her poulet (chicken to you and me) and she ended up in a crying, messy heap on the floor. The aspic failed to jell and she blamed her husband. Another meltdown. Julie seemed like a fairly histrionic female and a bit always on the edge of a meltdown, never a good thing whether the person is a cook or a writer, and one I've never dealt with. When all else -- or everything -- fails, start over. That's how I deal with disaster, like last weekend's first foray into homemade cinnamon rolls.

The recipe was one I hadn't used before (got it online), but I wanted to make cinnamon rolls and couldn't remember where I found the recipe the last time. Oh, yes, it was in a kit I purchased from King Arthur Flour online. Not enough time to buy it and get it here for the weekend and cinnamon rolls were on my mind and lingering like a ghost at the edge of my taste buds. To the Internet for research and I came up with what I thought was a good recipe -- until I tried it out.

Four cups of flour into the recipe and the dough didn't feel right. Kneading it was like punching Mike Tyson with pillows -- before he got into ear biting. My arms were getting sore and I had to go to the bathroom. When I came back from the bathroom, hands suitably washed, I punched and kneaded the dough some more, but it wasn't getting soft and smooth and elastic and my arms were sore and tired. I turned it into an oiled bowl, put a cloth over it and sat down to rest my weary arms. More than an hour later and the dough sat there like a lump of . . . dough. It hadn't risen, at least not as far as I could see. I had wasted the eggs, milk (and there wasn't much of that left) and the yeast, not to mention the time, but these things happen. I covered the bowel and set it aside as I sprinkled more yeast over warm water and assembled the ingredients once again. I was going to take another stab at it, and I did. The recipe was wrong and I stopped at three cups of flour when the once sticky dough became soft and pliant and kneaded like a dream. Once it was smooth and warm and elastic, I put the dough into an oiled bowl, covered it and set it on the stove, which is the warmest part of this house in the winter. The front room is so drafty and cold most of the time, except in summer when it's hot and sticky and uncomfortable.

At any rate, 1-1/2 hours later the dough had risen to 3x its original size and was ready to be rolled out and covered with butter, cinnamon and brown sugar and then rolled up. Lacking string or kitchen shears, I used a sharp knife to cut the dough and place it into the greased stoneware 9x9 pan to rise one more time before I placed it in the oven. When I finally pulled away the cover, the result was beautiful puffed coils of brown sugar and cinnamon rolls ready to be baked. Soon they filled the house with the scent of butter, cinnamon and melting, oozing sugar and I could hardly wait to spread on the thick, creamy vanilla-laden icing.

As I sat down with my warm, fragrant cinnamon roll to call my mother, I cast a thought toward the recalcitrant lump from the first trial. I could either use it as starter for sourdough bread or put it down the garbage disposal. Either choice was good and it didn't really matter. I had a gooey delicious cinnamon roll to savor, and savor them I did for four days. I went a little overboard on Sunday and had three, not at the same time, but spaced out over the whole day.

That first trial was a disaster and the recipe needed adjusting. Less flour and more time to bake. Things don't always turn out the way I think they should the first time, so I give it another go and rely more on my senses than sticking to the recipe. Cooking, like life, is fluid and changeable, so is writing.

A draft can start out horrible and end up magic if the writer is willing to adjust, retrace and rewrite. It's not a disaster and there's no need for meltdowns. Nothing is a disaster unless you make it one. For instance, next time, instead of using melted butter, I'll use soft room temperature butter, mix in the cinnamon and brown sugar and spread it over the dough. I'll get a better result. The recipe is a starting point. The Ultimate Cinnamon Roll recipe wasn't tested and retested by Julia Child who, in the movie and likely in real life, made several bowls of mayonnaise, changing the ingredients and the mixing until she had the right combination. I found the right amount of ingredients and the perfect method for me and for the environment where I live (high altitude and organic ingredients) and will make the cinnamon rolls again. Nothing is without hope or without the need for a little tweaking. If I had given up after the first mistake, I wouldn't have been able to taunt my mother with homemade cinnamon rolls, and I'd have nothing to write about now. Even in the midst -- or on the far edge -- of failure, there's something to be learned.

In writing, as in cooking and life, sometimes the best results come from failure, providing you don't give in to meltdowns and negativity. Every road leads somewhere and detours often provide more than a scenic route; they provide insight and sometimes a better way of getting where you're going. Without failure, there would be no progress. Don't be afraid to fail. Try it some time. The results may surprise you.

The morning of surprising adventurers

Surprises first thing in the morning are the best and I had a great surprise this morning. However, I'm not going to tell you what it is, except to say that I haven't smiled this big this early in the morning since I couldn't tell you when. About the only morning surprise that would be better . . . well, best not to go there in order to keep this work safe and me from going completely berserk.

For some unknown reason I have the best dreams in the morning after I've been up for a while and gone back to sleep, like this morning, and also the strangest. I cannot understand how I can get into REM so quickly and so completely.

This morning was visiting day in jail, although it was an unusual jail since men were allowed to visit for short periods of time and actually come into the area with the rest of the inmates. I had three visitors, all men, one of whom was so worried when he heard what happened to me that he came without putting on a shirt and wore only a wife beater. His arms were full of books, my favorite gift, and the other two visitors were a little jealous when I hugged him and fussed over him because it was the dead of winter and 20 degrees outside and he'd gone to the store to buy the books for me without getting dressed. I don't know how, but I saw him shaving and then rushing out half dressed when he heard I was in jail. I smoothed the others' ruffled feathers by hugging them, too, but I was still worried over the first one.

One of the deputies, dressed in a nurse's uniform, brought over a tray with something that turned out to be a pitcher full of red juice and a stack of dirty cups. It was the "good stuff". I went to ask about clean cups and noticed that the door to our section of jail was open and the nurse was the only one about. She said there were no clean cups and that I'd have to wash them and one of my visitors insisted that he wouldn't drink out of anything that had just been washed and the staff would just have to provide clean china or crystal for us to use.

Then the matron came back in and she said she was surprised I had not joined the rest of the group outside in the sunshine where, she intimated, fraternization was allowed as long as we were discreet when we went into the woods to fetch the animals we had shot. Guns were involved. I felt quite left out because no one let me know and because I had the whole area to myself and could have indulged in a few kisses and caresses without any problems, except choosing which one.

I was quite drawn to my half-dressed visitor who looked remarkably like Josh Hartnett, but my heart belonged to the one who looked like Indiana Jones and I was quite fond of Indy's very proper dad, Henry Jones, Sr., aka Sean Connery.

I don't know what woke me, but I do know that I'm not very happy about it since this dream is now lost to me and the REM window is closed. Chalk it up to a weekend of watching The Black Dahlia and Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. Sexy, strong, adventuring men do it for me every time.

And, no, that wasn't the surprise this morning. The surprise was better than a dream.

That is all. Disperse.

Dumbed down or just dumb?

I've read it and heard it and even been asked about it. Do television and movies make people stupid? Are we dumbing down? I don't have a simple answer.

There is a dumbing down in many quarters, but I don't think it's due to the prevalence of television and movies. It's due rather to people being lazy and stupid and perpetuating those habits in their children. Television and movies have a great deal to offer and can be a lamp on the path to illuminate history, politics, religion, literature and so much more. The trick is to indulge curiosity.

Many years ago, I picked up a book by Jane Austen and had a very difficult time getting into the flow of the language. It didn't matter that it was considered Literature because it was foreign and affected as far as I was concerned. Then I saw Colin Firth and Jennifer Ehle in Pride & Prejudice and I had to give Austen another try. I'm not sorry I did.

The language is a bit daunting because it is so foreign to modern Americans, but once into the ebb and flow of the language, the social mores and the story, it all comes together and awakens something inside that finds a balance between the modern world and the world of the 18th and 19th centuries. Once I read Pride and Prejudice, I had to read all of Jane Austen's novels and I go back time after time to read them once more. They are marvelous, not only because of the romantic tone and story of Mr. Darcy and Miss Elizabeth Bennett, but because it is a glimpse of another age that hasn't been pieced together by archaeologists unwilling to take off the blinders and see the world as it was instead of as it is, based on modern prejudices. Jane Austen lived in the times she wrote about and she knew them intimately. More than anything else, Austen was an acute observer of people and society and she is proof that people and society haven't changed so much; at the heart, we are all the same even when separated by hundreds or even thousands of years.

I do think that in general people tend to look no farther than their own back yards or the yard down the street or across the state line, echoing Dorothy Gale's belief that happiness can best be found in one's own back yard. But we are citizens of the world and should look much further afield than our own cities, states and countries. That is where movies and televisions best provide a window on the world and offer a glimpse of history and the people and societies in far flung countries that the majority of Americans will never see. Used as a teaching tool, a sort of intellectual and historical hors d'ouevres, television and movies have much to teach us.

When I watch a movie, usually on my laptop, I keep a few tabs open for searches so I can take a quick break and read about the history and characters characterized. For instance, I am currently watching a foreign mini-series about Crown Prince Rudolf of Austriawho was the son of Emperor Franz Joseph I of Austria and Empress Elisabeth of Austria. It's about his life and death, a death that resulted in a great scandal because he purportedly killed his lover Baroness Mary Vetsera just before he committed suicide. I've only seen the first episode, but after a search and some reading I found out that the forensics of Rudolf and Mary's bodies doesn't bear out the double suicide story.

Mary was bludgeoned to death and Rudolf, quite a remarkable man, managed to shoot himself six times before he died. Amazing. The whispered stories surrounding their deaths was that Mary and Rudolf were murdered and that the Emperor knew about it and had it covered up because Rudolf was trying to overthrow him and bring the Austro-Hungarian empire into the 20th century, rescuing it from the backward thinking emperor and his Prime Minister Taaffe, who was by all accounts a very greedy and politically savvy man who ruled the empire through Franz Josef. Intrigue, political coups, love, lust, murder and conspiracies, what more could anyone want? And it happened around the turn of the 20th century, more than 100 years ago. That is what movies and television have to offer, a window on the past and into the lives of the people of other countries.

I am very fond of Indian musicals and historical movies and am fascinated by Iranian movies. In fact, I enjoy watching movies from many different countries and search them out, not only for their historical stories but to see what interests and moves people in other cultures and countries. Has it made me dumber, less intellectual? I don't think so. The problem with the belief that television and movies are dumbing down people is that intellectuals believe the only way to learn history and other topics is to read about them. It's snobbery.

Books have a lot to offer and I'll be the first one to praise the printed word, but in a world where entertainment is preferred over dry facts and figures, something else is needed, a marriage of sorts, using entertainment to spark and interested in learning more from books. It's what I've been doing for years and I consider myself a modestly educated person.

Schools have used the same tool through slide shows and short films, but they really have not taken full advantage of entertainment as a teaching tool, or of the Internet to make the information more accessible.

I've learned more about Europe, Asia, the Middle East and the Americas through movies and the Internet than I ever did in school, and what I've found is utterly fascinating. I only wish I had enough money so I didn't have to work for a living and could devote all my time to movies, television, the Internet and books because there is so much to learn and so little time to absorb it all.

A National Geographic program a few months ago about the origins of the Amazons led me to the red-haired mummies of Mongolia, which in turn led me to ancient Greek and Roman histories about the Amazons and thence to Egypt (my of my favorite subjects) and tomb robbers, ancient and modern, and then back to Europe and the steppes of Russia, Afghanistan and Slavic countries to the Ice Maiden and the living heirs of the Amazons, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed nomad girl born to a family of dark haired, dark eyed nomads still following their herds from pasture to pasture and living in yurts. It's all connected and I found the first steps on the trail through television.

There's so much more to learn and no doubt Crown Prince Rudolf will lead the way on a journey through Europe and into the past that loops back into the present to mirror politics and society right here in America, and the route lies through the very things that intellectuals declaim for dumbing down the people. Intelligence has many levels, but stupidity only one and it's born in snobbery and a lack of curiosity not in television or movies. There's a rich and diverse education to be had and all that's needed is a sense of wonder and a desire to know more. Money does not have to be an issue, not when libraries offer movies and television shows and Internet access for free. There's no reason to be ignorant -- unless you want to be.

Formal education is not the only route to knowledge, just one path. There are less expensive roads. It's like setting out for any destination. Some people can afford to fly. Others take the train or a bus or go by car. There are also buggies, bikes and walking. No matter how long it takes to get there, everyone gets there eventually. It doesn't matter how you get there, just that you make the journey.

That is all. Disperse.

Lashing out

She is dressed in ruffled and flowing white, the gown falling off pale white shoulders glistening with sweat. Her hair, now flaccid damp curls and strings, is no longer hidden by the powdered wig that towered over and framed the virginal blush of her cheeks and the dark fringe modestly concealing the brilliant green of her eyes with fashionable curls flourishes. Fragile and softly rounded arms are corded with strain, her arms pinioned to two columns. Chains clank as she moves with each searing bite of the blood-slimed whip that whistles through the air before it cuts into the crimson-ribboned curve of her back, bare above the waist. She bites her lip and smiles in ecstasy, caught in the grip of la petite mort, the little death. She gasps softy and sighs, riding the ebb and flow of smoldering passion, meeting each thrust with an eager, welcoming embrace.

This is the scene in a forgettable, and forgotten movie, Waxwork and Deborah Foreman is the formidable actress who elevated this campy 1988 flick from pedestrian to something very special. Not even the performances of John Rhys-Davies, David Warner, Patrick McNee, the male half of The Avengers, or the sexy and handsome Miles O'Keeffe could elevate this beyond second rate C movie fare. It is Deborah Foreman's performance at the end of the Marquis de Sade's whip that makes Waxwork special.

Even if you're not a fan of sadomasochism and don't get a dark thrill from seeing a girl dangling between strong supports while she's whipped, this is something you should not miss. The other scenes in the waxworks that come to life -- Dracula's castle, the werewolf's cabin in the woods or the pharaoh's tomb -- don't have the sensual and riveting quality of the Marquis de Sade's dungeon. Check it out and let me know if you agree. I'll understand if you don't.

That is all. Disperse.

The hidden secret of NIMH

The human brain is a marvelous organ capable of managing the universe of the body, but its capacity for memory and awareness is one of the more magical seeming functions. The world is filled with diversity and all it takes is the casual mention of an idea or an item and suddenly the world is filled with what was invisible before. For example: Let's say that someone shows a picture of a new car they want or just bought, a car you had previously never seen, suddenly everywhere you go the same car is driving ahead, beside or passing in front of you. Some are dusty and others look like they just drove off the showroom floor. They're everywhere. They didn't just appear; they have been there all the time. The only thing that changed was awareness.

The same is true of everything: stories, books and movie, for instance.

Cruising through the menu at Hulu yesterday, I came across an old favorite animated feature, The Secret of NIMH based on the book by Robert C. O'Brien Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH. I confess I enjoy animated films with a touch of magic and The Secret of NIMH is one of my favorites. The artistry and beauty of the film and the message of facing one's fears and helping one another is the main focus, right behind the cruelty to lab animals and the experiments of the National Institute of Mental Health that result in the mental and physical evolution of a group of rats and mice. There is another message that is integral to the book and the movie, that evolved rats should no longer live as animals stealing what they need from humans, an echo of which I've become more and more aware since reading Ayn Rand.

There are two factions within the rat community led by the aging Nicodemus. One faction wants to continue living beneath the rose bush in the Fitzgibbons' front yard and stealing what they need from the farmer, such as the electricity that powers and lights their underground world. The other faction wants to leave the rose bush and travel to Thorn Valley to found a farming colony and create their own world independent of humans. They wish to live as an evolving species and not as thieves.

I don't know if either Robert C. O'Brien or Don Bluth, the head animator of the film, realized what they were saying or how that central theme would echo through the intervening years, but the story still holds up. The concept is radical: producing what is needed versus stealing it from those already producing the necessities and luxuries needed. Sound familiar?

The one thought that continues to echo through my mind is that if sentient and evolving rats and mice could figure it out, why can't we?

There are disagreements among the rats of NIMH and none more vocal than Jenner. In the movie, Jenner engineers Nicodemus's death certain that if Nicodemus is gone the rest of the rats will follow him and continue to live by stealing electricity, food and supplies from farmer Fitzgibbons. In the book, Jenner leads seven of the rats on a hardware store raid and are presumed dead, prompting men from NIMH to bulldoze the rose bush to exterminate all the rats.

It isn't the clash between humans and rats that is so interesting, but the underlying theme that sentient and evolved animals like rats understand the need for self determination. The rats understand that they will be discovered if they remain dependent on the farmer and that the only ethical way to live is by producing their own food and necessities. It's a really simple equation, one my grandmother taught me. Determination + Work = Independence and Prosperity. I wonder even now, how the people in this country forgot that simple equation or if they never learned it.

In order to get jelly, we first had to grow and then harvest the grapes from the arbor in the back yard. Produce on the table came from the kitchen garden out back, which had to be tended, nurtured, weeded, watered, harvested and then preserved so we could have fresh corn, tomatoes and vegetables during the winter. It didn't meet all of our needs so my parents worked every day, and even worked a second job when what they earned wasn't enough. We all worked hard and for our efforts we earned a comfortable life. Everyone pitched in. Even as children, we learned how to tend the garden, harvest the produce and fruits that grew in our yard and preserve what we produced.

With the current economic picture, people are more interested in lining up for food stamps, Welfare and government grants instead of lining up for jobs. It shouldn't matter what the job is as long as it ends with a paycheck.

When I lived in Columbus, I saw people on the streets at on off- and on-ramps to the freeways with signs: Will work for food. When I stopped I offered them business cards for the local labor exchange and explained they would get paid at the end of the work day. As I drove away, I watched them either rip up the card or just toss it onto the ground. They didn't really want to work. They wanted a handout. A handout is so much easier and all it requires is standing around waiting.

I've known immigrants who crammed into small apartments and rooms and worked two and three jobs every day of the week to earn enough money to feed themselves and their families, saving a little of what they earned for the day when they could afford a place of their own. They didn't expect handouts; they were willing to work, and it didn't matter what the job was so long as there was a paycheck at the end of the week. There were always a few who would rather steal than earn a living, but they were in the minority. The job didn't matter and they often ended up with grunt work -- washing dishes, cleaning motels and hotels, making and serving food in fast food restaurants, digging ditches, mopping floors, picking produce, etc. The only thing that mattered was being independent and having a chance for a better life, one they didn't have in their home country. In the remaining spare time, they went to night school to learn the language and get an education so they could move on to a better job to earn more money.

With unemployment soaring to and past 10%, and that's only the unemployed who get benefits and haven't fallen through the bureaucratic cracks, more and more people are losing their jobs. Businesses are downsizing and moving their operations offshore to stay alive and compete. Crippling taxes and increased government oversights and regulations force more and more businesses to close. More people out of work means fewer people able to afford luxuries and cutting back on food, clothing and rent and that means more businesses folding or laying off more employees, and it just keeps getting worse. The current administration's response to the economic crisis is to print more money and hand out more food stamps and Welfare checks without facing the fact that they're stealing from the people who are still producing at an ever growing rate until the end result will be the strangulation of the remaining viable businesses as they struggle to meet payrolls and buy the raw and manufactured materials to continue producing. They too will be forced to downsize just to stay alive and that means more people out of work and on the public dole.

It's a vicious and vertiginous downward spiral with no Thorn Valley on the horizon, the effect of too many mouths sucking on the government teat. The government cow is rapidly running dry and the pasture is grazed nearly to the roots. It takes seed to grow more grass and time for the grass to grow, but none of that means anything when the cow is slaughtered to feed all those voracious mouths. In the end, the pasture grass will grow back, but there will be no cow to graze and produce milk. At least, there will be no more cattle to add greenhouse gases to the mix.

I doubt that Robert C. O'Brien or Don Bluth intended their story to be taken in this direction, but the theme is clear for anyone with even a passing acquaintance with the entitlement versus independent production debate. It's not the magic or the Frisbys need to move house that is at the center of The Secret of NIMH, but a group of rats aware that they need to be independent and produce what they need to live. It's amazing how much truth can be found in a children's book and a beautifully animated movie.

Flying monkeys and Barnabas Collins

Beanie and I were talking about the news that Johnny Depp is going to resurrect Barnabas Collins in a new movie directed by Tim Burton predictably called Dark Shadows. She had been reading MSN and came across a news item about the True Blood leads carrying their on screen relationship off screen and Depp and Barnabas jumped out at her. She had to tell me about it. I had to check it out.

If the movie is successful, and why wouldn't it be with Depp as Barnabas Collins, then Burton will resurrect the rest of the werewolves, monsters and demons at Collinwood in a new franchise. I wonder if Depp will like being in a successful movie franchise as much as he liked being in a successful TV show. Should be interesting.

Beanie said she didn't think either Sookie or Bill were attractive and Anna Paquin certainly can't act, but that she enjoys True Blood anyway and Ants loves it. The Code Monster is not so easily impressed. Beanie and Ants thank me for introducing them to the show, which means I'll have to find some way to thank John for introducing me to the show last year.

When you get right down to it, Jonathan Frid wasn't at all handsome, but he was compelling as Barnabas Collins. It was something about the penetrating eyes, onyx ring on the forefinger, cape and cane with the curving silver wolf's head that kindled the urge to be enthralled and bitten in the most unusually strait-laced and unlikely of victims, like Mom. She worked at a dry cleaner's in North Olmsted, Ohio when the show was on and rushed home every afternoon to watch the show. We kids were forbidden to interrupt, which wasn't hard because Carol and I were glued to the screen right beside her and Jimmy and Beanie were outside playing quietly. No noise was allowed anywhere within a 50 mile radius during Dark Shadows, and I doubt there was anywhere among the female population of North Olmsted or the northern Ohio region. Men knew they'd get short shrift, lousy meals and freezing accommodations if they ignored the ban and ventured to so much as whisper. All distractions were forbidden. Mom still has a thing for Quentin Collins after all these years so she'll be first in line at the theater -- as long as there is no "language" in the movie. I know what we'll get her for Xmas or her birthday as soon as it is out on DVD.

From Barnabas to movies, the conversation moved and Beanie and I reminisced about some of our favorites, telling me some surprising stories about Ants, like not ever watching The Wizard of Oz, because he was terrified of the flying monkeys as a child. Beanie loves the movie -- so do I -- and she watches it every year. When she was little I'd sing Over the Rainbow to help her sleep most nights and I sang to her boys when they were little. Ants loved the song, but still won't watch the movie. He says he's too old, but I'll bet he still gets the shivers when the evil flying monkeys take off after Dorothy and her companions.

Movies have such a powerful affect on all of us, although not the same movies. Ants loves The Monster Squad but he still gets a little nervous when Frankenstein's monster comes on the screen. To Ants, he's terrifying. When the boys were little, every time that movie came on the world had to stop so Ants could watch it, even when they were at my house during the summer. I've seen that movie so many times I could doubtless still recite all the dialogue. It's a cute movie and I like it. Beanie mentioned another movie, but I seem to have forgotten what it was. Oh, well, no big deal since the point is that when the movies came out on VHS Beanie bought them for Ants. Unfortunately, he loaned one of them to Jimmy. Big mistake. When Jimmy and his wife split, Ants worried he'd never get his movie back. He was right to worry. Jimmy was too lazy to look for it and didn't want to brave his now ex-wife to spend the time looking for it, and there was no question that she would take time out of her busy schedule to find it. It was lost and Ants was furious. Beanie went out and bought the movie on DVD and Ants was happy once again. I still think since Jimmy was such a coward he should have replaced the movie, but it's difficult get The Mushroom to do anything. He is proof of the first law of thermodynamics: a body at rest tends to stay at rest and a body in motion tends to stay in motion -- at least until it runs out of fuel. Jimmy at rest is like a barnacle on the hull of a ship, nearly impossible to remove without sharp tools and lots of elbow grease.

I can't say that I have even one or two movies I cannot live without. I have lots of favorites spanning a variety of genres. I'm more pragmatic about things like that. I can always get another copy or do without. Nothing is so special that I'll lose sleep over it. A few people maybe, one or two in particular, but not things. Things can always be replaced and what can't be replaced can be lived without. Then again...

The Doctor is In

Color me surprised and very happy. Doctor Who is back with the first miniseries of the season: The Planet of the Dead. I can't wait to watch it. Torchwood is still not up and running and the 21st is the straight to DVD/immediate podcast of the new BSG series, Caprica. Since I'm down to Lost I've focused on work and writing and editing instead of watching DVDs, although I have been watching As Times Goes By and I'm nearly through the entire series. I really enjoyed, and still enjoy, Jean and Lionel's adventures and rows. It's funny that two people so much in love can still have their prickly moments and be endearing and quirky and still be in love.

For those of you that have never seen the show, it's British. It's about two people, Jean Pargeter and Lionel Hardcastle, who meet in later life (both in their fifties). Once upon a time, in the 1950s, Lionel and Jean met and fell in love. Then Lionel was posted to Korea and wrote a letter that Jean never received. Jean was heartbroken when she didn't hear from Lionel but she got on with her life, married, had a daughter and her husband died. She opened a business (temporary office personnel) and 38 years later she and Lionel meet when he hires a secretary from Jean's company. Lionel was dissatisfied with the service and Jean sent her daughter, Judith, to smooth Lionel's ruffled feathers. Lionel, like any red-blooded middle-aged male faced with an attractive woman young enough to be his daughter asks Judy to join him for dinner, picks her up and discovers her mother is his long lost love. Lionel thought that Jean had received his letter but never written back, and the letter features in a much later episode, turning up in the war museum still unopened. It was lost in British military mail systems and preserved as a relic. Good thing fate stepped in to put them back together 38 years later.

At any rate, Lionel and Jean meet at his hotel to discuss what happened and Judy, who seems to have a penchant for older men, has to settle for Lionel's publisher, Alistair Deacon, who is quite the flashy and fast talking (although usually unintelligible to Lionel and Jean) salesman and man of the world. The show is a gem and has something for everyone who enjoys British comedy. Lionel's father, Rocky, is wonderful and Rocky's housekeeper, Mrs. Bale, is priceless. Check it out.

For now, I'm off to shower, breakfast and dive into work after a relaxing weekend of reading review books and editing, which I need to finish today, so enjoy yourselves -- even if you have to force the issue.

That is all. Disperse.

Roses and Australia

That old black magic has me in its spell, that old black magic that they weave so well.

Roses. Fragrant, beautiful, flourishing roses. I love them, but only if they smell good. Roses, or any flower, that has no fragrance is not for me and I am not for them. Nothing like mixing and mingling a little of the Bard of Avon with a bit of Frank Sinatra to start the day.

I want roses. I'm going to plant roses and dig up the evergreen hedge in the planters surrounding the front and side of my cottage. I'm also going to plant some perennials to encourage butterflies and hummingbirds on this little island of greenery in the sea of asphalt that surrounds me. A few vegetables and some herbs and maybe even a few planters to surround the deck and create a wall of color and beauty. I'm in a nesting phase and I will have a beautiful nest when I'm done, inside and out. I need the fragrance and color to combat the fumes of buses and trucks and traffic and the smell of hot asphalt under the summer sun that give me headaches. A little bit of faery in a land of machines and urban sprawl, not unlike the outback in Australia during the big wet. Now that was something to see. It's too bad the characters who peopled it were so one dimensional.

I'm talking about the movie, Australia with Hugh Jackman and Nicole Kidman, featuring a very brief cameo by Bryan Brown. Now that was a collage of beauty and mediocrity that didn't surprise me.

Nicole Kidman played Lady Sarah Ashley with all the sensitivity and talent of a fifth rate contract actress for Mack Sennett and her acting was little short of slapstick with brief -- very brief -- moments of ability that failed to transcend a stock portrayal of privileged English upper class deigning to set things right among the savages. Even the love scenes were barely believable and she had such wonderful material to work with. Who wouldn't want to kiss and be kissed by Hugh Jackman? Obviously not Kidman because she approached it with all the gusto of eating a slug sandwich.

Hugh Jackman, on the other hand, as Drover was marvelous. While Kidman was chewing the scenery, he was completely at home as the rootless wanderer questing the savage world with an ease and familiarity born partly of talent and mostly of being at home in the landscape and his own skin. He was surprising and had depth. The only depth Kidman seemed to find was in the collagen injected into her trout lips.

I'll never understand why women with perfectly natural lips insist on pumping them up with collagen and steroids so they look like Lisa Rinna or Angelina Jolie. It never works well and they only end up looking bizarre. /rant

The story of the movie is about the lost generation of half caste (white/aborigine) children who are taken from their aborigine mothers (who won't miss them ten minutes after they're gone because they don't have the feelings of a white mother) and forced to live on Missionary Island to be taught by priests how to be white, despite the fact that forcing them to be white doesn't make them white and won't better their lot in white society. They're called Creamies. Lady Ashley and Drover are just the vehicles to tell Nullah's story, a tale of adversity and prejudice and incredible depth and beauty that was marred by Kidman's performance. She was not, however, alone in her over acting and scenery chewing.

She was joined briefly by Bryan Brown as the rapacious cattle baron whose monopoly on providing beef to the military is only exceeded in the greed shown by his second-in-command, Neil Fletcher, played by David Wenham. Wenham's overly melodramatic villain was worse than Brown's greedy cattle baron only because he got more screen time. I'm certain Brown would have been up to the task to overplaying and phoning in his stereotypical drunk with power boss had he had just a few more lines. Brown's portrayal was lazy and uneven while Wenham only lacked a long black mustache to twirl while tying melodramatic Sarah to the railroad tracks. Good thing there were none or this movie could not have been saved by Jackman and the beautiful young boy playing Nullah, Brandon Walters.

Perhaps the most fascinating of all the characters was King George played by aboriginal actor David Gulpilil who was a sphinx of magic and mystery and heart.

A few minor characters managed to pull off their part of the film with workmanlike precision and a touch of talent, but it was hard to get past the awfulness that was Kidman, Brown and Wenham. I expected better of Brown and Wenham and was sadly disappointed.

Even so, the movie is worth seeing if you're depressed and need a laugh or if you just want to be awed by the cinematography that drinks in the stark and surprising beauty of the Australian outback. That is worth the price of the ticket, especially if you're not into seeing the buff and handsome figure of Hugh Jackman wet and half naked or just half naked. Even with a rough beard, he's what makes the Big Wet really wet.

That is all. Disperse.

The world is burning

There are a few movies that I enjoying watching again and again. One of the more recent movies is The Dark Knight, the sequel to Batman Begins. Of all the actors to play Batman, Christian Bale is by far the best and the closest to my idea of Batman, and I have had a love affair with the Dark Knight for many decades, starting when I read the comics. Don't get me wrong. I loved Superman, too, but Batman appealed to something dark and forbidden in me that I couldn't name or understand at that young age.

Batman is dark and dangerous, caught in the eternal dance between his own light and shadow selves and the movies starring Christian Bale capture that without camp or high gloss. Before Christian Bale's Batman, I found Tim Burton's Batman Returns to have just the right essence of darkness and light and Michelle Pfeiffer as Catwoman was superb, as was Danny Devito's Penguin.

What sets The Dark Knight and Batman Begins apart from the rest aren't the villains, although they have been as riveting and on target as Christian Bale's performance, or Inspector (now Chief) Gordon played to perfection by that chameleon actor, Gary Oldman, but Michael Caine who creates a new persona for the ultra British butler, Alfred, by giving him a Cockney accent and a fascinating and varied background. Heath Ledger's performance is as enduring as the movie itself, all the more so because Heath is now dead and his portray of the Joker is a high water mark unlikely to be matched or exceeded in this or any future time.

One of the most memorable lines of the movie is not from the Joker or Batman, but from Alfred when he tells Batman about a bandit he was hired to find and kill in Burma. The bandit had been stealing jewel shipments earmarked for bribes to local village chiefs and no one could find out what the bandit was doing with them until a young boy was seen playing with a huge ruby. The bandit had been throwing away the jewels and not selling them on the open or underground markets. He considered the thefts good fun. He wasn't interested in profit or wealth but in chaos.

When Bruce Wayne asked Alfred why the bandit stole the jewels, Alfred told him that "...some men just want to see the world burn."

"Alfred, how did you catch the bandit?"

"We burned down the forest."

Those lines have haunted me and they remain in my memory as the most prophetic. Nothing else comes close to describing the world in which we live with terrorists on every side and even within our own borders. They can't be reasoned with or bought and the only way they can be stopped is to burn down the forest. I wonder how long it will take before the powers that be realize that.

Resistance is futile

There are some movies I resist seeing on principle, that principle being that everyone is talking about it and tells me I should see it. It's what my grandfather called me being mule-headed, and he was right. I get that way on occasion, digging in my heels and refusing to do what is expected. When I finally do follow the herd to see what is so fascinating about the movie, I'm usually glad, as I was when I recently watched My Big Fat Greek Wedding.

The movie sounded like the usual fare of stereotypical immigrant jokes and a child appalled and embarrassed by her immigrant parents as they clung to old traditions and out-dated ideas, and I wasn't disappointed. There was the obligatory elder member of the family who had never been assimilated into American culture, clinging to her prejudices and language like a tick on a dog. The father of the clan was man of the house and his wife adept at thwarting his most antiquated plans for his children. American Romeo meets Greek Juliet and the Americans and Greeks try to find some common ground while failing to understand the others' cultural differences, like one very Greek aunt who invites American Romeo, who is a vegetarian, to dinner and saying, "It's okay. I fix lamb". Second City alumna do the usual ethnic jokes and caricatures and the main character, Toula, the Greek Juliet yearning to be more American, provides comic and wry narrative.

Toula, who looks like a 50-year-old spinster, undergoes the Ginger Grant makeover, changing her from frumpy woman old before her time into young and attractive date bait with the application of makeup, hair rollers and new clothes. It's amazing what waxing, plucking and contact lenses can accomplish.

The jokes are obvious and often funny. Greek Granny spying on the neighbors and spitting on the Turkeys is irritating at times and Greek dad's death hold cling on tradition, although it does not come close to Tevya's Jewish angst over seeing his daughters falling away from the tried and true rutted path, did make me laugh a few times. I do think the whole arranged marriage with the horrific and stereotypical bachelors for dinner was completely unfunny and done to death once again, but there were moments when the movie transcended genre and triteness.

We laugh at immigrants coming to America to find a balance between the ingrained traditions of their homeland and embracing the laissez faire attitude and new traditions of their new country, but I was especially touched by Greek dad's gift to Toula and her American Romeo (played by John Corbett who is great eye candy). Even though American Romeo came from a well-heeled family from the country club set, it was the generous gift of a house for the newlyweds from Greek Ma and Pa that left the most profound impact in this uneven and sometimes funny movie. It was an old world gesture and the embodiment of the American dream.

One thing is certain. I will never look at Windex in the same way again.

Stand still

A phrase has been running around my mind all day: The tyranny of beauty. I keep trying to catch it and I've gotten close a couple of times, but it slips away at the last moment. It feels like the beginning of a story, or maybe it's the theme or the title, but it's not going away any time soon.

Another phrase tags in once in a while, but it's not one of mine. It's a phrase from a book I just finished. "She's no better than she should be." It's a New England phrase, and I think I know what it means, but I'm not sure. How can someone be better than they should be -- or worse? It's a snide way of saying someone isn't as good as they look or act and that there's monkey business going on behind closed doors, I think.

I just finished reading Peyton Place and Return to Peyton Place last night. It took me a while, fitting it in between working hours and review book hours, but it was really good. I had read Peyton Place once before but not the sequel, although I have seen both movies and recently saw them again. I always want to check out the book to see how close it is to the movie and, as always, this one was quite a bit different. So I checked out Wikipedia because I wanted to check out a theory -- that the character of Rita Moore in the book is Lana Turner in real life. There are similarities. I couldn't find it on Wikipedia but I did find out that they were completely off base about the novel version of the sequel. The movie sequel plot was given as the novel, which is why people shouldn't trust Wikipedia so much; they are often wrong. But I digress...

I checked out the Internet Movie Database and there was nothing about whether or not Lana Turner was the model for Rita Moore, but the characteristics fit and she had, in fact, just married again before Grace Metalious wrote the sequel. It was interesting to see how the author dealt with the difference between writing a screenplay and a novel (something few authors enjoy since their work is utterly changed and diminished by Hollywood) but the author, in the character of Allison MacKenzie, was given instruction on the differences and why. It is similar to what I read in an interview with the author of Becoming Jane Austen when his book was given the Hollywood treatment.

Both movies were sanitized and some of the more brutal and overtly sexual aspects of the book were softened or taken out altogether. Although Doc Swain was in the first movie, and in both books, he was left completely out of the movie sequel, as were several other characters. The reason for Mike Rossi being fired was changed to refusing to take Allison's book out of the school library when the actual reason for his firing was that he was related to Allison who wrote such a horrid and obscene book. The school board hired Mike back when his replacement turned out to be incompetent, but I guess since Hollywood decided to put more emphasis on the town's reaction to Allison's book, Samuel's Castle, than the author did in the book, it only makes sense. Constance MacKenzie, Allison's mother and Rossi's wife, did not call the book obscene nor did she shun Allison because of it -- or make her big speech at the end to Roberta Carter who was humiliated at the town meeting. Connie was behind Allison 100% from the beginning and biding her time for Allison to get over the fact that Connie had lied to her about being married to Allison's father.

So what does this have to do with the phrase that keeps running in circles in my mind? Nothing. It has to do with the second phrase and not the first. I know what the tyranny of beauty is, but not how it's going to end up in the story. Ever have that happen, get an idea that refuses to make itself into a proper story without a lot of chasing and wrestling?

It sometimes takes a while for an idea to gel enough for me to get a clean story out of it, but this is not the same thing. This is the glimmer of an idea, like a word on the tip of my tongue or the name of an actor or someone I'm supposed to know, that refuses to jump the synaptic gaps in orderly fashion so that I can pin it down and go on to the next item on my list -- or write the story that's brewing. I guess I'll have to let it steep a while and figure out what it has to do with small town Midwestern royalty.

That is all. Disperse.

Hey, nonny, nonny

I am in a mood today and nothing would do but to put on Much Ado About Nothing wherein Ken Brannagh, his wife, Emma Thompson, and Emma's mother, Phyllida Law, take on some of Shakespeare's characters. For all of you seekers of nudity, you won't wait long for tantalizing buttocks and glimpses of all parts male and female at the beginning. My personal favorites have nothing to do with titillation but with the dialogue, especially the verbal jousting between Benedick and Beatrice. The plot is thin but there is much to like and laugh about and that's why I feel the need to restore myself by watching and reciting the dialogue (yes, I've seen it enough to know almost the entire play).

I needed the fun and silliness of Shakespeare today since I received a list of members of my graduating class who have died. It's sad to see that so many people I shared three years (and sometimes more) of school with people who have died. It's sad. Cancer, murder, burst aneurysm, fatal car accidents, drugs, etc. Some I knew died shortly after graduation and some within the past five years. It's inevitable, but I don't have to like it. I've lost too many friends to the grim reaper.

This weekend, we nearly lost my niece from septic shock. Shanna is is not yet 31 and she spent the first part of the weekend in ICU near death. She's better now, but not out of the woods. It is at times like this I wish I could be with my family. They keep me posted but it doesn't help. I've lost so many family members in the past two years and I'm not dealing well with it. I'd be easier with my own death than the death of those I love. It's a selfish feeling, wanting to know those I love and who are part of my life are happy and well, but not a feeling for which I will apologize.

And so I turn to the skirmishes of wit between Benedick and Beatrice.

When told she may end with a husband who has no beard she replies:

What should I do with him? dress him in my apparel
and make him my waiting-gentlewoman? He that hath a
beard is more than a youth, and he that hath no
beard is less than a man: and he that is more than
a youth is not for me, and he that is less than a
man, I am not for him.

I feel the same. A man with a beard would indeed be like lying in the woolens.

That is all. Disperse.

Books and thoughts on books

I got another box of books to review from AuthorLink and I tore right into them, having just finished a box of nine books in three weeks. I need something to read and I just finished Reflections in a Golden Eye by Carson McCullers. I've seen the movie with Elizabeth Taylor, Brian Keith, Julie Harris and Marlon Brando but I wanted to read the book. I always want to read the book. The movie definitely missed some of the subtleties of McCullers' writing and tone and I am glad I read it. It's more of a novella than a novel but it was good all the same.

I have read Ballad of the Sad Cafe, which was adapted for the stage by Edward Albee and was mentioned in Picnic by William Inge and starred Kim Novak and William Holden (Susan Strasberg was reading the book and Rosalind Russell ratted her out to her mother for reading a dirty book). There are other stories and novellas (she didn't write any novels) by McCullers and I think I'm going to have to read them all -- maybe a few times.

Digging into the box, I found several books that look interesting, but I just had to read some of Friends on a Rotten Day: The Astrology of Friendships. Hazel Dixon-Cooper is Cosmo's bedside astrologer and is amazing in her insight. From what I've already read, the book is a must-have for writers to help understand and build characters for their stories and novels. My favorite feature of each astrological sign is the Bitch Factor. I just had to read a few and they accurately described several people I have known over the years and explained why they are they way they are. I haven't read the whole book, but so far it's funny and insightful.

For example: Tactless Terry . . . barrels through life pretending that her rude and insensitive observations are only her "honest" opinions. In her, that thoughtless but innocent trait turns malicious. Terry Knows that blurting out a painful or embarrassing fact at the worst moment will hurt you. She does it on purpose. Terry takes Gemini's love of dishing rumors about people and expands it into a full frontal assault of brutalizing truth, in the presence of her victim. Her comments are dispensed in two ways. She's only joking (it's all in good fun and no one will care so you shouldn't either), or she's reluctant (this is for your own good). In the latter, she tries to get you to confess something, because it not only humiliates you, it might inspire someone else within hearing distance to confess a dark secret, too. This is her most dangerous ploy, as it only serves to give her ammunition to use against your other friends.

And then there's: Broken Record Barb [is] caught in the myth that her life is the only one that's interesting. You can't shut her up. Save yourself and don't answer the phone [or the door]. She really won't notice because, being the egotistical bimb[a] that she is, yours was just the next number on her speed-dial list.


And last (for now) but not least, here's the Tyrant. If micromanaging were an Olympic sport, the Tyrant would win the gold medal hands down. The most possessive Taurus or controlling Scorpio looks a rank amateur up against this one. At work, she's the one who's always standing over everyone's shoulder, making sure that anything she's delegated is done precisely, exactly as she directs. Don't do it and there will be hell to pay. At home, she controls everything from the family diet to who the family can choose as friends to what everyone watches on TV.

Ms. T. usually surrounds herself with a collection of weak-kneed losers who all depend upon her to dictate their miserable lives, which she is only too happy to do. She loves her role and makes sure that everyone knows how everything would fall apart if it weren't for her pulling the strings. She's easy to spot because every conversation the woman has begins with either, "You will do as I say," or "Don't make me have to tell you twice." Don't make me have to tell you twice to avoid this controlling bimb[a] like the plague she is.

It goes for Barbs, Terrys and Tyrants who keep journals and blogs, too.

I read several of the signs and I really like the easy conversational tone. Dixon-Cooper uses her friends to illustrate all the signs, making the book fun and more real. There is no meanness or bitch factor in her anecdotes and she avoids the narcissistic "it's all about me" and "feel sorry for me" moments that characterize some astrological reference books. The way the book is arranged covers the important points and makes everything easy to find. There is no repetition and I never felt as though she ran out of material. Dixon-Cooper also has sections with Venus and the moon in the signs, as well as a section on the guys. The first thing I thought of was checking out people I know and have known and the second thought was that it was a great way to build and understand fictional characters, a place to start to put flesh on their bones and real emotions in their actions and reactions.

As I was reading the usual suspects on my LJ F-list, I came across one entry that made me proud of the writer and also brought up thoughts of people like the one mentioned. These people refuse to let a relationship die a natural death, lurking in the shadows and never commenting or commenting in offhand ways to other people or on their own or other blogs so that the information gets back to the person they've described. Sometimes the mention is just subtle enough, with just enough facts, that only those in the know understand what is being said so they can promptly run off and tell the subject of the subtle mention and cause trouble. Aah, the drama kings and queens. These situations are not to be confused with other bloggers who talk about general situations or situations that are common to many people but that some frenemy has decided is all about them. It's not the same thing at all.

The first type of person is malicious and cowardly and the second person has a guilty conscience and sees themselves "feelingly portrayed" everywhere they look, especially by people they spend a good part of their time taunting and maligning in not so subtle ways. Yes, kiddies, it is a jungle out there and the animals are always on the loose, so stay alert to the dangers.

That is all. Disperse.

Staying cool

I like hummus but it can be expensive to buy, so I decided to make my own and find that it tastes better than the store bought kind and I can add things I like: roasted red peppers, sun-dried tomatoes, dill, etc. Whatever I have on hand, even roasted garlic, but I have found out that unless I want really garlicky hummus I need to cut back on the amount of garlic cloves I use and one or two is usually just enough. I think I am going to try sautéed shiitake mushroom and onion next time. Since I've cut back on meat, hummus has become the main source of protein, and my favorite.

The clouds keep threatening this side of town with howling winds and cold breezes that make me reach for the covers at night but still no rain, unless you call the 15 minutes of off and on pounding we got on Friday. It was more off than on and the pounding was brief, about 2 minutes. There's more rain in the forecast today and tomorrow, but if it's anything like what it has been over the past few weeks, the west side of town will get it all. Going to the movies, I've found, is the best way to stay cool, although I inevitably end up sweaty by the time I get home and have to take a cold shower. Cold showers have been the best way to keep cool, even in the middle of the night.

Hellboy II was even better than the first movie and Ron Perlman has the character down. Guillermo del Toro's mechanical hell beasts and scenery make the movie a ride into the clockwork bowels of hell, but my favorite was the death of the tentacled plant being. It was the very essence of birth from destruction and it was beautiful. Abe's romance with the princess was sweetly poignant and sad and it looks like there is a lot more Hellboy to come. I can hardly wait.

Ever since I read the first issue of Batman, I have been hooked on the dark knight, but Christopher Nolan's walk on the dark side with Christian Bale's Dark Knight owes much to a Star Trek episode where Abraham Lincoln fought alongside Kirk and Spock against Genghis Khan and the Enterprise's enemies. Lincoln and the Vulcan counterpart of Lincoln decided that they must follow the dictates of their conscience and sue for peace. They were killed. They believed that fighting evil with its own weapons is not the path to peace because you end up becoming what you fight. That, too, is the message of The Dark Knight. The special effects have not taken over in this next installment of the newly realized Batman but they play a crucial part as much as any human character. Heath Ledger as the Joker moves like a maniacal Keystone Cop on crack and his mania runs like a Stygian current through his performance with an understated, malevolent glee that is the complete opposite of Jack Nicholson and Cesar Romero's giggling, gleeful portrayals. Ledger is a much darker and more dangerous Joker that sneaks up on you and begins to make sense. It is sad to have lost such a bright and talented actor, and it makes me wonder if Ledger found it difficult to get out of character once he became the Joker.

Of all the musicals I have seen in recent years, Mamma Mia! is at once sillier and much more fun. Meryl Streep's voice has lost some of its verve and depth, sounding like she's smoked too many cigarettes and spent too many nights up drinking at the bar, but she can carry a tune. The choreography is haphazard and thrown together and I expected the swim fin chorus line to breaking into a tap routine at any minute, but despite the contrived feel of the musical numbers I thoroughly enjoyed myself watching stellar actors having so much fun being silly.

The new X-Files is on my schedule this week and I know I'll enjoy seeing Mulder and Scully together again as they race against the clock to stop the next phase of alien colonization before December 21, 2012. However you plan to stay cool, enjoy yourself and the waning days of sun and heat and flies, for autumn is not far away.

That is all. Disperse.

In the Cut

I finally got to see In the Cut with Meg Ryan yesterday. It's dark and gritty and a huge departure for Meg. The big selling point when it was in the theaters was seeing Meg Ryan naked. As a woman who doesn't go for tongue and groove outside of flooring and furniture, I wasn't impressed. As an artist who has painted and drawn many nudes over the decades, I wasn't impressed, except when she was prone and the light was dim; then she looked like a Grecian sculpture. Full frontal, not impressed and not her best side, speaking from a strictly aesthetic standpoint, but she is otherwise quite beautiful and her figure is mature for her age. As a woman who has given birth to children, she is very well preserved. But what stands out about this movie isn't Meg's nudity, but her acting.

Frannie is a schoolteacher, but she is like no schoolteacher I ever had. She is just this side of hippy hip with undertones of the Beat Generation yet still maintains a certain coy innocence that is liberally tinged with avid sexuality and curiosity that is quite alluring. Her character is confused and tentative with people and yet comes alive when faced with words that move her and stimulate her mentally and emotionally.

Meg is still a beautiful woman, but this movie was made before the disastrous My Mom's New Boyfriend and before she gave her beautiful face to the knife and ended up with trout lips. Too much collagen in the lips and not enough brains in the head for her to have messed with such a classic, although of late too thin, beauty. Once again, Meg Ryan prone sunning herself by the pool was a gorgeous sight to behold, before she stood and went full frontal -- face, I mean -- and showed her caricature of a mouth, the ruined curved of those sensuous, uptilted cornered lips defaced by too much collagen or a too big lip implant. Not everyone needs to be Angelina Jolie.

At any rate, In the Cut is a movie that is part thriller, part trip into the psyche of a macho, on-the-make cop who likes to color way outside the edges, and part character study that almost works. The flow is choppy and confusing at times with a raw, almost uncut feel to it, as though made as a second year film student's project, but it did draw me in. Kevin Bacon plays a small part and he's another one who should stay away from the knife, although what has been done works very well for this not-out-of-the-closet, would-be stalker who is so clingy and needy he made me want to run and hide. Yikes! Mark Ruffalo as the homicide detective Frannie keeps trying not to and eventually does fall for is dark and edgy and just barely this side of sleazy. Sharrieff Pugh as the intense English student from Frannie's class who defends John Wayne Gacy is intense and young and very hunky, but that relationship wasn't quite developed enough and seemed erratic at best, but should have had more screen time to develop.

In some ways, In the Cut feels thrown together as though the director chopped up the whole movie in a fit of pique and decided to put it back together without a clear arc or time line. It would be a better movie with a little judicious editing, but otherwise the discordant and jumpy feeling does go well with the jump and erratic Frannie's emotions and life. It's not quite there though. Needs more time to cook before it's done and I hope this is one film that gets a director's cut when the director isn't on or coming off of some very good drugs.

That is all. Disperse.