Month: August 2023

The Reality That Shouldn’t Be There

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Maggie Haberman to Jake Tapper (Friday, 8.25, beginning at 1:30 mark):

“[Trump] doesn’t want to look weak. In his mind, he [projected strength because] he didn’t concede. And that has been how he has operated for decade after decade after decade…through business failures, though bankruptcies of his casinos, through losses, through products failing, through divorces…if you pretend it is not happening, if you create your own reality, if you don’t give in to what other people are acknowledging as objective reality, then maybe it isn’t really there.

“He is somebody who doesn’t think in terms of long-term strategy…he thinks in very short increments of time….and it’s all about just getting from one post to another.

“This doesn’t really get said enough about [Trump], which is that he lived a fairly consequence-free life before he was President…he did not like the press [and] was very unhappy about it..but he [always] had his father to bail him out, and has moved from one thing to another without having to face the kind of consequences that other people might have [to deal with].”

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Public School Grooming Not a Myth

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Four and a half weeks ago (6.26.23) an ABC News story out of Osseo, Minnesota, reported by Kristina Watrobski, stated the following:

“Teachers for students as young as elementary school are allegedly being trained to discuss gender identity and conceal students’ preferred pronouns from their parents in a Minnesota school district.

“Two parents read a letter written by an Osseo Area Schools (ISD 279) elementary school teacher during the district’s school board meeting [on Tuesday, 6.20]. The teacher claims that ISD 279 employees were required to attend a training called ‘Creating Gender-Inclusive Schools’ earlier this year.

The letter detailed several aspects of the training that the ISD 279 elementary school teacher felt uncomfortable with, including employees being asked to discuss their ‘definition of gender’ before learning the district’s own definition.

One year earlier (6.21.22) Osseo’s Maple Grove High School announced that the school board had approved LGBTQIA+ history and culture resolution. Read the first five or six graphs — it’s a beaut.

Cue HE’s Crazy Town pushback brigade…”this isn’t true, it’s been made up by evil transphobes, there’s no such things as grooming of young children,” etc.

YouTube commenters: “Imagine living in a society where child abuse is not only condoned but glorified…childhood used to be about playing with your friends, enjoying ice cream and learning basic math, science and history — now it’s all about sexuality and defining your gender…get your kids out of the public school system…in my day we used to call it child grooming, and it was criminal…I applaud this woman for her bravery against the evil in our schools…it’s not about education any longer, but indoctrination…I’m a retired teacher , this is appalling and so dangerous…this is just disgusting and crazy…School is about reading, writing, math, history etc., and not gender or sexuality…this insanity must stop.”

Finally Broke My Heart

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This evening I tried again with John Ford‘s The Informer> (’35), and in so doing experienced something like an epiphany. It surprised the hell out of me, but there was no mistaking what I was feeling. For the first time I accepted the foolishness and rank idiocy of Victor McLaglen‘s Gypo Nolan — surely one of the most loathsome lead characters in movie history, and a pathetic, bellowing drunk to boot.

For the first time I cut Gypo a break and took off my black hooded mask.

My first viewing….good God, Ford’s classic is 88 years old now…my first viewing (late-night TV, possibly WOR-TV) happened when I was ten or eleven, something like that; my most recent before tonight was 20 years ago.

I’ve never felt anything but admiration for the various elements — McLaglen’s Oscar-winning lead performance, Dudley Nichols‘ finely-chiselled screenplay (the film only runs 91 minutes), the magnificent fog-shrouded cinematography by Joseph August (Twentieth Century, Gunga Din,The Hunchback of Notre Dame, Portrait of Jennie), Max Steiner‘s haunting score and the supporting performances by Margot Grahame, Heather Angel, Preston Foster, Una O’Connor and Joe Sawyer.

It all fuses together so well, but all my life I’ve had a hugely difficult time with the deplorable Gypo. And yet something happened this time. Something ineffably sad that found its way inside. By the end I felt so sorry for this poor alcoholic idiot that I was strangely unable to despise him. I could only shake my head in sorrow.

And that final church scene after he’s been shot four or five times in the gut, bleeding to death…that scene got me all the more. When Gypo stumbles into a church and finds Frankie’s mother (Merkel) and says with that pleading, nearly whispering, wounded-ox voice, “Twas I who informed on your son, Mrs. McPhillip…forgive me.” And the poor woman does for some reason, and then comforts him with “you didn’t know what you were doin’.” Gypo stands and spreads his arms before a crucifix, calls out to the man he betrayed and condemned to a brutal death (“”Frankie! Your mother forgives me!”), clutches his midsection, drops to the church floor and dies.

If I’d been Mrs. McPhillip I would have said, “You’ll get no forgiveness from me, Gypo. And from the looks of you, you won’t be needing any soon. Just let go…just let it go. There’s nothin’ more for it, Gypo. Just go to sleep.”

But somehow this evening, and for the first time in my life, Merkel’s forgiving eyes and words melted me down.

I thought of two relatively recent similar films (a protagonist enduring terrible guilt after ratting out a comrade) — Yuval Adler and Ali Waked‘s Bethlehem (’13) and Shaka King‘s Judas and the Black Messiah (’21) about FBI informant William O’Neal (Lakeith Stanfield) having inadvertently aided in the murder of Fred Hampton.

Amazon should be ashamed of itself, by the way, for streaming an HD version of The Informer with a horizontally stretched aspect ratio — it should be presented in the original boxy (1.33 or 1.37) but is streaming at 1.85 or 16 x 9 or something close to that.

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Squeeze a Nickel

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My 7-day Avis rental isn’t exorbitant but I’d rather pay less. I hate the idea of shelling out $700 or thereabouts (including gas) for two six-hour drives (Albuquerque to Telluride and back again) with the car just plotzing in a parking lot for six days (Wednesday afternoon, 8.30 to Tuesday morning, 9.5). The 50th annual Telluride Film Festival runs five days this year — starting Thursday, 8.31 and ending on the evening of Monday, 9.4.

Yesterday I thought I’d post an offer on Ride.Guru. What the hell.

Barker’s Sioux Heritage

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At the very least the late Bob Barker deserves respect for career longevity. Born on 12.12.23, he started as a radio show host in the early 50s, hosted Truth of Consequences from 1956 to 1975, and The Price Is Right from 1972 (three year overlap with Truth) to 2007.

Barker retired in ’07 at the age of 84. He passed earlier today at age 99. Good genes, good health, quick mind.

One-eighth Sioux and a member of the Sioux tribe, Barker spent a good portion of his youth on the Rosebud Indian Reservation in Mission, South Dakota.

Did he ever stand with his people against the evil of Mount Rushmore and Alfred Hitchcock‘s completely reprehensible exploitation of same in North by Northwest (’59)?

Perry Mason (episode #27): “Case of Missing Headphones “

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Sometime last spring I bought a relatively inexpensive pair of Sony wireless headphones. Nothing special but good enough. Six or seven weeks ago they disappeared. Being the occasionally-absent-minded-professor type, I sometimes leave things of value in cafes, libraries, movie theatres, 7-11 stores, etc. I checked and called around everywhere but couldn’t find the damn things.

So after a brief period of mourning I bought a pair of black Apple “Dr. Dre” beats. A bit more costly than the Sonys but very nice to have.

Yesterday I was driving north on Wilton’s Route 7 when the car in front of me (a sensible Volvo wagon) abruptly slammed on the brakes…dead stop. I naturally slammed my own a millisecond later. After recovering from the trauma (it could be been a serious banger if I hadn’t reacted as quickly as I did) I looked down and saw the effing Sony headphones. They’d been under the driver’s seat the whole time. I’d checked the car top to bottom during my initial search, but obviously not thoroughly enough.

Now I have two pairs. Maybe Sutton would like the Sonys — they’re relatively new.

Cody Jarrett’s Grand Finale

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I don’t want to draw too many analogies between the sagas of Donald Trump and James Cagney‘s Cody Jarrett. Both are sociopaths, of course, but the world is full of those. It struck me yesterday that Trump appears to be going through a kind of last-stand defiance that resembles Jarrett’s during the final five minutes of White Heat (’49).

“They think they’ve got Cody Jarrett,” Cagney says with a kind of madman chuckle. “They haven’t got Cody Jarrett!”

“I Can No Longer Associate Myself”

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Either you know these six scary words like the back of your hand as well as what movie they’re from and what they mean, or you don’t.

From a Beyond The Frame article on Roman Polanski‘s Rosemary’s Baby (’68), written by David E. Williams and posted on 3.29.17:

This 47-minute Criterion Collection documentary about the making of Rosemary’s Baby is drop-dead brilliant — a huge turn-on about a perfectly made film. I’ve been watching this 1968 classic for over half a century. Easily among the best horror flicks ever made, and one of the best films of any genre or era, directed by anyone or anyhoo.

If you haven’t seen the Criterion doc, please remedy that. Now, for example.

Paramount’s Rosemary’s Baby 4K disc (shitty jacket art) arrives on 10.10.23.

Wuss / Not Wuss

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It’s two-day-old water under the bridge and not that big of a deal, but Carlos Santana folded like a coward. He said it straight and plain like any doctor or biologist or sane human would have said it prior to the Crazy Town takeover, and then his nervous nelly manager and agent got to him (i.e., read him the riot act) and he recanted like a good widdle boy.

Yes, Ozzy Osbourne actually bit a bat’s head off –a cruel and atrocious act. Bats deserve as much of a shot at health and happiness as any other species. I’m sorry but I feel much closer right now to Carlos the pussy than Ozzy the biter.

Deadline update: