Posted on 8.17.12: I was riding along last night with the radio on, and “Do You Know The Way To San Jose?” — the 1968 Burt Bachararch-Hal David pop tune that was sung most famously by Dionne Warwick — came on, and for some reason I started thinking about what the lyrics really say.

Here’s what they say: “I fucking quit…this town is too tough for me…this place is full of souless, grasping hustlers, and I’m too spiritual and self-respecting to make it with these hounds.”

This spirited bouncy little tune is basically an anthem for losers. It’s the opposite, spiritually speaking, of the Alicia Keys song “Empire State of Mind” or the hopeful go-getter optimism of “New York, New York” as sung by Liza Minelli and Frank Sinatra.

“Do You Know The Way To San Jose?” is akin to that line in the Atlanta Rhythm Section‘s “I’m Not Gonna Let It Bother Me Tonight” that says “the rats keep winning the rat race.” Which is another way of saying “eff this noise and eff this scene…I’m going back to Bedford Falls where I have friends and loved ones.”

A song that is right between “Do You Know The Way to San Jose?” and “New York New York” is Peter Gabriel‘s “Don’t Give Up,” which was co-sung by Kate Bush.

“Fame and fortune is a magnet / It can pull you far away from home / With a dream in your heart you’re never alone / Dreams turn into dust and blow away / And there you are without a friend / You pack your car and ride away.”

I’ve heard these words spoken by many, many people in real life, and they were all saying the same thing, which is that they came to the big city with initial hopes and dreams, but they lacked the talent and the moxie (which is understood in some circles as “claw-your-way-to-the-top ambition”) and so they were packing it in and moving back to a smaller, less difficult pond. I was on the brink of this myself in the early days, but I grimmed up and doubled down and finally broke through.

The world is for the few.

A friend comments: “Interestingly Warwick was on CBS Sunday Morning this week and mentioned this song as the only one she truly hates.”

The great Tony Curtis died eight and a half years ago — on 9.29.10. A decade earlier I had a great little lunch-hour interview with the guy. It happened in a Starbucks at the Beverly Glen shopping plaza. Curtis wasn’t a dodger or side-stepper — all name-brand actors are bullshitters to some extent, but I didn’t sense much from him. Well, a little.
‘
Halfway through our session I handed Curtis a list of the 120 films he’d starred or costarred in and asked him to check the ones he’s genuinely proud of. He checked 18 — a fairly standard batting average. Screen actors who’ve made it big or starred in zeitgeist button-pushers (like Sweet Smell of Success or Some Like It Hot) are always sent the best scripts. For a few years at least.

Curtis didn’t check The Vikings. He didn’t check The Outsider. He checked Houdini. Every film he made after Spartacus in 1960 up until 1968’s The Boston Strangler, he didn’t check. He checked his role as a pair of mafiosos — Louis ‘Lepke’ Buchalter in 1975’s Lepke and Sam Giancana in the 1986 TV movie Mafia Princess.

I wrote in a March 2000 piece that Curtis enjoyed his hot streak from the early ’50s to roughly ’68 — a 16-year run. The truth is that Curtis’s streak had that special incandescence (critical huzzahs + big paydays) for only four or five years.

Curtis wouldn’t have becomes “Tony Curtis” if he hadn’t starred or costarred in Sweet Smell of Success (’57), The Vikings (’58), The Defiant Ones (’58), Some Like It Hot (’59), Spartacus (’60) and The Outsider (’61) — six films in all plus The Boston Strangler (’68) for a total of seven. Plus that great little voice cameo as Donald Baumgarten in Rosemary’s Baby.

Which leads to a question: Which present-day heavyweight actors are in the same position that Curtis was in the late ’60s? Actors or actresses who’ve done a lot of great work over the years, but who no longer have the heat and are most likely never going to enjoy a reoccurence. That probably covers the vast majority of above-the-title actors, but nobody ever said this town was a bowl of cherries.

“Few modern films are as riveting as Jonathan Demme‘s The Silence of the Lambs, which swept the 1992 Oscars and whose central villain (besides Hannibal Lecter) is the wannabe transsexual Jame Gumb (played by Ted Levine) who happens to be a serial killer — a character, according to Demme, who simply hated himself and wished he was a woman.

“This brilliant and terrifying movie contained a handful of memorable movie characters (from Hannibal to Clarice Starling to Dr. Frederick Chilton to U.S. Sen. Ruth Martin to, yes, Jame Gumb) who are all in a swirling pitch-black thriller for adults and not starring in a public service announcement. It wasn’t concerned with ideology or representation (though in many ways it is a feminist movie), and its main focus was to simply tell a gripping story with everyone working at the peak of their craft.

“One gets the terrible feeling that this classic would never be made today, let alone win the Oscar, in our current culture where everyone is screeching about victimhood and inclusivity and representation and identity politics — all of which distort reality and have absolutely nothing to do with creating art.

In early July of ’76 my girlfriend Sophie and I were hanging in the back yard of a two-story Paris home on rue du Bac. It was the storied residence ** of Georges and Francois Raymond, a 40ish couple for whom Sophie has worked as au pair girl. A nice hot day, tall glasses of iced tea on a serving tray, relaxation all around.

Anyway we were taking turns shooting at a paper target with a heavy-duty, spring-loaded pellet gun, and as Georges was loading a part sprang loose and slammed into his abdomen. He had to be in awful pain, but Georges held his breath, clenched his teeth, didn’t make a sound. I remember thinking to myself, “Wow…tough material.”

That’s not me. I’m about to start my third day of godawful rib pain due to my falling accident in the Sierras last Sunday afternoon, and I’ve probably said “owww!” at least 30 or 40 times since the incident. I’ve also said “aagghh!” and “oh, God!” and “fuck fuck fuck!” a few times. I’ve also said “Jesus H. Christ!”

As much as I admire the Georges Raymond or Lee Marvin approach to pain (acknowledge but don’t succumb, no crying or moaning) I can’t live up to it. I’ll talk a tough game but when serious pain comes a callin’ I’m a wuss.

Every physical movement that requires the slightest use of back or rib-area muscles hurls me into the worst pain dungeon I’ve ever experienced in my life. Coughing is agony. Just raising my right arm can be murder. I’ve barely been able to sleep in the conjugal bed (no shifting positions, strictly on my back) but for some reason I’ve been able to nap on the couch in the wee hours. I can’t dress or undress without pain. I’ve had to ask Tatyana for help putting on jeans, slipping on socks, tying shoelaces, etc.

I was so distracted this morning I couldn’t make myself write. My adjustable cane is my constant companion, and it doesn’t help very much. I’ll be visiting a CVS later this afternoon to buy one of those supported rib-brace bandages. I’ve discovered a few Tramadol in my bathroom cabinet, which at least is something. Tomorrow I have a 2 pm appointment with a holistic chiropractor named Fernando Mata, whom I went to in ’13 after lifting heavy boxes up some stairs and screwing up my back big-time. There’s a strap-on heating pad arriving sometime this afternoon via Amazon. What else can I do?

Oh, to be where I was last Saturday, not a pain or care in the world, happy and speeding on a Nevada highway.

1:30 pm update: I’ve decided to go see a holistic chiropractor at 2 pm. A local guy, Santa Monica Blvd., takes some insurance but not mine.

** The Raymond home has a long tunnelled driveway right off rue du Bac, and this part of the home was used by the What’s New, Pussycat? people when they shot in Paris in ’65.

From the second half of a 2008 HE piece called “Obama 2.0,” posted on 8.25.08. It alludes to Beto O’Rourke and the notion that Presidential candidates have to be deeply experienced with the right kind of governmental background, etc.

“A guy on a Yahoo answer page wrote the following about two weeks ago, to wit: ‘Experience is evidently not a reliable measure. When judging presidential performance vs. their experience, it’s all over the map. No reasonable correlation between experience and performance exists.

“Of course, the same is true in business. For example, most of the computer companies that are now mega-corporations were started by kids in garages.

“I myself got hired by a very big, very famous company into a pretty important position with no experience, I just convinced them to do it. I wound up being one of their two top performing executives and brought very significant turnaround to several departments in the company. No experience.

“Nowadays, I hire people because of what they can do, not what they have done (or not).

“If experience was so important, then only the top senators would have a chance in elections, the ones that have been in the senate for 25 years or more. Has this been the case? Ever?

“Experience does not matter, either to performance nor to the American people. Because we’re smarter than that. Experience doesn’t guarantee a person — it just tells you about what type of person they are.”

Most of us, I suspect, are at least half-convinced that the alleged attack upon Empire costar Jussie Smollett was performed and not real. Given the latest reports there doesn’t seem to be any way to dodge this tentative conclusion.

Smollett apparently paid Olabinjo and Abimbola Osundairo to “attack” him on 1.29 in the Streeterville section of Chicago, “according to multiple sources with direct knowledge of the investigation.”

If things pan out as they seem to be panning out, this episode obviously indicates a worrisome pathology and a reckless streak. Not to mention a lack of street smarts.

And yet no one was physically harmed and no real felonies were committed. It was basically a self-produced staging of live political theatre.

My prevailing reaction is one of sympathy for the poor guy. To go to all this trouble and obviously risk his whole career…words fail. But I don’t believe in capital punishment. I believe in therapy and potential probation and temporary exile (i.e., Moses in the desert) and second chances.

I couldn’t stand Martin Scorsese‘s New York, New York when I caught it in mid-July 1977. It made me go numb. I’d fallen deeply in love with Scorsese and Robert DeNiro after seeing Mean Streets three or four years earlier, but New York New York was so bad that I thought they’d both done serious harm to their careers.

How could two gifted guys who understood the urgent, nocturnal culture of Manhattan and all the undercurrents that propel that…how did they manage to make such a busy, agitated, synthetic downer?

Everyone understood what Scorsese was going for — a dysfunctional love story within a deliberately glossy, sound-stagey tribute to flamboyant big-studio musicals of the ’40s and early ’50s.

There were no difficulties with Liza Minnelli‘s performance as gifted singer Francine Evans, and certainly none with the music or production design. The problem was that Robert DeNiro Jimmy Doyle, a saxophonist, is one of the most infuriating assholes in film history.

The other problem is that New York, New York was a cocaine movie — actually one of the most infamous coke films ever made. It’s all there, chapter and verse, in Peter Biskind‘s “Easy Riders, Raging Bulls.”

Posted almost exactly nine years ago: “HE reader Bobby Rivers has pointed out that during last night’s Martin Scorsese montage before he accepted his Golden Globe life achievement award, there was no clip from New York, New York, even though the band played the Kander & Ebb title tune as Scorsese walked to the stage.

“The reason, of course, is that very few people feel much affection for New York, New York.

It has, however, one electric scene — i.e., when De Niro is physically thrown out of a club that Minnelli is performing in, and he kicks out several light bulbs adorning the entrance way as he’s manhandled out by the manager and a bouncer. I would never buy the Bluray, but I would stream this calamity (which Pauline Kael called “an honest failure”) just to watch this bit again.

There’s a piece of it in the above trailer — it begins at 1:55.

Better late than never: I’ve finally watched Marshall Curry‘s A Night At The Garden, which is nominated for Best Documentary Short Oscar. It took me long enough — watch it below.

We’ve all read what it’s about, but these seven minutes of archival footage (which I wish had been colorized) are creepy and chilling all the same.

There isn’t a dime’s worth of difference between the flag-saluting American Nazis who filled Madison Square Garden 80 years ago, and those rural, under-educated redhats who always cheer at President Trump‘s hillbilly Nuremberg rallies. Jews were the villains back then; today it’s African Americans, Mexicans, LGBTQs and others who are looking to poison this country with their heathen-like views and traditions.

Curry: “It really illustrated that the tactics of demagogues have been the same throughout the ages. They attack the press, using sarcasm and humor. They tell their followers that they are the true Americans (or Germans or Spartans or…). And they encourage their followers to ‘take their country back’ from whatever minority group has ruined it.”

Ten years ago Hugh Jackman hosted the 81st Academy Awards, which aired on 2.22.09. He did a good enough job, I suppose, but God, that opening number. And the winners that year! I will never, ever watch Slumdog Millionaire again. I talked myself into thinking I liked it, but I didn’t actually. That game-show host drove me up the wall. The only part I really liked was the Bollywood number at the end.

I wasn’t all that delighted or levitated by any of the ’08 Best Picture contenders, to be honest — Frost/Nixon (good but calm down), The Curious Case of Benjamin Button (the idea of Brad Pitt as a man-child became more and more irritating), Milk (Sean Penn was/is too short to play Harvey Milk), The Reader (Harvey steamroller) and the Danny Boyle.

My favorite ’08 films: Che, Man on Wire, The Visitor, Gran Torino, Vicky Cristina Barcelona, Burn After Reading, Tropic Thunder, The Wrestler, WALL*E, Doubt, Three Monkeys, Waltz With Bashir, I’ve Loved You For So Long, Rachel Getting Married.

Aching rib cages aren’t conducive to good writing. They play hell with your concentration, partly because you’re so fearful of the next acute pain spasm that…well, it’s hard to concentrate. See? I couldn’t follow through all that well on the premise of that second sentence.

Plus I was so afraid of the pain last night that I “slept” (if you want to call it that) on my back the whole time. Plus I’m using a cane to help me stand and walk around.

That said, I feel better now than I did last night. Well, somewhat. Maybe the recovery won’t take as long as I feared. Last night the pain was excruciating; today it’s merely grueling and oppressive. I don’t feel all that great but I’m half-sensing that recovery is just around the corner.

This morning a well-meaning commenter said I need to be more careful, etc. HE response: “I fell on slick ice and crashed into brutally hard ground yesterday and broke nothing. No stiff neck, no bruises, no cracked ribs, no sprained fingers…nothing. I have a painful condition now but I’ll be past it in a week or two. I slipped and fell on the ice in Park City four or five years ago and nothing happened that time either. I’m bionic, a battleship, nearly bulletproof…the biological exception to the rule.”

Congrats to Eighth Grade‘s Bo Burnham for winning the WGA’s Original Screenplay award, and especially to WGA members for collectively announcing that they don’t give a damn about channelling or predicting Academy thinking because — go for it! — Eighth Grade isn’t Oscar-nominated in this category.

“To the other nominees in the category, have fun at the Oscars, losers!’” Burnham said at the podium.

Congrats also to Can You Ever Forgive Me‘s Nicole Holofcener and Jeff Whitty for taking the WGA’s Best Adapted Screenplay award.

It was chilly and gently snowing as Tatyana and I trudged around a snow-packed area near a blocked-off road in the Sierras, south of Mt. Whitney. Took some nice shots, a good slow-pan video, satisfaction.

On the way back to the car I stepped on a harmless-looking patch of snow which had suddenly become icy. Total slip-out, feet in the air and a terrible crashing collision.

I literally heard a slight snapping or cracking sound as I hit the ground. I half-landed on my right arm and half on my right rib area. It hurt like a bastard plus my wind was knocked out. For five or ten seconds I whined and moaned like a candy-ass. If Lee Marvin had been there he would’ve been ashamed of me. Or for me.

I eventually got up and managed a brusque “I’m okay.” 100 feet later I fell again. Fucking 25 degree downward angle plus that icy snowfall. Then we couldn’t get the car out of the parking lot due to the same slick ice. After some struggling we figured it out. Jesus.

No broken wrist or broken arm, no leg bruise, 100% arm, hand, leg and neck mobility, no lung damage and just a couple of small cuts on my right hand. But my right rib cage aches like a sonuvabitch.

As we speak Tatyana is driving me to a Cedars Sinai Urgent Care clinic on Wilshire near La Cienega. What are they gonna do if I have a cracked rib? Wrap my mid-section in one of those high-tension bandages? Prescribe some pain pills?

X–Ray Result: No cracked ribs. But at the risk of sounding repetitive, it fucking hurts.