Successful Followup

Shaun of the Dead is easily the best horror-comedy since Saturday the 14th. I don’t count Creepshow or Tales from the Crypt because they are horror narratives that occasionally delve into comedy. Shaun of the Dead holds a special and unique place in movies for me because of its successful genre-crossover. It is definitely a horror movie, but it is also very funny. The plot is familiar; zombies destroy civilization while a few ragged survivors fight for their lives. The first big laughs come from the blissful obliviousness of the main characters as their world crumbles around them. The laughs continue as the well-directed cast of strong actors encounter and escape zombie peril while London crashes. Writer/star Simon Pegg, writer/director Edgar Wright, and co-star Nick Frost created a gem. Naturally, it’s exciting to see a reunion of these same principal minds (along with some of the Dead cast) to take on a new genre through a comedic lens. Hot Fuzz opened last weekend and I was there to see it.

It’s fun. Lots of fun. There’s much of the same successful formula. The comedy comes from good use of old jokes and jollying with the police-action movie genre. Yet Hot Fuzz never becomes straight parody along the lines of Airplane, Hot Shots, or The Naked Gun. As with Shaun of the Dead, Pegg and Wright respect their genre while playing around. There’s loud and impressive gun battles, splattery murders, and all-around good combat. There’s also an intriguing, if not overly complex murder-mystery plot. Simply put, Pegg (a hard-case London cop forcefully re-assigned to the rural country) must find out why so many back-woods Brits in a small, peaceful village are being suspiciously bumped off. Frost plays a bumbling member of local law-enforcement and Jim Broadbent (an accomplished actor in his own right) plays the forcefully docile local Chief of Police. The deaths are obviously murders, but the townsfolk are content to write everything off as quaint accidents. Pegg spends a large portion of the movie trying to convince the small-town yokels and himself that he’s not imagining everything.

This brings me to my one major complaint; the movie is about 10 minutes too long. There isn’t one scene or character or plot that needs to be chopped. Rather, a few small parts could be pared off throughout. There’s maybe a few too many minutes of overly simple-minded townsfolk, a couple of trim-able scenes of nearly catching the murderer again, and a bumbling moment or two to remove. This is not a crippling fault, but a slightly shorter running time would have helped. Something that works so well shouldn't be overdone. At least it's a good movie that's a little long. Comparing this movie to another consumable would be to say that it's more akin to eating too much good food rather than a good meal gone bad.

Having addressed an unexpected fault, here’s a pleasant surprise. Timothy Dalton is really good. He plays the clearly and savoringly evil big businessman taking advantage of the small town folk. In addition, he always shows up at crime scenes having made obviously incriminating remarks just before murders occur: “He’ll be in little bits tomorrow” and “I’d love to crack your skull open” are two choice examples. Dalton takes to his part with relish and he’s enjoyable to watch. Nice to see a less successful ex-Bond make good. The addled members of the local SWAT team and the hick townspeople make up an excellent ensemble. The story works, the movie flows well, and great genre-bending is in full effect. Pegg and Wright also take the time to develop their characters and create a sense of conflict and development for a larger story among the comedy, blood, and bullets. Pegg’s and Frost’s characters both have personal issues to solve, and the movie takes several turns that make the mystery and action more complex. The movie works really well in many ways, and I’m glad to say that the smart-minded folk behind Shaun of the Dead did themselves good again. I hope the movie gets wide release and this creative team gets it well-deserved due so that we can see more of their work.

On The Recent Terrible Event...

My condolences to the students, faculty, friends and family of the dead and wounded at Virginia Tech. As a college teacher, even part-time & unemployed as I am, I feel for the horror that so many experienced on April 16 on the Virginia Tech campus. A terrible tragedy. Not much more can be said at this point, but I do have a few points about the reactions to this tragedy on the other blog I write for, in case anyone is interested. Regardless, my sympathies to those experiencing terrible pain and loss from this event.

Slathering on the Corporate Cheese

My latest assignment to address bill paying involves looking at bright, fresh print ads for a major media conglomerate. I'm doing the same thing as I do in English class; look for grammar and spelling errors in composition as well as non-sensical layout. When I started this assignment, there was talk of some copywriting as well as working with new desktop publishing software. Thus far, it's been all error checking and layout repair with one notable exception.

This mega-powerful conglomerate is taking a page straight out of "The Dundies" episode of The Office by creating a ceremony with an Academy Awards theme. This ceremony presents awards to employees who promote diversity in the workplace. Rewarding employees by giving them a ceremony like they're movie stars is a nice, if derivative idea that should please many people. It's enjoyable to watch the creation of the show's program because I get to see some multimedia software at work (a part of modern technology I'm slowly catching up to) and I get to watch the assembly of the corporate award show veneer. The online and print program has appropriate glitz and glam to it and I was allowed to make one contribution beyond correcting horrendous spelling and inarticulate prose. The copywriter needed a small bit for the program and she asked me for my thoughts.

"I need a quote here and I'm not sure what to do," the copywriter said with a nervous fidget (the proof was due in an hour and printing a 50+ page Mac document with picture files takes at least an hour).

We needed this quote for space filler between two different sections of the awards. Other quotes sprinkled in the program involved standard congratulatory corporate rhetoric such as, "This team rolled up its sleeves," "His work pushed this account over the top," "She catapulted the project," etc. Since the filler space transitions between the individual awards and the group awards, I immediately thought of the needs of the many outweighing the needs of few, and tried to find a comparable catchphrase. With that in mind, I said, "We should have something really deep and cheesy and silly like..."

Pause. Then I finished my thought.

"The power of one adds to the powers of many."

The copywriter gasped with a smile on her face. "They'll eat that right UP!" she said and quickly filled the program space with my cheese; very likely the worst phrase I've ever composed, yet a phrase that seemed to fit so well.

My next thought pictured my phrase on the bottom of a huge wall poster showing a sweeping overhead shot of a tiny human rock climber, little fists raised in triumph, perched atop the highest mountaintop in a glorious range of forests and high granite peaks. Miserable corporate workers look at this poster, read my phrase, and curse me unknowingly for making their working lives worse by shoving treacle triteness in their faces, reminding them to be happy in their daily drudgery. The point of these imaginings, of course, is that I've copywritten, packaged, and sold my cheese trite phrase for a ton of cash and am busy spending as much of it as I can.

However, I am like the people I've made to suffer in my imaginings: I'm the corporate worker who looks for breaks and reveries to occupy my thoughts during the necessary drudgery of corporate business. Still, for one split second, I can feel like I've contributed to something larger. It's likely that hundreds, if not thousands, of people will be reading this phrase during the awards show (I'm working with one of the BIG conglomerates) so my phrase, this tiny and horrible part of my writing, will have the largest audience ever given to one of my compositions.

So, all you diversity award winners and audience members, I apologize for dropping this awful clause in your lap. However, I'm glad that so many people will read one of my sentences.

Clarity in Amsterdam, Part Seven (Conclusion)

The final chapter from the revised version of travel writings from 2005.

If you're new this story, catch up by clicking on "PART ONE" below.

PART ONE
PART TWO
PART THREE
PART FOUR
PART FIVE
PART SIX

We all take the last couple of days trying to justify ourselves as cultured tourists. We go to the Rijksmuseum and the Anne Frank house. We travel to Belgium to witness beer being made in the last brewery that uses natural yeast in the air for fermentation. Every other brewery in the world imports its yeast. I learn that beer is actually yeast piss. It doesn’t bother me.

We see the brilliant works of Rembrandt, the glory of the 16th century treasures from the lost Dutch empire, the mashing of modern and medieval architecture in Brussels; we are very, very stoned when we see these and many other beautiful works of culture, art, and life.

Mystique is part of the lure of Amsterdam, just as mystique holds the power to secrets. Imagination gives more power than reality. I love Amsterdam, but I find that I don’t want to debauch myself as much as I thought I would because there isn’t as much mystique or wonder for vices that are readily available, even for drugs and sex (although I still remind myself that I would not feel this way had I been to Amsterdam when I was five years younger). It was as if every piece of candy that I ever wanted was put in front of me, but it was the allure and not the action that held the mystique.

Returning home is very hard. The trip was a protective cocoon of sorts, isolating me from all the problems I face, but I have to come out from behind the shield. I still don’t know how to like myself more. I don’t feel any additional strength or wisdom. There is no clear path for me, no enlightenment that I so desperately wanted and expected. But there is no sense of waste or loss. I’ve gained something, but it may take a long time (if ever) to notice any real effects.

I hope to return to Holland soon, now that I can find my way in Amsterdam. I’ve kept my city map. I’ll bring it with me when I return, but I won’t need to look at it so much. On my first day, when I was lost, I did promise to stay at a hotel near the first canal off Damrak. There is that and many other things I want to do on the return trip, the first being a stop in the coffee shop to watch European football. There, the singing will start anew, and for a little while, I will again know perfect unison.

A Welcome Prize

I'm pleased to report that my Little Miss Sunshine review won an online contest from m80 and I now have a sparkling new copy of Little Miss Sunshine (movie info) as a prize. Like my theater work, I don't expect to be compensated for writing, but I sure do appreciate any sort of pay when it does come. Ideally, of course, I'd be compensated commensurate to the time, sweat, blood, etc. I've put into the two crafts I love so dearly, but if I did either of these activities for the money, I'd have left them over ten years ago. So I will take a few seconds to bask in the appreciation of the moment.

'Kay. I'm done.

Regardless of contests or compensation, I firmly believe that Little Miss Sunshine was the best movie of the year last year. The Departed, Babel, The Devil Wears Prada were all fine movies, but did not fulfill as much as LMS did. I'll gladly post thoughts about those movies later to show their worth. I'm sure I'll write about Pan's Labyrinth and Children of Men as well, but in the realm of storytelling, meaningful comedic reflection, and ensemble acting, nothing's touching LMS for a long time, if ever.

More reviews to see:
Hot Fuzz
The Descent
Musings on M. Night Shyamalan

Clarity in Amsterdam, Part Six.

03/15/07 UPDATE: This piece was originally in five parts, but I've made changes. There will be one more post after this one to complete the revisions.

PART ONE
PART TWO
PART THREE
PART FOUR
PART FIVE

We take many walks throughout the city to sample the different coffee shops; on the third walk of the third day, I decide to try the hashish hot chocolate, dubbed “Little Slice of Heaven” by our group. The mixture goes down easily enough, but after fifteen minutes, even standing and walking is an adventure. As I repeatedly demand to know if everyone is getting as high as I am, we somehow decide it’s time to return to the hotel for the evening.

The closer we get to the hotel, the higher I go. We stop off for dinner just before the Luxer. Like the lousy American I am, I’m stoned out of mind and behaving like an ass. During the meal, I watch Edmond float above the table, and I decide I need to see some great football (meaning soccer in Yank-speak) while I’m in Europe.

I don’t remember getting into my hotel room, but I’m lying on one of two single beds in the room and the TV’s showing great football. Edmond is my babysitter. We’re watching Manchester United versus Arsenal. As with all European football games, the crowd sings different songs throughout the match. I say, “Ooooohhhhhh my God, how do they all know what to sing at the same time? The fans are all singing the same song at once! It’s so beautiful! How do they do that?”

Edmond smiles and says nothing.

I continue gushing. “Do they have a choreographer who tells them what to sing when?”

I have never seen something as spectacular as this football game nor heard music as beautiful as the fans that sing in unison this night. Every pass is extraordinary. The game is close and the crowd swells in anticipation at every goal possibility. All is thrilling. I never freak out.

Eventually, my bed stops spinning beneath me and I feel like I’ve come down and taken enough of Edmond’s time. I tell him that I’m fine and feel great and that it was good of him to sit with me for a bit. He needs to get out so he can get as stoned as I am.

After Edmond leaves, I take a shower to help me get down enough so that I can go downstairs to the bar, get drunk, and talk to Jeff the bartender. Jeff is American and a former professional basketball player who has lived in Amsterdam since 1982. He’s good for conversation and getting guests in the bar to talk together. Jeff is a comfort bartender.

As I shower, the lights in the bathroom occasionally go to a blinding brilliance, sometimes accompanied by a soft crackling sound like the bulbs are shivering. I think about everything that’s happened over the past three years, yet I feel no pain, no embarrassment, no hate, no anger, no sadness. Just a relaxed objectivity of looking at events as facts and not how they affect me. I think about how my wife and I are living together again, that we’re talking about our problems and fighting constructively instead just throwing venom at each other. I think of reasons to be scared and reasons to be hopeful. I marvel at how easily all the hoarded hate and grief has washed off.

I’m standing still in the shower with my arms crossed. I look down and see my shadow washing its hair. My shadow has long, thick hair that billows and swirls. I think of Beauty and the Beast, of transforming into something that’s horrible yet beautiful. A voice from somewhere says, “You really need to like yourself better.”

I spend a nice long night in the bar, drinking heavily and smoking frequently. Sometimes I have company, sometimes I’m alone. I don’t have a sense of contentment or reassurance, but I’m not really actively looking.

To be concluded...

UPDATE: THE CONCLUSION

Another Quarter in the Bag

My latest class are at an end except for the 700 pages of final papers I need to read. This was a good quarter in the land of Academia. Teaching three writing classes is difficult and tiring, but not the impossible task some would have you believe. Living on not knowing how you're paying rent and bills is an impossible task. However, it is also a task to be directly combatted. I loved teaching, I loved getting to meet and read more students, I loved practicing my teaching, and I've had interesting developments in work and pedagogy at my University (more on this later, especially if the strange political winds continue to blow, and even more especially if they continue to bring a smell I'm really not liking). My best friend has taken up the blogging torch to my great delight; he tells great stories and I'm looking forward to reading them. Spring is in the air, college basketball is in full fever pitch (sorry Mr. Hornby), and Chicago is the greatest city in the world to reside in during this time of year. Now if only I could put a few more quarters in my pocket.

I've watched it several times and it's still funny. What's with me?

There's good reasons why Your Moment of Zen is one of my favorite blogs. First, I know that weirdo blogger personally and he's good eye for good stuff as well a fine acting talent. Second, he somehow finds stuff like "Closer to Spock." I don't know why I find it so funny and why it's funny every time I watch it. It probably has to do with nerd deconstruction, which I absolutely love. See for yourself.

Little Miss Sunshine (My second review, semi-requested)

UPDATE: This post won an award. A small one, but still an award. DETAILS.

The Oscar race is heating up, and I have to push for Little Miss Sunshine. Why? Primarily because this could have been an awful movie. The script has very treacle content that could easily turn into emotionally overblown performances. Not that the writing is bad, but there is a high degree of sentimentality, requiring great skill of the directors and actors to avoid melodramatic pitfalls. Fortunately, the ensemble is blessed with gifted actors who can dance between the comedic and dramatic with enviable ease and directors who know how to showcase their actors.

This is the story of a family and the challenges to its unity. Make no mistake, this is a comedy (and an extremely funny one) but serious issues abound: family dissolution, suicide, lost love, bankruptcy, and exploitation. The joy of the movie for me was the continuing escape from the ever present threat of total family ruin. The family faces one crisis after another, yet as an audience, we're given the gift of invested detachment in the action as one thing after another goes wrong for the beautifully hapless family. We're given the ability to live that familiar crisis response trope of "one day we'll look back on this and laugh" from a safe distance. The action moves smoothly and the movie moves fluidly through its plot. The actors invest so much commitment and life to their characters that they're lovable even when life brings out the worst in them. We've known and faced the disappointments that the characters experience, and its refreshing to see their hilarious lack of a smooth, gracious response to life's problems. Family implosion under stress seen through honesty and humor is one of the many strengths of this movie.

The previously-mentioned strengths (sweet but not overly sentimental story, powerful cast, equal parts hilarity and gravity, smart directors) are enough to make this film an oscar-worthy jewel. However, the wonderfully funny satire of the Little Miss Sunshine Pageant is what catapults this movie to an elite place for me. The subtle commentary on perceptions of beauty and its disturbing influences is realized so well that I still hurt from laughing at it on my third viewing. This is a beautiful little movie of the highest quality. I hope it's rewarded as such.

Revising a Draft

It's been a good long time since I first published the "Clarity in Amsterdam" series here, and I've been revising and revamping it for a while now. I wanted to post the updated changes. There will be another part added eventually (part five is no longer the conclusion). So, if you've read it before, take another look and see if you like it better. If you've never read it, give it a first look-see. I'll be posting the conclusion soon.

I always sermonize to my students about the value of revision, so I'm doing my best to practice what I preach.

The series is posted in the sidebar or you can start reading here.

Other Developments in Local Stage Horror

Time's rapidly dwindling to see Operation Infiltration at the Factory Theater. Just like my previous acting experience with the Factory Theater, I've immensely enjoyed the ensemble, the cast, and the process. It's been a welcome balm in a frustrating year. The past twelve months peppered life with heights and plummets, but the Factory shows stand out as powerfully good times.

Come and support my local mental balm.

Voodoo Moon: My First (and possibly last) Requested Review

About a month ago, Mel Marchesseault from Anchor Bay Entertainment contacted me to see if I would give a little advertising and write a review for one of their new releases, Voodoo Moon, starring Eric Mabius and Charisma Carpenter. I'm very pleased that my little blogzine has attracted a bit of attention and I'm flattered that Mr. Marchesseault would contact me for my opinion on the film. I received the advance DVD copy a little over a week ago and gave it a look-see.

Here's the plot: a brother and sister are the only surviving members of Merrifield, Tennessee, a sleepy town that was wiped out twenty years earlier by a demonic onslaught. Brother Cole (Eric Mabius of Resident Evil) and sister Heather (Charisma Carpenter of Buffy The Vampire Slayer and Angel) both have cloudy and somewhat unexplained psychic powers that they use to fight the devil (Rik Young), a dapper black-goateed fellow who is, as usual, preparing to unleash the apocalypse on poor old earth.

As for the production, I'm instantly in doubt anytime the opening credits finish with "Written, edited, produced and directed by [the same person]." That's a lot of hats to carry. The multitasker in this case is Kevin Van Hook, known for visual effects supervision in big-budget films, I, Robot and Daredevil to name just a couple. Voodoo Moon certainly has fancy light shows and the special effects level exceeds most low-budget horror fare. I got a particular kick out of a possessed priest flicking bullets out of mid-air to dispatch his hapless victim. Creating imaginative effects and scenarios to facilitate those effects are a strength of Van Hook's. However, writing and directing are not among Van Hook's strengths at this point; possibly the work load of four job titles was too much or nobody bothered to resolve the glaring script and directing problems. There are too many characters, too many unexplained and/or unnecessary plot lines and the pace is jerky and uneven. The smoothest parts of the movie are when the computer-generated effects are commanding the action, but effects without effective people and compelling stories to drive them ultimately don't satisfy.

In terms of performances, the clearly well-experienced cast delivers solid work, for the most part. Carpenter is her usual enjoyable bratty princess self. The psychically connected rag-tag group of supporting fighters also have accomplished resumes, Jeffrey Combs and John Amos especially, but their connections to the plot are spotty and their characters aren't developed enough to warrant investment. Mabius, the lead defender against the apocalypse, is too monotone, seemingly relying on his (also unexplained) facial scar to emote tough and rebellious so he doesn't have to relate to his scene partners. One happy exception to this is a quiet healing scene, notably with no fancy effects whatsoever, that he shares with the very accomplished and horror-friendly Dee Wallace Stone (The Howling, Cujo). Stone understands that less is sometimes more and fancy sound and light shows will only carry an audience so far. Stone, seemingly like the script development and directing process, is unfortunately killed off far too early and her grounding influence is missed.

Van Hook is clearly an able filmmaker and the amount of talented and accomplished actors in this film speaks well of his connections and workability within the industry. Van Hook should share the storymaking and storytelling workloads for his next project so that he can focus on his truest strength: crafting cool visual imagery. I admire the workload that Van Hook gave himself and I credit his ability to assemble an impressive ensemble, but he needs to fill in his writing and production ensemble as well as he does his actors. That way, the sounds and lights will have finer storytelling surroundings. Anyone who understands the technical requirements for CGI effects ought to translate that dedication of resources to writing and directing. Address the full process and good results will follow.

Awakening

The large gap of time between the last post and this one comes from the many happenings during the gap. Late August-early September means classes start again and I have to write new syllabi, go over tons of classroom reading, ready quizzes, and basically take all my time to prepare for the Autumn quarter. Classes started last week: I'm teaching two writing courses and one reading course. Having a year of teaching under my belt really helps. I'm glad to be teaching the freshmen and also glad I feel less like a teaching freshman. It's an honor to meet and teach these young adults on their first day of college.

In addition, I've been cast in my second show with the Factory Theater, Operation Infiltration, a horror movie on stage. This is very much a work in progress. I'm interested to see how it develops; it's a bold theatrical move that'll be hard to pull off, but these are very creative people. I'm meeting some new folks and working again with some wonderfully familiar friends. It'll be an interesting ride, one that's been in the works for a while.

Autumn brings many shifts for students, teachers, and performers. This is full gear time and things are changing. Strange that so much comes to life at this time when the leaves fall, the flowers die, and the earth readies for winter slumber. I don't want the winter to be a big sleep. Luckily, with all the wonderful work going on, I feel like I'll be awake for months.

Back into Horror

Can't get away from it, especially after seeing a truly fine example of the horror genre in The Descent. I've been moaning about the current state of horror movies as I see them and talking about some new developments in the genre, mostly from Asian cinema, but it had still been a long time since I genuinely got scared watching a movie. Not after this weekend.

When I first heard a commercial for The Descent, I thought it might be another shlockly gore-fest along the lines of Hostel or the remake of The Hills Have Eyes. The deep-voiced voice-over guy who reads copy for most horror commercials opens the commercial with (paraphrased), "People are concerned that amount of blood and gore in The Descent goes too far." The basic premise is that a group of young women into extreme sports adventure get together to try exploring a deep cave system in the remote Appalachian Mountains. The caves contain a few surprises (creepy creatures being only one of them) and so do the interactions between the characters. It is true that there is plenty of blood and gore, but, I know it sounds silly, the gore is purposeful. I'll continue to write about this while trying not to give too much away.

Along with purposeful gore, a reason The Descent works is because it successfully combines four primal human fears: enclosed spaces, heights, darkness, and monsters. The scariest parts of this movie don't even involve the monsters. While the beasties are scary (and provide the best jump moments), what is truly frightening is the suffocating feel that the caves create as the women delve further into the earth. Another reason the movie works (and this is where Hostel and The Hills Have Eyes remake failed miserably) is because the characters aren't stupid. They are people out of their element and their vulnerabilities are clearly exposed, but they don't have inconvenient stumbles while being chased or have overly convenient lapses in judgment. Furthermore, the protagonists are all women and they are all strong women, which I found a welcome approach. Writer/Director Neil Marshall gives his women just enough development into their character and excels at building the fear through vulnerable surroundings. The caves are dark, there are numerous places to fall far down into deep pits and narrow cracks where slim bodies can barely squeeze through or easily get stuck. Those surroundings are scary enough. Spice in some shadowy crawlers that tear flesh with their teeth and there are four deadly elements to create plenty of shivers and jumps.

Finally, to return to the gore, the movie works because the characters fight for survival against the elements and frightening predators that pitilessly kill just like any other animal or element. Animals eat people. When people get eaten, gory things happen. Thus, purposeful gore that is ripe for horror fodder, especially when paired with elemental combat against nature and somewhat supernatural nasties. The fight for survival is thrilling as the women descend into savagery to match their creature and nature antagonists. There is more than one Cro-Magnon moment that's very satisfying. The icing on the cake is the interactions between the characters and how their relationships break down or strengthen in the circumstances, especially between two characters with a history. I won't say more as it would spoil the richness.

So go to this movie. See it in the theater because you can share the inevitable titters with those around you as you experience fears and jumps together. If horror is your love, this is an exotic romance in a rich land with an alluring partner. Enjoy your night together.

Inbetween Days

It's just about mid-summer, so it's an appropriate time for me to think about my own intervals. Mine is a heavy transition period: between jobs, between shows, listening to so many people complain about turning 30 when I've been past that for years, waiting on family, and being in the process of figuring out what to do next. As seen from earlier posts, I'm a big fan of nostalgia, especially since I'm transitioning right now. It's good to look back and think happily about recent history. To think of past and present, I'll occupy myself with text analysis of a contextual work in order to practice for the upcoming school year. Here's the opening stanza of a piece that I've liked for many years:

Yesterday I got so old
I felt like I could die
Yesterday I got so old
It made me want to cry

Text analysis: this piece is moving back and forth through time. Notice that the author says "Yesterday I got so old," meaning yesterday was the first day of getting so old that there's such a feeling of grief. There's the disconnect between the time of actual aging and the experience of aging. Feelings of yesterday and feelings of today can be radically different. Regardless, this experience creates a strong emotional response. For me, getting older is a process of letting go, something I hate to do. Youth, friends, possessions, expectations, philosophies, and many other things leave us through time. Getting older is about both growth and loss. Could this piece be a simple matter of acceptance or is there something more? What caused this sudden knowledge of age, and what will the feelings of tomorrow be? A later stanza of this piece shows more grief of loss:

Yesterday I got so scared
I shivered like a child
Yesterday away from you
It froze me deep inside

We're still moving through time while talking about what happened yesterday. The author, while getting older, still feels the extreme fears of youth. Older, wiser, more experienced folk still shiver like children. So some things remain constant through our time. Past and present can still collide violently. We're also introduced to the "you" here. The loss of "you" (whatever that may be, person, place or thing) created this longing, and this loss may have come from choice, or perhaps a series of choices. Other stanzas talk about decisions and longing:

Go on go on
Just walk away
Go on go on
Your choice is made
Go on go on
And disappear
Go on go on
Away from here

Come back come back
Don't walk away
Come back come back
Come back today
Come back come back
Why can't you see
Come back come back
Come back to me

The contrast in these words (go on, come back) all feels familiar to me: fear, longing, looking back, coping with aging, hoping for a greater future, and so on. The remaining stanza helps give clarity and specificity:

And I know I was wrong
When I said it was true
That it couldn't be me and be her
Inbetween without you
Without you

There's a confusing line to follow here: "What I said before about how I couldn't be without you and have 'her' between us and something else: that was wrong." In my mind, the author is saying, it was wrong to think that I needed something from the past with me as I go to something new: I can make the transition to the future without holding on to everything from the past. At this point, I'm left wondering what "her inbetween" refers to. Could this "her" also be the "you?" How else could this piece be interpreted? Are "her" and "you" people or something else? These questions would be the homework assignment. End of lesson plan.

Yes, that's the song by The Cure (a past favorite of mine in 1985, a very good year) somewhat out of order from its original format. I'll happily use The Cure or whatever else for text analysis in my class. We can read Plato, Shakespeare, and Hemingway any time. The classics have their worth, but so do many contemporary works of multiple genres. The past and present both have their place. So does the time in between.

Pulp Friday Actually on Friday (PF9)

I may actually stick to the Fridays, but we'll see. Pulp episodes continue...

Previously on Pulp Friday:

PF 1
PF 2
PF 3
PF 4
PF 5
PF 6
PF 7
PF 8

”It’s the last thing you did in Maui.”

H.P.’s words are still ringing in my head as he and the goons leave the court. I’m still not quite sure what he means yet, but I’ve got a nervous jitter in my veins that says it’ll come to me soon.

I’m still thinking about this when something obvious jolts me out of my reverie. As I watch H.P. and the goons walk across the baseball fields, it occurs to me that I should follow them.

I leave the tennis courts and walk toward my apartment and then stop behind the largest tree near the courts, hoping I’m stealthy enough.

I look out from behind the tree and see the three figures heading toward the gym parking garage. I walk parallel to them, but away from the sidewalk. The dusk has settled deep enough that the purple-pink glow from the sidewalk lampposts becomes the only available light in the park. I hope this will keep me unnoticed.

Keeping what I think is a safe distance from H.P.’s group, I follow for several minutes toward the gym garage. As they reach the garage, the three trench coats disappear into the stairway entrance. This allows me to make up the distance between us. I run up to the garage and enter through the vehicle entrance, running up the exit ramp as fast as I can.

It’s times like this that I’m thankful Jenny made me quit smoking. My lungs only burn slightly as I head up the first floor ramp to the second level. I listen for the stairway door’s echoing slam that’ll tell me when H.P.’s group has re-entered the garage. Hearing nothing yet, I decide to head up to the third level.

Seconds later, I hear a resounding creak of door hinges on the floor above me. They’ve moved faster than I expected. I move as fast as I can up the ramp to the third level.

As I near the top of the ramp, I hear the boom of the stairway door on the opposite side of the garage and the clopping of what seems like three pairs of feet. I get to the third level and head for the concrete dividing wall between the entrance and exit ramps of the garage, trying to tread lightly.

I reach the dividing wall in the middle of the garage and move quickly to the opening that will allow me to get to the entrance ramp on the other side of the garage where H.P. and his goons are. This will hopefully allow me to see where the getaway vehicle is parked.

Sure enough, I peer through the opening and see H.P. and the goons walking along the opposite wall of the garage. The parking lot is mostly full so I have plenty of vehicles to shield me.

There’s two lines of cars between me and the goons. I crouch low and follow parallel to them as they make their way to the corner of the garage. They stop at a glossy black sedan and H.P. takes keys out of his trench coat. I cross over one line of cars toward the group as H.P. fiddles with his very large key ring. I take up spying position a few cars down. Finally, the sedan gleeps twice at H.P., its slitted red taillight eyes flashing in sinister greeting.

Then, the car starts to lurch from side-to-side in a gentle rocking motion. The goon with the heavy, inexplicable accent barks out a laugh.

”I gersh that she’s avake nuw.”

”You’ll have some lively company for the ride back, then,” H.P. says in his soprano tone.

Weird Accent Goon opens the left-side passenger door and a pair of bound feet immediately appear through the opening. I can’t tell if they’re the same feet that were being dragged through my apartment door earlier today, but it seems like a safe bet.

I watch Weird Accent Goon palm the heels of the thrashing feet and gently lift them back into the car as he sits in the passenger seat. H.P. gets in the driver’s side and Lispy Trenchcoat enters the car opposite him. The three car doors shut simultaneously with a muffled thump and the black sedan is still.

Then the red slitted taillight eyes come to life again as the engine roars. The sedan whips backward toward the line of cars shielding me. I expect the sedan to come to a stop and make its exit. Instead, the sedan accelerates and smashes into the car parked in the row behind it, causing significant damage. Moving forward, the sedan takes a wide turn to the left as the accelerator roars again. The turn is wide enough to clip two more cars, leaving scratches and glass in the sedan’s wake.

As the sedan speeds off in a semi-straight line toward the exit ramp, I look at the license plate. There’s only three red numbers on the white plate: 924.

Normally, a license plate with only three numbers would be unusual, but not altogether strange. Instead, I ponder the weirdness of those three numbers being the same street address numbers of the apartment that Jenny and I bought just before we married. As I make note of this, the nervous jitter in my veins turns to a full jump when I realize what H.P. meant in his parting words to me.

The full implication of these words weighs down on me as I make the slow walk to my apartment, trying to decide what to do next.

This will continue…

Show Wrap Up

Bittersweet weekend as the very successful run of GI's in Europe at the Factory Theater came to a close. Boy, did I enjoy that show. One of the best casts I've ever worked with, a killer crew that made everything on stage look good, and nice crowds throughout the run. I'm sad to be losing it. I'll miss the people and the exercise, but this show was a damn fine way to get back into the theater. Appropriate that there was a surreal ending to our celebrations on Saturday: upon closing Chief O'Neill's around 3 AM, all of us stumble outside to see Elston avenue drowning in a sea of bicycles heading northwest. Most likely this was an opening event for the Chicago Gay Games, but I never found out. There was no end in sight to this line of people whirring by. I don't know how many thousand people went past us, but we stood for several minutes while this river of cyclists clicked by at a leisurely pace, stirring the early morning air into our faces. The constant, high-pitched hum of thousands of bike chains and gears sounded almost like water running past. Maybe this was my need for a romantic moment of nostalgia, a unique snapshot to burn an image into my mind so I could hold on to the experience of the past few months and hold the people in my show a little tighter in memory. The evening was a swirl of the heartachey celebration of accomplishment and sadness of moving on to other things combined with quite a few vodka tonics: a guaranteed recipe for heavy maudlin. Still, this was a unique and happy moment, a feeling that moving on from this show is not a loss, and other fun, weirdly composed, and good experiences await. I must have been drinking happy vodka.

Factory Theater's next project: a horror movie on stage called Operation Infiltration. Oh yeah. See a trailer for the show here.

My next project: traveling to Minnesota and a taking a long winding road home through North and South Dakota. The Black Hills, Badlands, and Deadwood await. Then comes the final month of summer, new work for the fall, and who knows what else. I hope my next show comes soon and I'm so glad my spring and early summer were filled with GI's in Europe and the people of that show. There will always be happy memories and I suspect I'll still quote lines out-loud while at work and crack myself up. My co-workers have gotten used to my crazy person behavior of snickering to myself while saying non-sensical things. They know the source and they know why I laugh. A few of them even came to see what makes me laugh. It's enough for now for me to hold the memories and say the lines to myself. I hope there's more soon.

Greedy Hearts

Reading one of my favorite blogs, I noticed my buddy and uber-successful blogger Deej write about greed touching the hearts of all men. Specifically, Deej references the train-wreck show "America's Got Talent" and comments on how the Screen Actor's Guild strike of 2000, the strike's resolution and subsequent writer's strike helped facilitate the boom of reality television. Deej points out some artists believe that network execs are to blame for the dumbing down of entertainment because train wreck reality shows have much lower talent fees since people voluntarily expose themselves to potential fame and/or humiliation. Deej also opines that creative unions and guilds make artists as corrupt as everyone else. These writings come on the blog's "Open Thread Thursday" and I believe Deej may create a fascinating discussion.

Two events in the year of the actor's strike stick out for me. The first was an offer to audition to be a Toyota spokesperson for a cool $50,000 for a few months work. This offer came from an agent who spent two years ignoring me, my work, and my mailings. As non-union talent, I was on a much lower rung, but I suddenly got the attention I'd been craving. After a good deal of thought, I turned down the audition, feeling that I would be less of a person if I took advantage of an actor's strike to further my career. After turning down this audition, I did not get any more calls from any agents. A few weeks later, the second notable event was upon me as I listened to a union actor friend of mine go on his soapbox about the trials of the striking actors. He bemoaned the fact that he actually had to get a temp job to support himself now that he was an actor on strike. I'd been supporting myself on lousy temp jobs for over five years while I tried to get paid acting work. It was a rude reality that I was very familiar with and I didn't appreciate the distaste that this actor showed on becoming a part of my reality. I certainly knew that it was wrong for the entertainment industry to try to make millions of dollars through shady deals and using new technologies like the internet and cable to take revenue away from working talent. However, I had no sympathy for striking actors who told me how awful my level of reality was and told me to fight for them so they could return to their higher plain and I could stay on the unpaid lower non-union rung. Supporting the actors on strike took potential revenue away from me, as well. Still, crossing the line to take advantage of labor unrest isn't something I could do. By the third month of the strike, I had dislike and distaste for both sides. Over the next few years, I focused more on theatrical acting; voluntarily unpaid work without messy labor issues that allowed me to further explore the craft I love so much.

Now, to the point that greed touches the hearts of all men. I've spent over fifteen years trying to find the job that balances the realities of artistic fulfillment and living wage income. I've yet to secure a permanent position in teaching, the job I believe best balances the realities. I would dearly love to be paid for the theater work I love so much. I would happily take paid TV, movie, radio, theater, or teaching work. I'm not willing to use labor unrest to further my acting career, nor do I want to debase myself for agents, casting directors, or the American television public to make a living. I'm greedy for the attention and fulfillment the theater world gives me. I'd love to be watched and adored by millions of people. I want to make as much money as possible, regardless of my career path, and if money and career were being taken away from me, I'd fight to keep it. However, for every single career, success depends on who you know. Every single long-term job I've gotten has come from a personal connection to the company or successful name dropping. So yes, greed does touch the hearts of all, but your level of greed depends on who you know.

UPDATE FOR 2009: I'm happy to say that I've found a theatrical home in the Factory Theater and that I've found some balance working as a writer. No way of saying for sure that these are the final paths and places for me, but for the past two years, it really feels like it was worth all the time (15+ years) spent searching. There certainly has been less personal labor unrest and a great deal of fulfillment. I'm glad I know who I know at the Factory and I'm fortunate to work where I do. Stay tuned.

The Joys of the Fringe

Opening week has come and gone. The cast was spectacular, the crowds were good except for Sunday, and the theatre was hot. Really. Hot. The AC broke and we all had to sweat. This didn't dampen any enthusiasm and our audiences still laughed. One of our actresses nearly passed out after a particularly frenetic scene, but after a little heaving and some water, she was right back at it. Did I mention that I love everyone in the cast and crew? This past week only increased those feelings. Everyone threw themselves into their work with dedicated abandon, and I'd like to think that the results were really good. I'm really looking forward to the rest of the run. The AC will be fixed this week, friends and others are coming to see the show, and this has been as good a return to the active theatre as I could hope for. Find info on the show at this previous post, or go to the Factory Theater website directly by clicking on this bit of bold text. I'll have to update another previous post to document what's true about me online. Busy times, but I'm having a good time with these outside interests of mine. Now if only I could have some steady paycheck from a career I love (be it from teaching, writing, acting, or some combo of the three), a lack of anxiety every Monday morning, a successful & consistent composing ability, and the ability to have everything nice and orderly in a disorderly world. Yes, that unrealistic greed gets the best of me sometimes, but right now, I'm getting some satisfactory life time. This comes from mainly from rejoining a previous lifetime on the fringe non-union Chicago theatre, but as I attempt to create a career or two outside of the practical money-making career I used to have, and stubbornly believe that I can have a well-paid day job doing something I love, I feel like I'm making the most of life's outside edges. I'm also very grateful for what the fringe gives back to me. This will serve as my reminder post for when I get cranky and dissatisfied with the inevitable future fringe frustration. Here's hoping I'm cheering myself up in the future.

Pulp Friday Continues (PF 8)

And it's actually on a Friday this time, just like when I started.

Previously on Pulp Friday:

PF 1
PF 2
PF 3
PF 4
PF 5
PF 6
PF 7

“Any worse?” I ask. “My wife is dead, I’m broke, and you and your goons just trashed the front part of my building, so how’s it going to get worse?”

“Oh, you should know by now never to say that, silly,” H.P. says. “You’re a desperate man. Desperate people do desperate things; things they would never normally do. You’ve already proven that.”

“So you say.”

“You’ve got the documentation right there in your hands. Don’t you think that a judge and jury wouldn’t come to the obvious conclusion? You killed George Dean, disposed of his body somewhere in Kihei, stole his checks and credit cards, perpetuated the fraud just long enough to finish your honeymoon and scram from Hawaii before you were discovered. It’s black and white, dear. Admit it.”

I’d really like to have a response to that.

The goon to the right of H.P. pipes up: “Yes, and there’s plenty more evidence besides that, sailor.” He speaks with a heavy lisp. I’d comment on how hissy he was if he couldn’t break my bones so easily.

The goon to the left of H.P. reinforces their point: “Yersh, ve harve burxes and burxes of errvidunce.” His accent is so thick I can’t tell what part of the earth he’s from. But again, faced with easily broken bones, I keep quiet.

“Be good little silent henchmen now,” H.P. says with a trace of irritation. “We have business to finish.”

Here comes the boom. I say, “Fine. What do you want?”

H.P. casually puts his left hand out and Lispy Trenchcoat puts a cigarette into his palm. “To clean up your mess, of course.”

As H.P. lights his cigarette and takes a long, comfy drag, that same smoke craving from this afternoon jumps right back on me. I swallow and try to hide my envy.

H.P. exhales a jetstream of blue-gray fog. “Since it’s your mess, you’ll be doing most of the cleaning. We’ll keep close to make sure that you’re being thorough. You’ll be going through each of your transgressions individually, gathering the pieces, and putting them to rest. Think of it as a labor-intensive confessional.”

“Does it matter that I haven’t done everything you claim I’ve done?”

“Come now, dearie,” H.P. says, “we’ve done our homework. You’ve done it all. It’s best to cease the denial and focus on the cleansing. Don’t you think Jenny wants that?”

“Jenny’s not a part of this.”

“Still with the denial,” H.P. says, “but Jenny’s very much a part of this. Always has been. Haven’t you been feeling her on the back of your neck when your conscience hurts you?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

The Trenchcoats shake their heads and make tsk-ing noises.

H.P. says, “Don’t you? Well, you’ve only got your word. We’ve got more than that and it won’t be hard for anyone to connect the dots.”

No more use in arguing. Never was. I fix my eyes on the net and wait.

I hear H.P. take another long, crackling drag before he says, “Good. Now to cleansing. We want you to go back to your apartment and get something for us. We were trying to find it there when you barged in early. It was right at our fingertips. We even had someone who, though unwilling, was very helpful in the search. She knows a little about you and your life, you see. Still, we couldn’t very well transport both her and what we wanted with your badly timed return.”

“Who are you talking about?”

H.P. says, “Be patient, dearie. You’ll see. We decided to take her and let you transport what we wanted since you were so rude.”

That explains the pair of legs that were being dragged through my front door this afternoon. Doesn’t explain who she is, though.

“So, that means this little meeting is over. Time for you to be a porter.” H.P. and the Trenchcoats turn and begin to leave the court.

“What’s my cargo?” I ask their backs.

H.P. looks over his shoulder at me. “It’s the last thing you did in Maui. You'll know what I mean.”

Next on Pulp Friday: PF 9