The Fall of King George, Part 17

I totally stole this post from the blog Modest Cake, which was channeling a recent Pew Research Center survey:

"Please tell me what one word best describes your impression of George W. Bush."

Top five descriptions. Look for patterns . . .

FEB 2004: 1. Honest 2. Fair 3. Leader 4. Liar 5. Arrogant
MAY 2004: 1. Honest 2. Good 3. Liar 4. Leader 5. Arrogant
FEB 2005: 1. Honest 2. Good 3. Integrity 4. Arrogant 5. Incompetent
JUL 2005: 1. Honest 2. Incompetent 3. Arrogant 4. Good 5. Integrity
MAR 2006: 1. Incompetent 2. Good 3. Idiot 4. Liar 5. Christian
FEB 2007: 1. Incompetent 2. Arrogant 3. Honest 4. Good 5. Idiot*

Homeland Arrogance and Incompetence Alert: ELEVATED

See the full survey: PEW RESEARCH CENTER FOR THE PEOPLE & THE PRESS FEBRUARY 2007 POLITICAL SURVEY

*If combined, Idiot/Stupid/Ignorant would actually rank #1 in FEB 2007.

David Halberstam

David Halberstam, Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist and author, was killed in an automobile accident yesterday in Menlo Park, CA. He was 73. Halberstam started out with the New York Times and shared a Pulitzer in 1964 for his reporting on the Vietnam War. In the early 1970s, he published his most famous work, The Best and the Brightest, a masterful account of the Kennedy administration and how it got us into Vietnam, and how the same people continued the war under Lyndon Johnson.

Halberstam in Vietnam.

In addition to his numerous books on politics, the media, war, and other serious themes, he wrote several classics on sports. Yesterday, in fact, he was killed in route to an interview with Hall of Fame quarterback of the New York Giants, Y.A. Tittle. (Halberstam could survive the hellish jungles of Vietnam, but not, evidently, the highways of California.)

I've only read The Best and the Brightest, but it left such an impression on me that I felt the loss this morning when I read the news about his death. It may be the best book I've ever read on how Power really works in our country. And how it can make major mistakes. The Bush administration's current fiasco in Iraq isn't exactly new. The same incredible arrogance, the same disconnect from reality on the ground, the same refusal to listen to those who disagree, all of these traits were equally present among the elites of the Kennedy administration. As well as incompetence - Bay of Pigs, anyone? But Halberstam did an excellent job of painting portraits of the real human beings who were in the administration: Robert McNamara, McGeorge Bundy, George Rusk and many others. The "whiz kids." Grand disasters such as Vietnam, the Holocaust, Hiroshima, etc. often take on an abstract quality over time, and names lose their connection to flesh and blood human beings. Halberstam's book was a reminder that catastrophes and evil are brought about by real people, not abstractions. It was never just "Nazis," but a father of three in Berlin, a church-goer and good neighbor, who processed transport orders. It was never just some faceless Secretary of Defense, but a Boy Scout from San Francisco, a good kid, who ordered massive bombings and the use of chemical weapons (Napalm, vomiting gas) in Vietnam, where millions of people died and the land is still poisoned today. The road to Hell really can be paved with good intentions. I found The Best and the Brightest to be a humbling book - not just revealing the terrible hubris of the Kennedy adminstration, but making me realize that all of us, no matter our intelligence, courage, instincts, or desire to do good, can still screw things up to the point of disaster. The only difference is that my minor, daily disasters usually don't lead to the death of millions of people - one of the benefits of being powerless, I guess.

I also admired Halberstam for being able to move between such heavy topics as the Vietnam war and baseball or basketball. Life is of a whole, and it's nice to know that some writers can capture many of its aspects. It's something I've wanted to do on this blog, but it's not easy. I'll have to pick up one of his sports books and give it a read. I know I can learn something.

So, to one of those who tried to tell the truth in a time of catastrophe, go in grace, Mr. Halberstam.

Recent Screenings

"Movies are a world of Fragments."
Jean-Luc Godard

It's been a dull time for me cinema-wise. A lot of decent but not great films. Two of them were actually quite good most of the way through and then blew it with stunningly dumb endings. I don't have any recommendations this time, but most of these films are worth watching.

The Prestige (2006) - Written and directed by Christopher Nolan. Starring Hugh Jackman, Christian Bale, Michael Caine, David Bowie and Scarlett Johansson.

Magic, mystery, Memento, Tesla, Batman, Bowie, Hugh Jackman and Christian Bale. . . . I was looking forward to this new offering from Christopher Nolan. It's beautifully photographed, with some stunning visuals by cinematographer Wally Pfister. The cast is quite good, though Scarlett Johansson seems a bit lost, due perhaps to her undeveloped character. Bowie does a fine turn as Nikola Tesla, with Gollum - I mean, Andy Serkis - as his assistant. I enjoyed the first two thirds of the film - the Pledge, and the Turn, to use the film's terminology. A magic trick gone wrong leads to someone's death, which, in turn, leads to a rivalry between two magicians that ultimately turns to an escalating battle of revenge. Unfortunately, the last act - the Prestige, as it were - starts to fall apart. The revenge scenario grows dull instead of building up to anything interesting, and the lame, overly neat ending left me in disbelief. "You've got to be kidding."

In the battle of 2006's "19th century magic movies," I have to side with The Illusionist. I like a film about mystery and magic to be founded in reality. Even the "ghost" sequences in The Illusionist can be tied to a craze in the 1860s for producing spectral images on stage using mirrors and shadows. The climactic part of The Prestige, on the other hand, which holds out so much potential with the introduction of Tesla's experiments in electricity, simply winds up being silly. The Illusionist also wins in terms of writing, with a well-structured plot that develops its characters better and does a more interesting job of touching on politics and class. And despite Pfister's stunning images, I think The Illusionist was ultimately a more poetic film.

I really enjoyed Memento, but Batman Begins and The Prestige make me wonder if Nolan isn't an illusionist himself as a director. He's great at visuals and creating mood, but dark hues, intense stories, and brooding actors don't necessarily add up to profound thought. Stephanie Zacharek, who writes for Salon, and who I've come to increasingly admire as a film critic, says it better in her review of The Prestige: "For Christopher Nolan, darkness seems to equal depth -- when, really, sometimes darkness is just a big hole." Read her entire review.


Intrus, L' [The Intruder] (2004) - Written and directed by Claire Denis. Cinematography by Agnes Godard. Starring Michael Subor.

In some circles, Claire Denis is one of the most important directors working today, and her film Beau Travail (1999) one of the greatest films of the last decade. I can't say I personally connect with her work, but I do give her credit for trying something different. She has taken to heart Godard's quote about fragments and developed a body of work that truly reflects this. I'd love to tell you the plot of L'Intrus, for example, but La Reina and I, despite our graduate degrees, literary backgrounds, and having seen over a thousand films, couldn't figure out what in the hell was going on. Which is the point, I guess. Denis' films aren't really meant to be watched like other narrative films. She's not telling a linear "story" as much as she's imparting bits and pieces of a world, or of peoples' lives. And she's not using the ordinary language of cinema - traditional screenwriting, a certain film structure, common acting techniques, etc, - to impart this world. Her cinema is highly visual, with very little spoken dialogue, and a restless, provocative use of sound and music. The problem, however, is that she teases the viewer with the sense that there IS some kind of a narrative - you just don't know what it is. It's a different experience, say, from some of Jean-Luc Godard's more non-linear works. If you can't figure out a narrative in Week End, that's okay, because you know the narrative's not important. In theory, I like what Denis is trying to do, but in the end, I find her films more annoying than liberating.

But, again, at least she's trying to do something interesting.

If you ask me, the real strength of these films has less to do with Denis and much more to do with cinematographer Agnes Godard. [No relation to Jean-Luc.] I have to say, her work on Beau Travail and L'Intrus ranks as some of the greatest film photography of the last twenty years. There are some lingering shots of clouds and water in L'Intrus that you want to go on forever. You want to inhabit that space. If you could live there, it would feel like heaven. I'd be very curious to know what these films would be like without Godard's cinematography. Not nearly as interesting, I would guess. Both films hang almost entirely on her tremendous visual sensibility. I look forward to seeing more of Agnes Godard's work in the future.


The Reckoning (2003) - Terribly directed by Paul McGuigan. Starring Paul Bettany, Willem Dafoe, Matthew Macfadyen, Vincent Cassel, and Gina McKee.

No. This didn't work. The Albino Monk from Da Vinci Code plays a medieval priest who does some really bad things and runs away. He encounters a traveling company of actors, led by Willem Dafoe. They wind up in a village where a young boy has been killed, and a woman - an organic farmer or something - is accused of being a witch and a murderer. The formerly albino monk now renegade priest decides to solve the mystery and bring about justice. Oh, and he falls in love - surprise - with one of the actresses. (In the medieval touring company, not on the film set.) A king is involved somehow, and he sends one of his own investigators, played by that dude from Pride and Prejudice (not Colin Firth, but the long-haired guy in the version with Keira Knightley.) Vincent Cassel plays a really bad French guy - no, wait, Cassel is French, but the Duke or whatever he plays is English. I think he's English. He's a pedophile. Cassel's character, I mean, not Cassell himself. Maybe they are French, I forget. But the movie was shot in Spain. I remember that. The actors put on a morality play in order to solve the murder. The Duke guy gets upset. Somebody dies. The fake-looking medieval people have incredibly fake looking snow that keeps landing on their noses and not melting. And you want to yell at them, "Hey, brush off that fake snow! It doesn't look real sitting there on your nose!" You get some flashbacks. Willem Dafoe does his best to keep cool and not break out laughing at the bad script. The albino monk dude does pretty good, though not as good as he did in that movie with Russell Crowe - when they're on the big ship, fighting the French and playing violins together. But there's something wrong with this film. It feels like it was made for late-night cable TV or something. A low budget and terrible directing cancel out the good actors. You see a film like this and wonder how the director was allowed to make OTHER films. Too bad. Medieval, lust-filled, renegade priests solving mysteries and fighting pedophiles sounded like a cool idea.


Blow Dry (2001) - Directed by Paddy Breathnach. Starring Alan Rickman, Natasha Richardson, Bill Nighy and a bunch of young actors I think I'm supposed to know but don't

If this didn't have such a great cast, I fear it would've been a truly sucky film. But, hey, it's got Alan Rickman and Bill Nighy, so you know it can't be all bad. They play rival hairdressers. Nighy wants to become three-time hair-dressing champion of England. Rickman has retired but gets coaxed back into competitive hair-dressing. The national championship, as it turns out, is taking place in his tiny English village. Imagine that. There are some lesbians, one of whom used to be Rickman's wife. He has a teenage son who falls in love with the cute teenage daughter of his rival, Nighy. You see why this could've really been bad. Josh Hartnett, whom La Reina thought was kind of hot, plays Rickman's son. Hartnett's an American actor, and his attempt at a Yorkshire accent left the Brits on IMDB screaming bloody murder. They really ripped him to shreds, saying he ruined the film. Which was interesting, because I couldn't tell there was a problem. So, if you're not English, and you don't know that Hartnett is American, you may not have a problem with that.

Oh, one of the lesbians has cancer. That's kind of a heavy aspect of the film. Somehow you're supposed to feel torn up about that, while, at the same time, you laugh at typical homosexual hairdresser jokes. Kind of a weird mix. But Natasha Richardson does well with the cancer thing. The screenplay is by the guy who wrote Full Monty. The DVD tells you that, because they want you to buy this movie because you loved the other one. But it's not nearly as good as Full Monty (if you even thought that was good.) But then you knew this already, because you had never heard of Blow Dry, had you?

Nighy and Rickman are great. Yeah. Without them . . . well, as I said. As it stands, Blow Dry won't "blow" you away. Ha!

By the way, in Germany, this film was called Über kurz oder lang, which I find endlessly amusing for no good reason. But it sounds better to me. Like it could be a Wim Wenders film or something.


Calendar Girls (2003) - Directed by Nigel Cole. Starring Helen Mirren, Julie Walters, Ciarán Hinds, and a bunch of older women

This was La Reina's pick. It's got Helen Mirren. Hey, I'll watch it. It's also got the woman who plays Mrs. Weasley in the Harry Potter movies. She's very good in this. Instead of cancer, someone in this film has leukemia. And he isn't a lesbian. I'm trying to figure out if there's some kind of trend going on that I didn't know about: rural British comedies featuring teminal illness. Their equivalent, perhaps, to Hollywood's obsession with gore films? What does this signify? Is it some kind of post 9/11 thing?

Helen and Julie live in a lovely English village, but they're bored with their very traditional women's group, so they decide to put together a calendar of older women who appear topless. It's in order to raise money for a wing of the hospital dedicated to the person who had leukemia. The film is based on a true story. It's funny, well-written for the most part, and it has Helen Mirren in it. It could have had Alan Rickman and Bill Nighy in it as well, I'm sure. But they didn't do this one. The calendar is a big success and the women go to Hollywood. The film bogs down at that point and becomes kind of predictable. But everything works out in the end. Except, of course, for the guy who had leukemia. But even that is portrayed in a touching or hopeful way. Or at least with grace. La Reina gave it a thumbs up. I gave it a non-committal shrug.


The Contender (2001) - Directed by Rod Lurie. Starring Joan Allen, Jeff Bridges, Gary Oldman, Christian Slater, Sam Elliott, and some other people.

This was an interesting political thriller for the first two hours, then it totally choked at the end, blowing a ten-point lead in the last six minutes, when it was unable to score a single basket. What happened? So many good actors and such a smart script. Then, evidently, the screenwriter drank "Stupid-Hollywood-Potion," which damaged his brain and turned this intelligent film into a dumb, feel-good flick, with a totally unbelievable plot resolution. "She did WHAT on purpose? You've gotta be kidding me. Nobody would do that! Hey, get the damn fake snow off you nose, it's really irritating!" As with The Prestige, my anger at the stupid ending left me with mixed feelings about the rest of the film.

Joan Allen does well as the woman set to become our first female Vice President. She has to go through an intense vetting process, and it turns out there may have been some sexual scandal in her past. What's she's hiding? Are the Republicans just out to get her? The film was made in 2000 and, evidently, at that time, there may have been some bad feelings in the air over Republicans scouring the personal lives of Liberal political figures. So this turns out to be a revenge-fantasy film, where the Democrats actually stop the bad guys from being so mean to them. Jeff Bridges is funny as a Clinton(Bill)-esque President, but he seems kind of like Jeff Bridges in other films. In my opinion, Gary Oldman steals the show as the mean Republican out to get the poor, mistreated Liberal woman. His character could have easily been a stereotype, but he makes him much more interesting to watch. Sam Elliott is very good. Slater's okay. Mariel Hemingway shows up for a moment - I'm not sure why. Rickman and Nighy don't do much with their non-appearances, but just knowing they could have been in the film makes me feel better about the world.

As I said, the first 120 minutes are pretty good. A solid look at the political process. Then, well, you get the feel-good ending and the ridiculous plot device to save the day. Deus ex machina and all that. Nobody, however, has a terminal illness in this one. That was kind of a relief.

KILGORE TROUT LIVES!

Kurt Vonnegut died this week. Though I hadn't read one of his novels in about 25 years, I felt a pang of sadness and nostalgia when I heard he passed away. Along with many other adolescents in the late 1970s, his funny, thoughtful and imaginative books meant a lot to me at a crucial time in my life. Reading Vonnegut was kind of a transition from the world of childhood into another more complex, "grown-up" world. I can still remember the subversive thrill of reading Breakfast of Champions in the 8th grade. He was one of the voices that told me it was okay to be different, to be creative, and to be a rebel if necessary, especially for the good of humankind.

My favorite Vonnegut moment didn't take place in any of his books, though, but out on the streets. I was probably a senior in high school, and I was driving one morning to my job at a supermarket. Near the interstate, off by itself on a plot of land, a brand new, soulless glass office building had been constructed. For some reason it sat empty for what seemed like months. That morning, however, there was a change. During the night, someone, somehow, had left an enormous message across the top of the building, each letter the size of a large window:

KILGORE TROUT LIVES!

Kilgore Trout was one of Vonnegut's recurring and most popular characters. For a young, bewildered, rebellious teenager, who felt like society was as cold and empty as that glass office building, those giant letters seemed like a great blow for the sake of humanity. I laughed and laughed and laughed. The best part was that the message stayed up there for a long time. And it brought a smile to my face every time I drove by. Just as it brings a smile to me all these years down the road.

Go in peace, Mr. Vonnegut. Thanks to you, Kilgore Trout still lives.

The Guardian has a nice obiturary for Vonnegut.

From another Guardian article: "Vonnegut's own heroes had been Jesus, Abraham Lincoln and Eugene Debs, the labour leader who stood several times for US president as candidate of the Socialist Party of America."

The last thing I probably read by Vonnegut was his humorous and helpful essay on writing: How To Write with Style. It's short and worth reading.

The Greatest Guitarists of All Time

You'd think at this point in my life, I wouldn't be such a sucker for yet another bloody list of the "Greatest [BLANK] of All Time." But while age has increased the size of my belly, it doesn't seem to have brought me a commensurate amount of wisdom. I always look at the lists. And I almost always come away angry and frustrated. Yeah, the Internet has been a great development in the history of humankind, but it has also led to a serious social problem that doesn't get enough coverage - the toxic proliferation of bad list-making. So when Crystal - who's usually such a nice, un-opinionated girl (cough) - recently decided to start some trouble by claiming that Eric Clapton was an "overall better guitarist" than Jimi Hendrix, she linked to a list of the "100 Greatest Guitarists of All Time." And I, like the fool I am, fell for the bait. I had to know who they were.

The Great Creator Spirit of the Guitar. And, in my mind, an underrated vocalist as well. Just before he died, Jimi was in discussions with Miles Davis to do a jazz album. Oh, what might have been!

To her credit, Crystal linked to the list even though it had Jimi #1 and Eric #4. (Duane Allman was #2 and B.B. King #3.) The list was done by a major corporate magazine that used to cover music a long, long time ago but switched over to Men's Fashions sometime in the 1980s. For some reason [an extensive marketing budget], they still have a reputation for being an authority on music, and their list even has its own entry in Wikipedia. But I'm not linking to them. I simply refuse to empower such an intellectually lazy, artistically unethical, and ultimately disrespectful effort.

Imagine for a moment that someone decides to list "The Greatest Writers of All Time." You think, "Hmm, will Shakespeare be higher than Cervantes? What about Tolstoy vs. Dostoyevsky? Homer? Baudelaire? Toni Morrison? Where will they fall?" Yes, it's a bar game. But it can be an interesting bar game that sparks good discussion and may even teach us something when we come across names we don't know. But when you look at the list, you see that Cervantes, Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky, Homer and Baudelaire aren't even there! What the hell?!?!

That was my reaction, more or less, to Unnamed Corporate Magazine's "Greatest Guitarists of All Time." For one thing, I truly wanted to know how Jimi Hendrix matched up against the likes of Andrés Segovia or Django Reinhardt. Those three have always formed a kind of holy trinity of guitar-playing in my mind. How interesting to debate their various unique styles and abilities. And what about Eric Calpton vs. Paco de Lucía? Or Jimmy Page vs. Wes Montgomery?

Andrés Segovia, moments before squirting lighter fluid all over his guitar and setting it on fire.

But no. This was really just a list of the "Greatest Rock and Blues Guitarists, According to Our Limited Knowledge, Narrow Mindset, and Necessary Marketing Strategies." So, screw the classical guitarists, the jazz guys, the flamenco guitarists, the country-folk guys, the Brazilians, etc. But a list of "Greatest Guitarists of All Time" that doesn't include Andrés Segovia and Django Rheinhardt is like a list of "Greatest Artists of All Time" that doesn't include Rembrandt and Picasso. What's the damn point?!?!

The simple solution would be to drop the "Greatest" tag and simply say "Our Favorite Guitarists." Or, heck, just say the "Greatest Rock and Blues Guitarists of All Time." If you can't make an effort to produce a reasonable list of the greatest artists in a field, then why pretend you did? But then people like me wouldn't bother looking at it, would they? So, I help foster this disease by being unable to refrain from clicking on the link.

Perhaps the editors of such lists are afraid their readers won't know enough names if they put together a real "Greatest" list. Rather than try and expand an audience's knowledge of the world by introducing them to various important but lesser known figures, they prefer to keep their readers in a smaller, thinner, marketing-driven universe.

And what of my own compulsion to look at these lists? What do I long for so desperately that keeps me going back to them, even though I'm constantly disappointed and infuriated? Order in a chaotic world, perhaps? "Please, help me! There's war and famine and poverty and cancer! Tell me if Jimi or Django is #1!!! Help me sort out the confusion between Julian Bream, Mick Ronson and Chet Atkins!" If I can't figure out what I'm doing on this planet, I at least want to know that my gut instincts are right and that Charlie Christian was a more significant guitarist than the dude from Foreigner.

Django Reinhardt. As a teenager, he was injured in a fire in his gypsy caravan, leaving him with only two functioning fingers on his fret hand. He could still outplay everybody else.

Also, maybe I'm seeking approval, wanting to belong to the tribe. Is that why I get angry when I see that THE PUBLISHED LIST is so different from my own inner list? I might act intellectually smug and superior and call the list-makers idiots, but wasn't I a little shaky and upset when I read that viewers of the UK's Channel 4 had chosen Grease as "The Greatest Musical of All Time"? Was there something wrong with me? I hadn't even considered Grease a possibility! Maybe my values were skewed because I thought Singin' in the Rain or The Band Wagon were infinitely better. Oh my G-d, what if I'm a freak? At least tell me my own choices are somewhere on the list! What happens if all my favorites don't make the grade?! [Luckily, American Film Institute did choose Singin' in the Rain as the Greatest Musical, restoring - for the moment, at least - my shattered sense of belonging.]

Maybe that's why Unnamed Corporate Magazine doesn't even bother mentioning someone like Andrés Segovia. They know the power these lists hold over people like me. Why send some poor, suffering rock-and-roller to an early grave by listing Jimi Hendrix #2 behind a Spanish classical guitarist?

Finally, there's the whole question of why we feel the need to set up false competitions between different musicians, films, writers, etc. What is it in our culture that causes us to name one entity #1 and another, "lesser" entity, #2? Is this a Western trait? Global? It's all a bit odd, isn't it? Which doesn't stop me, of course, from reading one stupid list after another.

Chet Atkins. Married (and later divorced) One Day at a Time star Valerie Bertinelli, fought constantly with bandmate David Lee Roth, and recently entered rehab.

Actually, some people do make an effort. I found another list of "Greatest Guitarists of All Time" that was much more knowledgeable, holistic and respectful. That is to say, it fit my own concept of what a list of Greatest Guitarists should look like. The list-maker(s) even explained how they came up with their rankings:

They were picked for their importance in the guitar world including innovation, respect from other guitarists, influence on both other players as well as on styles of playing, impact, legendary status, and overall importance on shaping the guitar world. Plus for the playing abilities including technique, creativity, versatility, musical depth & expression both in composing & performing, live energy and improv skills, and originality.

So, here's Digital DreamDoor's Top 10 All Time Greatest Guitarists:

1. Andrés Segovia
2. Django Reinhardt
3. Jimi Hendrix
4. Chet Atkins
5. Wes Montgomery
6. T-Bone Walker
7. Charlie Christian
8. B.B. King
9. Robert Johnson
10. Joe Pass

I can quibble with the rankings (Chet Atkins at #4 and Joe Pass at #10 both seem too high to me), but that's part of the fun. At least they got the right names!

Segovia's role in developing the guitar as a serious instrument in the 20th century has to be taken into consideration. Without him, there wouldn't even BE a list of "100 Greatest Guitarists."

I might put Jimi #2, above Django, but it's hard to say. Hendrix always has an advantage over most other guitarists, because he died so young. We never had to hear his bad 1980s albums with electronic drums, or grimace through his Michelob ads, or watch him perform, fat and bald, on his PBS concert with the Boston Pops. He's forever trapped in amber as the sexy, brilliant, guitar god.

I thought it was interesting that Robert Johnson made the top 10 on both lists (#5 and #9). I've always known he was one of the key figures in the history of Blues, but I didn't realize he had such a reputation as a guitarist. That was a discovery for me. guess I'll haveto go back and listen to his recordings again.

Another discovery was Sabicas, listed at #16. I'm ashamed to say that despite living in Spain for 5 years, I had never heard of him. Now I find out he's one of the most important figures in Flamenco. I'm going to go home tonight and drink some vino tinto and bury my head in shame. Que verguenza. But that's one of the great parts of life - sudden and unexpected discoveries.

BTW, if you're a sicko list-lover, Digital DreamDoor has many, many lists of "Greatest" This-and-That in Music.

So, here's the World's Greatest Guitar Hero Andrés Segovia in action.

[Despite rumors, Segovia did NOT record George Harrison's solo on "While My Guitar Gently Weeps," nor was he a member (at least officially) of The Spiders from Mars.]

Alas, Crystal, Eric only came in at #25, behind Paco de Lucía, who was at #21. The only other rock guitarist ahead of Clapton (besides Hendrix) was Jeff Beck at #17. Jimmy Page came in at #29. Hendrix, Beck, Clapton, Page. Yawn. The Rock Guitar Pantheon hasn't changed in almost 40 years!!! I have a hard time believing that nobody's improved upon these old farts. Where are the young turks?!

Paco de Lucía's legendary collaboration with flamenco great Camarón de la Isla helped catapult the guitarist to fame.

To my surprise, Tomatito didn't make the list. He was the son of "Tomate" [really!] and played with Camarón de la Isla after Paco split to go on his own. He continues today both in flamenco and nuevo flamenco settings, as well as doing some work in rock and jazz. Guess the "Little Tomato" isn't that good. You decide. Here Tomatito blazes through some flamenco action.

Wes Montgomery shows some of his stuff in "Jingles." Notice that he isn't using a pick. He always played with his thumb.

This film of Django Reinhardt doesn't really show what he could do, but it's a lot of fun anyway.












Tolstoy & Chekhov's Rock and Roll Circus.

The two Russian axe masters gave the original Crosby, Stills and Nash recordings a much heavier, Black Sabbath sound. But creative differences with David Crosby and Stephen Stills led to major tension within the group. Finally, one night, in a coke-induced stupor, Crosby began waving his pistol around at Leo and Anton and screaming that they were just a couple of "commie pinko faggots." Jealous of Leo's attentions towards Joni Mitchell, the drug-addled Crosby then erased the two Russians' guitar licks from the tracks the group had already recorded. The two were later removed ignominously from the album cover.

The following summer, the Russian duo jammed with Clapton, Dostoyevsky and Ginger Baker, but plans for a super group never materialized.

Some Irishness

My 1/4 Irish side wishes everyone a Happy Saint Patrick's Day.

Or as Liam says, Beannachtaí na Féile Pádraig!

(I certainly hope that's "Happy St. Patrick's Day" in Gaelic and not some Irish obscenity.)

A little offering from Irish poet and Nobel Prize-winner, Seamus Heaney . . .

Lightenings viii

The annals say: when the monks of Clonmacnoise
Were all at prayers inside the oratory
A ship appeared above them in the air.

The anchor dragged along behind so deep
It hooked itself into the altar rails
And then, as the big hull rocked to a standstill,

A crewman shinned and grappled down the rope
And struggled to release it. But in vain.
'This man can't bear our life here and will drown,'

The abbot said, 'unless we help him.' So
They did, the freed ship sailed, and the man climbed back
Out of the marvellous as he had known it.


Digging

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; as snug as a gun.

Under my window a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade,
Just like his old man.

My grandfather could cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner's bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, digging down and down
For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mold, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I've no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it.

HERE is Heaney's Bio, Nobel Prize Speech, more poems, etc.

Three more poems, along with audio of Heaney reading them.

5 + 5 Movie Meme

This meme arrives via Crystal. The idea is to choose your 5 Favorite Films and 5 Guilty Pleasures.

As I wrote on Crystal's blog, I'm not really comfortable with the idea of "Guilty Pleasures," as I think the concept promotes a false dichotomy between low art and high art. As one who loves musicals, screwball comedies, Astaire-Rogers films, etc., I don't think they're lesser films than favorites by Bergman, Godard, Kurosawa, etc. If I like a film, I like a film, and I don't feel guilty about it. Singin' in the Rain is a great film, period. I don't think it's better or worse than Rashomon, just different.

But having given my little cinema sermon, I'll play along. I offer 5 Favorites and 5 films that some people might feel guilty about enjoying.

Five Favorites:

Ran [Chaos] (1985) - I have a lot of favorite films, but this is the one I would probably want to take with me to a desert island. Akira Kurosawa does King Lear. It's an epic film that has everything: a great story by Shakespeare; adapted brilliantly to a medieval Samurai setting; stunning cinematography; lots of action, including some of the greatest battle sequences ever filmed; political intrigue; romance; family drama; a bit of comedy; and that elusive quality that all great art has, a kind of deep humanity that pierces both the heart and mind. It captures the horror and the beauty of life, the grandness of our existence, as well as the fact that we are but grains of sand. It deserves to be seen on a big screen, as Kurosawa's visuals are even more stunning than usual.


To Have and Have Not (1944) - My Bogart choice. Yeah, Casablanca is a better film, and if you ask me tomorrow, I'd probably include it instead. (The day after that, I might go with The Maltese Falcon, which seems more and more like a perfect film each time I see it.) So why pick a film that was a blatant attempt to repeat the success of Casablanca, that was based on one of Hemingway's most mediocre works, and that didn't have Ingrid Bergman? Easy: Lauren Bacall. She was 19 going on 35, and Bogart fell for her hard. And it's written all over the film. The two of them completely and utterly out-smolder the almost virginal relationship between Bogey and Bergman in Casablanca. Was there ever a more seductive, radiant and sexy woman than Bacall in To Have and Have Not? Bogey didn't think so. It's marvelous watching the two of them circle around each other in the film, just as they were doing in real life. Their banter ranks among some of the best in film history.

You know you don't have to act with me, Steve. You don't have to say anything, and you don't have to do anything. Not a thing. Oh, maybe just whistle. You know how to whistle, don't you, Steve? You just put your lips together and... blow.

In addition to the Bogart and Bacall sizzle, To Have and Have Not also offers a screenplay by William Faulkner (and Jules Furman), excellent direction by the great Howard Hawks, an exotic setting, and wonderful performances by Walter Brennan (winner of 3 Academy Awards in his career) and singer-songwriter Hoagy Charmichael. I always come away from this one very satisfied.


Holiday (1938) - While Bringing Up Baby and The Philadelphia Story are the more famous Cary Grant-Katherine Hepburn films, and I love them both, I've always had a soft spot for this one. Underneath the wonderful comedy, the stylish elegance, and the sheer exuberance of Grant and Hepburn, Holiday has a real poignancy and a touch of sadness about life. How do we want to live our lives? What's really important? What is real love? The screenplay by Philip Barry, who also wrote Philadelphia Story, is simply one of the best ever written, covering so much ground so smartly and gracefully.

Stephanie Zacharek has a great review of Holiday at Salon.com.


La dolce vita (1960) - Hard to choose between this and Fellini's 8½. Both have Marcello Mastroiani. I saw La dolce vita more recently, so I lean in its direction. From the opening shot of a helicopter carrying a statue of Christ across Rome to the final powerful sequence on the beach, Fellini spins a delightfully twisted moral tale. There are so many classic and brilliant scenes, such as Marcello and Anita Ekberg dancing in the Trevi Fountain. And Fellini's visual sensibility may be the greatest in cinema history. But Marcello gives the film its resonance, with a great portrayal of a journalist slowly losing his soul.


Swing Time (1936) - Astaire & Rogers. I can never decide between this and Top Hat as my favorite Fred & Ginger movie. Besides offering some of the greatest dancing ever seen on film, Swing Time also features great music by Jerome Kern and Dorothy Fields, including "The Way You Look Tonight;" a witty screenplay; and Fred Astaire's underrated and excellent comic timing. Directed by George Stevens, who could deliver terrific comedies like Woman of the Year and Talk of the Town, as well as classic dramas such as Shane and Giant.

In Hannah and Her Sisters, Woody Allen tries to think of what makes this seemingly meaningless life worth living, and he finally settles on the Marx Brothers. Not a bad choice. That's how I feel about Fred Astaire. Swing Time helps keep me sane and deal with the existential black hole that always threatens to engulf me. That's why I would never call it a guilty pleasure!!! It's far too important.


Five Guilty Pleasures

Monty Python and the Holy Grail (1975) - The film I've seen more than any other - I lost count at 37 times. And most of those were in the days before home video! When The Holy Grail came out in the 1970s, my friends and I had never seen anything like it. I mean, even the opening credits were hilarious. I saw the movie six times on its first release, and, after that, my friends and I waited eagerly for it to show up as a midnight movie every few months. After all these years, I still think it's brilliant. And having studied the Arturian Cycle a bit in college, I came to realize how incredibly intelligent these Oxford boys really were. If I didn't take Ran with me to a desert island, I might take this.

Et Dieu... créa la femme [And God. . . Created Woman] (1956) - Okay, this is as close as I get to a real "guilty" pleasure. I told myself that director Roger Vadim played a role in the development of the Nouvelle Vague, which is true. I told myself the film had a huge impact when it came out, helping to bring international films to an American audience, which is also true. I told myself it was important to watch the film in terms of overall cinema history, which isn't really a lie. So, there.

But, yes, I admit that Brigitte Bardot did have something to do with my watching this. Or everything to do with it.

By the way, it's actually a good film, and Bardot gives a great performance.

French Kiss (1995) - One of my favorite comedies. Kevin Kline is hilarious as a French thief. Meg Ryan does her Meg Ryan thing, though maybe better than ever. Jean Reno's a cop. Timothy Hutton is Meg's fiancee, who goes to Paris and falls in love with a French "god-dessssss." Meg is terrified of flying and hates the French, but she wants Hutton back, so she puts herself through hell. Don't know why it didn't do better when it came out. The writing is wonderful and very well-crafted, with a lot of attention to details. The soundtrack is great, with Charles Trenet's beautiful song "Verlaine," and many other French tunes, as well as one cut by Paolo Conte.

Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azakaban (2004) - Directed by Alfonso Cuarón, who also did the recent Children of Men, as well as Y Tu Mama Tambien. I've probably seen this five or six times now, and I appreciate Cuarón's craftsmanship more and more with each viewing. He doesn't like CGI, which I don't either, so his special effects feel different than those in other big Hollywood movies. Filmed up in Scotland, it has a wonderfully brooding atmosphere. The story is one of the best of the Potter series, and includes several surprises. The cast is a Who's Who of British actors, including Alan Rickman, Emma Thompson, Michael Gambon, Gary Oldman, Julie Christie, David Thewlis, Maggie Smith and Robbie Coltrane. And, of course, Daniel Radcliffe as Harry.

Quick Change (1990) - The funniest movie ever made about New York City. This underrated comedy classic was co-directed by Bill Murray, who also gives one of his best performances. He plays Grimm, a City Planner who's grown to hate the Big Apple and plans a bank heist so he can get out of the city and start over. The robbery goes fine - it's getting to JFK airport that turns out to be the real challenge. The great cast includes Geena Davis, Randy Quaid, Jason Robards, Tony Shaloub, Stanley Tucci and Phil Hartman. I'm not sure how this would play for those who haven't lived in New York, but if you're ever struggled to get to JFK on time to catch your flight (Liam!), you'll probably find this dead on.

Friday Morning Musings

We woke up this morning to a world draped in white. Since I have to work this weekend, and I realized I have no meetings, classes, or Reference Desk times scheduled today, I decided to enjoy what may be the last grey, moody, winter morning of the season. I'm staying home. The only time this year I've been able to relax in our warm little cottage and enjoy the world so beautifully stilled and transformed by the snow.

A nice pot of coffee, a log in the fireplace, some meditative music, the Christmas tree . . . (Yes, I know, it's March 16th, and we still have the Christmas tree up. We've broken our own record for laziness. But, really, the lights and ornaments are so lovely, why waste such beauty? And is it so bad to celebrate the Incarnation of G-d more than a few weeks each year? But, since tomorrow is St. Patrick's Day, we've decided we probably should finally take down the tree.)

The music. I started out the morning with Georg Philipp Telemann's Sinfonia Spirituosa from the 1720s or 30s, performed by the Musica Antiqua Köln on authentic instruments of the time period. Telemann, the most prolific composer of all-time, was German, a contemporary of J.S. Bach. According to Grove Music, he "was widely regarded as Germany’s leading composer during the first half of the 18th century. He remained at the forefront of musical innovation throughout his career, and was an important link between the late Baroque and early Classical styles. He also contributed significantly to Germany’s concert life and the fields of music publishing, music education and theory."

But on such a tranquil morning, Telemann's lovely music wasn't quite moody enough for me. So I went with the most haunting and beautiful winter music of all-time, Eleni Karaindrou's soundtrack to the Theo Angelopoulos film, Ulysses' Gaze. Karaindrou composes along the lines of Philip Glass, but with more warmth, a reflection, perhaps, of her Greek heritage. She utilizes violins, some piano (more so in her later works), heartbreaking clarinets and the most mournful and melancholy tones ever produced on an accordion. It's stunning, primal music that connects you to a deeper time. I get images of being a peasant in 1100, staring out at a silent, snowy field somewhere in the Balkans. A mysterious religious procession with hundreds of votive candles might be passing quietly through the village.

But I'm not in the Balkans, only on Long Island. Still, staring out my window, I can feel for a moment something ancient and immense in the woods around our little cottage. The sad but dignified brown trees reaching up to the grey, empty sky. The pure white snow against the dark road. The log crackling in the fireplace. (Hey, it's a Duraflame Crackling Log.) We live near a cemetery and sometimes a long, slow procession of cars will make its way mournfully down the hill, most likely coming from the Greek Orthodox Church not far down the road. This morning it feels like they could arrive at any moment.

It's nice to be blogging on a day like this, so quiet and relaxing. But I think I need to go outside now and just stand there with the snow. Look at the world. Listen carefully. Feel my breath. Feel my heartbeat. Be thankful to whoever is listening. As fucked up as the world can seem sometimes, I know that our lives can be small pockets of something deeply and incredibly beautiful. At least for a moment. At least for one amazing moment. Just to be alive.

Recent Screenings

Le Cercle Rouge (1970) - Written and directed by Jean-Pierre Melville, starring Alain Delon, Yves Montand, Gian-Maria Volonte, and Bourvil.

I've been revising my list of 100 Favorite Films, and I was somewhat shocked the other day when I realized that I now had more films by Jean-Pierre Melville (4) than I did by Bergman, Fellini or Godard (3 each). How did this happen, I wondered?

Known in this country for his cool, stylish, and visually stunning noir films, Melville has never been taken as seriously as a director as some of his French compatriots. Last summer, however, his 1969 masterpiece about the French Resistance, L'Armée des ombres [Army of Shadows], was finally released theatrically in the United States - 37 years after its French premiere. I was lucky enough to catch it at Film Forum in New York, and it was a revelation. Like a lot of other people, I suddenly found myself re-evaluating Melville's overall career. We all knew he was a technically brilliant director, with some of the best set pieces ever filmed, but now we had to factor in an emotional weight that had been overlooked or under-appreciated before. Part of this was due to the fact that his films about World War II are different from his gangster movies, and they were almost completely unknown in this country. A couple of years ago, I happened to come across a video of Leon Morin, Priest (1961), with Jean-Paul Belmondo playing a priest in a small village during World War II. It was an excellent and interesting work, but it seemed like an odd duck when compared to his gangster flicks. After Army of Shadows, it made perfect sense. There is a richness of tone in his war films that seem to flesh out the rest of his work. And now, upon re-watching some of his noir films, I'm suddenly aware of an emotional layer in them that had once been elusive to me. You are so taken by his technique and the wonderful atmosphere of his world, that you can miss some of the subtleties.

Le Cercle Rouge was the film Melville made after Army of Shadows, and many fans and critics consider it one of his best, along with Le Samouraï (1967). Alain Delon plays Corey, a cool, elegant thief who's just been released from prison. One of the guards has tipped him off about a jewel heist possibility. After visiting a gangster boss who may have had something to do with Corey going to prison, he runs into an escaped convict named Vogel, and the two begin to work out the details of the robbery. Meanwhile, Commissaire Mattei is slowly but systematically tracking down Vogel. Played wonderfully by Bourvil, who had been known as a comic actor before this film, the Commisaire is a dedicated policeman but a lonely figure who comes home late at night to an apartment full of cats.

Corey and Vogel need a marksman for the jewel heist, which leads them to an alcoholic ex-policeman named Jansen, who gets involved in the heist plan more to escape his delerium tremens demons than for any money. Yves Montand does a marvellous job as Jansen, who has turned into a drunk after the harsh nature of his life as a policeman. His performance, and that of Bourvil, gives the film its emotional core.

As usual in a Melville film, there isn't so much a line between the law and the criminals as there is a zone of honor in which men from both sides exist in relationship to one another. In his hunt for Vogel, the Commisaire puts pressure on a nightclub owner, which leads to a personal disaster with serious moral implications.

The tension builds up to the long heist sequence, a masterpiece of suspense. It's a Melville show piece, beautifully choreographed and done almost entirelly without sound. In fact, Le Cercle Rouge, like several of Melville's films, doesn't rely on a lot of dialogue (a keyword phrase for the film on IMDB is "Very Little Dialogue"). Melville's camera does a lot of the talking, moving gracefully, following these professionals on both sides of the law as they go about their work. In the end, the robbery is really secondary to the exploration of these men, the codes they live by, and their intersecting lives.

The Criterion DVD, besides offering a beautiful new print of the film, also includes a second DVD of interesting interviews with Melville and people who worked with him, as well as some documentaries on the movie itself.

Though Le Cercle Rouge is not one of the Melville films on my list of 100 Favorite Films, it's a great movie and may be the best place to start if you're interested in his work. DEFINITELY RECOMMENDED.

In addition to the films listed above, I also highly recommend Bob le flambeur (1955) and Le Doulos (1962).


The Croupier (1998) - Directed by Mike Hodges, starring Clive Owen.

Jack Manfred (Owen) is a struggling writer who takes a job as a croupier at a London casino after a tip from his father, a gambler who lives in South Africa. Jack never gambles, but he does know his way around a casino, partly because of his father, and also because he's worked as a croupier before. His girlfriend is a store detective, and she's not happy with his decision, telling him she wanted to be with a writer, not a croupier. Their relationship, already somewhat stifling, begins to disintegrate.

Jack is a cool customer, observing all around him very carefully. Roger Ebert, in his review of the film, likens him to Alain Delon's assassin-for-hire in Melville's Le Samourai, but though Owen plays Jack quite restrained, he exudes more physicality and sexual tension under the surface than Delon's character. It's an excellent acting job by Owen.

As the story unfolds, Jack begins to narrate the events as though they were chapters of a book. In other films, this technique might have felt like a gimmick, but Owen's delivery and Mike Hodges' direction make it work. Jack gets involved with a fellow croupier and becomes intrigued by an older woman who is a regular at the casino. Slowly but surely, he gets drawn into a complex scheme to rob the casino.

Then, of course, thing go wrong. Jack's emotional entanglements get messy, people involved in the robbery make mistakes, plans go awry. Jack's store-detective girlfriend plays the role of The Law, adding another dynamic to their shaky relationship. There are several surprises, and though the ending might resolve itself a little too cleanly, it has a sly sense of humor. Paul Mayersberg, who actually worked as a crew member on Melville's great Le Doulos and also wrote Nicolas Roeg's science-fiction classic, The Man Who Fell To Earth delivers an excellent screenplay. It's a moody noir that spends a lot of time developing its characters - as well as being a dark twist on the writing/publishing process. RECOMMENDED.


The Conversation (1974) - Written and directed by Francis Ford Coppola, starring Gene Hackman, Harrison Ford, Cindy Williams and Frederic Forrest.

In between The Godfather (1972) and The Godfather II (1974), Francis Ford Coppola directed this little gem of a motion picture that garnered him one of his two Oscar nominations for Best Picture the following year. (It lost out to Godfather II). Released four months before Richard Nixon's resignation, The Conversation perfectly captures the paranoia and isolation at the heart of the Watergate scandal. Gene Hackman delivers what may be his best performance ever as Harry Caul, "the best wiretapper on the West Coast," who is hired to conduct surveillance on a young couple talking at lunchtime in a crowded downtown plaza in San Francisco. Harry becomes obsessed with their conversation, piecing it together from his various surveillance sources. He's convinced that they are in danger from the mysterious "Director" who's hired him (a cameo appearance by Robert Duvall). After Harry encounters the suspicious assistant to the Director - a creepy and menacing Harrison Ford - he finds himself becoming personally involved in the situation, against his own better advice.

The suspense builds slowly at first, then starts to spin out of control, like the situation itself, culminating in a terrifying sequence in a hotel room (La Reina said it reminded her of The Shining), followed by a shocking discovery, and a devastating final scene in which Harry becomes the one under surveillance.

The real mystery of the film, however, is Harry himself. While he spends all of his time listening in on other peoples' lives, his own life is a void. He has a relationship with a young woman - played by Terri Garr - but can't connect with her emotionally because he refuses to divulge anything about himself. He's an Everyman for the modern-day, alienated individual. Roger Ebert calls him "one of the most affecting and tragic characters in the movies" and likens him to Willy Loman from Death of a Salesman. At one point, he goes to confession, frightened that his work may have gotten people killed, and Coppola does a wonderful job of showing how Harry's G-d is like the Ultimate Wiretapper. At the end of the film, after a frantic search for a bugging device, Harry is literally left with nothing, his apartment stripped as bare as his own interior landscape. He contemplates the last object left to him, a statuette of the Virgin Mary. It's a powerful moment as his paranoia and isolation lead him to destroy the one last sacred symbol in his life.

The Conversation is a quiet film, with Coppola making extraordinary use of sound (the film also received an Oscar nomination for Best Sound), and with the cinematography and the pacing, it almost feels like a European movie, albeit, one with a creepy, paranoid edge. The slower rhythm allows the surveillance mystery to unfold alongside the mystery of Harry Caul's character.

Coppola has had his ups and downs over the last few decades, but I was reminded of what a great director he was in the 1970s, making The Godfather, The Conversation, The Godfather II and Apocalypse Now. I'm not sure any American director has done better since then. RECOMMENDED

Notes from the Edge: The Dynasty Factor

Man's condition: Inconstancy, boredom, anxiety.

Blaise Pascal

Thought I would offer occasional bits and pieces from the campaign trail, under the heading "Notes from the Edge." There's a lot of jockeying going on among the candidates right now, as the long and winding road gets underway. Would like to talk about several things but don't have the time. Here's a quick first installment.

The Dynasty Factor

The Los Angeles Times brings up the potential 28-year Bush/Clinton monopoly on the White House. Basically, it looks like this:

1988 - Bush
1992 - Clinton
1996 - Clinton
2000 - Bush
2004 - Bush
2008 - Clinton
2012 - Clinton



I include the whole editorial, because one needs a subscription to the LA Times and their articles can vanish quickly:

Geffen has a point about the Clintons
Geffen is right: Hillary Clinton must address the perception that the White House is home to dynasties.

February 23, 2007

THERE ARE TWO THINGS to be said about the first major intramural spat of the 2008 Democratic primary season. The first is that David Geffen has a point (and we're not saying that just because there is a remote chance that we might work for him someday). The second is that if California moves up its primary, presidential candidates visiting here will soon have to pander to more than just Hollywood moguls.

Geffen, once among Bill and Hillary Rodham Clinton's biggest financial backers, threw Hollywood's first mega-fundraiser of the election cycle on Tuesday — for Barack Obama. His criticism of Hillary Clinton, reported Wednesday by New York Times columnist Maureen Dowd, sparked an amusingly overwrought exchange between the Clinton and Obama camps.

Geffen was on to something with his passing mention of the fact that Obama is not from "the Bush royal family" or the "Clinton royal family." Regardless of what you think of Bill Clinton's presidency, or his wife's talent, the dynastic aspect of Hillary Clinton's candidacy is an issue that will increasingly come to occupy center stage in this campaign. Is the country prepared to be governed, potentially, for 28 years by two families who alternate turns in the White House?

The Clinton campaign appears unwilling to acknowledge this concern. The candidate likes talking to audiences about whether the nation is ready for a female president. But the question of whether the country is ready to perpetuate the dueling-family reign by voting in the former president's spouse is disingenuously left off the table. Maybe Hillary Clinton can make the case that she is the most qualified candidate, but she is going to have to find a way to address the dynastic issue directly. She can't have it both ways — trading on her husband's popularity but not acknowledging people's unease at turning the White House into a family business.

Yet Californians, at least, may be grateful that candidates vying for the 2008 presidential nomination in both parties will have to worry not only about what big donors think of them but what all Californians think. In recent presidential primary seasons, the California contest hasn't gotten beyond the David Geffens because the state has been solely a fundraising battlefield. But now that California is likely to move its presidential primary to early February, candidates will no longer think of their California constituencies as consisting solely of that other royalty: Hollywood celebrities.

So, if you are frustrated that one Californian's view on the race could be so newsworthy, bear with us. You'll get your turn.

Barack Obama is going to tap into this a lot, I believe, as he pushes his "new approach to politics" theme. Do people want to keep going with the bitter partisanship from the last several administrations? You wanna keep the old style - Bill and Hillary and all their baggage? Or do you want something new - Obama-rama! That's how it will be framed.

The Geffen episode also seems to have opened the door for discussing Bill Clinton. Up until then, I found it interesting how little we were hearing about him, considering that he would be First Husband if Hillary won. Now, suddenly, articles are mentioning Hillary and Bill together. What will his impact be on the race and on her chances?