The Song Stuck in My Head When I Woke Up This Morning

Yeah, I've been thinking about rock and roll, and listening to it a lot lately, but I've also been grooving on a collection of chansons douces by Henri Salvador, so it's no surprise that I woke up this morning with his magnificent "Syracuse" stuck in my head. To be honest, this dreamy travelogue has been stuck in my head from the moment I first heard it, several years ago.

Salvador is an international artist who's sadly unknown in the U.S. (Surprise!) He started performing in the 1930s and just released his new album, Révérence, a few months ago, which was given 4 stars in The Guardian, and includes performances with Caetano Veloso and Gilberto Gil.

The man is 90 years old. And his voice is still incredible!

His version of the French chanson style has included elements of jazz and Brazilian music, and his own career has been long, varied, and fascinating. He played with Django Reinhardt back in the 1930s; won the prestigious Grand Prix du Disque de l'Académie Charles Cros in 1949; wrote over 400 songs with Boris Vian in the 1950s, the two of them basically introducing the French to rock and roll; had several "novelty song" hits; performed on the Ed Sullivan show here and had his own popular television show in France; did a series of children's albums in in the 1970s; and recorded with Quincy Jones, Ray Charles, and most recently, with Rosa Passos, on her highly regarded - and sexy (lovers, take note) - album, Amorosa.

So how do such impressive people like this vanish on the radar in the U.S.?

Unfortunately, the sound quality of this YouTube version of "Syracuse" doesn't convey the amazing production values on the original recording. The sound on my CD is so lush and open that you feel like you could just let go and fall back into it, be carried away on a cloud-pillow to the Gardens of Babylon.



Here's my quick translation of the lyrics - take them with a grain of salt; my French is nominal.

Syracuse
Words: Bernard Dimey. Musique: Henri Salvador. 1962

I would love so much to see Syracuse,
Easter Island and Kairouan,
And the large birds which amuse themselves
gliding on their wings on the wind.

See the gardens of Babylon
And the palace of the grand Lama,
To dream of the lovers of Verona
At the summit of Fuji-Yama.

See the country on a calm morning
Go fishing with the cormorant
And drinking palm wine
While listening to the wind sing.

Before my youth is worn out
And my springtimes have departed
I would love to see Syracuse
So I could remember it in Paris.

"Syracuse"

J'aimerais tant voir Syracuse
L'île de Pâques et Kairouan
Et les grands oiseaux qui s'amusent
A glisser l'aile sous le vent.

Voir les jardins de Babylone
Et le palais du grand Lama
Rêver des amants de Vérone
Au sommet du Fuji-Yama.

Voir le pays du matin calme
Aller pêcher au cormoran
Et m'enivrer de vin de palme
En écoutant chanter le vent.

Avant que ma jeunesse s'use
Et que mes printemps soient partis
J'aimerais tant voir Syracuse
Pour m'en souvenir à Paris.

UPDATE: Just found a recent live version of "Syracuse." The arrangment is a little schmaltzy (it's some big telelvision special), but Salvador's voice is still great, and the sound quality is much better. Miss the awesome finger snapping in the original, though.

The Greatest American Rock and Roll Musicians

"You know, my temperature's risin'
And the jukebox blows a fuse.
My heart's beatin' rhythm
And my soul keeps on singin' the blues.
Roll over Beethoven and tell Tchaikovsky the news."

Chuck Berry

I've been thinking about rock and roll this week. Specifically, I've been thinking about American rock and roll. Rock was one of the major musical forms of the 20th century, developed primarily in this country. So, looking back now, who were the great American artists that produced this music?

This is really a late-night barroom discussion over pitchers of beer, although I've been contemplating the subject during the bright light of day while perfectly sober. But pull up your bar stool and your Brooklyn Lager, or for the teetotalers, your vanilla soy frappe with blueberry and banana, and let's get this straightened out. It's important. This is one of the most vital and influential art forms of our lifetime. No pussyfooting (oops, sorry, Fripp and Eno were British) around. Now, pour me some more of that beer . . .

First off, I'm interested in American rock and rollers. To be honest, I think the British have outdone us at our own art-form, but that's a later discussion. I wanna talk about the artists from my own culture for a moment. Which means no Canadians either, even if it is a suburb of the U.S. [Canadian friends, the internet makes it hard to recognize a satirical voice sometimes, but that really was meant as a joke. At least for the most part.] Neil Young, though he has lived most of his life now in the U.S., is still, in 2007, a proud Canadian citizen. So he's out. So are Joni Mitchell, Leonard Cohen, Buffalo Springfield, and The Band, to name a few others.

Beyond issues of geography, there is the genre problem. Was Marvin Gaye a rock and roller? I love Marvin and think he was ultimately a greater artist than many of the people on my list, but have I ever played air-guitar to a Marvin Gaye song? Creedence Clearwater Revival's epic 12-minute version of "I Heard It Through the Grapevine" is rock and roll (and an underrated rock classic). I'm not sure about Marvin's version. Wasn't he ultimately soul? Or rhythm and blues?

And what about Johnny Cash? He did some rockabilly in his early days and ended his career covering Danzig. Rock and rollers revere him. But wasn't he, at heart, a country musician? I hate categorizing art like this. But damn it, you've got to draw some boundaries in this discussion. Otherwise, you'll wind up with a bizarre mishmash of a list like Unnamed Corporate Music Magazine's 100 Immortals, which, in the end, is neither a list of Great Rock and Rollers, nor a list of 100 Great Musical Artists. Especially when Miles Davis winds up at #88, 13 slots below The Eagles and six below Eminem.

If we include Marvin and Johnny, then what about Slim Gaillard, who happened to be Marvin's father-in-law and was knocking out some pretty hallucinogenic, proto-rock tunes on the guitar with his jazz group Slim and Slam back in the 1930s? I would argue that he may have been one of the true pioneers of the rock and roll sound, even though he never gets any credit for it. No, I'm going to be a purist. The artists have to be primarily rock and rollers. I don't care if Miles Davis did incorporate rock music into his jazz - Miles is a jazz demigod, not a rock and roll one. Call them Honorable Mentions, Fellow Travelers, or Friends of Rock and Roll, but they're not on this particular list.

Though I will listen to arguments for some of them to be included.

Finally, there's the whole conundrum of what constitutes a "great" artist. Innovation, originality, influence on others, craftsmanship, performance, individual voice, longevity, overall impact on the art form, overall impact on society . . . there are many qualities to consider. And, since I'm interested in exploring the idea of American artists, how much of the soil and spirit of the country do they convey? There's no easy answer. I've probably leaned more towards people who had an impact on the art form or overall cultural landscape. Someone else making a similar list might lean in another direction.

So, now that I've rambled on (oops, sorry, Led Zeppelin is British), let's get on with the list. After a few days of mulling things over, making lists and re-making them, here's my Top 20 Greatest American Rock and Roll Musicians.

The Holy Trinity

The first thing I realized when working on various versions of this list, was that there are three artists who belong in a realm of their own - the Holy Trinity of Rock and Roll, if you will. Everyone else on the list basically comes out of these three artists. They're the faces that belong on Mount Rock-n-Roll-More.

1. Bob Dylan - Without Dylan, there is no modern rock and roll. It's that simple. Chuck Berry did all the early heavy lifting, and white-boy Elvis got all the early glory, but as great as those two were, by the early 1960s, their rock and roll revolution had led to . . . Pat Boone. Dylan landed on the scene like an atomic bomb, exploding the form and re-creating it into something almost entirely new. Suddenly, rock and roll could be about anything. The skinny Jewish kid from Hibbing, Minnesota, rolled in on a dusty road, carrying the ghosts of Woody Guthrie (folk), Hank Williams (country), Big Bill Broonzy (blues) and Arthur Rimbaud (French poetry). In the end, it was the Rimbaud element, the poetic sensibility, that changed rock and roll, and changed popular music in general. The world was now wide open. We were no longer held captive by banal and endless variations on frustrated love. Now, we could sing "Masters of War" in the shower if we wanted. If Bob doesn't hook up with the Beatles at Hotel Delmonico in New York City in August 1964 to smoke a little weed, and Lennon doesn't try to start writing some Dylan-ish tunes, the Fab four's entire oeuvre might consist of endless versions of "I Wanna Hold Your Hand." Dylan also may have captured the deeper mystical or mythological aspect of America more than any other rock musician. "All Along the Watchtower" takes the American west and places into an historical context, transforming it into a Biblical or eternal landscape. We, as a people, are now a part of the long tragi-comic story of humanity. Bob belongs in the same league as George Gershwin, Duke Ellington, Charlie Parker and other giants of American music in the 20th century. He's our Beethoven, our Picasso, our Tolstoy.

2. Jimi Hendrix - The amazing thing is . . . Jimi Hendrix only made three LPs during his lifetime. If he had lived, what might he have accomplished? Think of all that bad music he would've made in the 1980s, with cheesy synthesizers and electronic drums! Think of the late night chats with Jay Leno! The Budweiser commercials! The duet with Whitney Houston at the Super Bowl Halftime show! It's enough to make your head spin. Ah, Jimi . . . He was our shooting star. A marvel among marvels. We all play air-guitar wanting to be like him. (Except for the choking on his own vomit part.) As Dylan revolutionized the lyrical content and overall mind's eye of rock and roll, Hendrix revolutionized the musical landscape.

3. Elvis Presley - I'm only a moderate fan, but the truth is, there's no escape from Elvis Presley. Hell, even Dylan said he wanted to be Elvis. Yeah, he took music from the blacks and made it easier for the whites to listen to, but so did George Gershwin and Benny Goodman. That's what we do in this country, right or wrong. And, he's ultimately the biggest STAR of American rock and roll. In fact, Elvis probably did more than any other person to put this new music on the map. He was the public face of rock and roll. All those bloody movies. The television specials. The tabloids. He's the Great (White) American Godhead to Marilyn Monroe's Great (White) American Goddess. Not my types, to be sure, but that's the way it is. It's Elvis' country - the rest of us are just illegal immigrants.

Two Too Hard to Place

4. Velvet Underground - The Velvets. What can I say? If Dylan opened the flood gates for serious rock lyrics, and Jimi did the same for the musical aspect, The Velvets sort of changed the course of the whole river. They gave rock and roll a cool, intellectual edge that balanced with the primordial earthiness of Dylan and Hendrix. An urban sidewalk, New York, art-scene sensibility. Do Talking Heads evolve without the Velvets? I don't know. Was I wrong in saying that everyone else springs from the first three titans? If so, then the Velvets are the other procreators of rock music. And while it's not really fair, considering his own solo career, I lump Lou Reed in here.

5. Chuck Berry - Maybe Chuck really belongs in the Holy Trinity instead of Elvis. I mean, really, isn't he the granddaddy of it all? As the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame says: "While no individual can be said to have invented rock and roll, Chuck Berry comes the closest of any single figure to being the one who put all the essential pieces together." And then there was his influence. When groups like the Beatles and Rolling Stones started out, they weren't recording Elvis Presley hits, they were recording Chuck Berry songs. The Stones included four on their first three albums: "Carol," "You Can't Catch Me," "Around and Around," and "Talkin' 'Bout You." The Beatles recorded "Rock and Roll Music" and "Roll Over Beethoven." When all is said and done, and people 100 years from now look back at the rock and roll era, maybe Chuck will be recognized more. Because he's never gotten enough credit in his own lifetime.

Rounding Out the Top 11

To be honest, placing people on the list from this point forward was kind of a joke. I moved names up and down several times, depending on my mood. One of you could say that #17 should be #7 and you'd probably be right. Here's the version I had when I got tired of the process. It's a reflection of personal preference, in the end, more than a considered analysis.

6. Creedence Clearwater Revival - Say what you will, but when I'm driving down the highway on a hot summer day, amid all the vital sexual greenery and brown rugged dirt of our country, with the railroad tracks gleaming in the sun, I'm not sure another band sounds as deeply American or as perfectly rock and roll as Creedence Clearwater Revival. That chooglin' groove. That delirious, dirty, fuzzy guitar work. Fogerty's backwoods howl. "I can remember the Fourth of July, running through the backwoods bare." Yeah, CCR doesn't strike me the same way walking down the streets of Manhattan as they did driving through the American West, but I love that sound. I still remember listening to "Green River" while driving through Green River, Utah. I have been to "Lodi," though, thank God, I never got stuck there. And then there's "Fortunate Son," an epic American novel in two minutes and 21 seconds.

7. Tom Waits - If Dylan is the Tolstoy of America, then Tom Waits is our Dostoevsky. Our Chekhov. Our slightly scary uncle who might have been in the Navy, probably in the Special Forces, stationed for a while in Shanghai, who now lives alone in a bus in the woods, you think, you're not really sure, but he always smells like tobacco and just a hint of rubbing alcohol. He scares the children. But once he leaves, you realize he's always been your favorite uncle. Deeply, deeply American. I mean, America underneath all that rusty junk out in the tall grass behind the abandoned Fina station. With the earthworms and the June bugs. And, if I may say so, the second or third greatest rock poet after Dylan himself.

8. The Byrds - I mulled over my choice of the Byrds for a long time. I mean, what a weird group, with so many lineup changes over the years that they could fill up Madison Square Garden - just with members of the band. But, really, they were just so important in the incubation period of rock music. 1965. They made Dylan go electric before he himself had plugged in, recording "Mr. Tambourine Man" as a rock song, which knocked Dylan out so much that he quickly followed suit in his own work. They introduced George Harrison to the sitar, which ultimately transformed the Beatles' aural landscape. The Byrds were, in fact, supposed to be our Beatles at one point, and for a brief shining moment - "Eight Miles High" - they seemed like they might be. I mean, they made a kick-ass rock song based on John Coltrane's great jazz piece "India." For a year or two, they acted as a bridge between Dylan and the Beatles. Alas, all those competing egos shattered the original group apart. Still, McGuinn, David Crosby, Gram Parsons, Gene Clark, Chris Hillman, some great names passed through this unit and left behind a lasting imprint.

9. The Grateful Dead - However good any of the other musicians on this list are, none of them actually engendered a new religion. The Dead are like the Mormons of Rock and Roll. Yeah, the whole thing might be a little nutty, but it's truly an American religion. And they brought in so many different elements to the mix - acid rock, country, folk, bluegrass, jazz improvisation, and spacious, rocked out solos. A rustic spirituality. The endless road. The West Coast. A psychedelic circus. A rock and roll corporation. Garcia & Co. encompassed much that is America.

10. Steely Dan - Steely Dan?!?! Yeah. Because they proved that rock and roll could be wide enough to embrace Bard College poets, William Burroughs, and Thelonious Monk. And their wicked New York wit and smart sarcasm (before they left for the easy life of LA) showed up later in the form of punk. (Go back and listen to "Show Biz Kids.") They could rock when they needed. And they could roll. (And a lot of rolling they did.) A few years ago, I started listening again to their 1970s work and was impressed by how well it held up over time. Mainly, I think, because it was so intelligent. I won't vouch for anything post-Aja.

11. Bruce Springsteen - Yeah, some people would place him higher on the list. It's funny - I have a lot of respect for Springsteen, but I've just never really connected. A couple of years ago, I borrowed several of his albums and set out to burn some CDs. "I'm finally going to get into this guy," I said to myself. But after a couple of weeks, I was basically down to a Greatest Hits compilation. Then, I had to return the discs and nothing got recorded. It's probably a personal character flaw (I have many), but I think Springsteen's music, apart from some of his big hits, is . . . well . . . kind of bland. It's fine rock and roll. I always enjoy hearing his songs when they come on the radio. But I just don't find him that interesting. He's been called a powerful mix of Elvis and Dylan, but I'm not sure how much he evolved beyond either of them. (Actually, he never even reached the level of Dylan.) He's certainly very "American." And he's probably one of the greatest live performers of the last few decades. But how has he changed or added to the art form? I can't answer that. And it's a big question. Maybe someone else can explain it to me.

The Best of the Rest

12. The Ramones
13. The Doors
14. Nirvana
15. The Allman Brothers
16. Talking Heads
17. Janis Joplin
18. Buddy Holly
19. Sonic Youth

20. There is no #20. I could put a dozen names in this slot. What about Jerry Lee Lewis? Little Richard? Roy Orbison? Roy's pretty great. Maybe he's #18 and Buddy Holly belongs in this paragraph. What about REM, Iggy & the Stooges, Prince, Frank Zappa (is he rock and roll?), or Lynyrd Skynyrd? Yo La Tengo (a personal favorite)? Or Black Sabbath? Metallica? Shouldn't there be some heavy metal here? Or what about Aerosmith? Or Fugazi, a band that never gets any attention?

Or the Beach Boys. Most people would include them on a list like this, and they would probably be #4 or #5 or something. But to rock and roll, you have to rock at some point. I don't know if they ever did. Influential? Yes, beyond a doubt. I'm just being stubborn, I know. But it's America. If you think the Beach Boys are one of our greatest rock and roll groups, then make your own damn list!

What's interesting to me, after working on this, is to see how thin the list looks in comparison to the overall universe of rock and roll. A list missing The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, The Who, Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, David Bowie, Eric Clapton, The Clash, The Sex Pistols, Neil Young and Joni Mitchell just doesn't feel right. How many of the Americans I listed would actually belong in the Top 10 Greatest Rock and Roll Musicians of All Time? Three? If you made a list of The Greatest Jazz Musicians of All Time, the first 10 or 20 would all be American. So how did the Brits wind up out-rocking us? La Reina, who lived for a year in London, suggested that it might have something to do with British cynicism, or their sense of irony. Maybe. Perhaps a combination of English music hall and their long folk tradition prepared them for rock and roll. I don't know. It's a bit of a mystery to me.

[See Parts 2 and 3 of my trilogy on American rock and roll: The Greatest American Rock and Roll Albums and The Greatest American Rock and Roll Songs.

Finally, I can't go away without referencing my favorite barroom list of great rock and rollers, delivered by Martin Donovan in Hal Hartley's movie, Simple Men. Enjoy.



In the meantime, I'm gonna put on Bob Dylan's Blonde on Blonde and rock out. Start working on my list of Greatest American Rock and Roll Albums.

Texas girl rocks out . . .

Charles Cros

Charles Cros (1842-1888) was a French poet, scientist and inventor. According to William Rees, in French Poetry 1820-1950 (Penguin 1990), Cros was "a pioneering researcher in electricity, colour photography, acoustics and telegraphy, and even envisaged interplanetary communication."

In the 1870s, he conceived of a device that would mechanically record sound by tracing oscillations on a cylinder with a screw. He called his invention the Paleophone and submitted it to the Academy of Sciences in Paris, who scoffed at him. A year later, the better- funded Thomas Edison demonstrated a working model of the device, which came to be known as the phonograph. In the end, Cros had the last laugh at the French scientists who snubbed him: The French equivalent of our own National Academy of Recording Arts and Sciences (responsible for the Grammy Awards) is called L'Académie Charles Cros, and their annual award is named Le Prix Charles Cros.

But Cros' inventions and scientific pursuits were only one part of his life. He spent much of his time with artists and poets such as Manet and Verlaine, drinking absinthe and living the Bohemian life in Paris. When Rimbaud first broke off his volatile relationship with Verlaine, Cros let the young poet stay in his small laboratory. According to Howard Sutton, in "Charles Cros, the Outsider," (The French Review, 1966), "Rimbaud repaid his generosity by wantonly breaking pieces of equipment and destroying a copy of L'Artiste that contained several of Cros' poems."

Cros was a regular at Le Chat Noir, the famous cabaret in Montmarte whose clientele included Debussy, Satie, Strindberg and others. Cros played a key role in Les Hydropathes, an important Parisian literary group at the end of the 19th century. This famous club littéraire met at Le Chat Noir to celebrate literature and - yes, drink a bit. Other members included Sarah Bernhardt, Jules Laforgue, and Guy de Maupassant. Les Hydropathes published a journal of the same name, which included poetry by its members, along with humorous pieces, artwork, etc.

Cros' creative work was overshadowed in his own day by that of Baudelaire, Verlaine, Rimbaud and Mallarmé. Because of his reputation as a humorous poet and a writer of nonsense verse, he wasn't taken seriously by many critics.

It wasn't until the 1920s that Cros' poetry started to receive greater recognition, thanks in large part to André Breton and the Surrealists. The very qualities of humor and nonsense that earlier critics had dismissed were viewed by Breton and others as crucial to their own work. He was hailed as a precursor to Surrealism and revered by modern French poets such as Aragon, Eluard and René Char. By the 1950s, his complete works began to appear in various editions, and his reputation in France now seems solid.

Unfortunately, Cros' work remains almost completely unknown in the United States. After a fair amount of research, I could only locate a handful of translations in various anthologies and across the internet. American poet Kenneth Rexroth translated eight poems by Cros in One Hundred Poems from the French (Pym-Randall, Cambridge 1972), which, sadly, seems to be out of print. And William Rees includes five other Cros poems in the Penguin anthology. Beyond that, there's very little available.

Hopefully, someone will begin translating more of his work from the French, enough to at least put together a Selected Poems. Cros' work deserves that much. He's an interesting transition figure between Baudelaire and the Surrealists, and his work ranges from lush poems on erotic love (and its aftermath) to the more abstract nonsense pieces.

As Rees said of him:

"Cros has been acknowledged more recently as a significant poet, whose rather fin-de-siècle blend of emotion and self-mocking, suspicious irony prefigures Corbière and especially Laforgue, who recognized the influence. Passionate and analytical, self-dramatizing and sardonic, this philologist has a taste for crisp, laconic, unpretentious lines of verse where lyricism interacts with wit. He experiments with a wide range of metres and stanza forms, and is adept at coining original and delightful combinations of noun and adjective, often drawing together the naive and refined. His sound associations and rhythmic control show a dynamic mastery of his feelings, leaving us often with a mixed sense of exhilaration and anti-climax."

More importantly, Cros writes about absinthe. Maybe that will make him cool enough to young American poets to spark some interest in his work, now that absinthe is legal again in the United States and becoming trendy, enough for Stepehen Colbert to cover it in his WORD this week: absinthetinence. I wish Liam and I had known about Cros in our absinthe phase back in Spain! We would've easily crowned Cros the poet laureate of La Fée Verte.

Sadly, Cros died at age 45, most likely from all the absinthe and other alcohol he had consumed. But hey, "Those whom the gods love die young" and all that, right?

Anyway, Charles Cros . . . a fascinating poet, inventor and scientist.

Since it's hard finding his work in English, here are three translations - two by Rees and one by Rexroth. The French originals are included.

UPDATE: The Rexroth translation is also available at the BUREAU OF PUBLIC SECRETS website, which has another poem by Cros, "The Future," as well as Rexroth translations of Artaud, Desnos, Prévert, Queaneau, Reverdy and other Frecnh poets. The Bureau also has an extensive archive of Rexroth critical essays, some of his poetry, translations, and other writings. It's an impressive collection. And that's only one part of the overall website, which has many other fascinating artifacts. Definitely worth investigating.

LENDERMAIN

A Henri Mercier.

Avec les fleurs, avec les femmes,
Avec l’absinthe, avec le feu,
On peut se divertir un peu,
Jouer son rôle en quelque drame.

L’absinthe bue un soir d’hiver
Éclaire en vert l’âme enfumée,
Et les fleurs, sur la bien-aimée
Embaument devant le feu clair.

Puis les baisers perdent leurs charmes,
Ayant duré quelques saisons.
Les réciproques trahisons
Font qu’on se quitte un jour, sans larmes.

On brûle lettres et bouquets
Et le feu se met à l’alcôve.
Et, si la triste vie est sauve,
Restent l’absinthe et ses hoquets.

Les portraits sont mangés des flammes:
Les doigts crispés sont tremblotants...
On meurt d’avoir dormi longtemps
Avec les fleurs, avec les femmes.

MORROW (trans. by Rees)

With flowers, with women,
With absinthe, with fire,
One can have a little entertainment,
Play one's role in some drama.

Absinthe drunk on a winter evening
Enlightens in green the smoky soul,
And flowers on the loved one
Give off fragrance before the shining fire.

Then kisses lose their charms,
Having lasted a few seasons.
Mutual betrayals
One day bring separation, without tears.

HIÉROGLYPHE

J'ai trois fenêtres à ma chambre:
L'amour, la mer, la mort,
Sang vif, vert calme, violet.

O femme, doux et lourd trésor!

Froids vitraux, cloches, odeurs d'ambre.
La mer, la mort, l'amour,
Ne sentir que ce qui me plaît ...

Femme, plus claire que le jour!

Par ce soir doré de septembre,
La mort, l'amour, la mer,
Me noyer dans l'oubli complet.

Femme! femme! cercueil de chair!

HIEROGLYPH (trans. by Rees)

I have three windows in my room:
Love, sea, death,
Living blood, calm green, violet.

O woman, sweet and heavy treasure!

Cold stained glass, bells, scents of amber.
Sea, death, love,
To feel only what gives me pleasure ...

Woman, brighter than daylight!

On this gilded September evening,
Death, love, sea,
To drown myself in entire oblivion.

Woman! woman! coffin of flesh!

LE HARENG SAUR

Il était un grand mur blanc - nu, nu, nu,
Contre le mur une échelle - haute, haute, haute,
Et, par terre, un hareng saur - sec, sec, sec.

Il vient, tenant dans ses mains - sales, sales, sales,
Un marteau lourd, un grand clou - pointu, pointu, pointu,
Un peloton de ficelle - gros, gros, gros.

Alors il monte à l’échelle - haute, haute, haute,
Et plante le clou pointu - toc, toc, toc,
Tout en haut du grand mur blanc - nu, nu, nu.

Il laisse aller le marteau - qui tombe, qui tombe, qui tombe,
Attache au clou la ficelle - longue, longue, longue,
Et, au bout, le hareng saur - sec, sec, sec.

Il redescend de l’échelle - haute, haute, haute,
L’emporte avec le marteau - lourd, lourd, lourd,
Et puis, il s’en va ailleurs, - loin, loin, loin.

Et, depuis, le hareng saur - sec, sec, sec,
Au bout de cette ficelle - longue, longue, longue,
Très lentement se balance - toujours, toujours, toujours.

J’ai composé cette histoire, - simple, simple, simple,
Pour mettre en fureur les gens - graves, graves, graves,
Et amuser les enfants - petits, petits, petits.

UPDATE 2: Never underestimate the power of YouTube. I found this delightful animated version of "LE HARENG SAUR" [THE SMOKED HERRING]. Watch and listen as you read the poem. . . .



THE SMOKED HERRING (trans. by Rexroth)

Once upon a time there was a big white wall — bare, bare, bare,
Against the wall there stood a ladder — high, high, high,
And on the ground a smoked herring — dry, dry, dry,

He comes, holding in his hands — dirty, dirty, dirty,
A heavy hammer and a big nail — sharp, sharp, sharp,
A ball of string — big, big, big,

Then he climbs the ladder — high, high, high,
And drives the sharp nail — tock, tock, tock,
Way up on the big white wall — bare, bare, bare,

He drops the hammer — down, down, down,
To the nail he fastens a string — long, long, long,
And, at the end, the smoked herring — dry, dry, dry,

He comes down the ladder — high, high, high,
He picks up the hammer — heavy, heavy, heavy,
And goes off somewhere — far, far, far,

And ever afterwards the smoked herring — dry, dry, dry,
At the end of that string — long, long, long,
Very slowly sways — forever and ever and ever.

I made up this story — silly, silly, silly,
To infuriate the squares — solemn, solemn, solemn,
And to amuse the children — little, little, little.

Days of the Dead

It's the time of season to remember those who've gone before us.

Requiem æternam dona eis, Domine . . .

Fauré's Requiem may be the loveliest and most joyful of all requiems. I was lucky enough to hear an All Saints' Day performance at a church in New York City back in the early 1990s. There are few pieces of music more beautiful than the "Pie Jesu."

Requiem in D minor, op.48 - Pie Jesu and Agnus Dei (Gabriel Fauré)




In Spain, November 1, All Saints' Day, is the day of the year in which more flowers are sold than any other. When we lived in the village of Chinchón, I remember all of our neighbors going up the hill to the cemetery with flowers for their loved ones. It may have been the first time I really understood the power and importance of these holy days.

And, of course, in Mexico, they celebrate El Dia de los Muertos, a unique festival in which large altars are built that hold pictures and belongings of various ancestors. Here's a strange little animated piece about the holiday.



Finally, a more modern attempt at recalling those who've gone before us. Joy Division's "Dead Souls" is a haunting work; I'm not sure the slide show someone added to the song really captures the original intent, but it's interesting that someone used the music to recall their own favorite dead souls.

"They keep calling me . . ."

Broadway Melody of 1940

Broadway Melody of 1940 (1940) - Directed by Norman Taurog. Starring Fred Astaire, Eleanor Powell, George Murphy and Frank Morgan.

An underrated gem and one of Fred Astaire's best films from the post-Ginger Rogers era, Broadway Melody of 1940 features the music of Cole Porter, several excellent dance sequences, strong supporting actors, and maybe the best dancer Fred ever worked with, Eleanor Powell, who had a successful solo career of her own.

Their tap routine to Porter's "Begin the Beguine" is one of the most famous in Hollywood musicals and was given a place of honor in the original That's Entertainment.



Powell was a great dancer, but she's somewhat plain as an overall screen presence, as evidenced in the earlier Broadway Melody of 1938 as well. She does better as part of a large ensemble rather than as a romantic lead. Lacking the comic flair and sexual energy of Ginger Rogers, or the sensuality of Cyd Charise and Rita Hayworth, she treats Astaire more as a colleague than a potential lover, which lessens any erotic undercurrent in their dances. There's an edge missing from some otherwise superb routines. But it doesn't really matter much in the end, because they're both so great on the floor, and there's more than enough in the film to make up for their lackluster romantic chemistry.

There are two dance sequences without Powell that would make the film a must-see anyway: Astaire and Murphy doing a great job with Porter's delightful "Please Don't Monkey with Broadway" (a terrific New York song), and Fred's marvelous solo piece to "I've Got My Eyes on You." He begins simply at the piano, singing the song straight, but can't keep from bringing his feet into the musical mix, using them as a percussive element against the side of the piano as he continues playing. But the urge to dance becomes too great, and he's suddenly up and around the room, with one of his most enjoyable and skillful routines. Bosley Crowther, in the original New York Times review from 1940, said, "Astaire's rhythmic arabesques . . . seem even more fascinatingly intricate than ever before."

The story features Johnny Brett (Astaire) and King Shaw (George Murphy) as dance partners who came to New York hoping to make it on Broadway but never had much luck. They're running out of money and close to breaking up the act. Trying to outwit a bill collector, they wind up switching names, which causes problems when a producer, played by the always delicious Frank Morgan (The wizard in The Wizard of Oz and one of Hollywood's great character actors) tries to hire Brett for a new show and winds up with Shaw by mistake. Overwhelmed with his sudden notoriety, Shaw gets a big head, starts partying too much, and almost ruins the show. Brett, the better talent, tags along to help his partner learn his dance moves, but tension builds up as they both fall in love with the show's star, played by Powell. When Shaw turns up drunk on opening night, a crisis ensues. How will it all turn out? (Fine, of course, but one enjoys going from point A to point B.)

The film moves along at a good pace, directed efficiently by Norman Taurog, who knocked out an incredible 180 movies in a career that spanned from 1920 to 1968 and included most of the Dean Martin-Jerry Lewis films, as well as Elvis Presley's cinematic oeuvre. Along the way, we're treated to an amazing juggling routine by Trixie Firschke, an hilariously bad and bizarre audition, and several comic moments, including a running gag that has Frank Morgan using a mink stole to pick up young beauties.

Though the tap routine to "Begin the Beguine" became very famous, it's actually the last part of a long sequence that features amazing set designs - with mirrored walls, darkened glass floors and celestial lights - and Astaire in a flamenco costume at one point. There's a brief entre-acte with some absolutely horrific plaid outfits on the women (where was Edith Head when they needed her!) that don't seem related to anything else. The sequence is overly long but wonderfully surreal.

Don't confuse this film with the original Broadway Melody (1929) or its two successors in 1936 and 1938. Those are okay, but this one is far superior, mostly because of the addition of Astaire and Cole Porter.

RECOMMENDED

A Brief Guide to American Poetry

And now . . . a journey into shameless self-promotion.

My first chapbook of poems has come out. It's called A Brief Guide to American Poetry and includes five pieces selected by editor Michele Cooper for her Premier Poets Chapbook Series.

I want to thank Michele for believing in my work enough to publish me in her fine series of chapbooks, which also features titles by Janet Kaplan, Les Lopes and Alexandra van de Kamp, among others. It's truly an honor.

How weird and exciting to see this little creature come into the world. . . .

If you're interested, you can order a copy online. See the sidebar on the right.

In the meantime, here's the title poem. It's a slightly revised version from the one in the chapbook. (You know poets - always fiddling with their work.)

-----------------------------

A Brief Guide to American Poetry

The doorknob is not a part of the floorshow.

The floorshow, while still engaged in a peripheral attempt at
cultural revolution, has been downgraded to a niche market.

There is now a cable channel selling facsimiles
of the first-edition ice box.

If you visit the web site,
you can make the virtual poet recite in Yiddish
or set herself on fire in the lobby of corporate headquarters.

The beaches are nice, but sewage is a problem
after heavy rain.

Members of the Academy have installed an interactive
guillotine for those who want to ask questions.

When you enter the Hall of Mirrors, please remember
to extinguish your signal flares.

Post-war poets can be divided into two camps:
the horseradish-eaters and the smoke detectors.

Class distinction is muted, inasmuch as “class”
as a concept has been transformed into
a porcelain poodle.

Cultural politics play an increasingly important role,
generally that of the sexy bureaucrat in the musical version
of No Exit.

Sexual orientation is often confused and frequently
alone on a Saturday night.

There has been discussion among the thesis committee
about which war is actually being referred to
in the term “post-war.”

The doorknobs are largely symbolic.

The organic zeitgeist you left rotting in the shoebox
has been analyzed and deleted.

Women outnumber men in most areas,
except, of course, in upper management.

If you don’t know the secret handshake, don’t worry.
They weren’t going to let you into the club anyway.

Many pre-war poets, once full of vim and vigor,
have vanished from the post-war catalogue.

The proletariat giraffe-handler is no longer an accurate
guide for trope distribution.

The flag has been surgically sewn into your ass,
so make the best of it when choosing a theme
for your new work.

FYI: The rain is no longer fashionable.

Heroin abuse still elicits a few fervent nods at open mics,
but alienation has been dropped from the List
of Recommended Subject Matter.

Suggested alternatives include: yoga, cats, free
market democracy, and liberal angst at being rejected
by the jocks in charge of the dance committee.

Brechtian tendencies can be treated easily at any writers’ workshop.

Translations of foreign poetry have steadily decreased
since the President sprayed jism on the hired-help’s dress.

This is offset by the growing number of dissertations
on the post-modern significance of
Madonna’s marketing techniques.

Suicide is still an option, though it lost
some of its luster after that Sylvia Plath movie.

The drugs are helping for the most part, but I keep seeing
the horse go up in flames. On bad nights, he sings
a little lullaby while his eyeballs melt.

Be careful reading Baudelaire or Gregory Corso
on the subway. The doorknob in your handbag may explode.

Recent Screenings

"A film is a petrified fountain of thought."

Jean Cocteau

Death Takes a Holiday (1934) - Directed by Mitchell Leisen. Starring Fredric March, Evelyn Venable and Guy Standing.

Imagine Jean Cocteau being lured to Hollywood in the 1930s and directing a romantic comedy/drama in which Death is one of the lovers. Maybe Luis Buñuel collaborates a bit on the screenplay. And Giorgio de Chirico helps design the sets. But it's all very Hollywood at the same time. Well, that's the kind of the territory one enters in the unique and unusual Death Takes a Holiday. I'm not sure I've seen seen a classic Hollywood film quite like it. There's something strange about this movie, something hard to pin down. Whatever lies at the heart of its mysterious charm, I've seen it twice now, and both times I came away feeling like I had just experienced a wonderful and atmospheric little treasure.

Based on an Italian play (La Morte in vacanza) by Alberto Casella, the film features Fredric March in the impossible role of Death. Curious about human experience and angry that everyone is always so frightened of him, Death decides to take on human form for three days. He shows up at an opulent villa in Italy, where an aristocratic family and several friends are currently staying. After striking a deal with the Duke, Death takes form as Prince Sirki, "from a distant land." He spends time with the various people on hand but is particularly drawn to a beautiful young woman named Grazia. Though engaged to the Duke's son, she is equally intrigued by the Prince. As his time runs out in human form, Sirki becomes disillusioned with the endless social activities of his hosts, all of which seem futile attempts at filling up their time. He wants to experience love, but the clock is getting closer to midnight. Finally, he encounters Grazia again at a ball, and he finally understands the "dream that lifts [men] above their dust... and their little days." Grazia longs to go with him to his distant land. Will she follow where he is going?

I've mentioned before what a delicate balancing act Sunset Blvd. managed to achieve among various genres. Death Takes a Holiday accomplishes a similarly impressive feat. It's too funny to be a straight romantic drama, and too serious and morbid to be a straight comedy. The humor is often sly and dark in tone. Since Death has taken a holiday, nobody dies. A broken-hearted lover jumps off the Eiffel Tower but survives. Death/Prince Sirki feels bad about it: "I wish I could've helped him." But it's not really a black comedy, missing the essential cynicism of that genre. It's often classified as a fantasy film, but that doesn't feel quite right. It's more a philosophical Surrealist affair. I don't really know what it is, but it works.

The film pulls off its balancing act in part because of the sturdy, matter-of-fact direction of Mitchell Leisen, who today is probably only known to a few classic film buffs but was well-respected in his own time. I've seen four of his films now, and all of them have been great, and two may wind up among my 100 Favorite Films whenever I finish my new list.

But the real key to Death Takes a Holiday is the incredible performance by Fredric March. Whenever the film needs a counter-point emotion to keep it on track, he delivers the perfect mood. He's funny, menacing, suave, naive, world-wise, poetic, fierce, and romantic. Was there a better actor working in Hollywood in the 1930s and early 40s than Fredric March? I'm not sure. I don't know who else could've pulled off the role of Death with such sheer ability and panache. Just when you think it's going to ease into a simple, comic Hollywood movie, March suddenly turns dark and brooding. "What a monstrous comedy," he says of his predicament at one point, and we know he means the whole human condition. When one of the young female guests tries to land him as a royal catch, he forces her to look into his eyes. Terrified at what she sees, the young woman freaks out and tries to get away from him. He may be funny a lot of the time, as when he gets initially upset at someone referring to death as "the old man," but he's not messing around. He wants an answer to his question about human experience, and if his hosts don't comply, he has no qualms about taking all of them with him when he goes.

Perhaps it's this setting of Death among the aristocrats that makes me think of Buñuel, who used a similar device for several of his films, including the deliciously dark Exterminating Angel. Also, there is a strong Mediterranean Catholic element at work in the film. It is, perhaps, that which distinguishes Death Takes a Holiday from your typical Hollywood offering. When I realized upon second viewing that it had been based on an Italian play in the Surrealist 1920s, a lot of things came together for me. At the beginning of the movie, while the aristocrats are slumming at the local village festival, Grazia is in a dark church, praying. She's strongly romantic, almost mystical in her outlook. And while one could say her love of Sirki shows a certain obsession with death, it could also be seen as a mystical desire for unity with the unknown. But there's no doubt that the original story owes much to the frequently dark and mysterious Catholicism of Italy, Spain and France that produced Surrealists like Dali, Buñuel and Cocteau.

There are three other crucial aspects of the film that give it weight and solidity. The first is the excellent and atmospheric cinematography by Charles Lang. Though you may not recognize his name, Lang was nominated for 18 Oscars for cinematography in his long career (tied for the most ever) and shot several Billy Wilder films, including Sabrina, Some Like It Hot and Ace in the Hole. His camera work in Death Takes a Holiday shows an obvious debt to Cocteau, whose first film, Blood of a Poet, had come out a few years before. The second crucial aspect of the film, which works in perfect tandem with Lang's photography, is the Surrealist-inspired set design. Most of the action takes place at the villa, with numerous shadowy arches, statues in the garden, and black and white tiled floors that all seem lifted from Di Chirico paintings. Meanwhile, as characters stroll or waltz in this atmospheric setting, the strains of Debussy and Chopin can be heard at times, and the haunting music accentuates the lush, dream-like quality of the surroundings. Somebody on this project had a strong working knowledge of Surrealism and used it to great advantage in what could've easily been a bland Hollywood production.

Besides March, most of the acting is top-rate. Evelyn Venable has an unenviable role as the beautiful, romantically/mystically-inclined Grazia. A lesser actress could've easily gone headlong into schmaltz, but Venable invests her portrayal with just enough dignity. Henry Travers (Clarence the angel in It's a Wonderful Life) provides comic relief and a sly, world-weary outlook as the Baron. Guy Standing, as the Duke, also does well.

The film drags a bit between its interesting opening scenes and the point where Fredric March shows up. And I could've used less of the family and more of March's first two days, which are hinted at more than depicted. But if one stays with the movie, it is a special work, a rare bird from from 1930s Hollywood. Unfortunately, this wonderful film is currently only available in video or in DVD as a part of the Deluxe Edition of Meet Joe Black, a 1998 remake starring Brad Pitt (and of which I've read little that is positive.) That's really a crime, as Death Takes a Holiday is a unique and wonderful American classic and should not only be presented on its own but should be restored to the best condition possible. HIGHLY RECOMMENDED.


Zodiac (2007) - Directed by David Fincher. Starring Jake Gyllenhaal, Mark Ruffalo, Robert Downey Jr.

From 1969 through the early 1970s, a serial killer who called himself Zodiac terrorized San Francisco and surrounding counties. The police were never able to arrest anyone, despite Zodiac sending cryptic letters to them, as well as to the various San Francisco newspapers. David Fincher, who directed Fight Club and Se7en, presents us with a combination feature - part serial killer movie and part police procedural-journalistic investigation. The script is based on a book by one of the people involved in the case - an unlikely source: an editorial cartoonist for the San Francisco Chronicle who became obsessed with the case and worked on it even after the paper and the police had given up on it. Fincher's film is, in fact, ultimately about obsession, both on the part of Zodiac, who couldn't stop himself from killing; and on the part of Detective Toschi, who led the case for the SFPD; the cartoonist, Robert Graysmith; and the Chronicle's crime reporter, Paul Avery. Though we see Zodiac's murders, most of the narrative follows the three men pursuing him. We watch what happens to them, their careers and their families as they become more and more obsessed with the case.

The acting in the film is quite good all around. Jake Gyllenhaal plays Graysmith, the cartoonist, who was literally an Eagle Scout, and never seems to quite fit in at the newspaper. He loves puzzles, keeps to himself, doesn't drink or smoke. But as he becomes obsessed with the case, he spends more and more time lurking around Avery's desk, "looming," as Avery says. "Remember, we talked about the looming." Graysmith is a nerd. Paul Avery, played by Robert Downey Jr., is a cool hedonist. It's the late 1960s-early 70s, and he enjoys the recreational drinking and drugs available. In the end, that's how he handles (or doesn't handle) his obsession. Meanwhile, Detective Toschi, portrayed well by Mark Ruffalo, struggles to keep his home life together, as well as his hard-fought-for position in the police force.

There are couple of disturbing scenes of violence (this is the director of Se7en, after all), but most of the film follows the somewhat pedestrian aspects of the various investigations. Fincher's direction is good at the beginning, but the film starts to drag after a while. I like what the story is trying to do, following out these obsessions, but strictly as an investigative film, I found it lacking in some respects. Elements are introduced and then disappear. Clues that seem like they might be important are never brought up again. Part of this is due to the very nature of obsession, trying to follow out some mystery to the bitter end. There are many, many dead ends along the way. I respect Fincher's willingness to show us that. But there are also plot holes. I hate plot holes in otherwise intelligent films. And the obsessive people in this film wouldn't stand for plot holes. They spent years and years pouring over holes in the case.

Zodiac is a creepy, fascinating film, and has a lot going for it. Fincher has a good eye for disturbingly absurd aspects of life. The first victims, a young couple, are listening to Donovan when they're shot multiple times in a violent, bloody scene. But the song is "Hurdy Gurdy Man," which, as Fincher has keenly recognized, has its darker aspects. There is, by the way, a great soundtrack in this film. Go for the ride, don't ask too many questions, and it's a dark, interesting journey. RECOMMENDED.


The Battle of Algiers [La Battaglia di Algeri] (1966) - Written and directed by Gillo Pontecorvo. Starring Yacef Saadi, Jean Martin and Brahim Hadjadj.

Anyone interested in what's happening in Iraq right now should see this film. Hell, even if you don't have any interest in Iraq, you should still see it - it's a landmark motion picture, the father of the modern political thriller. Though it's over 40 years old now, Battle of Algiers seems like it could've been made this year. And, in fact, it was being shown at the Pentagon at some point recently. For one thing, it makes you realize once and for all that the United States of America is involved in a colonialist occupation of an Arabic country. You can talk all you want about "The War on Terror" and all of our noble-sounding ideals about bringing democracy - sorry, free-market democracy - to the Middle East, but once you see how close our situation is to that of the French in Algeria, you can't fool yourself anymore. All you can do is act like Col. Mathieu in the film, the scarily efficient and no-shit Frenchman in charge of combating the Algerian "terrorists." Our version is General Petraeus - sort of. We still want to convince ourselves that our occupation is a "good" one. Mathieu doesn't really bother with the political or philosophical debate. His stance is basically: If you believe the occupation is good, then we have to torture the Algerians. I found his manner refreshing in some ways. How terrifying.

For some reason, I thought Battle of Algiers was a documentary film, and so I avoided it for a long time. But it's not. It's shot in a documentary style and was based on a book by one of the Algerian resistance leaders, Yacef Saadi, who also stars in the film. But it's still a fictional account. The important difference in this fact, is that the movie plays out dramatically as a suspense film. I have to be in the right mood for a political documentary. But give me a suspense film, and I'm there. I don't know what that means. My first instinct is that it's not a good thing, that I'm not serious enough about important things. But then I realize, deep down, it's probably healthier. I believe more in the "truths" of fiction, perhaps, than I do non-fiction. Political documentaries can too often have a smug, self-righteous tone when it comes to doling out the "truth." (See Michael Moore.)

Instead, The Battle of Algiers gives you history, politics and philosophy in an entertaining suspense film, with a powerful human component. That doesn't make it any less penetrating or effective. Or contemporary. A young Algerian woman leaves a bomb in her handbag in a French bar, killing numerous people. Later, one of the intellectual leaders of the Algerian resistance, who has been captured, is brought before the French press. A reporter asks him if it isn't cowardly to plant bombs in baskets and handbags. He replies, "And doesn't it seem to you even more cowardly to drop napalm bombs on defenseless villages, so that there are a thousand times more innocent victims? Of course, if we had your airplanes it would be a lot easier for us. Give us your bombers, and you can have our baskets."

This is an intellectually potent and challenging film, as well as entertaining. Most of the story follows a young, uneducated Algerian who slowly transforms into one of the leaders of the resistance. It's also an emotionally compelling film, sending shivers down the spine at times. After most of the Algerian figures in the film have been hunted down by Mathieu's forces and killed, there is suddenly a large-scale and spontaneous resurgence of ordinary Algerians who take to the streets in protest. It's a dramatic conclusion, and also a important lesson: When it seems that you've cut off the heads of the underground movement, the serpent can rise up again, even more powerfully than before. This is why military solutions to situations like this are ultimately useless if they're not part of an overall diplomatic and political solution. Ask the Spanish how many times their government has "cut off the heads" of the Basque terrorist group ETA.

In addition to the feature film, the DVD contains not one but two extra discs loaded with interviews, documentaries, essays, etc. The Battle of Algiers was an important film in terms of style and impact, and it's interesting to hear some contemporary directors talking about its influence on them. It's also interesting to see the interview with Yacef Saadi many years later. Don't miss this great, great film. HIGHLY RECOMMENDED.


Galaxy Quest (1999) - Directed by Dean Parisot. Starring Tim Allen, Alan Rickman, Sigourney Weaver, Tony Shalhoub, Sam Rockwell.

For anybody who's ever spent to much time watching (and reading about) Star Trek, this is a hilarious and delightful comedy that manages to skewer the Trekkie phenomenon, but with the kind of care and attention that can only come from great love of the subject matter. Whoever came up with the idea for this film deserves extra bonus points - it's so simple and brilliant. The cast of an old sci-fi TV show called Galaxy Quest is now reduced to signing autographs at conventions and cutting ribbons at the opening of a new megastore. ("By Grabthar's hammer . . . what a savings.") Meanwhile, real space aliens (The Thermians) who are on the verge of being destroyed by their enemies have intercepted old transmissions of the show and believe that their only hope for survival rests on the great Captain Taggart ("Never give up. Never surrender.") and his trusty crew. Naive and desperately hopeful, the Thermians don't seem to realize that their hero, Captain Taggart, is really just a washed up, self-centered actor named Jason Nesmith, who's been reduced to drinking himself to sleep, or that the rest of the crew doesn't really like each other all that much at this point. Still, the actors wind up in space and are forced into the kind of adventure that they played at all those years. They just don't seem to have learned much from their previous experiences. ("Didn't you guys ever WATCH the show?!")

Besides the great premise, Galaxy Quest can also be held up as an example of perfect casting. I was never a Tim Allen fan, but he's very good as the egotistical but charming Jason Nesmith. It's hard to imagine a better portrayal of a William Shatner/Captain Kirk-like figure. Alan Rickman hits every note right as a former Shakespearian actor ("I played Richard III . . . There were five curtain calls.") who hates himself for winding up on TV and hates Nesmith for hogging all the limelight. Sigourney Weaver, as a buxom blond (!), plays off her own fame as the smart, tough Ripley in the Alien films, delivering a hilarious performance. And Tony Shalhoub and Sam Rockwell add their own delightful and wonderful touches to round out the cast.

I don't know how I missed this when it came out. I was in Spain, I guess. Thanks to Liam for recommending it. It's loaded with hilarious lines and perfectly captures both the inanity of shows like Star Trek ("Does it help to roll on the ground?") as well as the adventure and great storytelling. An instant favorite. RECOMMENDED.


The Killers (1946) - Directed by Robert Siodmak. Starring Burt Lancaster, Ava Gardner and Edmond O'Brien.

Lancaster and Gardner both became stars after this excellent film noir based on Ernest Hemingway's short story of the same name. In Hemingway's tale, recurring character Nick Adams finds himself in a diner taken over by two gunmen who are waiting for an ex-boxer named "The Swede" to come in for dinner. After a tension-filled time of waiting, the gunmen realize the Swede's not showing up, so they go out to look for him. Nick knows where the Swede lives and goes to warn him about the two killers. To Nick's surprise, the tough ex-boxer doesn't seem to care, as he just lies on his bed in the dark room, waiting for the inevitable. In just a few sentences, Hemingway has gone from gangster thriller to powerful existential drama about facing death.

I've always loved the story, but I wondered how anyone could turn such a perfect little tale into a full-length film. Well, producer Mark Hellinger brought in his co-author from an earlier crime drama they had done together, the classic Bogart film High Sierra. John Huston. By this time, Huston had already begun directing his own films, including the great Maltese Falcon. The only problem was that Huston had joined the army during World War II to make propaganda films and was still in uniform. He was also under contract to a different studio. So Huston's friend and sometime collaborator, Tony Veiller, served as a front, taking Hellinger's money and giving half to Huston. Then Veiller and Huston locked themselves up in a New York hotel room (and in several New York bars) and put together a great script. The question in their minds was: What would cause a tough boxer to wind up in a sad boarding house, surrendering to his certain death?

Well, a woman, of course. So Huston and Veiller constructed a series of flashbacks that show how the Swede got into such a position, waiting for his killers. They left in Nick Adams, but only in the first part of the film. Instead, they wrote in the character of an insurance investigator, played by Edmond O'Brien, who becomes intrigued by the case of this boxer, his gangland connections, and the woman who could lead him into such existential despair. For director, Hellinger got Robert Siodmak, one of the German emigrees who came to Hollywood during Hitler's reign. Siodmak had already directed a series of dark, psychologically interesting thrillers that featured innovative cinematography that was partly influenced by German expressionism, including Phantom Lady and The Spiral Staircase. These were some of the films the French began to discuss in terms of a genre called film noir. Hellinger wanted that same edge for his film, which was his first major project as an independent producer. In fact, he wanted to raise the stakes in terms of a harder, more realistic psychological crime film.

For the role of the boxer, Hellinger hired an unknown acrobat who had never been in a movie: Burt Lancaster. His muscular, brooding performance has been called the strongest of his career by some critics. But who would Hellinger get for the woman? He needed someone who could make a man "steal, go to prison, die for her," as one film writer put it. After a long, unsuccessful search, a fellow producer happened to see a sleeper of a film that featured a young actress named Ava Gardner. The producer worked next door to Hellinger and knew he had been looking for the right femme fatale. The next morning, he called Hellinger and said, "You better go see this girl." That night, Hellinger went to see the movie. He called Ava first thing in the morning and had her come in for an interview. Later, Hellinger said that Gardner got the role the moment she walked into his office. "It was sex-two-and-even." Would a man steal, go to prison or die for Ava? Well, she got to Frank Sinatra bad enough that he wound up slitting his wrists. Yeah, she works as a femme fatale.

Siodmak's taut direction, the excellent screenplay by Huston and Veiller, the solid acting from unknowns Lancaster and Gardner, and Elwood Bredell's fantastic black and white cinematography make The Killers a great example of film noir. RECOMMENDED.


Other films recently screened:

Foreign Correspondent (1940) 8/10 - Hitchcock directs Joel McCrea and Herbert Marshall in this tale of an American journalist investigating German secrets agents in London on the eve of World War II. Very good but not great Hitchcock.

Texas, Brooklyn and Heaven (1948) 6/10 - I've been waiting to see this film for several years. Last Christmas, I was even given an original 1948 movie poster for it, a great, great present from my in-laws. How could it possibly live up to such a title, I thought? Well, it wasn't too bad in the end, saved mostly by a somewhat surreal series of scenes that take place in "Gaboolian's Riding Academy" in Prospect Park, Brooklyn. It's a warehouse full of mechanical animals and exotic make-beleive sets - a kind of precursor to Disney, but much more humble. Believe it or not, Gaboolian, the old Russian owner of the "Academy," was played by Michael Chekhov, nephew of the famous writer, Anton Chekhov. His only role of consequence in the U.S. was that of Dr. Bruloy in Hitchcock's Spellbound, for which he received an Oscar nomination. But he was a famous actor in Russia and studied under Stanislavski. He wound up as a drama teacher in New York, and his pupils included Gary Cooper, Gregory Peck, Ingrid Bergman, Marylin Monroe, Yul Brenner and other stars. The story of Texas, Brooklyn and Heaven is admittedly slight, but how could I not like a film about Texans hanging out in Prospect Park? There are some interesting shots at the beginning of the film that show Dallas in 1948, but Brooklyn, sadly, is mostly relegated to a studio version in Hollywood. There are several good secondary actors, including Margaret Hamilton (The Wicked Witch), Irene Ryan, (Granny from The Beverly Hillbillies), Lionel Stander (Max from Hart to Hart), and William Frawley. Unfortunately, the print of the film was atrocious, as if someone had videotaped the movie while it was on television and then transferred the tape to DVD. Too bad. Eventually, everyone will realize what an important film this is, and I'm sure it will be restored with great care. (Cough.)

Sahara (2005) 8/10 - I don't know why this got such a bad rap when it came out. As long as you don't take it seriously, it's a very funny, fast-paced action-thriller, involving a Confederate ironclad that may or may not have ended up in the African desert, a deadly plague spreading rapidly through a West African country in the midst of a civil war, treasure hunters, a beautiful scientist from the WHO, and a corporate bad guy who's French. It's become one of my favorite action-comedies from the last few years. Matthew McConaughey and Penelope Cruz were the big names, but Steve Zahn steals the show.

The Painted Veil (1934) 6/10 - Gretta Garbo and Herbert Marshall star in this 1934 adaptation of W. Somerset Maugham's novel of the same name. Garbo was truly an amazing screen presence and shows why in her portrayal as the restless Katrin. Herbert Marshall also excels as her wounded husband, Dr. Fane. Unfortunately, despite several good scenes, the screenplay never fully develops. La Reina, who also saw last year's remake, says the narrative in that version was fleshed out much better.

Gangs of New York (2002) 4/10 - I've spent the last five years doing extensive research on New York City in the 1860s, and people kept telling me I had to see this film. Well, no, as it turns out, I didn't. I could have easily spent the rest of my life without watching this overblown yet surprisingly dull, tedious, and historically inaccurate film. Scorsese took himself way too seriously on this one. A lot of people ragged on Cameron Diaz's acting, which I mostly found unmemorable, but what about the great Daniel Day Lewis' almost cartoonish portrayal of Bill, the Butcher? The violence at the beginning of the film verges on psychopathic and makes me wonder if Scorsese knows how to advance the emotional trajectory of his films without spilling (literally) buckets of blood. If I hadn't seen his Age of Innocence, I'd really wonder. His use of the 1863 Draft Riots (one of the most fascinating events in our country's history) as a backdrop for the climatic showdown is not only riddled with factual flaws but seems tacked on, careless, and intellectually suspect in its depiction. Bad history. Mediocre movie-making.

A Gershwin Friday: Rhapsody in Blue

I'm currently reading The House That George Built: With a Little Help from Irving, Cole, and a Crew of About Fifty Others, by Wilfird Sheed. The section on Gershwin was most enjoyable and inspired me to pick up a CD called Gershwin Plays Gershwin: The Piano Rolls. These are recordings of 12 of the 130 piano rolls he cut from 1916-1927, including "Rhapsody in Blue," "An American in Paris," and his very first tune, "When You Want 'em, You Can't Get 'em, When You've Got 'em, You Don't Want 'em."

I've been a Gershwin fan since 1979, when I sat in a dark theatre absolutely spellbound during the opening sequence of Woody Allen's Manhattan, in which "Rhapsody in Blue" plays over Gordon Willis' gorgeous black and white shots of New York City. I went out the next day and bought an LP of "Rhapsody" and "An American in Paris," the first classical album I ever owned. But I had never heard this particular and extraordinary recording of Gershwin's piano roll of "Rhapsody in Blue" until last night. The producers of Gershwin Plays Gershwin have done an amazing job with the sound quality, making you feel like George is playing piano right in your living room - which he would've done if you had known him and he happened to stop by your place. He was notorious for giving impromptu concerts on any piano around. While this recording may lack some of the color and power of the orchestrated versions, you can really hear Gershwin's jazz influence coming through, and it resonates with that essential, hard-to-describe, totally unique George Gershwin sound, with its touches of Jewish music from Russia, African-American music, the exciting and raucous immigrant streets of New York City, art deco and modernist whispers, Ravel and French Impressionism, the thrill and exhilaration of the mechanical and engineering marvels of the early 20th century, all swirling around into something vibrant and wonderfully, beautifully "American."

Here's the first part of Gershwin playing "Rhapsody in Blue," with some great shots of New York.



And here's the second part of "Rhapsody."



YouTube also has a 34-second film clip of George himself, playing "I Got Rhythm."

As well as the opening sequence of Manhattan. [Sorry about the Asian subtitles, I couldn't find a better version. But, hey, that's pretty New York anyway.]