Television Watching 2

At the same time I am eliminating certain kinds of entertainment, I'm also analyzing what stays, and why it's worthwhile. What I'm realizing is it's simultaneously unsurprising and completely unexpected what "works" for me entertainment-wise, ethically speaking. One stupendously trashy show has struck me particularly.

Among the unsurprising keepers - and unembarrassing ones - are Luke Cage, with some of the best women characters I've seen in a long time, a killer soundtrack, and a team of black writers filling out a fully realized world it's exciting to learn about and inhabit for a while. Jessica Jones and Agents of Shield too, yeah. Trek, of course, but I won't bore anyone with the details; that's another tag entirely. On my DVD shelf are the queasily balanced Caprica (strong female characters, sure, but a creepily sexualized teenager at the center, and an entire ensemble of absolutely bat-splat crazy people all-round) and Battlestar Galactica (I am not overjoyed with the gender issues and the fact it's an overwhelmingly white, eurocentric show, though it really began to explore these things at least, which so much television fears to).

Of course, few people embarrass themselves by liking Luke Cage, a well-received entry in a Marvel Universe which has been well loved as well as blockbuster successful.

Meanwhile, few people would ADMIT what I am about to, but I have to for the purposes of this post.

I watch The Royals. I watch it gleefully, in tandem with a friend of mine whom I shall not name unless they choose to out themselves, and reveling in its soap operatics, its tonguey-cheekiness (sometimes exposing actual nether cheeks - so naughty!), and ... well, I mean. Dame Joan Collins.

Here's the thing about The Royals. Lambasted in a hurry by everyone in need of protecting their cred against its excesses, laughed at for being unrealistic (that's the POINT, rather), and avoided by all except apparently enough millions of viewers to keep it afloat, the series is on its way into a third season and shows no sign of dying on the vine.

This show is Beyond the Valley of the Dolls, it's Grand Guignol. It's sumptuously daft, and not pretending remotely to be anything else. It is stocked entirely with ham in every casting, and home to more pouty lower lips than I've seen anywhere else on TV - and that is saying something. It's actually got a bit of heart here and there, and the delirious sets and costumes and performances are just right for the madness of the politics and deception around which the whole thing swirls prettily, like a gaudy fan.

Politics and deception have always made good tube. Dynasty hasn't even got a patch on Her Joanness in this gig. Most addicting-cinematic-TV of the 21st century has traded in exactly this sort of GOTCHA plotting. Joss Whedon has made a career out of it, and everybody likes him.

Not so The Royals.

Which is a shame. Not only is the show a lot more fun than the darker takes on murder and mayhem currently on offer (it doesn't hurt your heart to watch it), it's just as valid in honest ways.

And some other ways too, where there are dark shows doing the same thing and failing in important ways.

To wit: the women.

The Royals is outright run by women. The Prime Minister, the Queen, the Princess, the scheming would-be consorts of the on-again/off-again male heir, the million thieves and killers and hangers-on and lovers and exes ... the only characters here who actually move any pieces on the board are the women.

Oh, sure, current-King Cyrus is a gas to watch, for his chin alone. He's up there with Bruce Payne for greasily gluttonous scenery sneer-chewing, and I adore him all to bits.

But it's the tragically-eye-makeupped, colt-legged Princess Eleanor who's learning her way around real power. It's her mother, Queen Helena, played (if not simply embodied) by the sounds-Patrician-to-most-Americans Elizabeth Hurley, who has the will to do literally anything. It's the Queen's secretary, Rachel, who will pop your eyes with her understated outrages.

And even more importantly: most of the men are merely sitting around looking pretty. Prince Liam is all but non-present even when he tries to look determined. Jasper, the youngest and most impressively-eyebrowed security detail, who spends his time caroming through multiple roles only hoping to be near the princess, all but has "Mr. Fanservice" written all over his wonderfully cliche'd role as would-be protector. And his chemistry with her works both on the swoony and the emotional level.

Even the older fellows, especially those security gents, are awfully nice to look at, for those of us a bit leery of leering at the twentysomethings.

And all of them exist only in relation to the actions of the women, even the king, even the craggy fall guy so dedicated to The Crown that he sticks with being the fall guy even when he's given a pass.



In terms of its gender prominence and sexual politics, The Royals is an outstandingly progressive show. It's still a bit white (some of the people of color from season 1 seem to have disappeared entirely; including a very nice pretty security guard I rather miss) - I mean, if we've rewritten the royal family this radically, why not break the Caucasian monotony - but at least it's forward-looking on something, anything, in a world where we continually regress, culturally. And it's not a small thing. Women are, after all, a significant part of the world population. At least, two key women in The Royals are Black and Indian.



In a world where embarrassing discussions abound regarding Prince Henry's girlfriend, picking apart her ethnicity as if it is in any way relevant to anything at all, it's not the worst thing to see women in the royal milieu living entirely NOT on the terms of any men anywhere.

Imperfectly acted? At times. Overheated? Yes, please, and do turn it up. Ludicrous? Indeed, and loving it. This is a hilarious show, and means to be. Yet its reputation, as far as I have seen, has been formed by people dumb enough to think it is dumb enough to take itself seriously.

It's also a good laugh, and provides a few wonderful things to guess about along the way.

Eclectic Music

I often have reason to recall the time I went to a music store in California and bought Billie Holiday, Judas Priest, and Leonard Cohen CDs. The clerk smiled something about me buying gifts, and I said no, these are all for me - pretty sure I got a gleam of respect for the breadth.

It may be a reasonable sample to illustrate just how wide-ranging my tastes are. When I was younger, I'd say, "I grew up in a house with a dad who loved classical, original Broadway musicals (circa 1940s and 50s), and used to wake us up with Switched-On Bach at top volume. My mom was into country and church music. My brother was a punk rocker."

I mean, yeah - of course the elastic broke on whatever bag it was that should have contained my musical tastes.

But I think there's a lot more to it than that. I am intensely easy to bore. Always was. But ...

I'm also easy to interest, if the right odd thing comes along. I still recall the ease with which I could become utterly absorbed in staring down the pattern of the pebbles and mica flecks in the asphalt on the playground, when they had me playing the outfield in kickball. You can get a LOT of absorption-time in when you're not the popular kid, and just what falls in front of your eyeballs (when your eyeballs are perfect and young and can focus or defocus with alacrity).



There was a time in my life I spent almost entirely with musicians. I was still in college, but dating a TOWNIE (gasp - but then, an awful lot of the frat boys were entitled, molest-y jerks), and he was in a band. The music scene where we lived in the Midwest was pretty tight, and very talented, and it was a big interbreeding soup of interesting people I still miss and think of often.

But as dynamic a crowd as we were, we were predominantly white, and pretty much centered on a certain docket of Acceptable Music. Oh sure, they felt it was varied - and I did too, as far as I had forgotten my dalliances with the Dead and disco and the soundtrack from Breakin'. But I can recall the extreme prejudice with which, say, Beloved Ex regarded rap.

Rap and hip-hop (a term we really didn't know, honestly - rap was a blanket for an awful lot of Black music) were NOT music, he felt. All he/we saw was guys posing with their arms crossed. Maybe the unfortunate white-suburban perspective on Flava Flav. Scratching.

Scratching, and sampling, were just STEALING. That wasn't music - it certainly wasn't creation.

And this from a man who was a musician himself. His feeling sprung from a common theme amongst our friends - that "music" involves playing instruments.

Last night, I was struck (not for the first time) by the thought that ... not all instruments have strings, keys, or sticks ...

Episode 6
(No Empire Required)

PBS has been running a series - as so often is the case, excellently researched and peopled, with one hell of a soundtrack - called Soundbreaking. For almost anyone who cares about where music comes from creatively and practically, how it is actually made, its history and impact and the impulses that lead to new music and the ones that come from hearing it, Soundbreaking is immensely, essentially, worthwhile. And I'm not big on the whole "you HAVE to read this/hear this/see this" as a rule.

Last night's episode centered on hip-hop and rap quite a lot, and I was reminded of my periodic obsessions with Rakim, or Tupac, or Nas - of the enjoyment I got as a kid out of Run DMC - of an awful lot of music that wasn't supposed to be interesting to me.

And I realize, one of the million reasons I have never quite been able to lay claim to being a punk, or a goth, or a classic rocker or any one subcultural or pop-cultural thing that strongly associates with any music is that there is no music I'd be happy LIMITING myself to. Sure, I'm not the only person in the world who LOVES combinations like Grandmaster Flash and Warren Zevon and Southern Culture on the Skids (I once dated a guy who was both a huge KISS fan and also Color Me Badd - at the turn of the Millennium, no less, talk about past the sell-by date). But I'm actively, constitutionally incapable of committing to any one music above all others, because I have this stupid fear it'll define me, or I'll lose everything else.

Blame my family for raising me not only eclectic, but literalist. Bastards! :)

So last night, some old white woman bounces around her bedroom thinking, good gravy I am so wrong for this particular bouncing, and just incapable of caring.

I'm like Michael Bolton (not. that. one.).



There is something important, to me, in not accepting the music I'm supposed to be into - not limiting myself to the role of bland, frankly-past-middle-age (I do *not* wish to live to be 100, so I'm not in any sort of middle anymore) suburban woman. And I think, right now, reaching beyond boundaries is perhaps the best thing any American can do.

Where do you cross the lines, or blur them? Where can you bleed out of expectations, and understand a perspective that's not supposed to be yours?

Watch Soundbreaking and realize - or remember - one or two of the places you push your own envelope, break the bubble your everyday life leaves you in.

And maybe get a heck of a laugh at the bit with Sean Puffy Combs. Because that is a cackle-worthy damn DISS, y'all.

"Dixie Dupree is eleven years old and already an expert liar"

For my Reider readers and beyond, many of you have seen me mention The Education of Dixie Dupree, Donna Everhart's upcoming debut novel. For those who have not: I've been eagerly awaiting this book for a LONG time now. Eagerly!

Well, I am not alone ... and pre-order is always an option.

Donna knows I have a "thing" about the intimacy of reading, but I also have a thing about supporting good authors, and without a doubt she qualifies. The struggle to wait is real.

COOL cover, right?"
You know you're curious.

But now ... the wait is but a couple of business days!

Born, and the Rest

Mama Ru on the Reagan years, tribe, and mainstreaming the un-mainstream-able (or NOT; for Ru is wise).



He IS an outstanding host, I've said it before, presiding over drag families for decades now and RuPaul's Drag Race for eight seasons and two All-Stars editions as well. Some of the people hes introduced us to mean a lot to those of us who are fans. Alaska T. is the only thing named Alaska on Earth I will ever love, and Katya and (OMG) Latrice Royale.

My friend Kristi and I agreed: Ru's saying recently that he could never go mainstream was marketing brilliance. The media has snapped-to - oh, and look, two Emmy nods as well. Whether you appreciate that sort of thing or not, this is a queen who has EARNED notoriety, and has worked his curvaceous ass off since he was scarcely a teenager. Someone who knows who he is (and does not care whether you call her he or she) and what he wants - you can really see it in some of the vintage vids available on YouTube (bonus if you click: Mama Ru's own mama, BUBBLE WRAP DANCING - and about 3/4 of a second of Ru with a beard - and I mean growing out of his face, not the metaphorical merkin).

Though there is the epic point-missing of not pointing out the incredible transformations on display every single week, times however-many-contestants-remain, take a look at some reasons to love RDR here. Go. Do. Enjoy! Gerald would.

Little Darlin'

At some point in the past month or two, I DVR'd "Little Darlings", a movie that horrified me when it came out. I was five years younger than the girls in this movie, but even by their own age, I was far too much the Good Girl to be able to stand the thought of a whole movie about a bet over losing virginity.

And so, I've never actually seen "Little Darlings."

Watching it today, as a bright and gusty warm winter Sunday wears into evening, the sight of Kristy MacNicol in her opening scene, walking through her neighborhood in jeans and a jean jacket, smoking took me SLAM back to the Marlboro Country where I grew up. (My high school had a smoking area. For students.) I dressed like that, I had the little scowl like that, I had the fluffy hair that looked different every day.

This is one of those movies I enjoy because it looks real, not production designed. Matt Dillon looks so much like the real live boys I crushed on and hung out with, his youth is almost heartbreakingly gorgeous. The girls in camp look like we did - thick-haired, thin-haired, fat, babyfaced, dorky. Beautiful.

One of the great highlights of the story is Sunshine, the hippie child who defends virginity in the end - and is, hilariously, played by Cynthia Nixon (later famous for her long run in, of all things, Sex and the City). She's rather more likable here.

The emotions, as they come in "Little Darlings", are raw and tender and bear all the importance of youth and first-ness. It's both perfectly nostalgic for those of us Of A Certain Age and acutely immediate; the performances really are good.

I recently re-watched "Valley Girl" and "Fast Times at Ridgemont High", which also feature kids who look pretty much like we really did back then, and have a very particular feel that is specific not only to the time but to the movies of that period, which went in for a grimy sort of sexiness that has been lost, polished over and production designed and plastic surgerized out of all humanity.

Next up from the DVR: "Smile" - an earlier still peek into teenaged beauty pageants, where you can find Melanie Griffith, Anette O'Toole, and other stars in early roles. And Barbara Feldon, whom I wanted to be when I grew up when she showed up on my TV as Agent 99 in Get Smart.

Some of the details of films from the seventies and early eighties are shocking - the extreme ease of a guy who's been accused of sex with a student; the careless way sexually obsessed young boys stalk pageant girls; sex, and abortion, and the expectations we have now versus those in play decades ago. Some of the honesty is astonishing (the judges in "Smile" are both creepy and dead-on portrayals; the way kids who've been used badly  deal with and consider sex; the gender roles).

I think I need to actually collect these movies, instead of parking copies/taking up space in the DVR. Will have to look on Amazon streaming or get them on blu-ray.

You Will Believe ...

... a Moai can walk!  Goodness, NOVA is so great.  Don't raise your kids without it, please!  Here is the show plus details on Netflix.

Image:  PBS

Entertainment for the Mood

Entirely consciously, thanks to the offense I was nurturing earlier today, I finally gave a long-lurking film on my Netflix queue a chance this evening.  And so I'm watching The Trojan Women, with Genevieve Bujold, Katherine Hepburn, Vanessa Redgrave, Brian Blessed (I love Brian Blessed!) and Irene Papas ('71).

I'm just old enough that being able to simply pull up programming like this on my TV is almost like living in futuristic sci-fi, and I'm grateful that 'flix bothers with productions like this and many of the classic BBC series I grew up with on this side of the Pond in Masterpiece Theater.

This production is the best sort of cinema that came out of the 1970s - realistic looking by dint of being a bit bare-bones (the production design doesn't dominate nor overwhelm, and in some ways even evokes live theater), a little self-conscious in a way I don't really think we see anymore (slow, arty monologues), and both faithful to its source and innovative.  It can take some patience if arch readings and intentional theatricality aren't your bag (to use as seventies a term as I can think of), and Bujold's performance is exhausting precisely because it's good.  Hepburn is as stripped-down as she ever was, one of those rare actors who could shed stardom and still do justice to a role even as you never forget for a second who she is - which, in this case, does serve the story in the end.  What director could object to an oak tree for Hecuba?

Of course, the cast, even extras, though the production was filmed in Spain, tend pretty heavily toward a white-girl sort of homogeneity (Papas is a glittering exception - the personification of that legendary beauty, Helen - and it's a pleasure to get to watch her in a role of some substance).  Her introduction is astounding and compelling (one easily believes this woman launched a thousand ships - even with only a glimpse of her, part by part, starting with penetrating eyes).  This role is the introduced as the villainess, so perhaps it is a pity it's also the only one not cast pretty much lily-white, but Irene Papas is to powerful in herself to suffer much by being the token accent.  More to the point, Helen here is vulnerable, and even (... perhaps? ...) a rape victim.  Then again, Hepburn gives the villainess, as she sees Helen, a tongue lashing as only Hepburn could, and it is joyous viewing, her best moment among a lot of good ones.  And through it, Papas' confidence and irony are exquisite.  Her exit is just as fabulous as her entrance; if I were a man, I'd despair of ever finding a woman like Irene Papas - *or* her Helen.
As an aside, Papas and Bujold also both participated in "Anne of the Thousand Days" a few years later, as Katherine of Aragon and Ann Boleyn respectively.  From Helen to Aragon, an interesting pair of roles so close to each other.

There is a great deal of beauty on display, especially including the arty line-by-line speeches delivered straight to camera by many women - and it's nice to see as much beauty in real women as in luminous girls.  The seventies was a decade between the airbrushed and candy-coated prettiness of the Classic Screen Siren age and the mass-produced pneumatism and narrow confines of the 80s and into today.  Sure, directors still required having a pretty, pretty Regrave around, but at least her looks have the appearance of being her own.  She isn't the processed, vetted, and fully packaged focus-grouped image of beauty that's put paid to any hope of another Streisand making a movie career.

The film manages that wonderful balance of bringing an ancient play closer to accessibility by making it immediate and excruciating (in a "good" way, for a movie about the bitterness of war) and keeping it stylized and very much of its period.  As arch as the readings may seem, one never quite feels removed from the period we're meant to  be set in.  As howling an outrage as the statements of the film's, and play's, themes are, they never feel like modern sentiment applied to ancient Greeks inappropriately.

Some of the emotional conclusions, brutal to a contemporary mindset, are played as they should be - dramatically, yes, but with faith to the expectations of honor and sacrifice which would have prevailed in their time.  "You little thing" is a devastating moment, even as it is inevitable and tragic.

One of those things we don't seem to have in movies nor television currently is the dramatic cruelty of shame on honor.  This film lays it out pitilessly.  Redgrave cannot be faulted for failing in this scene.  Nor Blessed - who performs it deadly quietly.

The print is not bad, though it is cropped for pan-and-scan, and the sound quality is at times typically tricky.  Particularly with Blessed, the Loudest Actor in the World (G-d bless him, seriously), it's easy, at least for an old broad with much-abused hearing, to lose lines here and there.  That's a fairly major failing in a production like this - it is a wordy, talky play - but one imagines that with ever-improving accessibility and tech, they may iron out these issues at some point.

As historical fiction, of course it transcends the period of its setting without ever leaving it.  As legend - and starring modern celebrity legends - it satisfies and surprises.

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year ... ?

The James River Writers conference is coming again sooner than we think - and registration is open!  This isn't my sort of thing to say, but:  I cannot recommend this event highly enough.  Check out the events, this year's agents and guests, and think about it ...

Notes From a Commentary

As a topper to yesterday's movie experience, it seemed only reasonable to combine my plans to spend time on research today with a bit more Trek - indeed, a bit more Khan.  Wrath was the obvious choice, of course.  But, since I wanted not to be concentrating on the film too much, I opted to listen to it in the background, as it were, with director's commentary playing.

My mistake, of course, was to turn on Mike Okuda's text track as well.  (Have I geeked out and mentioned lately that Mike Okuda follows me on Twitter?  How awesome is THAT???)  Here are some thoughts from his contributions ...

• I love that Roddenberry had the "no smoking allowed on the bridge" sign removed because he hoped smoking would not survive into the future.
• Okuda observes the then-state-of-the-art CG and states, the more advanced a computer, the faster they seem to become obsolete.  Has to make production design pretty challenging!
• Wait, we didn't establish the Klingon neutral zone until 1982??  Amazing.
• "One can't help but wonder how wise it is to use live explosives  as part of a training exercise."  Hee!  (One might also wonder why the crew of the Federation's flagship is acting as part of this exercise ...)

He's too good to waste - so I had to turn his feature off in order to get through more research.  But still - there's this:

Star Trek: Into Awesomeness

Finally saw Into Darkness yesterday.  As deep as Trek is in my DNA, it was a very satisfying flick, even better than the 2009 feature (and that one I got to see with Mr. X).

Abrams made a lot of noise in 2009, that he was giving Trek a Star Wars treatment; and I can admit, it was a good adventure.  In subsequent watchings, though, I found it felt more SW and less Trek to me, which (and I'm ducking as I type this, because one of my favorite readers here happens to be a Wars fan) begins to be distancing, somewhat.  ID, though, feels ALL Trek - and that makes it a bit of a deeper a story, and all the better for me as a fan.

I did have a couple of "huh" moments and a couple of nerd (*) moments, of course.  The ship underwater bit (it can't be a spoiler if they put it on a poster) - it was cool and all that, but they did do that in Avengers, so I found it a little less whizzbang for just having seen it during our last Blockbuster summer season.  No harm/no foul, though, but rather a lot of production money for a repeat.  I also laughed in the wrong way when they ripped off the Godfather trilogy, because I was laughing - "really? going to do a scene from a Godfather movie, and we pick PART THREE? seriously?" - but hey, they did it well so it was fine.

My nerdier moments were, "aww - they just mentioned the Mudd incident last month!" and (MICRO SPOILER) "oooh, so we're admitting to Section 31 just that easily, are we?" and, finally - "they're spelling Q'onos THAT way???"  Hee.

I can admit to realizing, as I watched, just how much Trek really does mean to me, in those couple of moments I wanted to kill my moviegoing companions for giggling and joking during moments I was sitting there welling up at scenes custom made for me as a lifelong fan.  I can also admit giving a wee smackdown to one of them, all of nineteen years old, saying he knew more about Trek than I because he's read the Reddit and "all" the novels (at that age, to read "all" the Trek fiction out there would have had to take 70% of your life, kid).  "It's just not the same experience as to have had this stuff in your DNA for forty years, though."  He agreed to this pretty readily.  Hee again.

ST 2009 I loved and still do, but I can see 2013 meaning a lot more to me over the long run.  As a popcorn flick it is par excellence on its own terms, but as a fan flick it is amazingly well done.  Its use of existing canon is wonderfully finely balanced, and its deviations are a very nice set of inversions.

There's much talk of how pretty the cast are, but they've come into incarnations now whose maturity and oneness with the original cast are breathtaking.  Zoe(umlaut) Saldana is a fine actor and (it sounds stupid) but I'm so proud of her; stepping into Nichelle Nichols' boots has got to be a hell of a job, and she is doing it unbelievably well, while still bringing some new feelings to the role.  Bravo.  Pine has begun to eerily resemble Shatner, and I actually mean that as a compliment.  Though his upper lip is still distractingly pouty.  Heh.  And Karl Urban continues to bend my brain by sustaining a teeny tiny crush on Bones, of all characters.  Heh again.

One standout was Simon Pegg, a brilliant casting choice, who has been aged to look a lot more like classic Scotty (though the rest of them, mature as they are in the roles now, don't look actually older) - and, indeed, much harried now that he's fully in the role (... and out of it ...).  The sole quibble I had with the fantastic choices they made in using Scotty is that they had him kill someone right on the heels of a moral stance so firm it shaped the entire film.  I almost felt Jimmy Doohan there in his opening scenes, and hated to see Scotty used even to kill one minion.  You don't use Jimmy like that.  He may be the most LOVED of all the characters.  You give him a moral stance, you give him harrowing frustrations.  You don't use him to kill a guy.

Finally, Cumberbatch.  I wanted him for Christmas the first time I saw Sherlock, but that's the pretty cast for you.  (EVERYONE is gorgeous in this movie, from Bruce Greenwood to the little girl in a coma who never even opens her exquisite eyes onscreen.)  Blown up to the bigscreen, he's great in his role, but I was distracted by the weird fact that his mouth resembles and ex boyfriend of mine, who himself very strongly resembles Mr. X, but who in turn bears no resemblance to Cumberbatch to complete that dizzying personal circle of psychological issues.  (Say it with me:  erm/hee ... ?)  You can't go wrong with a Brit for a villain, of course, particularly one as nicely complex as this one - and the eventual ruthlessness is perfectly realized, following some displays of almost clinical civility.  This guy makes Hannibal look like an absolute wreck, and of course it's immaculately, wonderfully terrifying.

All the relationships are just CINCHED in this movie.  And that is the thing that means most in Star Trek, any iteration.  It's enough to make a fangirl cry, and EVEN want to see it (in theaters!) again, and wish I had a hellacious sound system on my TV for when I get it at home, so the movie need never be diminished nor compromised.



So - yeah - liked it.


(*Nerd moment - I meant to note when I first wrote this post, my brother and I analyzed my level of ST geek cred, and I seem to settle, not at geek, but at nerd status.  I'm more than a mere bystander, if only by dint of a generation (plus) absorbing the Trekverse by osmosis ... and yet, I stand not quite in the pantheon of fully *geeked* fans.  I know far too much - and care enough about the minutiae - to assert a certain status for myself.  But I fall short of fully fledged Trekker/Trekkie-dom.  I don't even passionately care about the choice between Trekker/Trekkie ...)

More Louisa

It's a revelation to rediscover what a great writer Louisa May Alcott really was.  Her nimble language in "Hospital Sketches" is excellent and propulsive - and VERY funny indeed.  Take a look at the menu of a hospital in the American Civil War:

(I)s not the following bill of fare susceptible of improvement, without plunging the nation madly into debt? The three meals were "pretty much of a muchness," and consisted of beef, evidently put down for the men of '76; pork, just in from the street; army bread, composed of saw-dust and saleratus; butter, salt as if churned by Lot's wife; stewed blackberries, so much like preserved cockroaches, that only those devoid of imagination could partake thereof with relish; coffee, mild and muddy; tea, three dried huckleberry leaves to a quart of water—flavored with lime—also animated and unconscious of any approach to clearness.

Most remarkable is her skill in conveying the reality of that war, at least from the vantage point of one of its medical facilities.  Without the pathos which eventually ruined M*A*S*H for instance, she manages to lay down a foundation of humor and to counterpoint it with painful reality.  Her command of the language and of emotion is magnificent, and the piece is relatively short.  Recommended most highly.

Frontline - "The Untouchables"

As disappointing a piece of Infotainment for the Underachieving as NPR seems fully to have become in the past few months, PBS is a blissful reassurance.  I'm one of the few non-addicts of Downton Abbey (this may come as a surprise given my histfict-nerdlery - but for those who know my contrarianism, it should be predictable).

Try as I might to keep this blog to the themes I've worked hard to construct, it's a simple fact that fifteen or so years in the financial industry, from the year we cheered when the Dow first topped 10,000 and I helped one of my managers literally write the book on "the Death Tax", to the period of increasingly giddy credit offerings when I worked for the guys saying, "Hey, maybe not?", to working outside the commercial mainstream but at the heart of the economy ... I've experienced the recent history of our greatest crises in ways few people have.

Yeah, yeah.  I'm "just a secretary."  Let it be said:  given that role and responsibility, I have had views pretty rare in this world.  My brain is still perfectly functional (wee and paltry as it may be).  Believe me, chickens.  When, in 2007 and 2008 I was recording secretary for the interdisciplinary Risk committee at one of the largest securities firms in the world, I was listening.  Even if I wasn't talking.  I saw this coming.  And that's only because I had good sense, too.  It hardly took rocket science to see the excesses in lending practices at that time.  Many people I knew who had nothing of the exposure I did knew it.  People aren't stupid, not entirely.

Greed just gets in the way.  For the key few who have the reins.



Al this is to say:  watch this.  Not only the usual magnificent reportage Frontline has traded in for so long, presented excellently - but also about the best editing I have seen in years.  Pay attention to what is said, followed by cuts to facts and findings.

And be outraged.  It's not too late.

"Anna Karenina"

On Christmas Eve, a friend and I saw the new "Anna Karenina" and I followed up by streaming Leigh's 1948 turn in the role as well.

Wikimedia Commons
Cover page, 1878

2012's outing does a very fine job of conveying the real toll of the situation, and indeed the foolishness of the risks taken.  Being made outside The Code period, too, it is able to handle certain things honestly (in a couple of scenes, frankly more honestly than I would, say, want to recommend for my nieces - ahem), but for a contemporary telling it is remarkable how well it conveys a social horror many today simply cannot know nor experience.

I was surprised to discover how archly theatrical the new production is, as well.  This works in the story's favor, and oddly enough is not distancing.  It also serves a self-consciously visual, lush, almost sensually lustful production.  The thing is GORGEOUS in every detail.

The cast, too, are excellent.  While at times the two "romantic" leads make you want to just shake them for their decisions (and I feel might be young, particularly Knightley), the entire rest of the film is peopled with remarkably well-rendered characters.  Very engaging.

Leigh was exactly at the point a woman should be to play Karenina - mature, but having lost not one scintilla of her fascination nor beauty.  But she is in a production constrained by the morality police of the time, and
the tension suffers as a result of what could not be said.  Yet the 1948 does improve crucially on the 2012 in one detail - the meddling messenger friend to Alexei Karenin.  This production makes crystal clear the sexual tension between this woman and Karenin, and that unrequited parallel to Anna's sin deepens the story to its benefit.

Leigh and Sir Ralph's telling also benefits from its economy in some ways.  Working within constraints can enhance a story, and it's possible over time I'll come to find the 2012 more excessive than exuberant - but I would say, its first watching doesn't feel overblown given its own terms.

Both are good storytelling, lovely in different ways (seriously, the theatrical contrivance of the new production is very overt; the magic is that it is not distancing).  I expect I will get the DVD when 2012's is available, but probably not Leigh's.  As moviegoing goes- recommended.  Enjoy!

Umlaut-less Otzi

I should thank JohnJayJay for reminding me, by commenting on my +Ulfberh+t post, that I have failed to point to NOVA's simply jaw-dropping special on Otzi, the Iceman.  Framed as a procedural exploration of a murder mystery, this absorbing episode of the superb series examines everything from Otzi's state-of-the-art gear and garb to his tattoos and last meal (ibex and grain, if you want to know without the laproscopic and laboratory imagery, which might in fact be a bit much for some viewers!).

Image via PBS, of course

If only for the bit about the copper ax, this is a must-watch for history, archaeology, and tech nerds.

Even so, I have to say with a very deep smile that, in the end, my favorite part of this show was discovering a few days later that my mom had watched it too, and reveling in discussion of how exciting it was.  This is the lady who raised me on these things, and I am forever grateful.  Thanks, mom!

The Monk - A Romance

The habit of dipping into Project Gutenberg might seem to some a dry one - so many people have a tendency to think public domain books, being old, must be dusty.

Somehow or other - I think it may have been a few months back after a discussion of 19th century literature online, in which Louisa May Alcott's darker works came up, I found myself bumping around Wikipedia (this is not a pastime for which I feel the currently-vogue requisite shame to indulge; though I know Wiki drives some people to seething snobbery, I rather enjoy its brevity, and have MANY times found its links and resources to be extremely useful), and found something or other about a 1790 novel called The Monk.

Having finished it a few days ago, I'm still doing a bit of gobsmacked blinking.  And not just because it revealed to me the shocker that my generation didn't invent sex, perversion, rape, nor even naughty priests.  No, the thing that strikes me most about this Guignol of sensationalistic plot and pretty stunningly explicit voyeurism is its psychology.

The female characters are, of course, by and large ignored except as vessels to catch and, indeed, runneth over with The Male Gaze.  Toward the end we see a nice bit of exception to this, where a passage is dedicated entirely to a woman's plight - but, of course, even 222 years ago, only in a plight is a female character of interest.  So we have The Woman In Peril to go with that Gaze business - but feminist diatribe is not the point of this post.  The thing was written by a twenty year old man in 1790:  of COURSE he was interested in fantasizing about girls.

Looking, though, at the minds of the men in The Monk, the acuteness of the author's observation is deep and seriously considered.  Flashy as this thing gets - and it gets astoundingly sensational - when the author delves into the mind, the result is very persuasive.  This is exceptionally so in the case of the title character, Ambrosio, whom it's no spoiler really to reveal as the villain of the piece.

What rings truest, and most frightening, in these passages - the thoughts of, the reactions of, this monk - is the combination of perfect self-awareness and utter heedlessness.  Ambrosio moves from a position of purity by default - he is sinless because he has been hermetically sealed off from "The World" - the source of temptations - into willful debauchery at top speed.  The voluptuousness both of his seduction AND of his guilt are starkly, clearly delineated.  His awareness of his guilt never flags, never interferes with his desire, even as the remainder of religion in his faith still fights to squeeze through loopholes and avoid reckoning and punishment.

In the world of 2012, of course, these things read with almost excessive identifiability.  This was my reading at a time when Sandusky was found guilty of his crimes, and the political undertones in a novel condemning, not faith, but many aspects (not, oddly enough perhaps, all) of the Catholic religion might have unsubtle resonance for many of us reading today.  Even a scene of almost-justice become street riot contains such modernity it's sickeningly recognizable.

Reading The Monk was a moment's lark turned into a bit of exploration, some admitted prurience, and finally a page-turning quest to see what this author would do next.  I have to say, I'd recommend it to anyone looking for their next open-minded read.  But be warned - the view inside the mind of a determined rapist doesn't lack for giddy shock.

Take the Con '12

This year, the Conference saw a lot of changes, and maintained some reassuring familiarity.  As to the latter, as David Sterry said, "This is the best organized conference in the United States!"  We all owe Kristi a massive debt of joyous gratitude.

The "bite" streak continues on my in-person pitches; every time I do one I get one level or another of request for query, partial, or full MSS.  This year I heard a lot of "wow, he is a tough one, his asking you for a partial is huge!" - but the fact is, I heard that a lot last year regarding the woman who requested my full ... and then never contacted me once she had it, either for a rejection or a deal.  Fine by me, she was a longer shot even than this agent, but still I find that unprofessional.  So I'm trying not to go wild with glee.

But then, this guy also agreed to let me interview him RIGHT HERE on my blog - and his preferences and profile as an agent are almost un-Google-able.  The agent is Alec Shane.  He's with Writers House, he's had a fascinating career of his own (easily Google-able!), he's slightly less terrifyingly young than some of the agents look to this old broad.

The main question he asked me during my pitch session was reassuring, though it unnerved me for a moment.  He asked me "how long have you been working on this" (a question I find so hard to deal with in the age of NaNoWriMo and ever-shorter news cycles and instant gratification).  I started A&V seven years ago - but Alec said, when I answered him honestly, "I don't think historical fiction that takes less than five years is really finished."

I was grateful for that.  And for letting me reach out to you again - both with the partial and for an interview.

So much came out of the Conference, but if it's worth specifics on everything it'll have to wait for another day.  I am exhausted (and glad I took tomorrow off).

Great Line

Streaming up a little gem called Lady for a Day - it's nothing to do with Labor Day, but then I'm not especially prescriptive about themed entertainments.  I'm enjoying it very much - Ned Sparks is hilariously funny, but probably the best line so far (and I've laughed out loud a number of times less than halfway into this film) comes at his character's expense, from a butler.

"If I had choice of weapons with you, sir - I'd choose grammar."

Osum.



The flick itself is one of those Depression era glowing comedies with just enough melodrama to be as close to a Chick Flick as I am capable of watching with enjoyment.  It's fun, but you do care about Apple Annie, and Warren William is typically good/bad as a bit of a crook you tend to like anyway.  It's a nice take on the Fairy Godmother role, and the film is charming to look at, too.

Jaw-Dropping ... Entertainment

Staying home today for what was planned to be R&R time off, I've felt headachey and dizzy, and not even really worked on the revisions I should be doing in the absence of doing anything else.

I nearly squee'd when Jimmy Doohan cropped up in his guest run at TNG (LOVE Jimmy Doohan), then after that I caught Frank Langella on DS9.  An accident of my multi-track streaming habits, but such a lovely one.

For my early evening's entertainment, we've moved on to a little something called "Angel".  Not sure how I ran across it - probably an algorithm at Netflix - it is a period piece, after all.

As satires go, it's interesting.  As romance goes, it's execrable and risible, of course.  As a story about a WRITER goes ... it's autoerotic in the extreme.  Mary Sue hates this girl, for being too successful, and having too self-satisfied a pouty-pouty-pout-mouthed pout.  It's the story-of-a-writer aspect which actually informed my watching, and in fact made it possible for me to watch at all.

This film goes well beyond escapist fantasy and into delirium.  The costumes, the color schemes and saturation, the hilarious rear projections, the giddy Victorian homoerotic overtones, the ostentatiously silly plot and characters.  The astonishing cleavage.  The appallingly bad climactic smooch-age.  The birds, the cats, the wolf hound(s).

For your histfic lover, it's almost an antidote to those cliches and must-haves so many productions, good and bad, come equipped with (did I mention the costumes, the dreamy color?).  It's odd, though - as candy-coated as so much of it is in terms of production, the end result isn't actually all that funny.  Not everyone involved, perhaps, knew it was a satire.  You spend the first twenty minutes thinking, "Surely this is a joke" - not "Oh this is a good joke!"  There's fun in the honeymoon montage, and the early-70s-sitcom "oh your pet died" switcharoonie, but there is a certain cognitive dissonance in those facets which are actually earnest.

Watch this one for the hilarity of the depiction of the publishing industry.  Watch it for the eye candy.  Watch it with someone, or a whole group of writers (SBC - we should really have movie night!)

(As a side note - right to the end, the extent to which this resembles "Lillie", Francesca Annis' portrayal of The Jersey Lily is pretty amazing.  Sadly, no Peter Egan here though.  I love Peter Egan.

Columbo: "Death Lends A Hand"

This week I took a taste of a show I haven't seen in years, but one of those I grew up with.  "Columbo" was around for such a long time it may have earned a place in the national DNA, that continuum of shared, familiar reference points a majority of us, particularly of a certain age, have in common.

Peter Falk never played anyone but himself, really, but he did that with more talent than most, and his charisma made it work for decades, for the space of a generation.  We loved him - the tenaciousness of his character and persona, the low-key way he always managed.  His turn in "The Princess Bride" was perfect mainly because Grandpa was *him* - because Peter Falk is and was what he was, radiating out of that film.

He also had one of the great heads of hair in Hollywood.

Honestly, the guy was attractive.  Sure, I cut my teeth on Randy Mantooth (har), and actually have dated his avatar serially (X is by far the taller - but the mobile eyebrows, the downturned sides of the mouth, and the coloring are definitely there; and there is that one dear ex boyfriend we actually *called* The "Emergency!" Guy).  But Peter's insinuating way works for him.  Yeah, and that coloring and the head of hair.  Heh.

***


"Death Lends a Hand" opens with a few scenes of remarkable cinematic quality for a 1968 teleplay.  Robert Culp, of all people, takes us through some tense and pretty believable moments - playing his *own* usual character - even including a group-talk/hallway-walk scene (Aaron Sorkin did NOT invent those!), and of course culminating in his murdering a particularly attractive specimen of the Sexy Seventies Spouse.  Here begynneth our story.

The realism of the opener settles down significantly of course, but not to abandon a decorator's dream series of mid-century locations.  These include The Bachelor's Mod Pad with astoundingly deep-pile olive green rug, the hip Red Carpeting and Mahogany Study in a mansion, and a few deco-porn shots of a super-mod office building and outdoor landscaping with pea-green cradle telephone.  Ooh, the technology!

Nothing in the murder itself nor Falk's progression is surprising, but the ride is always enjoyable.  There is a freshness in this very early show (the first in the series available on Netfix streaming), and a certain amount of fun in "knowing what you know" and looking back at the first days.  The script and production seem confident - and Falk, in his wonderful pose of affable self-effacement, seems as robustly realized from the start as they were throughout the many years we knew the character.

I'm looking forward to further outings, though these initial appearances at least seem to be clocking in at near feature-length runtimes (1:15).  Definitely a recommended addition to the streaming queue.

Ben Kane

Keep an eye out, everyone - Spartacus is coming!