Good Times Are Here Again...

In my never ending quest to see all of the major Oscar nominees prior to the Academy Awards telecast on February 22, I am woefully behind, I fear. Christopher Nolan wasn't the only person the Academy shafted on Thursday morning. I thought I had tied up at least two of the likely Best Picture nominees when I saw "The Dark Knight" and "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button", and possibly even three with my viewing of "Wall-E." But no. It was not meant to be. Currently I'm 1 for 5 in that category. After all of the nominations were made available, J and I determined the order of the rest of the BP nominees we'll head to see at the theater, as they are all still in wide release, and not yet available on DVD (thanks for THAT, Hollywood). Fortunately, we live in a town that still subscribes to the idea of movies as little pieces of celluloid magic, so all of the films are available to us at a theater nearby. We have about 27 movie houses in our close vicinity, most of which are independently owned, and we do not take that treasured state of affairs for granted, believe me. As sick as it might sound, I chose this apartment based on not only how close it was to my dear Polish friends, but also its proximity to the greatest indy video store in the nation, Movie Madness, where my favorite video tech looks exactly like a hot version of Mama Firefly and is endlessly helpful.

We commemorated Oscar Nomination Eve (ONE) on Wednesday with a 7:00 showing of "The Wrestler." As unpredictable as the Best Picture and Best Actress categories have a tendency to be, the Best Actor nominations are historically closely linked to the Golden Globe nominees for male in a dramatic leading role, so I was pretty confident we could count on a Mickey Rourke nod, if not win. I still haven't seen "The Visitor", "Milk", or "Frost/Nixon", so my apologies to Richard Jenkins, Sean Penn, and Frank Langella for such presumption. And Brad, well, Brad. As much as I love you in the deep loving bits of my heart, the movie wasn't about you, but more about the people around you reacting to your steadfast portrayal of an odd character, so I'm pretty sure this isn't your year just yet.

Heath Ledger's performance as The Joker (if you have not seen it yet, stop reading this and do so) has earned him the last nomination he will ever have. Alive or dead, his performance is striking and he's going to win--sentimentality aside, the guy's talent is hard to overlook (though the Academy managed to do so in 2005, much to their lame chagrin these days). Philip Seymour Hoffman is yet again pitted against Heath, and while I've not yet seen "Doubt", I would swear a blood oath that his performance is Oscar-worthy. I mean, let's face it. He's Philip Seymour Hoffman and he rules. He just does. But because he had the misfortune of being the guy who beat Heath in 2005, he will not win. Nor will Robert Downey, Jr.'s freakishly comedic turn in "Tropic Thunder," though I wouldn't cry in my bowl of Total if he did. Josh Brolin, whose bodily proportions never fail to remind me of an overgrown midget and give me pause every time I see him in a movie, has the only genuine shot at slicing through Heath's juggernaut of glory because he plays a psychotically homophobic killer and that makes the Academy ooooohhhh and aaaahhhh with squishy-panted delight.

Every year it seems the nominees serve up at least a dollop of misery in one or two overwrought dramas, and this year is no exception. "The Reader" is set with the backdrop of a WWII tragedy and a love story, because apparently nothing says "get it on" in Hollywood more than the tragedy of the Holocaust. Ralph Fiennes has dug out quite the niche for himself with this type of film by starring in not one, not two, not even three, but FOUR Holocaust pictures. Check my math: "The English Patient", "The End of the Affair", "The Reader" and of course his horrifying turn as Nazi Amon Goeth in "Schindler's List." While I abhor sitting through this kind of movie, I'll do it for Kate Winslet because she is the female answer to Philip Seymour Hoffman. She rules because she does. Circular or not, the logic sticks. She is a brilliant actress and can make even the most repulsive movie (suck it, "Little Children") watchable. Oh you'll feel it in the morning, but at the time you're watching it all you can focus on is how she spins disgusting story arcs straw into mesmerizing gold. For too long, six nominations to be exact, she has been snubbed, overlooked, and forsaken for the likes of Helen Hunt. That's right. I said it. Fucking Helen Hunt, who graduated summa cum laude from the Gwyneth Paltrow School For Wooden Expressionless "Acting" beat our beloved Kate. I say NO MORE will we stand for this kind of shenanigan voting practice on the part of the Academy.

So at this most sacred time of year in my warped little world, I make a nightly wish and throw it to the south where the majority of Academy voters reside to ask that you do your jobs, Voting Elite, and cast your ballot (for once) on the merits of the performance without the distraction of studio campaigns, sentimentality, insider politics, nepotism, or profiteering interests. Shhhhhhh. Just do it.

At Jess' Request...

1. Do you like blue cheese? I do. I would eat it on my cornflakes if it weren't so expensive.

2. Have you ever smoked heroin? Not since my stint in the Brownies. Those bitches run rough.

3. Do you own a gun? Nope. Neither of us wants one in the home. The cats are way too volatile.

4. What flavor do you add to your drink at Sonic? I have never been to Sonic, though commercials make it look like shake nirvana.

5. Do you get nervous before doctor appointments? Not anymore, but I used to pass out at the lady doctor. They love that.

6. What do you think of hot dogs? I think they've been marginalized for far too long. Give them the vote, I say. It's time for the othering to stop.

7. Favorite Christmas movie? Three-way tie: Scrooged, Bad Santa, Home for the Holidays

8. What do you prefer to drink in the morning? Cristal, but if that's not available, I'll take tea, I guess.

9. Can you do push ups? Can, youbetcha. Do, ohgodno.

10. What’s your favorite piece of jewelry? The crown jewels. Or my blue sapphire ring from Trace.

11. Favorite hobby? I like to pour myself a nice glass of wine, turn on some Tiny Tim and get to the business of building doll house furniture out of sausages, barley, and spit. You know, the usual.

12. Do you have A.D.D? What? Sorry, I was just about to...can you hold on a second? Thanks. What were you saying? Oh, I was? Well shit. I guess I --look at the pretty lights...

13. What is one trait you hate about yourself? I'm a huge judger and have very little empathy for people who allow themselves to be kicked around by their partners.

14. Middle name? Ellen. After my dad's first wife's sister. Would you like to set up my appointment with a therapist, or shall I?

15. What is your favorite TV show or movie? TV Show: Bret Michael's Whorific Circus Sideshow, er, "Rock of Love" and all its endless derivations. Movie: "The Right Stuff"

16. Name 3 things you bought yesterday. Draino, mayonnaise, and cat litter. Hey! It's the holidays. You celebrate your way...

17. Name 3 drinks you regularly drink. Tea, juice, and unsettled jell-o

18. Current worry? That it's wrong to still have a thing for Heath Ledger, considering he's, well, you know

19. Current hate right now? OH GOD. That terrible commercial with the rabbit that horrifyingly morphs into a running robot dog thing. FUCK YOU, YOU CREEPY RABBITTY BASTARD

20. Favorite place to be? In front of Jeff Bridges' zipper

21. Where would you like to go? To your house. Say, Thursday around 6?

22. Name three people who will complete this? Mickey Rourke, Don Rickles, and Duff McKagan. They're huge followers of this blog. I mean, who isn't?

24. What shirt are you wearing? My Keith Richards for President shirt. Pictured here.

25. What year would you go back in time to? 1988. It was Designing Women's best year.

26. Can you whistle? Not even a little.

27. Favorite color? 1970s orange

28. Would you be a pirate? Wait a second, Survey Writer. Are you asking if I would like to be a real pirate or a movie pirate? The reason I ask is that Johnny Depp's Jack Sparrow would have been passed around a real pirate ship like a lollipop in Oliver's orphanage. None for me, thanks.

29. Favorite girl’s name? Maude Margaret

30. Favorite boy’s name? David Discretion

31. Last thing you dreamed about? Flikka could talk. She was still a cat, but she had a lot to say about how we run the household. I made myself wake up.

32. What’s in your pocket right now? Nothing. I have only the wish for pockets on my pajamas at the moment.

33. Last thing that made you laugh? Clayton's status message that reads: "Thanks to peripheral vision & the breakfast food aisle, I thought for a moment that Post came out with a new cereal called 'Just Bitches'." Beautiful.

34. Best Halloween costume? My personal best was this year's Marge Gunderson from "Fargo"

35. Worst injury you’ve ever had? Broken heart

36. Do you like where you live? I do. I could live without the self-congratulatory smugness this area lends itself to sometimes, but overall Portland kicks booty.

37. How many TVs do you have in your house? 2

38. Who is your loudest friend? Oh hands down. Terry. Jesus wept. His "whisper" makes my eardrum shake its head in disgust.

39. How many dogs do you have? I have three in my head. In reality, though, they're cats.

40. Does someone have a crush on you? Man, I hope so. The wedding could get awkward if he doesn't.

41. What is your favorite book(s)? "I Like You" by Amy Sedaris, "1984" by George Orwell, and "James and the Giant Peach" by Roald Dahl

42. What is your favorite candy? Snowcaps, and for some reason the movie houses around here are major Snowcaps bigots. It makes me sad.

43. Favorite Sports Team? Detroit Red Wings

44. Favorite Sports? Hockey, gymnastics, lion taming

45. What were you doing 12 AM last night? Reading my new book from Turbo

46. What was the first thing you thought of when you woke up? I would like to continue reading my new book from Turbo.

Moving Shadows

For as many movies as J and I watch (and research ad nauseam), we really don't own that many. Rent? Sure. I've rented enough movies to make Ebert blush, but rarely do I buy them. I make exceptions for Life Changers. You know, the movies that help shape your life or make you think until your ears ooze thinking juice, or forge a bond between you and a loved one. My film library contains moving snapshots from my personal history, and serves as physical illustrations of why I cherish movies and everything that surrounds them. Everything I relate to in life either has some basis from film, or I just haven't found that particular piece of celluloid yet. But I will.

When I moved to Oregon from Ohio, I brought what I could shove in my Buick and a whole lot of baggage that no suitcase could contain. An interested observer might be prompted to ask me if I've actually sought treatment for my neurotic disorder from my odd movie collection (which made the trip at the expense of most of my clothes). Looking at it objectively, yeah, I guess it's a little unusual to find "Unforgiven" propped up next to "Sleepless in Seattle", or to find "Fairy Tale: A True Story" mingling with "The Exorcist", but if I told you that Dad took me to see "Unforgiven" in the theater and that Mom took me to see "Sleepless in Seattle" at the same theater, it might start to make sense. My movies aren't arranged alphabetically. They're ordered autobiographically.

I took my beautiful, incredibly pregnant dear friend to see the re-issue of "The Exorcist" eight years ago so that we could enjoy the extra 11 minutes of footage together, and hopefully smoke the baby out of her well overdue burrow. It made perfect sense. She and I were roommates for three years in college and watched the original movie enough that we could absolutely pinpoint the extra footage when it came up. Especially the emotionally scarring backward spider walk down the family stairs. The bowel-loosening memory maker did the trick. Her sweet daughter was born the next day. That little girl and I spent lots of Aunt Sheila/Miss Lady time together and one of our favorite movies was "Fairy Tale: A True Story". Ahhhhhh, now it's coming together.

Just as I keep family photos together, I keep family movies together. I can glance over and see "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory" and remember my brothers helping me rent it from Cromaine Library. The cover of "To Kill A Mockingbird" reminds me of staying with my sister and brother-in-law in their first house on McCormack Street where the basement could have easily served as the stand-in set for the storage unit in the "Silence of the Lambs". Speaking of which, holding my "Silence of the Lambs" tape brings me back to the night when my brother taught me how to take a shot like a badass and then hid his face under a pillow until the bad guy was taken care of at the end of the movie.

It would be a crime to finish this post without talking about my personal story of "E.T". This is the first movie I can remember seeing with our family's best friend, Bill Carr. Every ounce of my cinephilia is rooted with Bill. Never in my life have I known anyone who culled as much genuine enjoyment from the theatrical experience as he did. He truly believed and imparted that movies are meant to be powerful and magical. They are salves for tattered souls that can neatly stitch broken hearts as good as new. He didn't have any patience for movies that didn't take that responsibility seriously and were spattered with gore or profane language. If the movie wasn't suitable for an innocent, imaginative child, Bill didn't want any part of it either. The night we lost Bill, I watched "The Muppet Christmas Carol", the first movie released under the Henson name after Jim Henson died in 1990. Bill had taken me and my brother to this movie in December of that year to help celebrate that while Jim Henson's time had come to an end, he can still live on through the wonder of the movies.

Contrary to my standard system, "E.T" isn't next to "The Muppet Christmas Carol" on my movie shelf. Instead, "E.T" is the first movie on the top shelf, and "The Muppet Christmas Carol" is the last movie on the bottom shelf, as movies always begin and end with my gratitude to Bill.

Character Witness

When I tell people I'm mourning the loss of the great Don LaFontaine or that I'm excited because today is Eileen Brennan's birthday, the majority look at me blankly as crickets chirp in the distance and a tumbleweed blows across our path. But. If I tell them that the guy who does the "IN A WORLD..." voiceovers for movie trailers died on Monday and that today is the birthday of the woman who played the Captain on "Private Benjamin" and Mrs. Peacock in "Clue", then I still get bewildered stares as they wonder why the hell I give a shit about either, but at least they know who they're wondering about.

Character actors make the world go 'round. Let the Academy award all the Washingtons and Sarandons they can stomach, but save me a helping of Slim Pickens, a lovin' spoonful of Zelda Rubinstein, and a steaming side of Geoffrey Lewis. These folks and their kind are the building blocks of greatness. Screw the simpering leads in a love story, and bring their hilarious best friends to my dinner table, Waiter.

Anthony Hopkins won an Oscar for "Silence of the Lambs", and arguably deserved it. But come on now. Who do you quote from that movie when you reeeeeally want to creep out your friends? That's right. It's Ted Levine's ultimately disturbing and memorable Buffalo Bill skin suit speech that keeps the crowds whimpering in the aisles.

And it wasn't Christian Bale's throat lozenge deprived Batman that packed the $500 million seats. It was Ledger's outlandish Joker portrayal slung to the masses with abandon that drew the crowds. Yes, Heath Ledger was a famous leading man in his own right prior to "The Dark Knight", but not in this movie. Oh no. Had he been the lead, his psychotic walking Id would have been considered over the top and too much for one sitting, but because he was a lunatic in the stands, the hero still shined, and the supporting character was an irresistibly wicked indulgence easily enjoyed.

It is with great admiration that I say thank you, Rose Marie, for your hilarious Sally Rogers. May the blessings of the Lord be upon you, Mr. Peter Graves, for your righteous and good Captain Oveur. And finally, to the king of the characters, it is with an abiding fondness and deep sadness that I say sleep well, Don Knotts. You are missed.

IN A WORLD without Don LaFontaine, Jerry Reed, Bernie Mac, Fran Ryan, Jack Soo, Larry Linville, Estelle Getty, and Charles Nelson Reilly, the sun sets a little differently, the moon shines a little dimmer, and our entertainment lacks a bit of the old one, two punch for which we loved them so much.

The Bridge

I'm a firm believer in the power of movies. Not just the standard power to move the audience while they are in the act of watching the film, but the haunting effect of the afterglow after the credits have rolled and we've all gone home. That's when the real action begins.

About three months ago, I rented a documentary called "The Bridge" because I had read about it in one of the silly trade mags I seek out to keep up on my movie trivia. The movie was actually released to the masses early last year, but I've been working up my nerve to see it ever since that time. The movie's concept sounds like a Faces of Death episode when one first reads about it, but looking deeper, it's a profound idea. The filmmakers set up cameras on either side of the Golden Gate Bridge for one year, and filmed everything. Families taking a Sunday stroll, lovers walking hand in hand, and the other kind of bridge dweller: The Jumper. The vantage points of the cameras gave a visual context to the stories behind these folks' desperate, often last, actions. There were no swells of music as the people jumped. There were no CGI effects to make a caricature of the people as the lost flying Walendas. They just jumped, choosing to die violently rather than go on living under their unbearable pressures. There on that bridge surrounded by horrified onlookers, and in one case a person with fast enough reflexes to stop the jump, they made a decision to end their lives for a spectrum of reasons and then did it.

"The Bridge" not only gives a visual context to the suicides, but seeks out the stories behind the people caught on film. We hear of their backgrounds often marked by depression, masked mental illness, and desperation. We hear of the unimaginable pain the person felt before they decided to jump, and of the enduring pain of their surviving loved ones. It is affecting. It is maddening. And most of all, it is haunting. The film meanders a bit and is not a perfect documentary, by any means, but the makers reach their intent and goals of telling the stories that would turn the people from merely Jumpers #1-24 into flesh and blood human beings with families and histories. And ends.

This movie lives in me now. I can't help but be struck by its echo whenever the Golden Gate comes up, or when I'm thinking of the people in my own life who are or were affected by clinical depression and desperate circumstance. The majority of them decided to reach out for the help they didn't have the tools to provide themselves. Others have made more permanent, tragic choices. When I was 18, one of my close friends decided it would be a better choice to stand in front of a speeding train, rather than face the idea of living one more second. When I first heard of his death, I was angry, enraged really, that he would choose such a selfish option. But I didn't have the knowledge to understand what informed his decision at that time. As time passed, details of his homelife came out that would give a seasoned child services advocate pause. Without context, every suicide appears senseless and meaningless. For me, "The Bridge" was a catharsis 13 years in the making. It's a movie that I'm grateful to have seen, but saddened it had to be made.

I love films for many reasons. They can pick us up off the floor. They can provide an escape route. They can cement a bond between loved ones. And they can help us say goodbye.

Chitty Chitty --OH MY GOD!

Two words: flying monkeys. Few images from kids’ movies hold as much universal dread as these disturbing creatures from the children’s classic, Wizard of Oz. That’s not to say they are the only ingredient in our nightmares that started as innocently as watching a film filled with overall joy, but that continue to stir the dark part of us that keeps our inner child’s eyes closed and ears covered. Now, the movie scars I’m talking about come from shows that are intended for children as the primary audience—not the fleeting glimpses of Freddy or Jason we caught after we snuck into our older brother or sister’s rooms after bedtime.

While researching this subject of movies from childhood that continue to unconsciously inform our fears and actions, I had a long talk with my brother. He is a happily married 37-year-old father of two and a productive business owner. However, no amount of maturity and success can keep him from having what he refers to as “daymares” about the Child Catcher in the movie Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Every once in a while, when he is alone in his restaurant’s kitchen, he’ll find himself stopping what he is doing to remind himself that it was only a movie. Why is it that a movie he saw 32 years ago still has this sort of influence over him? Is it the imagery? Is it the inherently frightening idea that a mean-spirited person would take him away from his family? Is it his inability to control the daymares? I couldn’t understand what could cause him to have such a reaction. This struggle to relate caused me to look into my own experiences with childhood movie scares and I realized that we’re not so different, he and I.

For me, it is the imagery that has long outstayed its welcome. I am still unable to comfortably watch Alice in Wonderland in any of its incarnations, Disney or otherwise. Animals who walk upright and wear people clothes are not on my guest list. Additionally, the Wheelers from Return to Oz are what make me look twice when I hear a skateboarder behind me. And finally, if a boat I’m on rides through a tunnel or under a bridge, I will without fail hear Gene Wilder’s Willy Wonka singing “There’s no earthly way of knowing which direction we are going…” Our parents meant well. The movies I’ve mentioned were rated no higher than PG and the scenes that had such effects only lasted about two or three minutes, but oh how they lingered in our minds. Which leads me to ask, what movies are we innocently showing our children now that will stop them in their tracks when they’re 37? There’s no way to tell as each person responds on such a unique level, but the shivers and bumps in the night make for a thrilling guessing game.

A trip to the movies...

Hi, I’d like a ticket for “The Godfather 6: Fredo’s Revenge”, please. I’m sorry, did you say $10 for one person? No problem. I have a pass here for –what’s that? You don’t take passes for new releases. I see. Well, no big deal, right? Okay. I’d like a popcorn, a small Coke—no really, just the small. I understand the medium is only 50 cents more, but I really just want the small. You’re not going to let this go, are you? Okay, I’ll have the medium, then. And what’s the total? But I don’t have a firstborn. If I guess your name can I go sit down? Thanks…Tim? Right on.

Oh good. The theater’s pretty much empty. I’ll just sit over here and enjoy my delicious…Oh hello. No. No one is sitting next to me. Sure, you can sit there, I guess. I’m sorry, sir, but could you please not lean over the arm rest onto my lap? Thanks. Is that your son? He’s very cute, yes. How old is he? Two-years-old. Right. So, has he seen the other 5 Godfathers and just couldn’t wait to find out what happens? Just the first four, eh? No no I’m sure he’ll still be able to appreciate Fredo’s wrath. Oh we better be quiet now. I don’t want to miss Front Row Joe and his creepy dancing horde selling me discolored goody bits.

What the hey? I distinctly remember this Coke in its liquid form. I guess it gave in to the Tundra conditions in here. They must house penguins between shows to supplement the theater income. No problem. I’ll forget all about it when the movie starts. Great Gatsby that preview’s loud! Who does their sound check? A Metallica roadie circa 1987?

Okay, Kid, I know you’re busy reading Call of the Wild by the light of your cell phone, but when you’re done, if you could quit kicking my seat, that would rule. And seriously, you don’t have to read it out loud to your gum-smacking friends. They’re gonna miss the good parts anyway because that’s their fifth trip to the bathroom and the movie’s opening credits haven’t even finished.

And to my left…Slurp! Gobble! Ring ring! Hello? Yes, I took the chicken out of the fridge. It’s on the counter. IT’S ON THE COUNTER! Sorry, my reception isn’t great in here. I’m in the theater. Yeah, it’s started. You totally shoulda come! Shhhhhh! You shhhhh!

Man, I love the movies. *Exhausted sigh*