In Anticipation of The Fantastic Mr. Fox

Much like my history with Quentin Tarantino's movies, my history with Wes Anderson's dates back to the mid-1990s.



One day in 1996 (perhaps 1997) Bart Rachmil, my roommate at the time and the only other person who appreciates Anderson as much as I do, came home with a borrowed VHS of Anderson's debut, Bottle Rocket. We watched it, and were more or less in awe. To this day, when I watch it I feel good, as if my possibilities are endless (much like they were when I was saw it at age 22. Of course I was in my first semester of law school, and, though I didn't know it yet, it was both the last place I wanted to be and the first of many decisions that would actually limit my possibilities).

In 1998 we eagerly anticipated his follow-up, Rushmore. An anticipation that probably has gone unmatched in the decade-plus since. As for living up to an expectation--it will NEVER be matched. I saw it in the theater twice, something I rarely do. Bill Murray's role as Mr. Bloom sparked his career's resurgence; no Rushmore, no Lost In Translation. Rushmore is probably my favorite movie. I say "probably" because I'm a pussy. It is my favorite movie. The key to Rushmore was the co-stars: a detailed, personal, living fairy tale-type universe (hinted at in Bottle Rocket) and a prep-school Don Quixote.

The Royal Tenenbaums followed in 2001 and, in my estimation, didn't quite live up to Rushmore--though in saying so I mean to take nothing away from it. I have the impression that many people prefer The Royal Tenenbaums to Rushmore. I presume they hold that preference because they saw The Royal Tenenbaums first; I can understand that one's exposure to one before the other could give the edge to the first exposure to an Anderson-created universe. Still, I feel Rushmore's superior but making that point is not my goal today. The key to Tenenbaums was Anderson's ability to get so much out of a larger cast filled with higher-profile actors.

Three years later Anderson brought The Life Aquatic With Steve Zissou. Bill Murray was back, but Owen Wilson didn't share the writing credit--Noah Baumbach of The Squid and The Whale fame did. The interregnum seemed longer than that between Rushmore and The Royal Tenenbaums, such was my jones for a new Anderson flick. In all sorts of ways this was a more ambitious production than the previous two movies, and in all sorts of ways it managed to disappoint people. The budget was higher, parts were shot on location in Italy and in large, expensive sets. It had Jeff Goldblum and Willem Dafoe--like I said, ambitious. Many think he tried and failed to achieve an emotional depth with the relationship between Wilson and Murray's characters. But these same people were going to be disappointed no matter what. I've spoken to them, I've read their reviews. They're to be dismissed, trust me.

More often than not, these people will only see the movie once.  Like all his movies, repeated viewings help unfold the richness of the whole production--the acting, the production design, the wardrobe, the dialogue. He is a filmmaker. He's not cranking out movies so he can rake in the bucks and show the moneymen they can count on him to bring in the 14 year olds. He's making movies that will stand the test of time and get better with age. Just like the movies he reveres. A craftsman, if you will, in a land full of cheap stucco McMansions.  So I say to those who render judgment on his movies after one viewing: he's making them for us, not you.

Ok, wait a sec--I'm no smoke-blowing lackey--take a look at my review of Tarantino's latest.

Thanks. I think you meant that.

First, The Life Aquatic requires multiple viewings to appreciate the dense panoply of pleasures that Anderson provides. Like Jackie Brown, The Life Aquatic is a lion-in-winter story. Those aren't the easiest to love--it's not sprawling tale of an idiosyncratic family or the coming-of-age story of an awkward by with an explosive imagination.  It's about a dude with a giant ego who's been living a little boy's dream for several decades, making shitty personal decisions along the way.  He gets his chance to do it right this one last time and, like Robert Forster's Max Cherry in Jackie Brown, he does it.



The key to the Life Aquatic is Anderson's deft combination of the detailed, personal, living fairy tale-type universe, a large cast of higher-profile actors, and an aquatic Don Quixote.

Another three years, another Anderson movie: The Darjeeling Limited.  The emotional resonance that people looked for in The Life Aquatic--the proof of maturation that would have allowed them to crown him "Generation's Best Filmmaker", well, it showed up one film too late to satisfy those people. I happen to think this worked out for the best because it knocked him off a path that would bring exponentially increasing expectations.

Emboldened by turning the difficult, ambitious Life Aquatic shoot into a success, Anderson took his traveling circus to India (I've watched enough Amazing Race to know that making anything happen in India is no joke).

Anderson reaches deeper into his characters this time by having only three main characters: the brothers Whitman: Francis (Owen Wilson), Peter (Adrian Brody) and Jack (Jason Schwartzman).

Estranged since their father's funeral a year ago, they're forced to reconcile on a train trip across India orchestrated by Francis for the undisclosed purpose of tracking down their mother who's up in the mountains Christianizing locals. The boys spend the film numbing their pain with the best over-the-counter Indian opiates they can get their hands on.

I suspect that because I, my brother, and my mother have never been the same since my dad died--and I've also done my share of pain-numbing--this movie hit home more than most. The Whitmans' mother, played by Anjelica Houston, delivers a line that pretty well sums up how to deal with the unexpected death of a loved one:  "He's gone and we'll never get over it. And that's ok."

Maybe you haven't had to deal with this. But it's true. People want to tell you that the pain subsides with time, and that's true, but it fails to mention a painful truth: relative to other bad stuff that has happened or will happen in your life, the unexpected, premature death of a loved one will never hurt any less. Nor should it. And that's ok. How much you loved that person, and how much of your life that person will miss will never change. So why should you have to get over it? All you have to do is get on with it.

Sigh.

I'm aware his hasn't been the most objective summary of Wes Anderson's films. From me, it never could be. I love him too much.

And that's ok.
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Bill Moyers Runs My Game on Bill Maher's HBO Show

Eminent progressive journalist, thinker and public television personality Bill Moyers was a guest on Bill Maher's HBO show this weekend (clips here, here and here).

I learned of this reading Glenn Greenwald's blog at Salon.com. Greenwald quotes Moyers at length; I'm going to quote only the portion that sparked the title of my post (emphasis mine):

Money in politics -- you’ve had in the last 30 years, money has flooded politics . .. the Supreme Court saying "money is free speech."  It goes back to the efforts in the 19th Century to give corporations the right of personhood -- so if you as a citizen have the right to donate to campaigns, then so do corporations.  Money has flowed in such a flood into both parties that the Democratic Party gets a lot of its support from the very interests that -- when the Republicans are in power -- financially support the Republicans.  

Yup. That's what I've been talking about.

(I haven't read the rest of Greenwald's post--I popped over here to make this post--so don't take me referencing Moyers' quote as an endorsement of any of the other stuff Greenwald quotes at length.  I'm not saying don't read it; I'm just saying I haven't yet.)


Ok. Take these thoughts about how thoroughly corporate influence is woven into our legal-political framework, combine them with the second half of Paul Krugman's latest NYT column, and you've got a rough picture of what it is I think we're up against.

No punchy send off. This shit scares me too much.
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Teen Wolf: The New Bacon

Everybody knows Bacon is dangerously overexposed. Everywhere you look there's another paparazzi photo of Bacon, sloppily infusing a vodka being guzzled down by the newest heartthrob on the CW. Bacon, no matter how tasty, so rich in savory-sweet goodness, barely on the pan or burnt to a crisp, uh, yeah, Bacon has jumped the shark.  It's only a matter of time before Bacon goes into rehab Farmer John and comes out Sizzlean. 

Fear not, for this is an opportunity!

Back when everybody knew how awesome Bacon was, but nobody had to be all show-off-y about it, it was a simple pleasure. On your burger. With your eggs, Headlining for the LT's (what do you suppose they're up to now that Bacon's left them behind?), eaten by the pound all by itself (or is that just me?)

Now crazy fools are making bacon shoes and bacon bras and stupid shit like that. All for a few hits on their FaceSpace page and some internet dollars. Sullying Bacon's good name for their own tawdry agendas. Feh!

No more!

Like the savvier members of our military, I, too, have learned the lessons of Vietnam and Iraq. You want to win, you've got to fight asymmetrically.

So, Teen Wolf. That's right, Teen Wolf.

Teen Wolf is The New Bacon.

Just like Bacon, people know how awesome it is. That's well-settled fact. Just like Bacon, you can watch Teen Wolf morning, noon or night.

Bacon has the bacon bra, Teen Wolf can give you bootleg t-shirts.  Bacon-infused vokda? It's no smash dance sensation--make that a hipster-certified smash dance sensation. Gourmet bacon chocolate? Surfing atop the Wolfmobile. Bacon has Kevin Bacon. Teen Wolf has Boof.

You get the idea. It's high time to launch some other greasy, high-calorie, goes-with-anything treat into the pop culture stratosphere to knock Bacon off its perch. The Time for Wolf is now.

And yea, though the Hindus speak of karma, I implore you: give Bacon a break. Let Teen Wolf into your life. Embrace it. Quote it liberally, so that others may quote it illiberally.  May Coach Bobby Finstock's Three Rules* spread like the internet wildfire that was Chuck Norris. May craven obsessives pervert its form while they wring riches from its downy pelt.

The sooner this day comes, the sooner "Bacon" can return to being "bacon" and regain the quiet, sizzling dignity it had in your youth. And in your mouth.


*"There are three rules that I live by: never get less than twelve hours sleep; never play cards with a guy who has the same first name as a city; and never get involved with a woman with a tattoo of a dagger on her body. Now you stick to that, and everything else is cream cheese."
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Quick Hit: Inglorious Basterds

I loves me some Tarantino, no doubt. Saw Reservoir Dogs on VHS at a friend's house in the summer of 1993. Saw Pulp Fiction the night it opened, in a packed, old-timey theater in Berkeley. The crowd was primed, buzzing. A fired up Friday night full of lit up film geeks (before there was any cultural cachet to being called a film geek). Everybody started cheering as the opening credits rolled and the music started. I've never seen anything like it since and doubt I ever will.

Anticipated the hell out of Jackie Brown. Liked it in the theater, love watching it over and over on cable. Whenever I surf to it, I stay til it's over. So watchable. The film just looks warm and inviting, despite the hardcore shit that transpires. That's Los Angeles for ya! Robert Forster plays worn-at-the-heel, lion-in-winter bail bondsman, Max Cherry. A man you can count on. A man that thinks things over as he drives around listening to "Across 110th Street" on his Cadillac's tape deck. And Robert DeNiro taking a bonghit. You know what? This is Tarantino's Lebowski.

Kill Bills, 1 and 2 were fun as hell. I loved the mixed media in 1, as well as the one-for-the-ages fight at the teahouse. I loved David Carradine doing a Pulp Fiction-y Grasshopper kinda thing in 2. And Uma snatching out Daryl Hannah's eyeball in the greatest fight in a double-wide trailer you'll ever see. Two pieces of solid entertainment with legs, rewarding multiple viewings.

Deathproof had one of the great all-time car chases. Kirk Russell creeped everybody out as Stuntman Mike. Zoe Bell is fucking fearless. And some chicks said stuff that may or may not have been annoying. Did I mention the car chase?

Inglorious Basterds, the subject of today's quick review (I didn't say anything about the setup, did I, heh), was slow, boring and uninteresting. Kills me to say it. Stuns me, too. I went in with zero expectations, so this review has nothing to do with let-down. But I gotta say I didn't think Tarantino was capable of this--I don't know how else to say it--he failed. In a 2 and 1/2 hour movie, nothing interesting happened until the final 30 minutes. There were some fine performances, the finest delivered by Christopher Waltz, the Third Reich's "Jew Hunter". Mega-star Brad Pitt was entertaining enough, chewing the scenery and letting his charisma out on a leash. But his performance comes in and out of the movie, since it's not all that central to the movie. But then, everybody--and nobody--is central to the movie--which means the story is a failure. Sure, there are some engaging moments of dialogue, as you'd expect, but they stand out because they're not in service of anything you care about, and it isn't nearly enough to carry the day.

One never knows, but I strongly suspect this won't be one I watch again and again on cable. Here's hoping QT gets back on track with the next one.
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Top Shelf Entertainment, Tomorrow Morning on Fox Soccer Channel

Arsenal and Manchester United square off tomorrow in the first battle between any of the Premier League's "Big Four" (Arsenal, Man U, Liverpool, Chelsea; so named because they have finished in the top four spots without exception for the past several years).

There was a time when Arsenal and Man U players would butt heads in the tunnel on the way out onto the pitch, when some players (allegedly) threw pizza at the opposing manager, when an otherwise even-tempered veteran ran up to and screamed in the face of an opponent who just missed a penalty shot. Ah, good times.

The tenor is more subdued now, and the managers share more than a modicum of respect for each other. Nevertheless, both the teams are capable of playing fluid, exciting football. Arsenal especially are on fire right now, having scored 10 goals in their first 2 Premier League games.

The old adage is that the League isn't won or lost in August (or September, or October), but everybody knows that a decisive result will serve notice to the rest of the League that the winner is for real.

Arsenal's Spanish superstar, Cesc Fabregas, is listed as 50/50 for whether he'll be fit enough to play. Obviously this is a big match, and you'd love to have your biggest playmaker, but the following week holds the prospect of international World Cup qualifiers. If Fabregas is fit enough for tomorrow, he's fit enough for Spain. And if not really, really fit, then maybe he might make his injury worse by playing tomorrow and next week. I hate to evaluate things so conservatively, but Arsenal's squad is a bit thin, esp. in central midfield. As (almost) always, the manager, Arsene Wenger, knows best.

I'd look for striker Robin van Persie to come up big tomorrow.  Of the 10 League goals, none have been scored by a striker.  Van Persie will want to get on the sheet sooner than later, and perhaps United will focus too much on Arsenal's midfielders.

I'm sure there are some pertinent things to be said about Man U, but fuck them. They lost the best player in world, the poncey gel-slicked Portugeezer Christiano Ronaldo, who fucked off to Real Madrid for bags of cash (literally--I think they're putting bags like this in his locker every two weeks. They also lost a talented Argentine, Carlos Tevez, who fucked off for similar bags of money--though not as far as Ronaldo, Tevez went to hated crosstown rivals Manchester United, much to the delight the Gallagher brothers (the Champagne Supernova chaps, not the feuding watermelon smashers. As for black Gallagher, I'm not sure how he feels about it.)

Tomorrow's match is on Fox Soccer Channel at 9 a.m. Eastern. The pub in Manhattan that draws all the footie watchers, Nevada Smith's, is showing it on tape delay at noon, after having already shown Chelsea at 7 and Liverpool at 10. I have visions of a drunken, crowded clusterfuck, so I think I'll stay home and bite my nails in silence and solitude, thank you very much. I'll save the pub for the inglorious mid-week matches against the likes of Wigan or Birmingham in the middle of the season.

Yes, it's 6 a.m. out West. That's what Tivo or lesser cable company dvr's are for!

And if, somehow, you miss it, the English Premier League Review Show airs on FSC on Sunday at 5 p.m., sometimes 6. It's an excellent way to keep abreast of the results and see the best plays of the week.

Cheers!

And say a prayer for poor Liverpool. Their fans are hanging their heads right now, fearing their season is over...even though it's still August. Buck up, chums! It can't get worse...can it?
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