A few years ago, Toho decided to “retire” Godzilla for a while, and for the franchise's faux finale, the studio chose Ryuhei Kitamura (Versus) to direct. Although the Japanese wunderkind is best known for ultra-violent action adventures heavily influenced by anime, Kitamura grew up on the 1970s campy Godzilla flicks, especially his favorite Godzilla v. Mechagodzilla. Small wonder, then, that the 50th anniversary film Kitamura created celebrated the Showa era--evil aliens, monster wrestling bouts, cute baby Minyas, Kennys in short pants, cameos from dozens of classic kaiju, the old Tohoscope opening logo, and even familiar flying battle submarines from Toho’s science fiction adventures of the same era.
The only thing Godzilla: Final Wars was missing was Akira Ifukube.
Perhaps Japan’s greatest classical composer, Ifukube also scored more than 200 films from 1947 until his retirement in 1978. But he’s best known for his work with the Godzilla franchise, creating the timeless themes that became inseparable from the radioactive beast from the first masterwork in 1954, and he did it without even seeing the film. He went on to compose and conduct music for 6 of the next 14 Godzilla movies, plus innumerous other kaiju, samurai, and genre pictures. Even the films that he didn’t score used his famous themes so much that Toho convinced Ifukube to come out of retirement in the 1990s for four more Godzilla movies, including his last score: 1995’s Godzilla v. Destroyer, which he considered his best work. Without Ifukube, Godzilla would be missing his Greek chorus and his melody, and the monster would be much less than he became.
Ifukube passed away in 2006, two years after Godzilla: Final Wars. Unfortunately, the producers failed to honor his memory and contribution. Instead, they employed Keith Emerson to produce what became a modern technobabble of a score. Too bad, because Godzilla: Final Wars needed something extra.
So, a film fan decided to fix that oversight. Armed with an apparently limitless selection of Ifukube’s film work, he’s completely rescored much of the movie and posted it on YouTube. Similar to Ifukube’s own Godzilla: Fantasia, where he performed his scores over clips from the original films, the reworked Final Wars features no dialogue or sound effects--only the legendary composer’s wonderful work.
Suddenly, the outrageousness becomes grand adventure, the music lending Kitamura’s tribute a weight absent from the actual release. The lifts from The Matrix and Star Wars are no longer as painfully obvious, and seeing Godzilla rampage to his own battle hymn again brings Final Wars home to kaiju’s golden era.
So enjoy; even with only music to tell the story, the music is Ifukube. Nothing else is needed.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Friday, June 29, 2007
Reality Bites
Sometimes, I’m afraid to watch a movie. No matter how much I want to.
A couple of weeks ago, I stumbled across the trailer for a little film called He Was a Quiet Man. Rather than trying to describe it, just watch it, watch the whole thing, and you’ll meet my conundrum:
Maybe a few months ago, it would have been a no-brainer. My taste in movies makes room for off-key oddities, probably welcomes them warmly on the front porch. But after the events at Virginia Tech, I’m not so sure this time. The conceit of the film is that Christian Slater’s character is contemplating a suicidal shooting spree when somebody else beats him to the trigger. Slater’s character is disturbed and lonely, a man who never outgrew his violent, child-like fantasies about revenge for perceived slights and social torment. Opening with that spree, the trailer sings the problematic tune--He Was a Quiet Man is a black comedy.
Black comedies are tricky, and most attempts fail. Their goal is to make you laugh at situations normally deserted by laughter, mining humor by skewing reality to the absurd. But the shock of Virginia Tech is still too soon, and the reality clamors in, twisting the absurdity with bad timing.
It’s not the first time. When September 11th shook us, Hollywood suddenly became cautious. Sam Raimi pulled a sequence--originally shot for a teaser trailer--from the first Spider-Man movie because it featured the World Trade Center. Jackie Chan had to scrap a film set at the Towers, which climaxed with Jackie fighting to prevent a terrorist attack. Some film fans cried censorship, but the reality actually is capitalistic: Any producer or studio head knows that making entertainment out of a tragedy too soon creates discomfort for the audience and, in turn, spells financial doom. Even legendary producer Joseph Schenck realized that when he ordered Buster Keaton to change the finale for Steamboat Bill Jr. to something other than a huge flood--the recent, real-life Mississippi one had claimed far too many lives to be fun.
The climax became a cyclone, hatching Buster Keaton’s most iconic image.
The ripples tragedy leaves behind don’t have an expiration date, either. Paul Greengrass’s United 93 earned all kinds of critical acclaim for its honorable retelling of the one plane that didn’t reach its target on September 11th, but the film still struggled at the box office. Even five years after that event, the wounds were too sensitive to relive it all again. I know mine were.
Which brings me back to He Was a Quiet Man. I’ve watched the trailer several times and unearthed festival reviews, which tell of a “pitch black comedy” taking utterly unexpected turns. They also tell of spirited discussions after the credits roll--most of the festival showings came after Seung-Hui Cho’s rampage. But what the audience yearns to talk about is not recorded. I still don’t know.
I don’t. Watching a troubled man struggle against his worst instincts, perhaps to fail, perhaps to succeed by failing...the message may be one for which I’m not ready. Especially if that message is wrapped up in a laugh lost to echoing gunshots.
Then the trailer’s second half plays again, and makes me wonder.
The real problem isn’t the film’s timing; it’s whether the film understands the true nature of black comedy: to tear away the trappings of tragedy and horror to reveal humanity’s heart. A dozen late-comers have followed Heathers, attempted to carbon copy its twisted teen inanity, but none have matched it. Heathers succeeded because instead of finding hilarity in suicide itself, the film found the fragility in the acts of the people responding to it. While Heathers attacked the strange popularity and the cult of celebrity surrounding teen suicide in the late 1980s, it treated its lead characters as more than simple biological bags of quirks. A black comedy doesn’t vicariate its characters; a black comedy is about the tragic faults of the characters that lead them to mistakes...or enlightenment.
He Was a Quiet Man can be about exploitation, or it can be about healing. After an event like the campus massacre, we briefly ask why, then look for villains. But we forget that there are no real monsters. Something broke, something turned, something smoldered in Cho; failing to understand that helpless hate only deepens the tragedy. A film about a similar character driven toward a similar act, only to be stopped by circumstance to confront his own existence, may help me see past the assumption and dismissal of madmen. And that possibility makes me want to drive a hundred miles to see it.
I watch the trailer again.
A couple of weeks ago, I stumbled across the trailer for a little film called He Was a Quiet Man. Rather than trying to describe it, just watch it, watch the whole thing, and you’ll meet my conundrum:
Maybe a few months ago, it would have been a no-brainer. My taste in movies makes room for off-key oddities, probably welcomes them warmly on the front porch. But after the events at Virginia Tech, I’m not so sure this time. The conceit of the film is that Christian Slater’s character is contemplating a suicidal shooting spree when somebody else beats him to the trigger. Slater’s character is disturbed and lonely, a man who never outgrew his violent, child-like fantasies about revenge for perceived slights and social torment. Opening with that spree, the trailer sings the problematic tune--He Was a Quiet Man is a black comedy.
Black comedies are tricky, and most attempts fail. Their goal is to make you laugh at situations normally deserted by laughter, mining humor by skewing reality to the absurd. But the shock of Virginia Tech is still too soon, and the reality clamors in, twisting the absurdity with bad timing.
It’s not the first time. When September 11th shook us, Hollywood suddenly became cautious. Sam Raimi pulled a sequence--originally shot for a teaser trailer--from the first Spider-Man movie because it featured the World Trade Center. Jackie Chan had to scrap a film set at the Towers, which climaxed with Jackie fighting to prevent a terrorist attack. Some film fans cried censorship, but the reality actually is capitalistic: Any producer or studio head knows that making entertainment out of a tragedy too soon creates discomfort for the audience and, in turn, spells financial doom. Even legendary producer Joseph Schenck realized that when he ordered Buster Keaton to change the finale for Steamboat Bill Jr. to something other than a huge flood--the recent, real-life Mississippi one had claimed far too many lives to be fun.
The climax became a cyclone, hatching Buster Keaton’s most iconic image.
The ripples tragedy leaves behind don’t have an expiration date, either. Paul Greengrass’s United 93 earned all kinds of critical acclaim for its honorable retelling of the one plane that didn’t reach its target on September 11th, but the film still struggled at the box office. Even five years after that event, the wounds were too sensitive to relive it all again. I know mine were.
Which brings me back to He Was a Quiet Man. I’ve watched the trailer several times and unearthed festival reviews, which tell of a “pitch black comedy” taking utterly unexpected turns. They also tell of spirited discussions after the credits roll--most of the festival showings came after Seung-Hui Cho’s rampage. But what the audience yearns to talk about is not recorded. I still don’t know.
I don’t. Watching a troubled man struggle against his worst instincts, perhaps to fail, perhaps to succeed by failing...the message may be one for which I’m not ready. Especially if that message is wrapped up in a laugh lost to echoing gunshots.
Then the trailer’s second half plays again, and makes me wonder.
The real problem isn’t the film’s timing; it’s whether the film understands the true nature of black comedy: to tear away the trappings of tragedy and horror to reveal humanity’s heart. A dozen late-comers have followed Heathers, attempted to carbon copy its twisted teen inanity, but none have matched it. Heathers succeeded because instead of finding hilarity in suicide itself, the film found the fragility in the acts of the people responding to it. While Heathers attacked the strange popularity and the cult of celebrity surrounding teen suicide in the late 1980s, it treated its lead characters as more than simple biological bags of quirks. A black comedy doesn’t vicariate its characters; a black comedy is about the tragic faults of the characters that lead them to mistakes...or enlightenment.
He Was a Quiet Man can be about exploitation, or it can be about healing. After an event like the campus massacre, we briefly ask why, then look for villains. But we forget that there are no real monsters. Something broke, something turned, something smoldered in Cho; failing to understand that helpless hate only deepens the tragedy. A film about a similar character driven toward a similar act, only to be stopped by circumstance to confront his own existence, may help me see past the assumption and dismissal of madmen. And that possibility makes me want to drive a hundred miles to see it.
I watch the trailer again.
Monday, June 25, 2007
Classy Cult Cinema
Lightning can do strange things. Strike places twice, stalk people, roast chickens, even cause annual conventions. And it can blow out phone lines. Specifically, my phone line. About a week ago, Frederick experienced two full days of lightning storms. While my neighbors and I sat (safely) under our porches to enjoy the night sky crackling, one apparently smacked my 30-year-old split and switch. For days, my phone fluttered between stone silence or laughing static, as if the lightning bolt still danced on the line. My Internet connection also suffered: After about 10 minutes online, the connection would sputter and fade out, leaving my browser grasping blindly.
But the phone guy just left, after installing a completely new line and adopting the burned-out switch for his display wall at work. The computer connection is finally healthy, and I jump online to see what's happening.
And at the prestigious AFI Silver Theatre, this greets me.
Big Trouble in Little China? Evil Dead 2? The Terminator? This is Spinal Tap? Repo Man? Porky's?
What, did lightning strike me, too? Am I really in heaven? Or did reality's axis just go all unhinged?
A few years ago, The American Film Institute helped Montgomery County restore the historical Silver Theatre in Silver Spring, Maryland, for the purpose of showing classic and world cinema. With two stadium-seating screening rooms, the theater usually shows older foreign and American art films, classic cinema, and even the occasional first-run indie feature. The line-ups usually feature the likes of Seven Samurai, Ingmar Bergman's Wild Strawberries, She Wore a Yellow Ribbon, My Own Private Idaho, and The Lady Vanishes. In a week, a Sunday Buster Keaton retrospective ends after playing all spring. Recent pulp films, however, never really have been shown there. Sure, a few years ago, I got to see the original Japanese Godzilla at the Silver, but that movie is now regarded as a monster classic alongside the likes of Frankenstein and Dracula.
But that's really the point, isn't it? Many of the films we regard today as important classics were the entertainment of yesteryear. John Ford, Alfred Hitchcock, Akira Kurosawa, Tod Browning...they all created timeless work that helped shape film history, but they all were storytellers first. Some filmmakers simply were more subtle than others.
The films the AFI Silver Theatre is showcasing as great 1980s cinema boast growing reputations: The Termintor is regarded as a contemporary time-travel classic, while Evil Dead 2 begatted Sam Raimi's career, hyperactive filmatic style, and comedy horror. Porky's, for better or worse, predated today's tasteless teen comedies; you can thank the late Bob Clark for the likes of American Pie. This Is Spinal Tap helped introduce the modern concept of the mockumentary, one that star Christopher Guest has continued to develop with Best in Show and A Mighty Wind. All these films from my teenhood influenced the makers of movies today; the cultural ascension to critical respect just seems odd to me, who still remembers them for the celluloid escape they originally gave us.
Of course, that still doesn't explain Jack Burton's appearance. But who cares?
Oh yeah, I have my tickets yesterday.
But the phone guy just left, after installing a completely new line and adopting the burned-out switch for his display wall at work. The computer connection is finally healthy, and I jump online to see what's happening.
And at the prestigious AFI Silver Theatre, this greets me.
Big Trouble in Little China? Evil Dead 2? The Terminator? This is Spinal Tap? Repo Man? Porky's?
What, did lightning strike me, too? Am I really in heaven? Or did reality's axis just go all unhinged?
A few years ago, The American Film Institute helped Montgomery County restore the historical Silver Theatre in Silver Spring, Maryland, for the purpose of showing classic and world cinema. With two stadium-seating screening rooms, the theater usually shows older foreign and American art films, classic cinema, and even the occasional first-run indie feature. The line-ups usually feature the likes of Seven Samurai, Ingmar Bergman's Wild Strawberries, She Wore a Yellow Ribbon, My Own Private Idaho, and The Lady Vanishes. In a week, a Sunday Buster Keaton retrospective ends after playing all spring. Recent pulp films, however, never really have been shown there. Sure, a few years ago, I got to see the original Japanese Godzilla at the Silver, but that movie is now regarded as a monster classic alongside the likes of Frankenstein and Dracula.
But that's really the point, isn't it? Many of the films we regard today as important classics were the entertainment of yesteryear. John Ford, Alfred Hitchcock, Akira Kurosawa, Tod Browning...they all created timeless work that helped shape film history, but they all were storytellers first. Some filmmakers simply were more subtle than others.
The films the AFI Silver Theatre is showcasing as great 1980s cinema boast growing reputations: The Termintor is regarded as a contemporary time-travel classic, while Evil Dead 2 begatted Sam Raimi's career, hyperactive filmatic style, and comedy horror. Porky's, for better or worse, predated today's tasteless teen comedies; you can thank the late Bob Clark for the likes of American Pie. This Is Spinal Tap helped introduce the modern concept of the mockumentary, one that star Christopher Guest has continued to develop with Best in Show and A Mighty Wind. All these films from my teenhood influenced the makers of movies today; the cultural ascension to critical respect just seems odd to me, who still remembers them for the celluloid escape they originally gave us.
Of course, that still doesn't explain Jack Burton's appearance. But who cares?
Oh yeah, I have my tickets yesterday.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Father Flickers
After church on Sundays, our family would go directly to my mother’s parents’ house for brunch--Grandma and Grandpa only lived a somewhat long walk from our own house, and their home was a second one for me. On one of these Sundays, my Grandpa, the former bank vice president and erstwhile inventor, sipped on his afternoon martini as Dad and I regaled him with raves about an amazing movie we saw the previous night: Prisoners of the Lost Universe, a no-budget sci-fi comedy populated with multidimensional claptrap, cavemen, albinos, flintlocks, digital watches, and Richard Hatch.
Hey, we have taste.
I owe Dad a lot. I mean more than my existence (Mom had something to do with that, too, ya know). He taught me independence, introduced me to the joy of reading, shaped an athlete out of me against all odds, bestowed a goofy sense of humor, helped me learn to take people as they come, and many, many other little things. But most of all, he shared his love of silly movies.
On Saturday mornings way back in the hazy 1970s, he’d come and join me to watch the Looney Tunes. I originally thought he was making sure I didn’t pick up anything fun to imitate; I already had received the “Only Superman Can Fly” lecture after they found me using my bed as a landing pad. But no, Dad wasn’t duly fulfilling some unwritten parenting law to protect his child; he was coming down to watch because he loved Bugs Bunny and Co. just as much as me. Sometimes, he’d even stick around for the martial arts movie in the afternoon, simply ’cause they were almost as silly as the cartoons (“Hey, why don’t they attack him all at once?”). Even today, when I go home for holidays, I bring along my Looney Tunes box set, just in case we have some free time to watch.
So, when cable finally arrived in our household complete with HBO and Cinemax, Dad and I found heaven. Back then, the movie channels scrambled for anything to fill in their schedule around the 3 or 4 major films they showcased. That’s when we first discovered The Beastmaster, The Ice Pirates, Yellowbeard, and countless post-apocalyptic Road Warrior knockoffs. I witnessed my first PG-rated movie, then my first R. It didn’t really matter what we watched, only if it was silly, fun, a little off-the-wall, and exciting. You know, goofy guy stuff.
That appreciation for the odd and little-known grew in me. When video stores began spreading throughout the town, I loved to browse through, finding some interesting looking flick most likely bearing an Embassy or New World logo. Later on, I discovered New German cinema, wuxia swordplay adventures, ghost stories, silents, Japanese anime, classic romantic mysteries--all adding to the wealth of westerns, b-movies, and fantastical silly fun Dad and I discovered together.
Today, in my DVD cedar chest, Return of the Killer Tomatoes sits comfortably right next Alfred Hitchcock’s Rebecca, which sits right next to Young Frankenstein, which sits next to Rock and Rule, which sits next to She Wore a Yellow Ribbon, which sits next to The Brother from Another Planet. I’m often surprised when I’m asked if there are movies I don't like admitting I own. It’s a strange question--why should I be ashamed of movies I like? A conceit exists within film fandom, a conceit that extends to literature as well: The idea that a story can be less worthy of another simply because of the kind of story. Science fiction literature often is ignored by “serious” readers and critics, so an author like Gene Wolfe, who perhaps is the best living American writer today, can be left unknown, then forgotten. For years, Kurt Vonnegut fought against that sci-fi label for the same reasons--he felt his work deserved better, that it was more than “just” genre fiction. Only Slaughterhouse-Five changed academia’s minds, and only after they had missed Mother Night and Cat’s Cradle.
The same goes with film. Every year’s movie releases are divided between the summer blockbusters and the Oscar hopefuls in the fall. One is mindless entertainment, the other important cinema. Where the idea the two had to be separate is beyond me.
The point is, and always has been, to tell a good story. Just that, nothing more, no matter if the eye-candy is blinding or the soapbox’s call is clarion. If a film doesn’t have compelling characters imbuing a well-wrought narrative, if a story does not draw you in, does not create laughter or tears or adrenaline or just simple joy, then any entertainment is absent, the film a failure.
That’s what Dad taught me about movies, whether he intended or not. The importance isn’t in the inner meaning, or the subject matter, or the genre, or even production quality. The importance is in the entertainment--the modern day, silver-screened equivalent of ancient storytellers, mesmerizing their audiences with imagination, humor, and humanity. No matter how serious or silly.
Thanks, Dad. Happy Father’s Day. And I promise to bring McLintock! this time.
Hey, we have taste.
I owe Dad a lot. I mean more than my existence (Mom had something to do with that, too, ya know). He taught me independence, introduced me to the joy of reading, shaped an athlete out of me against all odds, bestowed a goofy sense of humor, helped me learn to take people as they come, and many, many other little things. But most of all, he shared his love of silly movies.
On Saturday mornings way back in the hazy 1970s, he’d come and join me to watch the Looney Tunes. I originally thought he was making sure I didn’t pick up anything fun to imitate; I already had received the “Only Superman Can Fly” lecture after they found me using my bed as a landing pad. But no, Dad wasn’t duly fulfilling some unwritten parenting law to protect his child; he was coming down to watch because he loved Bugs Bunny and Co. just as much as me. Sometimes, he’d even stick around for the martial arts movie in the afternoon, simply ’cause they were almost as silly as the cartoons (“Hey, why don’t they attack him all at once?”). Even today, when I go home for holidays, I bring along my Looney Tunes box set, just in case we have some free time to watch.
So, when cable finally arrived in our household complete with HBO and Cinemax, Dad and I found heaven. Back then, the movie channels scrambled for anything to fill in their schedule around the 3 or 4 major films they showcased. That’s when we first discovered The Beastmaster, The Ice Pirates, Yellowbeard, and countless post-apocalyptic Road Warrior knockoffs. I witnessed my first PG-rated movie, then my first R. It didn’t really matter what we watched, only if it was silly, fun, a little off-the-wall, and exciting. You know, goofy guy stuff.
That appreciation for the odd and little-known grew in me. When video stores began spreading throughout the town, I loved to browse through, finding some interesting looking flick most likely bearing an Embassy or New World logo. Later on, I discovered New German cinema, wuxia swordplay adventures, ghost stories, silents, Japanese anime, classic romantic mysteries--all adding to the wealth of westerns, b-movies, and fantastical silly fun Dad and I discovered together.
Today, in my DVD cedar chest, Return of the Killer Tomatoes sits comfortably right next Alfred Hitchcock’s Rebecca, which sits right next to Young Frankenstein, which sits next to Rock and Rule, which sits next to She Wore a Yellow Ribbon, which sits next to The Brother from Another Planet. I’m often surprised when I’m asked if there are movies I don't like admitting I own. It’s a strange question--why should I be ashamed of movies I like? A conceit exists within film fandom, a conceit that extends to literature as well: The idea that a story can be less worthy of another simply because of the kind of story. Science fiction literature often is ignored by “serious” readers and critics, so an author like Gene Wolfe, who perhaps is the best living American writer today, can be left unknown, then forgotten. For years, Kurt Vonnegut fought against that sci-fi label for the same reasons--he felt his work deserved better, that it was more than “just” genre fiction. Only Slaughterhouse-Five changed academia’s minds, and only after they had missed Mother Night and Cat’s Cradle.
The same goes with film. Every year’s movie releases are divided between the summer blockbusters and the Oscar hopefuls in the fall. One is mindless entertainment, the other important cinema. Where the idea the two had to be separate is beyond me.
The point is, and always has been, to tell a good story. Just that, nothing more, no matter if the eye-candy is blinding or the soapbox’s call is clarion. If a film doesn’t have compelling characters imbuing a well-wrought narrative, if a story does not draw you in, does not create laughter or tears or adrenaline or just simple joy, then any entertainment is absent, the film a failure.
That’s what Dad taught me about movies, whether he intended or not. The importance isn’t in the inner meaning, or the subject matter, or the genre, or even production quality. The importance is in the entertainment--the modern day, silver-screened equivalent of ancient storytellers, mesmerizing their audiences with imagination, humor, and humanity. No matter how serious or silly.
Thanks, Dad. Happy Father’s Day. And I promise to bring McLintock! this time.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Heroes Among Us
So Gypsy (*ahem* Wonder Gypsy Without-Pushup-Bra) posts a superhero personality quiz by way of The Film Geek. So, of course, I do it.
And I turn out to be Easy Reader's sidekick. Awesome.
As a kid weened on Saturday morning Filmation and The Electric Company, Spider-Man was my favorite comic hero. Given all the other cool choices around, it was no contest.
I'm sure every comic book chronicler will be happy to tell you--Spider-Man was a hero with problems just like us. He wasn't a god-like Man of Steel, nor was he a rich gentleman with every gadget known to humanity. He didn't have just one cool power like The Flash, nor did he spend his days leadng a bunch of other supers like Captain America. Spidey was Spidey--an average kid (later, Joe) who just happened to be a hero with amazing strength, the ability to climb walls before Velcro, and a few toys he built from odds and ends. To comic book readers, he was closer to them than anybody else, and the problems that Peter Parker faced in his everyday life were much worse than theirs. I mean, who else has a boss who not only rides you everyday and fires you every other, but also uses your best work to make your own life harder?
Still, the thing I loved the most about Spider-Man was that the hero was the alterego. In Superman, Clark Kent was a guise with glasses, Supes pretending to be a somewhat bumbling reporter. Bruce Wayne was an act; the Batman was the personification of Wayne's true soul. But in Spider-Man, the real hero was Peter Parker; he just happened to swing around town in red and blue pajamas once in a while. That's what the stories were about, and that's what Sam Raimi got so right in the first movie--the story of Spider-Man is a story of sacrifice, of how somebody decides to use his special abilities to help others and the cost that selflessness takes on his life and loved ones. A cost Parker doesn't want M.J. to bear.
Now you know what it's like to be a fireman, or a policeman, or a rescue worker.
My father and his father were volunteer firemen for the Germantown Volunteer Fire Department in Danbury, Connecticut. I remember going to the department's Christmas party every year as a kid, getting to climb up on the trucks and later watch Santa come in on top of another one, which always was mysteriously missing from the firehouse. A fireman was one of the first things I wanted to be, but I never could because of my eye problems back then. I always remembered them, though, especially what they do for us.
What many people forget is that many if not most firefighters have families. Wives, husbands, children...they're the ones most affected by the selflessness, but they accept it, maybe even understand it. They're also the ones who get left behind when their loved ones never come home. And that's the cost of great responsiblity.
Over in the right column, you'll see a few links. With one, you can go and create your own superhero, complete with amazing powers and strength. With another, you can go to the National Fallen Firefighters Foundation, where those who through amazing strength gave the last full measure for someone they probably didn't know.
And that's a true superhero. One among us.
Your results:
You are Spider-Man
You are intelligent, witty,
a bit geeky and have great
power and responsibility.
Spider-Man 85%
Superman 80%
The Flash 70%
Green Lantern 70%
Robin 68%
Supergirl 65%
Hulk 55%
Wonder Woman 50%
Catwoman 35%
Iron Man 35%
Batman 15%
Click here to take the Superhero Personality Quiz
Oh, and F.G.? Green Lantern's not that bad. You could have been Aquaman.
And I turn out to be Easy Reader's sidekick. Awesome.
As a kid weened on Saturday morning Filmation and The Electric Company, Spider-Man was my favorite comic hero. Given all the other cool choices around, it was no contest.
I'm sure every comic book chronicler will be happy to tell you--Spider-Man was a hero with problems just like us. He wasn't a god-like Man of Steel, nor was he a rich gentleman with every gadget known to humanity. He didn't have just one cool power like The Flash, nor did he spend his days leadng a bunch of other supers like Captain America. Spidey was Spidey--an average kid (later, Joe) who just happened to be a hero with amazing strength, the ability to climb walls before Velcro, and a few toys he built from odds and ends. To comic book readers, he was closer to them than anybody else, and the problems that Peter Parker faced in his everyday life were much worse than theirs. I mean, who else has a boss who not only rides you everyday and fires you every other, but also uses your best work to make your own life harder?
Still, the thing I loved the most about Spider-Man was that the hero was the alterego. In Superman, Clark Kent was a guise with glasses, Supes pretending to be a somewhat bumbling reporter. Bruce Wayne was an act; the Batman was the personification of Wayne's true soul. But in Spider-Man, the real hero was Peter Parker; he just happened to swing around town in red and blue pajamas once in a while. That's what the stories were about, and that's what Sam Raimi got so right in the first movie--the story of Spider-Man is a story of sacrifice, of how somebody decides to use his special abilities to help others and the cost that selflessness takes on his life and loved ones. A cost Parker doesn't want M.J. to bear.
Now you know what it's like to be a fireman, or a policeman, or a rescue worker.
My father and his father were volunteer firemen for the Germantown Volunteer Fire Department in Danbury, Connecticut. I remember going to the department's Christmas party every year as a kid, getting to climb up on the trucks and later watch Santa come in on top of another one, which always was mysteriously missing from the firehouse. A fireman was one of the first things I wanted to be, but I never could because of my eye problems back then. I always remembered them, though, especially what they do for us.
What many people forget is that many if not most firefighters have families. Wives, husbands, children...they're the ones most affected by the selflessness, but they accept it, maybe even understand it. They're also the ones who get left behind when their loved ones never come home. And that's the cost of great responsiblity.
Over in the right column, you'll see a few links. With one, you can go and create your own superhero, complete with amazing powers and strength. With another, you can go to the National Fallen Firefighters Foundation, where those who through amazing strength gave the last full measure for someone they probably didn't know.
And that's a true superhero. One among us.
Your results:
You are Spider-Man
a bit geeky and have great
power and responsibility.
Click here to take the Superhero Personality Quiz
Oh, and F.G.? Green Lantern's not that bad. You could have been Aquaman.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
A Deliciously Evil Man
From my Dad: "You know, Gisbourne is an idiot, but even he should knock off the Sheriff for being such a [censored, but having to do with uncomfortable anatomy]."
Monday, June 11, 2007
Sherwood Calling
So, after a long work day after a long week after a long film festival, I finally drift home. The backyard, once landscaped, is lush with undisciplined life, and the birds roosting in a mostly dead tree have left some presents on my deck. The kitchen door argues, but finally bangs opens enough to allow me into the chaos strewn inside. Bag dropped, slippers on, and the day’s laundry already bucketed and escorted to the basement, I begin preparing for a long night of cleaning and blog updating. The festival report isn’t going to finish itself.
Then something pushes me to check the front porch. Sure enough, a box is waiting for me. What’s that rule about best-laid plans, again?
They weren’t supposed to arrive until the following week, but the new additions to my DVD collection are welcome: a low-key television western with Sam Elliott, a high school noir flick, and Buster Keaton’s last two silent movies. One more, though, ruins any best intentions for the evening--Robin of Sherwood (with Merries) has arrived.
When I think of Robin of Loxley, two screen personas spring to mind—Errol Flynn’s iconic swashbuckler, and the mythological Robin of the Hood. Back in the mid-1980s, when the BBC planned yet another version of England’s most lasting legend, writer Richard Carpenter concocted a strange mix of realism and mysticism--a young, misfit band of roughens finding a cause beyond simple survival, guided by a shaman of Celtic legend. Robin isn’t a disgraced noble--he’s a freeman whose freedom is stolen by the Norman Sheriff of Nottingham, a deliciously evil man with a hilariously horrendous temper. Little John is a man bewitched by an English lord fallen into the dark arts, and his duel of a meeting with Robin on the log is more deadly than the cheerfully playful one of tradition. Marian is a headstrong young woman as at home in the woods as surrounded by stone, so her fate as a pawn of the political church--represented by the Sheriff’s brother--is not one she accepts. Will Scarlet has become as heated as his name--in a devastating entrance in a prison pit, his features muted by shadow, Will tells the tale of his wife’s horrific death, of how everything he loved in this world was cruelly ripped from him. When he growls, “My name was Will Scathelock. It’s Scarlet now,” the never-absent hatred glows from within. A Saracen Muslim named Nasir joins the band, rarely speaking but wielding two wicked swords and a wry sense of humor. Then there’s Herne the Hunter--the aforementioned shaman, wandering around Sherwood granting Robin sage advice, weaving some naturalistic magic, and wearing Bambi on his noggin.
Tuck, on the other hand, is Tuck. Some things never should change.
For a nearly 25-year-old series, Robin of Sherwood is timeless. Clannad’s synthetic music doesn’t sound dated, only otherworldly. The strength of the series comes from the little things: the quiet camaraderie between the Merry Men, the affection between Robin and Marian, the give-and-take between the Sheriff and the childlike obstinacy that is Guy of Gisburne. These things, combined with unpredictable stories respinning the legendary tales in a different color, made Robin of Sherwood a series I never forgot.
Or maybe it was simply Sherwood.
When I reached my 8th year, my family moved from a Bill Cosby-like neighborhood filled with children my age to a small, quiet, dead-end street surrounded by woods. The youngest boys were in high school and didn’t want to have anything to do with the goofy, awkward new kid. The woods, then, became my friend. During the spring, after the snows finally melted, I would grab my cowhide backpack rescued from Dad’s attic and disappear into the wood for an hour or two, following the streams to map little islands and natural oddities like the Wooden Arch (that lasted all of two years), the hidden patch of Christmas wreath plants, the waterfall married with the crumbled dam, the grove of twisted and brittle swamp trees carpeted with fern. Although I never pretended I was Robin, I shared the comfort the fictional Merries felt within the underbrush and leaves. Hidden away from the rush of modernity, I discovered more than just a few personal landmarks in two acres of seasonal swamp and hillside woodland; the natural world became open to me for the first time in my life, and I’ve been drawn to it ever since.
These days seem further and further removed from those times, but I’m still drawn to the woods at Gambrill Park, where there’s a spot where all the mechanical noise can’t reach and true silence prevails. You can learn much from silence.
As I watch Robin and his crew crash through Sherwood, playing gracious hosts to sometimes unwilling guests and waylaying lords and knights, I’m a bit envious. Their time in the wood is perpetual and their life natural, even if forced on them by the official crimes of their time. I only get to return as my time permits. Maybe that’s why Robin of Sherwood left an impression on me.
Or maybe I simply had a crush on Marian.
Yep. That was it.
Then something pushes me to check the front porch. Sure enough, a box is waiting for me. What’s that rule about best-laid plans, again?
They weren’t supposed to arrive until the following week, but the new additions to my DVD collection are welcome: a low-key television western with Sam Elliott, a high school noir flick, and Buster Keaton’s last two silent movies. One more, though, ruins any best intentions for the evening--Robin of Sherwood (with Merries) has arrived.
When I think of Robin of Loxley, two screen personas spring to mind—Errol Flynn’s iconic swashbuckler, and the mythological Robin of the Hood. Back in the mid-1980s, when the BBC planned yet another version of England’s most lasting legend, writer Richard Carpenter concocted a strange mix of realism and mysticism--a young, misfit band of roughens finding a cause beyond simple survival, guided by a shaman of Celtic legend. Robin isn’t a disgraced noble--he’s a freeman whose freedom is stolen by the Norman Sheriff of Nottingham, a deliciously evil man with a hilariously horrendous temper. Little John is a man bewitched by an English lord fallen into the dark arts, and his duel of a meeting with Robin on the log is more deadly than the cheerfully playful one of tradition. Marian is a headstrong young woman as at home in the woods as surrounded by stone, so her fate as a pawn of the political church--represented by the Sheriff’s brother--is not one she accepts. Will Scarlet has become as heated as his name--in a devastating entrance in a prison pit, his features muted by shadow, Will tells the tale of his wife’s horrific death, of how everything he loved in this world was cruelly ripped from him. When he growls, “My name was Will Scathelock. It’s Scarlet now,” the never-absent hatred glows from within. A Saracen Muslim named Nasir joins the band, rarely speaking but wielding two wicked swords and a wry sense of humor. Then there’s Herne the Hunter--the aforementioned shaman, wandering around Sherwood granting Robin sage advice, weaving some naturalistic magic, and wearing Bambi on his noggin.
Tuck, on the other hand, is Tuck. Some things never should change.
For a nearly 25-year-old series, Robin of Sherwood is timeless. Clannad’s synthetic music doesn’t sound dated, only otherworldly. The strength of the series comes from the little things: the quiet camaraderie between the Merry Men, the affection between Robin and Marian, the give-and-take between the Sheriff and the childlike obstinacy that is Guy of Gisburne. These things, combined with unpredictable stories respinning the legendary tales in a different color, made Robin of Sherwood a series I never forgot.
Or maybe it was simply Sherwood.
When I reached my 8th year, my family moved from a Bill Cosby-like neighborhood filled with children my age to a small, quiet, dead-end street surrounded by woods. The youngest boys were in high school and didn’t want to have anything to do with the goofy, awkward new kid. The woods, then, became my friend. During the spring, after the snows finally melted, I would grab my cowhide backpack rescued from Dad’s attic and disappear into the wood for an hour or two, following the streams to map little islands and natural oddities like the Wooden Arch (that lasted all of two years), the hidden patch of Christmas wreath plants, the waterfall married with the crumbled dam, the grove of twisted and brittle swamp trees carpeted with fern. Although I never pretended I was Robin, I shared the comfort the fictional Merries felt within the underbrush and leaves. Hidden away from the rush of modernity, I discovered more than just a few personal landmarks in two acres of seasonal swamp and hillside woodland; the natural world became open to me for the first time in my life, and I’ve been drawn to it ever since.
These days seem further and further removed from those times, but I’m still drawn to the woods at Gambrill Park, where there’s a spot where all the mechanical noise can’t reach and true silence prevails. You can learn much from silence.
As I watch Robin and his crew crash through Sherwood, playing gracious hosts to sometimes unwilling guests and waylaying lords and knights, I’m a bit envious. Their time in the wood is perpetual and their life natural, even if forced on them by the official crimes of their time. I only get to return as my time permits. Maybe that’s why Robin of Sherwood left an impression on me.
Or maybe I simply had a crush on Marian.
Yep. That was it.
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