First Draft

Fighter Pilots in Love

Holy shit, these people:

They'd pick a time to meet. Their rendezvous point: 3,000 feet above a bridge at Lake Martin, 25 miles away. He'd be flying a repaired AT6 trainer. She'd be in a much slower Piper J-3 Cub.

"When I'd get to Lake Martin, I'd see this bright yellow Cub putt-putting along," he said. "I'd be real proud: She was on time and on target."

He'd pull down and fly in formation with her. They couldn't communicate by radio; her Cub didn't have one. All they could do was smile, wave and blow kisses.

Seeing each other in flight created a bond. When they flew together, it was as if they were holding hands in midair. At the end of their aerial encounter, he'd peel away, only to circle back. He'd sneak up behind her, pull in front and leave her in a trail of airwash. Her tiny craft shook mightily. She'd come to expect it every weekend.

"It didn't faze me," she'd say. "I was the better pilot. ... I just didn't fly the fastest aircraft."

 

What a couple of blistering, water-walking badasses. You know, it's easy to forget amidst all the crazy that goes on that human beings have always been pretty awesome, and that whatever limits others set for us, somebody's gonna go out there and blow those limits away.

A.  

Dickens at 200

Yesterday marked the bi-centennial of Charles Dickens' birth. Dickens is one of the few writers that I read as a kid that I still read, which either means I was a child prodigy or I'm now an old fart or both.

Anyway, I'd like to pose a mid-week question: what's your favorite Dickens novel, film based on one of his novels and teevee adaptation? It's a hard one for me because not only did the great man write so many brilliant books but his work adapts so well to both the big and small screen.

I'm going to cheat and list a favorite as well as a runner-up. It's hard y'all.

Novel: Great Expectations. Runner-up: David Copperfield. The latter is my first Dickensian love but I re-read Great Expectations at least every other year.

Film: David Lean's Great Expectations (1947,) which is on my list of the greatest films ever made. I've seen this one at least 15 times. Runner-up: the 1934 version of David Copperfield is a sentimental favorite because of WC Fields as Mr. Micawber and Basil Rathbone as the cold hearted blaggart Mr. Murdstone.

Teevee; Dickens and the mini-series were made for one another and Martin Chuzzelwit (1994) is my favorite. Tom Wilkinson as the slippery Mr. Pecksniff steals every scene he's in. Runner-up: Bleak House (2005.) The endless litigation of Jarndyce v. Jarndyce tells you everything you need to know about why "the law is an ass."

Okay, readers, it's your turn.

Newt Gingrich meets Brad Pitt

Newt wants Brad to play him on the big screen. Guess the film's title will be Newt's Delusion.

In an interview with a Florida radio station, just before his defeat by Romney in the primary, Gingrich confessed that, if a movie was ever made about his life, he saw Brad Pitt in the role.

Speaking to the Rich Stevens Radio Show on Ft Lauderdale, Florida station 850 WFTL, Gingrich admitted there might be one or two minor problems – "he's thinner, he's better looking, he's younger" – but that would be no artistic obstacle. "If you're going to go for it, you gotta relax and let your imagination soar."

In fact, Gingrich, 68, is two decades older than the 48-year-old Pitt, and the two appear to have almost nothing in common. Pennsylvania-born Gingrich has been a career politician since running for Congress in 1974 as a Republican; Pitt, born in Oklahoma but raised in Missouri, has regularly topped world's sexiest man polls and is a noted Hollywood liberal.

I'm surprised Newt didn't say Denzel in order to pander to the black Goopers who convene in a phone booth at CPAC...

Sunday Morning Video: I'm Against It

Here's Groucho from Horsefeathers complete with Portugese sub-titles:

 

Tweet of the day: Comedy Icon Edition

It comes from the great Albert Brooks who was born Albert Einstein and also has distinctive hair:

As a man ages watching the ball drop on New Years takes on a whole different meaning.

Brooks has been in a bit of a career slump as a writer-director but his Real Life, Modern Romance, Lost In America, Defending Your Life and Mother are classics.

Here's a clip featuring Albert and Debbie Reynolds as the title character in Mother. Dr A and I call this the "protective ice" scene.

 

Sunday Morning Video: Magic Christmas Tree- Rifftrax

Here are MST3K alums Mike Nelson, Kevin Murphy and Bill Corbett riffing on a truly incomprehensible flick:

 

Harry Morgan R.I.P.

Let's raise a glass in honor of the great character actor who died today at the age of 96:

Sunday Morning Video: Kevin Brownlow's Hollywood Episode One

I mentioned my passion for silent film history the other day. Whilst surfing YouTube, I discovered that a gent named BentoJoaoAntonio has been uploading episodes of Kevin Brownlow's magisterial 13 part documentary Hollywood. The series was made for British teevee and I watched it on PBS. Since it was aired in 1980, many of the movie industry's pioneers such as Lillian Gish, Hal Roach, Colleen Moore and King Vidor were still alive to be interviewed.

Here's episode one, The Pioneers:

 

Friday Night Music: Walking The Dog/Beginner's Luck

The shipboard scene from Shall We Dance with music by George Gershwin and lyrics by his kid brother Ira. I suspect you'll recognize the players:

 

 

Hugo

I've avoided the recent revival of 3-D movies like Mitt Haircut avoids the truth. Hugo is the first 3-D film I've seen wearing those stupid glasses. I still don't care for the process: both Dr A and I had mild headaches and a bit of motion sickness at the end of the latest Scorsese opus BUT the 3-D effects were well done and not merely gratuitous. In short, they didn't just throw shit at the audience and see how much of it stuck to your silly glasses...

More knowledgeable people than me, such as the great Roger Ebert, have pointed out how personal this film is to Marty. (Pronounced Maw-tee.) The director was a sickly kid who spent a lot of time looking out the window of his parents' apartment and going to the movies. The eponymous character Hugo watches life transpire at a Paris train station and stumbles into some movie magic when he meets Georges Melies, one of the real life inventors of silent film.

The second half of Hugo is astonishing and I particularly liked it because it's about early film history. I am a sucker for silent film history. It was a time when eccentrics and mavericks, and not corporations, made the movies. Scorsese weaves this history lesson into a story involving kids, washed up film folk and Sasha Baron Cohen as a flic who reminds me of Lionel Atwill's handicapped cop character in Son Of Frankenstein.

Hugo is a great time at the movies, if the 3-D process doesn't make you queasy this is an excellent use of it. If it does, either see it in 2-D, smoke some really strong weed or drop some dramamine. I give the film (what else?) 4 stars.

Malaka Of The Week: Machine Gun Santa

The "honor" actually goes to the Scottsdale Gun Club in Arizona. As you can see above, their idea of holiday spirit is taking pictures of heavily armed people with Santa.Holy Machine Gun Baby, Batman.

It's 5 bucks for members and ten for anyone nutty enough to think this is appropriate holiday, as opposed to cannon, fodder. It's a limited offer, so if you wanna look like an idiot, go to Scottsdale and head to the gun club on December 10th. We missed the November 26th date, alas. Hmm, I wonder if Santa did any turkey shootin'...

When I heard of this malakatude, I thought it was a sick joke or that it heralded a sequel to Bad Santa, which was filmed in nearby Phoenix. If Billy Bob Thornton's character had had this idea, Thurman Merman would have been an endangered species. But it's not a joke, just tasteless malakatude whereas Bad Santa is tasteless and hilarious:

 

Line of the day

It comes from Andrew O'Hehir's scathing review of the biopic J. Edgar at Salon:

It’s like a combination of acting-school exercises and the History Channel, with all the production values and dramatic intensity that suggests. Hoover’s longtime deputy director and presumed lover, Clyde Tolson, is played by Armie Hammer as — how do I put this delicately? — an absolute flaming queen, who uses the term “fashion-forward” during a department-store shopping expedition set in about 1930. For just a minute there, it looks as if “J. Edgar” is about to become “Queer Eye for the FBI,” and I’m profoundly sorry it doesn’t.

I haven't seen the film yet but I usually like Clint Eastwood's work as a director so I'll give this flick a chance. BUT that passage was too good to ignore.Writing bad reviews is *always* more fun than giving something a thumbs up.

Jean-Luc Picard Is the Good Kind of French, Apparently

I'm sorry, after years of hearing about how John Kerry would have been a terrible president because he is some kind of Parisian fairy, I am now staggered to learn that one of conservatism's archetypes of manliness is Jean-Luc Picard.

(Otherwise known as my second TV crush, after Hawkeye Pierce. Is there an equal opposite to cradle-robber? Because whatever that is, I've always been it. When I was 13 I had a thing for Adam on All My Children, Adam who was old enough to be my mother's grandfather. WTF, subconscious?)

Let's get back to Frenchy McBaldness. Picard, okay, read books, drank tea and spent like eleventy-billion years not banging the hot, seriously-into-him redheaded doctor down the hall. He came from a family of winemakers. His best friend was a black woman played by Whoopi Goldberg. He had a foreign accent! I don't have a problem with any of this (unf), but how exactly does it fit in with the ideal of Conservative Manhood being about smashing things and keeping the bitches down? Does whipping some Borg ass now and then make up for stuff like this?

They're mostly wrong, actually: Indiana Jones taught at a university and preferred museums over profit, and the Holy Grail is about the dangers of religious fanaticism. The A-Team is about helping people who have nowhere else to turn, who should probably just be shoved away with a lecture about bootstraps. I can't speak to the wrestler up there, but he seems to be treating that woman with affection (at least, she's not barefoot in the kitchen).

Trying to shoehorn pop culture into modern politics usually ends up stupid for this reason: Any good character is complex, and modern politicking needs things simple and dumb.

Before the 1980s, there were different masculine characters, but today, they are conspicuously absent.  Men are shown either as thuggish degenerates, or as effete androgynes.

I will admit to impatience with actors young enough to be my legal kids being the new sex symbols, but that's not to do with them or the culture or masculinity, it's to do with how I am now old as fuck. Luckily, there is Ben Daniels for me, and Robert Lindsay, and Idris Elba, and yes I watch a lot of British TV I can't help it they're all so amazing, with the voices and hands and such. Even on the basic non-cable TV there are men who look like adults doing doctor and lawyer and detective things. If you're not finding sufficient masculinity in the world, it's probably a better idea to look in the mirror than to keep changing the channel.

A.

Sunday Morning Video: Biggus Dickus

One of my favorite moments from The Life Of Brian:

 

Sunday Morning Video: Howard Hawks

This is an excerpt from Richard Schickel's marvelous documentary series, The Men Who Made The Movies. Howard Hawks directed a score of classic films: Bringing Up Baby, Only Angels Have Wings, His Girl Friday and two he discusses in the clip, To Have To Have Not and The Big Sleep. Hawks was not always a reliable storyteller in real life but he was always an interesting one. I'm uncertain, however, if he was ever stung by a dead bee..

 

Malakas Of The Week: Hollywood Hacks

I hate remakes. There was never any reason to remake, say, Sabrina. When it came out I said: Who can top Bogie, Audrey and Holden? They didn't and it also laid an egg at the box office.At the time they claimed they did it because the original was in black and white. The original was not only a classic but boffo at the box office. Billy Wilder was alive at the time it came out and, while he didn't like the remake, he didn't object to being paid a second time for his script.

The latest unnecessary remake is of Footloose. Not a particular favorite of mine but it was a pretty good flick and also a big hit. It was in color so the other lame excuse doesn't apply. Not only that but it's essentially a recreation. Here's how Roger Ebert led his review:

There's one thing to be said for a remake of a 1984 movie that uses the original's screenplay. This 2011 version is so similar — sometimes song for song and line for line — that I was wickedly tempted to reprint my 1984 review, word for word. But That Would be Wrong. I think I could have gotten away with it, though. The movies differ in such tiny details (the hero now moves to Tennessee from Massachusetts, not Chicago) that few would have noticed.

Was there then, or is there now, a town in Tennessee or any other state in which the city council has passed a law against "dancing in public"? There may have been a brief period, soon after Elvis first began grinding his pelvis, and preachers denounced rock 'n' roll as "the devil's music." But for most young moviegoers, this plot point is going to seem so unlikely as to be bizarre.

I can't top that, y'all, other than pointing you to Matt Zoller Seitz's list of the worst remakes of all time. Remember this: behind every movie remake there's lassitude *and* malakatude.

Don't even get me started about teevee shows remade as movies...

Roaring Back

The roaring Twenties have come roaring back in a big way on the small screen. I'm pretty knowledgeable about the era but I learned a plethora of new details from Ken Burns' Prohibition. I knew how important women were in getting the damn thing passed but didn't know how instrumental they were in its repeal. Let's hoist one for the ladies. I already knew how much Al Smith rocked before he became embittered by his defeat and FDR's enacting his his Noo Yawk programs nationally without giving as much credit as Smith thought he was due.

I keep meaning to blog about Boardwalk Empire but the first episode of Season-2 left me uninspired except for the bits about Chalky White. Episode-2, on the other hand, was a grand slam and once again it was the mesmerizing Michael Kenneth Williams as Chalky who made the episode crackle with excitement. I fully expect Nucky Thompson to make a comeback aided by Chalky's "colored" gang and the IRA, of all people.

Finally, I couldn't write about the prohibition era without mentioning my favorite Jimmy Cagney movie, The Roaring Twenties. Cagney plays Eddie Bartlett, a basically decent guy who stumbles into bootlegging, becomes a big shot but his fortune craps out along with the stock market. It's great stuff and features a fine supporting performance by Humphrey Bogart as Cagney's sleazy, venal and vulpine partner.

If you've never see the movie, check it out. Here's the trailer:

 

Sunday Morning Video: Tootsie Frootsie- The Marx Brothers

If you haven't already noticed, I love puns; good, bad or indifferent. Blame it on the Marx Brothers; especially this hilarious scene from A Day At The Races. Get-ta you ice cream, tootsie frootsie ice cream:

 

Little Girls in Pretty Princess Clothes

The discussion in comments to this article about Disney princesses (especially pointing out that WHERE THE FUCK IS MULAN in all this and also Tiana, and how nobody talks about how cool Maleficent is) is better than the story itself, which is reductive (exposure to Disney = your child ending up in a thong on Jersey Shore).

I spent Sunday afternoon at a baseball game with my dad, a pretty common occurrence when I was a little kid. And they did a thing at Miller Park where little kids got to go out and stand on the bases with the Brewers for a couple of minutes during the national anthem. About half those kids were girls, 12 or younger, who looked like they were seeing living gods before them as they stood out there.

I watched all the Disney movies when I was little. We went to see Sleeping Beauty in the theater and I must have known all the Beauty and the Beast songs by heart, and yet I also got hauled along to softball games where guys slid into third when they were losing by ten runs because that's how you do. Nobody at any of these things would have described himself as a feminist, yet their attitude was that I had as much right to be there as my brother. Which is how your options open.

And close: I didn't hate my hair until second grade, when I overheard another girl I admired complaining about hers, and I realized mine looked even sillier.

A.

Quote of the day

It comes from movie legend and self described Eisenhower Republican Clint Eastwood on gay marriage:

“These people who are making a big deal out of gay marriage?” Eastwood opined. “I don’t give a fuck about who wants to get married to anybody else! Why not?! We’re making a big deal out of things we shouldn’t be making a deal out of.”

"They go on and on with all this bullshit about 'sanctity' -- don't give me that sanctity crap! Just give everybody the chance to have the life they want."

Mommie Nudest

Hide the wire coat hangers. Christina Crawford is taking another whack at her late mother:

Christina, the self-described abused daughter of Hollywood legend Joan, found fame for her bestselling tell-all that became the camp classic movie starring Faye Dunaway as the “No wire hangers!” monster mom..

Now, Christina plans to play her mom in a one woman show but also expose her nakedness to the world!

“I never knew that they existed before a year ago and never saw them before a month ago,” Crawford told PopBytes.

“I remembered her telling me about her married lover, Charles McCabe; however, I never saw photos of him till the home movies, when they were hunting, fishing and canoeing in the Poconos.”

The all nude Joan revue will be part of Christina’s new play “Surviving Mommy Dearest”.

Christina is so awful that I *always* end up feeling sorry for dear old Joan. Sure, La Crawford was a battle-axe and virago in shoulder pads BUT she had style. Christina seems to ooze out from under the woodpile every few years to capitalize on the fact that she was adopted by a MOVIE STAR. They don't make 'em like Joan any more but tell-all writers like Christina are a dime-a-dozen. She even drove me to link to the National Enquirer...

Doris Day Meets Macca

Hollywood and big band legend Doris Day has recorded her first album in nearly a century. Not only that but she sat down for a chat with fellow show biz legend Paul McCartney, woo. Btw I always put a woo at the end of Macca's name because he invariably ends his stage patter with a woo. Here a woo, there a woo, everywhere a woo-hoo.

Yes, I have a weird fondness for OTT show biz introductions. So sue me, ladies and germs...

Anyway, here's the divine Ms. Day singing an Irving Berlin  tune from one of her best films Love Me Or Leave Me wherein she plays opposite Jimmy Cagney in his last hurrah as a gangster:

 

"You ate shit"

Dr. A and I saw The Help last weekend. I liked it more than expected even though I agree with *some* of the points cited in Andrew O'Hehir's post that compiles reactions to the flick. If nothing else, it's refreshing that a summer movie has led to so much interesting discussion. Most summer flicks just make you pee a lot from buying the super duper mega soda. Slurp. Flush.

We saw The Help with an audience that was about 50% black folks; most of whom were women. I'm usually not a fan of talking at the movies BUT black women tend to talk about the movie and to the characters. In short, there was a live side show going on.

There was one elderly African-American lady who was a real pistol. She hooted at the dumbshit segregationists on the screen and was particularly hostile to Bryce Dallas Howard's character, Hilly. She's the villain as racist twinkie. Hilly fired her sassy maid, Minny, who later served her something *beyond* savory.

After said twinkie bigot ate the ostensibly chocolate pie, every time she appeared onscreen the old lady behind us cackled and hollered: "You ate shit."

Wendell Pierce on The Help

I don't usually cut and paste this much from articles BUT this was very interesting indeed. Wendell Pierce spent some of last evening tweeting about his mama's reaction to the new movie The Help. The Picayune's Jerry McLeod was nice enough to gather everything together so here it goes:

When “Treme” actor and native New Orleanian Wendell Pierce took his mother, Althea, to a movie recently, he didn’t realize “The Help” would stir up some painful memories for her or that he would learn something new about the former elementary school teacher who raised him in Pontchartrain Park.

“My mother told me for the first time that she was ‘The Help,’  ” Pierce wrote on Twitter early Tuesday. He was talking about the current box-office hit based on the book by Mississippi native Kathryn Stockett.

“I never knew my mother had raised white children until we saw this movie. I was shocked. She was hurt by the film. She thought it was an insult,” Pierce wrote, launching a tweet-fest that went on for hours.

“ ‘The Help’ was well done but was a passive version of the terror of Jim Crow South. … She told me how she wasn’t allowed in the kitchen. She couldn’t eat during a 12-hour shift. … She couldn’t drink water from the kitchen but had to go to the faucet outdoors.

“Watching the film in Uptown New Orleans to the sniffles of elderly white people while my 80-year-old mother was seething, made clear distinction … the story was a sentimental primer of a palatable segregation history that is Jim Crow light.”

In the book and the film, a young white woman earns a job with her hometown newspaper after submitting an article told from the perspectives of two black women who worked for Southern white families in the 1960s.

Pierce, who also said in his posts that his grandmother was “The Help,” went on to praise the work of the film’s actors, especially leads Octavia Spencer and Viola Davis.

“Actors never cease to amaze me. What they do with the material given to them is craft.”

His mother, Pierce wrote, agreed that the movie “was a good story, but she knows a different reality.”

I still missed Kim and Roddy

I saw Rise Of The Planet Of The Apes last weekend. And while I don't know *how* a planet can rise, I enjoyed the movie a lot. The CGI apes were awesome and the scene of the simian rebels on the Golden Gate Bridge was great. In some ways the most astonishing thing was the non-hammy performance by John Lithgow; I didn't know he could be so restrained.

As post title implies, I'm a fan of the early Planet Of The Apes films. They were cool enough for me to get over my Charlton (Hammier than Lithgow) Heston aversion. The primary reason I enjoyed the primate series were Roddy McDowall as Cornelius and Kim Hunter as Dr. Zira. Yeah, they were people in ape suits but they were such good actors that they sold it, y'all. She was Stella in Streetcar Named Desire and he was one of the greatest kid actors ever fer chrissake. 

So, go see the apes go apeshit, folks. It could give you the same earworm it gave me:

 

Harry Potter Thread of Awesome Diversions

I was hoping someone had started this blog because goddamn.

Also, Molly Weasley: Feminist Mom.

Speaking of all things nerdly, do we need a Dance with Dragons thread? Has everyone else finished devouring it yet? Or should I give it another week or so?

A.

Nut free nights

Some people have severe nut allergies, which is something I don't recall hearing about until recently. Major League Baseball is on the case:

From Cracker Jacks to bags of straight-up peanuts, baseball games can be a bit of a nightmare for fans with severe nut allergies. According to Reuters, about half of all MLB teams will host at least one "nut-controlled game" this season, so even the most allergic fans have a chance for to catch a foul ball with their beer. A nut-free game typically means "an isolated section of around 100 seats that have been thoroughly cleaned," not selling nuts nearby, and having medical staff on hand in case of an emergency. One Chicago mother of a highly nut-allergic young baseball fan said that hearing the crunching of peanut shells during a game is "like being in a horror movie."

Huh? I have allergies and Dr. A has some pretty bad ones but audio allergies? The only audio allergies I have are to Lawrence Welk and eurotrash electronica. <synth drum rim shot>

I don't really have a problem with nut free nights: it's never a bad thing when a business tries to please its customers. Besides, nut free nights is (are?) fun to say and evokes some inordinately silly imagery such as players with empty cups... <painful rim shot>

I know, however, one person who might find this trend worrisome and it's Harlan Pepper the nut naming dog dude from Best In Show.

 

 What's a nut namer to do without any nuts? Sing this song?

 

I couldn't find the version I really wanted: Doug Clark and the Hot Nuts. I haven't heard their Nuts To You LP since I was in kneepants. Wait a minute, I'm wearing shorts right now so I am indeed wearing knee pants. It's fucking hot here y'all.

Back to Doug Clark, here's the classic as well as "classy" in the Good Fellas sense cover:

Peter Falk, R.I.P.

America loved Peter Falk, who died today at 83, as the rumpled and deceptively brilliant teevee detective Columbo. I remember Falk most fondly for the string of art house classics he did with his buddy, John Cassavetes.

Falk was popular in my house when I was a tadpole. My mother loved mysteries and my father was convinced that Falk was Greek and he liked all Greeks; especially successful ones. His stock line: "He's Greek. He's doing very well you know." He was absolutely convinced that Falk was Greek. I tried telling him that Falk's close friend and colleague John Cassavetes *was* Greek but that Falk was not. He was sure they were both Greek and eventually I gave up arguing even though he wouldn't have known a Cassavetes film from a Michael Bay blow stuff up flick.

Back to Falkophillia. One of my favorite high school teachers, Gus Hassapakis, resembled Falk and occasionally wore a trench coat and did a fine Falk as Columbo impression. Mr. Hassapakis was Greek and knew that Falk was not. Perhaps that's why my father decided that a Jewish kid from Noo Yawk was Hellenic to the core or maybe he was just stubborn.

Anyway, adieu Mr. Falk: he was a swell actor and I always enjoyed seeing him onscreen. And he's still not Greek...

Louisiana Lege Lowdown

The Louisiana Lege is in session and passing stupid laws, which is what they do. Our statewide politics have taken on a somewhat surreal quality: Governor PBJ is thus far unopposed for re-election but keeps losing key votes in the Lege on issues that matter to him. PBJ, however, is lucky in his enemies: the Louisiana Democratic party is in disarray and barely even exists any more. That means that PBJ can pander and fast talk his way to re-election whilst delusions of the White House dance in his feverish little mind.

The good news for PBJ is that the House just passed an initiative that he supports and the vote was unanimous as it's likely to be in the Senate as well. It red lights-you guessed it-a Ten Commandments thingamabob to be displayed on the state capitol grounds. It's, alas, based on the Texas monument that the Supremes okayed in 2005. Our Lege usually doesn't bother with such niceties when it comes to religion and pandering to the biblethumpers.

I have a friend who used to be a Louisiana State Senator back in the days when there still were some White populist/progressive Democrats in the Lege. He was an agnostic but shocked the hell out of me when he voted for a creationism measure. He explained to me that you could "never vote against God and get away with it. The peckerwoods would put your private parts in a vise and squeeze tight. Besides, the federal courts will shoot this dumbshit bill down."

That's what happened to the 1980's version of the "creation science" bill. Unfortunately, times have changed and the Roberts court will accept almost anything that's dolled up in "secular purpose" drag. The courts are unwilling to "vote against God" now either.

It's a pity that the right wing Catholics among the Supremes have forgotten that laws aimed at their faith used to exist in some of the more exuberantly Protestant parts of the country. Al Smith did poorly in the then solid Democratic South because people thought that his election would put the Pope in the White House. Now right wing Catholics and evangelicals are allies in Louisiana and elsewhere, which could be evidence to refute evolution since we're marching backwards instead of evolving.

I'll let Spencer Tracy as Henry Drummond have the last word:

 

The Reverse Freedom Rides

It's the 50th Anniversary of the civil rights freedom rides. If you haven't seen the fabulous American Experience documentary yet, it's a must see instant classic. I knew the story and was still on the edge of my seat, which was hard because Oscar was clinging to my legs for dear life. Ouch.

On to the post title. There was a excellent front page story in the Sunday Picayune by Katy Reckdahl about the reverse freedom rides. It was a scheme cooked up by one of Leander Perez's lackeys. Perez was the uber segregationist ultra-racist political boss of two, count 'em two, South Louisiana parishes. Anyway, Perez's henchman came up with a plan to "flood the North" with poor Southern blacks as payback for the Freedom Rides.

They even dispatched some folks to Hyannis Port hoping to embarrass President Kennedy. It didn't work. And the whole thing was forgotten, until now, that is.

Brass Roots the Movie

Treme is back but the brass band sound it's spreading across the country never went away. Some NOLA filmmakers have been busy as brassy beavers working on a flick about the sights, sounds and history of brass band music. They have a blog and they have clips  of their very exciting project, which sounds like more fun than a barrel of brass monkeys. Here's the trailer:

The talented young filmmakers behind Brass Roots the Movie are using the interwebs to help raise money for their project. As you know, we at First Draft like to help out worthwhile causes and projects and this one surely qualifies. They've raised $14K via kickstarter and need to come up with another $5K to finish the film. I'll let them close the deal:

Why should you back Brass Roots with a pledge? Besides the fact that the film might not get made without your support, there’s also all the rewards we’re offering, from Mardi Gras cups to DVD copies to autographed posters, we’re giving away all kinds of Brass Roots shwag with donations.

Also, backers get exclusive updates with early looks at videos, audio and other media as we finish production of our documentary.

If you'd like to donate to Brass Roots the Movie please click on this LINK.

 

Cross-posted at Adrastos.

Malaka Of The Week: Nicolas Cage

Yeah, I know: this is low hanging fruit BUT it's irresistible since the latest Cage meltdown occurred in my city. Now that I think of it, Nicolas Cage comes to NOLA to get drunk and arrested. Guess he buys into the lowest common denominator visitor thing. Actually, he's what I call a parachutist (very part time New Orleanian) but today I call him malaka of the week.

Cage's latest bout of drunken NOLA malakatude occurred last week:

Sources familiar with the situation tell TMZ ... Nic was "very drunk" on the streets of N.O. when a cab driver saw him loudly arguing with his wife Alice.

We're told the cabbie called the police and said in addition to the screaming and yelling ... he saw Nic grab her.

We're told the police came and told Nic and his wife to just go home. That's when Nic allegedly told cops, "Why don't you just arrest me?" The cops then reiterated that he and his wife should just go home. Cage then repeated his dare to cops.

At that point, police took Nic into custody and charged him with ...domestic abuse and disturbing the peace.

As we all know, malakatude and dumbassery are kissing cousins and insisting that the cops bust you is a one way ticket to the slammer.

As a New Orleanian, I have no problem with people getting drunk but I have a problem with people who cannot hold their liquor. Another of Nic Cage's problems is misogyny. When he was Bacchus in 2002, rumors swirled about town that he made a pass at a krewe member's wife and was outraged when there were objections. Apparently, Cage told the Bacchus spouse that she should be flattered that a movie star hit on her. Whatever, dude. This OTT hammy actor thinks that he's God's gift to women.

During Carnival, Cage was nearly caged for being drunk and disorderly at Stella, which is an upscale eatery on Chartres Street owned by celebrity chef, Scott Boswell. Here's an extended excerpt from an hilarious piece by Jim Nelson of GQ who just happened to be there when Nic Cage did that malakatude that he dude so well:

He stood at the entrance of the room, clutching the hostess stand for balance, and glared out at the diners. The entire place went stone silent. He moved, stumbled, came closer to our tables.

"Where's the REAL girls?" he moaned.

Huh? A few more paces. He's a foot away from my andouille sausage. Quick. Someone feed him.

"WHERE'S THE REAL GIRLS?"

He spotted them in the corner, and moved toward them like a drugged Sasquatch. The room seemed to sway like an uncertain boat. The two ladies, alas, had manly company at the table. This did not dissuade Cage.

"You." He pointed at the brunette. "You're a contender." He turned to the blonde. "You're not."

He was soon escorted out of the restaurant by a couple armfuls of hospitality. A manager type stood in the driveway outside and tried to gently scoot him off, the way you might shoo a raccoon you're not sure is feral. Nearby you could hear the carnival howls of Mardi Gras. The room sighed, slowly went back to digesting.

Then we heard another tussle. Cage was at the doorway, trying to get past the manager dude, grabbing onto the walls, his arms extended out as if he were desperate to catch an existential football. His hand went through a panel in the door, shattering the glass. "You LOVE ME!" he shouted to the restaurant staff, who surely at one point did.

Cops were called. In New Orleans that usually means nothing happens. But they turned up—for a drunk-and-disorderly at Mardi Gras, no less. He was taken home, not arrested. But he suffered, I imagine, a head-cracking case of morning shame.

Well, at least he didn't demand that the po po take him away that time. Of course, he should have learned a lesson from this earlier altercation and not demanded to check in to the Parish Prison last week. Part of me thinks I shouldn't kick someone when they're down and I wouldn't do so if Cage weren't such an insufferably arrogant and entitled douchebag. And douchebaggery is synonymous with malakatude.

Sidney Lumet, R.I.P.

The great film director Sidney Lumet has died at the age of 86. Lumet made at least a half dozen stone classic films: 12 Angry Men, Serpico, Dog Day Afternoon, Network, Running On Empty and Prince Of The City and many more good movies than stinkers.

Lumet's work was known for its urban grittiness, great acting and Noo Yawk settings. As a person, he was known for his kindness and lack of arrogance, which is a rare quality among film directors. I like to think of him as Elia Kazan's "good directorial twin." Hey, if there can be evil twins, why not good ones? Elia was a great director and a malaka whereas Sidney was a great director and a nice guy.

Network was once considered outlandish but Lumet and writer Paddy Chayevsky's masterpiece has proven to be prophetic. Howard Beale was Glenn Beck with a good resume, after all. And who among us has not  made like Al Pacino and hollered:

 

How Christian Of Them

The douchebags at Westboro Church plan to picket Elizabeth Taylor's funeral.That's what she gets for not being a homo hater...

I wonder if they plan to dig up Monty Clift and Rock Hudson while they're at it.

Being Van Morrison

No, I'm not stalking one of Ireland's finest exports. I'm riffing on the title of the surreal comic film Being John Malkovich. I've always liked Van Morrison's music but wish I knew less about him as a person and have no desire to spend any time inside his head. In a word, Van is dickish. Or is that malakatudinous?

Van sings like a drunken angel but often acts like a drunken demon. I've seen him live 7 or 8 times and you never know who's going to show up. He's been great, mediocre, bad and downright insulting. A few years back I wrote the following about him at the Adrastos Virtual Cafe:

Van the man is one of the most erratic and irascible artists ever to hit the stage at Jazz Fest or anywhere else for that matter. His live performances run the gamut from sublime to wretched. You never know what you're going to get with Van and, frankly, my dear, he doesn't give a damn.

There are times when it's perilous to know what some of one's favorite musicians are like offstage. Van Morrison is one of them. He's a big talent who can also be a great big jerk. But I gotta give Van credit, he's not afraid to show his surly side in public. Not long ago, I downloaded a Morrison compilation via Bittorent from the internets. But it's not actually a bootleg per se: it's a collection of Van's public tantrums and drunken meltdowns. It's called Who's Grumpy? It was compiled by a fearless chap known as NK. I'm going to emulate his fearlessness by posting the back cover of the CD.

As much as I hate to repeat myself here's the cover again:

Okay, time to post live versions of the title tracks from two of my favorite vintage Van Morrison albums. Not sure if he still does these fucking songs any more but he oughta. Fuckin' A.

Van himself may not be as sweet as Tupelo Honey but it's a gorgeous song. This clip comes from when he had a bit of hair on his head so the omnipresent chapeau is nowhere to be seen:

 

Van is obviously no saint but this version of St. Dominic's Preview showcases the eclectic nature of his music: a dash of R & B, a pinch of Celtic folk and a big splash of blues-rock. Van deploys his gruff-sweet vocal style to great effect in this performance. This song never fails to move me and even helps me to remember that this grouchy, cantankerous SOB is also a great artist:

 

Since he seems to be a mean drunk, I'm not sure if I'd enjoy knocking back a few pints with Van. But I think this clip from the classic Graham Greene/Carol Reed film, sums up my long time love-hate relationship with Morrison quite well. I'll let Orson Welles have the last word:

 

The Posh Boy & The Merchants Of Death

British Prime Minister David Cameron was the first Western leader to visit post-Mubarak Egypt. He said all the right things about democracy and yadda, yadda, yadda. Initially, I was impressed until I saw this:

David Cameron's efforts to promote democracy in the Middle East by becoming the first foreign leader to visit Cairo were overshadowed as it emerged that he will spend the next three days touring undemocratic Gulf states with eight of Britain's leading defence manufacturers.

After a hastily convened stopover in Egypt, where he spoke of being "inspired" by protesters, the PM began a long-scheduled trade mission by landing in Kuwait, a key military ally. Britain has approved 1,155 arms export licences for Kuwait since 2003, worth a total of £102.3m, according the Campaign Against the Arms Trade.

There was a shitstorm over the timing of the trip. One good thing that's come of it is this:

Britain faced embarrassment over the weekend when it was forced to revoke arms export licences to Bahrain and Libya amid fears that British arms may have been used in the violent crackdown on protesters. Cameron, who is seeking assurances that no British arms were used against protesters, insisted that Britain has some of the toughest rules on arms exports in the world.

They do? Really? As an American, I suppose I should be relieved that not all the shit being thrown at protesters was made in the USA. But I'm horrified that the UK allowed any sort of arms sale to Libya; especially now that Gaddafi's personal role in ordering  the Lockerbie bombing has been confirmed by one of the rats scrambling off the demented dictator's sinking ship. So much for being tough on terrorism. Of course, the Posh Boy will turn around and blame the Artful Dodger and the Labour Government. So it goes.

As for Cameron, the mask of moderation that he donned when in opposition has proven to be a poor fit. In power, the Posh Boy has turned into a regular old member of the nasty Thatcherite party as he gleefully takes an axe to the National Health Service. He, however, has the Liberal Democrats as useful idiots, patsies and fall guys. The Posh Boy may be a malaka but he's no fool.

Cameron's merchants of death tour of the Middle East has made me think of George Bernard Shaw's classic play Major Barbara. The title character joined the Salvation Army as a way of rebelling against her arms merchant father, Andrew Undershaft. It's well worth a read and the next time the 1941 film version pops up on TCM check it out. It features stellar performances by Wendy Hiller as the title character and Robert Morley as her odious albeit witty father who was part of the original MOD Squad. No, not the campy Sixties teevee show, the MOD Squad from Thank You For Smoking: Merchants Of Death. The Posh Boy is now their teaboy...

True Grit

I love the Coen brothers. I even like the movies that other people don't:  I'm a sucker for The Hudsucker Proxy,  a fiend for Barton Fink and even like the unnecessary remake of The Ladykillers; mostly for the black church lady who ranted about hippety hop music. I also love Jeff Bridges and Westerns so True Grit is right up my street.

I usually dislike remakes but this one hews closer to the novel than the original and has Matt Damon as LaBoeuf instead of Glenn (Rhinestone Cowboy) Campbell. (A digression: about 15 years ago we went to a benefit concert in NOLA that was headlined by Little Feat. Allen Toussaint was also on the bill and introduced another artist as a "great humanitarian and one of the greatest Americans ever." It was Glenn (Galveston, oh Galveston) Campbell. I nearly plotzed.)

I enjoyed the Coens rich and dark take on True Grit. Jeff Bridges was a more restrained Rooster Cogburn than John Wayne, pilgrim. Bridges was only half a ham as the drunken lawman whereas the Duke was the whole hog, chitterlings and all. That's show biz for you: put an eyepatch and pot belly on John Wayne and have him play a drunk and he wins an Oscar. It was a fun performance but didn't compare to his work with John Ford or Howard Hawks. Also, having Wayne play an obnoxious drunk was type casting. Give me Ethan Edwards or Tom Dunson any day. 

I like True Grit a lot, it compares favorably with No Country For Old Men. But while I like and respect those films, my heart still belongs to Fargo, Raising Arizona and O Brother Where Are Thou for their antic originality.  Having said that I'd still give True Grit a B+ or 3 1/2 stars.

The King's Speech

Since I work nearly every Sunday, Dr. A and I don't get to the movies as much as we used to. Also, movies for grownups are getting rarer and rarer all the time: the best dramas for people like us have gravitated to cable teevee. Mercifully, it's the holiday season so there are actually several flicks worth checking out. So, we started with The King's Speech.

In a word, this film is great. Yeah, I know that I'm a notorious Anglophile but I'm also a small-r republican so I don't automatically swoon for a story about the British royals. (Dr. A, however, *does* swoon over Colin Firth.) This tale of the stammering Duke of York who became the much loved George VI is a winner. The scenes between Firth and Geoffrey Rush who plays Lionel Logue the King's self-trained speech therapist are pure bliss. Lionel insists that the two men have to be equals so he calls HRH, Bertie. The two bond and the King to be is able to tame his speech defect. The ending is worth the price of admission by itself.

There are several delicious bits of casting. Derek Jacobi, who played one of the most famous stammerers of all time in I, Claudius, plays the pompous Archbishop. Anthony Andrews who has played both the wayward Edward VIII and George VI in the past plays Prime Minister Stanley Baldwin who played a key role in the unmaking of the twitty Edward VIII and the making of the underrated George VI. 

Anyway, if you're in the mood for some quality entertainment or if you just have a crush on Colin Firth or Helena Bonham Carter, check this flick out. I give it an A or 4 stars if you're keeping score.

Blake Edwards, R.I.P.

The director of such film classics as Breakfast At Tiffany's, the Pink Panther series, The Party and Victor/Victoria has died at the age of 88.

I think that The Party is one of the funniest films ever made and seeing it on the big screen as a tadpole was a key moment in the development of my sense of humor. In short, you can blame some of my Sheckiness on Blake Edwards.

Birdie num-num anyone?

 

Leslie Nielsen, R. I.P.

As someone who cut his teeth on the Marx Brothers, Monty Python and the early Mel Brooks films, I'm a big fan of silly absurdist comedy. That's why last weekend's news of the passing of Leslie Nielsen saddened me. There's been a mock debate raging as to which of Nielsen's roles or films were the best. I'm an unabashed Naked Gun/Frank Drebbin fan myself.

Last night on Countdown, Keith Olbermann did an outstanding piece on the passing of the deadpan and irreplaceable Mr. Nielsen:

Visit msnbc.com for breaking news, world news, and news about the economy

 

 

 

Malaka Of The Week: Bryan Fischer

I didn't write a malaka of the week post last week but the malakatude kept rolling. This week's winner is some hairbag I'd never heard of before but Bryan Fischer is a class-A malaka and worthy of this "honor."  This douchebag is the "issues" director of the American Family Association and he's also a guy who puts the ass in association.

While the rest of America celebrated the heroism and humility of Medal of Honor winner Sgt. Salvatore Giunta, Mr. Fischer slammed the selection in a post at his AFA blog:

We have feminized the Medal of Honor. According to Bill McGurn of the Wall Street Journal, every Medal of Honor awarded during these two conflicts has been awarded for saving life. Not one has been awarded for inflicting casualties on the enemy. Not one.

Gen. George Patton once famously said, "The object of war is not to die for your country but to make the other guy die for his." [Note: Patton either said bastard or son of a bitch. He was a cussing General. So, fuck you for misquoting him, Malaka Fischer.]

When we think of heroism in battle, we used the think of our boys storming the beaches of Normandy under withering fire, climbing the cliffs of Pointe do Hoc while enemy soldiers fired straight down on them, and tossing grenades into pill boxes to take out gun emplacements.  That kind of heroism has apparently become passe when it comes to awarding the Medal of Honor. We now award it only for preventing casualties, not for inflicting them.

So the question is this: when are we going to start awarding the Medal of Honor once again for soldiers who kill people and break things so our families can sleep safely at night? I would suggest our culture has become so feminized that we have become squeamish at the thought of the valor that is expressed in killing enemy soldiers through acts of bravery. We know instinctively that we should honor courage, but shy away from honoring courage if it results in the taking of life rather than in just the saving of life. So we find it safe to honor those who throw themselves on a grenade to save their buddies.

I would suggest, sir that you're a buffoon, idiot and, above all else, a malaka. I looked up Fischer's bio and was "shocked" to learn that he's another in a long line of blood thirsty chickenhawks with no military record. It's very easy for an armchair warrior like Fischer to prattle on about the glory of killing when he's never had to aim a weapon at anyone in his life. Neither have I but I have enough sense to know that when soldiers are in the field they're fighting for their own lives and those of their comrades. If someone in your unit is killed, a part of you dies as well.

My father was a World War II veteran. He hated war and refused to discuss his war time experiences. I wish that he had but I know that whatever he went through was so painful that he had no interest in reliving it. He was a conservative Republican BUT hated guns and wouldn't allow one in our house. He was an Army interpreter so I don't know if he ever had to shoot at anyone but he thought war was a horrible thing that should only be waged when all else failed. I guess Malaka Fischer would consider that a sign of creeping feminization. I call it humanity. Of course, the only human life that creeps like him value is in vitro.

I have a pretty good idea of where the Bryan Fischers, Newt Gingriches and Dick Cheneys of the world got their sick and twisted notions about the "glory" of war: John Wayne movies. Guess what guys, John Wayne was a chickenhawk who dodged the draft in World War II and stayed in Hollywood to further his film career. Wayne spent the rest of his life overcompensating for this by being a rabid war lover, which is why his influence on "manly" rightwingers is so ironic. 

The most fascinating thing about Malaka Fischer's attack on Sgt. Giunta is that the latter is everything a hero should be. He's modest, humble and self-sacrificing. He melted my icy blue heart when he said that he'd give up the medal in a heartbeat if he could bring his fallen friends back to life. That's the stuff that real heroes are made of. To extend, and perhaps even strain, the cinematic analogy, Sgt. Giunta reminds me of Gary Cooper as Sgt. York, a soft spoken pacifist turned warrior whose heroism was motivated by the desire to protect his brothers in arms. We need more modest Gary Coopers and fewer strutting John Waynes in the world as well as more men like Salvatore Giunta and fewer malakas like Bryan Fischer.

Southern Beale On Bob Roberts

Since the teabaggers oozed to prominence last year, lots of people have brought up Elia Kazan and Budd Schulberg's brilliant 1957 film A Face In The Crowd. It features Andy Griffith as a folksy right wing con man and proto-Beckian broadcaster, Lonesome Rhodes. It's an analogy so perfect that Keith Olbermann pinned that moniker on Glenn Beck and left it there.

This morning I read a post by regular First Draft commenter Southern Beale that I wish that I'd written. It's about Tim Robbins' 1992 film, Bob Roberts, which eerily foreshadowed the Tea Party movement down to the Revolutionary War gear and use of 1960's New Left techniques in service of wingnuttery. Anyway, it's a must-read post so follow this link.

Smile

Mr. Obvious meets Adrastos' obsession with the Jayhawks. Here's a live version of Smile complete with clips from The Straight Story for some obscure reason. Guess I could have called this post, Gary Louris meets David Lynch:

 

Deep Boardwalk Empire Thought

I'm really getting into Boardwalk Empire. Former Sopranos writer Terence Winter has chosen a large canvas to paint on and they're doing it well thus far. Is it just me or does Nucky's squeeze Lucy Danziger remind anyone else of the character of Susan Alexander Kane in Citizen Kane? They don't look alike BUT their voices are similar and they both have a sarcastic diva quality in common. Also, when the news reel guy tracks the second Mrs, Kane down, she's singing in a dive in Atlantic City. Coincidence or hommage by Terence Winter and executive producer Martin Scorsese?

Nollywood

One of things I love about the internets is discovering things I wouldn't have otherwise heard of. The Guardian is often my go to source for odds and sods (or is that bits and bobs?) of info. For example, I had no idea that Nigeria has a flourishing film industry that's come to be called Nollywood:

Die-hard fans have known for some time that the Nigerian film industry is truly unique, but even they may be surprised to discover just how big – and lucrative – it has become.

A new festival, Nollywood Now, takes place in London from 6-12 October and is the first major event to celebrate the second largest film industry in the world. Its chief aim is to draw wider attention to the success and popularity the films enjoy across Europe, and particularly the UK.

Nollywood makes about 2,400 films per year, putting it ahead of the US, but behind India, according to a Unesco report last year. Nigerian film-makers tend to operate in a fast and furious manner; shoots rarely last longer than two weeks, cheap digital equipment is almost always used and the average budget is about $15,000 (£9,664). The finished products often bypass cinemas altogether and are instead sold directly to the "man on the street" for about $1.50 (£1). Most films shift between 25,000 and 50,000 copies globally – although a blockbuster can easily sell up to 200,000.

So, what exactly is it about the films that resonates so much with their audience? For all of their populist appeal, Nigerian films are very rooted in local concerns, according to Nollywood Now's creative director, Phoenix Fry: "Many of the films have looked at how traditional beliefs co-exist with Islam and Christianity, Nigeria's main religions," he says. "There are some superb sequences using quite simple video effects to transform aunties into demons, or show evil animal spirits being driven out from the possessed."

Tell Me About The Rabbits, George

I have a suggestion for the folks in Hollywood. It's time to remake Of Mice and Men with women cast as Lenny and George. Now she's no Lon Chaney Jr. or John Malkovich, but Christine O'Donnell's been trying out for the part of Lenny for years. Check out some of her zanier comments on stem cell research:

O'Donnell appeared in 2007 on The O'Reilly Factor, to speak out against such research in response to the cloning of some monkeys. Then came her warning on human-mouse hybrids.

"They are -- they are doing that here in the United States. American scientific companies are cross-breeding humans and animals and coming up with mice with fully functioning human brains. So they're already into this experiment."

The mice men are coming; the mice men are coming. This whole thing could explain Mickey, Minnie and Mighty. They all have brains and can speak. Oh wait a minute, they're fictional. Never mind.

Anyone have a casting suggestion for a female winger to play George or is that Georgette? Maybe they should cast against political type and bring in Satan's Botoxed Handmaiden aka Lady Ariana of Huffington. Nah, George is supposed to be nice, which now that I think of it rhymes with mice...

The mice men are coming. The mice men are coming.

Squeak.

As Usual, Genre Fiction Gets Stiffed

During a discussion of the sudden glut of kickass female characters on TV and in movies.

As the commenters point out, nowhere in the original article is there a mention of Starbuck. Nowhere in there, Delenn or Ivanova or River Tam or Zoe, or even Buffy who's usually the one go-to reference for this shit. No mention of Aeryn Friggin Sun, who pretty much wrote the book on this. No mention of Arya Stark, no mention of any one of a dozen comic-book heroines. Because sci-fi and fantasy are supposed to be outliers, or they're not mainstream enough, or the author just doesn't care about anything other than what's on basic cable.

FAIL.

And that's without even getting into the idea that young ladies might think they can defend themselves if they see other women doing it. HORROR:

Is watching U.S. Marshal Annie Frost — of the startling blue eyes and set jaw — take down a fugitive after a helluva battle empowering or delusional, dangerous or inspiring?

Should these images carry a warning — like Cesar Millan's "Dog Whisperer" or Johnny Knoxville's "Jackass" stunt outings? "Ladies, do not try these kick-butt maneuvers in a dark alley faced with a real assailant."

"I'm concerned about teenage girls who go and see 'Salt' or go and see Lisbeth in action and then think they too have that kind of prowess," says Merin, an admitted "dyed-in-the- wool pacifist."

"If young girls are being exposed to kick-ass queens and they think they can do that, there's a danger that they'll just get smushed."

Sigh. Yes, you shouldn't try to do kung-fu if you don't actually know kung-fu, but James Bond has been blowing shit up and jumping his car over his boat over a volcano for like 200 years and I don't see any real concern that it's giving young men unrealistic expectations.

A.

Ripping Yarn Of The Day

I almost called this the story of the day but then y'all would have thought that it was important when it's not.  Besides, Ripping Yarns was a great little British teevee series cooked up by Python's Michael Palin before he originated the genre of travel shows for people who hate travel shows...

Now where the hell was I? Oh yeah, this tale was spun by the legendarily quirky Bill Murray who explained why he did the voice of Garfield and I'm talking about the cat, not the assassinated President:

Murray reveals that he picked up Garfield's script and noted that it was written by one Joel Cohen. Mistakenly believing this to be the celebrated co-architect of dark comedies The Big Lebowski and O Brother, Where Art Thou? (rather than the creator of such gems as Evan Almighty and Daddy Day Camp, whose name has an additional "h"), Murray happily signed up. His mistake only became clear when he turned up to record his voiceover. Sample line: "I think I'm going to blow cat-chow chunks!"

"Finally, I went out to LA to record my lines," Murray tells GQ. "And usually when you're looping a movie, if it takes two days, that's a lot. I don't know if I should even tell this story, because it's kind of mean. What the hell? It's interesting.

"So I worked all day and kept going, 'That's the line? Well, I can't say that'. And you sit there and go, 'What can I say that will make this funny? And make it make sense?' And I worked. I was exhausted, soaked with sweat, and the lines got worse and worse. And I said, 'OK, you better show me the whole rest of the movie, so we can see what we're dealing with'.

"So I sat down and watched the whole thing, and I kept saying, 'Who the hell cut this thing? Who did this? What the fuck was Coen thinking?' And then they explained it to me: it wasn't written by that Joel Coen."

Anyone buying this? Me neither. Why? Murray also did the sequel. But this yarn is much more interesting than saying: "Are you kidding me? I did it for the money."

Of course, Bill Murray could read or even sing the Federal Register and make it sound hilarious:

And Now For Something Completely Different

Tired of all the bad news? I know I am. Here's my prescription: read my friend Kevin Allman's interview with John Waters for the Gambit Tabloid. I particularly enjoyed the bit where Waters 'misremembered' the late NOLA supermarket chain, Schwegmann's as Schmegmann's. It sounds eerily like smegma, which is not a word I use very often. It's rather hard to work into a sentence...

Slumdog Olympiad

In the midst of the unrelenting bad news that began the week, there was one quirky ray of sunshine: film director Danny Boyle may be producing the opening ceremonies for the 2012 London Olympics.

The possibilities are endless: a Bollywood style musical number a la Slumdog Millionaire or my own suggestion; a parade of national zombies a la 28 Days Later, which would be very interesting indeed. There are already voices in the UK wondering if Danny should do it because it's so bloody mainstream but I say go for the, uh, gold...