Something I just noticed in watching episodes of "Arrested Development" on DVD: every episode begins with a shot of Jason Bateman's character, Michael, and Ron Howard saying the character's name ("Michael Bluth was..."). It appears to be part of their formula, sort of like ending every episode of "Yes, Minister" with the same two words. Plus it's their way of signalling that Michael is supposed to be the lead character, though this hasn't really worked.
Actually, I think there was one episode that started with Michael's son instead of Michael. It felt wrong somehow.
Friday, October 14, 2005
Yes. No. Right.
I always used to think that the writer Harold Pinter most resembled was not Beckett but Noel Coward. Pinter's famous dialogue, with its clipped phrases and constant suggestion of something deeper beneath the surface (even if we're not really sure what that something is supposed to be), put me in mind of Coward, who did the same thing in all his plays, and even summed up his own method with a line from Tonight at 8:30: "Small talk, a lot of small talk, with other things going on underneath."
However, I note that Pinter never claimed much influence from Coward, though he professed to admire him and even directed Blithe Spirit once -- a production that doesn't sound like it was a barrel of laughs.
Alicublog has an amusing roundup of angry, politicized, generally Philistine reactions to Pinter's Nobel Prize from such Powerline-quoting, art-hating dolts as Roger Kimball. (For the uninitiated, Kimball is like a slightly better-read Mark Steyn.) This is an annual tradition, except for the time V.S. Naipaul won, but it's trickier with Pinter, because the work that made his reputation is not openly political, while his political stuff is not considered by anyone, left or right, to be his best work. Therefore the Kimballs cannot use the usual New Criterion method of critiquing a writer whose politics you don't like, which is to write three pages of plot summary followed by one page of explaining that the work is bad because it is "too political," meaning not political enough in your favored direction. Instead they have to skip or gloss over the work that made the writer's reputation, and say that the work is not even worth discussing because he's written some annoying articles in the last couple of years. Sort of a throwback to those Stalinist critics who used to dismiss writers on the basis of Bourgeois Decadence, only it's now the critics of the political right who want to bring down the left-wing Bourgeoisie.
That said, I'm not the biggest Pinter fan, just as I'm not the biggest Noel Coward fan -- both writers are skilled writers of dialogue whose plays are entertaining but tonally limited. Still, on the theory that an important criterion for the Nobel Prize is influence, Pinter is as good a choice as any, given that his influence on British play writing was largely positive, helping to free it from the extremes of Good Taste on the one hand and kitchen-sink bellowing on the other. Plus one of his plays, Betrayal, inspired a Seinfeld episode. That's Nobel stuff right there.
However, I note that Pinter never claimed much influence from Coward, though he professed to admire him and even directed Blithe Spirit once -- a production that doesn't sound like it was a barrel of laughs.
Alicublog has an amusing roundup of angry, politicized, generally Philistine reactions to Pinter's Nobel Prize from such Powerline-quoting, art-hating dolts as Roger Kimball. (For the uninitiated, Kimball is like a slightly better-read Mark Steyn.) This is an annual tradition, except for the time V.S. Naipaul won, but it's trickier with Pinter, because the work that made his reputation is not openly political, while his political stuff is not considered by anyone, left or right, to be his best work. Therefore the Kimballs cannot use the usual New Criterion method of critiquing a writer whose politics you don't like, which is to write three pages of plot summary followed by one page of explaining that the work is bad because it is "too political," meaning not political enough in your favored direction. Instead they have to skip or gloss over the work that made the writer's reputation, and say that the work is not even worth discussing because he's written some annoying articles in the last couple of years. Sort of a throwback to those Stalinist critics who used to dismiss writers on the basis of Bourgeois Decadence, only it's now the critics of the political right who want to bring down the left-wing Bourgeoisie.
That said, I'm not the biggest Pinter fan, just as I'm not the biggest Noel Coward fan -- both writers are skilled writers of dialogue whose plays are entertaining but tonally limited. Still, on the theory that an important criterion for the Nobel Prize is influence, Pinter is as good a choice as any, given that his influence on British play writing was largely positive, helping to free it from the extremes of Good Taste on the one hand and kitchen-sink bellowing on the other. Plus one of his plays, Betrayal, inspired a Seinfeld episode. That's Nobel stuff right there.
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Cosmo Cwery
Here's a project I think some bored social scientist should undertake: go through the back issues of Cosmopolitan Magazine, catalogue the headlines on every cover, and figure out whether they've ever used the same headline twice.
In some ways, the headlines on the cover of Cosmo, which even the strongest of us are exposed to in every drugstore checkout line, are a tribute to the amazing variety of the English language. Because these headlines have been saying exactly the same thing every month for I don't even want to know how long -- Gawker notes that they used to deal with somewhat more risqué topics, so let's say since the mid-'80s -- and yet they always seem to come up with a slightly new way of wording exactly the same thing.
So this month, the headlines include: "Our new sex position," "How to turn him on without touching," "20 sexifiers," and "Get your guy to give you the attention you crave." Now, I have been standing in drugstore checkout lines for many years, and I know for an absolute fact that every cover of Cosmo promises new sex positions, ways to turn him on (sometimes with touching, sometimes without), and ways to get your guy to give you the attention you crave/want/need/desire/don't get from your mother. And yet I cannot say, definitely, that I have ever seen those things put in precisely those words before. They must have people working 16 hour days trying to come up with new ways of saying "New sex position."
Or maybe not. Maybe they cheat. Maybe they have a secret vault where Helen Gurley Brown kept all her headlines, and every so often they go back to the vault and pull out headlines they've used before, hoping no one will remember. For all I know they're re-using 1985 headlines in 2005, and we're none the wiser because let's face it, who wants to remember anything about 1985? And twenty years from now, they will reach back to 2005 (a time no one will want to remember either), pull up "How to turn him on without touching," and pass it off as new, putting it on the cover next to a movie star trying to be a model.
For shame, Cosmo. For shame.
In some ways, the headlines on the cover of Cosmo, which even the strongest of us are exposed to in every drugstore checkout line, are a tribute to the amazing variety of the English language. Because these headlines have been saying exactly the same thing every month for I don't even want to know how long -- Gawker notes that they used to deal with somewhat more risqué topics, so let's say since the mid-'80s -- and yet they always seem to come up with a slightly new way of wording exactly the same thing.
So this month, the headlines include: "Our new sex position," "How to turn him on without touching," "20 sexifiers," and "Get your guy to give you the attention you crave." Now, I have been standing in drugstore checkout lines for many years, and I know for an absolute fact that every cover of Cosmo promises new sex positions, ways to turn him on (sometimes with touching, sometimes without), and ways to get your guy to give you the attention you crave/want/need/desire/don't get from your mother. And yet I cannot say, definitely, that I have ever seen those things put in precisely those words before. They must have people working 16 hour days trying to come up with new ways of saying "New sex position."
Or maybe not. Maybe they cheat. Maybe they have a secret vault where Helen Gurley Brown kept all her headlines, and every so often they go back to the vault and pull out headlines they've used before, hoping no one will remember. For all I know they're re-using 1985 headlines in 2005, and we're none the wiser because let's face it, who wants to remember anything about 1985? And twenty years from now, they will reach back to 2005 (a time no one will want to remember either), pull up "How to turn him on without touching," and pass it off as new, putting it on the cover next to a movie star trying to be a model.
For shame, Cosmo. For shame.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Give Me a (Commercial) Break
This article gives a good primer on the twin banes of network television today: more ads, forcing the shows to run shorter and shorter, and more act breaks, forcing stories to be broken up into shorter and shorter sections.
The interesting question is whether timings can go any lower. I would be inclined to say that they can't go any lower than the current standard, which is two minutes of content for every one minute of commercial time -- but then, I didn't think they could go much lower than they were a few years ago, either. And it was only a few years ago that shows could have a tag scene during the closing credits (indeed, this was NBC network policy for some years, which is why shows like "Frasier" and "Friends" usually had closing-credits tags); then they started using the closing credits to show promos for upcoming shows. The old joke that they'll just cut out the program and show an hour of commercials is getting to be less and less of a joke every day.
One thing I find odd is that as timings have decreased, shows have become more heavily plotted. Back when a show had 24 minutes of content per half-hour, most shows had very simple plots and no "B" stories. Now that we're down to 20 minutes of content, we have shows with elaborate plots and "B" stories that try to cram everything they possibly can into this very short time.
Creatively, sitcoms are probably hardest hit by the short running times because there is absolutely no time to slow down and let a performer do his or her stuff. (You couldn't have Ed Norton taking all that time to write a letter, because you can no longer afford to waste that much time without getting back to the plot.) The miniscule running times could well be considered a factor in the decline of the sitcom; an extra minute or two of breathing space makes a lot of difference in a half-hour slot. Hourlong shows are somewhat less affected, especially serialized hourlong shows, because there's always the possibility of using something next week if you don't have time for it this week (this applies to serialized half-hour shows like "Arrested Development" as well). Still, an extra minute or two might make a lot of difference in the ability of some shows to get a little more creative and seem less like perpetual-motion plot machines.
The interesting question is whether timings can go any lower. I would be inclined to say that they can't go any lower than the current standard, which is two minutes of content for every one minute of commercial time -- but then, I didn't think they could go much lower than they were a few years ago, either. And it was only a few years ago that shows could have a tag scene during the closing credits (indeed, this was NBC network policy for some years, which is why shows like "Frasier" and "Friends" usually had closing-credits tags); then they started using the closing credits to show promos for upcoming shows. The old joke that they'll just cut out the program and show an hour of commercials is getting to be less and less of a joke every day.
One thing I find odd is that as timings have decreased, shows have become more heavily plotted. Back when a show had 24 minutes of content per half-hour, most shows had very simple plots and no "B" stories. Now that we're down to 20 minutes of content, we have shows with elaborate plots and "B" stories that try to cram everything they possibly can into this very short time.
Creatively, sitcoms are probably hardest hit by the short running times because there is absolutely no time to slow down and let a performer do his or her stuff. (You couldn't have Ed Norton taking all that time to write a letter, because you can no longer afford to waste that much time without getting back to the plot.) The miniscule running times could well be considered a factor in the decline of the sitcom; an extra minute or two of breathing space makes a lot of difference in a half-hour slot. Hourlong shows are somewhat less affected, especially serialized hourlong shows, because there's always the possibility of using something next week if you don't have time for it this week (this applies to serialized half-hour shows like "Arrested Development" as well). Still, an extra minute or two might make a lot of difference in the ability of some shows to get a little more creative and seem less like perpetual-motion plot machines.
Monday, October 10, 2005
I Runne To Death
For those of you who haven't seen Val Lewton's The Seventh Victim, buy or rent it (it's only available as part of the Lewton box set) and watch it before someone spoils the ending for you. For those of you who have watched it, here is the original screenplay, which includes scenes that didn't make it into the finished film. There was, for example, supposed to be an epilogue that would tie up the plot a little more clearly.
I think the movie works better in its final form than it would have with some of the additional scenes, though as with all Lewton's movies, I do wonder what it would have been like if it had been twenty minutes longer and therefore had time to flesh out the plot and the characters. (The Seventh Victim was conceived as an "A" picture and then made as a "B" so that the young Mark Robson could direct it; if it had been made as an "A," it would have been longer and presumably had a better-known cast.) Lewton movies had to be no more than 70 minutes, so most of the scenes are practically in shorthand: they seem to start late and end early, with no room for pauses or any kind of verisimilitude (a scene in an "A" picture will usually start with some small talk to lead into the main conversation; there's no time for that in a "B" picture). The disadvantage of that is that you're left wanting more; the advantage is that there's never a wasted moment, and the clipped, elliptical style of the scenes enhances the nightmare quality of the movies.
Here's the way the best scene in The Seventh Victim -- the scene between Jacqueline, suicidal fugitive from the Satanic cult, and Mimi, a woman dying of a debilitating disease (a reference to La Boheme) plays out in the script, which is almost exactly the same as the filmed version:
The strange, clipped quality of the scenes, along with the fact that many of the plot details are either obscured or unexplained, makes movies like I Walked With a Zombie or Curse of the Cat People or The Seventh Victim seem like art movies -- movies that are more about mood than story.
I previously posted some excerpts from Lewton interviews, in which he talked about his methods ("A love story, three scenes of suggested horror and one of actual violence, fadeout"), here.
I think the movie works better in its final form than it would have with some of the additional scenes, though as with all Lewton's movies, I do wonder what it would have been like if it had been twenty minutes longer and therefore had time to flesh out the plot and the characters. (The Seventh Victim was conceived as an "A" picture and then made as a "B" so that the young Mark Robson could direct it; if it had been made as an "A," it would have been longer and presumably had a better-known cast.) Lewton movies had to be no more than 70 minutes, so most of the scenes are practically in shorthand: they seem to start late and end early, with no room for pauses or any kind of verisimilitude (a scene in an "A" picture will usually start with some small talk to lead into the main conversation; there's no time for that in a "B" picture). The disadvantage of that is that you're left wanting more; the advantage is that there's never a wasted moment, and the clipped, elliptical style of the scenes enhances the nightmare quality of the movies.
Here's the way the best scene in The Seventh Victim -- the scene between Jacqueline, suicidal fugitive from the Satanic cult, and Mimi, a woman dying of a debilitating disease (a reference to La Boheme) plays out in the script, which is almost exactly the same as the filmed version:
INT. UPPER STAIRS - HALLWAY - DANTE - NIGHT
The gas light has been turned down so that there is only a tiny flame to illuminate the hall. The draft in the hallway stirs this little flame and the shadows move with it. Jacqueline comes up the stairs. Now that she can be seen more closely, it can be seen also that she is exhausted, her eyes wild, her hair in disorder. She almost staggers as she reaches the landing and goes slowly supporting herself on the banisters, toward Mary's door. Her way brings her past Room #7, the room with the noose. For a moment she stands weakly staring at the door, then goes on. She has reached Mary's room, has crossed the narrow hallway and her hand is almost on the knob when Mimi's door opens and Mimi, white night—gowned, comes out into the eerie gas light. Jacqueline looks at her face which is distorted and horrible in the moving shadows and flickering light. She stifles a scream. The other girl is also frightened. The two stand staring at each other for a moment.
JACQUELINE
(weakly)
Who are you?
MIMI
I'm Mimi -- I'm dying.
JACQUELINE
No!
MIMI
Yes. It's been quiet, oh ever so
quiet. I hardly move, yet it keeps
coming all the time -—closer and
closer. I rest and rest and yet I
am dying.
JACQUELINE
And you don't want to die. I've
always wanted to die -- always.
MIMI
I'm afraid.
Jacqueline shakes her head.
MIMI (CONT'D)
I'm tired of being afraid -— of
waiting.
JACQUELINE
Why wait?
MIMI
(with sudden
determination)
I'm not going to wait. I'm going
out -- laugh, dance --do all the
things I used to do.
JACQUELINE
And then?
MIMI
I don't know.
JACQUELINE
(very softly end almost
with envy)
You will die.
But Mimi has already turned back into her room. Jacqueline stands watching until the light snaps on in Mimi's room and then the door closing, plunges the hall into weird half light again. In this semi-darkness, she turns away from Mary's door and walks down the hall toward room #7. She opens the door and goes in. For a brief moment the light from the hall casts the shadow of a noose against the further wall of the room and then the door closes behind her.
The strange, clipped quality of the scenes, along with the fact that many of the plot details are either obscured or unexplained, makes movies like I Walked With a Zombie or Curse of the Cat People or The Seventh Victim seem like art movies -- movies that are more about mood than story.
I previously posted some excerpts from Lewton interviews, in which he talked about his methods ("A love story, three scenes of suggested horror and one of actual violence, fadeout"), here.
If Only They Could Have Taken Out Johann and Peewit
"Smurfs used as shock treatment in UNICEF's fundraising drive: Cartoon characters' village bombed in anti-war TV commercial." (Audio-visual links here.)
Personally, while I love a good antiwar scare commercial aimed at kids (I grew up in the '80s when it seemed like there was one of those every week), I think UNICEF may have underestimated the extent to which some of us wouldn't mind seeing the Smurf village get severely shaken up. Though to be fair, in Belgium they might have fonder memories of the Smurfs, having been brought up on the Peyo books rather than the Hanna-Barbera version.
Personally, I think it was Brainy Smurf who bombed the village, in revenge for always getting thrown out on his head.
Personally, while I love a good antiwar scare commercial aimed at kids (I grew up in the '80s when it seemed like there was one of those every week), I think UNICEF may have underestimated the extent to which some of us wouldn't mind seeing the Smurf village get severely shaken up. Though to be fair, in Belgium they might have fonder memories of the Smurfs, having been brought up on the Peyo books rather than the Hanna-Barbera version.
Personally, I think it was Brainy Smurf who bombed the village, in revenge for always getting thrown out on his head.
Magic Genie
I don't know if anyone else has pointed this out, but here's a bit of trivia about "Desperate Housewives" (yes, just what we needed: another bit of "Desperate Housewives" gossip). Apart from creator Marc Cherry, who comes from the same Witt/Thomas/Harris stable that produced the creator of "Arrested Development," most of the writing staff of "Desperate Housewives" comes from a little-watched '90s series on the USA Network called "Weird Science."
"Weird Science" was of course based on the 1985 movie, written and directed by John Hughes and produced by Joel Silver, which is kind of like saying it was directed by Satan and produced by Beelzebub. The show was co-developed for television by Tom Spezialy, who is now executive producer of "Desperate Housewives." The writing staff included Kevin Murphy (best known as the writer of the most successful of the musical versions of "Reefer Madness"), Adam Barr, and Chris Black, all of whom are now writing for "Desperate Housewives." And the head director of "Weird Science" was David Grossman, who... well, you can see where this is going.
"Weird Science" was actually a pretty enjoyable show, much more so than the movie (which was so crass that even Hughes was quoted as saying he thought it was beneath him). The story of two unpopular high school kids who accidentally create a living woman -- with the powers of a genie -- with a computer, it was basically a '90s take on the '60s-style fantasy sitcom, with good special effects, quite decent scripts, and a good cast that included Vanessa Angel (the woman who was originally cast as Xena, Warrior Princess), Lee Tergesen and the son of Bewitched director/producer William Asher, John Asher. The best episode was probably one in which the characters are trapped in a horror movie and have to rely on the Asher character's knowledge of slasher-movie conventions to keep them alive; with lines like "Characters with active sex drives are machete magnets," it pre-dated Scream by several years.
It never did catch on, possibly because its intended audience wasn't clear -- it seemed like a kids' show, but had a time-slot and sex jokes that sort of ruled out much of the kid audience -- but it was one of the more entertaining of the '90s crop of lighthearted fantasy shows (that took advantage of the fact that computers had made it possible to do good special effects on a TV budget), and probably more to my taste than "Desperate Housewives":
The other two things the show had going for it was a good eye for guest stars -- including a pre-Buffy Emma Caulfield, a pre-whatever-the-hell-she-did Denise Richards, and lots of people from "Parker Lewis Can't Lose," where much of the writing and producing staff came from -- and a good ear for language. I still quote the term "Magic genie," which was always used in place of the less redundant but more prosaic "genie."
"Weird Science" was of course based on the 1985 movie, written and directed by John Hughes and produced by Joel Silver, which is kind of like saying it was directed by Satan and produced by Beelzebub. The show was co-developed for television by Tom Spezialy, who is now executive producer of "Desperate Housewives." The writing staff included Kevin Murphy (best known as the writer of the most successful of the musical versions of "Reefer Madness"), Adam Barr, and Chris Black, all of whom are now writing for "Desperate Housewives." And the head director of "Weird Science" was David Grossman, who... well, you can see where this is going.
"Weird Science" was actually a pretty enjoyable show, much more so than the movie (which was so crass that even Hughes was quoted as saying he thought it was beneath him). The story of two unpopular high school kids who accidentally create a living woman -- with the powers of a genie -- with a computer, it was basically a '90s take on the '60s-style fantasy sitcom, with good special effects, quite decent scripts, and a good cast that included Vanessa Angel (the woman who was originally cast as Xena, Warrior Princess), Lee Tergesen and the son of Bewitched director/producer William Asher, John Asher. The best episode was probably one in which the characters are trapped in a horror movie and have to rely on the Asher character's knowledge of slasher-movie conventions to keep them alive; with lines like "Characters with active sex drives are machete magnets," it pre-dated Scream by several years.
It never did catch on, possibly because its intended audience wasn't clear -- it seemed like a kids' show, but had a time-slot and sex jokes that sort of ruled out much of the kid audience -- but it was one of the more entertaining of the '90s crop of lighthearted fantasy shows (that took advantage of the fact that computers had made it possible to do good special effects on a TV budget), and probably more to my taste than "Desperate Housewives":
CHETT [the crazy brother, asked why he has so many guns]: Just exercising my constitutional right to bear arms, Wuss-boy. A man's gotta hunt. You got your semi-automatics for deer, grenades for pond-fishing, and the flame thrower's good for anything that lives down a hole.
LISA [possessed by a computer demon]: I am the living embodiment of all that is evil in the computer world.
GARY: You're Bill Gates?
GARY: Let's do that thing we did to that guy in that place that time.
WYATT: Good plan!
The other two things the show had going for it was a good eye for guest stars -- including a pre-Buffy Emma Caulfield, a pre-whatever-the-hell-she-did Denise Richards, and lots of people from "Parker Lewis Can't Lose," where much of the writing and producing staff came from -- and a good ear for language. I still quote the term "Magic genie," which was always used in place of the less redundant but more prosaic "genie."
Sunday, October 09, 2005
Harper-Ly
Here is an article on the film Harper (1966), with Paul Newman as world-weary private eye Lew Harper, and how it differs from the book it's based on, the Ross MacDonald novel "The Moving Target," about world-weary private eye Lew Archer. (The name was changed for the movie because someone -- either Newman or the someone at the studio -- thought Paul Newman pictures did better when they started with "H.") The article does a good job of summing up the flaws of Harper as an adaptation and as a film.
Harper isn't on DVD yet, but it turns up quite a lot on television, and it's perfect lazy-afternoon TV viewing; it has a lot of familiar faces, it has a mystery that's entertaining without being particularly emotionally engaging, and like a lot of '60s studio productions, it even looks like a '60s TV show, with its flat lighting and generic sets and locations, bad rear projection, the works. It's one of those films that is useful as a sort of snapshot of all the problems that studio movies were having in the mid-'60s. There were still a few stars around -- Newman being one of the biggest and one of the best -- and there was still a pool of good character actors to draw on. But the pool of writers, producers, and directors wasn't anything like what it had been, and so Harper wound up presided over by a director of no particular interest, Jack Smight.
Like a lot of '60s movie directors, Smight had started in series television and been "promoted" to feature films; this could have been seen as the equivalent of the old system of promoting directors from "B" to "A" pictures, except that a director's involvement in the average weekly television show is essentially that of a traffic cop, telling everyone where to move and when. Very few directors of weekly TV series have any real degree of creative involvement. (Note: this is not to disparage good movie directors who came from TV, like Robert Altman and John Frankenheimer; I'm just on a generalization kick here.) When directors like Smight went to features, where a director needs to have more creative input (especially since, by the '60s, creative, auteur producers were already starting to vanish from the scene), they often brought nothing with them except the ability to get along with actors. The result was a string of movies where the actors were happy but no one seemed to be co-ordinating the creative people -- actors, writers, technicians -- toward the same goal. On a weekly TV show, the executive producer performs that task; in a movie, it can be either the producer or the director who does the co-ordinating. The problem with Harper-era Hollywood movies is that there wasn't anybody capable of doing that.
Harper also indicates how the studios were no longer really capable of developing young talent. The film features two actors, Robert Wagner and Pamela Tiffin, who looked like they might be headed for big things; but they're both miscast, unable to play to their strengths. Wagner's self-mocking humor should have made him a big star of romantic comedies, except there weren't any good romantic comedies at the time; in Harper, he can't do what he does best, and when he does get funny, he seems out of character. Pamela Tiffin, one of my favorite lost starlets of the '60s, looks remarkable, but is stuck with a generic part that doesn't make any use of her distinctive, off-the-wall charm. To become a movie star in the '60s, you essentially had to be a strong enough personality to shape your own career, the way Warren Beatty would do the following year by becoming a producer (on Bonnie and Clyde, which helped smash the system of which Harper was a part). Less strong personalities -- genuine talents but talents with limitations, that needed a strong hand to guide them into the right projects -- tended to flounder, the way Wagner and Tiffin do in Harper.
One more thing about the article: it never occurred to me that the end of the film was supposed to be ambiguous about what Harper would do, but I've since talked to other people who interpreted it that way, so there must be something to it. I just thought it was kind of cheesy to end a movie with the words "Aw, hell" and a goofy-looking freeze-frame. But that's the '60s for you.
Harper isn't on DVD yet, but it turns up quite a lot on television, and it's perfect lazy-afternoon TV viewing; it has a lot of familiar faces, it has a mystery that's entertaining without being particularly emotionally engaging, and like a lot of '60s studio productions, it even looks like a '60s TV show, with its flat lighting and generic sets and locations, bad rear projection, the works. It's one of those films that is useful as a sort of snapshot of all the problems that studio movies were having in the mid-'60s. There were still a few stars around -- Newman being one of the biggest and one of the best -- and there was still a pool of good character actors to draw on. But the pool of writers, producers, and directors wasn't anything like what it had been, and so Harper wound up presided over by a director of no particular interest, Jack Smight.
Like a lot of '60s movie directors, Smight had started in series television and been "promoted" to feature films; this could have been seen as the equivalent of the old system of promoting directors from "B" to "A" pictures, except that a director's involvement in the average weekly television show is essentially that of a traffic cop, telling everyone where to move and when. Very few directors of weekly TV series have any real degree of creative involvement. (Note: this is not to disparage good movie directors who came from TV, like Robert Altman and John Frankenheimer; I'm just on a generalization kick here.) When directors like Smight went to features, where a director needs to have more creative input (especially since, by the '60s, creative, auteur producers were already starting to vanish from the scene), they often brought nothing with them except the ability to get along with actors. The result was a string of movies where the actors were happy but no one seemed to be co-ordinating the creative people -- actors, writers, technicians -- toward the same goal. On a weekly TV show, the executive producer performs that task; in a movie, it can be either the producer or the director who does the co-ordinating. The problem with Harper-era Hollywood movies is that there wasn't anybody capable of doing that.
Harper also indicates how the studios were no longer really capable of developing young talent. The film features two actors, Robert Wagner and Pamela Tiffin, who looked like they might be headed for big things; but they're both miscast, unable to play to their strengths. Wagner's self-mocking humor should have made him a big star of romantic comedies, except there weren't any good romantic comedies at the time; in Harper, he can't do what he does best, and when he does get funny, he seems out of character. Pamela Tiffin, one of my favorite lost starlets of the '60s, looks remarkable, but is stuck with a generic part that doesn't make any use of her distinctive, off-the-wall charm. To become a movie star in the '60s, you essentially had to be a strong enough personality to shape your own career, the way Warren Beatty would do the following year by becoming a producer (on Bonnie and Clyde, which helped smash the system of which Harper was a part). Less strong personalities -- genuine talents but talents with limitations, that needed a strong hand to guide them into the right projects -- tended to flounder, the way Wagner and Tiffin do in Harper.
One more thing about the article: it never occurred to me that the end of the film was supposed to be ambiguous about what Harper would do, but I've since talked to other people who interpreted it that way, so there must be something to it. I just thought it was kind of cheesy to end a movie with the words "Aw, hell" and a goofy-looking freeze-frame. But that's the '60s for you.
Lyrics by Harold Rome: "Certain Individuals"
I should do a post -- indeed, someone should write a whole book -- about composer-lyricist Harold Rome, one of the best and least-appreciated of classic-era Broadway songwriters. He did many different types of shows, including big romantic musicals (his career sort of fizzled out over an ill-fated musicalization of Gone With the Wind), but his specialty was writing songs in his own New York Jewish vernacular; whereas other songwriters from the same background, he gravitated to subjects and songs that were directly connected to that background. And few lyricists have ever been as good at writing lyrics that really sound like a rhymed, heightened version of the way people really talk.
The lyrics I want to quote here are from the successful 1952 musical Wish You Were Here, based on Arthur Kober's play about the guests and staff at a Catskills resort. It's most famous as a show that had a swimming pool in the middle of the stage, and a show that became a hit through canny advertising despite almost uniformly negative reviews. The reviews may have had a point about the production, conceived by acclaimed but ham-handed producer/writer/director Joshua Logan. But Rome's score is one of his best, every number a funny, culturally-specific treat. My favorite song in the show is a throwaway, "Certain Individuals," sung by the second female lead and a chorus of women, teasing the heroine for being so obviously in love:
That's good lyric writing: simple yet cleverly rhymed, suggestive of everyday speech without being a carbon copy of it, full of specific images and fresh takes on familiar expressions.
The lyrics I want to quote here are from the successful 1952 musical Wish You Were Here, based on Arthur Kober's play about the guests and staff at a Catskills resort. It's most famous as a show that had a swimming pool in the middle of the stage, and a show that became a hit through canny advertising despite almost uniformly negative reviews. The reviews may have had a point about the production, conceived by acclaimed but ham-handed producer/writer/director Joshua Logan. But Rome's score is one of his best, every number a funny, culturally-specific treat. My favorite song in the show is a throwaway, "Certain Individuals," sung by the second female lead and a chorus of women, teasing the heroine for being so obviously in love:
Certain individuals
Are walking on a rosy cloud,
And certain individuals
Are talking to themselves out loud.
Grinning like a birthday kid
With a brand-new toy,
Looking like Columbus did
When he said "Land ahoy!
(America!)"
Oh, oh, what we know
That we're not telling of,
About certain individuals
Fresh in -- pardon the expression -- love.
Certain individuals
Are feeling like a highness royal,
And certain individuals
Are reeling like they just struck oil.
Shining like a diamond pin
On a diamond chain,
Bubbling like the bubbles in
A glass of two cents plain.
(Or raspberry.)
Oh, oh, what we know
That we're not telling of,
About certain individuals
Fresh in -- pardon the expression -- love.
That's good lyric writing: simple yet cleverly rhymed, suggestive of everyday speech without being a carbon copy of it, full of specific images and fresh takes on familiar expressions.
Saturday, October 08, 2005
Oh, Wolfie!
I see where Tex Avery's "Red Hot Riding Hood" is available for online viewing. Until Warner Home Video gets up the nerve to release a complete Avery set, it'll have to do.
The animation of Red, of course, is among the most famous and most-imitated pieces of animation ever. In this and all her subsequent appearances, Red's dancing was animated by Preston Blair, who came to MGM from Disney, where he had animated on Fantasia. He was proud of the fact that instead of using a live-action model, as Disney usually did when it came time to create an attractive human woman in animation, he made up Red's design and movements from scratch.
The reason Red has been so influential is that she really isn't anything like a human woman in design or construction or movement; in her initial appearance, the design of her face could just as easily lend itself to an animal character rather than a human. She conveys the impression of a sexy human being without ever seeming like a copy of one, and therefore without begging the question of why they didn't just do the dance in live action. One of the big questions of animation, from the beginning right up through so-called 3-D animation (it's all 2-D once it's projected on a screen, sez I), is how to create a character who seems like a realistic human being without seeming like a copy of realistic human beings. Blair solved that problem: he came up with a real-world human who was also surreal and "cartoony."
The other cool thing about Blair's animation of Red is that his Disney training shows through even more strongly than usual in some of her acting, so that she seems like a strictly G.I. version of Snow White, or the Disney princess from Hell. And, after all, taking Disney cartoons and sending them to Hell is a pretty good description of Avery's modus operandi at MGM.
Red was a creature of World War II and the unprecedentedly adult cartoons turned out by studios like MGM, Warners, and even Disney (what do kids make of "Der Fuehrer's Face?") during that period. After the War, cartoons started to place more of an emphasis on chase stories and try/fail blackout gags, probably influenced by the success of MGM's Tom and Jerry. Post-WWII, Avery made one more all-new cartoon featuring Red, "Uncle Tom's Cabana," but with a somewhat more demure Red (though it does feature the single best erection gag in the history of cartoons). Preston Blair left not long after that, but Red's dance from "Swing Shift Cinderella" was re-used in 1949's "Little Rural Riding Hood," the last of his great sex-and-violence combinations (which tops "Cabana" by including a joke where the wolf proves to be, as Seinfeld might say, not master of his domain). After that, sex jokes seemed to go out of Hollywood cartoons for a while, and violence reigned alone for a decade or more.
The animation of Red, of course, is among the most famous and most-imitated pieces of animation ever. In this and all her subsequent appearances, Red's dancing was animated by Preston Blair, who came to MGM from Disney, where he had animated on Fantasia. He was proud of the fact that instead of using a live-action model, as Disney usually did when it came time to create an attractive human woman in animation, he made up Red's design and movements from scratch.
The reason Red has been so influential is that she really isn't anything like a human woman in design or construction or movement; in her initial appearance, the design of her face could just as easily lend itself to an animal character rather than a human. She conveys the impression of a sexy human being without ever seeming like a copy of one, and therefore without begging the question of why they didn't just do the dance in live action. One of the big questions of animation, from the beginning right up through so-called 3-D animation (it's all 2-D once it's projected on a screen, sez I), is how to create a character who seems like a realistic human being without seeming like a copy of realistic human beings. Blair solved that problem: he came up with a real-world human who was also surreal and "cartoony."
The other cool thing about Blair's animation of Red is that his Disney training shows through even more strongly than usual in some of her acting, so that she seems like a strictly G.I. version of Snow White, or the Disney princess from Hell. And, after all, taking Disney cartoons and sending them to Hell is a pretty good description of Avery's modus operandi at MGM.
Red was a creature of World War II and the unprecedentedly adult cartoons turned out by studios like MGM, Warners, and even Disney (what do kids make of "Der Fuehrer's Face?") during that period. After the War, cartoons started to place more of an emphasis on chase stories and try/fail blackout gags, probably influenced by the success of MGM's Tom and Jerry. Post-WWII, Avery made one more all-new cartoon featuring Red, "Uncle Tom's Cabana," but with a somewhat more demure Red (though it does feature the single best erection gag in the history of cartoons). Preston Blair left not long after that, but Red's dance from "Swing Shift Cinderella" was re-used in 1949's "Little Rural Riding Hood," the last of his great sex-and-violence combinations (which tops "Cabana" by including a joke where the wolf proves to be, as Seinfeld might say, not master of his domain). After that, sex jokes seemed to go out of Hollywood cartoons for a while, and violence reigned alone for a decade or more.
Friday, October 07, 2005
Randolph Scott! RANDOLPH SCOTT!!!!
USA Today reports on a Sam Peckinpah Legendary Westerns Collection coming in January 2006, with The Wild Bunch (two discs), Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid (two discs), Ride the High Country, and Peckinpah's own off-the-wall favorite, The Ballad of Cable Hogue:
The current disc of The Wild Bunch was an early release that required you to flip the disc over to see the whole film, so the prospect of a special edition is very pleasing, as is the DVD debut of High Country. (Joel McCrea did an interview for TVOntario's "Saturday Night at the Movies" where, as I recall, he gave a lot of interesting information about this film and his work with Preston Sturges; shame nobody's going to use those interviews on a DVD.)
On the other hand, the principle behind the DVD of Garrett -- which is to restore the film yet again, based on Peckinpah's "notes" of what he wanted the film to be -- sets off alarm bells in my little head. (Hell, I still think Touch of Evil is incomplete without the scenes Orson Welles didn't direct.) But then I've always thought that trying to restore a haphazardly made Western with Bob Dylan in it -- particularly one directed by a erratic man who had one more good movie left in him (Alfredo Garcia) but would soon wind up directing Kris Kristofferson in Convoy -- is kind of a lost cause. (Or as Joe Queenan put it: "Under pressure from French Peckinpah enthusiasts and other masochists, the film was re-released in its original thirty-seven-week form.") The Wild Bunch is a great movie because it combines the new freedom and amorality of 1969 Hollywood with Peckinpah's surprisingly Old Hollywood sensibility when it comes to characterization, themes, and the look of the film (it's so Old Hollywood in its look that it even uses dissolves between scenes). Pat Garrett, made only a few years later, required Peckinpah to try and seem more hep to the young people, and the movie is dragged down by that. Still, all four films are worth having.
And justifying my post title, not only is High Country coming, but the first Budd Boetticher/Randolph Scott Western, Seven Men From Now, has been Officially announced.
Commentaries accompany Garrett and the other [three] films... Several documentaries detail the life of Peckinpah, who died in 1984 at age 59. "He was an almost mythic figure among directors," [George] Feltenstein says. "Our collection represents him really at the height of his skill."
The current disc of The Wild Bunch was an early release that required you to flip the disc over to see the whole film, so the prospect of a special edition is very pleasing, as is the DVD debut of High Country. (Joel McCrea did an interview for TVOntario's "Saturday Night at the Movies" where, as I recall, he gave a lot of interesting information about this film and his work with Preston Sturges; shame nobody's going to use those interviews on a DVD.)
On the other hand, the principle behind the DVD of Garrett -- which is to restore the film yet again, based on Peckinpah's "notes" of what he wanted the film to be -- sets off alarm bells in my little head. (Hell, I still think Touch of Evil is incomplete without the scenes Orson Welles didn't direct.) But then I've always thought that trying to restore a haphazardly made Western with Bob Dylan in it -- particularly one directed by a erratic man who had one more good movie left in him (Alfredo Garcia) but would soon wind up directing Kris Kristofferson in Convoy -- is kind of a lost cause. (Or as Joe Queenan put it: "Under pressure from French Peckinpah enthusiasts and other masochists, the film was re-released in its original thirty-seven-week form.") The Wild Bunch is a great movie because it combines the new freedom and amorality of 1969 Hollywood with Peckinpah's surprisingly Old Hollywood sensibility when it comes to characterization, themes, and the look of the film (it's so Old Hollywood in its look that it even uses dissolves between scenes). Pat Garrett, made only a few years later, required Peckinpah to try and seem more hep to the young people, and the movie is dragged down by that. Still, all four films are worth having.
And justifying my post title, not only is High Country coming, but the first Budd Boetticher/Randolph Scott Western, Seven Men From Now, has been Officially announced.
Moore-ings
In case you were wondering, "The Mary Tyler Moore Show: The Complete Third Season" is on its way this coming January, so the complete series seems likely to come out on DVD.
Watching the long-delayed second season, I was surprised how little it improved over the somewhat disappointing first season -- in fact, it may have hd even fewer real standout episodes than the first (which at least had the brilliant pilot and the first Nancy Walker episode). Really, if "Mary Tyler Moore" had gone off the air after two seasons, it would look like a weak cousin of "The Dick Van Dyke Show," and not nearly as good a short-term creation as "He and She" (also from creator Allan Burns).
Of course it didn't go off the air after two seasons, and its reputation is largely built on the episodes from seasons 3 to 7 -- in other words, season 3 is where it gets good. As to why it got good, it's a combination of things ranging from the arrival of writer Ed. Weinberger (nobody knows what that period stands for) to the relegation of Mary to a less prominent role on her own show, so that the supporting characters finally got to take over and lead their own stories (this was the season where Ted got his regular girlfriend, Georgette, and where Phyllis thought Rhoda was making time with her brother -- leading to a famous punchline). Moore was in many ways the weakest link on her show, and building more stories around the conflicts and problems of the supporting characters made for more interesting stories than Mary's That-Girl-Goes-To-Minneapolis adventures usually could. Although the third season does offer probably the best Mary-centric episode, "Put on a Happy Face," a catalogue of everything that can possibly go wrong for a person before attending an important event, culminating in Mary's awards acceptance speech: "I usually look so much better than this...."
Watching the long-delayed second season, I was surprised how little it improved over the somewhat disappointing first season -- in fact, it may have hd even fewer real standout episodes than the first (which at least had the brilliant pilot and the first Nancy Walker episode). Really, if "Mary Tyler Moore" had gone off the air after two seasons, it would look like a weak cousin of "The Dick Van Dyke Show," and not nearly as good a short-term creation as "He and She" (also from creator Allan Burns).
Of course it didn't go off the air after two seasons, and its reputation is largely built on the episodes from seasons 3 to 7 -- in other words, season 3 is where it gets good. As to why it got good, it's a combination of things ranging from the arrival of writer Ed. Weinberger (nobody knows what that period stands for) to the relegation of Mary to a less prominent role on her own show, so that the supporting characters finally got to take over and lead their own stories (this was the season where Ted got his regular girlfriend, Georgette, and where Phyllis thought Rhoda was making time with her brother -- leading to a famous punchline). Moore was in many ways the weakest link on her show, and building more stories around the conflicts and problems of the supporting characters made for more interesting stories than Mary's That-Girl-Goes-To-Minneapolis adventures usually could. Although the third season does offer probably the best Mary-centric episode, "Put on a Happy Face," a catalogue of everything that can possibly go wrong for a person before attending an important event, culminating in Mary's awards acceptance speech: "I usually look so much better than this...."
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Camp Classic
Mark Evanier has a good post here on Hamilton Camp, the comedic actor and singer who died recently.
Camp was a member of the improv comedy troupe The Committee, one of the most influential comedy groups of the '60s and one that produced a roster of talent comparable to Second City (with whom Camp also performed). Members of The Committee did a lot of sitcom work in the late '60s and early '70s, and helped to inject some edge into what had become a somewhat staid, by-the-book era of TV comedy performance. Camp, with his nervous energy and strange grimaces, livened up the otherwise stolid first season of "Mary Tyler Moore" when he guest-starred in an episode as Mary's latest and shortest date. The part itself wasn't anything special; Camp made it seem special by playing the guy as if he were seething with barely concealed fury at the proximity of the irritatingly perfect Mary.
Of course Camp was also part of probably the best ensemble cast of the '60s, that of "He and She" (along with Paula Prentiss, Richard Benjamin, and Jack Cassidy as "Jet Man"), the original sitcom that was just too good and too smart to succeed, a one-season wonder as treasurable as any Judd Apatow show and considerably cooler than "Firefly." (Where's the DVD?)
Some Committee members, like Peter Bonerz found a home on "The Bob Newhart Show," and in the late '70s, former Committee members started to appear with increasing regularity on "WKRP In Cincinnati," whose creator, Hugh Wilson, also corralled a bunch of Second City people to write for the show, and sort of anticipated the late '90s vogue for improv comics on sitcoms. (Actually, Wilson said in 1979 that his dream was to do a sitcom without scripts, just a scenario and a cast of talented improvisors who could make the whole thing up as they went along; this concept, which he never actually put into practice, anticipated "Curb Your Enthusiasm" by over twenty years.) Howard Hesseman was a regular member of the cast, and guest stars over the years included Larry Hankin (shown with Hesseman and the future writer of the movie Jaws, Carl Gottlieb), Ruth Silveira (in an episode that also guest-starred Camp) and Julie Payne in a memorable turn as Hesseman's pill-popping ex-girlfriend ("When will I ever learn to listen to my psychic????").
Anyway, what all that is leading up to is that one of Camp's most memorable TV appearances was in an early "WKRP" called "Hold-Up". The episode is almost all Camp, Hesseman, and a third Committee guy, Garry Goodrow (it's so focused on the guests that Loni Anderson doesn't even appear in the whole episode). Camp, as Del Murdock, a stereo store owner even more sleazy and desperate to make a sale than Herb Tarlek, was handed the showiest role, and he ate it for lunch, knocked it out of the park, and any other metaphor you care to mix. How much of his rapid-fire, nearly-insane sales-pitch dialogue was scripted and how much he made up, I don't know; I do know that words on the page can't do justice to his delivery, or the expert way he uses broad movements (pointing, tilting his body back) to punctuate the lines. But here's his first speech in the episode:
Until "WKRP" goes back into circulation, or until "He and She" gets released to the public again, you're mostly going to have to take people's word about how good Camp was. But he was very, very good.
Camp was a member of the improv comedy troupe The Committee, one of the most influential comedy groups of the '60s and one that produced a roster of talent comparable to Second City (with whom Camp also performed). Members of The Committee did a lot of sitcom work in the late '60s and early '70s, and helped to inject some edge into what had become a somewhat staid, by-the-book era of TV comedy performance. Camp, with his nervous energy and strange grimaces, livened up the otherwise stolid first season of "Mary Tyler Moore" when he guest-starred in an episode as Mary's latest and shortest date. The part itself wasn't anything special; Camp made it seem special by playing the guy as if he were seething with barely concealed fury at the proximity of the irritatingly perfect Mary.
Of course Camp was also part of probably the best ensemble cast of the '60s, that of "He and She" (along with Paula Prentiss, Richard Benjamin, and Jack Cassidy as "Jet Man"), the original sitcom that was just too good and too smart to succeed, a one-season wonder as treasurable as any Judd Apatow show and considerably cooler than "Firefly." (Where's the DVD?)
Some Committee members, like Peter Bonerz found a home on "The Bob Newhart Show," and in the late '70s, former Committee members started to appear with increasing regularity on "WKRP In Cincinnati," whose creator, Hugh Wilson, also corralled a bunch of Second City people to write for the show, and sort of anticipated the late '90s vogue for improv comics on sitcoms. (Actually, Wilson said in 1979 that his dream was to do a sitcom without scripts, just a scenario and a cast of talented improvisors who could make the whole thing up as they went along; this concept, which he never actually put into practice, anticipated "Curb Your Enthusiasm" by over twenty years.) Howard Hesseman was a regular member of the cast, and guest stars over the years included Larry Hankin (shown with Hesseman and the future writer of the movie Jaws, Carl Gottlieb), Ruth Silveira (in an episode that also guest-starred Camp) and Julie Payne in a memorable turn as Hesseman's pill-popping ex-girlfriend ("When will I ever learn to listen to my psychic????").
Anyway, what all that is leading up to is that one of Camp's most memorable TV appearances was in an early "WKRP" called "Hold-Up". The episode is almost all Camp, Hesseman, and a third Committee guy, Garry Goodrow (it's so focused on the guests that Loni Anderson doesn't even appear in the whole episode). Camp, as Del Murdock, a stereo store owner even more sleazy and desperate to make a sale than Herb Tarlek, was handed the showiest role, and he ate it for lunch, knocked it out of the park, and any other metaphor you care to mix. How much of his rapid-fire, nearly-insane sales-pitch dialogue was scripted and how much he made up, I don't know; I do know that words on the page can't do justice to his delivery, or the expert way he uses broad movements (pointing, tilting his body back) to punctuate the lines. But here's his first speech in the episode:
Hah? Hah? Did you ever see such a selection in your life? Wait a minute, I know exactly what you're going to say. "Can Del Murdock, personable owner of Del's Stereo and Sound, set me up with the exact stereo system I need?" Well, let's take a look at you: Busy executive on the go, your belt matches your shoes, but there's a hole in your life. Well, let's fill that hole with sound!
Until "WKRP" goes back into circulation, or until "He and She" gets released to the public again, you're mostly going to have to take people's word about how good Camp was. But he was very, very good.
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
Noir-Iffic
Finally, after untold public-domain releases, Fritz Lang's Scarlet Street is getting a proper DVD release (scroll down), with an audio commentary by David Kalat.
As a remake of Jean Renoir's The Bitch (why do English-speaking critics insist on writing its title in French?), Scarlet Street is not only one of the seminal films noirs, but it provides an interesting case study in what happens when one great filmmaker remakes another's work. As you might expect from the filmmakers and the eras in which the movies were made, Lang's take on the material is quite a bit more mean-spirited.
As a remake of Jean Renoir's The Bitch (why do English-speaking critics insist on writing its title in French?), Scarlet Street is not only one of the seminal films noirs, but it provides an interesting case study in what happens when one great filmmaker remakes another's work. As you might expect from the filmmakers and the eras in which the movies were made, Lang's take on the material is quite a bit more mean-spirited.
Monday, October 03, 2005
Scoreless Movies
The DVD release date of King Kong gets nearer, and while we're waiting, I'll note that perhaps the movie's greatest contribution to the art of cinema was not its special effects (groundbreaking though they were, they didn't immediately inspire a lot of similar effects) but its re-popularization of music in movies.
When talking pictures came in, perhaps the worst artistic decision made by most producers -- not only in America, but worldwide -- was to release films with no background scores. Most early sound movies have music over the opening titles, and source music (like the record playing "I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles" in The Public Enemy), and maybe the occasional instrumentalist on the soundtrack (like the ensemble in Boudu Saved From Drowning), but no specially-composed, fully-orchestrated music accompanying the action.
The thinking was, I take it, that the purpose of music was to accompany scenes that didn't have any sound; if you have sound, you don't need music. It was a misguided notion. Many early sound films are severely hobbled by the lack of music; Frankenstein and Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde are two great movies that really cry out for music at key points.
Max Steiner and his big score for King Kong helped to change all that and really show how much a talking picture could benefit from a new, specially-composed score. Not that there hadn't been any talking pictures with musical scores -- Lubitsch's Trouble in Paradise uses a lot of background music, composed in a style very similar to a score that might have accompanied a silent film -- but they were one-offs and flukes. It was Steiner, I think, who proved that talking pictures needed music as much as silent pictures did. From that point on, most dramatic movies had musical scores. Comedies still often went unscored (Bringing Up Baby has no musical score, nor does the serio-comic The Rules of the Game), but by the '40s, every movie had a composer. Since then, there have been only three types of movies without background music: movies that make a special effect out of the absence of a score (Robert Wise's The Set-Up; all but the last minute of The Asphalt Jungle); movies that use pop songs instead of a score (Goodfellas); and post-1961 movies by Ingmar Bergman, whose dislike of musical scores is just one of the many things that annoy me about him.
I'm not even a huge fan of Steiner's music -- like Alfred Newman, he was a fine musician but a very unsubtle composer. But Steiner, more than anyone, re-established the profession of film composition at a time when most producers seemed to think it wasn't necessary. So to a certain extent we can thank Mr. Steiner, and Mr. Kong, for Korngold and Auric and Raksin and Delerue and various people named Bernstein and several hundred people named Newman.
When talking pictures came in, perhaps the worst artistic decision made by most producers -- not only in America, but worldwide -- was to release films with no background scores. Most early sound movies have music over the opening titles, and source music (like the record playing "I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles" in The Public Enemy), and maybe the occasional instrumentalist on the soundtrack (like the ensemble in Boudu Saved From Drowning), but no specially-composed, fully-orchestrated music accompanying the action.
The thinking was, I take it, that the purpose of music was to accompany scenes that didn't have any sound; if you have sound, you don't need music. It was a misguided notion. Many early sound films are severely hobbled by the lack of music; Frankenstein and Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde are two great movies that really cry out for music at key points.
Max Steiner and his big score for King Kong helped to change all that and really show how much a talking picture could benefit from a new, specially-composed score. Not that there hadn't been any talking pictures with musical scores -- Lubitsch's Trouble in Paradise uses a lot of background music, composed in a style very similar to a score that might have accompanied a silent film -- but they were one-offs and flukes. It was Steiner, I think, who proved that talking pictures needed music as much as silent pictures did. From that point on, most dramatic movies had musical scores. Comedies still often went unscored (Bringing Up Baby has no musical score, nor does the serio-comic The Rules of the Game), but by the '40s, every movie had a composer. Since then, there have been only three types of movies without background music: movies that make a special effect out of the absence of a score (Robert Wise's The Set-Up; all but the last minute of The Asphalt Jungle); movies that use pop songs instead of a score (Goodfellas); and post-1961 movies by Ingmar Bergman, whose dislike of musical scores is just one of the many things that annoy me about him.
I'm not even a huge fan of Steiner's music -- like Alfred Newman, he was a fine musician but a very unsubtle composer. But Steiner, more than anyone, re-established the profession of film composition at a time when most producers seemed to think it wasn't necessary. So to a certain extent we can thank Mr. Steiner, and Mr. Kong, for Korngold and Auric and Raksin and Delerue and various people named Bernstein and several hundred people named Newman.
Sunday, October 02, 2005
Look Out For Mister Storch
Ivan G. Shreve has some thoughts on "F Troop" and a forthcoming DVD sampler of the show.
My favorite joke about "F Troop," and about a stock-in-trade of '60s comedy, was on an episode of "Freakazoid!", where Freakazoid confronts a villain who can capture anyone who says his name out loud:
My favorite joke about "F Troop," and about a stock-in-trade of '60s comedy, was on an episode of "Freakazoid!", where Freakazoid confronts a villain who can capture anyone who says his name out loud:
Why I Hate the Wild Card
Exhibit A.
I am not as young as I'd like to be, but I'm still semi-young, and yet I'm old enough to remember a time when two teams would actually compete for first place, one team would clinch first place on the next-to-last day of the season, and then the other team wouldn't get into the playoffs by finishing second.
This is the number-one reason why I don't have the interest in baseball I used to. The most enjoyable thing about baseball was always watching teams go down to the proverbial wire, and knowing that teams had the ultimate incentive to beat each other: if you don't finish first, you don't win. That was where all the competition, all the suspense came from, the fact that you could have the second-best record in the league and still lose if you came in second in your division (or, before 1969, second in the league). Where's the suspense if a good second-place team can reap all the rewards of a winner just by finishing second?
If you think about it, the Red Sox for the last two years have been exactly what they were in the '40s -- the perennial second-place team. Except that now it doesn't hurt them at all, and they can actually win the freakin' World Series by finishing second. I hate the Yankees, but I hate the idea of second-place "champions" even more.
And you know another thing I don't like? Them Ipods! Music warn't meant to be computerized. Now, in my day...
I am not as young as I'd like to be, but I'm still semi-young, and yet I'm old enough to remember a time when two teams would actually compete for first place, one team would clinch first place on the next-to-last day of the season, and then the other team wouldn't get into the playoffs by finishing second.
This is the number-one reason why I don't have the interest in baseball I used to. The most enjoyable thing about baseball was always watching teams go down to the proverbial wire, and knowing that teams had the ultimate incentive to beat each other: if you don't finish first, you don't win. That was where all the competition, all the suspense came from, the fact that you could have the second-best record in the league and still lose if you came in second in your division (or, before 1969, second in the league). Where's the suspense if a good second-place team can reap all the rewards of a winner just by finishing second?
If you think about it, the Red Sox for the last two years have been exactly what they were in the '40s -- the perennial second-place team. Except that now it doesn't hurt them at all, and they can actually win the freakin' World Series by finishing second. I hate the Yankees, but I hate the idea of second-place "champions" even more.
And you know another thing I don't like? Them Ipods! Music warn't meant to be computerized. Now, in my day...
There's Always a Little One
My favorite recurring cartoon gag of all time is the one Sarah calls "There's Always a Little One." It's the gag where you see a whole bunch of identical creatures or things running across the screen and out of the shot, and then, after a slight pause, a smaller version of those creatures or things runs across the screen and out of the shot.
Examples that come to mind are mostly from Warner Brothers cartoons: the end of "Scaredy Cat" (a bunch of identical mice, followed by a much smaller mouse); the end of "Ready... Set... Zoom!" where the Coyote, disguised as a Road Runner, is pursued by a bunch of identical coyotes followed by a little Coyote; "Coal Black and de Sebben Dwarves", with six dwarves in jeeps followed by the Dopey takeoff in a smaller jeep marked "Peep," and "Bugs Bunny Rides Again" (a bunch of bullets followed by a lone bullet). There's also an episode of "The Simpsons," "Itchy and Scratchy Land," where a violent cartoon-themed amusement park features a parade of axes followed by "a cute little baby ax."
There must be others, though. Anybody else remember this gag, and can anybody name some other cartoons that use it?
Examples that come to mind are mostly from Warner Brothers cartoons: the end of "Scaredy Cat" (a bunch of identical mice, followed by a much smaller mouse); the end of "Ready... Set... Zoom!" where the Coyote, disguised as a Road Runner, is pursued by a bunch of identical coyotes followed by a little Coyote; "Coal Black and de Sebben Dwarves", with six dwarves in jeeps followed by the Dopey takeoff in a smaller jeep marked "Peep," and "Bugs Bunny Rides Again" (a bunch of bullets followed by a lone bullet). There's also an episode of "The Simpsons," "Itchy and Scratchy Land," where a violent cartoon-themed amusement park features a parade of axes followed by "a cute little baby ax."
There must be others, though. Anybody else remember this gag, and can anybody name some other cartoons that use it?
Best Comment Ever
My infamous "Why I Hate Family Guy" post still gets some comments, even a year after I posted it. One comment, posted today, may be my favorite yet. Some excerpts:
I just got PWNED. Well, not PWNED, more like EENTED. Or maybe VORROWED.
With all honesty i understand your points and i also must put out there that, you're opinion means nothing to the viewers or the people who hate it with you...
If Family Guy is poorly done, then why was it returned to air? Obviously that's not the case. So i will give you advice: 1. Grow up 2. Shut up, no one gives a rats ass what you have to say 3. Stop watching it if it bugs you so much. 4. Read a book instead of watching T.V. ; why spend all your time in front of a box? 5. Go outside and run or something 6. Stop being mad because it seems to me you are jewish and they pick on jews alot so get over that everyone will hate you until the end of time simple as that!
I just got PWNED. Well, not PWNED, more like EENTED. Or maybe VORROWED.
Friday, September 30, 2005
Egad
The world's top ten favorite songs, as chosen by a poll of 700,000 people.
Aside from the innate hideousness of the list, do you notice how depressing these songs are, cumulatively? The lesson you take away from this list is that there is no heaven, that she had to go (why, I don't know -- she wouldn't say), that you have no lover and no son, that you've had your share of sand kicked in your face, and that if you did have a lover, he or she would be toxic.
Sad, in so many ways.
(Via Bill Crider.)
Aside from the innate hideousness of the list, do you notice how depressing these songs are, cumulatively? The lesson you take away from this list is that there is no heaven, that she had to go (why, I don't know -- she wouldn't say), that you have no lover and no son, that you've had your share of sand kicked in your face, and that if you did have a lover, he or she would be toxic.
Sad, in so many ways.
(Via Bill Crider.)
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