My 1/2-Ass Movie Blog

 Kris Kristofferson, Ali McGraw, Ernest Borgnine, Madge Sinclair, Franklin Ajaye. Dir. Sam Peckinpah, United Artists, 1978 Among the myriad charges subsequent generations have laid at the feet of Baby Boomers, one I've seldom, if ever, seen is what they did to racial diversity and progress in movies. From 1970 to 1976, blaxploitation pictures pretty much saved Hollywood studios still trying to rebrand and retool after television helped bring an end to the Old Hollywood's studio system. By '76, however, Jaws had established the era of the modern blockbuster, while Martin Scorsese, Francis Ford Coppola, Brian De Palma, Robert Altman, and Peter Bogdonovich pioneered the auteurist New Hollywood of more personal movies, made on the cheap and often covering the same genres as the great B-pictures of Golden Age H'wood, but breathing new life into them with grittier violence, nudity, adult language, and more nuanced characters and stories. The black-themed movies faded from m

 Tye Sheridan, Olivia Cooke, Ben Mendelsohn, Lena Waithe, Simon Pegg, Mark Rylance. Dir. Steven Spielberg, Warner Bros., 2018 A couple years ago, when bots started authoring news stories, I harrumphed quite a bit that "no bot can do what I do," and as I come across clickbait stories which I suspect must be bot-written I feel somewhat reassured but, at heart, my reaction is probably about the same as Paul Bunyan's bluster upon seeing the first chainsaw. I imagine any honest writer must feel a little like the cashier whose register stands beside the self-checkout at Wallyworld, eye to eye with her own obsolescence every day. This is pretty much how it feels to be a middle aged white dude, an analog champion in a digital world. New tech, new values, new standards, new ideas and here I stand, still convinced music videos and Swatches qualify as cutting edge. Shit, I still like compact discs. Whether or not there's value in being a dinosaur in a mammalian paradigm is anot

 Lana Turner, Barry Sullivan, Glynis Johns, Sean Connery. Dir. Lewis Allen, Paramount, 1958 Another Time, Another Place, Sean Connery's screen debut, figures in pop culture for more than just the first James Bond's starting point. In 1974, Roxy Music's Bryan Ferry titled his second solo record the same. I could accept that as coincidental, but Glynis Johns also starred in a British drama titled Flesh&Blood. Which, of course, is the name of Roxy Music's 1980 LP. Two coincidences seems a bit of a stretch. Naming his albums for UK films he may well have known as a boy - Flesh&Blood came out in 1951, Another Time... in '58 - fits with Ferry's sense of style, but the real question is, did Ferry have a thing for Glynis Johns? I'm sure some deep-diving online research could yield a definitive answer, but I find the suggestion tantalising and evocative enough as it is, and I want to talk about the very pleasant surprise I had in Another Time, Another Pla

 Brad Pitt, Morgan Freeman, Kevin Spacey, Gwyneth Paltrow. Dir. David Fincher, New Line, 1995. I'm not a fan of serial killers. They don't interest me, never mind fascinate or enthrall. Given my own history of mental illness, some kinds of abnormal or afflicted psychology interest me, but serial killers and mass murders don't number among them. When I was younger, Satanism did fascinate me. Supernatural evil, as opposed to the more mundane, human kind, had a strong hold on me, which persisted off and on until my 40s. Satanic evil functioned as a philosophical license. I could think violent, toxic, cruel things and tell myself it was all part of advancing Satan's influence.  I actually prayed to Satan every morning and night, offering up my soul in exchange for dominion. Dominion is a fancy euphemism for sexual mastery of women. The world knows no shortage of women turned on my being dominated, and offers no shortage of ways of meeting them. For me, "satanism"

 Robin Williams, Forrest Whitaker, Bruno Kirby, Tung Thanh Tran, JT Walsh. Dir. Barry Levinson, Touchstone, 1987 I used to spend time on a music message board, but usually in the threads devoted to movies and books. I found it impossible to have serious conversations with music fans who divided the world into "rockists" and "poptomists." I'm not good with those binary absolutes. It looks like such weakminded horseshit. Not that it went much better in the nonmusic threads. I remember a discussion about some movie, I forget which, but I remarked that though the movie wasn't a dramatic masterpiece it covered a fascinating swath of recent history and its perspective on that time kept me engaged. "That's very nice," the guy replied, "but no one watches movies for that." Because I'm slow, it took me awhile to realize that the only people he spoke for was himself. He meant, "I don't see movies for that, so I refuse to beli

 Michael Douglas, Val Kilmer, Emily Mortimer, Tom Wilkinson. Dir. Stephen Hopkins, Paramount, 1996 It's a Saturday night. No money, not enough to go out and do something. Friends all have plans. Or maybe it's Sunday afternoon, overcast, chilly, what Douglas Adams called "the long dark teatime of the soul." Or it's 1 a.m. and work ended at midnight but sleep won't be happening soon. What now? Now it's time to flip on the tube, settle back on the sofa, and find something to pass the time. A movie. A masterpiece would be nice, of course, but Saturday nights and anytime after midnight and Sundays when football's on just aren't the times Superstation or your local indie channel program masterpieces. They run Casablanca or The Godfather when they can draw a big audience. On that Saturday in June when 34 broke, lonely people are channel surfing until sleep rescues them, Superstation runs a good-enough movie. A timekiller. Something to hold the atten

 It occurred to me I ought to start posting the movies I've gone out and bought and will be writing up to make things more clear for the hypothetical audience outside of Fb that I don't yet have. I will, though. Minor internet semi-celebrity waits just over the next hill. Crazed fans, book and movie deals, obscene offers from troubled women, merchandising - the world of awesomeness only just eludes my grasp.  Goodwill finished its renovations and the media shelves are back with a vengeance. One stop shopping, the best kind there is. Today, I found: James Bond - DR. NO THUNDERBALL ON HER MAJESTY'S SECRET SERVICE THE MAN WITH THE GOLDEN GUN THE SPY WHO LOVED ME THE LIVING DAYLIGHTS LICENCE TO KILL SKYFALL MISCELLANEOUS - DONNIE DARKO THE GHOST & THE DARKNESS GOOD MORNING, VIETNAM SEVEN (sealed) THE PRICE-LEE HORROR COLLECTION - HOUSE ON HAUNTED HILL LAST MAN ON EARTH THE BAT HORROR EXPRESS COUNT DRACULA & HIS VAMPIRE BRIDE CIRCUS OF FEAR BROK

 Voices of Eva Gabor, Phil Harris, Scatman Crothers, Paul Winchell. Dir. Wolfgang Reitherman, Disney, 1970 Little kids love receiving mail. I've had friends with young children ask if I'll send them mail - a postcard, a greeting card - just because it makes them feel special. I was no different. I suppose it gave me an early sign of individuality, of being a real person apart from my parents and, conversely, of belonging to a larger world. The grownups get mail. If I get mail, it's some small step toward adulthood. Not that I could have articulated that at age five. Then, it was pure novelty, long before life - and my parents - taught me to fear new experiences.  When I was a child, Disney used to release lps of their movies. Not soundtrack albums, these were a condensed version of the film, itself, featuring the actual dialog and sound from each picture. They came as gatefold albums with a full-color booklet attached to their inner spine so a listener could read along with

 Alec Baldwin, Geena Davis, Jeffery Jones, Catherine O'Hara, Winona Ryder, Michael Keaton. Dir. Tim Burton, Geffen/Warners, 1988 About halfway through Tim Burton's 1988 comedy, Beetlejuice, I messaged Our Man in the Valley, Marc Edward Heuck (find his writing at theprojectorhasbeendrinking.blogspot.com and thenewbev.com) and said, "I desperately need you to tell me that Beetlejuice remains funny and imaginative and that I'm just in a bad mood." That was three days ago. He has not replied. His silence deafens. Whatever my old friend thinks of Mr. Burton's 1988 offering, I thought it loud and obnoxious, frantic and silly, and at least borderline offensive. It is not only Mr. Burton's more recent output that leaves me cold. His early films, which I once considered perfect, aren't aging well, either. I think the classic dinner scene, wherein Jeffery Jones, Catherine O'Hara and their guests find themselves possessed, engaging in a lipsynched perfo

 Cher, Eric Stoltz, Sam Elliott, Laura Dern. Dir. Peter Bogdonovich, Universal, 1985 As I've noted, my movie addiction starts with my parents taking me to see Disney's Bedknobs&Broomsticks when I was four years old. I spent the '70s seeing any movie I could, mostly Disney and other kid-friendly fare, peppered by notable exceptions like The Sting, Jaws, and The Outlaw Josey Wales. In the '80s, my teenage and young adult years, I began to see more adult-themed movies and started watching with a somewhat more critical eye. I have since compiled a list of every '80s movie I've seen.  It's a long list. All the usual suspects are on it. The classic '80s fare, the Purple Rains and Red Dawns and Top Guns and so forth predominate. Whenever I go out scavenging, I always keep an eye out for '80s titles I have not seen or have but do not own. I regard the unseen ones as pieces of a picture puzzle I've been filling in for 40 years. Last night, I fitted

Kirsten Dunst, Jason Schwarzman, Judy Davis, Rip Torn, Steve Coogan. Dir. Sophia Coppola, Columbia, 2006  It always feels good to say, in the first couple minutes of a movie, "Hmmm, THIS is interesting." It feels good again when, at about ten minutes, I say, "Well now, what have we here..." If, after 20-30 minutes, my brain's lit up and I keep saying, "Oh my god...Oh look at what they're doing here...Jesus this is fucking brilliant..." as the ideas the filmmaker wants to explore start going off in my head like fireworks, as I start thinking about symbolism and metaphor and how useless "historical accuracy" is within a great narrative, that feels even better.  When, however, a music cue comes up and I only realize I've stopped thinking and let the music and the lighting and cinematography and costuming and the performances merge into a seamless whole as I start to move in my chair and sing along and laugh out loud as my hands wave in

 Diane Keaton, Jack Nicholson, Amanda Peet, Keanu Reeves, Frances McDormand. Dir. Nancy Meyers, Columbia/Warner Bros., 2003 **** Sometimes I have to be old enough for a movie, and not in the sense of needing ID. When I saw Something's Gotta Give in 2004 I was an immature 37. I had never been involved with a woman for longer than six months. I was enrolled in broadcasting school and doing well, though I spent the first three months working overtime to fail, which I saw as my one real talent. I had never held the same job more than ten months. Immature, hell, I was 11. On my best day.  Consequently, Something's Gotta Give could have been a French film without subtitles for all I understood of it. I watched the whole thing, so you'd think I must have laughed or had some kind of reaction that kept me going until the end, but I don't remember doing so. I do remember ejecting it from the dvd player thinking it inexplicable two of my favorite actors would sign on for such a lo

 A not-so-brief explanatory note as to how this blog works: I can't recall a time when movies weren't my passion, my compulsion, my addiction. Ever since my parents took me to see Disney's Bedknobs&Broomsticks, I've been hopeless. Born in 1967, I grew up with free range parents. They took my brother and me to all kinds of movies, often using Hollywood as a babysitter. We saw movies about which many parents today would cluck their tongues (though nothing R-rated until I was 12. My first R-rated movie was MONTY PYTHON'S LIFE OF BRIAN.) Though my parents were professionals and we grew up affluent, our home saw its share of dysfunction. Dad was in the house, but not often present. Mom, stressed and disappointed at discovering her marriage wasn't an equal partnership, took out her frustrations on me.  Without getting too far into the weeds, let me just say my adult life has been far from typical middle class stability. I've never had a career. Never finished