Men in drag (comically) are passe; I realize this. No need to tell me. But ever since I’ve finished reading “Michael Palin’s Diaries 1969-1979: The Python Years” I can’t help but go through my daily life realizing the comedic possibilities of the absurd. To be honest the absurd seed was probably planted the first time I watched the movie “Hard Day’s Night” back in the day, or was it night, I can’t remember which. Ever since then I’ve found the cartoonish in reality to be my favorite cup of tea. And I thank the Beatles and Richard Lester for helping me appreciate the likes of the Marx Brothers, Buster Keaton, and Mel Brooks. Absurdity is fully realized in “Monty Python’s Flying Circus” which I know everyone and their dog has heard of/seen er whatever and if you’ve been around me after a few beers within the last 8 months you’ve probably been subjected to some sort of weird Graham Chapman trivia. ANYWAY, Michael Palin goes a little bit unnoticed out of the above mentioned group but a trained eye will soon spot him as a frightfully amazing comedic actor. After reading MP’s diaries that span fron ‘69 to ‘79 over a period of 5 months I feel I know that man’s life better that he does. Obviously untrue, it still feels a bit strange to know his bowel habit’s inside and out (so to speak) alongside his oppressively particularized opinion of Thomas Hardy. It was a very illuminating book (written in real time as things like the moon landing were happening) and I would recommend it to anyone who is into Michael Palin and diaries. But seriously, a winning combination. Volume 2, “Halfway to Hollywood”, just came out recently… in the United Kingdom and can be yours for only thirty american dollars… if you know the right places to look.

Raoul Walsh’s 1915 film Regeneration is often acclaimed as one of the first gangster films, but these aren’t really gangsters modern audiences would be familiar with. The gang Owen (John McCann) leads are more of a mob of Lower East Side plug uglies than true sports. They wear floppy caps and the working clothes of the docks and congregate in a basement called the Chicory Hall, where the thugs are as likely to be found sleeping on the bare dirt floor as playing cards.

In films like The Roaring Twenties (1939), Walsh would deal in a more glamorous look at the criminal sort. But in Regeneration the emphasis is squarely on squalor. Orphaned at a young age, Owen is raised by abusive foster parents and eventually takes to the streets. As a teenager, he proves to be tasty with his fists. Soon he’s running with a crowd of petty crooks engaged in minor shakedowns and pickpocketing.

His life is changed when he meets Marie (Anna Q. Nilsson), a society dame who takes to social work at a neighborhood “settlement” after Owen saves her slumming pals from some working class rowdies. The hoodlum comes good, first when he saves a group of children from a burning steamboat—a direct reference to the PS General Slocum disaster of 1891. (The film is based on a memoir by Owen Frawley Kildare that later became a stage play.) Then Owen rescues a baby from its warring parents.

Walsh presents alcoholism, homelessness, wife-beating and drunken rages with a dispassionate eye, even while tweaking his audience’s voyeuristic desire to get a peek at the wild side with a one-eyed villain and criminals appearing at peepholes. He saves his moralizing for a moment when Marie literally calls up a vision of Hebraic script to warn Owen against pulverizing a rival. The location filming is populated with a rich gang of grotesques that include a hunchbacked dwarf, a man with a cauliflowered nose, a one-armed doorman, obese freaks and surreal imagery like goldfish swimming in one man’s glass of beer.

Walsh’s narrative control and flair for action is also evident even in this early film, his second according to Thomson’s Biographical Dictionary of Film. He uses the parallel editing of his mentor D.W. Griffith to compare the moneyed soirees of Marie’s family with the populist entertainers at a downtown theatre, and the film concludes with a daring escape from the by way of a washing line stretched between tenements. Although film noir wouldn’t arrive for a few decades, Walsh associates shadows with the underworld. There’s a thrilling moment when the silhouette of a gallows appears on a wall behind a gang leader. Walsh also uses fades to contrast the young Owen eating an ice cream with the older Owen drinking from a bucket of beer.

Walsh began as he meant to go on, fast and furious. As the elder Owen, McCann has some of the depraved sensuality of a young Marlon Brando, although he convincingly comes around for the finale demanded by the title. The Swedish-born model Nilsson—at one point dubbed “The Most Beautiful Woman in America”—would later turn up as one of Gloria Swanson’s “waxworks” in Sunset Boulevard (1950). Walsh adapted Regeneration with Carl Harbaugh, whose name would later appear on the credits for Steamboat Bill Jr. (1928), whose star Buster Keaton was himself destined for a place at Swanson’s bridge table.

The great Buster Keaton and Charlie Chaplin for your viewing enjoyment.

No estaba muy segura de hacerlo pero al final, una es madrugadora y ansiosa. Recuperé la bolsa del Gimnasio, me puse cómoda y baje los 6 pisos dando saltitos a lo Flash Dance.

Recordé cuando de pequeña veía la película Flash Dance en el Video Beta. Me encantaba la escena final. Jennifer Beals superandose a si misma. Bailando de manera espectacular delante de los  profesores y jurados. De pequeña soñaba en ser bailarina, actriz, abogada, forense… Lo que no sabía es que lo que me gustaba realmente eran los personajes de la tele o del cine. !  Como recuerdo el what a feeling y la profesora aplaudiendo!… Ahora entiendo que estas escenas son reflejos de la vida adulta. La gran superación. La superación de hechos que te dan miedo pero que tu  y solo tu, eres capaz de afrontar.

Pruebas. Atreverte a hacer cosas sola  y por primera vez. A luchar por una meta. A ser fuerte. !Superación personal! De pequeña sólo quería aprender la coreografía para la fiesta de fin de curso y ya está. La superación vendría con el tiempo.

Hoy hace un día tonto. Gris. Domingo a las 11:00 a.m. Nadie por la calle. Decido dar tumbos y subir por la plaza de la Vila de Gràcia ( antigua Rius i Taulet). Que barrio más bonito. ¿Porque no vine antes?, me pregunto. Hay dos ancianos sentados en un banco y dibujan algo en el suelo con el bastón. Los niños de ayer  dibujaron  figuras con tiza delante del ayuntamiento. El padre compra el periódico. Y él, llega de fiesta y se va a dormir.

Llego al gimnasio y entro. Toalla, taquilla, bañador…

Recibo sms de una amiga que me invita a desayunar en la plaza de la virreina. Le contesto: soy  la nueva Carrie Bradshaw y ya estoy en el gimnasio. Ella se sorprende de mi momento gym, pero estoy segura que apoya mi nueva vida. Y lo ha demostrado. Y estoy contenta que me ayude. Y mucho.

Nado. Como los perros, pero nado.  Voy por el carril llamado: especial- lento. De vez en cuando hago  el muerto. Mi abuelo me enseñó a hacer el muerto  un día en la playa. Hace ya mil años. El vigilante -monitor de la piscina tiene cara de resaca…maldice trabajar los festivos. Le entiendo. Le salpico sin querer y al ver su cara. Me sumergo y cambio al carril rápido…

No hay más que 3 personas. Lo bueno de los domingos me digo a mi misma. Sin gafas y consigo meterme en  la  Sauna. Me gusta la Sauna. El olor a la madera y lo lisa que te queda la piel. Hay un momento que te cuesta respirar y sabes que tienes que salir pero al mismo tiempo estás tan relajado. Busco gafas y  me ducho. Me apunto a Pilates. Hace mil años que no intentaba hacer llegar a la punta de los dedos… El profe ha querido acabar con la vida de las 10 Antonias ( señoras que podrían ser mi madre) y Yo. Únicas locas que un Domingo queremos estirar nuestro cuerpo…

Solo recuerdo: gritos de algunas compañeras. Yo aguantaba en silencio y de vez en cuando miraba al espejo y me veía. Roja, pequeña y poco flexible…

Mi primera clase de Pilates, pienso… la próxima dominarás más el arte de apretar los glúteos y mírarte el ombligo, de estirar la espalda vertebra por vertebra, de dejar las piernas flotando…si flotando al aire mientras apretas el ombligo, notas como tus costillas se alejan de la cadera, haces círculos con tus glúteos, respiras y expiras…, ombros atrás, busca tu centro, busca tu centro…manos presionando el suelo!

He creído morir. Y con dolor, he pensado que Derek Zoolander estaría orgulloso de mí. He pensado, lo cómica, que era la situación. Yo, por primera vez y sin una amiga en la clase de Pilates. Atrevida, con dolor y trabajando el abdómen. Roja, temblando, notando las costillas y mirándome al ombligo. El profesor, cogiendome la pierna y gritando: ¡así  aguanta, muy bien , no duele no duele!…

Duele. Y un poco. Pero en aquel preciso momento me vinieron a la cabeza escenas  de comedia. Y me puse a reír mentalmente. Sobretodo, porque seguía escuchando alaridos de dolor de algunas compañeras de la sala.

Y pensé en :

Buster Keaton, Slapstick, Zoolander,  Charles Chaplin, Ben  Stiller, Young Frankenstein, Monty Phyton, Zoolander, Some like it hot,  There’s Something About Mary, the Young Ones, La Vida de Brian, Flight of the Conchords, Bored to Death…

Pensé en el sentido de humor, en  reírme hasta caer del sofa y llorar.

Aquellos que me conocen reconocen mi risa. La boca bien abierta, tono alto y tiro la cabeza hacia atrás. Y a reír, reír, reír. Fuerte, fuerte, fuerte. Esa soy yo. La que de todo hago un chiste. La que digo tonterias. La que repite las frases de La vida de Brian de los Monty Phyton y no para de reír recordando el momento lapidación. La que adora a Ben Stiller. La que llora con Ben Stiller. La que pasa you tubes de Ben Stiller a sus amigas y se descojona. La que ama a Ben Stiller. La que querría Casarse con Ben Stiller. Esta soy yo. La que hace un chiste de algo tonto que le ha pasado por el camino. La que hace sitcoms de comedia  en cualquier momento.

La vida es cómica. Y no olvideís de dar las gracias por ello.

My Twitter-based collaborative comic, “TWIPS,” is featured in the weekly Friday Extra entertainment section of The Tampa Tribune in Tampa, Florida.

The example below, which was based on a Twitter post from @busterkeaton (Rich Ernst), appeared in print on Nov. 20, 2009.

Complete Web archive of “TWIPS” comics here.

When I first learned about Sherlock Jr. (1924, viewable here), my expectations weren’t that high. I knew little about Buster Keaton, and still wondered how anyone could challenge Chaplin’s mastery of silent pathos and comedy. (Little did I know then that Keaton and Chaplin aren’t comparable so much in form or content, but in the levels of innovation they brought to their work.) The idea of a projectionist entering into a film seemed appealing enough, but nothing too radical. Then I finally saw the film, let it stew around my head, saw it again, and again, and realized that it’s a work of concentrated comic perfection.

I grant that Sherlock Jr. doesn’t quite have the well-developed, back-and-forth narrative of The General, which sustains Keaton’s audacious acrobatics for longer and to greater purpose, but I still feel it’s probably the best showcase for his talents. Buster Keaton’s trademark stunts put every other example of choreographed mayhem to shame; they’re comparable to Busby Berkeley’s dance routines of the ’30s in their uniqueness, surreal logic, and aestheticization of human physicality, but they substitute hilarity for eroticism. And nowhere in Keaton’s body of work are they crammed together as effectively and syllogistically as in Sherlock Jr., where the entire film unfolds like the best-constructed line of dominoes in film history.

The plot’s pretty simple: Keaton plays his usual nameless, stolid sad sack character, trying to win a girl’s love. He works as a projectionist, but aspires to be a detective (hence the title). However, through a series of unfortuitous clues, his scuzzy rival frames him for the theft of a watch, and he retires to the projection booth, defeated. While the girl discovers his innocence, he daydreams himself into the film-within-a-film, and a parallel secondary story takes place. Eventually he awakes, and finds the girl has realized her mistake, leading to one of Keaton’s great, ironic happy endings.

Within this framework, Keaton unleashes his bottomless bag of tricks – bottomless because his resources are the physical laws of the universe. Anyone can take a fall, but Keaton takes falls that defy our beliefs and expectations. He also roots his physical comedy in a romantic plot filled with its own pitfalls, whether they’re jokes at the expense of his protagonist, the girl, her idle rich father, or the rival, who’s depicted as a mustache-twirling cad.

I view the romances in Keaton’s films as somewhat cynical, as flat and unsentimental as the look on his face. In this film, for example, the girl seems willing to be bought off with fancy gifts, and a similar love-for-sale ethic pervades his earlier film Three Ages, which sees competition for mates – and the subsequent mating – as a constant of human nature. Maybe an argument could be made that the romantic urges of his protagonists are as obligatory as their obedience to gravity; after all, romances are omnipresent in his films, but they’re never really dwelled upon for their own sakes. It’s one more curious aspect of his filmography that shows how different he was, and how much he enjoyed sticking a little satirical thorn into the side of formula.

But really, the subtly offbeat romance is just the springboard off which Keaton launches all kinds of verbal, visual, and situational humor: his attempt to scrounge up a few dollars in the movie theater’s rubbish pile, and later his investigation into the watch’s disappearance, when his ultraliteral interpretation of a guidebook’s injunction to “Shadow your man closely” leads to a sequence of prolonged absurdity. This scene, in which Keaton tails his rival very closely, lets him toy with our perception of film, and question whether they’re seeing it in two or three dimensions. (He returns to this trick with even greater effect during the film’s climactic chase.) It also justifies some of his beloved train-based physical comedy (again, see The General).

This segment constitutes a good demonstration of Keaton’s prowess at staging and executing barely believable chains of cause and effect, yet in reality, it’s just a precursor to the meat of the film, which takes place in its protagonist’s imagination. As he projects himself into a stereotypical Perils of Pauline-esque silent melodrama, Keaton engages in some meta-cinematic playfulness; it doesn’t really have a spot in the film’s narrative, but it’s so cleverly staged that it ceases to matter. It rewrites the film’s ground rules: henceforth, this is not a normal comedy. Things will work the way Buster wants them to.

The protagonist takes up his place as “the crime-crushing criminologist – SHERLOCK JR.,” idealizing himself as suave and authoritative, effortlessly outsmarting a villainous pair of pearl thieves. After a pool game that riffs on the very concept of suspense, the film cuts to the next morning, and the remainder is pretty much one long, brilliant, loving exercise in concrete physics. This is the substance of Buster’s greatness, whether we’re talking about this film, or his other masterpieces like The General or Cops: his ability as a filmmaker to construct ridiculous master plans that would make Rube Goldberg balk, and then as an actor to endure them without flinching.

Watching the last third of Sherlock Jr. is both totally enjoyable on visceral and intellectual levels: you’re overwhelmed both by what you see happening, and by any attempt to fully process it, leading inevitably to the question, “How did he do that?” Ashley and I (and anyone else we’ve asked about it) are still completely baffled by a scene in which Keaton appears to leap through his assistant, into a wall. Sources suggest it’s accomplished via something called a “vampire trap” (from its use in a play version of Polidori’s The Vampire), but this doesn’t explain anything.

Kubrick once said that “if it can be written, or thought, it can be filmed”; I’m not sure where Buster Keaton falls on that spectrum. I’m not sure whether his art is closer to trompe l’oeil painting, or to poetry, or to architecture. He’s a beautiful anomaly. The chase scene in Sherlock Jr. seems to espouse a belief in overarching fate, in Newtonian determinism, in the happy conjunction of man’s actions and the physical laws. In the amusement of the gods, to whom we are “like flies to wanton boys,” as Shakespeare’s Gloucester would put it.

I’m not sure which of these viewpoints Keaton would actually agree with, but some blind faith must be in his unexpressive face as he careens along on the handlebars of a motorcycle without a driver – some willingness to leap before he looks. He injured himself countless times, risked life and limb, put himself in severe physical jeopardy in order to produce visual art with the power to make us laugh. To me, that’s saintly – putting yourself on the chopping block to benefit the rest of humanity.

When I watch the climax to Sherlock Jr., my mind keeps coming back to geometry: the circles, the lines, the angles that come together so flawlessly to yield these movements, where Buster is just one little piece in a huge, dynamic system. His influence has been felt everywhere in physical comedy (perhaps most resonantly in Roadrunner and Coyote), but never equaled. He just had his peerless skill, precision, and the bravura necessary to pull it all off. I’ve seen Sherlock Jr. several times (after all, it’s less than an hour long), and I hope to see it many, many more. With its ageless humor, tightly-packed inventiveness, and near-perfect execution, Sherlock Jr. is one of my favorite movies.

This coming Monday (23rd Nov) City organist Steve Tovey returns to Light House to provide the music and sounds for two of Buster Keaton’s silent masterpieces., Seven Chances and Sherlock Jr.

This is the first screening of these two films here at Light House and we’re really looking forward to them as all proceeds will be going to the Mayor’s charities:

• Compton Hospice
• The Haven Wolverhampton
• The Neuro-Rehab unit (NRU), West Park Rehabilitation Hospital, Wolverhampton City NHS Primary Care Trust

The screening is due to start at 7pm, and normal ticket prices of £5 full price and £3.80 a concession will apply.

Seven Chances (U)

Dir: Buster Keaton, USA, 1924, 45mins

In Seven Chances, Buster gets word that if he can be married by seven o’clock that evening, he will inherit $7 million. When his sweetheart refuses, he proposes to everyone in skirts, including a Scotsman! Hopeful still, he advertises for a bride and is horrified to discover five hundred would-be brides hot on his trail in a hilarious chase to the finish.

With Buster Keaton, Ruth Dwyer, Ray Barnes.

Sherlock Jr (U)

Dir: Buster Keaton, USA, 1925, 58mins

Sherlock Jr sees Keaton playing a movie projectionist who daydreams himself into the movies he is showing and merges with the figures and the backgrounds on the screen. Dreaming he is Conan Doyle’s master detective, he snoops out brilliant discoveries.

With Buster Keaton, Kathryn McGuire, Ward Crane and Joseph Keaton.

]]> http://moviehead.wordpress.com/2009/11/18/nosferatu-av-f-w-murnau-1922/ Wed, 18 Nov 2009 18:24:40 +0000 moviehead http://moviehead.wordpress.com/2009/11/18/nosferatu-av-f-w-murnau-1922/

NOSFERATU av F. W. Murnau (1922)
Originaltitel: Nosferatu, eine Symphonie des Grauens
Med Max Schreck, Gustav von Wangenheim, Greta Schröder, Alexander Granach, John Gottowt, Georg H. Schnell, Ruth Landshoff, Max Nemetz, Wolfgang Heinz, Fanny Schreck

SPOILERVARNING

Det är ingen idé att hymla.

Det här är en av filmhistoriens milstolpar, men det är ingen vidare film och som tysk expressionism betraktad är den vida underlägsen föregångare som Dr. Caligaris kabinett och efterföljare som den vidunderliga Metropolis. Fast det här är den första filmatiseringen av Bram Stokers roman Dracula, även om namnen på grund av att man inte fick rättigheterna är ändrade – så till exempel är vampyren greve Orlock, inte greve Dracula, och staden han anländer till heter Wisborg, inte Bremen. Och så vidare. (Fast i versionen med engelskspråkiga textskyltar stämmer namnen med romanen, eftersom filmen i USA inte längre är upphovsrättsskyddad och man därför bytt ut textskyltarna.)

Minnet spelade mig ett spratt. Det är oherrans många år sedan jag såg Nosferatu senast och de suggestiva, expressionistiska scener jag mindes – och som då och då dyker upp på stillbilder i anslutning till artiklar om filmen – visar sig med få undantag vara beklämmande taffliga och att man köpt in vampyrmasken på den dåtida, tyska motsvarigheten till Butterick’s är närmast plågsamt uppenbart.

Det här är en sak jag inte förstår: varför stolpar greve Orlock runt på ben som är så stela att de förefaller sakna knän och varför håller han armarna pinnstelt utsträckta framför sig när han stolpar runt och varför stolpar han runt så långsamt att ett barn med lätthet skulle kunna promenera ifrån honom? Det här är ju annars den klassiska gångstil som Frankensteins monster gjort vida känd i den långa rad sekunda B-filmer som följde på versionen från 1931, men han var alltså inte först. Här har vi det omkringstolpande originalet, stelare än en fura. Vilket förbryllar, eftersom greve Orlock skulle ha varit ohyggligt mycket fasansfullare om han i stället rört sig med samma pilsnabba vighet som de många råttor som i filmen strömmar ur hans olika likkistor och mycket tydligt symboliserar hans väsen (liksom den hyena som förbluffande nog springer runt i Karpaterna och skrämmer slag på hästar och som man kan misstänka är greve Orlock själv i tillfälligt förvandlat skick).

Det här är en annan sak jag inte förstår: varför dör greve Orlock i gryningsljuset i slutet av filmen när han utan vidare spisning vid ankomsten till Wisborg promenerar runt på gator och torg i fullt dagsljus som vilken turist som helst, undantagandes att han bär på en likkista full med jord, och letar efter huset han köpt? Och helt bortsett från självmotsägelsen, blir det inte löjligt när en blek, råttlik vampyr klampar runt på stadens gator med en likkista bokstavtligt talat under armen?

Det här är en tredje sak jag inte förstår: så fort vampyren är i närheten öppnar sig alla dörrar av sig själva. Må så vara. Men är det verkligen grusligt fortfarande tionde gången det händer … eller ens femte? Och är det verkligen läskigt när vampyren tar stela furan-konceptet fullt ut och fullkomligt spikrak och orörlig höjer sig ur kistan som om han vore ett lock som fälls upp? Varför gör han det…? Känns inte allt detta väldigt camp och finns det inte scener i samtida skräckfilmer som får en att tycka att det borde ha känts camp redan då, 1922?

Det höggradigt teatraliska skådespeleriet i Nosferatu hör förstås tidsandan till, men är icke desto mindre så våldsamt överdrivet att det blir självparodiskt. Skådespelarnas metod under stumfilmseran var denna, ja – man spelade som på teatern (där man ju måste synas till de bakersta bänkraderna), för det var i stort sett det enda sätt att skådespela på som man kände till under filmens första årtionden om man inte hette Louise Brooks och revolutionerade vita dukens skådespelarkonst. Hette man inte Louise Brooks spelade man med kvarnvingssnurrande armar, fotbollsrullande ögon, gapflabb och sprattlande ben. Men det hindrar inte att det fanns skådespelare som gjorde stor konst av den här skådespelarstilen – Buster Keaton, Gloria Swanson, Charles Chaplin, för att nämna några få – men till dem hör alldeles solklart inte den under Nosferatus första tjugofem minuter omotiverat gapskrattande Gustav von Wangenheim eller för den delen hans dramadrottningsstirrande och dito åmande fästmö Greta Schröder. Och Max Schreck (som alltså spelar vampyren) har ju redan nämnts, även om man får ge en eloge för hans i sammanhanget lyckade efternamn.

Jag hade inte kunnat föreställa mig att jag skulle skriva så här om Nosferatu, som jag tidigare högaktat och sett som den främsta av vampyrfilmer tillsammans med Roman Polanskis Dance of the Vampires (The Fearless Vampire Killers).

Och det är förstås någonstans synd att jag nu sett om Nosferatu efter så många år bara för att få en omhuldad illusion krossad.

Kör hårt,
Bellis

Brilliant. Time to talk about our Ten lists once more, so settle in for the long haul and try and keep up. Much discussion ensues as Sam tries to extol the virtues of Ingmar Bergman, praise the magical realism of Billy Liar and attempt to make sense of All About Lily Chou-Chou. John continues the theme, causing slight, though understandable, consternation with his uncensored views on Raging Bull and confessions of multiple tears during Schindler’s List. Tom rounds the night off in business-like fashion with praise for The 400 Blows, controversial dislike for the second half of Stalker and man-crushed love for Le Samourai.

Download The Movie Overdose Episode 40.5

Remember to email us, sugarplums!

Have you ever considered writing a picture book biography?

I’ll be honest. I never did.

My perception of bio writing was that it was snooze-worthy, the stuff read by droning teachers in echoing classrooms. Don’t ask me where I got that impression, although it might have to do with Doc Shapiro’s U.S. History class circa 1986.

Then, at the recommendation of Kelly Fineman, I read Mermaid Queen: The Spectacular True Story of Annette Kellerman, Who Swam Her Way to Fame, Fortune & Swimsuit History!

Wowza. Have you seen this book? The splashy, colorful illustrations grabbed me, but it’s the story that kept me turning the pages. And it’s not about some über-famous woman, either. I had never even heard of Annette Kellerman until I read this book.

Kellerman invented water ballet, introduced the idea of the female athlete to the masses, and became the first woman to attempt swimming across the English Channel. She designed the modern swimsuit, freeing women from their heavy woolen garb.

Shana Corey’s mermaid tale proves that picture book biographies can be imaginative and fun, and they don’t have to be about a president to make a splash. (Yeah, I used that pun twice. Sorry. It’s day 15. Stick with me here.)

Catherine Brighton’s Keep Your Eye on the Kid focuses on the early years of Buster Keaton.

Did you know Harry Houdini gave Buster his name after watching baby Keaton tumble down the stairs? (“Gee, that was some buster the kid took!”) His parents had a touring act and would throw him across the stage every night. These unusual details, told in Buster’s voice, toss you into the story. The sentences are crisp and tight, and Brighton doesn’t dwell on the demanding reality of Buster’s touring lifestyle. She keeps it fun and lighthearted, with illustrations that mimic an old comic book. And the cover? You’ll fall head over heels for it. [Insert corny laugh track.]

Coretta Scott by is a lyrical biography by Ntozake Shange, illustrated with bold paintings by Kadir Nelson.

It doesn’t begin “I was born on April 27, 1927” and thank goodness for that. Instead the first page reads, “some southern mornings/the moon/sits like an orange/sliver by the treetops.” There’s a simple, glorious painting of the glowing sliver above a silhouette of trees, the sky wide open. Yet the next page introduces the reality of segregation. Coretta and her siblings “walked all/of five miles to/the nearest colored school/in the darkness/with the dew dampening/their feet.” The rest of the story sings, as Coretta meets Martin Luther King, Jr., marries, and helps lead the Civil Rights Movement.

These three books represent the best of picture book biographies, telling a story with style rather than bogging it down in facts. This is not your history teacher’s non-fiction. No siree.

Today for PiBoIdMo, do research. Read picture book biographies. Which ones sing to you?

Is there a figure in history who fascinates you? What has been written about that person? Are there picture book biographies or texts for older children? How can you tell that person’s story in 32 pages, in a way that’s suitable for young children? Which details would you keep? Which would you toss? Would you tell the story in verse or prose?

So, how’s it going today?

Il treno ha un’ora di ritardo, qualcuno lì intorno bestemmia e si agita, la disperazione affiora dalla terra come un tubero sradicato. Tu mantieni una flemma rassegnata all’impossibilità di controllare gli eventi. Gli eventi si vivono e basta, ripeti fra te e te.
Questo è il paese dove sei nato e hai vissuto una buona porzione della tua vita. Ogni odore, ogni suono e qualsiasi cosa entri nel tuo campo visivo evoca o spezza un ricordo. Le cose non sono cambiate molto, solo la superficie è stata lentamente rimodellata.
Entri in un bar, il bar dove avevi speso le ore piovose e buona parte di quelle soleggiate della tua adolescenza. Da anni non metti piede là dentro. La gestione è cambiata, evidentemente, ma il biliardo è sempre là, i grossi neon che illuminano il panno verde sono sempre quelli, i gessetti blu da strofinare sull’apice della stecca sono sempre nello stesso posto, come se in tutto quel tempo fossero rimasti cristallizzati. Due tizi più giovani di te stanno giocando, così ti siedi e li guardi. Stanno giocando a “mezze e piene”, quel gioco che si fa con quindici palle. Le regole sono piuttosto facili: in base alla prima palla che entra in buca ad un giocatore si assegnano le “mezze” e all’altro le “piene”, tutte le piene salvo la nera, la numero otto, che tutti e due i giocatori devono conservare per ultima (pena la sconfitta). La palla numero otto deve essere sbattuta nella stessa buca nella quale è entrata la propria ultima mezza o piena, oppure nella opposta, è una cosa che deve essere concordata prima.
I due tizi non sono molto bravi, saresti in grado di batterli agevolmente. Resti ipnotizzato ad osservarli, mentre l’uragano dei ricordi ti travolge.
Ordini un toast, come ai vecchi tempi.

Le parole sono importanti, a questo pensavi ieri prima di addormentarti. Alle parole bisogna assegnare un grado di urgenza, di necessità. Incastri lettere tra dendriti ed assoni seguendo l’andamento del respiro, il pulsare del cuore, il gorgoglio dell’intestino. Passi ore della tua vita a sceglierle, le parole, perché non vuoi utilizzare quelle che vendono all’ingrosso del linguaggio.
Uno dei due tizi sta per colpire la palla numero tredici, che è una “mezza” come tutte quelle che seguono la otto. Un colpo semplice semplice, la palla delicatamente si avvia verso la buca, resta per un attimo sospesa sopra il panno, congelata. La palla numero tredici significa un paio di cose per te. Prima che avessi visto il film di Buster Keaton ne significava solo una.

Anche la gestualità del corpo ha la sua importanza. Questo lo hai imparato nel sonno, qualche mese fa, immerso in un sogno in bianco e nero. Tu, Buster Keaton e un tavolo da biliardo. Movimenti sinuosi, di una delicatezza inarginabile, le palle che accarezzano il panno. Buster ti stava tenendo testa, nel sogno, ma questo non sembrava importare a nessuno dei due. L’importante era non maltrattare l’armonia di quel momento con inutili parole o violentando le palline. Non hai mai sopportato quelli che tirano forte, affidandosi alla speranza che la palla caramboli in buca seguendo geometrie casuali ed improbabili. Giocando ci si dovrebbe misurare con la tecnica, con l’espressione della propria personalità, con l’intuizione. Le stantuffate dilaniano la fantasia. Non hai mai sopportato neppure quelli che chiacchierano con insistenza durante una partita, quelli che non sanno vivere il silenzio, lasciare che questo si spezzi solo al cozzare delle bilie. Tra te e Buster Keaton in quel sogno c’era quella complicità che solo l’incrociarsi di due sguardi è in grado di rendere palpabile.

La ballerina che danza su una lastra di vetro e i bambini che saltallano in due inquadrature successive di Entr’acte di René Claire, un esempio lampante di suggestione visiva e di associazione libera dalle consequenzialità. Pura narrazione, primordiale, libera da cause ed effetti, dalle catene di logiche dicotomiche che passano al torchio i sentimenti. C’è solo la sontuosità dei gesti a fare da collante.
Vorresti riuscire a scrivere così, associando le cose che vedi in un tessuto di enunciati, usando le sensazioni come punteggiatura.
La palla numero tredici riprende a rotolare sul panno, nel lento viaggio verso la buca, poi la caduta come un tuffo metallico, gli ingranaggi che posizionano la pallina nella zona di stallo, in attesa della prossima partita.

Era una giornata di quelle piovose, anche se il crepitio era coperto dal suono della televisione, che era domenica e c’era il campionato di calcio. La partita era quasi vinta e toccava a te, rimanevano la palla tredici e, logicamente, la otto da imbucare. La otto sarebbe dovuta finire nella stessa buca della tredici. La tredici era facile, quasi dritta per dritta, da piazzare nella buca centrale. Tutti si aspettavano un tiro del genere. Il problema consisteva nel fatto che la numero otto era vicina alla buca in angolo, e sarebbe stato assai complicato riuscire a farla entrare in quella centrale. Colpendo di striscio la tredici e imbucandola nell’angolo la partita sarebbe finita, ma quello era un colpo che richiedeva un certo grado di follia. Decidesti di rischiare quel tiro, dopo averci pensato un paio di minuti,  due minuti quasi integralmente passati ad ingessare la stecca. Andò bene. Ti aspettavi di essere attraversato da una grande gioia, per questo, e invece la tristezza ti distrusse. Il pensiero che questo fosse il massimo che sapevi ottenere dalla tua vita ti fece gettare la stecca a terra, impulsivamente, e correre via di lì, dimenticando l’ombrello nel portaombrelli. Arrivasti a casa fradicio di pioggia e di lacrime.

Il toast è bruciacchiato come piace a te.
Alla fine della strada c’era quella scarpata, hai frenato con tutte le tue forze ma alla fine sei rotolato giù, come la palla numero tredici verso la buca in angolo. Poi aspettavi di risalire e giocare un’altra partita, ma eri così sporco e nessuno voleva tenderti la mano. Così sei rimasto nella zona di stallo ad aspettare. Passarono mesi prima che una persona riuscisse a guardare dietro la terra, le ferite ancora aperte e quelle cicatrizzate. A lanciarti un abbraccio di salvataggio, là sotto.

]]> http://videodromeradio.wordpress.com/2009/11/09/11809/ Mon, 09 Nov 2009 08:40:31 +0000 Hank http://videodromeradio.wordpress.com/2009/11/09/11809/

Click here to listen to the show.

On tonight’s show:

- Stingray Sam (2009)

- The Men Who Stare At Goats (2009)

- A Videodrome Public Service Announcement: Avoid The Gout!

- Interesting Death of the Week with B.K.: Art D’Lugoff – owner of The Village Gate; Sheldon Dorf – San Diego Comic Con founder

- A discussion: The Sharks shut out the stupid Penguins!

- Atari’s classic arcade games (like Lunar Lander above) are available online here!

- Tonight’s score: “The General Suite” from Buster Keaton’s The General

The Kitten Whisperer in the Kitten Chronicles

My Dad was escorted out by my mom, relatives and plenty of angels at about 4:05 a.m. this morning. It was very peaceful as in one minute he was breathing, the next minute he was not. He slipped into a coma at about 8:30 pm last night.

Nightly, Dad always announced his homecoming to humans, dogs, cats (the horses in the distant barn) – well really, any being that was listening by saying: “the meal ticket is home”. It was the heartwarming funny of the house. Well, the meal ticket is home.

Both my parents were big animal lovers and we were fortunate to have them all around us. I am fortunate now to have this very silly/sweet entertainment.

Even though life has changed dramatically on this end, I am keeping my plans for teaching in Florida – see you there!!

www.joanranquet.com.

Do you have a friend that you like to pick on?  Maybe it’s your sibling and you make fun of them constantly when they are or aren’t in the room?  Maybe it’s that co-worker that you rag about or even your parents?  Then do you also know that feeling when someone else starts to rail on this person?  How you will immediately disclaim everything this person is saying even if you’ve said yourself recently.  Somehow it’s okay when you do it but when anyone else does it, it’s time to shut ‘er down.

That’s what I’m guessing lots of people will think of this Buster Keaton biography.  If you have a soft spot in your heart for Buster like many Keaton fans, it’s always hard to hear that this guy was not perfect.  He wasn’t maybe the most learned of stars.  He was possibly a little inwardly focused.  Well, Marion Meade pulls no punches with our beloved comic.  He’s not a sacred cow to her.  He is just a freakishly talented individual.  Only after his death was he considered to challenge Charlie Chaplin’s supremacy as the king of comedic silent movies.  Meade gives us a look at how Buster lived his life before the acclaim and during the time he lived partially in Chaplin’s shadow.

This is a quick read.  It’s got a lot of juicy information about early Hollywood.  Meade wrote a wonderful biography about Dorothy Parker where she offered the same treatment: lots of detail and lots of personality.  Biographers can throw facts at you about a person all day long or psychoanalyze their subject until you decide the book would make a better doorstop.  As with the Parker book, Meade does a great job of balancing both.

You learn a bunch about Buster’s three wives and his time at MGM.  In the other bio I read about Keaton these sections were barely touched.  This is maybe because his second wife, Mae, was a horror.  His time at MGM is honestly a bit painful to read about as it signals the beginning of an artistically void span of Keaton’s life.

There is a sense of melancholy reading about Keaton.  You learn that he was used as a glorified medicine ball by his father in early vaudeville, thrown around the stage for comic effect.  The first wives are different kinds of crazy and both leave Keaton mystified and disappointed.  Watching anyone go through the letdowns stacked up on Keaton, artistically and personally, is tough.  This isn’t a very happy book.  Still I’d recommend it to just about anyone because it’s a story worth knowing.  Also, SPOILER ALERT!, things aren’t as tough for Buster as I’d always feared.  Reading this book reminds me that many of us, though not comic geniuses, manage to get by working our jobs and loving our lives.  I think that this is true for Buster, too.  And this guy?  For one brief moment he was one of the few who found what he was meant to do.  And I guess that’s what makes this story so gosh darn bitter sweet – it’s hard that someone so talented gets robbed of his chance to shine.

Buster Keaton: Cut to the Chase

Marion Meade

I went to Hither Green Cinema the other day. Now, for those of you who don’t know Hither Green (and unless you live here you’re unlikely to) you may be thinking what’s the big deal; we all go to the cinema.

Except Hither Green Cinema doesn’t really exist anymore. The building does, but now it sells lots of things for 99p. Before it became a 99p shop it was Kids Korner Nursery. It used to look like this (picture courtesy of This Is Local London- you can find their piece on the cinema here).

Hither Green Cinema, built in 1913

I’m guessing this photo was taken in 1930 or just after. I’ve guessed that because hey! they’re showing Talkies; Canaries Sometimes Sing and True to The Navy starring Clara Bow. And both made in 1930. And look! There’s a man too cowardly to walk under a ladder.

Here’s Clara having a whale of a time with 42 sailors.

The building stopped being a cinema in 1957. Here’s how the cinema looked a short while ago- post Kids Korner- pre 99p shop.

And now, looking at this picture, I am confused. is it Kids Korner or Kid’s Corner? No wonder they went out of business. Anyways, you’re getting bored of this history lesson, let’s get to the races. A local group calling themselves Hither Green Hall have already been instrumental in saving the building from demolition and now they plan to reclaim the building and turn it into an arts centre. Good luck.

To highlight their campaign, and also to have some film fun, they had a Hither Green Cinema day on the 18th October. Sadly not at the cinema (it’s a 99p shop don’t you know) but just round the corner at the disused Firemasters warehouse. Firemasters, who used to sell fire extinguishers; useful when you choose to show some golden oldies (I knew I’d learn something from seeing Inglourious Basterds).

You can see the cinema at the top of this post. It might not look like much, but the film hasn’t started yet.

In the “foyer”- a loose term, this was a cold and derelict fire extinguisher warehouse don’t forget -they had some lovely ladies looking like refugees from an unpublished “upbeat” Patrick Hamilton novel serving tea and cakes. Delightful.

So I settled down with my tea and cake to watch a film I’d never seen before. My Fair Lady. Yes, ok, so I’ve never seen it. Big deal. Someone’s got to not have seen it. And I’ve seen it now.

Quick review and verdict: Audrey Hepburn, awful. She made Dick van Dyke sound like a cockney. And when she went posh she sounded like, well, Audrey hepburn, with that odd clipped European accent. Her singing was good though. She’s got a great voice. What?! It wasn’t her? Stanley Holloway, excellent. Rex Harrison, genius. I wasn’t prepared for Professor Higgins to be such an unlikeable and foul man. And yet, I grew accustomed to him. To play such a monster, and for us somehow to sort of like him… it’s a performance ten thousand times better than that of De Niro in Branagh’s Shelley’s Frankenstein thing. Well done Rex. So, great, I enjoyed it.

Next up, The Balloonatic, a 1923 Buster Keaton short with live piano accompaniment from Costas Fotopoulus. I loved watching the parents with their kids, nudging them with their elbows, looking down into their faces, encouraging them to find this film funny.

And then not quite knowing how to react when Buster bonks a bear on the head with the butt of his gun and accidentally shoots the other bear dead. It’s great, watching Buster crawl around, a real bear behind him, practically sniffing his arse. I think they might be moon bears. Here’s the bear business,  minus the great piano playing of Costas:

The last film was Pool of London, described in this summary taken from the Hither Green Hall website:

‘Basil Dearden’s paean to London docklands in the 1950s is as enchanting and as murky as the river: a noir-ish heist tale, liberally suffused with a fable of forbidden love and unrestrained passion. The heist element of Pool of London (1951) is well crafted and suspenseful, but the most striking aspect is Dearden’s tentative venture into racial politics, with the first interracial relationship in a British film’ Carl Daniels (screenonline.org)

Basil Dearden’s last film was one I have always loved, even though I have only seen it once, and that would have been when I was 13. He made The Man Who Haunted Himself. Roger Moore plays Mr. Pelham, who crashes his car and ends up on the operating table. Later, once recuperated, it seems as if there are two of him. Imagine that! Two Roger Moore’s, one haunting the other. Both with moustaches. It’s the alternative taking of Pelham. And shortly after the film’s release Basil Dearden died in an horrific car crash on the A40, close to where Moore/Pelham crashes his car in the opening scenes. How can this not be a great film.

Thank you to all involved with making the Hither Green Cinema such a success. I look forward to the next one.

YouTube – Olivia the kitten whisperer and other reminiscent moments in the kitten chronicles.  This little video is only a minute long – a minute over a month ago. Hard to imagine they have grown this much. Funny that they recognize the little audible squeeks and as I have replayed this video the kittens look at me like “where is that kitten?” Oh they are funny. Did I mention that Olivia is the best Kitten Whisperer ever? And we know Isabella has maintained her Aunty Belly status.

As I say in my description of the video – we are in leap stage. We are thankfully not pulling ourselves up on everything by shredding. However, all curtains are potentials for a chinese fire drill. Now everyone is sweetly sleeping.

Each of the kittens are going to be part of the “what’s in a name?” contest on my website. I’m having the best story of how an animal either picked his/her name or whether the name fits the animal…..this contest will be announced in my newsletter and will be judged by my Communication with all Life University students. And there are great prizes I might add!!

To get on the mailing list and check out the details: www.joanranquet.com.

Goodnight. More Kitten Chronicles tomorrow!!