I was born and raised in Oklahoma.  I actually spent the first few years of my life in smaller towns.  Then the family moved to a bigger city.  That pretty much fit me.  I have never really been a small town person, although they are great fun.  This year as we have made it back to Oklahoma for Thanksgiving, we are once again somewhat splitting time between the families but more so splitting time between the city and town.  The first couple days are here in the small town of Purcell.

Yesterday we spent Thanksgiving in the town of Lexington (another small town) with my wife’s family.  They are great!  I don’t have a clue what most of their names are (not because I haven’t learned them but because there are so many of them that I have now seen twice) but they are great people.  It’s always a little awkward being the new guy in a large group of family that all knows each other and knows all about you (or at least some), but once the ice was broken plenty of conversation erupts.  The kids are running around playing and everyone is enjoying themselves.  Then it is time for Thanksgiving lunch.  Once everyone has filed through the dining room where all the main foods are the room is silent.  All you hear is the occasional squeaking of the chair as people get up for seconds and then make their way to the other room where all the desserts are!

We had a great lunch topped off with some awesome desserts with the family.  And what rural Oklahoma holiday would be complete without westerns staring John “The Duke” Wayne and shooting some rifles and an AK?  Not this one!  And not one that I wanna be at!  After a nice afternoon drive to a closed Old Navy (don’t I love them?) and then an open Old Navy, we headed home for naptime and football.  Gotta love Thanksgiving.  I hope you all got to spend the day with some people you love.  Happy Thanksgiving from rural America!

What’s in a name? A whole bunch.

When Mom and Dad (or Mom and Mom!) come up with that perfect monicker, they’re doing a lot more than simply honoring a favorite family member, friend or vacation locale. (Paris, anyone?). No, I maintain they’re setting cosmic events into motion and  influencing history. And quite possibly dooming him or her to a childhood full of torment and teasing. And maybe beyond childhood, too.

For instance, what if American icon John Wayne would have instead grown up with the name:

Marion Morrison.

(What? Really? Oh. Bad example)

This is the next in a series of suggested names for Michelle’s temporary body tenant, with possible life experiences and scenarios:

Name: Bobby Jo Precious

Sex: F

Childhood Highlights: Fitted for her first tiara, age 6 months. Only child in neighborhood with a rhinestone studded baby blanket.

Learned to walk on catwalk constructed in family garage, age 13 months. Learned to walk in heels on catwalk, age 15 months.

Lost first baby teeth, age 5. First use of teeth whitener, age 5 years, 1 month. Mom cautioned by doctor to limit child to only one spray tan per week.

Entered 1st beauty pageant, age 3. Completed 100th beauty paegant, age 5. Number of pageants won — 3, all in Arkansas.

What she wants to be when she grows up — age 10: Miss  America / orthodontist.

What she wants to be when she grows up — age 23: Princess

Favorite Sport Growing Up: Anything she could wear her cheerleading costume to.

Favorite Song: It’s all about me, by Chelsea Staub

Possible Cruel Nicknames She’ll Endure In School — Barbie. Prom Queen. Diva. Little Miss Perfect. Dumb Blonde. Dumber Blonde. Dumber than a sack of doornobs Blonde. 

Exerpt from High School Yearbook: OMG, do you remember the time we thought we were using hair spray and it turned out to be cooking spray. It did wonders for my highlights! Too bad you didn’t make Homecoming Queen. I know you were really depressed about it but I’m sure you’ll bounce back real soon. Maybe next year? Hey, did you get that job at Hooters? We’ll meet some really classy guys there. Love ya, TTYL.  Britney. <33

Over/under on number of hair pulling fights before 7th grade: 7.5.

Favorite Birthday or Xmas Gift, Teen Years – Modeling Lessons, from Bob’s Mail  Order School of Runway Success, headquartered in that media center, Omaha, Nebraska.

Favorite TV Show Growing Up: Miss America Paegents, Project Runway, My Super Sweet 16. Bought all the DVDs of Toddlers In Tiaras, including all the episodes she appeared in.

Academic Career: Showed up for school most of the time. First runner-up Prom Queen, Winter Dance Queen, Homecoming Queen, Head Cheerleader Tryouts.

Eventual Occupation: Assistant Manager, Hooters, Bentonville, Arkansas.

(Thanks to mydaughter Sara for her invaluable assistance on this post)

“Coge todo lo que hayas oído decir; todo lo que hayas oído decir en tu vida… Multiplícalo por cien, y seguirás sin tener una idea de John Ford”. James Stewart.

El hombre que mató a Liberty Valance (1962)

Peter Bogdanovich: Hacia el principio de Liberty Valance, cuando va Vera Miles a la casa quemada de Wayne, ¿no es la música de Ann Rutledge de Young Mr. Lincoln?

John Ford: Sí, era la misma: se la compramos a Al Newman. Me encanta; es una de mis músicas favoritas, de las que puedo tararear. Por lo general, me fastidia la música en las películas, un poco por aquí y por allá, al principio o al final, pero las cosas como el tema de Ann Rutledge encajan. No me gusta ver a un hombre en el desierto, muriéndose de sed, respaldado por la Orquesta de Filadelfia.

PB: Da la sensación de que en Liberty Valance sus simpatías están con John Wayne y el Viejo Oeste.

JF: Bueno, de hecho el protagonista era Wayne; Jimmy Stewart tenía más escenas, pero era Wayne el personaje central, el motivo de todo. No sé… me gustaban los dos. Creo que los dos eran buenos personajes, y me gustaba el argumento, nada más. Yo soy un director duro; me dan un guión: si me gusta, lo hago. O si digo, “ah, esto está bien”, lo hago. Si no me gusta, lo rechazo.

PB: Pero al final de la película parecía bastante claro que Vera Miles seguía enamorada de Wayne.

JF: Bueno, era la que pretendíamos.

PB: Su imagen del Oeste se ha ido haciendo cada vez más triste, como por ejemplo la diferencia de humor entre Wagon Master y Liberty Valance.

JF: Quizá, no lo sé; no soy psicólogo. A lo mejor estoy envejeciendo.

John Ford. Peter Bogdanovich.

Rio Lobo di Howard HAwks (1970)

Pierre Cordora (Jeorge Rivero): Sai… mi piaci

Shasta Delaney (Jennifer o’Neill): Perchè

Pierre: Perchè tu non piangi

Shasta: Si che piango, mi hai vista

Pierre: Piangevi per il tuo amico e non per te stessa. C’è una bella differenza

—————————————————————————————————————————————————

Sceriffo: Avrei dovuto prenderla stamattina

Cord McNelly (John Wayne): Avresti dovuto provarci.

I’m not sure how this one slipped by me as a kid.  I’m sure it played on television when I was a youngster–local Portland station Channel 12 was obligated by law to play John Wayne movies every weekend, I think–but I don’t ever remember watching it.  If I did, I blocked it from my memory.

Oh, what a little fool I was.

Having been on a bit of a John Wayne binge of late, I rented the Blu-Ray edition of this and hoped for the best.  I don’t think I’m giving anything away by writing that the film is notorious and legendary in equal measure for being the one where Duke is shot in the back by a dastardly long-haired villain, played by the great Bruce Dern.  It was a jolt back in 1972 and plenty of kids, no doubt, were scarred by seeing the movie icon go down in such a brutal manner.  It’s still a jolt to watch today.

But how was I to know any of it was good?  Most reviews that I’d come across over the years treated it as mediocre late period Wayne.  And people I’ve spoken with who had seen it loved the film, though I suspected they were blinded by childhood nostalgia.

I have to admit it’s a really splendid film, from Mark Rydell’s assured direction to (egads!) John Williams’ appropriately majestic yet lyrical score to the performances from all the kids (half of ‘em non-actor rodeo boys) to the stand-out roles by Dern and the great Roscoe Lee Browne, the latter as Nightlinger the chuck wagon man who accompanies the cattle drive.

And then there’s Wayne.

His work with John Ford will always be my favorite–primarily the Westerns–but Wayne’s performance here as rancher Wil Andersen seems the perfect culmination to his long career.  The Shootist (1976) would end up being Wayne’s final performance, of course, but I like the Duke here more.  A bit world-weary but not tainted with cynicism, Wayne seems genuinely comfortable acting opposite the gaggle of cowpokes he’s saddled with, striking just the right balance of obstinacy, fatherly protectiveness, and gentleness we want from our aging cowboy icon.  He wears his heart on his sleeve, but not with the bathetic hard-sell one would expect.  It’s quintessential classic Wayne charisma we get in The Cowboys, but tempered with the wisdom and offhandedness that only a pro can pull off effectively.  There’s insight in them eyes… and when Wayne goes down, it’s crushing.

Então, agora estou de volta ao quarto. O zumbi já foi embora.

– É a última vez Luciano. Você entende? Última vez que a gente transa.

Líria me fala isso olhando fixamente para meus olhos. Os seus tem uma linda coloração que oscila entre o verde e o amarelo. Desnecessariamente aponta o dedo para meu rosto. Toda a coisa tem um tom de ameaça. Eu só penso em como seus seios são duros, e como os desejo senti-los junto a mim.

– Ok. Última vez Líria. Sem problema. Dá pra continuar a viver assim. Só acho meio anticlimático você falar isso agora…

– É só pra você saber. Acho importante que você saiba. É a ultima vez.

Sinto-me automaticamente impotente. Queria acender um cigarro antes de começarmos. Mas acho difícil que Líria aceite essa pausa. Penso que se é a última vez, devo fazer a melhor apresentação da minha vida. Memorável. Mas não sei lidar bem a pressão.

– Ai, para Lu. Você tá muito afoito. Parece um adolescente. Que que tá pegando?

Líria não sabe, mas minha cabeça está longe dali. Mui longe. Penso que não estou sendo afoito. Estou sendo voluptuoso. Isso costumava agradar as moças.

(escrevendo sobre isso, com o distanciamento que o tempo impõe… Tudo muito estranho).

Nelson R. senta na cama. Sendo um escritor morto em 1980 (e meu irmão d´alma) ele é em preto-e-branco. Se bem que toda a atmosfera do quarto está escura.

- Luciano, acho que você devia ir pra casa (acendo um de seus indefectíveis mata-ratos). Na realidade, eu não existo. Disso você sabe, sou só uma representação literária da sua esquizofrenia dormente. Aquele que você queria dialogar, nos muitos momentos em que duvida. Nas muitas horas em que acha que nenhum ser vivo vai te entender. Mas como estamos numa página de ficção, eu posso te aconselhar. Vai embora daqui.

– Nelson, agora não. Dá-me um trago e vai embora (falo isso durante a cópula. Vez em quando percebo um tom de enfado nos lindos olhos de Líria).

- Luciano. Escuta. É importante que você me escute. Você sabe que eu assisti a morte do meu irmão Roberto. Assassinado. Lembra aquela vez em que você sonhou que eu estava ao seu lado, materialmente físico? Então. Naquele sonho eu te contei isso. A morte de Roberto me marcou eternamente. Ver ele baleado, como um cão sarnento… Essas coisas ficam pra sempre.

– Porra Nelson, eu to transando velho! Saí fora. Para de falar em morte, cacete! Tu é mórbido pacas!

- Claro que eu sou mórbido. Você já leu tudo que eu escrevi. Sempre acaba em desgraça. Mas escuta, acho melhor você ir pra casa, e…

-Puta merda! SAI FORA!

Sinto o jorro dormente dentro de meu órgão do sexo, prestes a eclodir. Com um pré medo da vergonha, do medo de decepcionar Líria, o seguro inutilmente.

– Não, pelo amor de Deus, agora não.

– Hahahaha.

Líria solta aquela sua risada sonora, de encher o ambiente. Dá-me um beijo carinhoso.

– É Luciano. Essa sua última vez foi rápida hein?  Pelo menos foi bom pra você?

Paralisado de prazer, simplesmente fico de bruços, e enfio minha cara no travesseiro de Líria. Lembro-me com ternura nostálgica que algumas das meninas da minha vida, sempre elogiavam meu cheiro, que ficava presente em suas roupas de cama. Mesmo depois que eu já era lembrança, há muito tempo.

Peço desculpas a Líria. Ela não entende que seu nome remete a muita coisa. Que ela é ela (e a amei por um momento), e que ela é todas. Vejo-a andar pelo quarto, nua. É muito bela. É bonita pra caralho. Iria vê-la cerca de três dias depois. Quando as coisas estariam muito diferentes. Foi um encontro fortuito, daqueles com a câmera pegando a gente do outro lado da rua, que nem naquele filme do Woody Allen. Indicando que a intimidade (tão rápida!) já havia morrido. Porém, enquanto eu descia as escadas eu tinha certeza que não há veria mais.

Chego ao carro. Cato os bolsos em busca do meu maço. Lembro que o esqueci em cima do criado-mudo do quarto de Líria. Nunca que eu subiria novamente. Peço um dos mata-ratos de Nelson R.

– Porra Nelson, você foi me aparecer no momento mais foda né? Precisava? Hein? Logo que? Logo que?

(aspira profundamente o cigarro. Nenhum homem vivo ou morto já sentiu regojizo igual ao fumar um cigarro).

- Então Lu. Eu to aqui pra ajudar a conduzir essas suas lembranças. Esse negócio de usar um poeta morto pra acompanhar o protagonista é artifício velho. O Dante já usou com o Virgilio, lá no Inferno dele, há mais de quatrocentos anos.

– O que você quer dizer?

- Que a gente deve acender essa beata que você tem no porta luvas, e irmos pra casa. Num próximo capitulo dessa história, nós vamos ter uma nova conversa no Rio, onde deixamos o Fábio e o Carlos Drummond. Mas por enquanto temos que ir pra casa. É lá que está acontecendo a crise que vai motivar a escrita desse texto, daqui um mês.

Nelson acende o baseado. Dá um trago, e me passa a bola. Vou dirigindo, atravesso um pequeno trecho de Avenida Amazonas e volto pela Praça da Assembléia. Voltamos mudos, eu e Nelson, já sabendo o que vou encontrar quando chegar em casa.

Paro o Uno no estacionamento. Caminho como para o abate. Nelson já não está do meu lado. Com a cabeça em Líria, não dou atenção para duas mulheres que começam a mexer comigo. Não tenho paciência para falar com elas. Me acham antipático e vão gritando comigo, durante todo o trajeto até minha casa.

O saguão do prédio está escuro. São cerca de duas da manhã. Decido subir de escada. A subirei e descerei várias vezes ainda essa noite.

Chego em casa, minha mãe está no tanque, lavando um pedaço de pano. Reconheço ser uma camisa regata de meu pai.

-Pô mãe, lavando roupa essa hora da madrugada? Vai dormir mãe.

- Dormir como filho? Seu pai ta passando mal. Seu pai ta passando mal.

(continua…)

John Wayne had been trying to get Herbert J. Yates, head of Republic Pictures, interested in a film about The Alamo. He’d been looking for locations and had James Edward Grant working on a script. Yates strung Wayne along for a while, then turned the project down as too expensive. Once his contract expired, Wayne never worked for Republic again.

As Wayne tells it, “I was sore at Yates, not just because he wouldn’t let me make The Alamo but because he went and filmed the story anyway — a picture called The Last Command. It was a big-budget picture for Republic, but not as big as the film I planned.”

That’s pretty much how The Last Command is remembered today — Republic’s screw-you to John Wayne. (It uses at least some of Grant’s screenplay.) That’s a shame. Because while it certainly doesn’t have much to offer in the way of historical accuracy, it’s got a great cast: Sterling Hayden, Richard Carlson, Ernest Borgnine, Arthur Hunnicutt, J. Carrol Naish and Anna Maria Alberghetti. It was the final picture for Oscar-winning director Frank Lloyd (Mutiny On The Bounty, 1935). Max Steiner provided a good score. And it was the last screenplay by Warren Duff (Angels With Dirty Faces, 1938) before he made the move to TV.

It plays pretty well and doesn’t get gobbled up by its size the way Wayne’s The Alamo (1961) does.

Unfortunately, The Last Command was saddled with some of the worst poster art ever. Did they really think that looks like Sterling Hayden? Notice that since we all know how an Alamo movie’s going to end — with the entire cast dead — the poster makes no mention of the tragic fortress.

André Setaro

Em artigo no Terra Magazine, André Setaro fala de “Rio Bravo”, de Howard Hawks:

(…) Em ‘Onde começa o inferno’ (‘Rio Bravo’), resposta desse grande mestre ao ‘western’ psicológico que então emergia no cinema americano, há uma cadência que o distingue dos filmes do gênero que foram seus contemporâneos e, de certa forma, o que interessa ao autor é o estudo de comportamentos de homens numa dada situação. Excetuando-se o tiroteio final, e uns poucos tiros aqui e ali, os seus 144 minutos de projeção se concentram num espaço exíguo, a delegacia da qual é xerife John Wayne, com algumas deslocações dos personagens pelas ruas e pelo hotel onde se hospeda a bela Angie Dickinson – uma das pernas mais bonitas de toda a história do cinema.

Leia o artigo completo no Terra Magazine, clicando aqui.

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!

Even I initially bought it: the fearless blonde police officer, a young mom of two, hard-changing up the hill towards the danger and eventually taking down the big bad terrorist. It would have made great TV and Hollywood. It would have made great military recruiting PR. But after a while, it did not make sense; how could this woman have fired several shots at Major Nidal Hasan when she was already down and incapacitated? I kept seeing in my mind how this could have occurred, and it did not add up. It looked too Hollywood…and impossible.

Thing is, it wasn’t true that Sgt. Kimberly “Mighty Mouse” Munley alone took down Major Hasan. She may have simply distracted him, and slowed him up by taking him on. But she was shot and wounded by him. She may not have even struck him, because witnesses saw Hasan reload after taking her down. It was someone else who rather was ordinary, older, and up to that point, had never discharged his weapon at a suspect. It took days before the media finally began countering the military’s version of events. From the New York Times on November 11:

[...T]he story of how the petite police officer and the accused gunman went down in an exchange of gunfire does not agree with the account of an eyewitness who had gone to the base’s processing center, where the shooting occurred, to conduct business before being deployed.

The witness, who asked not to be identified, said Major Hasan wheeled on Sergeant Munley as she rounded the corner of a building and shot her, putting her on the ground. Then Major Hasan turned his back on her and started putting another magazine into his semiautomatic pistol.

It was at that moment that Senior Sgt. Mark Todd, a veteran police officer, rounded another corner of the building, found Major Hasan fumbling with his weapon and shot him.

How the authorities came to issue the original version of the story, which made Sergeant Munley a national hero for several days and obscured Sergeant Todd’s role, remains unclear. (Military officials also said for several hours after the shooting that Major Hasan had been killed, although he had survived.)

After the witness’ admission, the mainstream media scrambled to reclaim control of the story. CBS’ Early Show immediately contacted Sergeant Mark Todd after a joint appearance by both Sergeant Kimberly Munley and Sergeant Todd on The Oprah Winfrey Show. However, the pair did not give a timeline of events that would have led to identifying who it really was who shot Hasan down.

However, Sgt. Todd, by himself, gives a pretty credible statement of what he did. A 25-year military police veteran, Todd only discharged his weapon for the first time ever at Fort Hood as part of its civilian police corps.

Sergeant Todd, 42, is a native of California who spent most of his adult life as a military police officer in the Army. He left the military police after 25 years to join the civilian force at Fort Hood. Like most members of the military, he has moved around a lot, serving at four bases in the United States and two in Germany.

This is really strange. Ballistics reports could settle once and for all who did what and when. Why wouldn’t they be as forthcoming on Oprah? And why is the military suddenly buttoning up, saying that they could not comment on specifics. Just what is the big problem owning up just who did take down Major Nidal Hasan?

A lot of this does have to do with manipulating public perceptions of what and who is in control. Army spokespeople were too quick to paint Munley as this female John Wayne-type. Seems we haven’t learned our lesson about this kind of thing. Remember what happened with PFC Jessica Lynch in Iraq? Wiki can remind you how the Pentagon’s propaganda machine crashed and burned six years ago with another blonde white “heroine” who refused to play by the script:

On March 23, 2003 she was injured and captured by Iraqi forces, but was recovered on April 1 by U.S. special operations forces, with the incident subsequently receiving considerable news coverage.

Lynch, along with major media outlets, has since accused the U.S. government of embellishing the story as part of the Pentagon’s propaganda effort.

On April 24, 2007 she testified in front of Congress that she had never fired her weapon; her M16 rifle jammed, as did all weapons systems assigned to her unit, and that she had been knocked unconscious when her vehicle crashed.

Some people think that this promotion of white female fighters or police in the Armed Forces is an argument the military is trying to make that women can make great soldiers. In this overstretched as well as under-equipped military, this is indeed a development. But the emphasis frankly is getting a bit overdone–and obvious; like the white, blonde middle-class girl in distress meme which runs every time someone fitting the description is reported missing. Greg Mitchell at Editor and Publisher concluded the following:–

Plus: Just coincidence that a white woman got the credit over a black male? We’ll soon find out. Perhaps. But this time, put aside the military’s official narrative. First time, shame on the source. Second time, shame on the media. Third time?

I think people should remain skeptical about what happened at Fort Hood. Just don’t believe everything you read and hear. Our military and intelligence communities all are at fault for not intervening with Major Hasan much earlier, as more individuals finally stood up and told of their disconcerting encounters with the man. Everyone is agreed that they dropped the ball, especially when it came to lone wolf Hasan presenting PowerPoint-led lectures that fairly flowed with jihadist rhetoric. They are going to want an investigational outcome that will not make them look any worse, but might at least enhance their reputations.

The same thing goes with quickly identifying a wiry blonde white officer known for jumping into the fray rather than her alter-ego, a tall, heavier, older and mature black professional who reportedly was trained as a hostage negotiator. Her image may indeed have been reassuring to the populace watching on TV and cable news, and even to the soldiers and families affected. But such images can be too reassuring, and even dangerous. Especially to our understanding of how justice is going to be served in this case.

John Wayne - The Great American Cowboy

It seems that lately I’ve been encountering more people that suffer from what I call “JWS” or “John Wayne Syndrome.”   For those of you not familiar with the term, I’d like to just take a moment an expound on this phenomenon.

Although I did not have a name for it early on, I most certainly grew up in a culture plagued by it.  In rural Wyoming, the Code of the West and a cowboy mentality rule.  Now please do not misunderstand me, I am not bashing the Code of the West here.  There is much to be said about the honesty and integrity that comes from living by the Code of the West.  However,  JWS stems from the cowboy mentality of toughness.

When a cowboy suffers an injury, he does not go see a doctor.  He walks it off and continues doing what he’s doing.  This is where we get the old adage “Cowboy Up!”  This is a gritting of the teeth and toughing it out.  No complaining.  It is exemplary in many of the characters that John Wayne played.  And this is why I have dubbed the behavior “John Wayne Syndrome.”  This sort of mentality by no means affects just those that live in rural areas.  John Wayne is an American icon.  His influence has spread throughout our country.  There are just as many people that live in urban settings who suffer from JWS as opposed to their rural cohorts.  It also effects both men and women, though I believe men exhibit the lion’s share of JWS.

The sheer tenacity of this cowboy mentality is undeniably admirable.  However, there is a special kind of lunacy that accompanies it.  When one is injured, one should do their best to take care of themselves so that they can continue  to maintain living and working with certain youthful exuberance.  This is the logical thing to do.  Instead, those that suffer from JWS do just the opposite and create for themselves a life of constant and continual pain.

Take for example the man who accidentally bashes his finger while hammering.  Instead of receiving proper medical care for it, he slowly nurses the injury by himself over a period of several weeks.  The finger does not receive correct or effective treatment, and the joints freeze up and become arthritic.  Now for the rest of his life, he can only bend his finger a fraction of what it used to.  It hampers his work and causes him pain each time the weather changes, but he continues to “cowboy up.”  If, after the accident ocurred, this poor fellow with JWS had gone to see his health care professionals, the finger would have been given proper treatment.  He would have gained the majority, if not all, of  his range of motion back, and arthritis would not have set in until much later in his life.

I do have to admit that I am a little ambivalent in my feelings toward JWS.  For one, having grown up in the heart of cowboy culture, I do recognize that I have acquired some of this mentality.  I struggle against it in order to keep myself healthy.  This is my own personal battle, and it is one of the reasons why I have decided to blog about this specific subject.

Second, I must also admit that folks with JWS help keep me in business.  Not when they’re young, of course, but once they have gotten older and their doctors tell them that surgery or drugs is the only answer to their various problems.  Then Traditional Chinese Medicine becomes their last bastion of hope that will not be forever tied to the doctors that they despise.  I love treating these folks because they generally become my staunchest advocates.  They find that TCM works and they express regret in not knowing about it earlier in their lives.

It is quite likely that you or someone you know has John Wayne Syndrome.  If so, I would love to hear from you about your trials and tribulations concerning JWS.   Please feel free to leave a comment here on the blog or send me an email.  In return, it would be my pleasure to personally educate you on how Traditional Chinese Medicine can be a great benefit in regard to this often debilitating condition.

Trama: Thomas Dunson, giovane pioniere, lascia la carovana con la quale ha iniziato la traversata del Texas, per dirigersi con un solo compagno, verso un’altra zona. Dopo la sua partenza, la carovana viene attaccata dagli indiani e distrutta. Tom adotta come come figlio l’unico superstite, un ragazzo. Trovato un terreno adatto, Tom vi pianta le tende. Due dipendenti del proprietario gli intimano di andarsene: egli ne uccide uno e non si muove. Con gli anni, ed attraverso nuove lotte ed uccisioni, l’allevamento di Tom prospera ed egli dispone di migliaia di capi. Ma per trarne partito, occorre un mercato più propizio: ed ecco Tom in viaggio, con la sua mandria, attraverso l’America. Il lungo viaggio comporta enormi disagi e gravi pericoli: ad un certo punto i suoi uomini, esasperati dalla prepotenza di Tom, si ribellano. Egli ne uccide alcuni, ma l’esasperazione giunge a tal punto che il suo stesso pupillo l’abbandona, alla testa della carovana. Dopo ulteriori vicessitudini, la carovana giunge alla meta, ed il bestiame è venduto a ottime condizioni. Dopo qualche tempo, anche Tom giunge alla città, e nella lotta suscitata dal suo rancore, altri uomini periscono. Alla fine Tom si riconcilia col suo pupillo.

http://rapidshare.com/files/300867126/redriver.rar

I call myself a pacifist.  I’m pretty sure that there isn’t a time when killing swaths of your fellow humans could be justified.  I can’t think of a war that 1) couldn’t have been avoided if the right people were in charge, 2) didn’t go terribly wrong in terms of casualties, civilian and military and 3) bring out the worst in human behaviour.  But I have a dark, dirty secret (that isn’t so secret to those who know me well)…I LOVE war movies.  I don’t just mean the anti-war classics like All Quiet On the Western Front and Paths Of Glory.  I mean good old-fashioned jingoistic flag-wavers with John Wayne and Van Johnson.  I mean modern classics like Saving Private Ryan and Platoon.  I know this seems like a disparity and I suppose it is, in a way.  But in war movies, I often see men (and women) rising to humanitarian heights, overcoming physical limitations and demonstrating partisanship and cooperation, bringing out the man’s best in the worst of circumstances.  This week is Remembrance Day here in Canada and in Britain and Veteran’s Day in the United States and at this time, I always feel led to watch a few of my favourites as well finding one or two I may have overlooked.  As I grow older however, I become more aware of my mortality and more appreciative of the sacrifices made  by others who chose to go into harm’s way for the ideal of freedom and this year in particular, I have been thinking of people I have known who were connected to war in some way and of course, the movies their situation brings to mind.

Although my dad was a couple of months shy of active service in World War 2 (he joined up on his 18th birthday but all he saw was basic training outside Toronto and weekend furloughs in Toronto), I have several uncles who saw a great deal of action.  My uncle Mike was shot down behind German lines early in the war and sat through the war in a POW camp.  As a child, when he and my aunt Kaye would come over for a swim and he would take off his shirt, I would marvel at the foot long scar rippling across his left shoulder from stray bullets during his capture.  The Canadian military was ultimately very generous, providing him with a pension and a cushy job chauffeuring military types around Southern Ontario until his retirement but that would be a small price for the indignities he must have suffered and horrific sights he must have been privy to in those years in the German camp, as in the quintessential POW movie, The Great Escape.  Although this rollicking and exciting adventure strays sometimes from the source material, the book by Paul Brickhill that outlines his own experiences as a prisoner at the infamous Stalag Luft II, the truly amazing thing is that the most unbelievable parts in the film are those that actually happened with Steve McQueen’s unpredictable behaviour and demands accounting for the bulk of the changes from the book.  Another great movie (and book) from this same event is the British classic, The Wooden Horse, the true-life story of how an escape tunnel was dug essentially using only a wooden gymnastic horse and the ingenuity of dozens of prisoners.

My uncle Harry was one of the 76,000 Canadian troops that participated in the invasion of Sicily and ultimately Italy and spent many long months working his way north to free Italy from the fascist grip of Mussolini.  On a recent trip to Italy, we were in Salerno, where the disembarkation of the Allied invasion of Italy took place and and as I walked on the boardwalk next to the Mediterranean, I couldn’t help but think of the thousands of young men who lost their lives where I was walking.  The invasion of Sicily brings to mind the Oscar-winning film about the man who led the great invasion, Patton.  General George Patton was an imposing, brash, egotistical man but a brilliant tactician and the ideal fodder for a movie biography.  Francis Coppola and former military man Edmund North wrote a terrific script that perfectly captured the enigma that was Patton.  George C. Scott would not give a better performance, even if he felt it necessary to turn down the Oscar that came with it and the movie would famously become Richard Nixon’s favourite.

Many years ago, I watched what was essentially another rip-off of The Dirty Dozen, The Devil’s Brigade.  An entertaining romp, this one held a place of importance  and pride to me though because it concerned a ragtag U.S. commando unit drummed into shape by Canadian Special Forces officers, led by Cliff Robertson.  For once, the Canadians were the real heroes.  It was many years later that my dad informed that not only was the Devil’s Brigade a real World War 2 unit, but the best man at my parent’s wedding, George Stocking, was a former member of the Devil’s Brigade.  I promptly rushed home and watched it again and got a copy for my dad, who had never seen the movie.

My favourite war sub-genre is the submarine movie.  The idea that a small group of men from every background works together for the greater good (and their own safety) inside a giant tube, constantly facing stress and danger is a formula that never gets old for me.  Purists will list Das Boot and Run Silent Run Deep as the classics of the genre but my favourite is a propaganda piece that may lack in realism, but more than makes up for it in heart, Destination Tokyo.  Released at the start of the Second World War to give audiences a glimpse into the heretofore unknown world of the silent service, it stars Cary Grant as the skipper of a sub that has the unenviable task of sneaking into Tokyo Bay on an espionage mission, providing us with humour, pathos, excitement, and sheer bravado in spades.  Yeah, it’s old-fashioned but it’s old-fashioned fun.

Many may feel, even with the advent of ultra-realistic movies like Saving Private Ryan and The Thin Red Line, that war movies diminish the great sacrifices the men and women who have served have made but I know that during virtually every war movie I watch, I have at least a moment of reflection when I’m thankful uncles Mike and Harry and all the other uncles, fathers, brothers, sisters, wives and aunts were willing to make the decision to serve their country so that pacifists like myself can enjoy the freedom they fought for.

If you’ve seen 7 Men From Now, you know how good this ad is. And with it based on that incredible closing shot, how could it not be?

If you haven’t seen it, what the hell are you reading this for? Come back in 78 minutes.

Working in Advertising, I’ve always been interested in how movie campaigns are put together. They often seem to be from a different movie than the one I saw. But some really nail a picture. Like this one. I’d love to know how much input, if any, Randolph Scott or Budd Boetticher or John Wayne’s people had in this.

Aside from the theme song, is there anything to do with 7 Men From Now that’s not terrific?

            One of the benefits of writing this column is the mail I receive from readers.  I’ve been surprised, however, by a recent spate of missives from folks seeking my counsel in their personal affairs.  After all, I’m not an advice columnist.
            Or am I?  
            As I see it, there are really just three requirements for an advice column:  (1) Space in a newspaper.  Check!  (2) Questions from people seeking guidance.  Check!  (3) A self-righteous, didactic crackpot to answer those questions.  Check and double check!  Let’s light this candle!
 
            Dear Jimmy,
            I’m a 38-year-old man.  While I was at the SciFi Expo last year, I met the Padmé to my Anakin.  But recently, she made the jump to hyperspace and is hinting hard about marriage.  The thought of moving out of the Jedi Temple (Mom’s basement) gives me tummy bubbles.  The walls of this relationship are closing in like the garbage compactor in a Death Star detention block.  Help!  –Jittery Jedi
 
            Dear Jittery,
            Help you I can, yes.  A sewing room in her basement your mother desires, but in her way your bed with Ewok sheets is.  Always in motion is the future.  Of doing your laundry, tired is she.  Adulthood and marriage, fear them not, and a momma’s boy, be no longer.  Choice of you by girl I will understand never, but die alone you will, with action figures as only companions, if this one chance you miss.
                    
Dear Jimmy,
            Please settle an ongoing dispute my wife and I are having over the upbringing of our only child.   We both love our son “Roger” very much, but we have vastly differing ideas about how he should be raised.  I want him to try out for football and engage in other manly pursuits like mixed martial arts cage matches, ding-dong-ditch, the Sun Dance ritual, and belching the alphabet.  My wife, however, is adamant that Roger must spend all his free time doing nothing but scherenschnitte, collecting Hummel figurines, and perfecting his Trout Almondine recipe for the state fair.  He recently refused to watch “True Grit” with me because the Bravo Network was airing a “Project Runway” marathon.  His classmates have started calling him “Baron Dainty Von Prancengiggle.”  Now, I don’t know what that means, but I’m certain it’s not a compliment.  I’m scared.  Am I too late to raise him into swarthy, high-fiving, NASCAR manhood?  Is there anything I can do?   –Desperate Dad
 
Dear Desperate,
            You’re too late.  There’s nothing you can do.  Sorry.
 
Dear Jimmy,
            After a whirlwind courtship, I recently became engaged to the man of my dreams.  The problem is that my parents despise him.  Whenever I try to emphasize my fiancé’s good qualities, they only point out his flaws.  For example, when I describe him as a courageous man of action, Dad mocks him for his fear of flying.  When I praise him for serving our country as a member of a crack commando unit, my mother condemns him for being sent to prison by a military court.  “But it was for a crime he didn’t commit!” I’ll say, only to have Daddy immediately remind me, for the millionth time, how my future husband and his three friends promptly escaped from a maximum security stockade to the Los Angeles underground, how they’re still wanted by the government, how they survive as soldiers of fortune, blah, blah, blah… 
            All the conflict is stressing me out, and my fiancé is growing tired of all this jibba-jabba.  How can I persuade my folks to give this marriage their blessing? –Wanna-Be Mrs. T
 
Dear Wanna-Be,
            Simply arrange to have your parents abducted by a band of ruthless Bolivian drug smugglers (check Craigslist.com) or a bizarre mind-control cult (check Scientology.org) and instruct the kidnappers to hold Mom and Dad hostage in a heavily-guarded desert bunker.  Then have your fiancé and his friends infiltrate the compound by posing as renegade arms dealers with military-grade weaponry for sale.  After the enigmatic, sinister leader of the cult/cartel sees through the ruse, his army of henchmen will chase your Mr. Right and his three confederates to an abandoned mine nearby.  Once barricaded inside, they can use a rusted mining cart, some pipes, and a crate full of discarded dynamite to construct a crude tank.  Blasting their way back into the villains’ lair, they free your parents and bring them home.  Having won your parents’ blessing, you and their now-beloved son-in-law-to-be jump in the van and go get on the bridal registry at Pier 1 Imports.  Your mother prepares a baked custard with a layer of caramelized sugar on the bottom to give to her rescuers as a thank you gift.  This is sure to delight their cigar-chomping leader; he loves it when a flan comes together.
            Next week’s column:  Jim’s Graceland diary!

Morning Sunshine

Grandpa’s Shotgun

After The Show

John Wayne

John Wayne

John Wayne

Muhammad Ali

Brave Eagle

Bright Cloud

Headin’ Home

Best Friends

Best Friends

Best Friends

Lady And Lady

Cujo

Ballet Break

Sisters

Carpenters – Christmas Portrait

_________________________________________________________

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

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Today’s quote comes from the one and only John Wayne.

Courage is being scared to death… and saddling up anyway.