Sometimes, Life Does Imitate Art

In the 1991 movie Soapdish, Sally Field plays a neurotic soap opera actress obsessed with her popularity. Accompanied by the show's head writer, Whoopi Goldberg, she ventures out to shopping malls whenever her insecurities threaten to overwhelm her. There, Goldberg contrives situations where Field is accidentally recognized on-purpose by her fans.

Surrounded by the adoring throng, Field takes great comfort in posing for pictures and signing autographs. Relived that her shelf life as an actress hasn't expired yet, her anxiety dissipates as she realizes the addictive heat of the spotlight is still hers to enjoy.

In 2017, it's hard to watch our so-called president on his victory lap through the south and not recall this movie. In an arena full of the room-temperature IQs who elected him, Trump presides over reenactments of last summer's campaign stops, with the faithful dutifully chanting “Lock her up!” as if it were still relevant.

It has to be a godsend for the man heading an administration so wracked by controversy and conflict.

But if our so-called president is swigging from the nostalgia glass barely one month into his term, what does that say for the future? If The Donald is seeking the reassuring warmth of past triumphs just thirty days after his inauguration, does this mark him as a president unable to cope?

Men like Donald are used to giving orders. Wielding unfettered power. Checks and balances rarely exist in the corporate world. Especially in privately-held corporate monoliths like Donald Trump's.

Donald isn't used to democracy. Donald isn't used to being challenged. Donald isn't used to being overruled.

Donald is used to “Yes, Mr. Trump. Right away, Mr. Trump.”

As the oldest person ever to hold the office, his presidency becomes an exercise in seeing if old dogs can truly learn new tricks. Given his thin-skinned nature and stubborn, resistant and combative ADHD personality, I don't like the odds.

Which isn't necessarily a bad thing. As it is said, give a man enough rope and he'll hang himself.

We can only hope.

Fixing Oscar?

There was an opinion expressed recently that since the Oscar telecast suffered a sixteen percent drop in viewership, something must be done. Like nominate Dawn of the Planet of the Apes or the latest Transformer product for best picture of the year.

These, it is said, are more representative of the movies America actually watches. There are a couple of dozen things wrong with this kind of thinking. I'll try and restrain myself to addressing just a few.

First off, if widespread consumption is the measure of excellence, why is no one nominating McDonald's hamburgers as America's finest? Or Bud Light as the best beer ever? Probably because they're not.

The Oscars seek to recognize the movies which best combine the elements of film: a compelling story, acting, cinematography and music. Or to celebrate those in which a particular aspect like editing or an actor's performance is transcendent.

Let me be clear: I'm not a snob. I mean, I like explosions and dirty, sweaty guys screaming “Arrrrrrrggghhhhh!!!” just before they point miniature, chrome-plated cannons at each other as much as the next dude. 

But just for a laugh, I think we should see what happens when we follow the advice of that famous dead Greek guy about reaching for the stars. About our reach exceeding our grasp.

Secondly, in the instant mass opinion gifted to us by social media, singular incidents—aberrations—assume the weight of decades-long trends. With the exception of the folks who hawk advertising space on ABC, who cares if people didn't find this year's Oscars telecast must-see TV? And why does anything need to be 'done' about it?

People may have avoided it in protest due to the all-white best actor and best actress nominees. Or because there weren't enough romantic comedies nominated in the best picture category. Who knows—maybe they were clearing snow from their cars in preparation for the Monday morning commute.

It doesn't mean we need to upend the Oscar blueprint.

This is akin to spending hundreds of millions of dollars on a Scarlet-throated Tanager defense network simply because a few misguided individuals created a lilliputian, even insignificant, problem with missile defense systems—once.

Crazy.

Finally, since when were the Oscars supposed to be a red-carpet-and-designer-gown, Super Bowl-styled ratings windfall? Let them be. Let the Oscars do what they do best, which is celebrate Hollywood and allow us the rest of us an opportunity to practice a little indoor astronomy.

Celebrate movies—not mass consumption.

Please?

Riffing on the Movies

It’s a bit odd that I don’t post more often about movies, considering their profound impact on me. So many of the most fulfilling moments of my life have been spent in darkened theaters, given over to an absorbing story line playing out on a giant silver screen.

How could I forget the nights of my youth, taking in the cinematic wonders of the thirties, forties and fifties flickering for free on late night TV? Or seeing The Godfather, Raging Bull, The Last Emperor and The Painted Veil in a theater? They looked like beautiful gems on a black velvet pillow.

Like you, I have my favorites. In addition to the above, there’s Out of the Past, Vertigo, Picnic at Hanging Rock, It’s a Wonderful Life, The Last Picture Show, The Wrestler, La Strada, Network, The Unbearable Lightness of Being and Casablanca. And Fargo, The Hustler, A Streetcar Named Desire and Ikiru. And Rashomon and Citizen Kane and Mulholland Drive.

Can I really ignore Lawrence of Arabia, Chinatown, The Treasure of the Sierra Madre or 12 Angry Men? Or Mr. Roberts, The Shawshank Redemption and One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest?

Hell no.

Just to make it an even thirty, let’s throw in His Girl Friday and My Cousin Vinny. (I don’t broadcast the fact, but yes—I like to laugh. Sometimes.)

Billy Wilder, Alfred Hitchcock, Martin Scorsese, Akira Kurosawa and Roman Polanski are geniuses. John Huston, Werner Herzog, Steven Spielberg, Federico Fellini, Sidney Lumet and Peter Weir aren’t far behind.

Which leaves out Sydney Pollack, the Coen brothers, Stanley Kubrick, Bryan Forbes, Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu, John Schlesinger, Robert Altman and Anthony Minghella!

Crap. No wonder I don’t post more about film.

As best I can, I reckon I have seen approximately 1,057 movies in their entirety. The decade most often represented is the eighties, which makes sense since a.) I was young, and b.) had disposable income.

I have seen more of Hitchcock's films than any other director’s, and find it very appropriate that, given the extravagant imagery of his films, Fellini died on Halloween.

In a really peculiar bit of coincidence, the countries which produce my favorite cars are also the country of origin for my favorite foreign-language films (Japan, Italy and Germany).

I tend to like movies featuring conflicted and troubled individuals. Individuals facing dilemmas, moral and otherwise.

That said, I love film noir. It is, without a doubt, my favorite genre. And for my money, Out of the Past is the ne plus ultra of the species. Razor-sharp dialogue, great cinematography and one of the best performances of Robert Mitchum’s career.

Not surprisingly, the female lead--Jane Greer--is my femme fatale of all-time. Her Kathie Moffat has a heart colder than a stripper’s smile. To borrow a line from the Gene Hackman movie Heist, she could talk her way out of a sunburn.

This is also one of Kirk Douglas’ earliest films, and for an actor lampooned for his over-the-top performances, he turns in a taut, no-frills one here, conveying a violent menace barely contained by a cool exterior.

OK. That's the end of this post. If you’re of a mind to, leave your favorites in the comments section. I am nothing if not curious.