If one studies the titles in the Series of Unfortunate Events up to the
point at which I am currently stopped, an interesting pattern emerges.
While Lemony Snicket makes full use of his alliterative license in each
of the first four titles, only two of the titles contain an adjective
that could be construed as negative. In spite of the doom and gloom that
prevailed in the second and third volumes – including the demise of two
characters, one of which was particularly beloved – the orphans at
least were in the care of guardians who were benevolent, if a bit too
trusting (Uncle Monty) and a bit too paranoid (Aunt Josephine). One of
the signs that the guardian in The Miserable Mill will be
different is that there is no “uncle” attached to his moniker. We never
even learn his name. Like the mysterious first name of Spock, the
character in possession of it merely brushes it aside as
unpronounceable. What’s more, we do not see his face. The new caretaker
for Violet, Klaus and Sunny Baudelaire has a face that is forever
wreathed in cigar smoke. His contact with the children is minimal, and
they only know him as “Sir.”
All this would perhaps be of
little consequence if only the orphans were in suitable living
conditions. But the perpetually unlucky waifs go from a house teetering
on the edge of a cliff to a small bunk bed in a room full of mill
workers. Moreover, they are forced to work in the lumber mill
themselves, performing tasks far more difficult and dull than are
appropriate for minors. Trapped in this manual labor, they have no
leisure to invent or read or bite things, and the noise of the machinery
renders them unable to talk to one another. All of this is quite
dreadful, but Snicket really takes the agony up a notch with one of the
greatest of possible childhood calamities: a pair of busted glasses. I’m
almost surprised this didn’t happen to Klaus before, since it certainly
takes him out of the picture for a while. And that is perhaps the
scariest thing of all: the prospect of these Three Musketeers being
separated. In fact, this is the most likely tragedy to befall any given
set of contemporary orphans. Few will be hounded by evil men after their
fortune or dragged from one bizarre locale after another in search of a
guardian who will not keel over or kick them out. But many are
separated in the quest to place them in decent homes, and I would be
surprised if at some point in the series the inept executor Mr. Poe does
not try to separate the children from the only thing they have left in
this world: each other.
Happily, though, it has not come to
that yet. Still, I found this by far the darkest of the first four
books. Klaus does find himself separated from his sisters for a time,
with disastrous results. Each orphan must learn to think outside his or
her normal range of expertise in order to save the day when a sibling
more suited to the task is incapacitated. The fact that they have been
unable to exercise their ingenuity since their arrival at the mill can’t
help either. The days at the mill are dull and hopeless, not to mention
exhausting. Even living with Count Olaf was better than this – except,
of course, that Sir does not have any intention of killing them. That
doesn’t make him any more pleasant a character.
It’s up to
more minor folks to help maintain the orphans’ faith in the human race.
Though their guardian is cruel and unreasonable, the orphans find an
ally in his partner, Charles, a gentle man who agrees that it is unfair
to force youngsters to work in a mill. Unfortunately, Charles is a
pushover, completely unable to uphold his end of an argument against his
fierce cohort. Little better is Phil, the first person they meet upon
entering the dormitory at the outset of their stay. Snicket patiently
explains that Phil is an optimist, and as one can surmise, someone with
such an unconditionally cheery disposition really is out of place in the
midst of so much misery. Though he tries to sympathize with the
orphans’ plight, he can’t help but try to look on the bright side.
Sadly, Violet, Klaus and Sunny know all too well that “bright side” is
often still very dim indeed.
Snicket makes the orphans’ latest
home so unpleasant that we almost don’t miss Count Olaf when he fails
to show up early in the book. But he makes sure to remind us that the
devious fellow is always hot on the trail, and eventually he does make
an appearance, this time as a receptionist named Shirley (as in “Surely
you don’t expect anyone to fall for that get-up, Count Olaf!”). His
henchman actually plays a much larger role that is not revealed until
very late in the novel.
I didn’t find The Miserable Mill nearly as funny as The Wide Window.
I rarely caught myself laughing aloud, and none of the metaphors or
definitions struck me as particularly brilliant or witty. I did find it
interesting, however, how often Snicket referred to his own adventures
in this volume. I suspect that if I read his Unauthorized Autobiography
right now, it would make a lot more sense. There are plenty of
references to exceedingly odd things that happened to him, and he
brushes them off so nonchalantly as part of his educational endeavors
that the reader might be inclined to do a double-take, wondering about
the statement’s plausibility. What kind of life does this guy lead? It
becomes clearer and clearer that the narrator is a dynamic character in
and of himself, perhaps even more fully formed than the young
protagonists. Also of interest is the enigmatic Beatrice, the love of
Snicket’s life to whom every book thus far has been dedicated, in spite
of the fact imparted in this book that she dumped him before her death.
Does this woman have a real-life counterpart whose memory drives Daniel
Handler to write these stories, or is she just as artificial as the
Count and the Baudelaires?
I didn’t enjoy The Miserable Mill
quite as much as the others thus far, mainly because I felt grim was
overtaking silly to an uncomfortable level. I’m hoping there is a bit
more levity in the fifth book, which I suspect I will be starting very
soon. Nonetheless, the fourth book is a fine installment, most of which
is certainly deserving of the label “unfortunate.”
Monday, June 6, 2005
Saturday, June 4, 2005
Third Snicket Book Offers Wide Window Into Author's Demented Mind
When I learned that the film A Series of Unfortunate Events
covered not just the first volume in Lemony Snicket’s ingenious series
but the second and third as well, I decided it was high time I got
around to reading the second and third books. I did not want to go to
that movie without having read them. I fulfilled half of my ambition,
but it was only this week that I finally purchased and breezed through The Wide Window.
I couldn’t resist the lure of seeing Count Olaf on the big screen, even
if I had not yet encountered the scheme he would try on the poor
Baudelaire orphans in the third book.
I was worried, as I opened the third book in the series to the first thick page, that knowing the gist of the plot might detract from my enjoyment, but I needn’t have been concerned. In the delectable transition between the second and third paragraph, I was caught with a chortle in my throat, and I never looked back. As I read, I was just all the more aware of the fact that while Snicket is wildly inventive with his landscapes, characters and sticky situations, it is his distinctive narrative style, both demure and deranged, that truly captures my fancy. A part of me thinks I really shouldn’t find such horrible events so fiendishly entertaining. But his tone is so tantalizing I can’t help myself.
The fun begins on the back cover, where the author sees fit to place a warning that includes several items that may well steer the reader of gentle constitution away from his woeful chronicles. Now, I can buy that leeches, a villain, a hurricane and even cold cucumber soup are rather pernicious elements to include in a children’s tale, but what is so alarming about a signaling device and a doll named Pretty Penny? Only the stout of heart dare attempt to find out. From the outset of the book, we know the orphans are in for an especially dreary time. Not only are they in close proximity to such morose landmarks as Lake Lachrymose and Damocles Dock, but they are sent to live in a creaky house teetering at the top of a cliff and occupied by the most paranoid woman on the planet.
While this new guardian is not sinister like Count Olaf, the distant relation whom they know as Aunt Josephine is hardly the ideal companion that Uncle Monty was. I miss the jolly Scotsman with his wide array of snakes. Now we are stuck with an antiseptic old lady who fears doorknobs, phones, welcome mats, ovens and, above all, realtors. Aside from her panphobia, her most notable trait is her passion for the proper use of the English language. On a recent trip to my old elementary school, my esteemed middle school English teacher confided that she’d overheard a student refer to her as a “Grammar Nazi.” While I certainly don’t think that is a phrase fairly applied to my beloved instructor, it might just fit Aunt Josephine, who is so obsessed that she insists on pointing out that every word the infant Sunny says is grammatically incorrect.
As dreary as their lives with their new guardian are, inventive Violet, studious Klaus and teething Sunny are managing fairly well until the inevitable occurs. Count Olaf shows up in yet another disguise. I admit to finding a certain charm in the crusty sea captain – the appropriately named Captain Sham – though knowing right off the bat who he really is holds that attraction at bay. It is easy to see, however, how a miserable old sea widow could be taken in by a flattering old fellow whose leg was apparently eaten by the very leeches that took her husband’s life. Most of the adults in this series are laughably incompetent, particularly Mr. Poe, the executor of the Baudelaire estate. Though he’s kind-hearted enough, he is utterly blind when it comes to detecting the Count’s schemes. It’s a good thing that the orphans are both precocious and industrious. It’s an even better thing that in spite of all the misfortune that comes their way, the three children have one another, which makes even the grimmest situations somewhat bearable.
I’m conflicted as to the time frame of this series. The design of the books, from the hardcover format with uneven pages to the gothic line drawings, seems old-fashioned, as do the children themselves. The girls wear dresses; Klaus wears a suit. They do not speak like contemporary children, and I am curious to see whether other children will show any more signs of modernity when I finally encounter them in the fifth book. The presence of cars places the series firmly in the twentieth century, while the distasteful neon lights at the Anxious Clown restaurant indicate a time even closer to the present. I get the sense the time period is meant to be ambiguous, while allowing for the possibility that such fantastic – a word which here means “fantastically awful” – adventures can indeed occur in modern society.
One of the most distinctive things about Snicket’s books are their overt didacticism. He constantly addresses the audience, issuing warnings, unleashing unlikely metaphors and, most frequently, delivering practical vocabulary lessons. Sometimes he allows one of the characters to do the defining for him, as in this amusing exchange in the first chapter that recalls Airplane:
Mr. Poe: It didn’t seem polite to ask how she became a dowager. Well, let’s put you in a taxi.
Violet: What does that word mean?
Mr. Poe: (raising eyebrows) I’m surprised at you, Violet. A girl of your age should know that a taxi is a car which will drive you someplace for a fee...
Klaus: (whispered to Violet) Dowager is a fancy word for ‘widow.’
Mostly, however, he just sticks the meanings in himself, either providing a general, all-purpose definition or furnishing one specific to the occasion. Occasionally he steps aside to attack an idiom, giving an interesting etymological lesson and a bit of foreshadowing all rolled into one.
In this book, there is even more education than usual, as every other sentence out of Aunt Josephine’s mouth is some sort of grammar lesson. Of course, this is intended not so much to be useful as to demonstrate that even helpful things like grammar can become destructive if they are obsessed over to excess. This is a lesson in itself, however, and a very practical one at that. It is selfish to be more concerned about punctuation than the welfare of orphans, and it is foolish to correct the grammar of one who holds your life in his hands. While reading The Wide Window might be a worthwhile exercise for someone eager to get a head start on studying for the English portion of the SAT, this is not the only subject in which a reader might find himself educated. Violet’s fascination with inventions and Klaus’ love of reading combine to make for many opportunities for scientific epiphanies. The most notable of such discoveries in this tome involves the aforementioned signaling device. Moreover, there are historical facts to be garnered, and Snicket makes mention of such notable figures as Alexander the Great and Archduke Ferdinand.
My favorite examples of Snicket’s attempts to impart knowledge, however, are in his metaphors and explanatory illustrations, which range from ludicrously obvious to patently bizarre. These are the moments that most often cause me to chuckle. I suspect certain passages affect particular readers differently, and each reader must make his or her own search for those gems of sentences that especially stand out. As for me, I cannot resist sharing the two that made me laugh loudest and longest:
If you are allergic to a thing, it is best not to put that thing in your mouth, particularly if the thing is cats. (p. 102)
Stealing is not excusable if, for instance, you are in a museum and you decide that a certain painting would look better in your house, and you simply grab the painting and take it there. But if you were very, very hungry, and you had no way of obtaining money, it might be excusable to grab the painting, take it to your house, and eat it. (p. 136-7)
While The Reptile Room was particularly enjoyable for me thanks to the warmth of kindly Uncle Monty, The Wide Window, whose overall tone was gloomier, did a better job of tickling my funny bone, and that was mostly due to random narratorial comments such as those listed above. The Baudelaire orphans may be unreasonably unfortunate to be subject to so much misery, but we are extremely fortunate to have Lemony Snicket so astutely chronicling their adventures.
I was worried, as I opened the third book in the series to the first thick page, that knowing the gist of the plot might detract from my enjoyment, but I needn’t have been concerned. In the delectable transition between the second and third paragraph, I was caught with a chortle in my throat, and I never looked back. As I read, I was just all the more aware of the fact that while Snicket is wildly inventive with his landscapes, characters and sticky situations, it is his distinctive narrative style, both demure and deranged, that truly captures my fancy. A part of me thinks I really shouldn’t find such horrible events so fiendishly entertaining. But his tone is so tantalizing I can’t help myself.
The fun begins on the back cover, where the author sees fit to place a warning that includes several items that may well steer the reader of gentle constitution away from his woeful chronicles. Now, I can buy that leeches, a villain, a hurricane and even cold cucumber soup are rather pernicious elements to include in a children’s tale, but what is so alarming about a signaling device and a doll named Pretty Penny? Only the stout of heart dare attempt to find out. From the outset of the book, we know the orphans are in for an especially dreary time. Not only are they in close proximity to such morose landmarks as Lake Lachrymose and Damocles Dock, but they are sent to live in a creaky house teetering at the top of a cliff and occupied by the most paranoid woman on the planet.
While this new guardian is not sinister like Count Olaf, the distant relation whom they know as Aunt Josephine is hardly the ideal companion that Uncle Monty was. I miss the jolly Scotsman with his wide array of snakes. Now we are stuck with an antiseptic old lady who fears doorknobs, phones, welcome mats, ovens and, above all, realtors. Aside from her panphobia, her most notable trait is her passion for the proper use of the English language. On a recent trip to my old elementary school, my esteemed middle school English teacher confided that she’d overheard a student refer to her as a “Grammar Nazi.” While I certainly don’t think that is a phrase fairly applied to my beloved instructor, it might just fit Aunt Josephine, who is so obsessed that she insists on pointing out that every word the infant Sunny says is grammatically incorrect.
As dreary as their lives with their new guardian are, inventive Violet, studious Klaus and teething Sunny are managing fairly well until the inevitable occurs. Count Olaf shows up in yet another disguise. I admit to finding a certain charm in the crusty sea captain – the appropriately named Captain Sham – though knowing right off the bat who he really is holds that attraction at bay. It is easy to see, however, how a miserable old sea widow could be taken in by a flattering old fellow whose leg was apparently eaten by the very leeches that took her husband’s life. Most of the adults in this series are laughably incompetent, particularly Mr. Poe, the executor of the Baudelaire estate. Though he’s kind-hearted enough, he is utterly blind when it comes to detecting the Count’s schemes. It’s a good thing that the orphans are both precocious and industrious. It’s an even better thing that in spite of all the misfortune that comes their way, the three children have one another, which makes even the grimmest situations somewhat bearable.
I’m conflicted as to the time frame of this series. The design of the books, from the hardcover format with uneven pages to the gothic line drawings, seems old-fashioned, as do the children themselves. The girls wear dresses; Klaus wears a suit. They do not speak like contemporary children, and I am curious to see whether other children will show any more signs of modernity when I finally encounter them in the fifth book. The presence of cars places the series firmly in the twentieth century, while the distasteful neon lights at the Anxious Clown restaurant indicate a time even closer to the present. I get the sense the time period is meant to be ambiguous, while allowing for the possibility that such fantastic – a word which here means “fantastically awful” – adventures can indeed occur in modern society.
One of the most distinctive things about Snicket’s books are their overt didacticism. He constantly addresses the audience, issuing warnings, unleashing unlikely metaphors and, most frequently, delivering practical vocabulary lessons. Sometimes he allows one of the characters to do the defining for him, as in this amusing exchange in the first chapter that recalls Airplane:
Mr. Poe: It didn’t seem polite to ask how she became a dowager. Well, let’s put you in a taxi.
Violet: What does that word mean?
Mr. Poe: (raising eyebrows) I’m surprised at you, Violet. A girl of your age should know that a taxi is a car which will drive you someplace for a fee...
Klaus: (whispered to Violet) Dowager is a fancy word for ‘widow.’
Mostly, however, he just sticks the meanings in himself, either providing a general, all-purpose definition or furnishing one specific to the occasion. Occasionally he steps aside to attack an idiom, giving an interesting etymological lesson and a bit of foreshadowing all rolled into one.
In this book, there is even more education than usual, as every other sentence out of Aunt Josephine’s mouth is some sort of grammar lesson. Of course, this is intended not so much to be useful as to demonstrate that even helpful things like grammar can become destructive if they are obsessed over to excess. This is a lesson in itself, however, and a very practical one at that. It is selfish to be more concerned about punctuation than the welfare of orphans, and it is foolish to correct the grammar of one who holds your life in his hands. While reading The Wide Window might be a worthwhile exercise for someone eager to get a head start on studying for the English portion of the SAT, this is not the only subject in which a reader might find himself educated. Violet’s fascination with inventions and Klaus’ love of reading combine to make for many opportunities for scientific epiphanies. The most notable of such discoveries in this tome involves the aforementioned signaling device. Moreover, there are historical facts to be garnered, and Snicket makes mention of such notable figures as Alexander the Great and Archduke Ferdinand.
My favorite examples of Snicket’s attempts to impart knowledge, however, are in his metaphors and explanatory illustrations, which range from ludicrously obvious to patently bizarre. These are the moments that most often cause me to chuckle. I suspect certain passages affect particular readers differently, and each reader must make his or her own search for those gems of sentences that especially stand out. As for me, I cannot resist sharing the two that made me laugh loudest and longest:
If you are allergic to a thing, it is best not to put that thing in your mouth, particularly if the thing is cats. (p. 102)
Stealing is not excusable if, for instance, you are in a museum and you decide that a certain painting would look better in your house, and you simply grab the painting and take it there. But if you were very, very hungry, and you had no way of obtaining money, it might be excusable to grab the painting, take it to your house, and eat it. (p. 136-7)
While The Reptile Room was particularly enjoyable for me thanks to the warmth of kindly Uncle Monty, The Wide Window, whose overall tone was gloomier, did a better job of tickling my funny bone, and that was mostly due to random narratorial comments such as those listed above. The Baudelaire orphans may be unreasonably unfortunate to be subject to so much misery, but we are extremely fortunate to have Lemony Snicket so astutely chronicling their adventures.
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
A Pretty Impressive Capper, But Vader Should Still Seek Revenge for Defamation of Character
“Star Wars is the defining event of our lives,” my dad remarked to my mom on our way home from seeing Episode III: Revenge of the Sith.
“The first one came out just as we entered adulthood, and the last one
just as our kids are entering adulthood.” It’s a formidable thought.
Nearly 30 years for George to complete his legacy. Unless he still has
the triple trilogy in mind… It’s strange, setting up a series in such a
way that everyone knows how the story ends long before it begins. We all
knew that this third installment leading directly into the epic that
started it all would be by far the darkest of the six. It makes for a
slightly surreal experience, knowing that everything has to go wrong,
watching in revulsion but stopping just short of willing it not to
happen because you know it’s required for the glorious events of the
original trilogy. In the end it begs the question: Did we really need
these prequels in the first place? I’m not a hard-core enough fan to
answer that question. But I recognize this is the end of an era, and I
celebrate it by making it my 600th review – one hundred for each movie
if you like. No matter what, you have to admit George Lucas had a pretty
impressive accomplishment.
So, how was it? Well, I missed the mayhem of opening night, though my brother and our exchange student got in on the fun. My parents and I saw it three days later. We still had to buy our tickets three hours in advance and wait in line for an hour after turning in our tickets in order to be assured decent seats. Aside from a few light sabers, ours was not a costumed audience. Only one man had the full regalia, a fellow who’d been there for the first showing (and maybe every night after) in his $2700 Darth Vader costume. I want one. Not really. I’d rather have a life-size R2-D2. Anyway, we were treated to a rather unusual occurrence that night. Just before the previews were about to start, the lights went up and a man, armed with the disclaimer that he had nothing to do with the movie, announced that he was attending with his girlfriend, who was very special to him, and he requested that she join him in front of the screen. Then he proceeded to get down on one knee and propose, and her affirmative answer was met with rapturous applause. Oddly enough, I think it was the loudest applause of the night…
Trouble is, Revenge of the Sith is rarely a movie that makes you cheer. It’s like a Shakespearean tragedy, with Anakin (Hayden Christiansen) in the spot occupied by Othello and MacBeth and other anti-heroes who leave the audience groaning and thinking again and again, You moron! Anakin is a decent guy at the start of the film, teaming up with master Obi-Wan Kenobi (Ewan McGregor) to battle evil robots while rushing to the defense of indispensable little R2-D2 (Kenny Baker) when his mentor maligns him. His passion is his undoing, however. In spite of Yoda’s warnings to release himself from attachment to anything he fears to lose, he is increasingly driven by paranoia brought on by a series of disturbing dreams about his beloved secret bride Padme (Natalie Portman). Christiansen doesn’t bug me as much in this movie as he did in Attack of the Clones, but he’s still too moody and whiny to be very likable, or very impressive. I can put up with Luke’s petulance at the outset of A New Hope; at least he comes across as a sweet guy. I don’t know how I wanted Anakin to be, but I think I preferred having his origins ambiguous. Darth Vader is arguably the most formidable movie villain in cinematic history, and I find him cheapened by an inadequate history. And while we are supposed to believe that the intensity of his love for Padme is so great that he is willing to all but destroy the Jedi order to ensure her safety, they always seem wooden in their scenes together. It doesn’t help that they’re still hampered by the occasional excruciating dialogue. If my husband had just told me that he wanted to take over the galaxy, I’d like to think I could have come up with something more useful to say than “You’re breaking my heart.”
If Christiansen still lacks chemistry with Portman, he demonstrates it with McGregor. They kick off the film together with a dizzying action sequence at the conclusion of which a light-hearted conversation between Obi-Wan and Anakin reveals just a hint of jealousy that the padawan is outranking his teacher. Theirs is a relationship torn by the tension between affection and ambition. For the most part, we do get the sense Obi-Wan accepts the notion that he is training a Jedi who will become more powerful than him and resents the fact that other members of the council find Anakin less than trustworthy. Anakin, however, is less generous, always grumbling about Obi-Wan standing in the way of what he wants to do. It doesn’t take him long to abandon concern for his master. As Palpatine (Ian McDiarmid) leads him further down the path of corruption, Obi-Wan looks more and more like the enemy. McGregor helms most of the film’s truly emotional scenes, most notably the culmination of their climactic battle in which an agonized Obi-Wan is forced to admit once and for all that he has lost his padawan forever. We see a great deal more from McGregor this time around, and I would classify him as a much better actor than Christiansen. It’s just a shame that one of the most beloved Star Wars characters was played by two different actors who’ve seemed almost resentful of the fact that they were involved. I suspect McGregor’s recent comments on his fans may have alienated a few people; I guess he has a hunch now how Sir Alec Guinness felt.
I found it very hard to feel sorry for Anakin throughout the film, even if his initial motivation was noble. It’s sad to see him manipulated by Palpatine, who is perhaps the true star of the film as McDiarmid takes him from benign presence who nonetheless seems to possess a slightly sinister air to fully disclosed evil emperor. But it seems good judgment should have tipped him off early on that Palpatine was up to no good. He recoils at Palpatine’s request to kill Count Dooku (Christopher Lee, who must be getting tired of playing second-tier villains with somewhat embarrassing death scenes) and refuses to acquiesce to his demand that – supposedly in the interests of time – they leave Obi-Wan behind. But apparently there are years of influence at work that we don’t see on screen. Palpatine is truly frightening for most of the film, evoking a moral crisis in Anakin, particularly when he announces his familiarity with the dark side and offers to pass on his knowledge. I found the altercation in the theater unsatisfactory on Christiansen’s end, or at least whoever wrote the dialogue. Palpatine’s fine, but Anakin again seems stiff and unconvincing. The scene sets us up for the moment that should demonstrate to him once and for all that this guy is extremely bad news but instead seems to eradicate any trace of a decent human being in young Skywalker. Perhaps he sees himself as party to such a calamity that he already deems himself irredeemable. All he supposedly cares about now is Padme, though once he begins to carry out Palpatine’s orders it can hardly be said that thoughts of her have any influence over his actions. The last indication in the film that she still means anything to him is so excruciating, one wonders how James Earl Jones could have been convinced to decimate his dignity by agreeing to it.
Mace Windu (Samuel L. Jackson) embodies the struggle for the Jedi to remain relevant in a time of great change. He is a formidable force, rather like the man who plays him. I find it amusing that he talked Lucas into giving him a purple light saber so he’d stand out and that he actually included a stipulation in his contract that his character had to have a noteworthy death scene. Visually, it’s pretty riveting. Emotionally, it’s the turning point of the whole film. Yoda (Frank Oz) spends much of the movie hobnobbing with the Wookiees, and while I was looking forward to this aspect of the film, it didn’t really satisfy me. For one thing, I imagined the planet as an idyllic locale, and it might have been if not for the fact that it was a war zone. The Wookiees almost looked like Klingons with all their ammo and war decorations, and when it came right down to it the whole interlude at their planet seemed to serve little purpose other than to get Yoda out of the line of fire for a while. Chewy (Peter Mayhew) shows up, but we don’t get any sense of his personality except that he’s on Yoda’s side. So that was a bit of a disappointment, but Yoda never fails to come through for me. He’s one of my three favorite characters in the trilogy, all of which conveniently appear in the prequels portrayed by the same actors. I still prefer the swamp-dwelling Yoda to the more dignified personage of the prequels, but he’s still the same delightful character, and he radiates wisdom and heart in a film whose protagonist stands in sore need of both.
The droids are my other favorites. There is precious little to be seen of C-3PO, though when he is on screen he certainly attracts attention with his ultra-shiny new frame. Generally he’s a great chatterbox, and I could have used more of his silly comments. I was also rather perplexed by his appearance just after Anakin departs to subvert the inevitable altercation between Palpatine and Mace Windu. It cuts to Padme, and C-3PO waddles up to her, and then it cuts to a completely different scene. Those five or ten seconds seemed completely superfluous, and I was left with the impression that a scene had been deleted and due to sloppy editing or a teaser for the DVD or whatever, they left the beginning of it intact. R2-D2 shines in Sith, however, particularly at the beginning. He is as much a hero as Anakin or Obi-Wan in the opening minutes, and he handles his sticky situation with typical good humor. Most of the movie’s funniest moments involve him. When we bought our tickets, we received a complementary copy of Flick, a Cinemark magazine, and this issue focused entirely on Star Wars. One page advertises various available merchandise, including life-size cardboard stand-ups that come equipped with a chip allowing them to speak quotes from the movie. One of the figures is R2-D2, which begs the question, of what significant quote my favorite little garbage can-like being could boast. Still, he’s awfully expressive for a guy who speaks exclusively in a series of unintelligible squeaks, beeps and whistles, and you can never really accuse him of having a lame line.
So did Sith deliver all that I expected? I can’t say for sure, though a hunch still tells me no. Phantom Menace was a lot more fun, and I rather liked our feeling of jubilation as we exited the theater. It seemed the only appropriate reaction to the end of Sith was pensiveness. But it wasn’t any more depressing than I expected, and less violent than I thought it would be. It was visually stunning, though it lacked the beauty of Naboo as revealed in different forms in the first and second installments. The dizzying chases through space and sky threatened to give me vertigo, while Palpatine passed on the creepy crawlies every time he appeared on screen. Anakin, too, mainly in the horrific scenes following Mace Windu’s death that are as distressing for what they don’t show as what they do. The most tragic moment for me in the entire film was when a young Jedi, eyes wide with fear and trust, turned to Anakin for protection and received something entirely unexpected. In ten seconds, that young man packed an emotional whallop infinitely greater than what Jake Lloyd was able to accomplish in the course of an entire movie.
I won’t say that Sith impressed me as much as I thought it could have, but all in all it was a pretty affecting film and a mostly satisfactory link between Episodes I and II and the original trilogy. But I still think Darth Vader will never be quite as cool as he was before the prequels exposed Anakin as a character most undeserving of being the subject of a grandiose 6-part space epic.
So, how was it? Well, I missed the mayhem of opening night, though my brother and our exchange student got in on the fun. My parents and I saw it three days later. We still had to buy our tickets three hours in advance and wait in line for an hour after turning in our tickets in order to be assured decent seats. Aside from a few light sabers, ours was not a costumed audience. Only one man had the full regalia, a fellow who’d been there for the first showing (and maybe every night after) in his $2700 Darth Vader costume. I want one. Not really. I’d rather have a life-size R2-D2. Anyway, we were treated to a rather unusual occurrence that night. Just before the previews were about to start, the lights went up and a man, armed with the disclaimer that he had nothing to do with the movie, announced that he was attending with his girlfriend, who was very special to him, and he requested that she join him in front of the screen. Then he proceeded to get down on one knee and propose, and her affirmative answer was met with rapturous applause. Oddly enough, I think it was the loudest applause of the night…
Trouble is, Revenge of the Sith is rarely a movie that makes you cheer. It’s like a Shakespearean tragedy, with Anakin (Hayden Christiansen) in the spot occupied by Othello and MacBeth and other anti-heroes who leave the audience groaning and thinking again and again, You moron! Anakin is a decent guy at the start of the film, teaming up with master Obi-Wan Kenobi (Ewan McGregor) to battle evil robots while rushing to the defense of indispensable little R2-D2 (Kenny Baker) when his mentor maligns him. His passion is his undoing, however. In spite of Yoda’s warnings to release himself from attachment to anything he fears to lose, he is increasingly driven by paranoia brought on by a series of disturbing dreams about his beloved secret bride Padme (Natalie Portman). Christiansen doesn’t bug me as much in this movie as he did in Attack of the Clones, but he’s still too moody and whiny to be very likable, or very impressive. I can put up with Luke’s petulance at the outset of A New Hope; at least he comes across as a sweet guy. I don’t know how I wanted Anakin to be, but I think I preferred having his origins ambiguous. Darth Vader is arguably the most formidable movie villain in cinematic history, and I find him cheapened by an inadequate history. And while we are supposed to believe that the intensity of his love for Padme is so great that he is willing to all but destroy the Jedi order to ensure her safety, they always seem wooden in their scenes together. It doesn’t help that they’re still hampered by the occasional excruciating dialogue. If my husband had just told me that he wanted to take over the galaxy, I’d like to think I could have come up with something more useful to say than “You’re breaking my heart.”
If Christiansen still lacks chemistry with Portman, he demonstrates it with McGregor. They kick off the film together with a dizzying action sequence at the conclusion of which a light-hearted conversation between Obi-Wan and Anakin reveals just a hint of jealousy that the padawan is outranking his teacher. Theirs is a relationship torn by the tension between affection and ambition. For the most part, we do get the sense Obi-Wan accepts the notion that he is training a Jedi who will become more powerful than him and resents the fact that other members of the council find Anakin less than trustworthy. Anakin, however, is less generous, always grumbling about Obi-Wan standing in the way of what he wants to do. It doesn’t take him long to abandon concern for his master. As Palpatine (Ian McDiarmid) leads him further down the path of corruption, Obi-Wan looks more and more like the enemy. McGregor helms most of the film’s truly emotional scenes, most notably the culmination of their climactic battle in which an agonized Obi-Wan is forced to admit once and for all that he has lost his padawan forever. We see a great deal more from McGregor this time around, and I would classify him as a much better actor than Christiansen. It’s just a shame that one of the most beloved Star Wars characters was played by two different actors who’ve seemed almost resentful of the fact that they were involved. I suspect McGregor’s recent comments on his fans may have alienated a few people; I guess he has a hunch now how Sir Alec Guinness felt.
I found it very hard to feel sorry for Anakin throughout the film, even if his initial motivation was noble. It’s sad to see him manipulated by Palpatine, who is perhaps the true star of the film as McDiarmid takes him from benign presence who nonetheless seems to possess a slightly sinister air to fully disclosed evil emperor. But it seems good judgment should have tipped him off early on that Palpatine was up to no good. He recoils at Palpatine’s request to kill Count Dooku (Christopher Lee, who must be getting tired of playing second-tier villains with somewhat embarrassing death scenes) and refuses to acquiesce to his demand that – supposedly in the interests of time – they leave Obi-Wan behind. But apparently there are years of influence at work that we don’t see on screen. Palpatine is truly frightening for most of the film, evoking a moral crisis in Anakin, particularly when he announces his familiarity with the dark side and offers to pass on his knowledge. I found the altercation in the theater unsatisfactory on Christiansen’s end, or at least whoever wrote the dialogue. Palpatine’s fine, but Anakin again seems stiff and unconvincing. The scene sets us up for the moment that should demonstrate to him once and for all that this guy is extremely bad news but instead seems to eradicate any trace of a decent human being in young Skywalker. Perhaps he sees himself as party to such a calamity that he already deems himself irredeemable. All he supposedly cares about now is Padme, though once he begins to carry out Palpatine’s orders it can hardly be said that thoughts of her have any influence over his actions. The last indication in the film that she still means anything to him is so excruciating, one wonders how James Earl Jones could have been convinced to decimate his dignity by agreeing to it.
Mace Windu (Samuel L. Jackson) embodies the struggle for the Jedi to remain relevant in a time of great change. He is a formidable force, rather like the man who plays him. I find it amusing that he talked Lucas into giving him a purple light saber so he’d stand out and that he actually included a stipulation in his contract that his character had to have a noteworthy death scene. Visually, it’s pretty riveting. Emotionally, it’s the turning point of the whole film. Yoda (Frank Oz) spends much of the movie hobnobbing with the Wookiees, and while I was looking forward to this aspect of the film, it didn’t really satisfy me. For one thing, I imagined the planet as an idyllic locale, and it might have been if not for the fact that it was a war zone. The Wookiees almost looked like Klingons with all their ammo and war decorations, and when it came right down to it the whole interlude at their planet seemed to serve little purpose other than to get Yoda out of the line of fire for a while. Chewy (Peter Mayhew) shows up, but we don’t get any sense of his personality except that he’s on Yoda’s side. So that was a bit of a disappointment, but Yoda never fails to come through for me. He’s one of my three favorite characters in the trilogy, all of which conveniently appear in the prequels portrayed by the same actors. I still prefer the swamp-dwelling Yoda to the more dignified personage of the prequels, but he’s still the same delightful character, and he radiates wisdom and heart in a film whose protagonist stands in sore need of both.
The droids are my other favorites. There is precious little to be seen of C-3PO, though when he is on screen he certainly attracts attention with his ultra-shiny new frame. Generally he’s a great chatterbox, and I could have used more of his silly comments. I was also rather perplexed by his appearance just after Anakin departs to subvert the inevitable altercation between Palpatine and Mace Windu. It cuts to Padme, and C-3PO waddles up to her, and then it cuts to a completely different scene. Those five or ten seconds seemed completely superfluous, and I was left with the impression that a scene had been deleted and due to sloppy editing or a teaser for the DVD or whatever, they left the beginning of it intact. R2-D2 shines in Sith, however, particularly at the beginning. He is as much a hero as Anakin or Obi-Wan in the opening minutes, and he handles his sticky situation with typical good humor. Most of the movie’s funniest moments involve him. When we bought our tickets, we received a complementary copy of Flick, a Cinemark magazine, and this issue focused entirely on Star Wars. One page advertises various available merchandise, including life-size cardboard stand-ups that come equipped with a chip allowing them to speak quotes from the movie. One of the figures is R2-D2, which begs the question, of what significant quote my favorite little garbage can-like being could boast. Still, he’s awfully expressive for a guy who speaks exclusively in a series of unintelligible squeaks, beeps and whistles, and you can never really accuse him of having a lame line.
So did Sith deliver all that I expected? I can’t say for sure, though a hunch still tells me no. Phantom Menace was a lot more fun, and I rather liked our feeling of jubilation as we exited the theater. It seemed the only appropriate reaction to the end of Sith was pensiveness. But it wasn’t any more depressing than I expected, and less violent than I thought it would be. It was visually stunning, though it lacked the beauty of Naboo as revealed in different forms in the first and second installments. The dizzying chases through space and sky threatened to give me vertigo, while Palpatine passed on the creepy crawlies every time he appeared on screen. Anakin, too, mainly in the horrific scenes following Mace Windu’s death that are as distressing for what they don’t show as what they do. The most tragic moment for me in the entire film was when a young Jedi, eyes wide with fear and trust, turned to Anakin for protection and received something entirely unexpected. In ten seconds, that young man packed an emotional whallop infinitely greater than what Jake Lloyd was able to accomplish in the course of an entire movie.
I won’t say that Sith impressed me as much as I thought it could have, but all in all it was a pretty affecting film and a mostly satisfactory link between Episodes I and II and the original trilogy. But I still think Darth Vader will never be quite as cool as he was before the prequels exposed Anakin as a character most undeserving of being the subject of a grandiose 6-part space epic.
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
Clint Eastwood's Baby Worth Millions of Dollars in Ticket Sales
The 2004 Oscars were very exciting for me. Though I missed the beginning, I was there to watch Return of the King
pick up an award in all the remaining categories for which it had been
nominated. It was thrilling to see a film for which I had so much
passion receive such resounding recognition from the distinguished
Academy. This year, I didn’t really care. I was mildly interested, but I
had no personal stake in it since I’d only seen a couple films under
consideration, and those were just in editing categories. There was
hardly a Jacksonesque clean sweep this time around, but Million Dollar Baby
still managed to fare quite well, garnering awards in four major
categories. As I watched the end of the ceremony, I couldn’t help but be
a bit intrigued about this film that was getting so much attention.
When my dad later saw it and gave it his stamp of approval, I knew it
wouldn’t be too long before I checked it out for myself.
I finally got around to it last week. I can’t say I’m too fond of boxing as a sport. Watching two people try to knock each other out is more likely to make me cringe than cheer. Nonetheless, Far and Away is one of my favorite films, so I wasn’t going to prejudice myself against the movie on that account. I was also warned that the movie was a bit of a downer, which tends to make me rather reluctant to watch a film. I don’t usually go to the cinema to get depressed. Still, if Million Dollar Baby ends on a tragic note, the echoes of triumph can’t be denied. In any case Clint Eastwood has another fine film to add to his intimidating resume.
Eastwood portrays gruff trainer Frankie Dunn. He’s skillful in spying and cultivating talent in the boxing ring, but he’s weighed down by a burden that prevents him from taking potential champions to the highest level. His is a lonely life, and at the start of the movie his only meaningful relationship is with Eddie Dupris (Morgan Freeman), a former prizefighter who now helps run Frankie’s training center. Frankie has more than boxing woes to pester his conscience; each week he receives unopened letters from his daughter, a visible reminder of their estranged relationship. Perhaps that is part of the reason he is so reluctant to accept the task of training Maggie Fitzgerald (Hilary Swank), though it probably has more do with fears that he will put her into a situation in which she is not properly protected. Certainly he has a hefty load of guilt on his shoulders, as his beleaguered priest points out.
Swank turns in a sincere performance as determined, endlessly optimistic Maggie. Frankie tries to thwart her attempts to join his gym again and again, but she perseveres, practicing long into the night and always insisting upon each meeting with him that he is the only trainer for her. She is fiercely loyal, curiously so before he finally gives her the time of day. One explanation is that she craves a challenge and sees him as the man who can take her where she wants to go. Another is that, as she confides later, he reminds her of her father. It’s amusing to observe his frustration as she shows up, day after day, with a smile on her face and the slightest indication that she may be receiving a little inside help.
Eddie seems to be far more in control of things than Frankie. He’s accepted his lot in life and is spared the torture of the demons that haunt his friend, even when they involve him. Initially, it is he who gets in Maggie’s corner and refuses to abandon her. He is a benevolent if rather grimy presence, always willing to help the underdog. When Frankie finally accepts responsibility for getting Maggie into gear, Eddie remains as a mentor and comforter, while focusing his physical energy on young Danger Barch (Jay Baruchel), an eager but inept young man with a heart inversely proportional to his mental capacities. Freeman brings boundless grace to each scene in which he appears, and he acts as a calming, confidential narrator. I confess I did sometimes find him – and occasionally Swank as well – difficult to understand, but not so much that I couldn’t follow what was happening. All three lead actors play well off each other, lending warmth and believability to their portrayals.
The look of the film is dark and gritty, mostly taking place in Frankie’s dimly lit center or some boxing ring in the center of a packed arena. Though an advertisement for The Apprentice places the action firmly in the present, there is usually little to indicate just what the time period is. The gas station they patronize looks like it could have come straight out of the fifties. I’m guessing this is to indicate that they live in a rather backwards community. I found Frankie’s fascination with Ireland an intriguing part of his character, and his appreciation for William Butler Yeats and silken Gaelic garments taps into something undeniably sweet beneath his harsh exterior.
Though the film’s conclusion has been deemed controversial by some, there’s little in this film that should offend. There are a couple heinous acts by unaccountably brash individuals, but it seems Eastwood’s intentions are always to extol the virtues of love and loyalty, faith and fortitude. While I generally consider profanity as polluting to my ears as cigarette smoke is to my nose, I couldn’t help but be amused by the single use of the f-word in this film. Usually the single instance of that word allowed in a PG-13 movie is a throwaway, leaving you wondering why they even bothered to insert it. Here it certainly gets the audience’s attention by its unlikely placement, cementing the movie’s impression that when it comes to the really tough theological questions, you have to battle things out for yourself. Moreover, there are no easy solutions, but greater fulfillment may lie along the more difficult path.
Million Dollar Baby is a movie that encourages its audience to think and to feel. For that, it is well worth the millions of dollars it generated.
I finally got around to it last week. I can’t say I’m too fond of boxing as a sport. Watching two people try to knock each other out is more likely to make me cringe than cheer. Nonetheless, Far and Away is one of my favorite films, so I wasn’t going to prejudice myself against the movie on that account. I was also warned that the movie was a bit of a downer, which tends to make me rather reluctant to watch a film. I don’t usually go to the cinema to get depressed. Still, if Million Dollar Baby ends on a tragic note, the echoes of triumph can’t be denied. In any case Clint Eastwood has another fine film to add to his intimidating resume.
Eastwood portrays gruff trainer Frankie Dunn. He’s skillful in spying and cultivating talent in the boxing ring, but he’s weighed down by a burden that prevents him from taking potential champions to the highest level. His is a lonely life, and at the start of the movie his only meaningful relationship is with Eddie Dupris (Morgan Freeman), a former prizefighter who now helps run Frankie’s training center. Frankie has more than boxing woes to pester his conscience; each week he receives unopened letters from his daughter, a visible reminder of their estranged relationship. Perhaps that is part of the reason he is so reluctant to accept the task of training Maggie Fitzgerald (Hilary Swank), though it probably has more do with fears that he will put her into a situation in which she is not properly protected. Certainly he has a hefty load of guilt on his shoulders, as his beleaguered priest points out.
Swank turns in a sincere performance as determined, endlessly optimistic Maggie. Frankie tries to thwart her attempts to join his gym again and again, but she perseveres, practicing long into the night and always insisting upon each meeting with him that he is the only trainer for her. She is fiercely loyal, curiously so before he finally gives her the time of day. One explanation is that she craves a challenge and sees him as the man who can take her where she wants to go. Another is that, as she confides later, he reminds her of her father. It’s amusing to observe his frustration as she shows up, day after day, with a smile on her face and the slightest indication that she may be receiving a little inside help.
Eddie seems to be far more in control of things than Frankie. He’s accepted his lot in life and is spared the torture of the demons that haunt his friend, even when they involve him. Initially, it is he who gets in Maggie’s corner and refuses to abandon her. He is a benevolent if rather grimy presence, always willing to help the underdog. When Frankie finally accepts responsibility for getting Maggie into gear, Eddie remains as a mentor and comforter, while focusing his physical energy on young Danger Barch (Jay Baruchel), an eager but inept young man with a heart inversely proportional to his mental capacities. Freeman brings boundless grace to each scene in which he appears, and he acts as a calming, confidential narrator. I confess I did sometimes find him – and occasionally Swank as well – difficult to understand, but not so much that I couldn’t follow what was happening. All three lead actors play well off each other, lending warmth and believability to their portrayals.
The look of the film is dark and gritty, mostly taking place in Frankie’s dimly lit center or some boxing ring in the center of a packed arena. Though an advertisement for The Apprentice places the action firmly in the present, there is usually little to indicate just what the time period is. The gas station they patronize looks like it could have come straight out of the fifties. I’m guessing this is to indicate that they live in a rather backwards community. I found Frankie’s fascination with Ireland an intriguing part of his character, and his appreciation for William Butler Yeats and silken Gaelic garments taps into something undeniably sweet beneath his harsh exterior.
Though the film’s conclusion has been deemed controversial by some, there’s little in this film that should offend. There are a couple heinous acts by unaccountably brash individuals, but it seems Eastwood’s intentions are always to extol the virtues of love and loyalty, faith and fortitude. While I generally consider profanity as polluting to my ears as cigarette smoke is to my nose, I couldn’t help but be amused by the single use of the f-word in this film. Usually the single instance of that word allowed in a PG-13 movie is a throwaway, leaving you wondering why they even bothered to insert it. Here it certainly gets the audience’s attention by its unlikely placement, cementing the movie’s impression that when it comes to the really tough theological questions, you have to battle things out for yourself. Moreover, there are no easy solutions, but greater fulfillment may lie along the more difficult path.
Million Dollar Baby is a movie that encourages its audience to think and to feel. For that, it is well worth the millions of dollars it generated.
Prelutsky Gives Something Big to Teachers Eager to Inspire Young Readers
The past couple years have been fairly unproductive for me as a writer,
but recently it seems I’m getting the knack back. I’ve spent the past
couple weeks writing a proliferation of poems as if to make up for lost
time. They’re not all masterpieces, to be sure, but it’s nice to feel
like I can write something creative again. In my quest to get my
creative juices flowing, there were two poets I knew I had to turn to
first. My college professors would perhaps shake their heads and sigh if
they knew which poets I hold in the highest esteem. We certainly never
studied them in any of the classes that led to the conferring of a
bachelor’s degree in English on lowly little me. But I have no shame in
proclaiming that aside from lyricists (and that is a rather pointless
exclusion since these two both have been occasional songwriters as well)
my favorite poets are Shel Silverstein and Jack Prelutsky.
Silverstein seems to be the more universally known of the two. His distinctive pen and ink style, his poignancy in works such as The Giving Tree, his contributions to the musical world with such classics as The Unicorn and I’m Being Swallowed By a Boa Constrictor, the silliness he brought to so many poems collected in books ostensibly for children but just as much for adults… Say the name, and most people will know whom you’re talking about. For some reason, this doesn’t seem to be the case with Prelutsky, though his verse is just as accomplished and accessible. I was introduced to him at a tender age with the volume The New Kid on the Block. It recently occurred to me that I do not possess that seminal book, an omission I mean to rectify before too long. In fact, I only own one collection of Prelutsky’s poems, a most unfortunate oversight. I owe my aunt a debt of gratitude for giving me Something Big Has Been Here so many years ago. It holds a place of honor on my shelf.
I read that before Prelutsky fell into writing verse, his primary interest was in art. Thus, it seems rather strange that his poems are not accompanied by his own illustrations. I won’t complain, however. In all honesty, I’m not a huge fan of Silverstein as an artist. He holds his own, but I probably wouldn’t give his drawings a second look independent of his writing. So maybe it’s just as well that Prelutsky leaves the illustrations in this book to James Stevenson. They are far more detailed and realistic than Silverstein’s drawings, and I find them much more enjoyable to look at.
While Silverstein’s poems are occasionally serious, Prelutsky is silly across the board, at least in Something Big Has Been Here. The books is dedicated to children’s booksellers, and he clearly had kids in mind when choosing his subject matter. Many poems are written from a child’s point of view, often complaining about some gross unfairness or another. Several conclude with a twist at the end. In addition to amusing juvenile exploits, there are plenty of unusual animals, including some creatures Prelutsky invented himself.
When my aunt presented this book to me, she made note of several favorites, and I admit I’m biased in their favor, particularly Belinda Blue, which describes a temper tantrum of seismic proportions that I suspect I may have at one time had myself, and The Zoo Was in an Uproar, which features a vast cast of incensed creatures. Both are ideal examples of the two elements, aside from rhyme, that are most prevalent in Prelutsky’s poems: big words and alliteration. His poems roll off the tongue. They are fun to read, and a young child reading them aloud can’t help but feel a bit intellectual. Prelutsky was building kids’ vocabularies long before Series of Unfortunate Events was a twinkle in Daniel Handler’s eye. An excerpt to demonstrate: ”Repellant!” puled a puma, / “Bizarre!” a badger bawled, / the donkeys were disgusted, / the pandas were appalled…
My biggest complaint with Prelutsky is his almost blanket use of commas at the end of his lines when they are often clearly uncalled for. I’m not sure why he does this. Is it to make the poems easier for a child to read aloud, equipped with a reminder as to when to take a breath? It grates on me after a while, and I find myself mentally putting in the appropriate line-end punctuation (or lack thereof). Aside from this minor quibble, Something Big Has Been Here is a superior collection of poems that I would recommend to elementary school students and to older folks who still dare to admit that this stuff resonates with them. With a hundred poems in the collection, there’s bound to be something in there for any child. If you’re a Shel Silverstein fan, you definitely should check out Jack Prelutsky. He may not be quite as well-known, but he’s just as likely to inspire a love of reading in the impressionable and imaginative minds of the young.
Silverstein seems to be the more universally known of the two. His distinctive pen and ink style, his poignancy in works such as The Giving Tree, his contributions to the musical world with such classics as The Unicorn and I’m Being Swallowed By a Boa Constrictor, the silliness he brought to so many poems collected in books ostensibly for children but just as much for adults… Say the name, and most people will know whom you’re talking about. For some reason, this doesn’t seem to be the case with Prelutsky, though his verse is just as accomplished and accessible. I was introduced to him at a tender age with the volume The New Kid on the Block. It recently occurred to me that I do not possess that seminal book, an omission I mean to rectify before too long. In fact, I only own one collection of Prelutsky’s poems, a most unfortunate oversight. I owe my aunt a debt of gratitude for giving me Something Big Has Been Here so many years ago. It holds a place of honor on my shelf.
I read that before Prelutsky fell into writing verse, his primary interest was in art. Thus, it seems rather strange that his poems are not accompanied by his own illustrations. I won’t complain, however. In all honesty, I’m not a huge fan of Silverstein as an artist. He holds his own, but I probably wouldn’t give his drawings a second look independent of his writing. So maybe it’s just as well that Prelutsky leaves the illustrations in this book to James Stevenson. They are far more detailed and realistic than Silverstein’s drawings, and I find them much more enjoyable to look at.
While Silverstein’s poems are occasionally serious, Prelutsky is silly across the board, at least in Something Big Has Been Here. The books is dedicated to children’s booksellers, and he clearly had kids in mind when choosing his subject matter. Many poems are written from a child’s point of view, often complaining about some gross unfairness or another. Several conclude with a twist at the end. In addition to amusing juvenile exploits, there are plenty of unusual animals, including some creatures Prelutsky invented himself.
When my aunt presented this book to me, she made note of several favorites, and I admit I’m biased in their favor, particularly Belinda Blue, which describes a temper tantrum of seismic proportions that I suspect I may have at one time had myself, and The Zoo Was in an Uproar, which features a vast cast of incensed creatures. Both are ideal examples of the two elements, aside from rhyme, that are most prevalent in Prelutsky’s poems: big words and alliteration. His poems roll off the tongue. They are fun to read, and a young child reading them aloud can’t help but feel a bit intellectual. Prelutsky was building kids’ vocabularies long before Series of Unfortunate Events was a twinkle in Daniel Handler’s eye. An excerpt to demonstrate: ”Repellant!” puled a puma, / “Bizarre!” a badger bawled, / the donkeys were disgusted, / the pandas were appalled…
My biggest complaint with Prelutsky is his almost blanket use of commas at the end of his lines when they are often clearly uncalled for. I’m not sure why he does this. Is it to make the poems easier for a child to read aloud, equipped with a reminder as to when to take a breath? It grates on me after a while, and I find myself mentally putting in the appropriate line-end punctuation (or lack thereof). Aside from this minor quibble, Something Big Has Been Here is a superior collection of poems that I would recommend to elementary school students and to older folks who still dare to admit that this stuff resonates with them. With a hundred poems in the collection, there’s bound to be something in there for any child. If you’re a Shel Silverstein fan, you definitely should check out Jack Prelutsky. He may not be quite as well-known, but he’s just as likely to inspire a love of reading in the impressionable and imaginative minds of the young.
Will Smith Tries His Best to Get Deserving Guys Hitched
Back when I went to see Pooh’s Heffalump Movie, the day before my birthday, Hitch
was playing in the other theater. Although going to see Winnie-the-Pooh
was her idea, my friend has playfully rubbed it in ever since that she
could’ve seen Hitch one time, but instead we had to go see that
dumb Pooh movie… So last night we finally amended that. It’s nice to
have a six-screen dollar theater. It means that most of the movies we
wanted to see when they first came out make it to the more affordable
big screen before landing on video.
The first thing we noticed was the apparent randomness of the previews. Usually there is a certain overriding theme. Revenge of the Sith boasted previews for action / adventure flicks, predominantly involving superheroes. The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe probably aims a little younger than the other films, but it qualifies as an epic fantasy and probably will be this Christmas’ big blockbuster. And after all, C. S. Lewis did say that really great children’s literature appeals as much to adults as kids, and that’s especially true when the current adults were kids when the book in question came out and recall it fondly. But I’m in danger of losing myself on a tangent. The point I wanted to make is that the previews here ranged from Kicking and Screaming to The Interpreter, apparently indicating that Hitch is a film with a diverse audience. To my surprise, none of the trailers were for a romantic comedy.
I go into most movies without terribly high expectations. I expect to be entertained, and usually I am. But I leave the “You’d better wow me or else” attitude for monumental movies like the LOTR trilogy. I had heard a lot of good things about Hitch, so I figured I’d like it, but for a buck I didn’t really care too much if it fell a little flat. Luckily, it turned out to be a dollar well spent.
Will Smith plays Alex Hitchins, known to his clients simply as Hitch. He’s a rather unlikely date doctor, given the fact that in college he had all the panache of Steve Urkel (and looked suspiciously like him too). But a longtime lack of luck with the ladies must have inspired him to concentrate on tapping into their psyches, because in the present day he is smooth and savvy, sure he’s discovered all the tricks for getting a girl’s attention. For the most part, he focuses that inside information in a positive direction, helping hopelessly geeky guys win the affections of the women they adore – as long as they really are interested in a relationship and not a sleazy one-night stand. It’s an altruistic pursuit, particularly when he takes on the case of Albert (Kevin James), a clumsy, bespectacled accountant head over heels for beautiful heiress Allegra Cole (Amber Valletta).
Smith is the film’s focal point. He often directly addresses the audience, imparting his wisdom. At several points in the movie, the scene alternates between Hitch giving Albert advice on an upcoming date and Albert doing his best to take it and fly with it once he’s in the actual situation. The first half of the movie is full of disastrous hilarity, not only on the part of the perpetually klutzy Albert but also Hitch, who finds his own insight seems to fail him miserably when he’s faced with the prospect of pursuing a serious relationship of his own. The object of his affection is Sara (Eva Mendez), a career-centered journalist who’s always first on the scene when the fodder for juicy gossip is born. Both Allegra and Sara seem pretty receptive to the advances of their wooers, though Sara is hard-pressed to admit it. I heard many comments about the lack of chemistry between Smith and Mendez, but I thought they made a fairly convincing couple, while James and Valletta were adorable together. The most chemistry, however, is clearly between Smith and James, whose scenes together are both riotous and touching. If Smith is suave and debonair, James is sweetly bumbling, and it’s easy to see why an heiress would fall for his character.
There’s nothing terribly unpredictable in this film, but when’s the last time you were shocked by a romantic comedy? Though my friend loved the beginning, she though the movie descended into implausibility, but I thought it was all pretty cleverly done, and while it may have been a tad over-the-top, the film illuminated some of the difficulties that two people who could make a beautiful couple create for themselves. Mainly, though, this film is simply a lot of fun.
The first thing we noticed was the apparent randomness of the previews. Usually there is a certain overriding theme. Revenge of the Sith boasted previews for action / adventure flicks, predominantly involving superheroes. The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe probably aims a little younger than the other films, but it qualifies as an epic fantasy and probably will be this Christmas’ big blockbuster. And after all, C. S. Lewis did say that really great children’s literature appeals as much to adults as kids, and that’s especially true when the current adults were kids when the book in question came out and recall it fondly. But I’m in danger of losing myself on a tangent. The point I wanted to make is that the previews here ranged from Kicking and Screaming to The Interpreter, apparently indicating that Hitch is a film with a diverse audience. To my surprise, none of the trailers were for a romantic comedy.
I go into most movies without terribly high expectations. I expect to be entertained, and usually I am. But I leave the “You’d better wow me or else” attitude for monumental movies like the LOTR trilogy. I had heard a lot of good things about Hitch, so I figured I’d like it, but for a buck I didn’t really care too much if it fell a little flat. Luckily, it turned out to be a dollar well spent.
Will Smith plays Alex Hitchins, known to his clients simply as Hitch. He’s a rather unlikely date doctor, given the fact that in college he had all the panache of Steve Urkel (and looked suspiciously like him too). But a longtime lack of luck with the ladies must have inspired him to concentrate on tapping into their psyches, because in the present day he is smooth and savvy, sure he’s discovered all the tricks for getting a girl’s attention. For the most part, he focuses that inside information in a positive direction, helping hopelessly geeky guys win the affections of the women they adore – as long as they really are interested in a relationship and not a sleazy one-night stand. It’s an altruistic pursuit, particularly when he takes on the case of Albert (Kevin James), a clumsy, bespectacled accountant head over heels for beautiful heiress Allegra Cole (Amber Valletta).
Smith is the film’s focal point. He often directly addresses the audience, imparting his wisdom. At several points in the movie, the scene alternates between Hitch giving Albert advice on an upcoming date and Albert doing his best to take it and fly with it once he’s in the actual situation. The first half of the movie is full of disastrous hilarity, not only on the part of the perpetually klutzy Albert but also Hitch, who finds his own insight seems to fail him miserably when he’s faced with the prospect of pursuing a serious relationship of his own. The object of his affection is Sara (Eva Mendez), a career-centered journalist who’s always first on the scene when the fodder for juicy gossip is born. Both Allegra and Sara seem pretty receptive to the advances of their wooers, though Sara is hard-pressed to admit it. I heard many comments about the lack of chemistry between Smith and Mendez, but I thought they made a fairly convincing couple, while James and Valletta were adorable together. The most chemistry, however, is clearly between Smith and James, whose scenes together are both riotous and touching. If Smith is suave and debonair, James is sweetly bumbling, and it’s easy to see why an heiress would fall for his character.
There’s nothing terribly unpredictable in this film, but when’s the last time you were shocked by a romantic comedy? Though my friend loved the beginning, she though the movie descended into implausibility, but I thought it was all pretty cleverly done, and while it may have been a tad over-the-top, the film illuminated some of the difficulties that two people who could make a beautiful couple create for themselves. Mainly, though, this film is simply a lot of fun.
Thursday, May 19, 2005
Minnesota Gives Indiana a Run For His Money
I arrived home the other day to a delightful surprise: a VeggieTales
ambassador kit containing promotional materials and a preview copy of Minnesota Cuke and the Search for Samson’s Hairbrush.
I have to get busy distributing the activity packs and seeing about
showing the movie at church before its release date the end of next
month. But first I need to record my impressions of the latest offering
from my favorite brand of Christian entertainment.
The show begins, as most do, with a letter, though in this case it winds up being two letters, both addressing the same distressing topic: bullies. I recently saw an episode of Dr. Phil in which his battered young guests received a shot of encouragement from the exquisite Clay Aiken, who has never hidden the fact that before his rapid rise to stardom he was looked upon as a loser by many of his peers. By the time he left high school, he’d learned how to stand tall in the face of bullies, and I think he would heartily appreciate the episode’s message. I, meanwhile, would heartily appreciate the possibility of a guest appearance by him in a future video. If Rebecca St.-James can do it, why not Clay? A girl can dream.
Anyway, the topic at hand is bullies, and who better to demonstrate that affliction than juvenile goody-goody Junior Asparagus? Some folks don’t care much for Junior because of his preciousness, not to mention the self-righteousness he displays in several episodes. I, however, still think he’s darn cute, and his segment of this show is most enjoyable. It plays a bit like A Christmas Story as we are treated to visions of his wild imagination. In these daydreams, he fills the shoes of Robin Hood (accompanied by some marvelous minstrel music), a star quarterback and a starship captain. But his real-life problem is as daunting as any his overactive imagination can cook up. With a little help from his dad and his friends (among them, the adorable bespectacled Annie, who rather resembles me), he comes to a conclusion by the end of the tale about how to deal with a particularly ferocious bully so that he can get back to his merry-making on the playground. Keep an ear out for a soft echo of Little Guys Can Do Big Things Too from Dave and the Giant Pickle as Junior, inspired by something greater than Garrison Keillor’s famed powder milk biscuits, goes out and does what needs to be done. Incidentally – and I may have mentioned this in my review of Duke and the Great Pie War because I was so impressed with it just from the preview – Junior has a really cool tree house. It’s just your basic tree house, really, I suppose, but I envy him. I always wanted one but never had a tree big enough to support it. Oh, well, that’s a subject for another episode, I suppose…
For the astute observer, a scene near the beginning of Junior’s escapades provides us with a glimpse of the next segment, a Silly Song entitled Pizza Angel. It’s reminiscent of His Cheeseburger, in which Mr. Lunt croons passionately about Jerry Gourd’s unrequited love affair with a cheeseburger. Here, Larry is doing the singing for himself, moaning about the fact that his beloved pizza is taking far too long to arrive. The tragic ballad recalls such maudlin fare as Leader of the Pack, while I assume the title is a play on Johnny Angel. Larry sings with such gusto, you’re likely to catch your tummy rumbling just a bit by the end of the song. You may even be inspired to order a pizza yourself – or, given the outcome of the song, perhaps it’s more likely you will be dissuaded from your next attempt at a quick and yummy meal. Kudos to the ever-savvy lyricist for the reference to ordering pizza online.
Minnesota Cuke (Larry) is the main attraction, and he draws us in right from the outset, clutching a golden carrot while he frantically sleds away from the noseless snowman head relentlessly pursuing him. As if sudden near-avalanches aren’t enough, he has to deal with Professor Rattan (Mr. Lunt), who has undermined every mission he’s ever undertaken. In fact, their rivalry dates all the way back to early elementary school, when Rattan replaced the gummy worms in Minnesota’s lunch with real worms, fostering a lifelong hatred of the invertebrates akin to Indiana Jones’ ophidiophobia. (What a cumbersome word to describe “fear of snakes” I think I fear the word more!)
This is not Minnesota’s first appearance. He also starred in a video game, which I admired but never wound up buying. Maybe one of these days. I hope he becomes a recurring character like Larry-Boy. His posse includes his assistant Martin (Bob), a pair of barbers (of Seville) and the lovely Julia, apparently sliding into being typecast as Larry’s love interest, which is basically a new direction for VeggieTales. She was first seen as Petunia in Duke and the Great Pie War. I wouldn’t be shocked if she showed up in the next video as an elf maiden with a name suspiciously similar to Arwen. The two have great chemistry in this adventure, and we’re treated to several exciting feats of daring-do in which both are participants. The soundtrack is inspiring, with its swelling heroic backdrops, including a nod to the all-time most popular Silly Song.
I found it amusing that this adventure revolves around Niagara Falls. We just visited the falls last weekend with our exchange student, Cathi, who had to settle for the American side due to visa complications. Thanks to the Maid of the Mist, however, she managed to get a pretty up close and personal look at both majestic waterfalls. Every time I visit Niagara Falls, I am reminded of Superman II and that delightful scene in which he rescues a child who falls over the railing; as he flies her up to safety, an elderly woman in the crowd comments, “What a nice man!” One would think that such a national landmark – not to mention the honeymoon capitol of the world – would make an ideal location for many a movie, but the only other film reference we could come up with was Bruce Almighty. Now I have another movie to add to my flimsy arsenal. I have a feeling I’m missing a lot of movies…
VeggieTales is usually pretty good about rewarding those fans who are faithful enough to sit through the credits, and in this case those who persevere are rewarded with the Minnesota Cuke theme song, performed by bluegrass legend Charlie Daniels. It all adds up to a wildly entertaining ride, one of the best Veggie offerings yet, making me even more optimistic about their November release – one video to rule them all.
The show begins, as most do, with a letter, though in this case it winds up being two letters, both addressing the same distressing topic: bullies. I recently saw an episode of Dr. Phil in which his battered young guests received a shot of encouragement from the exquisite Clay Aiken, who has never hidden the fact that before his rapid rise to stardom he was looked upon as a loser by many of his peers. By the time he left high school, he’d learned how to stand tall in the face of bullies, and I think he would heartily appreciate the episode’s message. I, meanwhile, would heartily appreciate the possibility of a guest appearance by him in a future video. If Rebecca St.-James can do it, why not Clay? A girl can dream.
Anyway, the topic at hand is bullies, and who better to demonstrate that affliction than juvenile goody-goody Junior Asparagus? Some folks don’t care much for Junior because of his preciousness, not to mention the self-righteousness he displays in several episodes. I, however, still think he’s darn cute, and his segment of this show is most enjoyable. It plays a bit like A Christmas Story as we are treated to visions of his wild imagination. In these daydreams, he fills the shoes of Robin Hood (accompanied by some marvelous minstrel music), a star quarterback and a starship captain. But his real-life problem is as daunting as any his overactive imagination can cook up. With a little help from his dad and his friends (among them, the adorable bespectacled Annie, who rather resembles me), he comes to a conclusion by the end of the tale about how to deal with a particularly ferocious bully so that he can get back to his merry-making on the playground. Keep an ear out for a soft echo of Little Guys Can Do Big Things Too from Dave and the Giant Pickle as Junior, inspired by something greater than Garrison Keillor’s famed powder milk biscuits, goes out and does what needs to be done. Incidentally – and I may have mentioned this in my review of Duke and the Great Pie War because I was so impressed with it just from the preview – Junior has a really cool tree house. It’s just your basic tree house, really, I suppose, but I envy him. I always wanted one but never had a tree big enough to support it. Oh, well, that’s a subject for another episode, I suppose…
For the astute observer, a scene near the beginning of Junior’s escapades provides us with a glimpse of the next segment, a Silly Song entitled Pizza Angel. It’s reminiscent of His Cheeseburger, in which Mr. Lunt croons passionately about Jerry Gourd’s unrequited love affair with a cheeseburger. Here, Larry is doing the singing for himself, moaning about the fact that his beloved pizza is taking far too long to arrive. The tragic ballad recalls such maudlin fare as Leader of the Pack, while I assume the title is a play on Johnny Angel. Larry sings with such gusto, you’re likely to catch your tummy rumbling just a bit by the end of the song. You may even be inspired to order a pizza yourself – or, given the outcome of the song, perhaps it’s more likely you will be dissuaded from your next attempt at a quick and yummy meal. Kudos to the ever-savvy lyricist for the reference to ordering pizza online.
Minnesota Cuke (Larry) is the main attraction, and he draws us in right from the outset, clutching a golden carrot while he frantically sleds away from the noseless snowman head relentlessly pursuing him. As if sudden near-avalanches aren’t enough, he has to deal with Professor Rattan (Mr. Lunt), who has undermined every mission he’s ever undertaken. In fact, their rivalry dates all the way back to early elementary school, when Rattan replaced the gummy worms in Minnesota’s lunch with real worms, fostering a lifelong hatred of the invertebrates akin to Indiana Jones’ ophidiophobia. (What a cumbersome word to describe “fear of snakes” I think I fear the word more!)
This is not Minnesota’s first appearance. He also starred in a video game, which I admired but never wound up buying. Maybe one of these days. I hope he becomes a recurring character like Larry-Boy. His posse includes his assistant Martin (Bob), a pair of barbers (of Seville) and the lovely Julia, apparently sliding into being typecast as Larry’s love interest, which is basically a new direction for VeggieTales. She was first seen as Petunia in Duke and the Great Pie War. I wouldn’t be shocked if she showed up in the next video as an elf maiden with a name suspiciously similar to Arwen. The two have great chemistry in this adventure, and we’re treated to several exciting feats of daring-do in which both are participants. The soundtrack is inspiring, with its swelling heroic backdrops, including a nod to the all-time most popular Silly Song.
I found it amusing that this adventure revolves around Niagara Falls. We just visited the falls last weekend with our exchange student, Cathi, who had to settle for the American side due to visa complications. Thanks to the Maid of the Mist, however, she managed to get a pretty up close and personal look at both majestic waterfalls. Every time I visit Niagara Falls, I am reminded of Superman II and that delightful scene in which he rescues a child who falls over the railing; as he flies her up to safety, an elderly woman in the crowd comments, “What a nice man!” One would think that such a national landmark – not to mention the honeymoon capitol of the world – would make an ideal location for many a movie, but the only other film reference we could come up with was Bruce Almighty. Now I have another movie to add to my flimsy arsenal. I have a feeling I’m missing a lot of movies…
VeggieTales is usually pretty good about rewarding those fans who are faithful enough to sit through the credits, and in this case those who persevere are rewarded with the Minnesota Cuke theme song, performed by bluegrass legend Charlie Daniels. It all adds up to a wildly entertaining ride, one of the best Veggie offerings yet, making me even more optimistic about their November release – one video to rule them all.
Monday, April 25, 2005
Secondhand Lions is Not Second-Rate
There was a beautiful moment during the Academy Awards in 2000 when
Michael Caine, during his acceptance speech for the Best Supporting
Actor Oscar, gave a nod to young Haley Joel Osment, nominated for The Sixth Sense,
praising him for his masterful performance. The respect evident in that
instant made the prospect of a future collaboration appealing, and fans
of both actors got to see two masters at opposite ends of the spectrum
work together in 2003's Secondhand Lions. Make that three. Osment
stars alongside not only Caine but veteran Robert Duvall, another
favorite actor of mine. When I learned of their collaboration, it
sweetened the deal on a movie I already wanted to see just based on
Osment’s participation.
The film’s premise intrigued me all the more. Walter (Osment) is an awkward boy just on the cusp of adolescence, as evidenced by his often squeaky voice. His mother (Kyra Sedgewick), a rather shifty woman with a knack for falling for abusive guys, decides to leave Walter with his uncles for the summer while she goes fishing for men, and we’re not talking in the spiritual sense. She has more expansive goals than getting rid of the kid for a while, though. She sees Walter as the key to a fortune, as Hub (Duvall) and Garth (Caine), recently returned from who-knows-where, are rumored to be filthy rich.
I was particularly drawn to these uncles because of two gentlemen in my family who have rather legendary status in our folklore. In The Land That Gives and Takes Away, the book I wrote chronicling the memories and family stories abundant in my grandma’s birthplace of Little Pine Valley, I devote a poem to these two eccentric brothers whose booze was in such demand during the Prohibition that they wound up fabulously wealthy. Like Hub and Garth, though, you wouldn’t know Oren and John were rich. They lived as though they were scraping for a living, and no one expected to find money stashed away in every corner of the house when they died. Seeing two of my favorite actors step into similar roles was thrilling; it was almost like they were bringing my long-departed relatives, whom I’d never been able to meet, to life.
They’re an ornery old pair, unused to company and none too fond of it. Walter suits them all right, though, because he doesn’t talk much and consequently doesn’t bother them. He just observes, jittery, while Garth and Hub demonstrate their idea of entertainment: shooting traveling salesmen. They never hit them, of course, but it’s a little too close for comfort. Then there’s the fact that he’s trailed constantly by several dogs and a pig, all of whom are rather intimidating to him at first. But Walter finds a reason to stay in the stories he first discovers in an old trunk and later draws out of the mellower Garth. The uncles, meanwhile, find his presence beneficial once they discover he’s a deterrent to the visits of another set of relatives who happen to be utterly obnoxious.
What unfolds is a gentle coming of age tale in which Walter finally begins to grow out of his paralyzing timidity and the uncles recall the glory of living life to its fullest. We see their magnificent past through a series of stories told by Garth. There is an air of fantasy about them. The colors are too bright, the action too choreographed, the victories too complete. We are left to determine the degree to which what we see through Garth’s telling is reflective of reality. Hub eventually tosses in his two cents, noting that sometimes it’s worth believing in something whether it actually happened or not. A similar line was once uttered in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. The point we are left with is that truth goes beyond cold fact; sometimes pure fiction can be more meaningful than what actually happened, and in any case faith is worth holding onto no matter how improbable the object of that faith seems.
The acting is solid throughout. Though it won’t be the most acclaimed performance by any of its leads, all three do an excellent job, imbuing their characters with warmth and humor. Hub, the crustier of the two, takes a while to come around, but in the end it’s clear he’s grown as attached to the boy as Garth has. Sedgewick is eminently irritating as Walter’s mother, and I wonder whether that’s good acting or just the way she is. She annoyed me in Phenomenon, too, and she wasn’t supposed to. The supplementary characters, particularly the interfering relatives and salesmen, are a hoot. I love the rural setting and the fact that all of Walter’s new companions are quadrupeds. He soon doesn’t mind being trailed by a gaggle of dogs and one pig with an identity crisis, and he lavishes love upon the weathered old lioness he adopts after his uncles deem her an unsuitable hunting target. In spite of his initial trepidation, he establishes a rapport with these creatures quickly, as evidenced in a funny moment early on when he glances uneasily from his uncles’ sausage and egg breakfast to the pig standing outside the door with a chicken resting on his head.
The flashback moments are fun, but they’re a bit over-the-top and are really just meant as a visual interpretation of Garth’s stories. (When that style joins with the present in the alternative ending, it really doesn’t gel. The more subdued finale they chose works much more nicely.) There’s nothing quite like being regaled by a master storyteller, and one of the best parts is filling in the visual blanks for yourself. Secondhand Lions is a story about stories, about family history and how truth and legend become intermingled to the point that no one knows just what really happened and no one really cares. It’s what the stories mean to the people today that becomes important.
One interesting aspect of the film was the end credits. I love when a movie rewards those who bother to stick around for the credits. In this case, we learn that Walter has grown up to be a cartoonist. The credits show us scenes from his youth as told through his artistry – another form of storytelling. The cartoons come courtesy of Berkeley Breathed, who complied with director Ted McCanlies’ request to furnish illustrations. It was the first time his work had been seen in several years, and from what I read the gig reinvigorated him, leading him to create the weekly strip Opus, which revived one of his most popular characters. That may or may not have been a good thing...
Secondhand Lions didn’t get all that much attention when it came out, and many critics who did bother to review it weren’t kind. But I think it’s a sweet, down-home family film led by a stellar trio of actors, and I would heartily recommend it to help you remember “the things worth believing in.”
The film’s premise intrigued me all the more. Walter (Osment) is an awkward boy just on the cusp of adolescence, as evidenced by his often squeaky voice. His mother (Kyra Sedgewick), a rather shifty woman with a knack for falling for abusive guys, decides to leave Walter with his uncles for the summer while she goes fishing for men, and we’re not talking in the spiritual sense. She has more expansive goals than getting rid of the kid for a while, though. She sees Walter as the key to a fortune, as Hub (Duvall) and Garth (Caine), recently returned from who-knows-where, are rumored to be filthy rich.
I was particularly drawn to these uncles because of two gentlemen in my family who have rather legendary status in our folklore. In The Land That Gives and Takes Away, the book I wrote chronicling the memories and family stories abundant in my grandma’s birthplace of Little Pine Valley, I devote a poem to these two eccentric brothers whose booze was in such demand during the Prohibition that they wound up fabulously wealthy. Like Hub and Garth, though, you wouldn’t know Oren and John were rich. They lived as though they were scraping for a living, and no one expected to find money stashed away in every corner of the house when they died. Seeing two of my favorite actors step into similar roles was thrilling; it was almost like they were bringing my long-departed relatives, whom I’d never been able to meet, to life.
They’re an ornery old pair, unused to company and none too fond of it. Walter suits them all right, though, because he doesn’t talk much and consequently doesn’t bother them. He just observes, jittery, while Garth and Hub demonstrate their idea of entertainment: shooting traveling salesmen. They never hit them, of course, but it’s a little too close for comfort. Then there’s the fact that he’s trailed constantly by several dogs and a pig, all of whom are rather intimidating to him at first. But Walter finds a reason to stay in the stories he first discovers in an old trunk and later draws out of the mellower Garth. The uncles, meanwhile, find his presence beneficial once they discover he’s a deterrent to the visits of another set of relatives who happen to be utterly obnoxious.
What unfolds is a gentle coming of age tale in which Walter finally begins to grow out of his paralyzing timidity and the uncles recall the glory of living life to its fullest. We see their magnificent past through a series of stories told by Garth. There is an air of fantasy about them. The colors are too bright, the action too choreographed, the victories too complete. We are left to determine the degree to which what we see through Garth’s telling is reflective of reality. Hub eventually tosses in his two cents, noting that sometimes it’s worth believing in something whether it actually happened or not. A similar line was once uttered in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. The point we are left with is that truth goes beyond cold fact; sometimes pure fiction can be more meaningful than what actually happened, and in any case faith is worth holding onto no matter how improbable the object of that faith seems.
The acting is solid throughout. Though it won’t be the most acclaimed performance by any of its leads, all three do an excellent job, imbuing their characters with warmth and humor. Hub, the crustier of the two, takes a while to come around, but in the end it’s clear he’s grown as attached to the boy as Garth has. Sedgewick is eminently irritating as Walter’s mother, and I wonder whether that’s good acting or just the way she is. She annoyed me in Phenomenon, too, and she wasn’t supposed to. The supplementary characters, particularly the interfering relatives and salesmen, are a hoot. I love the rural setting and the fact that all of Walter’s new companions are quadrupeds. He soon doesn’t mind being trailed by a gaggle of dogs and one pig with an identity crisis, and he lavishes love upon the weathered old lioness he adopts after his uncles deem her an unsuitable hunting target. In spite of his initial trepidation, he establishes a rapport with these creatures quickly, as evidenced in a funny moment early on when he glances uneasily from his uncles’ sausage and egg breakfast to the pig standing outside the door with a chicken resting on his head.
The flashback moments are fun, but they’re a bit over-the-top and are really just meant as a visual interpretation of Garth’s stories. (When that style joins with the present in the alternative ending, it really doesn’t gel. The more subdued finale they chose works much more nicely.) There’s nothing quite like being regaled by a master storyteller, and one of the best parts is filling in the visual blanks for yourself. Secondhand Lions is a story about stories, about family history and how truth and legend become intermingled to the point that no one knows just what really happened and no one really cares. It’s what the stories mean to the people today that becomes important.
One interesting aspect of the film was the end credits. I love when a movie rewards those who bother to stick around for the credits. In this case, we learn that Walter has grown up to be a cartoonist. The credits show us scenes from his youth as told through his artistry – another form of storytelling. The cartoons come courtesy of Berkeley Breathed, who complied with director Ted McCanlies’ request to furnish illustrations. It was the first time his work had been seen in several years, and from what I read the gig reinvigorated him, leading him to create the weekly strip Opus, which revived one of his most popular characters. That may or may not have been a good thing...
Secondhand Lions didn’t get all that much attention when it came out, and many critics who did bother to review it weren’t kind. But I think it’s a sweet, down-home family film led by a stellar trio of actors, and I would heartily recommend it to help you remember “the things worth believing in.”
It's Not Hard to Love Card With These Soothing Tunes
Whenever I write a review for Epinions, I know that at least four people
will read it: my mom, my dad, and my grandparents. I’m very grateful
for their support, but once in a while it means them reading a review of
something potentially unsavory. I’m afraid I may have rattled my
grandparents just a bit with my recounting of the raucous concert I
attended, and I mean to salve the shock by following it up with a
discussion the softest, most inoffensive album I can find. And hopefully
this review will inspire me to finally get around to all the other
Michael Card albums I’ve been meaning to write about for five years.
I sometimes feel a bit guilty that essentially my entire musical repertoire consists of “secular” music. I put the term in quotes because it has such a negative ring to it, and I don’t think it should. You don’t have to be singing to a specifically Christian audience in order to have lyrics consistent with Christianity. I find God present in the songs of John Denver, Simon and Garfunkel, Don McLean, James Taylor, Gordon Lightfoot and many, many others whose music would not be featured on a Christian radio station. But while I’m hopelessly devoted to VeggieTales, most of the music sold in Christian bookstores leaves me rather cold.
That is due in large part to a lack of lyrical sophistication. Praise choruses may be easy to sing, but they sure are boring. I was mildly offended when I first heard Baptized in Water, which places very mundane and repetitive lyrics to the tune of Morning Has Broken, one of my very favorite hymns. Personally, I think that’s a melody that ought to be left alone, so perfect is the marriage between words and notes, though I’ll at least give Praise and Thanksgiving credit for trying. Anyway, this is just the stuff we sing in church. What shows up on the radio often lacks rhyme, not to mention verses. And when the lyrics are complex, they’re usually lost in a sea of electric guitars and vocals shouted in order to appeal to a hip young crowd.
Michael Card is different. He fits right in with the finest in the genre of sensitive singer-songwriters, but his lyrics convey a message that is clearly Christian and often strongly rooted in Scripture. Sleep Sound in Jesus is one of a few albums that, instead of focusing mainly on certain stories and passages from the Bible, follows a particular theme with more modern implications. This album is a collection of gentle tunes intended to serenade an infant off into dreamland. Its soothing tone can’t help but induce placid snoozing in older listeners as well.
Sleep Sound In Jesus - This first song, accompanied by strings and electric piano, is reminiscent of the old bedtime prayer most Christian kids learned at a young age: “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep...” Only in this case it’s the parents doing the talking, telling the child to go to sleep and not to worry because God is taking care of him. Betsy Hernandez, who is a prominent presence throughout the album, takes the first verse, Card the second, and the third they sing together. Know for His sake you’ll be safe for the night. Sleep sound in Jesus. I’ll turn off the light.
He'll Wipe Away Your Tears - Hernandez takes this one by herself with the accompaniment of a piano and later a harp. There seems to be a slight Jewish air about this song, which is based on two verses in Revelation. It’s nice but more minor-toned than most of the tracks, and given its source it carries with it shadows of gearing up for a grim battle. Nonetheless, the focus is on God providing comfort. He’ll wipe away your tears and still your restless sighs, and lovingly He’ll listen till you stop your wordless cries.
Even The Darkness Is Light To Him - Though this song’s lyrics hint at darkness, the melody speaks only of safety in God’s arms. Card takes the helm here, singing almost in a whisper with the electric piano backing. Very soft but upbeat. Even the darkness is light to Him and night is as bright as the day. So you are safe though the light grows dim...
Sweet Sleep Descends - Back to Hernandez and the piano again. This is a song devoid of a chorus, chronicling a mother’s anguish at the difficulty with which her child finally succumbs to sleep. This song feels more heavily produced than it is, though another instrument – a sax? – does take the spotlight atop the piano during a break in the vocals. Throughout the house of faith it’s known the soul finds rest in God alone...
Dreaming Jacob's Dream - Hooray for mandolins! Alluding to my love of folk music, my friend Libbie once teased me that my favorite instrument is the mandolin, and I’ve had a special fondness for it since. Anyway, it makes an appearance here, along with the piano and strings. This song makes reference to the biblical Jacob’s dream in which he wrestled with God, wondering whether the infant being observed is similarly experiencing God first-hand during slumber. Card warmly sings this tune that he dedicated to his own son. You and Jacob aren’t alone; we all need dreams to seek Him.
Song Of Jesus - The guitar is the star in this song, an upbeat ditty helmed by Card that has the feel of an offering by a troubadour. Strings make an appearance now and then, but they’re scarcely needed. This is a short, simple tune that serves as an introduction to Jesus for the youngest of his would-be followers. The note structure, ascending and descending like a flight of stairs, adds to the impression that the song is providing elementary instruction. Let me tell you of a man who was before the world began, who loves you more than anyone can, known by the name of Jesus.
Unseen Warriors - It’s back to Hernandez for this mother’s plea for protection for her baby. It’s a plaintive song backed by electric organ that is basically just a bedtime prayer that has its basis in a verse in Matthew. I presume the warriors in question are angels. Oh, unseen warriors, brothers, friends who for our safety we depend, I ask you now to come defend this precious little baby.
Wordless Ones - The electric piano is the prominent instrument once more, though as with the majority of the songs in which Hernandez takes the lead there is heavier instrumentation, or at least there seems to be. About halfway through Card jumps in to harmonize with Hernandez in this song about parents dedicating their child to God. We offer You this child who’s only ours for just awhile. How could we keep him back from You when You gave Your only child?
He Grants Sleep to the Ones That He Loves - My favorite song on the album. I just really like this one. It’s so tender and even comical at times. Electric piano and understated strings drive the song, while a saxophone makes a couple brief but effective appearances. The vocals are Card’s, conveying the mild frustration and boundless affection of a father putting a child to bed after a very long and trying day. Card turns in another very heartfelt performance, perhaps in part because this song is dedicated to his daughter. For he grants sleep to the ones that he loves, and I live to love you as well. The last words you’ll hear tonight will be ‘I love you,’ for love takes us all of a lifetime to tell.
Jesus Let Us Come to Know You - This song has been featured on several Card albums. The accompanying piano is quite elegant, offsetting the song’s simplicity, its lyrics framed in two-syllable sets ending with a three-syllable set. The harmonica that emerges, taking another verse after Hernandez has finished singing, adds a plaintive tone to the song. There’s something beautifully lonesome about a harmonica, making it a perfect fit for the lyrics which yearn for a connection to the creator. Jesus draw us ever nearer. Hold us in your loving arms. Wrap us in your gentle presence, and when the end comes, bring us home.
All You Are - For whatever reason, guitar and Card seem to go together on this album. This contemplative tune is backed nicely by guitar and bass with strings coming in during the instrumental break. Card’s earnest vocals wrap around lyrics that recall the exquisite Joseph’s Song from The Promise. Though the speaker is discussing an ordinary child an not the song of God here, all children are miracles, especially to the parent holding them in their arms for the first time. For all you are and all you’ll be, for everything you mean to me, though I don’t understand I know you’re from the father’s hand.
Lullaby for the Unborn - A harp accompanies Hernandez for this whispery lullaby sung to a child who has not yet been born. It’s a very short song consisting of only two verses with no repetition. Blessings upon you, my baby unborn, safely inside me asleep and so warm...
Sleepy Eyes - Another song about a child resisting sleep, it’s fairly upbeat and features guitar and bass as well as the occasional mandolin. Card takes the vocals on this song that clocks in at just a minute and a half but still manages to be one of the album’s most endearing. Sleepy eyes, your disguise cannot fool me with its lies. Let the angels come and close your sleepy eyes.
Hold Me Gently - A very pretty little song with lovely legato piano augmented by the saxophone. It’s just Hernandez on this one, and it’s possibly my favorite of her solos, providing a picture of a very intimate relationship with the creator. Live your life within me day by day. So goodnight, my forever friend.
Barocha - The album’s final track is very simple and familiar, a benediction often repeated in church and hung on plaques in hallways. It’s slow, solemn, and all a capella, first one voice, then two, then three, and from what I can tell it’s all Card. The lower register displayed the third time around adds an especially nice dimension. The Lord bless you and keep you, the Lord make His face shine upon you, and give you peace, and give you peace, and give you peace forever.
All in all, it’s a very soothing album, perhaps even more so for those old enough to understand the words. Hernandez’ presence works well as she provides a maternal voice to Card’s paternalism, and she does have a lovely voice. However, my favorite tracks all belong to Card. They have a different feel to them, more straightforward perhaps – a little less sappy and a little more earnest. Besides, I tend not to particularly connect with female vocals, while I love Card’s voice. It’s incredibly warm and gentle and remarkably similar to that of Dan Fogelberg, another musician whose work I admire. Its pure timbre is a joy to listen to, and I’m very glad that the lyrics he’s vocalizing are just as worthwhile.
I sometimes feel a bit guilty that essentially my entire musical repertoire consists of “secular” music. I put the term in quotes because it has such a negative ring to it, and I don’t think it should. You don’t have to be singing to a specifically Christian audience in order to have lyrics consistent with Christianity. I find God present in the songs of John Denver, Simon and Garfunkel, Don McLean, James Taylor, Gordon Lightfoot and many, many others whose music would not be featured on a Christian radio station. But while I’m hopelessly devoted to VeggieTales, most of the music sold in Christian bookstores leaves me rather cold.
That is due in large part to a lack of lyrical sophistication. Praise choruses may be easy to sing, but they sure are boring. I was mildly offended when I first heard Baptized in Water, which places very mundane and repetitive lyrics to the tune of Morning Has Broken, one of my very favorite hymns. Personally, I think that’s a melody that ought to be left alone, so perfect is the marriage between words and notes, though I’ll at least give Praise and Thanksgiving credit for trying. Anyway, this is just the stuff we sing in church. What shows up on the radio often lacks rhyme, not to mention verses. And when the lyrics are complex, they’re usually lost in a sea of electric guitars and vocals shouted in order to appeal to a hip young crowd.
Michael Card is different. He fits right in with the finest in the genre of sensitive singer-songwriters, but his lyrics convey a message that is clearly Christian and often strongly rooted in Scripture. Sleep Sound in Jesus is one of a few albums that, instead of focusing mainly on certain stories and passages from the Bible, follows a particular theme with more modern implications. This album is a collection of gentle tunes intended to serenade an infant off into dreamland. Its soothing tone can’t help but induce placid snoozing in older listeners as well.
Sleep Sound In Jesus - This first song, accompanied by strings and electric piano, is reminiscent of the old bedtime prayer most Christian kids learned at a young age: “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep...” Only in this case it’s the parents doing the talking, telling the child to go to sleep and not to worry because God is taking care of him. Betsy Hernandez, who is a prominent presence throughout the album, takes the first verse, Card the second, and the third they sing together. Know for His sake you’ll be safe for the night. Sleep sound in Jesus. I’ll turn off the light.
He'll Wipe Away Your Tears - Hernandez takes this one by herself with the accompaniment of a piano and later a harp. There seems to be a slight Jewish air about this song, which is based on two verses in Revelation. It’s nice but more minor-toned than most of the tracks, and given its source it carries with it shadows of gearing up for a grim battle. Nonetheless, the focus is on God providing comfort. He’ll wipe away your tears and still your restless sighs, and lovingly He’ll listen till you stop your wordless cries.
Even The Darkness Is Light To Him - Though this song’s lyrics hint at darkness, the melody speaks only of safety in God’s arms. Card takes the helm here, singing almost in a whisper with the electric piano backing. Very soft but upbeat. Even the darkness is light to Him and night is as bright as the day. So you are safe though the light grows dim...
Sweet Sleep Descends - Back to Hernandez and the piano again. This is a song devoid of a chorus, chronicling a mother’s anguish at the difficulty with which her child finally succumbs to sleep. This song feels more heavily produced than it is, though another instrument – a sax? – does take the spotlight atop the piano during a break in the vocals. Throughout the house of faith it’s known the soul finds rest in God alone...
Dreaming Jacob's Dream - Hooray for mandolins! Alluding to my love of folk music, my friend Libbie once teased me that my favorite instrument is the mandolin, and I’ve had a special fondness for it since. Anyway, it makes an appearance here, along with the piano and strings. This song makes reference to the biblical Jacob’s dream in which he wrestled with God, wondering whether the infant being observed is similarly experiencing God first-hand during slumber. Card warmly sings this tune that he dedicated to his own son. You and Jacob aren’t alone; we all need dreams to seek Him.
Song Of Jesus - The guitar is the star in this song, an upbeat ditty helmed by Card that has the feel of an offering by a troubadour. Strings make an appearance now and then, but they’re scarcely needed. This is a short, simple tune that serves as an introduction to Jesus for the youngest of his would-be followers. The note structure, ascending and descending like a flight of stairs, adds to the impression that the song is providing elementary instruction. Let me tell you of a man who was before the world began, who loves you more than anyone can, known by the name of Jesus.
Unseen Warriors - It’s back to Hernandez for this mother’s plea for protection for her baby. It’s a plaintive song backed by electric organ that is basically just a bedtime prayer that has its basis in a verse in Matthew. I presume the warriors in question are angels. Oh, unseen warriors, brothers, friends who for our safety we depend, I ask you now to come defend this precious little baby.
Wordless Ones - The electric piano is the prominent instrument once more, though as with the majority of the songs in which Hernandez takes the lead there is heavier instrumentation, or at least there seems to be. About halfway through Card jumps in to harmonize with Hernandez in this song about parents dedicating their child to God. We offer You this child who’s only ours for just awhile. How could we keep him back from You when You gave Your only child?
He Grants Sleep to the Ones That He Loves - My favorite song on the album. I just really like this one. It’s so tender and even comical at times. Electric piano and understated strings drive the song, while a saxophone makes a couple brief but effective appearances. The vocals are Card’s, conveying the mild frustration and boundless affection of a father putting a child to bed after a very long and trying day. Card turns in another very heartfelt performance, perhaps in part because this song is dedicated to his daughter. For he grants sleep to the ones that he loves, and I live to love you as well. The last words you’ll hear tonight will be ‘I love you,’ for love takes us all of a lifetime to tell.
Jesus Let Us Come to Know You - This song has been featured on several Card albums. The accompanying piano is quite elegant, offsetting the song’s simplicity, its lyrics framed in two-syllable sets ending with a three-syllable set. The harmonica that emerges, taking another verse after Hernandez has finished singing, adds a plaintive tone to the song. There’s something beautifully lonesome about a harmonica, making it a perfect fit for the lyrics which yearn for a connection to the creator. Jesus draw us ever nearer. Hold us in your loving arms. Wrap us in your gentle presence, and when the end comes, bring us home.
All You Are - For whatever reason, guitar and Card seem to go together on this album. This contemplative tune is backed nicely by guitar and bass with strings coming in during the instrumental break. Card’s earnest vocals wrap around lyrics that recall the exquisite Joseph’s Song from The Promise. Though the speaker is discussing an ordinary child an not the song of God here, all children are miracles, especially to the parent holding them in their arms for the first time. For all you are and all you’ll be, for everything you mean to me, though I don’t understand I know you’re from the father’s hand.
Lullaby for the Unborn - A harp accompanies Hernandez for this whispery lullaby sung to a child who has not yet been born. It’s a very short song consisting of only two verses with no repetition. Blessings upon you, my baby unborn, safely inside me asleep and so warm...
Sleepy Eyes - Another song about a child resisting sleep, it’s fairly upbeat and features guitar and bass as well as the occasional mandolin. Card takes the vocals on this song that clocks in at just a minute and a half but still manages to be one of the album’s most endearing. Sleepy eyes, your disguise cannot fool me with its lies. Let the angels come and close your sleepy eyes.
Hold Me Gently - A very pretty little song with lovely legato piano augmented by the saxophone. It’s just Hernandez on this one, and it’s possibly my favorite of her solos, providing a picture of a very intimate relationship with the creator. Live your life within me day by day. So goodnight, my forever friend.
Barocha - The album’s final track is very simple and familiar, a benediction often repeated in church and hung on plaques in hallways. It’s slow, solemn, and all a capella, first one voice, then two, then three, and from what I can tell it’s all Card. The lower register displayed the third time around adds an especially nice dimension. The Lord bless you and keep you, the Lord make His face shine upon you, and give you peace, and give you peace, and give you peace forever.
All in all, it’s a very soothing album, perhaps even more so for those old enough to understand the words. Hernandez’ presence works well as she provides a maternal voice to Card’s paternalism, and she does have a lovely voice. However, my favorite tracks all belong to Card. They have a different feel to them, more straightforward perhaps – a little less sappy and a little more earnest. Besides, I tend not to particularly connect with female vocals, while I love Card’s voice. It’s incredibly warm and gentle and remarkably similar to that of Dan Fogelberg, another musician whose work I admire. Its pure timbre is a joy to listen to, and I’m very glad that the lyrics he’s vocalizing are just as worthwhile.
Sunday, April 24, 2005
Rock Concert Leaves Veteran Concert-Goer Feeling Green (Green Day in Pittsburgh, Mellon Arena, 4-23-05)
I’m not exactly what you’d call a novice concert-goer. The list of
artists I’ve seen live include Sharon, Lois and Bram (I’m pretty sure
that was my first ever), Nichelle Nichols, the Irish Rovers (thrice),
Michael Card (thrice), Art Garfunkel (thrice), Simon and Garfunkel, Clay
Aiken (twice), Neil Diamond, Gordon Lightfoot, Livingston Taylor and
Don McLean, and I’m sure that’s not an exhaustive list. Most of those
have been in small venues such as churches and philharmonic halls, but a
few were large outdoor gatherings and massive arenas. But even the
mayhem of the American Idol concert in Cleveland failed to entirely
prepare me for the first concert I’ve attended in which the vast
majority of the audience was my age or younger.
Back in the beginning of this school year, less than a month after her arrival in America, our exchange student Cathi got to experience her first American concert. Unfortunately, it was an artist she’d never heard of and whose style did not appeal to her. Based on my set of experiences, a Clay Aiken concert is pretty darn happenin’. But he almost might as well be Perry Como compared to the atmosphere at a concert whose core audience is angsty adolescents. Mom was determined to arrange for tickets to see at least one band Cathi really likes before she returns to Germany, so when the Green Day concert in Pittsburgh made a blip on Mom’s radar, she pounced, unintimidated by the inevitable culture shock that would occur when three tame folkies joined a throng of green-haired Gen-X-ers in a line that began to look like it would rival the parade of pilgrims in Rome three weeks ago. Yes, we decided to make this a family affair, so while Cathi, Nathan and our next-door neighbor awaited the hour with great anticipation, Mom, Dad and I leaned a bit towards trepidation. Just what were we getting ourselves into?
Before we even entered the Mellon Arena, I was struck by the differences between this concert and others I had attended. For one, there was the monster line, which we managed to hit at its longest point before officials finally opened the doors less than an hour before the concert. It wound halfway around the block and was patrolled by scalpers and opportunists selling discount Green Day t-shirts, neither of which I’d ever encountered before. It was actually just after 8:00 by the time we found our seats after a good deal of Mom trying to make sense of the arena map and Cathi urging her to ask for directions in the same agitated tone I’ve used on numerous occasions when I’ve been needlessly afraid that a concert I’d been desperately looking forward to would start without me. After nervously navigating my way to my seat in the dark, I sat down, determined to give the show my best shot. My ears were already under assault.
They haven’t recovered yet, and that’s probably 90 percent due to the efforts of the cover band that began playing as we got settled. I’d never heard of them before, though my hipper companions apparently had. None of us found that they added much to the concert except to make us grateful for the relative silence when they abandoned the stage to allow for half an hour of preparation for the main act. My Chemical Romance was on stage for about half an hour. In that time I understood exactly zero words to any of their songs, but our neighbor later assured me that was probably for the best. I was able to make out what the band leader said well enough to get the impression that, as Forrest Gump said of the flag-adorned protester in D.C., “He liked to say the f-word.” This was another first. I’ve never been to a concert in which that word was uttered once, and here it was flying at me at 200 decibels every 30 seconds. There was an especially worrisome moment when he asked for the attention of the female contingent of the audience and discussed the practice of certain bands asking gals to remove their shirts for a shot at a backstage pass. Before my visions of mass upper body nudity were realized, however, I was relieved to hear him admonish the gals for giving into such unseemly demands. “You’re better than that!” he shouted unexpectedly as I dared to remove my hand from my face.
What followed was an intermission of sorts, with the lights up and the music down, though loud enough to encourage a party atmosphere. The stereo blared such varied fare as Green Day’s own cover of I Fought the Law and Queen’s We Will Rock You while audience members batted around enormous beach ball-style balloons, initiated an impromptu wave that made it around the arena five times, and cheered wildly whenever the sound check man made an appearance. With the advent of YMCA, the audience enthusiasm ratcheted up a whole category, especially after their participation was encouraged by someone on stage in a big pink bunny suit who may or may not have been a member of Green Day. At any rate, this marked the end of the waiting, and soon the audience was roaring its welcome to the band it had come to see.
The show kicked off with American Idiot and Holiday before the band continued with a repertoire consisting mainly of songs I’d either never heard before or had but didn’t recognize. Lead singer Billie Joe Armstrong did most of the talking, pumping up the audience - often from a runway that took him out among the large group of people standing on the arena floor - by frequently encouraging our participation in the concert, if only to do the wave or shout “heyyyy-o.” I’ve seen him on television before and found him slightly ominous, with his dark make-up and his manner of barking out each syllable as though it were a separate word. I’d never heard him speak before but I found his banter with the audience – profanity and vulgarity aside – enjoyable. He clearly enjoys interacting with his fans and seems to appreciate their role in his rise to musical success.
While there was no jumbotron at this concert to help those in the nosebleeds see what was going on, I managed to get a pretty good idea of what was happening. While we were probably closer to the stage at the Simon and Garfunkel concert, our visibility with Green Day was better, as we were in the third row up from the balcony railing, dead center. Between that and our pair of mini binoculars, we were set. The most visual aspect of the show was something we would have experienced no matter where we were sitting. The lights on the stage played a large role in setting the mood for each song and sometimes flashed in time to the music on more raucous numbers. There were also a few explosions of flame that would have made me very nervous had I been on stage; as it was, the first of these made me jump. I could feel the heat from the flames all the way up in the balcony.
Though most of the music was pretty rowdy, it still retained a certain melodic quality that was notably absent during the set from My Chemical Romance. Songs that slowed and quieted it down a bit demonstrated the band members’ prowess as musicians, and performances such as Wake Me Up When September Ends became especially moving when half the audience brandished their cell phones, lighters and glow sticks to create the mood of a vigil. One of my favorite moments was when, after entertainingly introducing the members of Green Day (bassist Mike Dirnt, drummer Tre Cool and several assisting members whose names I didn’t catch), Billie Joe drew three eager volunteers from the audience to form an impromptu band that would play a brief song on stage. I’ve seen singers and dancers recruited a couple times, but never instrumentalists. It was a kick to see three ordinary guys out there on the stage getting one of the thrills of their lives, and I found it particularly touching that the young man chosen as the guitarist got to keep the guitar.
It wasn’t until the end of the concert that most of the songs I recognized emerged. Aside from a mid-concert performance of Basketcase, it was mostly unfamiliar fare for me until Minority, which if I recall correctly closed out the concert until their return for an encore of rather generous length. First Maria, then one of the two songs I was really waiting for: Boulevard of Broken Dreams. It’s a very poignant song, starting with the poetic title, and it calls to mind Robert Frost and his road less traveled (in spite of assurances by academia that that poem has been grossly misinterpreted ever since its publication). At any rate, this is a forlorn anthem, mingling solitary misery with defiant independence. It was one of the quieter songs of the evening, though nothing in that arena approached anything I would truly consider “quiet” – a hazard of such vast venues. You have to crank up the volume even when it doesn’t really suit the music.
The band seems to have a particular affection for Queen, and the encore’s grand send-off was a rousing We Are the Champions, complete with lights flashing the words so the audience could sing along (though I suspect that was superfluous) and giant machines spewing gobs of confetti. It was quite an impressive effect. The concert officially ended with just Billie Joe and his guitar in the song that, judging from the reaction, seemed to be the audience favorite. Perhaps that’s because just about everybody, no matter what their level of familiarity with the band, has heard it. I think of it as the Seinfeld finale song; my brother said he thinks of it the song played at every single graduation ceremony. In any case, the abrasive title of Good Riddance is unsuccessful in masking the song’s sentimentality. It’s a very tender tune and certainly a perfect pick to conclude the evening, both in terms of its subject matter and popularity. I was struck by how many people in the audience responded when asked if this was their first concert. I suspect that, particularly if they were die-hard Green Day fans, they had, indeed, “had the time of [their] life.” I started out the evening playing along with a bit of perfunctory applause, but by the encore I didn’t have to pretend anymore. They managed to draw out some genuine enthusiasm.
As I said, this was an interesting experience for me. It was extraordinarily loud, to the detriment not only of my ears but of my nerves as the bass and the enthusiastic audience rumbled together with a force that shook our seats up in the balcony. As I watched three especially enthusiastic teens try to mosh against the balcony railing and I fought off visions of one of them flipping over, I worried whether the whole structure might collapse underneath us. My concern was not too serious, but I worried nonetheless. This is not the sort of concert I am used to. Nonetheless, I enjoyed a great deal of the concert, and when I wasn’t blushing from the words coming out of Billie Joe’s mouth, I was usually applauding them. I get the feeling ultimately that he’s a pretty decent guy, a notion strengthened when I went to the band’s web site and saw that they were encouraging fans to bring nonperishable food donations to their concerts to be distributed through USA Harvest. I confess I left the concert with a touch of exhilaration, brought on partly by the thrill of being in such a vast and enthusiastic crowd but partly because the band wasn’t too hard to take after all. Ultimately, though Green may not be my cup of tea, a sip or two won’t do me any harm.
Back in the beginning of this school year, less than a month after her arrival in America, our exchange student Cathi got to experience her first American concert. Unfortunately, it was an artist she’d never heard of and whose style did not appeal to her. Based on my set of experiences, a Clay Aiken concert is pretty darn happenin’. But he almost might as well be Perry Como compared to the atmosphere at a concert whose core audience is angsty adolescents. Mom was determined to arrange for tickets to see at least one band Cathi really likes before she returns to Germany, so when the Green Day concert in Pittsburgh made a blip on Mom’s radar, she pounced, unintimidated by the inevitable culture shock that would occur when three tame folkies joined a throng of green-haired Gen-X-ers in a line that began to look like it would rival the parade of pilgrims in Rome three weeks ago. Yes, we decided to make this a family affair, so while Cathi, Nathan and our next-door neighbor awaited the hour with great anticipation, Mom, Dad and I leaned a bit towards trepidation. Just what were we getting ourselves into?
Before we even entered the Mellon Arena, I was struck by the differences between this concert and others I had attended. For one, there was the monster line, which we managed to hit at its longest point before officials finally opened the doors less than an hour before the concert. It wound halfway around the block and was patrolled by scalpers and opportunists selling discount Green Day t-shirts, neither of which I’d ever encountered before. It was actually just after 8:00 by the time we found our seats after a good deal of Mom trying to make sense of the arena map and Cathi urging her to ask for directions in the same agitated tone I’ve used on numerous occasions when I’ve been needlessly afraid that a concert I’d been desperately looking forward to would start without me. After nervously navigating my way to my seat in the dark, I sat down, determined to give the show my best shot. My ears were already under assault.
They haven’t recovered yet, and that’s probably 90 percent due to the efforts of the cover band that began playing as we got settled. I’d never heard of them before, though my hipper companions apparently had. None of us found that they added much to the concert except to make us grateful for the relative silence when they abandoned the stage to allow for half an hour of preparation for the main act. My Chemical Romance was on stage for about half an hour. In that time I understood exactly zero words to any of their songs, but our neighbor later assured me that was probably for the best. I was able to make out what the band leader said well enough to get the impression that, as Forrest Gump said of the flag-adorned protester in D.C., “He liked to say the f-word.” This was another first. I’ve never been to a concert in which that word was uttered once, and here it was flying at me at 200 decibels every 30 seconds. There was an especially worrisome moment when he asked for the attention of the female contingent of the audience and discussed the practice of certain bands asking gals to remove their shirts for a shot at a backstage pass. Before my visions of mass upper body nudity were realized, however, I was relieved to hear him admonish the gals for giving into such unseemly demands. “You’re better than that!” he shouted unexpectedly as I dared to remove my hand from my face.
What followed was an intermission of sorts, with the lights up and the music down, though loud enough to encourage a party atmosphere. The stereo blared such varied fare as Green Day’s own cover of I Fought the Law and Queen’s We Will Rock You while audience members batted around enormous beach ball-style balloons, initiated an impromptu wave that made it around the arena five times, and cheered wildly whenever the sound check man made an appearance. With the advent of YMCA, the audience enthusiasm ratcheted up a whole category, especially after their participation was encouraged by someone on stage in a big pink bunny suit who may or may not have been a member of Green Day. At any rate, this marked the end of the waiting, and soon the audience was roaring its welcome to the band it had come to see.
The show kicked off with American Idiot and Holiday before the band continued with a repertoire consisting mainly of songs I’d either never heard before or had but didn’t recognize. Lead singer Billie Joe Armstrong did most of the talking, pumping up the audience - often from a runway that took him out among the large group of people standing on the arena floor - by frequently encouraging our participation in the concert, if only to do the wave or shout “heyyyy-o.” I’ve seen him on television before and found him slightly ominous, with his dark make-up and his manner of barking out each syllable as though it were a separate word. I’d never heard him speak before but I found his banter with the audience – profanity and vulgarity aside – enjoyable. He clearly enjoys interacting with his fans and seems to appreciate their role in his rise to musical success.
While there was no jumbotron at this concert to help those in the nosebleeds see what was going on, I managed to get a pretty good idea of what was happening. While we were probably closer to the stage at the Simon and Garfunkel concert, our visibility with Green Day was better, as we were in the third row up from the balcony railing, dead center. Between that and our pair of mini binoculars, we were set. The most visual aspect of the show was something we would have experienced no matter where we were sitting. The lights on the stage played a large role in setting the mood for each song and sometimes flashed in time to the music on more raucous numbers. There were also a few explosions of flame that would have made me very nervous had I been on stage; as it was, the first of these made me jump. I could feel the heat from the flames all the way up in the balcony.
Though most of the music was pretty rowdy, it still retained a certain melodic quality that was notably absent during the set from My Chemical Romance. Songs that slowed and quieted it down a bit demonstrated the band members’ prowess as musicians, and performances such as Wake Me Up When September Ends became especially moving when half the audience brandished their cell phones, lighters and glow sticks to create the mood of a vigil. One of my favorite moments was when, after entertainingly introducing the members of Green Day (bassist Mike Dirnt, drummer Tre Cool and several assisting members whose names I didn’t catch), Billie Joe drew three eager volunteers from the audience to form an impromptu band that would play a brief song on stage. I’ve seen singers and dancers recruited a couple times, but never instrumentalists. It was a kick to see three ordinary guys out there on the stage getting one of the thrills of their lives, and I found it particularly touching that the young man chosen as the guitarist got to keep the guitar.
It wasn’t until the end of the concert that most of the songs I recognized emerged. Aside from a mid-concert performance of Basketcase, it was mostly unfamiliar fare for me until Minority, which if I recall correctly closed out the concert until their return for an encore of rather generous length. First Maria, then one of the two songs I was really waiting for: Boulevard of Broken Dreams. It’s a very poignant song, starting with the poetic title, and it calls to mind Robert Frost and his road less traveled (in spite of assurances by academia that that poem has been grossly misinterpreted ever since its publication). At any rate, this is a forlorn anthem, mingling solitary misery with defiant independence. It was one of the quieter songs of the evening, though nothing in that arena approached anything I would truly consider “quiet” – a hazard of such vast venues. You have to crank up the volume even when it doesn’t really suit the music.
The band seems to have a particular affection for Queen, and the encore’s grand send-off was a rousing We Are the Champions, complete with lights flashing the words so the audience could sing along (though I suspect that was superfluous) and giant machines spewing gobs of confetti. It was quite an impressive effect. The concert officially ended with just Billie Joe and his guitar in the song that, judging from the reaction, seemed to be the audience favorite. Perhaps that’s because just about everybody, no matter what their level of familiarity with the band, has heard it. I think of it as the Seinfeld finale song; my brother said he thinks of it the song played at every single graduation ceremony. In any case, the abrasive title of Good Riddance is unsuccessful in masking the song’s sentimentality. It’s a very tender tune and certainly a perfect pick to conclude the evening, both in terms of its subject matter and popularity. I was struck by how many people in the audience responded when asked if this was their first concert. I suspect that, particularly if they were die-hard Green Day fans, they had, indeed, “had the time of [their] life.” I started out the evening playing along with a bit of perfunctory applause, but by the encore I didn’t have to pretend anymore. They managed to draw out some genuine enthusiasm.
As I said, this was an interesting experience for me. It was extraordinarily loud, to the detriment not only of my ears but of my nerves as the bass and the enthusiastic audience rumbled together with a force that shook our seats up in the balcony. As I watched three especially enthusiastic teens try to mosh against the balcony railing and I fought off visions of one of them flipping over, I worried whether the whole structure might collapse underneath us. My concern was not too serious, but I worried nonetheless. This is not the sort of concert I am used to. Nonetheless, I enjoyed a great deal of the concert, and when I wasn’t blushing from the words coming out of Billie Joe’s mouth, I was usually applauding them. I get the feeling ultimately that he’s a pretty decent guy, a notion strengthened when I went to the band’s web site and saw that they were encouraging fans to bring nonperishable food donations to their concerts to be distributed through USA Harvest. I confess I left the concert with a touch of exhilaration, brought on partly by the thrill of being in such a vast and enthusiastic crowd but partly because the band wasn’t too hard to take after all. Ultimately, though Green may not be my cup of tea, a sip or two won’t do me any harm.
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