The Lurking Fear

It is a relief and even a delight to shriek wildly and throw oneself voluntarily along with the hideous vortex of dreamdoom into whatever bottomless gulf may yawn.

But still there remained that burning determination to reach the innermost secret of the fear.

I don't like to copy others and leave it at that, but here it is.

The Weird and the Wonderful

EDIT EDIT: Hells bells I did it somehow.

EDIT: I can't get the dammed Adsense off even though I went through all of the procedures.

Things have been hectic around here lately. Personal. Hard to talk about. Life. I'm not checking in here to show that this blog is still updating but to keep it on my mind. What I've done has been enjoyable for me and I hope to continue it, not out of a sense of obligation but for a space to express my opinions if to no one but me.

I quite like myself, I do, and I can carry on a mean debate with myself. I have a feeling this blog will be a little empty for quite some time. It's another blog about one persons opinions about movies, tv, books and plays, and that's good enough for me.

Many people assume that when a person watches something they do it purely for escapism. I don't know about the other people, but for me, it's like the pink elephant in the room. So ESCAPISM has never been my purpose. When I watch, listen, read, interact, it's true, I don't have to concentrate on my problems. My emotions are not on me and my situation. I have something else to mull on but I don't stop thinking about that pink elephant. So whatever, and really it does seem like whatever, I'm watching I apply it to me. After a while, these things become ideals, representations, understandings that reflect (do they become?) me.

Things like this:

Critic's Choice

For me, watching this movie was a lot like walking in on my parents.

But let me backtrack first. The reason why I watch Bob Hope and Lucille Ball movies are for cute, nonmovies to fall asleep to. I don't want to have to think too hard about what's going on, just look at the screen and be fall asleep under the watch of two familiar faces dressed up in top 50's hokum.

Critic's Choice started off this way.Cute 50's kids with cute, slick backed hair. Guys in suits and dolls in dresses. There was nothing to alert me to the dangers ahead other than that it was shot in brilliant color and edited in stubbornly modern cuts, pans, and dissolves. Nothing so extreme as to prepare me to hear about Bob's inability to knock Lucille up. Hmm...I wasn't sleeping so much after that.

There were more...instances, like their casual kissing and talk of pregnancy. I've become so used to shows tiptoeing around censorable subjects that to have two icons from that era talk openly about it is surreal. Before they were two prepubescents in adult bodies, but in this movie they are adults dealing with adult subjects. Not so good for fluff.

I've heard that this movie is based off of a Broadway play by the same name, and that this is the weaker of the two. While there were some major flaws with some extended slapstick scenes (Bob Hope's drunken romp) and cliches (the unfortunate characterization of Lucille's boyfriend), there was a lot to love, and I'm not so sure it was because of what the movie was.

This was the early 60's. We're used to defining decades by certain events and clothes as if all of everything and all of everyone could be described so simply. It's easy to forget that time isn't rigid but that the years flow into one another. There has never been a new year where upon striking 12, the population's clothes have changed to the newest fad, hair grows out or cuts short, and Paris Hilton comes out with the latest way to describe attraction. Time is fluid. In this movie, I saw the last of the 50's as seen by the 60's.

And all of what had come before from Ball and Hope became clear to me how little it revealed about them as people. I had never been able to see them as adults, but this movie allowed me to. That small realization brought me that much closer into understanding them as people. I realized how little I would truly know. How little we know so much of our beloved stars. We like to think of them as their persona, representing a need we lack in our own lives, and with these older movies, so free of sex, drugs, curses our stars become free of them. They're not human like the rest of us. The days they lived in become mystical and we only have our stars to show us how it truly was. But they can't, so they don't, and those times become very representations. "It was innocent back then" because it's not now.

I wonder if anything has really changed.

Abbott and Costello: Jack and the Beanstalk

This movie has not one review that doesn't make a mention of The Wizard of Oz or March of the Wooden Soldiers. It's quite easy to. The Wizard of Oz and Jack and the Beanstalk are at first stuck in their worlds drained of color and interest. They melt into surrealist, colorful landscapes, barren of any sort of irony, presented matter-of-factly. They are so sure of themselves, any confusion upon watching seems to be a fault in the viewer even if the events truly don't make sense. This element of ordinary becoming more, of imaginative over real pervades in both, but Jack and the Beanstalk lacks the mythic element. Wizard of Oz has the Everyperson who has dreamed of that Something more than playing out their life as expected, someone who has dreamed about beyond the possible and farther, asking what is beyond impossible: What is Somewhere over the Rainbow? Whereas Jack and the Beanstalk stars Costello, the innocently, adult comedian who we are so familiar with when he speaks those immortal words, "Who's on First?"...Not so grand.

And then when the story starts we want to compare this to Laurel and Hardy's masterpiece, March of the Wooden Soldiers. Once again, elements are shared, such as the period costumes (those flamboyant leggings bring me back farther in childhood than I'd like to admit), the romantic pairing alongside the comedic, and plot points only a child can appreciate (or an adult who is willing to put aside pretensions). So why do we remember Laurel and Hardy's film but not Abbott and Costello's (or should I say Costello's-a point I will return to later)? I believe the answer lies in Laurel and Hardy's characters. They existed as children in adult bodies, living in a world which they could be in, but never understand. It makes sense to have them fight the bogeyman with their very bumblingness, as they had been fighting the creatures each time a film of theirs played, whether they be actual monsters in loincloths, their unforgiving wives or a Scotsman who reacts violently to buying Christmas trees. Abbott and Costello however, were two adults, two inept, immature adults who tripped each other up, but who still had desires and thoughts of men. They didn't exist in a world they couldn't understand, they understood but were so caught up in their own energies, practically bursting with it as anyone who has witnessed one of their arguments, that they couldn't see beyond the troubles they made for themselves. To see Abbott and Costello in period clothes, facing monsters, becomes laughable. They shouldn't be facing giants, they should be facing each other..."I don't know, that's what I'm asking you!"



So I've made every point on why you shouldn't enjoy this film. It pales compared to those two great children films, it's laughable and not in the good way but the way that makes your stomach turn as you become embarrassed for two shadows on the screen. A failed film. I would agree with all this, yet I can't stop myself from watching it, and not in horror, but in delight. I know every word to "In the Right".

Watch it and you'll see what I mean. Every other part leading up to this song has been painful to watch. The two romantic leads are leaden actors, the sets are cheap, and while Abbott gives a good, even inspired performance, seeing him breaks any suspension of belief. This is Bud Abbott from Buck Privates, Hold that Ghost, Naughty Nineties, not a devious butcher from a land where giants roam. But when Costello is on the screen, alone on the screen, nothing but him and that cheap, cheap set, Something happens. The background becomes real in it's own way, plants are made out of plastic, and the sky is painted. Giants are an everyday occurrence and it's common sense to plant magic beans. And then you hear him sing that song. There is no trace of Costello but of Jack who believes so strongly in what he says, in what is around him, I did too. I believed that he was Jack who felled the giant, I believed that animals could talk, and yes, I believed that the wig Abbott wore was real.

There has only been a few times where I have watched a movie that made me believe so strongly in the imaginative. There have been many movies with childlike stories and sets, but there are few that actually believe what they show us. Today, turn on the television and see if you can find a kid's show that does not have some ironic edge. It's a show both children and adults can enjoy! But when it's done, did either of them believe in the magic?

There is not one ironic edge in Jack and the Beanstalk and that can become ridiculous and a great failing at times, but it also becomes its strongest point. It's why I remember this movie fondly even when watching it became almost unbearable.

There are times when Costello throws himself so forcefully into the picture his feet slip out from under him and he falls in the most spectacular and terrible ways. But always with a smile. In the later part of his career rarely would you see such enthusiasm from the team as they were placed in increasingly sour products, but here it is so damn refreshing to see the two enjoy themselves. As the movie wore on, I found myself laughing without nervousness and with delight.

When the film closes, back in its sepia tone. We see Abbott and Costello as we would normally, their street clothes, drained of color, in this world. Abbott is himself, but Costello has changed. With his last few minutes of screen time we see this is no longer Costello the man but Costello the child who refused to leave once the body grew old. No, the need to assert himself became stronger as innocence was lost, the body aged, and a son died.

And for a few minutes, we can believe in that innocence.

Master Harold and The Boys

Unconsciously, I haven't written a review with a rating in it. There are no stars, thumbs, or synopsis. I wonder if the critic's role is to decipher between good and bad or to understand the work. I've been in the latter camp, but I hope to try a bit of both.

Master Harold is set in a world of dreams and nightmares. The characters transcend the daily disappointments and evils by dreams. Each individual has their own aspirations, but they all recognize the representation of their hopes in dancing. The perfection and happiness they have in their dreams is symbolized by the gracefulness of ballroom dancing. But these dreams are shattered by the nightmares of reality: the disgusting and humiliating depths of which people fall into. The chamber-pot most fully realizes their dreams perverted as only it can in its representation of human waste and pitifulness.

Sam, Willie, and Hally all dream for a world without hatred. They are entranced by the art of ballroom not for its physical beauty but for its inner significance. To them, ballroom is paradise found. In the real world they encounter the evils of racism and familial disappointment, but in paradise there is no evil… “Nobody trips or stumbles or bumps into anybody else. That’s what that moment is all about. To be one of the finalists on that dance floor is like…like being in a dream about a world where accidents don’t happen” (45). But men, by their own sins of hatred, always lose paradise and so it must reside in their world of dreams.

It is Hally who casts them out. Sam and Willie, while flawed, are willing to put aside their cruelty in order to believe in ballroom dancing, but Hally cannot. While he fantasizes about perfection, the hurt and horrors he has witnessed in the imperfect world from an infantilized father has left him distrustful of any good left. How can there be paradise if in it there are no fathers, but only animals who can do no better than defecate upon themselves? There is no ballroom dancing, there is no absence of suffering or hate, “Do you know what the winner’s trophy is? A beautiful, big chamber-pot with roses on the side, and it’s full to the brim with piss. And guess who I think is going to be this year’s winner?” (52). But there is no winner. All that is left standing is three stumbling dancers, wondering why they were bumped into.

Fugard gives us an answer. He says that we trip each other up because of hatred. It is easy to listen to Hally’s words spitted with racism, and attribute our stumbling because of that, but Fugard wants us to understand that it is much simpler, it is hatred, no matter how we phrase it. Willie stumbles into Hilda because he beats her. Hally stumbles into Sam because of racism. Hally stumbles into his father because of self-hatred. He can only distract himself long enough with the promises of ballroom so long as he does not fall into the horrors of his father’s chamber pot, and he is not ready to practice the grace it takes to avoid it. He trips, falls, and crashes right into Sam and Willie bringing them down with him.

A few thoughts on Death of A Salesman

I have trouble reading plays. Unlike books which details the action, plays might have a few stage directions but the bulk of material is dialogue. As I read Death of A Salesman, I found myself getting bored, wanting to skip passages, daydreaming.

But then there were lines that were more real than living in the daily grind. I've had these conversations with my mother, my father, my siblings. These people were my family, and there I was arguing back.

This is why it's a little hard to post here what I wrote after reading Arthur Miller's play...


Emotional manipulation is Willy’s brand of madness. It is not the American Dream. The American Dream is realized by humble and sane Charley and Bernard, but Willy is not so humble or sane. He is a salesman in Arthur Miller’s play aptly titled Death of a Salesman, and being one he has a streak of showmanship akin to a ringleader at a 3-ring circus. He is the leader and the circus is reality to be manipulated at his will, showing what he wants and hiding what he doesn’t behind the tent of madness. His goal as ringleader is not to accomplish anything, particularly not the American Dream, but to run the circus indefinitely without pause or outside influence, and when this frantic pace breaks down or is threatened, he hold onto it tighter. The more control Willy looses, the more emotionally manipulative he becomes towards his family and himself.



In the first ring, stands the aging, nervous wife, Linda. She enters, powdered face, big, red lipstick smeared to a smile, a perfect clown. This show is an old one, but a favorite, and the player is skilled in the art of emotional co-dependence. “I’ll take care of you and you will love me.” Her role is to sustain Willy’s reality so that he will stay with her. “And the boys, Willy. Few men are adored by their children the way you are” (Miller 37). She tells this to Willy when his imperfections threaten to tear the show apart, when he is pointing out his age, his weight, how the boys don’t have jobs and haven’t written in a while. Linda refutes this and perpetuates the lie that their sons do adore him and would do anything for him, even though her first complaint to them is that they do not cater to him. Linda to her boys as they enter: “He’s the dearest man in the world to me, and I won’t have anyone making him feel unwanted and low and blue” (55). The audience understands the joke in this. Linda is unwanted sexually by Willy. She is lonely because of her role in being there for Willy, not herself. She is low because of her babying Willy for love. But he doesn’t love her the way a husband should. He cheats on her and allows her to spend all her energies on him instead of allowing her to be her own woman. The only payoff Linda receives is attention, which she mistakes for love, “I won’t have you mending your stockings in this house! Now throw them out!” (39). He says this not because he is ashamed he cannot afford to give his wife new things, or that he has given new stockings to his mistress. He feels shame because he is not following what he believes is his reality as a good husband. The stockings threaten to break his perception of being the perfect husband. So what does he do? He directs her to take them away, throw them out of the act. And so the lights flicker onto the second ring with Biff and Happy, a double act. Short, not the main act, only a diversion to maintain interest.


The ringleader walks down, enters the third ring, puts on a show. “Couple of weeks ago we got a letter from his wife in Africa. He died.” The light slides to the periphery as if for an entrance but no one enters. His name is Ben and only Willy can see him. The real magic of this act is not the man, but how Willy convinces himself that he is there, and how others give into it, knowing what is truth. They never claim to see Ben themselves, but know that Willy talks to himself, time-traveling, controlling where he is through the magic of memory. If they question his ability to see what others do not, or to question other insanities such as attempts at suicide in between cheery bouts of disposition, the reality will break and so will the show. When it does inevitably break through Biff’s inability to give into the character Willy has molded for him, Willy breaks. He then sees his only source of happiness through suicide which brings nothingness, not bliss. He retreats further into this madness by carrying it out until his last dramatic scene… “As the car speeds off, the music crashes down in a frenzy of sound…all stare down at the grave” (136). His last bit as ringleader; his last source of control.


It turns out that because of his need for power, Willy had none. He became so consumed crafting the reality that he wanted, he became another player in it, acting out what suited his insecurities as a husband, father, and salesmen in order to not face reality. His emotions became monsters; things to be feared and ignored. The only true control a person has in this world is over themselves. He did not have that as he used all other power that was not his to take, such as Linda’s love, and Biff and Happy’s roles as sons, to bury himself. In the end he was not the leader but a sideshow of his own madness which led him. He was the freak show, a snake eating its own tail.

Review On Reviewing

At the library today, I found a book. A HOW TO book, one in a series. How to be a film critic. Perfect! Not only would I learn how to analyze a film, I would learn the entire history of movies in one fell swoop; a little more than 100 pages.

But as I walked to the checkout, it became pure lead, in my arms and my head. I could not stop thinking about the repercussions of it. The repercussions of a goddamned HOW TO book. I was afraid that after reading it, I would compare myself, I'd fall into a pattern of looking at media through this book. I have a tendency to follow other people's patterns when I'm on shaky ground, and that's not what I want. When I feel secure in my opinion, I'll take ideas, things I like and things I don't and apply them to me, and that's how I'll go about interpreting what I see. That will always be changing. Countless times have I thought that my way was the most concrete, best, most perfect way, only to have that perception ruined.

It's hard to argue with words on a paper. No one is going to respond, it's perception won't be challenged by anyone but me, and I don't feel I can do that until I understand my view of criticizing.

Ha! So far this blog has had an intro post and a short little tribute and already my honeymoon period is coming to an end.

Eddie Cantor: A Tribute

Eddie Cantor starts with a question knowing the answer.

"Mr. Olson would you play something for Eddie? Do that will you?"

It's an empty stage, white as slate. Eddie's shadow barely registers on the floor which fades at an indiscriminate point into blackness. Perhaps he would fade too if his frame wasn't haloed by two strong lights which still can't clear up his face: two dark holes, a shadow under the nose, and a line for the mouth.

People go for the eyes first but here, given nothing, the gaze slides to his body. He is tapping his foot to the music, swaying his hips to offset his arms which pop up and slide down, his hands tracing shapes, and every so often he snaps his head to the side staring where we cannot: off-camera. No wonder we don't notice that for a full minute he is only in one spot. There is so much concentrated energy in this one spot that to move could break it. His tapping becomes bouncing, crossing his feet, sliding backwards than forward, his voice at a crescendo as he gives a gentlemanly bow before the song is over (How sure of himself!) before prancing offstage, head over shoulder at the stage and audience he is leaving behind...What a show!

Just as soon as he's off he's on. A ghost.

"Won't you play a little something for Eddie?"

How can they not? If they refuse, he'll walk off-camera back to the stage asking for another song. As long as the camera rolls Eddie will be there. Maybe in the background, a spectral, haunting film with his imprint, his name forgotten but his presence stubbornly returning time and time again asking politely but never waiting for the answer.

Unlike most films that fade to black as an end, this tears apart, loses its sound and then cuts.

But not until Eddie has taken his bow.



As a note, I can't ignore the sexism in this video. I don't believe a disclaimer about my beliefs needs to be here, but I don't want my words to be interpreted in the wrong manner. I don't agree with it, but (and there's that but) living in a PC land, it's nice to see an almost innocent incorrectness. And Mr. Cantor is endearing. Anyone else and I might have to sock 'em

First Post

I'm a little sick as I type this. Nauseous, but nothing serious.

I made this blog to achieve a modest dream. I'm going to post about media. The big, undefinable world of just about everything.

I am a not a film, music, radio or art critic. I have no training in criticizing other than what I do on a daily basis, and I can't force myself into believing that my knowledge can compete with professionals. Any and all pretension of appearing so is merely a fluke. What I can believe is that a critic is, at his heart, a man like any other even in their well-worn world. I am a woman like any other. I've always wondered what it would be like to be the critic, and here is my mimic of it.

Well...here I go.