"Missing The Message... Again And Again"

“Napoleon’s going to lose!” I bemoan hyper-dramatically to Dr. M, having just started the seventh CD of the seven-disc set of the book Waterloo which I am listening to as I exercise on the treadmill.  Immersed in her morning crossword, Dr. M’s disinterestedly replied,

“What?”

“Napoleon’s going to lose!” I repeat even more hyper-dramatically than the first time if that were exaggeratedly possible.  To which her belated reaction was,     

“What a surprise.”

Because, you know, it’s history.  And we knew that.

This is the problem with historical writing – no suspense – because we are already aware of the outcome.

“Oh, a new book about the Alamo!  Maybe they’ll win this time!”

Sorry.

This inevitable “fun-kill” is endemic also in cinematic “biopics”, such as Race, which I recently attended and hope in the future to write about, so I shall say no more at this juncture… beyond the fact that Jesse Owens did exceedingly well at the ‘36 Olympics.  I hope that does not ruin it for you.  As it substantially did for me.)

So, okay, fine.  Historical narratives – you already know the ending.  Custer loses and they landed on the moon.  The hope, however, be it a book or a movie about actual events, is in the possibility of learning more about the subject than you already know.  Newly revealed specifics.  Interesting background material on the participants.  A “fresh take” explaining the way things turned out. 

The destination is on record.  But, perhaps, not the whole story.  

Unfortunately, listening to Waterloo, I learned considerably less about the battle than I was hoping to.

And now a small although pertinent side-trip. 

I spoke yesterday about… What did I speak about yesterday?  I know there’s a connection.  I have to look it up.  Hold on a second.  Man, I’m old.

…………………………………………

Okay, I’m back.  And there was a connection.

I mentioned yesterday that I do not wear headphones when I am walking on the street because of the impossibility of thinking and listening at the same time.
(Although I did experience knee-scraping evidence of thinking and falling at the same time.)   

I reported that while walking unencumbered by headphones, I came up with two eminently viable blog post ideas.  The implication being that listening to “Books-on-CD” on the treadmill, my concentration is so completely engaged on what I am listening to, l have no residual brain function for thinking.

That assertion, I now admit, is not entirely correct.  Listening to “Books on CD”, thoughts still occasionally slip in.  And the consequences are far from productive.

Using the current example, almost everyone knows that the Battle of Waterloo was fought between Napoleon, Emperor of France and an army of allies led by the English Duke of Wellington and that Wellington eventually prevailed.  Fewer people know – though still a substantial number – that the main reason Wellington won was that the Prussian army showed up in the nick of time to turn the tide of the battle against the French.

Okay, so I go in knowing those facts.  My intentions are to learn more, illuminating gaps in my understanding by listening to the Waterloo CD.

Unfortunately, I missed an alarming number of them, due to the unwelcome annoyance of thinking.  These are not full-blown swaths of information – like when I am not wearing headphones – but thumbnail snatches of insinuating concern.

Here’s how it works.

I am listening on the treadmill when I suddenly think, “Did I remember to take my pills?”  And when I return to my listening, I hear…

“… This, many historian believe, may have doomed Napoleon’s efforts at Waterloo before they began.”

And there you have it.  While momentarily thinking about my pills, I had missed what many historians believe may have doomed Napoleon’s efforts at Waterloo before they began.

I was then required to go through the tedious process of “Reversing” the CD to find out.  (Heavy rainstorms impeded Napoleon from moving up his artillery, delaying the start of the battle, which ultimately advantaged the enemy.  I had missed that valuable tidbit while I was thinking.)

It happened again and again.  To the point where I get tired of constantly “Reversing”, opting instead to remain ignorant of what I had missed and simply forging ahead.  My thoughts, however, refuse to stop breaking in.

I listen to the CD.  And then…

Thought:  “Why is it when I begin to walk faster, I feel these, like, tightening rubber bands around my wrists…”

Then I hear…

“… Who could believe a commanding general would behave so uncharacteristically before a battle?”

And I’m like, which commanding general?  What did he do? 

Listening, listening, listening...

Thought:  “Is that shoulder impingement coming back?  The orthopedist said if it did, they were going to have to…”

Then I hear…

“… Napoleon’s instructions were not followed and we are left with the consequences.”

What instructions?  What consequences? 

Once again, listening... 

Thought:  “If I go back for a cleaning, they’ll see those irritations on my tongue.”

I hear…

“… fought so fiercely, the tide of the confrontation was turned, and possibly for good.”  

What the heck happened!  I missed it!

More listening...  

Thought:  “My annual cardiologist appointment is coming up.  What if they find something…”

I hear...

“Though retreat was a legitimate option, Emperor Napoleon, for those reasons, elected not to.”

And then I give up. 

The Waterloo CD set is almost over.  And although I have gleaned a couple of interesting factoids, if you asked me, “Did you learn anything valuable?” my honest answer would have to be,

“I really need to stop thinking when I am listening to “Books on CD.”

Seven discs about the Battle of Waterloo. 

And what I mainly learned is that I am worried about my health.

(Which I also already knew.)

"'Surprise Me!' - I Am Not Sure I Can"

I am thinking about the movie spectaculars of the past that won Best Picture of the Year Oscars.  Movies with expansiveness and scope.  Ben Hur.  Dr. Zhivago.  Movies that you went to and said,

“They spent a coupla bucks on this picture!”

And you did not mind paying the dollar-fifty to get in.

Movies offering “a cast of thousands”, not eleven people in front, and the rest of them CGI.  (That’s “Computer Generated...” I don’t know what the “I” stands for.  It could be  “Imitations.”)

Now a relatively “small” movie like Spotlight – I’m talking “production-wise” because it is unquestionably a big story – wins “Best Picture” and it’s like…

“That?”

Followed for accentuation purposes by

“Really?”

And I’m thinking about the Oscars themselves – the presentation I mean, not the actual statuettes – and I am reacting similarly to that.  The Oscars seem – and have seemed to me for some time – to have become…

Small.

Yeah, there’s the gowns and jewelry, so the women are still into it.  Their sensibility projects…

“We are going to the ball!”

But they’re the Last of the Mohicans in that regard.  The rest of it seems… I don’t know… “actual sized.”  I mean, hawking Girl Scout cookies?  Sending out for pizza?

Where’s the elegance?  Where’s the glamor?

Bob Hope wore “tails!”

Now you are lucky if you can get them to wear a tie!

(Do you see how I’m yelling at the end of these sentences?  That is the issue I am about to address.)

And the jokes!

“When your grandmother’s swinging for a tree, it’s pretty hard to care about who won ‘Best Documentary Foreign Short’”.  Not inaccurate, but is there perhaps a tiny “taste” issue involved?

(Note:  Sarcasm is just another way of yelling.)

I miss the once-a-year style and elegance of the Oscars.  I miss the lofty stature of the participants.  Is there anyone who is Gregory Peck anymore?  Is there anyone who wants to be?

Let me stop here before the veins in my forehead explode and my voice constricts to a vituperative croak.

Inevitable conclusion from this negative diatribe:

“That’s a ‘Yesterday Person’ talking.  ‘Tradition!’  They change everything and it’s worse!’” 

The preceding is unequivocally a curmudgeonly “Pronouncement of the Old.”

“Stay off my lawn, you hooligans!  And stop messing with my Oscars!”

I wholeheartedly concur with that age-o-centric evaluation. 

And that’s when I start to worry.

It is a worrisome problem.  I’m old, and, evaluating the Oscars, I made the stereotypical “Old Person” complaint:  “Things were better before.” 

What is that telling me, and parenthetically you, though to be honest, I am more interested in me?

The indisputable message is the following:

“What do you expect him to say?  He’s old.”  Which automatically invalidates my complaint.  Without examining whether the complaint is accurate or simply elderly inspired.

But that’s the smaller question.  The deeper, more significant question – herein exemplified by “old” but it could be any attitudinal determinant – is this:

If all of our perceptions are inexorably filtered through our personal histories, specific experiences and identifying affiliations, is there anything we can say, do or write that can possibly be undistorted and pristine?

In a nutshell:

What value is there expressing an opinion that is programmed and predictable? 

In an even smaller nutshell:

How do you ever say anything new? 

That question stops me dead in my tracks.  You understand why, right?  If my observation is correct, then everything I write, every position I hold, every observation I make is going to be precisely what… I mean, everyone – including most agonizingly myself – knows at all times exactly – minus the artistic flourishes – what’s coming. 

Because you know who I am, and you’ve heard it a hundred times before. 

Which leads to the inevitable conclusion:

“Why bother?”

Of course, I’m an inveterate pessimist, so that’s exactly what you’d expect me to say.

I guess the only reason not to abandon this seemingly fruitless exercise entirely – not just writing this blog but bother thinking anything at all – is…

It is possible I am wrong.

Maybe… I don’t know, by inspiration, happy accident or evolutionary advancement, I can surprise myself with an original pronouncement.

The only way to find out, I suppose…

Is to keep going.

"Best Picture Of 2015 - 'Spotlight' - Really?"

This determination brings to mind the leading presidential candidates:

“Is this the best we can do?”

Lemme tell you something, and I am laying it unapologetically on the line:

I could be very wrong about this.

A lot of times I have watched movies a second time and found remarkable nuances that I had missed the first time – “between the cracks” elements not concerning the story which is inevitably my primary concern but in the “emotional” presentation of the movie that upgraded it beyond my initial response.  A League of Their Own comes to mind here.  Originally, I did not think much of the movie.  I saw it again, and now, it’s one of my all-time favorites.

Maybe if I saw Spotlight again, I would connect with its subler attributes.  Spotlight is indisputably a respectable offering, well-intentioned and skillfully executed. 

But “Best Picture”? 

I realize that when it comes to annual awards, voters obligatorily “mark on the curve.”  They can only pick from the, this year, eight available nominees.  The current candidates do not have to compete with Gone With The Wind, The Godfather, Bridge on the River Kwai or Lawrence of Arabia, to name just four, and avoiding the terrible  “Best Pictures.”  Nor can voters decide, as with baseball’s Hall of Fame Nominating Committee, that there is nobody this year deserving of the honor.

In contradistinction to Spotlight, the four above-mentioned movie examples I subjectively selected display… how do I describe it… ?

Scope and majesty.

These are big movies.  Lavish.  Spectacular.  Extravagant in ambition and execution. 

In short (in my view):

Movies worthy of projection on a seventy-foot screen.

Setting aside the pervasive expansiveness of the exposed criminality – the number of abusing Catholic priests that were involved – Spotlight bears a ringing similarity less to a film worthy of the Motion Picture Academy’s highest recognition than to an ambitious episode of Law & Order: SVU.

(“Going the other way” in this regard, I think the Oscar voters’ hunger for the visceral satisfaction of a “movie-movie” explains why the Mad Max operation won six Academy Awards.  As Tina Fey astutely observed during the program, how can Mad Max’s hallucinogenic production design possibly lose out to Bridge of Spies’  “Tom Hanks’s…. house”?)

There have been comparisons between Spotlight and All The President’s Men, focusing on both films’ grounding in the procedural application of journalistic shoe leather to ultimate spectacular effect. 

I agree with that comparison.  Hard work and exceptional perseverance are at the meat and potatoes of both stories.  And both stories are big, although you cannot arguably get bigger than breaking a story that leads to the resignation of the President of the United States.  But after that, comparing the two movies is like Tiffany’s versus “I know a guy who can get you the same thing but at a fraction of the price.”

From a conceptual standpoint, All the President’s Men did everything imaginable to make the production feel “important”, while the Spotlight M.O. appears committed assiduously to a realistic “human scale.”

There is All The President’s Men’s hyper-realistic dialogue – William Goldman, the Aaron Sorkin of his era, won a “Best Adapted Screenplay” Oscar for the script.  There’s the pervasive glitziness – All The President’s Men made an empty parking garage shimmer with glamor and excitement.

Most significantly, there’s the casting.  Show me in Spotlight the superstarical mega-wattage of Robert Redford and Dustin Hoffman.

Now, your preference – to which you are indisputably entitled though it differ diametrically from my own – may be to believe that an everyday (albeit agonizingly painful) story is most effectively communicated via a “No frills” everyday sensibility, rather than as an over-produced Hollywood spectacular.

You may be right about that.  I myself, however, have a word for Spotlight’s stylistic approach.

Television.

Did that sound curmudgeonly to you?

This may require further investigation.

"Inside Looking Out"

As I am walking at the beach trying to memorize all six verses of “Ballad of the Alamo” that I am learning to play on the piano,

“Injun scouts with squirrel guns, men with muzzle loaders

Stood together heel and toe

To defend the Alamo…”

… I spot this giant tent set up in the sand beside the “Walking Path” and, since it does not display the trademark alternating blue and yellow stripes, I know it is not Cirque De Soleil.  (The regular locale for their temporary L.A. “home” being Santa Monica Beach.)

Then I remember that our beach is also the “home” on the evening before the Oscars of the “Independent Spirit Awards”.  I am not certain what the “Spirit” awards are, but I believe they are given to movie participants with particularly good attitudes.

“Five A.M. ‘call’, but we’re in the movies!  Whoo-hoo!”

Though I could be wrong about that. 

(I would never give those people an award.  I would more likely want to smack them.  “It’s too early!”)

Anyway, all I know is, walking by the venue preparing for that evening’s festivities, I catch sight of the temporary “Security Fence” surrounding the area, and the row of orange cones blocking access by vehicle, all of which unequivocally scream:

“Keep out!  Unless you’re ‘in’.”

This was an exclusive show business celebration. 

The kind I was once “in.” 

And I am now “out.”

And I can tell you…

It did not feel good.

Sniffle, sniffle.

Note:  It is not just show biz venues that elicit this discomfiting reaction.  I react in a similar fashion being barred from the “Employees Only” area at Pancho’s Tacos.

But the show biz rejections are more difficult. 

It is then, as an antidote to this embarrassing self-pitiation, that a palliative anecdote comes to mind.  Which is the following:

I am recalling a scene from a movie called Northwest Passage (1940), starring Spencer Tracy and Walter Brennan. (Also Robert Young, but he has nothing to do with the anecdote.  Though he was pretty good in the movie.)  

Spencer Tracy plays Major Robert Rogers, who was an actual person, though I would not look to this movie, or any other movie for that matter, for historical accuracy, and do not get me started about that!   

Rogers led an independent (of the British army) ranger company on dangerous reconnaissance and “special operations” missions during the “French and Indian War” (1754-1763, which was part of the worldwide “Seven Years War”, though it incongruously lasted nine years.)

In the final scene of the movie, having survived near annihilation during their previous campaign, Rogers and his company set off on another precarious assignment.  As Rogers leads his men off to further adventure, a character played by Walter Brennan, a veteran of the previous excursion, stands at the alehouse door, his hand wrapped tightly around a tankard of “brew” as he watches his former comrades marching away. 

A tavern-mate standing beside the Walter Brennan character inquires curiously,

“Ain’t you goin’?”

To which the contented Walter Brennan character replies,

“I’ve been.”

Well…

I’ve “been” too.

And that ought to be enough.

And yet, being selfish, greedy, nostalgic, or something that could easily be a form of mental illness…

It isn’t.

I walk past that restricted, fenced-off area…

Still longing to be invited inside.