Shane’s Destination June 22, 2007
Posted by rosolio in Chicago, It, Los Angeles, Movies.add a comment
Loners. Vanguards. Gunfighters. Shane. Shane was horrible, by far the worst Western I’d ever seen in my life. Purists would call me a lunatic, but I never trust a purist. ‘Purist’ is a positive spin on ‘true believer’, a category of person I refuse to ever trust. You can’t talk to a true believer, not to any effect, that is; you can yell at them and hope some or any of it sinks in but as they speak they search for holes in their own argument and as you speak they prepare their next barrage. They’re not listening to anything you say because they don’t see the need. Their mind has been made up, and every conversation is a chance to drag another non-believer into the light.
Tangent, whatever.
Back to westerns. I can’t call myself a real fan simply because real fans happen to like terrible movies. The best ones I’ve seen are ones that break the mold in some way. The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly and Outlaw Josey Wales were basically anti-war movies. Unforgiven was Clint Eastwood’s ultimate backlash at the hand that fed his career; the loner, the vanguard, the gunfighter, broken down for what it was – not legendary or respectable, but tragic. Thanks Byron, you poetic asshole, for turning the myths into the same depressed meaningless mess as everyone else. What, does Superman take detours into Mexican border towns to score cheap Lexapro? Why can’t anyone be bulletproof anymore? Let the man throw the Cadillac!
The main characteristic of the Loner/Vanguard/Gunfighter is that he goes from town to town, no real destination and no real starting point, ramblin’ like so many seventies rock bands glorified. You pick up, you go, you sit down for a second and tear the place apart, and then leave with only a trail of dust the people you knew left in the wake. You blew through town and as soon as everyone noticed, gone like Keyser Soze.
The movies always follow the town, watching the rider disappear into the sunset as the credits creep up, the huge Technicolor! globe taking over for the sun. But you never know what happens to the Loner/Vanguard/Gunfighter, and you only sort of care. It’s widely assumed that he just does what he did again, with a new town, new women, and new nemeses.
I’ll tell you what happens, he gets forty yards away and doubles back, usually from some higher vantage point, looking into the town he saved from certain destruction. But the masses who pled for him to stay have already gotten over it. They’ve gone back to the saloons and general stores and whatever buildings they have in old western towns. Butchers, tons of butchers. And an amicable coffin maker. They’re over it. The Loner/Vanguard/Gunfighter knows that had he stayed, the jubilation would have subsided and business as usual would have set in just the same. The world is saved and the story is told, the details of which will get fuzzier and more grandiose until someone’s kid eventually calls the crazy old people out on their hyperbole. When it all comes into question, it becomes harder and harder to believe any of it. It’s like it never happened.
No homes, only temporary places to crash. People who’s idiosyncrasies and drinks of choice become harder and harder to recall. Returning will be as a visitor, but have I ever been anything but? Or am I the permanent visitor? That’ll probably change at some point.
Then again, it didn’t for Shane.
Steve Perry, take us out… June 11, 2007
Posted by rosolio in Media, Movies, TV, Terrorism.add a comment
I’d say it’s a pretty safe bet that at least 50% of the people who have Don’t Stop Believin’ stuck in their head this morning will be weighing in on The Sopranos finale. A similarly large number probably cursed the name of Comcast, thinking their signal died the second the series ended in the spectacular cosa nostra crescendo everyone was betting on happening. The quick and easy explanation is the David Chase was flipping off the pundits and talking heads who debated whether Tony Soprano went down in a blaze of glory or vanished forever in witness protection. You’ve heard everyone else’s two cents, why not hear mine.
The last episode was about fear.
You’ve got A.J.’s awakening to the ills of the world and a sudden urge to do something about it. This wasn’t out of rage, but out of paranoia. His anger at Bobby Bacala’s funeral at the mundane conversation wasn’t in the Michael Moore “You Should Be Outraged!” vein. It was more “things are horrible and you’re just trying to distract yourself.” Tony and Carmela consulted A.J.’s psychitrist out of fear for their son’s safety. They expressed similar concern, although less so, over the impending marriage of Meadow. Sure, two lawyers getting married doesn’t seem like cause for concern, but every parent is worried about their kids. If they weren’t, they wouldn’t care. And then you have Tony visiting a senile Uncle Junior, afraid he was going to be taken advantage of by his conniving sister.
Mostly, you have a scenario where Tony will be afraid for the rest of his life. Every time that bell in the diner opened, he, like everyone watching, was terrified it was going to be a hitman seeking revenge for Phil Leotardo, or maybe Furio, or the Russian who escaped in the woods, or the Feds with enough evidence to put him away. “The Life [He] Had Chosen” was no longer simply the way things were. It was uncomfortable. And maybe that was the ultimate evolution of Tony Soprano. The matter-of-fact mafioso now had to look over his shoulder like everyone else. And he’ll do it for the rest of his life. And maybe that’s our future who wonder when we don’t have to worry about terrorism anymore. The War On Terrorism cannot be won because Terrorism doesn’t have a nation, flag, or shelflife. Neither does fear. Even though Tony vanquished Phil Leotardo, there’s always going to be another one. There, we’ve got some cultural significance.
Great show, great finale. With The Sopranos gone and Deadwood about to rap up (don’t know when), HBO has only The Wire, Curb Your Enthusiasm, and Entourage (a series at a serious crossroads) to carry the torch. They’ve thrown a thousand new shows up, every single one of them previewed before the Sopranos and one, John From Cincinnati, premiering right afterwards. While HBO execs were obviously thinking that JFC (not too soon for an abbreviation, is it?) would benefit from viewers too catatonic to change the channel after the Sopranos faded to black, I argue it had the opposite effect. I was willing to give it a shot, but was too shell-shocked to give a damn. All I caught was Luke Perry on a beach sounding like the teacher on The Peanuts: waa-waa-waa-waa…right, you can’t really read that. Whatever, you know what I’m talking about.
A few random things:
-Saw Ocean’s Thirteen and enjoyed it. It wasn’t anywhere close to the first one, but after the huge steaming pile of flop that was the second (or twelfth), I don’t think anyone was expecting it to. A lot of people were ready to hate it because it was just basically a camera turned on a bunch of A-List celebrities having a good time, kind of like an US Weekly with a caper soundtrack. Going in ready to hate it isn’t the right move, it’s a good time.
-I think Transformers is going to either break the $100million opening weekend or it’s going to collapse like River Phoenix at the Viper Room. Either is a distinct possibility. It would be hilarious to watch it gross like $30million and having the producers go, “Wait…WAIT…this is what you wanted! Why in the hell didn’t you see this?” It’s a movie based on toys from the 80s. Hot Wheels: Tokyo Drift isn’t going to catch Spiderman either.
-Moving is insanely expensive. It’s about $1,200 to rent a Uhaul. That doesn’t include the convicted sex offender I’d try to pay to move it. I shouldn’t say that, not all movers are convicted sex offenders. Some plead no contest.
-Don’t stop….belieeeeevin’… Son of a bitch, where’s The Final Countdown when you need it? And how much different would the ending have been if Europe was blasting on the jukebox? Or Rock Me Amadeus? Okay, so 80s stuff is sort of coming back, but that music all blows ass, let’s be honest. I can appreciate Party All The Time for what it is; concrete evidence that cocaine can make anything happen. Too bad we can’t FTD a few kilos to Axl and Slash, with forged notes from each other. Let’s bring that one back.
-I’ve got 8 1/2 hours on a plane tomorrow. I’m pretty sure I could get to Spain on that.
