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.
Omarosa and Captain Freedom January 19, 2006
Posted by rosolio in Common Sense, Media, Movies, TV.add a comment
It has been the role of art to, in some way, advance society. Some pieces extend well beyond genius into the realm of historical significance. We listened as Nirvana woke everyone up from the glammed-out nightmare of hair bands. We swam through Ulysses, hearing the words of Joyce take gigantic chunks out of the previously impenetrable wall separating ‘decency’ and vulgarity’. We were mesmerized by the onscreen savvy of Sidney Poitier, as his Virgil Tibbs met the hurricane of race relations head on. The funny thing is that very often, we don’t recognize these milestones as they occur; it takes a little time. There wasn’t the 90s equivalent of Disco Demolition Night with people in ripped flannel going door-to-door collecting Dio albums for immediate disposal. Despite what ESPN would have you believe, history takes a while. What’s my point and what does this have to do with the pursuit of common sense?
Go watch The Running Man.
The somewhat satiric Schwarzenegger vehicle places the hero in a world obsessed with an ultra-violent reality TV show, in which felons run through a gauntlet of gladiators to the visceral delight of millions of viewers. Betcha thought that was far fetched in 1987. Not so much anymore.
The evolution is clear with all of this. The first reality show (and there’s no need to challenge this) was MTV’s The Real World. Some brilliant producer recognized that there were few things Americans liked to talk about more than other people, and gave them a group of people that everyone could talk about together. It was meant to be an objective look at regular kids, like sitting on a bench in Central Park and getting to hear about everyone’s lives. After that wore a little thin, they raised the stakes by being more particular about the characters for the show; for one thing, they began to find people to play their ‘real characters.’ They’re not idiots, they’ve been to a football game where a fight breaks out in the stands: everyone turns, everyone’s got to see that loud jackass in a Browns jersey get pummeled by loud jackasses in Raider jerseys. They started paring card-carrying Klan members with Black Panthers, right-wing conservatives with atheist vegans, Balco-ed out ‘roid ragers with silicone enhanced frequenters of the electric beach. The (Fire)ball was in motion.
The next step was to add fuel to the fire: make it a competition. The old Real World was like watching a soccer game: you go in knowing there’s a good chance the game will end in a zero-zero tie (the Real World corollary being everyone gets along on real world), but you could also see a bicycle-kick game winner (the equivalent being Surfer Joey barging in on Goth Amy and Indie Rocker Steve mid-coitus in a walk-in refrigerator and a huge fight breaking out). They added the Chuck Rule to the NFL to open up the offenses and add more scoring, and they added competition to the reality shows to give everyone something to fight about. Hello, Survivor.
Soon it wasn’t enough to simply pick and choose who to like and hate. The Apprentice designed a scenario where a collection of amoral ass kissers jockey for position to massage the ego of the modern day Auric Goldfinger (side project: go watch Goldfinger, and watch The Apprentice. Same guy. I’m officially waiting for one of Trump’s henchmen to decapitate a contestant with a bladed bowler hat). We don’t even need to find someone to like: we can hate everyone and hope to god they make a fool of themselves. What’s better than that, eh?
(Another sidenote on The Apprentice: the New York Times, which annually shirks journalistic integrity to list the official catch-phrases of the year, included the line, “You’re Fired,” which was copyrighted by NBC. News for the Times: That’s not a catch-phrase, not any more so than “What’s your name,” “Could we have some more bread,” and “It’s inoperable.” Saying it twice doesn’t make it historically significant. Getting canned at work is not going to be done as an allusion to Trump’s Wilde-like wit.)
So Fox, the Vespuggis of good taste and common sense (still lookin’ for that border), kicked out ugly people dating hot chicks, midgets getting married, and gold-diggers going after Joe Millionaire’s fake fortune. I was reminded of Winston Churchill’s famous line whenever that show would air a commercial: “-Madam, would you have sex with me for 10 million pounds? -Yes, I guess I would. -Would you have sex with me for 7 pounds? -No, what kind of girl do you think I am? -We’ve already established that, my dear, it just seems to be a matter of price.” Brilliant. Anyway, Fox trudged down this road until they hit solid gold with American Idol. Originally devised as proof that Americans will buy anything they’re told to buy (Clay Aiken sells out Madison Square Garden, ladies and gentlemen), they found a whole new purpose by releasing the audition tapes of the worst singers the world has ever seen. We get to see these poor saps get their souls torn apart by an ornery British gentleman with an encyclopedia of insults and Paula Abdul, whose cred comes from dancing with a cartoon cat in the late 80’s. They might as well rename the show “Abuse” and people would still watch it. “Today, on Abuse, a 17 year old kid makes a courageous leap for fame and is met head-on with a comparison between his voice and the sounds of Robert Plant dry-humping a car alarm. Followed by your local news.”
I’m not trying to make any sort of stand for decency or ethics here, that’s not what this is about. I just want to make sure we’re all a little more realistic about why we watch this stuff. ‘Dancing With The Stars’ is not about appreciating ballroom dancing. It’s hoping Jerry Rice or Master P kung fu kicks their Columbian partner in the face, intermittently dispersed with shots of Stacy Keibler (a Baltimore native and certifiable 10 1/2 if there ever was one). Sex and violence, it’s all we need. They ignored the sex element on “Skating With Celebrities” and went straight for the death-defying spin moves attempted after two weeks of televised training. While this may be ridiculously dangerous, it’s not hard to book these D-list ‘’stars” for this show; Dave Coulier would absolutely fight Sub Zero to the death to regain his mid-90s Full House stock.
Watch The Running Man again.
The most significant scene in that movie (I love breaking this down like it’s Beowulf) is when Producer/villain Killian (played with gusto by Family Feud’s Richard Dawson) decides that he’s had enough of Schwarzenegger defeating his MetRx Minotaurs and removes the chance element from the show by staging the Austrian’s death at the hands of Jesse Ventura’s Captain Freedom, in what became the nation’s first Governor-on-Governor melee, meant to represent that no matter how high and mighty California might aspire to be, the midwestern sensibility of Minnesota will always prevail. Killian’s audience wanted to see the convicts get their comeuppance in the bloodiest possible manner. The reality show audiences of today want to see people look like idiots or get in fights.
Watch The Running Man again.
Here’s a steaming pile of Common Sense: “Reality TV” is a misnomer because nothing on TV is reality. Omarosa was a construction of careful scripting, strategic editing, and a willing participant. Finding William Hung was more significant to Fox than finding whoever won that year (and isn’t it interesting I don’t know their name?). There’s a reason these people get agents as soon as they are signed to a show. There’s a reason they have AUDITIONS for Reality TV. They’re not going out to the Damen Blue Line stop in Chicago to find people to toss onto an island for a month. At least not without a headshot and stat sheet.
But I don’t blame these TV execs for doing this. I am by no means calling for them to wake up and find better stuff to put on their networks. We won’t watch it. The acolytes of common sense are begging for the next All in the Family or Seinfeld, and Fox has to cancel Arrested Development, the smartest show in the last ten years, because no one’s watching it. Millions tuned in weekly for The Simple Life, and SportsNight came and went with only a couple people noticing. People like their drama formulaic and predictable and their comedy as easy to digest as possible. We get both from a single episode of The Biggest Loser, along with ample “Look At That Fat Guy” gawking opportunity. In the words of Killian, “We’re giving them what they want.”
There is an end to this, and it may be watching Scott Peterson joust on a motorcycle against Ted Nugent (which, by the way, would land Super Bowl-level ratings). Eventually the well will run dry, as the country’s thirst for freak-shows will outrace the network’s creativity. We will get over this; fads come and go. We’ll find something new to talk about at work and plan our gym schedules around. It might be a renaissance of political satire and it might be raccoons doing Shakespeare. Somewhere the Kurt Cobain of television is writing the show that will snap us out of this Reality TV nightmare. Either that or he’s auditioning for Paradise Canoe.
