The Invention of Lying

I saw this film yesterday and enjoyed it very much. If you see it, I think you'll know why I liked it so much. I'm not going to review it here, but suffice it to say that the film was actually original in its concept. For a comedy, that's high praise.

I attend a lynching.

I had the singular experience last night of being screamed at by an unruly mob of 800 people. It was at a "Town Hall" meeting given by Congressman McMahon to discuss health care reform. The crowd was overwhelmingly opposed to the bill currently winding its way through Congress. While I'm not particularly enamored of the bill myself, I think it's important that the country move forward in some meaningful way in this area. We can't just do nothing. At this point, a bad bill might very well be better than none at all.

But when I started to speak in favor of reform, the crowd tried to drown me out by howling. I've never had an experience like that before. It was exhilerating! Rather than becoming nervous or cowed, I started really enjoying myself, and I even began to antagonize the crowd, as one might a caged wild animal. It was great theatre.

Anyway, there's a rather prominent picture of me in the Advance today. It's a nice picture, but for some odd reason, perhaps owing to reflected light, a weird optical illusion makes it look like I have lost most of my hair. Very strange.

On Leaving.

It feels so strange that the new school year has begun and I'm not part of the action back at Tech. For twenty years I saw one after another of my colleagues leave, most to retirement, a few, alas, to death, and a lucky few to new careers. It is always bittersweet to stand, handkerchief in hand, waving to the metaphorical ocean liner as it yaws seaward, an old friend on deck shrinking to nothingness. And as we turn from the shore, back to our quotidian routine, a melancholy descends like a fog. I usually fight this sadness by concluding, with practiced shadenfraude that the ship in question is the Titanic, but it's always sad to be left behind.

The most painful of these send-offs was with Bonamo. His departure was so sudden and unexpected, unlike the many sad though organic retirements I've endured. He was the future of the school, no doubt about that. Brilliant, hard-working, honest, kind, tough, a man who loves life and brings his energy to everything and everyone he touches. What a loss for us as a school, and for me personally. We had become such good friends. I knew I could trust him. I knew I could work with him. The future was very bright.

Then, in May I came in to his office and the teachers were all aflutter about an inspection the superintendant from Queens was going to visit upon us. I said nothing, but waited until everyone but Bonamo had left the room. He peered at me guiltily, fully anticipating the interrogation which was to ensue, an onslaught that he well knew he was ill prepared to withstand.

"What's the story, Bonamo?," I asked. He hemmed and hawwed and looked at his shoes, and finally said that he would prefer not to say. I narrowed my eyes and lowered my voice, and let him have it with both barrels. "Oh, you'd rather not say, huh? Now you listen to me, you fat f***, we can do this one of two ways. Either you tell me right now why that big mucky-muck is coming, after which you and I will concoct some cock and bull story that I will help you feed to the staff, thereby keeping your secret intact with my help, .... or you can continue to lie, in which case I will go to every person in the school and tell them that there's a big secret afoot and Bonamo's up to no good and we all have to figure out what it is. So, big-boy, what's it going to be?"

He stared at me for a long time, then he sighed and said simply, "I'm going to be the Principal of Townsend Harris High School in Queens."



I walked back to my room, closed the door, sat down at my desk, and wept. What a loss.



Anyway, this year was my turn.

Casablanca

This truly remarkable film was on TCM again last night, and I happened to tune in toward the beginning. It is almost impossible to turn this film off. It draws the viewer in, with an almost Svengalian power. I find the same thing happens when I watch a scene from The Godfather. I can't shut it off. I think it has to do with what critics call "pacing." I never looked up what that word means, but i think it refers to the quality that some films have of being consistently interesting without any letup. And, Casablanca is such a film. The plot is rather complex, but is described brilliantly, and clearly. THe characters are fascinating, and fully explored. The dialogue is first rate all the way. If you've never seen this film please take the time to see it.

Some truly memorable lines of dialogue, one of which is NOT "play it again, Sam." This is one of several immortal lines that never were uttered in film, "you dirty rat" by Cagney, and "Judy, Judy, Judy" by Cary Grant being two others that spring to mind. Anyway, the line that gave me the most pleausre last night came from Captain Renault, responding to Major Strasser's dismissing Rick Blaine as a "blundering American." Says Renault, "we must not underestimate American blundering. I was with them when they blundered into Berlin in 1918." Touche'.

By the way, forgive me for being so self-centered, but I would like to know if anyone is actually reading this blog anymore. Say hello to your old teacher and friend. I hope you're all enjoying your first or second week of colllege. I'll try to write a bunch of essays in this blog to provide you with plenty of material with which to procrastinate during the time you should be working on your essays etc.

The Outrage

I was watching "The Outrage" with Paul Newman on TCM today. He plays a Mexican bandito who kills a man and rapes his wife. The story is told four times in flashback. I immediately thought that it sounded a lot like "Roshamon," a classic of Japanese cinema directed by Akira Kurosawa (who wrote the screenplay upon which Runaway Train was based).

I saw Roshamon over thirty years ago, but I recall the story vaguely. Again, a rape/murder recalled by the particpants, and then the truth revealed by a hitherto unknown witness. It's considered a seminal work and an icon of "post-modernism," where truth is always relative. My opinion of it at the time was that it suffered from a fatal flaw, namely that it asked the viewers to accept the last version of events, those related by the "impartial" witness, as being "true." Even as a callow youth of 19 or so, it was not lost upon me that a truly post-modern statement would not allow that any version of events contains ultimate truth. All versions must be suspect. Thus did I turn up my nose upon Roshamon.

But this version was truly laughable! Paul Newman, of all people playing the role of the Frito Bandito, dark greasy hair, handle-bar mustache, and classically stereotypical Mexican bad-ass accent, with long eeeee sounds, as in weeeeel for will, and constant use of the third person form while referring to himself.

Hollywood usually turned to its favorite "half-breeds" of dubious ancestry to take on such roles. Favorite among this group is Anthony Quinn. Others of the same ilk included Ricardo Montalban, Jack Palance, Fernando Ferrar, and a few others. My all-time favorite fake Mexican desperado is Eli Wallach, in real life a Jewish kid from Brooklyn. His "Tuco" in the Good, the Bad and the Ugly" is among the great performances in cinema. Certainly the role of a life-time. But, Paul Newman? No way. Unless...

Yes, perhaps the movie's makers knew their audience well. The one thing all versions of the story agree upon is that the woman is raped. It's strong stuff. Perhaps, in order to soften the impact of the violation, they wanted an actor who was "attractive," if you will. In most of the four versions of the story that is told, the woman is ambiguous in her feelings towards her attacker. Perhaps the director felt that the audience would be better able to accept such a portrayal if the actor was acceptable on some level.

If you are interested in any of this stuff, I would advise you to watch Roshamon, (which I may be mis-spelling). It is one of the giant films of cinema history, up there with "Citizen Kane." The remake is justifiablly not highly regarded or remembered.

Julia? Delightful. Julie? Like needles in eyes

I walked out of Julie and Julia last night. The film was broken into two separate strands, like The Godfather Part II, or The Hours (which was three strands, actually). The story-line about the famous culinary personality Julia Child, with Meryl Streep playing the lead, was very entertaining, especially for a Francophile and recent visitor to France, like myself. But, the strand about the modern yuppie who writes a blog about her experiences in cooking through Juilia CHild's most famous cookbook, is so unwatchably painful and boring that I had to leave. Never has the "fast-forward" button been desired more fervently at a film. Could I have skipped the one section in favor of the other, I would have stayed. Hence, my recommendation for this film is to wait for it to come out on DVD, when your remote control button will be near at hand.

Words to live by.

Not a day goes by that I don't quote a specific line of dialogue from Dr. Strangelove. It comes from the scene where General Turgidson is explaining to the President that General Ripper has sent his bombers to attack Russia. He reads a message from Ripper that ends with a reference to precious bodily fluids. Turgidson comments to the effect that "we are still trying to figure out what that means." The President's reply is my current favorite line from a film, and my guide to surviving in a crazy world. Says he, "There's nothing to figure out. The man is clearly a psychotic!"

Every day, either I, or the people around me, or the press, or the governemnt, is "trying to figure out" why someone has behaved in a manner that directly goes against common sense and their own best interests. For years I would join in the analysis, delving into matters of passion, psychology, philosophy, etc. But no more. Now, I end all such conversations very quickly by saying, "There's nothing to figure out. [Fill in name] is clearly a psychotic."

Once you adopt this simple guide to understanding the behavior of others, your life becomes so simple. In fact, it is particularly useful in matters dealing with the relations between the sexes. Consider the amount of time spent by men trying to figure out why women act the way they do. Meanwhile, the answer is clear. (Ok, gals, I was just kidding. I'm sure the formula works just as well for women who want to analyze the actions of men. However, being male, I can't help but feel that it has greater resonance when pointed toward the distaff half.)

Anyway, please try it out for yourself at the earliest opportunity. You will be amazed and gratified at how incredibly wise you sound, and your friends and family will hail you as a genius. As soon as anyone starts in with that same old litany, "oh, did you hear about so and so, and what he did, now why did blah blah,..." cut them off immediately "There's nothing to figure out. The man is clearly....