So you're driving. You're toodling up the ramp, aiming for the highway. Maybe it's 95 in Burlington. Maybe it's 495 at Woburn Street in Lowell. Maybe it's 93 in Stoneham.
But you're toodling. And you're in Massachusetts. What's worse, you're FROM Massachusetts. And what's even WORSE WORSE, you were BORN in Massachusetts.
So, as you're toodling, what's going through your head is this:
I am driving.
I am from Massachusetts.
I was BORN in Massachusetts.
I have the right of way.
Always.
ALWAYS.
So you toodle up the ramp, and you don't look in your rear view mirror to see what vehicle, most likely driven by someone nearly as human as you are, is heading in your direction. You don't look because you are a Massachusetts driver and YOU HAVE THE RIGHT OF WAY.
Trouble is, there's a very good chance that the vehicle containing a human or humans nearly as human as you are is heading toward your ramp and the human who is driving is likely ALSO to be a Massachusetts driver.
IDIOT ALERT! YOU BOTH CANNOT HAVE THE RIGHT OF WAY!
And here's what you do if you're toodling up that ramp heading towards doom and destruction.
You put your foot on the gas. And you enter the highway. And you keep not looking. Because you know, because you are you and you are an IDIOT, that you are not going to be demolished by that SUV or SEMI. You know that. Because you are from or you were born in Massachusetts and you are an IDIOT.
And you know what? You are right. Because the human driving the vehicle you are about to CUT OFF, despite not having the right of way, is ME.
And I will back off. And I will let you on the highway. Because I, also, am an IDIOT.
However, I am an IDIOT who wants to LIVE.
After I allow you on the highway, I will then spout off a series of sentences featuring a certain f-word which you can hear on premium cable. I will curse you to within an inch of your life.
But you will live.
As will I.
Because while I am an IDIOT like you, I am an IDIOT who understands your IDIOCY, and who knows how to deal with it.
It doesn't make for an easy, quiet commute.
But I get to where I am going.
And I get to use the f-word. Loudly. Uncompromisingly. Enthusiastically.
Which is, somehow, soothing.
In an IDIOTIC kind of way.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Fred Gwynne
Visiting a friend in the Bronx last week. We went into a video store, to the television DVD section, and I noticed a sale video of the TV show THE MUNSTERS, with Fred Gwynne's mug doing the Herman Munster smirk for all the world to see.
And it occurred to me...
THIS is how guy is going to be remembered?
Oh, I know, it was TV and he probably made a lot of dough and nobody was twisting his arm to play Herman. I know all that. But Fred Gwynne did a couple of other things which certainly need to be remembered.
First and actually foremost are his two outstanding appearances on The Phil Silvers "Bilko" show in the 50's. In one episode, he played "The Stomach," a champion at food-eating contests in the army. Bilko, of course, gets him in his platoon and starts making bets with other sergeants knowing he can't lose with The Stomach on his side. Trouble is, The Stomach has lost his one true love, and has gotten over her. When he lost her, he started eating to overcome his sadness. But he's past that, and now he's lost his appetite. Silvers' Bilko then proceeds to do everything in his power to bring the memory of the lost love (and the appetite) back to life. The segment when Gwynne is forced to listen to love songs on Bilko's record player is priceless, mainly due to Gwynne's sweet acceptance of all the friendly bullying Bilko imposes on him.
And in another episode, Gwynne plays a soldier who has spent waaaay too many months assigned to work alone in a radio shack in Alaska, where his only entertainment was a book about birds. He knows everything about birds. Everything. So, naturally, Bilko recruits him for the big TV quiz show, where he and his platoon can use Gwynne's expertise to get the ever-elusive "million dollars!"
Hijinks, and failure, ensue. It's hysterical.
Both these are classic episodes, made classic by Silvers, his writers--and Gwynne.
And Gwynne's last appearance before his death, as the southern judge in MY COUSIN VINNY, I believe, deserved an Oscar nomination. Honest and funny and very different from, but as brilliant as, his earlier TV and movie work, it is a wonderful performance.
So the next time you consider Fred Gwynne and his contribution to the world of show business, go back and look at his Bilko stuff, and MY COUSIN VINNY.
That's the real Fred Gwynne.
And it occurred to me...
THIS is how guy is going to be remembered?
Oh, I know, it was TV and he probably made a lot of dough and nobody was twisting his arm to play Herman. I know all that. But Fred Gwynne did a couple of other things which certainly need to be remembered.
First and actually foremost are his two outstanding appearances on The Phil Silvers "Bilko" show in the 50's. In one episode, he played "The Stomach," a champion at food-eating contests in the army. Bilko, of course, gets him in his platoon and starts making bets with other sergeants knowing he can't lose with The Stomach on his side. Trouble is, The Stomach has lost his one true love, and has gotten over her. When he lost her, he started eating to overcome his sadness. But he's past that, and now he's lost his appetite. Silvers' Bilko then proceeds to do everything in his power to bring the memory of the lost love (and the appetite) back to life. The segment when Gwynne is forced to listen to love songs on Bilko's record player is priceless, mainly due to Gwynne's sweet acceptance of all the friendly bullying Bilko imposes on him.
And in another episode, Gwynne plays a soldier who has spent waaaay too many months assigned to work alone in a radio shack in Alaska, where his only entertainment was a book about birds. He knows everything about birds. Everything. So, naturally, Bilko recruits him for the big TV quiz show, where he and his platoon can use Gwynne's expertise to get the ever-elusive "million dollars!"
Hijinks, and failure, ensue. It's hysterical.
Both these are classic episodes, made classic by Silvers, his writers--and Gwynne.
And Gwynne's last appearance before his death, as the southern judge in MY COUSIN VINNY, I believe, deserved an Oscar nomination. Honest and funny and very different from, but as brilliant as, his earlier TV and movie work, it is a wonderful performance.
So the next time you consider Fred Gwynne and his contribution to the world of show business, go back and look at his Bilko stuff, and MY COUSIN VINNY.
That's the real Fred Gwynne.
November 17
My mother passed away six years ago today. The anniversary of her passing is just ten days after that of my father. Adds a little bristle to the late autumn chill.
She was a fighter. Challenged by heart and kidney disease for the last five years of her life, she shuttled and was shuttled to innumerable nurse practitioners and specialists and not-so-specialists and clinics and rehabs and hospitals and waiting rooms and nursing homes and...you name it. Frustration found its way into her demeanor on occasion, but, for some reason, there was an overwhelming sense of hope in her heart that life was going to return to normalcy sometime, maybe soon, maybe later, but sometime.
She was fully prepared for such a final act--from pre-paid funeral to fully-covered life insurance policies to signing the house over to her kids. Except for the hideous bureaucracy one has to encounter when dealing with a sick elderly parent, our work was pretty simple when it came to letting her go, and moving on.
She was a fighter. Challenged by heart and kidney disease for the last five years of her life, she shuttled and was shuttled to innumerable nurse practitioners and specialists and not-so-specialists and clinics and rehabs and hospitals and waiting rooms and nursing homes and...you name it. Frustration found its way into her demeanor on occasion, but, for some reason, there was an overwhelming sense of hope in her heart that life was going to return to normalcy sometime, maybe soon, maybe later, but sometime.
She was fully prepared for such a final act--from pre-paid funeral to fully-covered life insurance policies to signing the house over to her kids. Except for the hideous bureaucracy one has to encounter when dealing with a sick elderly parent, our work was pretty simple when it came to letting her go, and moving on.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
The New New York
Haven't been to New York City for...oh, I don't know...maybe six years. And the last two or three times, I've visited exclusively to go to Yankee Stadium. So my return to midtown Manhattan over the past few days has been a long time in the making. A few observations:
There are more people. If that's possible. And very few of them look like they know where they're going. And usually, when they're at the point where they are the least aware of where they're going, they stop to take a picture. I guess just to make sure they remember forever that moment in time when they had no idea where they were going in Manhattan.
Forty-Second Street. Hear the beat. It's not the 42nd Street I remember from the mid-nineties. Most (not all) of the sleazy movie theatres are gone. Many more savory people crowd the sidewalks. There are a couple of active "Broadway" houses between Broadway and Eighth Avenue. One is for MARY POPPINS, the other for AFTER MISS JULIE. Couple of huge mainstream movie complexes. The biggest McDonald's marquee I've ever seen. And people. People everywhere.
And, speaking of people, there appears to be a uniform for women between 18 and 40. Black everything. Coats and boots and blouses ans sweaters and...everything. And tights. Black tights. It's as if all these women got together for a meeting and decided this is what HAD TO BE WORN. And remember all those secretaries and executive assistants back in the 80's and 90's who left the office in sneakers? There are about four of them left. Doesn't seem to be the thing anymore.
And there's a portion of Times Square around the TIX...well, I was going to say "booth" but I don't think it's a booth anymore. The TIX...place. An area where, if you want, you can sit at a table in what used to be the middle of Broadway and watch the world go by without fear of getting sideswiped by a cab. Most of the people who don't know where they're going congregate here to take pictures. Times Square is an...I'm going to use the word I never use here because here it fits...it's an awesome sight to behold if you've never been there before. Especially when the sun goes down. And I promise I will not use that...word...again for a year, at least. But Times Square, for the uninitiated...is awe-inspiring.
Most importantly, I was able to find two places where a human can go to the bathroom without getting berated or thrown out, one in the Lincoln Center area (Barnes and Noble--they put it on the 5th floor to make it tough to get to, but one can get to it) and the Equity Office on 46th and 7th. Of course, you need an Equity card to use this one, but I have one, so there. Finding usable bathrooms in midtown is an important thing if you don't have a hotel room.
Priorities, you know.
Anyway, it was nice to get back. I've always loved New York, especially midtown.
Wouldn't mind living there again.
There are more people. If that's possible. And very few of them look like they know where they're going. And usually, when they're at the point where they are the least aware of where they're going, they stop to take a picture. I guess just to make sure they remember forever that moment in time when they had no idea where they were going in Manhattan.
Forty-Second Street. Hear the beat. It's not the 42nd Street I remember from the mid-nineties. Most (not all) of the sleazy movie theatres are gone. Many more savory people crowd the sidewalks. There are a couple of active "Broadway" houses between Broadway and Eighth Avenue. One is for MARY POPPINS, the other for AFTER MISS JULIE. Couple of huge mainstream movie complexes. The biggest McDonald's marquee I've ever seen. And people. People everywhere.
And, speaking of people, there appears to be a uniform for women between 18 and 40. Black everything. Coats and boots and blouses ans sweaters and...everything. And tights. Black tights. It's as if all these women got together for a meeting and decided this is what HAD TO BE WORN. And remember all those secretaries and executive assistants back in the 80's and 90's who left the office in sneakers? There are about four of them left. Doesn't seem to be the thing anymore.
And there's a portion of Times Square around the TIX...well, I was going to say "booth" but I don't think it's a booth anymore. The TIX...place. An area where, if you want, you can sit at a table in what used to be the middle of Broadway and watch the world go by without fear of getting sideswiped by a cab. Most of the people who don't know where they're going congregate here to take pictures. Times Square is an...I'm going to use the word I never use here because here it fits...it's an awesome sight to behold if you've never been there before. Especially when the sun goes down. And I promise I will not use that...word...again for a year, at least. But Times Square, for the uninitiated...is awe-inspiring.
Most importantly, I was able to find two places where a human can go to the bathroom without getting berated or thrown out, one in the Lincoln Center area (Barnes and Noble--they put it on the 5th floor to make it tough to get to, but one can get to it) and the Equity Office on 46th and 7th. Of course, you need an Equity card to use this one, but I have one, so there. Finding usable bathrooms in midtown is an important thing if you don't have a hotel room.
Priorities, you know.
Anyway, it was nice to get back. I've always loved New York, especially midtown.
Wouldn't mind living there again.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Couple of Things
Off today to New York City to see Judith Ivey's THE LADY WITH ALL THE ANSWERS and then to meet with Judith about my play, THE PORCH. Always pleased when a respected actor reads my stuff, gets it, and expresses interest in it. Doesn't happen all the time. Almost never happens with Artistic Directors, Literary Managers, or Dramaturgs. Anyway, we'll see what we shall see.
Netflix delivered the remake of THE TAKING OF PELHAM 1-2-3 yesterday. Good flick. Especially worth watching for John Travolta's lunatic villain--not a big challenge, showy role, but he pulls it off quite well--and, most especially, for Denzel Washington's mild-mannered, schlumpy, ferociously honest exec-turned-subway train dispatcher. I've never thought a lot about what Denzel brings to the table as an actor, but he never disappoints. Always seems to bring his A-game and, in this case, sacrifices leading man good looks and charisma for sincerity and accommodation of the story, making the movie, perhaps, a little better than it really is. There's a lot of action and things blowing up, of course. It is a Tony Scott film, after all. But Denzel's character--and John Turturro's hostage negotiator as well--ground the story in reality, and make the film worth watching.
That's all I have today. Must begin checking every faucet and electrical outlet in preparation for my three days away from here.
It's exhausting, being me.
Netflix delivered the remake of THE TAKING OF PELHAM 1-2-3 yesterday. Good flick. Especially worth watching for John Travolta's lunatic villain--not a big challenge, showy role, but he pulls it off quite well--and, most especially, for Denzel Washington's mild-mannered, schlumpy, ferociously honest exec-turned-subway train dispatcher. I've never thought a lot about what Denzel brings to the table as an actor, but he never disappoints. Always seems to bring his A-game and, in this case, sacrifices leading man good looks and charisma for sincerity and accommodation of the story, making the movie, perhaps, a little better than it really is. There's a lot of action and things blowing up, of course. It is a Tony Scott film, after all. But Denzel's character--and John Turturro's hostage negotiator as well--ground the story in reality, and make the film worth watching.
That's all I have today. Must begin checking every faucet and electrical outlet in preparation for my three days away from here.
It's exhausting, being me.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
NYC
When I was a yoot (thank you, Joe Pesci), traveling to New York City was THE big thing for me. I did it annually, thanks to the Sacred Heart Band, which marched in the St. Patrick's Day parade every year for about 20 years. And I would continue to visit at least once a year throughout my time in high school. Back then, it was possible to see a Broadway show for a price that insanity had not yet overcome. (I don't know if that sentence makes sense, but I'm going with it, regardless.) I believe I saw CABARET for six bucks, mainly because I purchased a last-minute, half price ticket. So the ticket was twelve bucks. Or maybe it was 24 and I paid 12. Whateveh! It was cheap. I remember that Anita Gillette played Sally Bowles and she was terrific. I saw both Ginger Rogers and Pearl Bailey play "Dolly," in different productions, of course. Pearl's "Vandergelder" was Cab Calloway. One doesn't think about the iconic position these people would take when one is 15. I saw Robert Goulet, much maligned as a lounge lizard in his later career, in his wonderful, Tony-winning performance in THE HAPPY TIME, a lesser-regarded but beautifully written musical by Kander and Ebb. I saw Ruby Keeler in NO, NO NANETTE, along with Jack Gilford and Helen Gallagher. Irene Ryan doing her show-stopping number in PIPPIN. Ben Vereen, too, of course. (I think so, anyway. Not sure if he was still in the show when I saw it, but since Ryan was, I assume he was as well.) Jerry Orbach in PROMISES, PROMISES. Jack Albertson and Sam Levene as the original SUNSHINE BOYS. Later, when I was a grad student, I saw Robert Duvall in AMERICAN BUFFALO. Suffice it to say, I've seen some good theatre in New York.
I'm going back tomorrow, for the first time in maybe six or seven years, to meet with the actress Judith Ivey, to talk about her interest in my play, THE PORCH. I will meet with her carrying no expectations, because expectations in my business, at least with me, often lead to black holes. But the fact that she's interested, and seeing me, in the midst of the run of her one-woman show about Ann Landers, makes the trip well worthwhile.
And I may see a Broadway show. But it'll cost me $125.
It was better when I was a yoot.
I'm going back tomorrow, for the first time in maybe six or seven years, to meet with the actress Judith Ivey, to talk about her interest in my play, THE PORCH. I will meet with her carrying no expectations, because expectations in my business, at least with me, often lead to black holes. But the fact that she's interested, and seeing me, in the midst of the run of her one-woman show about Ann Landers, makes the trip well worthwhile.
And I may see a Broadway show. But it'll cost me $125.
It was better when I was a yoot.
Monday, November 9, 2009
The Remake of CAPE FEAR, or What Was Scorcese Smoking?
Because of the proliferation of Blu-Ray discs, many standard DVDs are sold inexpensively these days, so I've been piling up films I think I'd like to see one or two more times in my life, or films that look somewhat interesting, or films by great directors. With this notion in mind, I picked up Martin Scorcese's remake of J. Lee Thompson's 1962 thriller, CAPE FEAR, which I believe was based on a John D. McDonald novel. I had seen the remake on a date, as I recall, so I probably wasn't paying much attention the first time around.
Scorcese has made some great films (RAGING BULL, GOODFELLAS, and, yes, even his Oscar-winning THE DEPARTED), and some not-so-great films with compelling moments in them (THE AVIATOR, GANGS OF NEW YORK). But this one. I don't know what the hell was going through his mind with this one. it was as if Marty said, "Okay, that original? Good flick. Subtle. Sexually charged. Dynamite. Great. Let's just up the tempo a bit, see what happens."
What happens is loud and broad and ACTED within an inch of its life. Robert DeNiro, surely one of the great actors of our generation, got it into his head that he could play a trashy southerner with a trashy southern dialect. Sorry. There's too much Tribeca in him for that. Every drawled vowel sounded like it was italicized in a bad dialect manual. Nick Nolte, as DeNiro's target throughout the film, somehow managed to keep every strand of his slicked-down hair in place as he squinted and scrunched his eyebrows trying to determine how to get DeNiro off his back. (The first thing I would have done is report DeNiro's Max Cady to the fashion police. What was he wearing in this thing?) Jessica Lang seemed to try, frame-by-frame, to out-eyebrow Nolte, and when she couldn't, she yelled. And cried. And screamed. And yelled again.
Somebody thought it was a good idea to use an update of Bernard Hermann's original soundtrack. Not so sure it was that good an idea. In the early nineties, we had reached the stage where we didn't need all that music telling us how to feel. Worked in PSYCHO. The original, that is. Not so much here.
The only moments that worked were SOME moments with the very young Juliette Lewis, who withstood one of the smarmiest scenes in movie history, when DeNiro seduces her character in a school theater, and at least showed us that some thinking was going on in her head, unlike the heads of everybody else in the movie.
Scorcese hired Robert Mitchum and Gregory Peck from the original, and gave them kinda juicy parts, probably to keep them off his back when they saw the remake.
And here's the thing--I'm not saying this movie is unwatchable. It is scary at times and certainly entertaining on a number of levels.
But Scorcese?
I don't think so.
Scorcese has made some great films (RAGING BULL, GOODFELLAS, and, yes, even his Oscar-winning THE DEPARTED), and some not-so-great films with compelling moments in them (THE AVIATOR, GANGS OF NEW YORK). But this one. I don't know what the hell was going through his mind with this one. it was as if Marty said, "Okay, that original? Good flick. Subtle. Sexually charged. Dynamite. Great. Let's just up the tempo a bit, see what happens."
What happens is loud and broad and ACTED within an inch of its life. Robert DeNiro, surely one of the great actors of our generation, got it into his head that he could play a trashy southerner with a trashy southern dialect. Sorry. There's too much Tribeca in him for that. Every drawled vowel sounded like it was italicized in a bad dialect manual. Nick Nolte, as DeNiro's target throughout the film, somehow managed to keep every strand of his slicked-down hair in place as he squinted and scrunched his eyebrows trying to determine how to get DeNiro off his back. (The first thing I would have done is report DeNiro's Max Cady to the fashion police. What was he wearing in this thing?) Jessica Lang seemed to try, frame-by-frame, to out-eyebrow Nolte, and when she couldn't, she yelled. And cried. And screamed. And yelled again.
Somebody thought it was a good idea to use an update of Bernard Hermann's original soundtrack. Not so sure it was that good an idea. In the early nineties, we had reached the stage where we didn't need all that music telling us how to feel. Worked in PSYCHO. The original, that is. Not so much here.
The only moments that worked were SOME moments with the very young Juliette Lewis, who withstood one of the smarmiest scenes in movie history, when DeNiro seduces her character in a school theater, and at least showed us that some thinking was going on in her head, unlike the heads of everybody else in the movie.
Scorcese hired Robert Mitchum and Gregory Peck from the original, and gave them kinda juicy parts, probably to keep them off his back when they saw the remake.
And here's the thing--I'm not saying this movie is unwatchable. It is scary at times and certainly entertaining on a number of levels.
But Scorcese?
I don't think so.
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