Baller, Book 3 in the Eucalyptus Lane series, arrives later this spring from Outcast Press. This is the first snippet I’m sharing from that, and I’ll be back soon sharing work from my fellow writers! Click here to see the video.
Movie review: Barbie
Directed by Greta Gerwig, written by Greta Gerwig & Noah Baumbach. Production Companies: Mattel, Heyday Films, Lucky Chap.
I went to see Barbie on opening night, having just realized that my mother had only days to live. I can hear a chorus of the Barbies saying, That's good you came to the movie, Nevada. You needed something to relieve your sadness. A distraction, a mild narcotic.
And what better to take my mind off my real-life troubles than a candy-colored, toy-inspired movie of the moment? Except that the theme of the new Barbie movie is death.
From an anarchic opening scene wherein Barbie (Margot Robbie) is first encountered by little girls whose experience with dolls has heretofore only been those shaped like babies, to Barbie's life-altering choice, offered by Weird Barbie (Kate McKinnon), in the form of a glittering high-heeled pink pump (living a fantasy) or a Birkenstock (living for real), Barbie is a rapturous celebration of femininity, a journey to a world of female empowerment, where joy and optimism reign supreme and the gritty and chaotic "real world" never intrudes. Powerful and accomplished women rule Barbie Land, and no one ever questions whether there "should" or "could" be a female president. It's a given that women can do absolutely any and everything.
But even Stereotypical Barbie gets the blues as it turns out, when Barbie's perfect world is marred by the encroachment of a real woman's blues, those of Gloria (America Ferrera), who works for Mattel, and whose recent sketches portray a Barbie that, though beautiful, has the melancholy expression of many women in the real world, facing its impossible contradictions and demands every day. This heartfelt, specifically female affliction, and the urgings of Weird Barbie (the embodiment of all Barbies upon whom modern little girls now turn their anarchic actions, using ink pen, scissors or lighters to modify her looks, and pose her doing perpetual splits) are what pull Stereotypical Barbie out of her dream house that has somehow suddenly become uncomfortable.
If Stereotypical Barbie wants to retain her perfection, she must find the girl whose blues are potent enough to poke a hole through the fabric separating Real World from Barbie Land. What Barbie doesn’t anticipate is besotted Ken (Ryan Gosling) hitching a ride in the back of her pink convertible. While Barbie won't be distracted from her mission to find the sad girl who's tearing the fabric of her rose-tinted not-quite reality, Stereotypical Ken discovers the testosterone fueled magic of toxic masculinity, and brings it back to Barbie Land where it's greeted by the other Kens like the bringing of fire.
Meanwhile, when Mattel execs (headed by Will Ferrell) get word that Barbie is out of the box and running amok, an all-out chase ensues. Mattel is portrayed in the film as pure Corporation, whose sole goal is to make a profit. An out-of-the-box Barbie running free in the Real World makes for a volatile situation, and as many executives believe, volatility in business is usually a result of bad management. Once again, the "problematic female" must be contained.
Barbie's ultimate goal of maintaining her own perfect world shifts when she meets her creator: not a male chauvinist with a burning desire to impose impossible standards of physical perfection on all womanhood, but kindly Ruth Handler (Rhea Perlman), who created Barbie in honor of her daughter, Barbara. During her time with Ruth, Barbie gets to see a side of the real world that, unlike the nasty, brutish, greedy side she's seen so far, is kind and caring.
Margot Robbie is superb as Barbie, whose glamor is softened by her vulnerability. When Barbie, dressed in a hot pink cowgirl outfit, confidently approaches a table full of jaded tween girls at lunch, she proudly announces herself, and, expecting excitement and adoration, instead gets cut down to size by their feminist diatribe. She flees in tears, not yet realizing the connection between one of the girls in that hostile group and her own goal.
Ken sees Barbie as an obscure object of desire, not necessarily a sexual object but something/ someone he must pursue. Ken exists only in relation to Barbie, created to be Barbie's boyfriend, 'friend' being the operative word, so while Barbie is consumed by existential angst, Ken wrestles with his own. When a Barbie Land battle of the sexes turns into a war between the Kens, Ken also finds his purpose. In a mind-blowing (for me!) dance number, Ken's journey culminates in a breakthrough that's palpable, a vibrant moment of epiphany.
There's a lot of talk about Barbie as marketing extravaganza, that it's mostly a sales vehicle for–of course--the toys themselves, and everything else onscreen. But isn't just about every superhero/ big-budget/ gadget-driven juggernaut a marketing machine, from t-shirts & tin whistles to shoes, posters, toys, and fast-food confections? Barbie has more heart & soul in its little plastic finger than the biggest CGI/SFX extravaganza has in its–whatever. Did Barbie make me consider buying a pair of pink Birkenstocks? Maybe. Might I buy a fuzzy pastel hoodie that says "I'm K-enough" for my husband, if I happen to run across one? I might. But then, I've been toying with buying a new pair of Birkenstocks for some time now, and my husband, at nearly age 70, is secure enough in his non-toxic masculinity to wear pink.
As I was walking into the theatre, I saw a small group of women taking selfies in front of the Barbie movie poster out front. I asked if they'd seen it, and they said yes. Did they like it, I asked. They said they did, one of them adding: "It was actually quite poignant."
I agree. There's one scene near the end that especially touched me, given the situation with my mother. In a film full of eye-candy colors and set-design, it's lovely in its simplicity, and stark in its meaning: the crux of Barbie's existential struggle. You'll know it when you see it. Referring back to the theme I mentioned earlier; it's not just death, but how its inevitability is what gives us our humanity.
For all the controversy surrounding Barbie dolls themselves, and now the film, its easy to forget but well worth remembering that Barbie isn't just an anti-feminist, facist tool of the male patriarchy, nor is she a seductive emissary of a 'woke' agenda that would destroy all that is good and holy in America and indeed the world.
Barbie began as one woman's tribute to a daughter she loved. Countless little girls have spent countless hours playing Barbie dolls, and so did their mothers. The references to that generation at the end, show what really gives Barbie the humanity she craved. It was there all along, in the impulse that created her,
She only had to take it by the hand.
Bedtime Noir #13: Percocet Summer
It's still summertime here in the US, but going by fast, so I'm sharing a sample of Paige Johnson's summer-themed transgressive poetry to try and help capture some of these last lanquid days of the season in a bottle (or pill bottle, as it were). Click below for a fix from Percocet Summer.
You can find & follow Paige on Twtter @OutcastPress1
Bedtime Noir #12: Murder and Mayhem in Tucson
Tonight I’m sharing a snippet from Patrick Whitehurst’s nonfiction book about murderous goings-on out in Tucson, Arizona, the subject and setting of Murder and Mayhem in Tucson (History Press). As both reader and writer, Patrick is no stranger to noir, horror and mystery, and his encyclopedic knowledge of all things Perry Mason and Columbo (two of my fave shows) is nothing short of amazing.
You can find out more about Patrick’s work, including his Barker Mysteries and “Sam the Thug” stories and much more at his web site, https://patrickwhitehurst.com/fiction/ .
Bedtime Noir #11: Sneak Peek at Starlite Pulp Review #2
Excited to see my short story, “Scattershot,” in the new Starlite Pulp Review #2! I’m sharing a snippet right here, and you can go to the Starlite Pulp web site or wherever you like to go to buy books and get your copy for a collection of pulp fiction (noir, crime, sci-fi, horror!) by established and emerging authors.
Bedtime Noir #10: L.A. Stories
This week I’ll share a tidbit from L.A. Stories, a trio of grindhouse novellas from Alec Cizak, Scotch Rutherford and Andrew Miller. If you’re a fan of gritty noir and dirty realism in literature and the “grindhouse” aesthetic in film, you should check it out this summer! It’s like a late night at grungy drive-in, or an illicit later-night visit to that downtown theatre you weren’t supposed to go to (but did). I wrote a more in-depth review of this book last year, so you can check that out here.
Click here for this week’s video.
More posts coming up this summer with new and recent works of noir, pulp and transgressive fiction, and more on my fave minor (though major inspo for me!) characters of noir film, TV and lit. Stay tuned!
Bedtime Noir #9: Murder in Greasepaint
I’m so glad to be back to Bedtime Noir! After a few weeks hiatus we’ll kick off the summer with Whiskey Leavins’ genre bending/ blending detective novel with clowns a-poppin’ and a femme fatale (with special talents) like you’ve never seen (or heard) before. Click here for the video, and for more about Whiskey Leavins and his other work, check out his web site here.
Bedtime Noir #8
Noir and transgressive fiction often intersect; I know it does in my writing! Tonight I'm sharing a snippet from the first Outcast Press anthology, In Filth It Shall Be Found. The snippet is from “Sugar Baby,” by CT Marie. Click here to watch!
Bedtime Noir #7: O'Connor Country Edition
This week in a change of pace, I’m in downtown Milledgeville sharing a couple of my favorite stops for evening walks: Cline House, former home of Flannery O’Connor, and Memory Hill Cemetery.
While there’s much in Milledgeville that’s new, evidenced by the influx of Georgia College and Georgia Military College students from all over the country and the world, the past is ever present in the architecture, historical artifacts and the history of the place itself. It was here at the old State House (renovated and still in use at GMC as a classroom building and administrative offices; I’ve taught several English classes there) that after a night of contentious debate, Georgia voted to secede from the Union. Everywhere at Memory Hill Cemetery are graves of the Confederate dead, along with veterans of the American Revolution and their family members. There are also the graves of patients of Central State Hospital (once known as the Georgia Lunatic Asylum built in 1845), and of former slaves.
Often when I talk to people from other parts of Georgia, they speak of Milledgeville as if it’s an off-the-beaten path part of the state that they’ve never been to, and don’t know much about. There’s a lot that’s new here, as old houses are renovated and repurposed into college offices, and sorority and fraternity houses. Still, something odd about walking past white-columned mansions at sunset, glowing within from strings of bright blue, red or yellow LED lights hanging from the ceiling, with hammocks on the porch, and the occassional painted party cooler or card table on the roof.
As Milledgeville continues being constantly updated to accommodate more new students each year (it is a college town now, after all), places like Cline House and Memory Hill retain the Southern Gothic aesthetic that conjures up the mood of Southern noir, and the spectacular sunsets that inspired O’Connor herself continue to dazzle, accompanied by the sound of evening chimes from the steeple of the Catholic church where she attended morning Mass.
Whether a wrinkle on the map, or in time, O’Connor country still occupies a place in central Georgia and the imagination, populated by Misfits, discontented Ph.D’s, “freaks,” and everyone in between. O’Connor famously declared that the south claimed to be “Christ-centered” but was actually “Christ-haunted.” Just another characteristic of Southern noir that deepens its mystery, and to this day, influences life in the deep south, socially and politically.
Click here to see the video on Cline House, and here to see a bit of Memory Hill.
Bedtime Noir #6: Reading from My New Novel, Cracker!
Tonight, I’m sharing a passage from the latest book in my Eucalyptus Lane series from Outcast Press. Cracker picks up where the first book, Poser, leaves off. Much more about Cracker soon, some exciting news about upcoming publications and events (!) & more posts about film, writing, reading and life. But for now—here are a couple of scenes between Jessica and Ambrose (and Beau!) from Cracker. Click here to watch!
Bedtime Noir #5: Mediterranean Noir
This week I’m reading a short passage from Garlic, Mint, & Sweet Basil, a book of essays by Jean-Claude Izzo. He writes beautifully about Marseilles, the orgins of the noir novel, and with his Marseilles trilogy (Total Chaos, Chourmo, and Solea), is credited as the founder of modern Mediterranean noir. The bite-size little essays in the book are amazing, with lovely description. Whether you consider them short essays or flash non-fiction, each chapter only made me want to visit Marseilles that much more! Click here for video.
Bedtime Noir #4: Dead Dogs by Manny Torres
Reading from Manny Torres's debut novel. Manny has some other novels as well, including Father Was A Rat King, and Perras Malas. He’s also an accomplished visual artist. I interviewed Manny for Deep South Magazine last year, so if you’d like to know more about Chuck and Phobos from Dead Dogs, and Manny’s other work, click here for the interview.
Click here to watch my short reading from Dead Dogs.
Bedtime Noir #3: Meet Sonny Haynes
Tonight I’m reading from Brian Townsley's book of short stories, Outlaw Ballads, featuring detective Sonny Haynes. If you like southern California settings, tough guys-and women-and classic noir, you’re in for a treat! Click here for video.
Bedtime Noir 2: Valentine's Edition
Tonight, a short selection from Cracker, the next book in my neo-noir Eucalyptus Lane series from Outcast Press. And, meet Mitzi!
Source: http://www.nevada-mcpherson.com/
Bedtime Noir 1
Welcome to the first episode of my new video series, where every Thursday at 10PM EST I'll be posting a new reading. Next week, the Pre-Valentine's Day edition—and a surprise guest😃
Watch here.
Movie Review: Babylon →
Babylon, the new film about old Hollywood and the transition from silents to sound, is a visual and narrative feast with some scenes so over the top they’re hard to believe. My first impression was that it was really good, and I was glad I saw it, but in the days afterward I found parts of it still detonating in my brain. Babylon is full of revelations about the nature of technology and its human impact, and the power of innovation, as well as ambition and dashed expectations.
Written and directed by Damien Chazelle, the film mainly follows the trajectory of Emanuel “Manny” Torres (Diego Calva), a young man who finds himself finally in the right place at the right time to carve out a niche for himself in the burgeoning moving picture business as assistant to star Jack Conrad (Brad Pitt) and then as a motion picture executive at Kinograph Pictures. Manny’s rise parallels that of Nellie LeRoy (Margot Robbie), an unknown yet self-proclaimed “star,” whose confidence and panache carry her from the gritty stages of low-budget one-reelers to film stardom in a dizzyingly short time.
As Manny’s and Nellie’s fortunes increase, Jack’s are on the wane. His success as a silent film star does not translate to sound. Far from being stuck in the past, Jack is keen to see where advances such as talking pictures will take the new industry that up until now has been most kind to him. At a time when movies were seen by some East Coast intellectuals as bastard children of the theatre, he argues passionately and eloquently with his wife--another soon-to-be-ex and recent New York thespian--for film as the true art of the masses, a magical force in the lives of everyday hard-working Americans.
The hot lights of Hollywood shimmer brightly for some but burn others in the rarified circle of individuals making a name for themselves in the new center of the universe rising from dusty orange groves. Sidney Palmer (Jovan Adepo), a black jazz musician and soon-to-be movie star, finds the price of success too high when he realizes the compromises he’ll have to make to remain in his palatial mansion. Lady Fay Zhu (Li Jun Li), is magnetic as a stylish chanteuse and fearless woman whose (lesbian) relationship with Nellie has to end if they’re both to continue their careers in this world where anything goes behind the scenes, but where exposure in the press spells doom in a country still entangled in the Puritanical values of the past and the opening shots of culture wars that continue to this day.
While connections to the biblical Babylon are apt, so are connections to Kenneth Anger’s cult book Hollywood Babylon, a collection of black and white photographs and texts chronicling the decadent lifestyles and dramatic deaths of cinematic luminaries from the silent age to more modern times. The panic, passions and addictions chronicled in that famous tome parallel the ups and downs of the personae portrayed in Babylon.
Beautifully shot, well-cast and well-acted, this film has a frenetic pace that reflects the seat-of-your-pants race to get to set after a hard night of partying, get the replacement camera at all costs, get the shot, get the money, get the drugs, to get everything you can while in the spotlight, because fame is fickle, funds get depleted and while stars remain in the pavement outside Mann’s Chinese Theatre, they often burn out in real life. The best one can hope for is to be a part of something bigger than oneself, and realizing that in Hollywood is the beginning of a kind of cold, hard wisdom, as explained to Jack by gossip columnist Elinor St. John (Jean Smart).
Granted, this film won’t be suited to all tastes, and is unsparing in its depiction of all-out early Hollywood wildness (the good, the bad, and the weird) but if you’re interested in the pioneer days of film, the silent era and early talkies (as am I), you will likely find much to enjoy in this spectacular epic. It takes the viewer to some dark places, but in the dark is where the magic of movies resides.
See it on the big screen while you can. There’s a special magic in that as well.
Slim Pickens & My Mid-Century Modern Apocalyptic Wet Dream
“It’s the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine.” --R.E.M.
Ever since I was a child, I’ve had the sense of being caught between two generations, like the gears of a clock. The youngest in an older crowd, I grew up in a small Georgia town that was suspended in a kind of time warp, and as I got older, my appreciation for the antique, retro and vintage increased. I remember summers spent at my great-aunt’s house in Macon, drawing, reading YA novels and flipping through volumes of This Fabulous Century, the Time-Life set of books that provided a photographic chronicle of each decade of the Twentieth Century. While I liked the 1920’s with its pictures of flappers, dead gangsters and deco magazine covers, the volumes I returned to most frequently were the 1940’s through 1960’s. Why?
Of course there were major historical events unfolding, and those iconic Life Magazine photos of key moments, but maybe it was the look of everyday life as well. Something about the interior décor of those years as it evolved from solid earthbound into space-age futuristic. The cars, streamlined and elegant, even with the flambouyant fins of the 1950’s. Black & white TV shows, movies and advertising showed a world as yet uncluttered by plastic bottles, styrofoam and the other detritus of disposable everything. Everyday objects like telephones, ashtrays, coffee pots, cups & saucers, took up more space, had weight & depth. People dressed up to travel, go to town, and clean the house. I was fascinated by the youth culture & style of the years that gave birth to the Beats, Charlie Parker, rock & roll, Elvis, and Janis Joplin. Guys in t-shirts and jeans, smoking cigarettes, riding in cars, girls in Bobby socks, the diners, the popular cartoons (Bill Mauldin’s Army, They’ll Do It Every Time), and the comedians: Jack Benny, Shelley Be9rman, Lenny Bruce. Mid-twentieth century was also the time of an unprecedented and profound worldwide shift.
In the 1950’s, shows like The Twilight Zone revealed the fears and anxieties of the first generation living in the shadow of the atomic bomb through brilliant short narratives, and even through set design. Among the sleek, modern lines of furniture, appliances and cars, are visual cues that reflect an awareness of humanity’s ability to toy with its collective mortality. In the “Third From the Sun” episode, where a middle class family grapples with the imminent threat of annihilation (and yes, there’s a twist), odd, misshapen objects d’art are seen in the background and foreground: figurines of animals and people, part representative, part abstract: art intended to unsettle.
Today, the hot nuclear threat that had waned into Cold War rhetoric waxes again, and like mid-twentieth century’s increasing fascination with plastic and “better living through chemistry,” more widespread technology and faster production (with fewer workers) isn’t advancing the cause of humanity. A world at tipping point on several fronts such as higher temperatures (ie "scorchers"), melting icecaps and mass extinctions, doesn’t require a nuclear war to destroy it; we’re doing a fine job of that on our own, thank you very much. It’s the logical outcome of a “disposable” society where, in the eyes of the powers that be, goods, people and animals are, as ex- newsman-turned-“mad prophet” of the airwaves, Howard Beale, claims in Network (1976), “alike as bottles of beer, and as replaceable as piston rods.”
While some world leaders wreak bloody havoc, and others wring their hands in a state of dithering incompetence, “preppers,” have written off earth's future altogether, building rockets to launch themselves into space. The Brave New World only belongs to those who can afford it, whether it’s a space ship to Mars, or plane to a posh resort that still has clean air & water, and maybe a drive-through zoo called “Last Chance to See!” housing the last of members of over a thousand animal species.
And what about the rest of us? Instead of popping milltowns, we doom scroll on social media, slipping into a solipsistic stupor, numb out on the ‘Net (the lack of which will drive many of us mad when the grid goes dark), and binge-watch TV. Not you, you say? Excellent! Then what are you doing? If you're somehow trying to make the world better, ignoring the wags who mutter about rearranging deck furniture on the Titanic, more power to you. We must arrange these deck chairs (words, notes or brush strokes, etc.) just so, if for no other reason than that somewhere in the universe there's a snapshot for the ages, and somehow, someone or something will know we were doing our best when the doomsday clock hit midnight, or high noon, whichever the case may be. That energy out there in the collective unconsciousness is seeking expression through your work. You have a duty to fulfill.
Creating art is an act of faith in the face of disaster. Again, as seen in The Twilight Zone episode, "The Midnight Sun," Norma (Lois Nettleton) continually paints the sun over the city as an earth thrown off its normal orbit hurtles toward the ever-expanding orb, slowly increasing the temperature to the point of driving the only neighbor she has left (and the radio announcer who broadcasts grim daily reports) to a nervous breakdown and eventual heat stroke and Norna herself to the edge of sanity. The only thing holding her back from the brink is her art.
In a recent re-watching of Stanley Kubrick’s 1964 film, Dr. Strangelove: Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb, it occurred to me that today a more apt subtitle might be “How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Watch It Burn.” While the world’s richest escape the pull of earth's gravity, the rest of us sit astride a falling bomb with Major T.J. Kong, played by Slim Pickens, whose no-holds barred cowboy swagger, all-American can-do attitude and yes, earnestness, are weirdly refreshing after the semen-obsessed macho posturing and whacko military theories being bandied about in the War Room.
In my bomb-riding fantasy, Kong smells of sweat and delirious enthusiasm as I grip tighter around his chest, holding on for dear life as he fearlessly whoops and hollers (like the former rodeo star Pickens himself was), waving his hat in a state of sheer exhilaration as ground zero rushes to meet us. True, riding a bomb while holding on for dear life is a paradox, but so is the fact that in a post-post-modern world where possibilities are endless, we drag our feet when it comes to our own self-preservation and the very survival of earth itself. Can’t something be done to save us? Yes, but focus and a sense of urgency are required, and again (here in America), hand wringing & dithering incompetence too often come into play, along with denial and endless debate over facts already in evidence.
In Dr. Strangelove, mass murder on a global scale is discussed by the numbers in the exquisitely designed War Room, and so today are various forms of negligent homicide, whether in the board room, private dining room, or anywhere else the world’s richest and most powerful gather to decide the fate of the future. For all our mid-century space-age futuristic ambitions, we're instead experiencing the reactionary vibe of Baron von Metternich, which for most of us is not a good thing. Fear and greed are the two most destructive forces in the world, but even as they run rampant, it helps to remember that from a Marx-ist perspective (Brothers, that is), there’s subversive power in comedy, and in laughter, a certain kind of hope.
Before I slip into the silvery shadows of my beloved black & white TV shows (Perry Mason, et al), and the dark corners of noir films where fate crouches, waiting to grab the next unsuspecting sucker by the ankle, I would ask you to consider Kierkegaard’s advice: "The only intelligent tactical response to life's horror is to laugh defiantly at it."
For those with their hands on the levers of power, the world by the purse strings, and egos bigger than Jupiter, the only fate worse than death is to be mocked. Laughter, like the sublime yawp of the rodeo star, like Molly Bloom's final "yes," is a ray of sun slicing through hopeless gloom.
The court jesters were unafraid to speak truth to power, to tell the King what he didn't want to hear and laugh while doing it. Truth-telling is a risky business that can get one fired, divorced, executed, assassinated, etc., but one we need desperately if this century we're in now has any shot at being "fabulous." Will it get its own set of Time-Life books?
Possibly. If we can hold it together long enough.
Book review: A Trunk full of Zeroes by Brian Townsley
A Trunk Full of Zeroes (RothCo Press), is a hard-boiled feast for fans of classic noir, and for those new to the genre, a gateway novel sure to whet the appetite for more adventures of ex-cop-turned-vigilante Sonny Haynes.
Sonny is seeking revenge for his murdered wife amid accusations that he himself actually pulled the trigger. Upon returning to L.A. from a stint as a hired gun in Mexico, he’s a man on a bloody mission, with a checkered past and uncertain future. The only ray of light following his check-in at the Elmwood Arms Hotel, is finding Katie, a 16 year-old poker prodigy who's pretty much on her own after being abandoned by her mother. Sonny becomes something of a father figure to her, though that can often be difficult in view of Katie's affectionate nature and developing physique. Lines are there to cross but Sonny appoints himself guardian of those who might, establishing his willingness to abide by a moral code, in spite of a paradoxical tendency to commit acts of violence whenever and wherever he deems necessary.
Townsley's style is cinematic and supple, with descriptions of 1950's Los Angeles so vivid as to conjure the sound of palm fronds flapping against each other in the evening breeze. His flair for period-precise detail brings into sharp focus the stylistic flourishes of mid-century modern cool, such as putting on a hat, or lighting a cigarette. With Sonny Haynes, Townsley has created a real and very memorable noir “hero” (Sonny would hate that description, but if the brass knuckles fit…).
Daring and dangerously outspoken, Sonny has a certain ragged charm, which he deploys with great skill, even in the face of death. He left the south for the west coast to live the American dream, and did for a while, only to see it disintegrate into a nightmare, with all the deception, corruption and violence surrounding him. His dark outlook and thirst for vengeance is tempered only by Katie's youthful optimism and his own deep-seated desire to do the right thing, whatever form that takes.
When Sonny shows up, bloodied and bruised, hat dented, eye blackened, you can usually bet the opposing force looks worse—and that they had it coming.
Highly recommend.
Movie review: Elvis
When I first heard there was a new Elvis movie arriving this summer, I thought, “Yeah, I’ll have to see that sometime,” but when I heard that Baz Luhrmann directed it, I thought, “Oh, hell, yes; I must see that, and on the big screen!” I’m a longtime fan of Elvis, grew up listening to his music, and saw the man himself in concert when I was around 9 years old. I went with my mother, grandmother, great aunt, and cousin, and I saw the line of people, women, mostly, bringing those giant stuffed animals up to the stage in tribute, witnessed Elvis wiping the sweat from his brow, with a new handkerchief, or scarf, of a different color each time, and tossing each one off the stage to some lucky member of the clamoring crowd who no doubt treated it as an heirloom, if not a relic to be passed down to the next generation with the reverence accorded such a persona, such a presence, such a star, as Elvis was and still is.
If referring to a concert souvenir as a relic seems a bit over-the-top, imbuing Elvis with a certain religiosity not normally appropriate for an entertainer, even the caliber of Elvis, consider the argument that sociologist and editor of the Encyclopedia of Southern Culture, Charles Regan Wilson posits in his book Judgement and Grace in Dixie, that there are three pillars of civil religion in the south: entities not religious in and of themselves, but treated with a reverence usually associated with religion, and those are (1.) beauty pageants, not necessarily of the glitzy, Miss Universe-Trumpian variety, but of wholesome young Southern womanhood, and all the attributes, real or mythologized, that go along with that, (2.) Alabama football coach Bear Bryant (and by extension college football itself, especially that of the SEC variety), and (3.) Elvis Aaron Presley. Do you have to be from the south to hold these things in high regard, or at least to understand why this part of the country does? No, but it helps. Elvis, however, has long transcended his Southern origins and, like Coca-Cola, that other ubiquitous block-buster export invented in the lower right-hand corner of the United States, gone on to conquer the world.
Australian director Baz Luhrmann burst onto the cinematic scene with Strictly Ballroom in 1992 and has since become known for such kaleidoscopic eye candy as Moulin Rouge and The Great Gatsby, among others. The moods and visuals of his films produce the sensation of a roller coaster ride, with the camera’s dips, swings, close-ups, panoramic spectacle, and fancy-footwork editing, operatic in emotional intensity yet street-level intimate at the same time: a melding of cinematic art and pop culture in a way that has become Luhrmann’s signature style. In Elvis, he captures the familiar and the iconic as well as the small, backstage moments that we never actually saw but knew were there, from classic Elvis (played by Austin Butler) shaking it in a pink suit, to Army Elvis getting to know Priscilla (Olivia deJonge), to lonely Elvis, lamenting his age and the thought that he might not be remembered for anything important.
Looming above all this is the formidable, mercurial persona of Colonel Tom Parker, played by Tom Hanks in a rare, somewhat villainous role. I say “somewhat,” because as the Colonel (he isn’t really a colonel, nor an American), Hanks as Parker projects a grandfatherly malevolence, which sounds like an oxymoron, and yet he does it. He has the vision of what Elvis can become, but undercuts his protegee at crucial moments, lighting the rocket that will skyrocket E. to fame but dousing the spark when his own self-interests get in the way. When Elvis has the opportunity revitalize his flailing career by going worldwide with his act and newfound sense of purpose and identity, Parker goes behind his back and gets him shackled to a contract with the International Hotel, for an interminable Las Vegas residency that thwarts Elvis’s ambitions and erases Parker’s considerable gambling debts at the same time. In his bid for self-preservation, Parker destroys Elvis’s trust in him, their long-time relationship and Elvis’s independence in one fell swoop. The frame for the entire film is Parker’s telling of the story from his point-of-view, in a voice that sounds like grandpa telling the kids gathered ‘round a tale of joy and woe, of a great “snowman” melted by the incandescent glow of his own greed.
According to the film, Elvis went into this relationship with his eyes wide open, aware of Parker’s ability to snow others, but also aware that he needed (or thought he needed) a vision like Parker’s to break out of the carnival and rinky-dink nightclub circuit to become an international star. Parker was already a manager for country acts like Hank Snow (David Wenham), who rapidly sinks to the bottom of the bill once Elvis joins the act. Snow voices the sentiments of religious conservatives when after one particularly raucous concert where Elvis shakes the crowd into a frenzy and a pair of women’s undies fly onto the stage, he informs Parker that he’ll spend the rest of the evening in prayer, to which Parker, already looking far ahead to the next real big thing, responds “Yeah, you do that, Hank.”
One person who is suspicious of Parker from the get-go is Elvis’s mother, Gladys, beautifully played by Helen Thompson. Her love for her son is palpable, soulful eyes welling with tears when Elvis leaves and goes off to meet his destiny alongside this man who even with his gift of sincere-sounding gab, seems to her something of a pretender. Yes, she’s grateful for Elvis’s subsequent early success and like everyone in E.’s circle, enjoys the trappings of it that include Graceland. This is not the late, sainted Gladys of lore, but a woman who worries, drinks, frets, criticizes and most of all, adores her son to the ends of the earth. Her death is a turning point for Elvis and, left with only his weak-willed father Vernon (Richard Roxburgh) to look out for him, he feels her loss profoundly for the rest of his life.
While I enjoyed this movie tremendously, the deep-dive into Elvis-inspired euphoria experienced at the beginning was, like any great high, hard to sustain for long, and the second half feels more conventionally biopic than Elvis-fever-dream. That said, the necessary biopic elements are handled well, and the Parker-centric narration serves as a compelling connecting thread throughout. I’ve noticed some comment that childhood Elvis’s visit to a black church tent revival and a black nightclub happened too close together in the film, and that such events likely never took place at all in real life. These comments weren’t disputing the influence of religion, black culture, and rhythm & blues music on the boy who would be Elvis (boyhood Elvis played by Chaydon Jay), just that it probably didn’t happen quite like it’s depicted in the film, some say. Whether it did or didn’t, this film is certainly no documentary, and the visual representation of those events and influences work very well in establishing the cultural, racial and musical milieu that made Elvis the artist and performer that he was. It’s easy to see why Elvis flees to Beale Street’s Club Handy when the stress at Graceland gets too hard to handle. The performers at Club Handy inspire him and the music is salve for his soul. When Elvis expresses concern about the direction Col. Parker wants his burgeoning career to take, it’s here that his friend B.B. King (Kelvin Harrison, Jr.) makes an observation that echoes throughout the rest of the film, that Parker must have some other reason than Elvis suspects, some reason all Parker’s own. Indeed.
While Austin Butler does an excellent job in this film, when the real Elvis shows up in footage near the end of the picture, we’re reminded of his greatness as a performer. Even in his final years, when weight gain, drugs, and all his other problems were the stuff of legend and tabloid fodder, the light comes through in his eyes, his smile, his voice, and it’s easy to see why he’s remembered, and why he is the one and only Elvis. Much of this story has been told before, but Baz Luhrmann succeeds in bringing the story of one of the 20th century’s greatest musical artists and cultural icons to a brand-new generation, while giving longtime Elvis fans exactly what they want to see. As the real-life subject for a Luhrmann film, Elvis is the perfect choice.
Book Review: Anxious Nothings, Vol. 1
Anxious Nothings, Volume 1 (Anxiety Press) is a collection of short fiction, non-fiction, poems about sex, and, as the title suggests, the attendant anxiety often surrounding it in all its forms. The introduction by editor and publisher Cody Sexton, places the collection into context with an explanation of what inspired this volume, involving a teen’s discovery of Hustler Magazine, among other things. It’s dedicated to Larry Flynt and porn impresario Al Goldstein, and while the works collected here are wide ranging in tone and topic, the intro makes for a center the way a metal framework within a clay sculpture holds it all together.
Before I read this book, I’d stumbled onto The People Vs. Larry Flynt on cable, the scene where Larry (played by Woody Harrelson) returns to the offices of Flynt Publications for the first time following his shooting. He wheels into his office, much to the chagrin of the suits looking to tone things down, and instructs the receptionist to announce on the loudspeaker, “The pervert is in the building.” This book seems to suggest the pervert is indeed in the building, and to paraphrase Walt Kelly’s comic possum, Pogo, “We have met the pervert, and he is us.”
If sexuality is an integral part of being human, and if it really does take all kinds to make the world go around, every one of us could be considered perverts to some degree, seen through the lenses (or technological keyholes) of the censorious forces present in society, especially in the U.S., which has a much more puritanical culture than the land of “freedom and liberty” is usually willing to admit.
Depending on one’s personality and mindset, these works may prompt laughter, (Grayson Lagrange’s “Feeding the Ducks” and Jason Gerrish’s “Slaw”), a sense of horror or dread (Paula Deckard’s “Girl’s End”), disgust (Sebastian Vice’s “Ass Eating”), and even pity tempered with cool satisfaction that the bad guys/chicks in the story got what was coming to them (Paige Johnson’s “Ruffled Feathers” and Kristin Garth’s “Jungle Rules”). Snacking on this collection of literate pornographic bon-bons is a liberating experience in many ways, acknowledging the pervert within one’s own psyche, and meeting it with a high five of recognition thus subverting any authority threatened by the anarchic freedom of thinking for oneself, reading what one pleases, and engaging in life, liberty and the pursuit of pleasure between two—or more—consenting adults.
The transgressive behavior found in Anxious Nothings is unfiltered and unadulterated save what judgements the reader brings to it, which gives each piece in the collection certain qualities of a Rorschach test administered in a quiet corner at a wild party. No therapist here, though, only the intermittent palate-clearing snippets of sage words by the likes of the Marquis de Sade, Karl Marx, Mark Twain, and Gertrude Stein, with text graphics for these made to look like cut-out ransom notes, heightening the illicit nature of the content and grounding it within the wisdom that there is nothing that threatens you from between these covers, only modern stories, poems and essays about age-old cornerstones of human nature. The characters herein may be anxious, but you, dear reader, need not be. You are in good hands. You are human. Fear not.
However.
Right before I wrapped up this review, I was flipping through channels and again stumbled upon The People Vs. Larry Flynt. This time, it was near the ending, where Larry wants to take his case against Jerry Falwell to the U.S. Supreme Court. Larry’s lawyer, Alan Isaacson (played by Edward Norton), resists, afraid that Larry will make a mockery out of an appearance in front of such of an august institution, but Isaacson finally acquiesces, and prevails. In light of recent rulings, I have to wonder what the future now holds for free speech in America, and for other freedoms most have long taken for granted.
President Franklin D. Roosevelt famously said that we have “nothing to fear, but fear itself,” yet now more than ever we seem to be a nation in the grip of fear and loathing. Writing hobbled by fear, tempered by prevailing opinion about what is “acceptable” makes for a lukewarm experience through which nothing is learned, gained, no fun is had, and time is wasted. This one is worth the time, whether as a left-handed bon-bon of ballsy entertainment or thought-provoking starting point for a conversation with yourself about why something makes you feel the way it does. This is a strange, bold book for even stranger times, a post-modern Whitman’s Sampler of fearless writing. It is a literary anthology that contains unapologetic, unvarnished, explicit sexual content. You may love it, or you may be offended, but if books like this get banned, you’ll never know.
Be bold. Be fearless and support others who are.
Freedom depends on it.