I May Be Getting Older But I'm Also Getting Butter, I Mean Better, Although I Could Do With Some Margarine

The photo is of my Mom and Dad in New York circa 1945.


Most of the young are bored most of the time -- if they have any spirit at all. That is to say, they are outraged -- and quite rightly so -- because life isn’t as wonderful as they feel it ought to be. - From Down There on a Visit by Christopher Isherwood.

It has come to my attention recently that, chronologically speaking, I am getting older. Oh I know that one starts getting older immediately upon being born, if not sooner, but there is an indeterminate point at which one stops maturing or growing up and begins to age.

Fortunately I do not feel old or older. I'm physically in top shape and still think of myself as a member of a younger generation (I say "a" rather than "the" as a demonstration that I'm not deluded enough to fancy myself one of today's younger set). Nevertheless I do find myself afflicted with certain diseases of aging. These include bouts of sentimentality. Occasional wistfulness. Pangs of regret. Burnings of yearnings. Severe fits of nostalgia.

All too often I begin sentences with the following words: I remember when I was a kid.... Of course there are other variations, such as: when I was in high school, or when I was in college. Usually I'm recalling how things were cheaper, simpler, less commercial or comparatively unsophisticated. My children roll their eyes. There is a lot of eye rolling in our house. Even the cat is fed up with my reminisces. Animals can sense these things, you know.

One of the reasons I like getting together with my big brother is so that we can jaw about the old days. We enable one another's journey's back to the old days. In those there are recollections of rotary telephones that were big black monstrosities and could not fit in one's pocket. Days when movies cost 50 cents (for a double feature matinee) and could only be seen in theaters or sliced and diced on TV. We remember when you could get a burger, fries and soda for around $1. But make no mistake, these were not the good old days. People smoked everywhere for one thing. For another, while we didn't have to deal with the over reaction that is political correctness, racial slurs were common and gays were either deep in the closet or called fairies.

Still I often put a golden hue on days of yore. Nostalgia is a way of making the normal of 30 years ago seem quaint and interesting. The time when we were young seems to belong to us. We are that generation and can be quite possessive of it. So we romanticize. This is not unusual.

Of course the trap I fall into is supposing that somehow those days can be relived. That I can go back and correct all our mistakes, take the knowledge and wisdom I've accumulated and employ it in the service of leading a better, perhaps even perfect life. I, for example, would have been ever so much nicer to Deborah, a high school flame.
I'd not of spend so much of my childhood watching Hogan's Heroes or my young adult years in a stupor. I'd have been nicer and more productive. Surely by now I should have won a Pulitzer Prize and spent decades hobnobbing with Hollywood stars.

Perhaps there is a form of reincarnation that allows for this. A second time through. But one can hardly count on it. We can, however, count on the here and now. Today is all we have, life's one guarantee. Mental meanderings in our halcyon days are all well and good but should not be overly romanticized or sentimentalized.

Such thinking can lead to misery. Happiness is a byproduct of acceptance and embracing who we are and what we have -- today. How easy to ignore the riches life has bestowed upon us and focus on what we don't have, have not achieved or once possessed.

We must also assume that a string of tomorrows await us and that we can take full advantage of. The phrase, it's never too late, may sound trite but it is also true.

It's said that youth is wasted on the young. As if there is meaning in having everything at once without labor. Generally we got what we need when we need it. Fighting that is futile. And while acceptance is important, but should never be confused with resignation. There is much we can alter and sorting that from those matters out of our control is essential.

I had spent a number of years fighting the reality that I was rapidly getting nearer the end than to the beginning. Death was unthinkable. Literally. But recently, as I've watched a friend day with incredible courage and previously seen my dear old Dad fight for his life to the end, I've changed my thinking. Now I have accepted that life on Earth is terminal, it thus has all the more meaning and provides ever so much joy and satisfaction.

Given the odds against being born in the first place, one should perforce embrace every second. Especially when seeing all the walking dead. Those people in perpetual fogs who cannot appreciate being part of the great game of life. Many blur their brains with drugs or alcohol. Others submerge themselves in hate and anger (they are easy to find on the internet, leaving messages here and there). Some sad sacks live their lives vicariously through television programs thus failing to live their own life. Legions of our fellow travelers spend their waking hours in one way or another mentally numb. Some are emotionally toxic.

Socrates said, "the unexamined life is not worth living." Clearly many people either disagree or fail to heed that message. Regularly taking a good hard look at who we are, what we've done, what we're doing and how we feel, allows us to at once appreciate our time here and make better use of it. Learning, after all, is a life-long endeavor.

So I'm not getting any younger. There is no point at which that was the case. I accept that I am getting older and other than the fact that I'm losing a bit of my boyish good looks, I'm quite fine with my lot. I'm happy to be here. 

The Death of a Friend

A good friend of mine died last night. He was a year younger than me.

Goddamn cancer.

The death was not unexpected as he had been under hospice care for the last month or so. It hurts all the same. This is one of those cases of someone who truly will be missed. He seemingly knew everyone and was liked by all. He was an educator, a coach, an activist and, more importantly, someone highly skilled at the art of friendship. Among his greatest talents was the ability to listen and to relate to people of all types. Berkeley celebrates its diversity. He lived it.

I'm still in middle age, yet I find that the longer I'm around the more I'm confronted by death. My best friend died nine years ago this month. I'm still not over that. We try to make sense of these premature endings. My friend's mother said at the time that clearly God had other plans for her son. What plans could be so urgent that he was taken away from two young step sons and a two year old biological son?

I'm guilty of constantly trying to find meaning in events. Reasons for the often cruel capricious nature of life. It's easy enough to find lessons from something horrific like the Holocaust, but meaning? Good luck. If I trip, fall and sustain an injury I'll reckon I've been guilty of hubris lately and needed a comeuppance. More likely I was just being unmindful of a wet surface. But the search for a deeper meaning is constant. Particularly in the case of death and most particularly when someone dies before old age.

When unfortunate circumstances befall someone we know it is natural to imagine the same thing happening to us. Thus the death of a friend or relative leaves us contemplating our own mortality. We might focus on the uncertainty of a hereafter or assess what impact we've made on our world or what we hope to accomplish in our remaining years.

It can seem rather depressing. But it is all the nuts and bolts of being a member of the human race.  To deny that the inevitable awaits us to tell ourselves a great and terrible lie. Staring death square in the eye is healthy. Understand that its embrace will come to us and now is the time dance in another direction.

I've been watching (perhaps coincidentally, perhaps not) a lot of films lately that deal with death and dying. That is to say I've been watching a lot of Ingmar Bergman and Woody Allen movies. Last night at the very time my friend was breathing his last I was watching Bergman's Winter Light (1962). It concerns a pastor experiencing a crisis of faith. He meets with a suicidal parishioner who he is unable to help.

Bergman and Allen have dealt with life and living so effectively in their films because they look at its polar opposite: death. They understand that nothing can make life seem more precious, more meaningful and more important than the understanding that it is finite. They do not depict death in comic book terms with evil doers getting their just rewards or heroes dying valiantly as martyrs. Their deaths and the manner in which characters face them are expressions of the reality of human existence.

I'd love to explore this topic more deeply and hopefully I will soon. However I need to do a little mourning right now. I'll try to avoid depression and remember instead that my friend's life is one to be celebrated and emulated and that my contact with him over the 24 years I knew him was filled with the type of insight and joy he spread. I'm glad too that our beloved San Francisco Giants won a World Series before he shuffled off this mortal coil. He in fact died with his Giants cap on.

Bye buddy.

Experience the Sixties Through Contemporary Music, Films and Novels -- Power to the People!

I was there. And I still have the cloth I used to cover my mouth from tear gas. Growing up in Berkeley during the 1960's did not make for a typical childhood. After all, for a short time we had the National Guard bivouacked across from Berkeley High School. Drugs of all variety where readily available and cheap ($1 for a tab of LSD). Attitudes and mores were changing as fast as our teenaged hormones.

There were no pep rallies, even though we had the number one basketball team in the state. The prom was sparsely attended (I assume so anyway, I didn't know anyone who went). Instead of social events we were concerned about social issues. The times were a changin' and doing so in our very midst.

I made frequent trips up the street to the University of California campus for demonstrations.  There were the People's Park demonstrations and anti war and anti draft demonstrations. I saw young people literally thrown into paddy wagons and struck over the head with billy clubs. I also saw a helicopter overhead with streams of tear gas pouring out of it flying directly above me. "My God, my own government is attacking me!" I said aloud. At that moment I became a radical forever. (Some of that tear gas wafted down the road to the junior high school where some years later I would teach.)

The Sixties represented a cultural revolution, the reverberations from which are still felt today. Its roots ran deep and included the Beat Generation of the 1950's and the Civil Rights Movement. It's catalysts were the Kennedy Assassination, the Beatles and outrage over U.S. involvement in the Vietnam War. (In terms of the "spirit of the Sixties" I consider the decade to have been from 1964-1973, as will be reflected throughout this writing). So of course it was also a time of, as the cliche goes, political unrest. Never before have politics and culture been so inextricably intertwined.



Protest songs that were birthed in folk music became integral to the ever changing strains of rock and roll. Young people's music became less about puppy love and more about the times they lived in. Long hair was in and it, along with fashions, became a personal expression not just of individual style but of political leanings. It was a time of free love, hippies, be-ins, open drug experimentation, liberation movements and peace signs.

I was in the heart of it. Living in Berkeley and across the bay from San Francisco where hippies were so prevalent and the Summer of Love took place in 1967.

I remember the time fondly because of the incredible sense of hope and purpose so many of us enjoyed. We believed that we were part of positive change, that mountains could be moved and we could some day live in a world of love not war. While its true that today the world is as violent as ever, significant progress has been made in many areas. Out of the Sixties came an acceptance of humans in all variety. Witness the changing roles not just of women and African Americans but other ethnic minorities, gays, the handicapped and both the young and old. The Sixties forever put a dent into the monolithic power held by older, straight, white Christian males.

The impact the Sixties had on our culture is incalculable. As with politics, everything felt new and important. However we did not have an LBJ or a Nixon in opposition to us, just our hopelessly square parents.

Absent a time machine there's no way to truly experience what a time was like but one can certainly get a sense of a bygone era. It can be fun too. You need not read non fiction books, watch documentaries or visit museums (although those are all wonderful ideas). You can sit back and watch movies, listen to music and read novels.

I have provided 12 movies, songs and books to choose from, all contemporary to the period. Disclaimer: this is not meant to be a comprehensive list. Especially in the case of music where I could have offered five, six, even ten times as many choices.

The problem with films is that the movie industry didn't really catch up to the Sixties until a few years into the next decade. This is mostly a reflection on the nature of film production. The first film on the list is the definitive Sixties movie, the Strawberry Statement. Sadly it is not available on DVD and TCM rarely airs it. However you can watch it on Amazon On Demand and I highly recommend you do so. It is the story of a young college student who finds love and a social conscience though the protest movements then taking place on his campus. I watched it recently for the first time since it its initial release and was amazed at how well it holds up and how accurately it captures the time period. It also features one of the best soundtracks in film history. Other than Getting Straight, a rather weak entry I admit but one that does concern itself with campus protests, none of the films I've listed deal with Sixties per se. However they were all popular then and emboldened our counter cultural beliefs. Especially If..., M*A*S*H and Harold and Maude.

For the songs I've for the most part selected music that not only is of the time but speaks to it. I've included some lyrics in a few cases to illustrate that point. The books start off with two by Jack Kerouac that were written in the Fifties but they certainly were important to the Sixties and popular then. The other books were released in the Sixties and had particular popularity among the young and disaffected.

At the end of included some photos from protests. Mostly from ones I attended, though I know of no picture of me at a demonstration. Perhaps I should check out the FBI files.

It may seem presumptuous of me to dedicate a blog post but in this case I'm going to go ahead: This is dedicated to James Rector, an innocent bystander killed during the People's Park Demonstrations in Berkeley on May 15, 1969. The last photo shows that tragedy.

 Movies:

The Strawberry Statement (1970)
Getting Straight (1970)
Easy Rider (1969)
M*A*S*H (1970)
2001 A Space Odyssey (1968)
If.... (1968)
A Hard Day's Night (1964)
Band of Outsiders (1964)
Bonnie & Clyde (1967)
The Graduate (1967)
The Last Picture Show (1971)
Harold and Maude (1971)

(Also see the Smothers Brothers TV show on DVD. They were cutting edge and constantly embroiled with censors as they took on the war, the administration and all facets of the power structure. They were also very funny and among their guests were the hottest musical acts of the time.)

 Songs:

What's Going On, Marvin Gaye
Father, father, everybody thinks we're wrong
Oh, but who are they to judge us Simply because our hair is long
Oh, you know we've got to find a way
To bring some understanding here today
Oh Picket lines and picket signs
Don't punish me with brutality
Talk to me So you can see
What's going on

Something in the Air, Thunderclap Newman

Call out the instigators
Because there's something in the air
We've got to get together sooner or later
Because the revolution's here, and you know it's right
And you know that it's right
We have got to get it together
We have got to get it together now

Ohio, Neil Young
Tin soldiers and Nixon coming,
We're finally on our own.
This summer I hear the drumming,
Four dead in Ohio.
Gotta get down to it
Soldiers are cutting us down
Should have been done long ago.
What if you knew her
And found her dead on the ground
How can you run when you know?

For What its' Worth, Buffalo Springfield
What a field-day for the heat
A thousand people in the street
Singing songs and carrying signs
Mostly say, hooray for our side
It's time we stop, hey, what's that sound
Everybody look what's going down
Paranoia strikes deep Into your life it will creep It starts when you're always afraid
You step out of line, the man come and take you away
We better stop, hey, what's that sound
Everybody look what's going down

Vietnam Rag, Country Joe and the Fish
Come on all of you big strong men
Uncle Sam needs your help again
he's got himself in a terrible jam way down yonder in Viet Nam
so put down your books and pick up a gun we're gonna have a whole lotta fun
And it's one, two, three, what are we fighting for don't ask me I don't give a damn,
next stop is Viet Nam
And it's five, six, seven, open up the pearly gates
ain't no time to wonder why,
whoopee we're all gonna die
My Generation, The Who
White Rabbit, Jefferson Airplane
Light My Fire, The Doors
San Francisco, Scott McKenzie
Can't Find My Home, Blind Faith
American Pie, Don McLean
Purple Haze, Jimi Hendrix

(Also listen to Janis Joplin; Simon & Garfunkel; Crosby, Stills and Nash; folk singers such as Joan Baez and the Mommas and the Poppas; the British Invasion especially The Beatles as well as such bands as the Kinks and the Dave Clark 5; and soul music like The Temptations, the Four Tops and Smokey Robinson.)

Books:

On The Road, Jack Kerouac
Dharma Bums, Jack Kerouac
Slaughterhouse Five, Kurt Vonnegut
Catch 22, Joseph Heller
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, Ken Kesey
Stranger in a Strange Land, Robert Heinlein
A Clockwork Orange, Anthony Burgess 
The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, Tom Wolfe
Portnoy's Complaint, Philip Roth
Myra Breckenridge, Gore Vidal
The Graduate, Charles Webb
Cat's Cradle, Kurt Vonnegut

Ive Got A Lot to Say, Just Not Right Now I'm Swamped

I have to write here. I have to catch up on French homework. I have to catch up on my Second Language Acquisition course homework too. I've got a book I need to finish reading because I've got four or five others I'm dying to get to. I've still got two DVDs I received for my birthday that I've not yet viewed and a couple others I purchased last month I've yet to watch. Plus I've got two from Netflix* gathering dust. Meanwhile that novel isn't writing itself.


One thing I've learned in life is that, generally speaking, you can only do one thing at at time. You prioritize. I've got my French class in a couple of hours so must do a little work for that first. But there all those blog posts I've planned that are sitting around in my brain waiting to be written. Believe me, this isn't one of them. What you're reading now is my sorry attempt to make myself feel better about not having written much lately. 


I know, I'm quite a lucky man to have such a rich life with books, movies, classes, studies and the like to fill my hours. So I'm not really complaining (Really? Then what are you doing?). 


I have some deeply profound things to say and some really silly ones. I've got wry observations to share and pithy remarks and well thought out concepts to explore. I've got suggestions, rejoinders, bon mots, comments, ravings, diatribes, opinions, facts, data,  and information to pass on. I've got a lot to say and no time in which to say it.


I've got more to learn, more to explore, more to consider, more to wonder about and more to be exposed to. I've got more to watch, listen to, feel and contemplate.


I want to surmise, suppose, speculate, spout, state, shout, suggest, spew, send and sermonize.

I want to conceptualize. I want to create. I want to conjure. No time! Conundrum!


I want to share. With you, dear reader. And those of you with blogs of your own (you know who you are). I want to catch up with what you've been saying. So many smart, interesting, entertaining, amusing, insightful people out there with so much to say. You inspire! You illuminate! You galzanie! You imbue! You excite! You inflame! You influence and you provoke. No joke.

I want to write me and read you (huh?).


I want to go back and time and watch Novak and Hitch (pictured above) on the set of Vertigo (1958).


I want to satisfy anyone whoever stumbles across this blog that though I write for me I think of you. When I'm not going on about nothing/everything (like today) I often have an insight or two about films. I'm so thrilled that some people have watched and enjoyed films based on my blatherings. 

I'll be back with more and better soon. For my sake. For your sake. "For the sake of the children!"

I leave you now (to finally get to my French) with this film quote: "I've got to stay here, but there's no reason why you folks shouldn't go out into the lobby until this thing to blows over." - Groucho Marx in Horsefeathers (1932).


* Yes, I'm with Netflix now, our locally owned video store went out of business. More on that another time.

My Long Absence Explained. Peter Lawford is No Jahvid Best. The Road To Recovery. A Sibling's Crisis. The Unsurprising Role of Films.

                                 Faye Dunaway in Chinatown.
When I was absolutely at my sickest I said to the missus, "you know what the worst part of this has been?" She dutifully asked what. "Watching Peter Lawford play a college football player." She knew of what I spoke.

Three weeks ago I was nipped on the heels by my third cold of the Winter.  Working as I have for so many eons around young uns I'm used to having my share of colds and then some. Given that I've been blessed with remarkably good health otherwise I tend not to squawk too much. Because my big brother was going through a serious health crisis that included open heart surgery, I didn't curse the fates over a case of the sniffles.

Indeed five days after it began the cold was good and gone and I was able to devote attention to visiting my lone sibling's bedside as a remarkable recovery continued apace.  But what was this? Two days after it had gone my cold returned in double force, a cruel slap in my handsome face (okay, maybe not handsome, but certainly not ugly).

A few times  in the days to come I seemed to rally only to then get worse. What sort of horrific cold was this that toyed with me so sadistically? My darling wife (as close to an angel as one will find among the living) kept urging me to see the doctor. A few nights ago when my illness even denied me sleep, I decided to heed her advice.

It was the proverbial middle of the night when I vowed to, at dawn's early light (or 8:30 when the offices opened) call the doc. Meanwhile I was wide awake and hacking as if a one man TB ward. I repaired to the sofa and my bestest friend, Turner Classic Movies. On the screen was some light fare (it damn near floated out of the screen) called Good News (1947). Even in my unhappy state I could tell that this was a musical set on a college campus. The starts were June Allyson and Peter Lawford. The later was the star running back of the school's football team. No, seriously. I love college football and of course love movies. But I love pizza and ice cream and you don't see me mixing the two. Anyway Lawford is better seen vamping with the Rat Pack or the Kennedys. As a football player he's damn silly.

Cometh the dawn and a few hours later I'm at the doctor's office. A quick but thorough examination reveals that I'm suffering from bronchitis (it is, as the say, going around) in my case a particularly virulent strain, and it is soon cured by antibiotics (I'll lend space to the probiotics forces anon). Oh happy day! A name for my malady and better yet a cure.

These past few days I've been gradually getting better and hope to be as fit as a fiddle (really, fiddles maintain excellent health and practice good conditioning habits?) by Sunday which is my birthday. I have been bereft of energy except for short spurts. I am experiencing such a spurt now. Gradually the spurts will lengthen and I'll be catching up on all manner of obligations at which I'm currently in arrears. One of them is of course this blog.

Most importantly I'll be able to visit my recuperating big bro. He faced a risky but altogether necessary surgery and came through better than anyone could have dared dream. Seven years my senior, he's one of the nicest men on the planet and has only recently become a grandpa courtesy of the oldest of the four of his wonderful children.

Peter Lawford notwithstanding I have been sustained through my illness by -- you guessed it -- viewing motion pictures. We suffered the death of one DVD player and acquired a new and better one that plays both region one and two DVDs.  It's good for European discs! So between the DVD player and the aforementioned TCM and the ministrations of my better half I had much comfort indeed.

But what movies did I turn to, you ask, and what of them?

In no order whatsoever they included: The Maltese Falcon (1941), Army of Shadows (1969), The Sea Wolf (1941), Smart Money (1931), Close Encounters of the Third Kind (1977), Inglourious Basterds (2009), Manhattan (1979), The Third Man (1949), Foul Play (1978), Chinatown (1974), George Washington Slept Here (1942), as well as parts of many other films too numerous here to mention.

Tomorrow I'll write a paragraph or two or twelve about each of these films as regular blogging continues at last.

I'm Not Just an Uncle Anymore, I'm a Great One!

Though it will be tempting for one and all to offer me heartfelt congratulations on becoming a great uncle, the real credit goes to my niece Maiju and father, Germano. To them was born a daughter, Sofia, at 6:07 this morning in Bologna, Italy. She is half Finnish and half Italian. Kind of like eating pizza in a sauna.

Is this another one of those posts that has nothing to do with movies because if it is...

Calm down italics guy. The proud new papa is a director and actor, who directed the award winning documentary, La Stato Di Eccezione. He also made a documentary on my late, great father.

The mom is the oldest of the quartet that comprise my two nieces and nephews. They are incredibly wonderful people, all of whom were born and raised in Berkeley. I've had the great pleasure of watching them become adults. My two nephews , the poor lads, share my sports affiliations so are destined for a lifetime of misery, at least where rooting is concerned. Youngest niece is an artist and I honestly don't know why any of her work is not yet in the Louvre.

Their dad is my older brother. No one had to suffer a more annoying younger brother than he. I wince to think of what a brat I was (was?). He is married to a woman who is reputedly one of the world's greatest ESL teachers and is without question the greatest instructors of the Finnish language living on these shores.

I've been an unqualified success in only three areas in my life. As a father, soccer coach and uncle. I will now try to add success as a great uncle to the list.

Bravo to the new parents and welcome to the family, Sofia, you coulda done a lot worse.

These Are a Few of My Favorite Things....

James Cagney walking into a room in The Public Enemy (1931).

Parker Posey.

Louis Armstrong playing, "Chinatown, My Chinatown."

Fred Willard telling a story.

Martin Short appearing on Letterman.

Groucho and Margaret Dumont.

Jean Gabin hiding from the cops in Pepe le Moko (1937).

Audrey Hepburn learning to break an egg in Sabrina (1954).

Sinatra.

Dustin Hoffman in the pool in The Graduate (1967).

John Barrymore hamming it up in Twentieth Century (1934).

Denzel Washington embodying the title character in Malcolm X (1992).

Joan Blondell and Aline McMahon scamming Guy Kibbee and Warren William in Gold Diggers of 1933 (1933).

Dick Cavett interviewing...anyone.

Fred and Ginger dancing, of course.

Jack Benny violinist.

Woody Allen wooing Diane Keaton in Manhattan (1979) (photo above).

Woody Allen wooing Diane Keaton in Annie Hall (1977).

Joe Pesci trying to understand his own sense of humor in Goodfellas (1990).

The stateroom scene in A Night at the Opera (1935) (photo above).

Henry Fonda producing the same knife in 12 Angry Men (1957).

William Demarest doing pratfalls in The Miracle of Morgan's Creek (1944).

Jean Harlow talking circles around everyone in Red Dust (1932).

Barbara Stanwyck fully in control in The Lady Eve (1941).

Charles Coburn, match maker in The More the Merrier (1943).

Natalie Portman's puss (photo above).

Etta James singing "At Last."

Bogie and Bacall and oh by the way Brennan (Walter) in To Have and Have Not (1944).

Cary Grant and Constance Bennet doing the town in Topper (1937).

Bill Murray, cab driver, solider in Stripes (1981).

Barney Fife crime fighter.

Joel McCrea in pursuit of the big scoop in Foreign Correspondent (1940).

Alec Baldwin, Tina Fey and Tracy Morgan in 30 Rock (photo above).

Ann Sheridan.

Loretta Young faces the jury in Midnight Mary (1933).

Edward G. Robinson talking tough.

Melanie Laurent bravely takes questions from the Gestapo in Inglourious Basterds (2009).

Glee, Wednesday night.

Brando explaining Napoleonic law in A Streetcar Named Desire (1951).

William Powell and Myrna Loy tippling.

Ann Dvorak.

Kristen Stewart and Jessie Eisenberg, weird but effective screen chemistry in Adventureland (2009).

The Who sings "My Generation."

Harold Lloyd hanging out in Safety Last (1923) (photo above).

Faye Duneway gladly reveals that her profession is bank robbing in Bonnie & Clyde (1967).

Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert, back to back.

Giuletta Masina dances in Nights of Cabrira (1957).

The foliage in The Trouble with Harry (1955).

Monument Valley photographed so beautifully in John Ford films.

Ricky Gervais.

Kim Novak wakes up in Jimmy Stewart's apartment in Vertigo (1958).

Ella Fitzgerald sings and Duke Ellington plays.

John Cleese at the Ministry of Silly Walks.

Marylin Monroe seducing Tony Curtis in Some Like it Hot (1959).

The Godfather (1972) from beginning to end.

Kissing my wife.

More on My Cold, Childhood Reminiscences and Eventually Some Stuff About Movies

I don't know how I wrote the previous post. I was as sick as the proverbial dog and as weak as a kitten, to name two types of pets. (Hmm... did I molt like a parrot or was as as vulnerable as a goldfish?) Not only did I write it while in the throes of the bubonic plague -- that's the common cold to you non drama queens or kings -- but it was actually lucid -- at least for me.

I'm particularly amazed because I feel so much better today and yet its still a struggle to write. The great temptation every waking second, is still to slump on the sofa or bed. In moments of great strength I can lift the newspaper or a book high enough to read it. Otherwise I stare either at the TV or out a window. Unless there's a good movie or compelling sports event on the screen the window usually provides more entertainment. At least it doesn't distract the mind from the very important business of thinking. I'm a great fan of thinking and am sorry that it has been de-emphasized in modern culture. In lieu of letting our minds wander we occupy them with TVs, texting, iPhones, twitter, Internet games or blogs that are not as high toned as this one. What's especially grievous is that we've taken away idle time from our children. Bad enough they've got all manner of electronic devices to busy their minds, they tend to have their calendars filled filled faster than a CEO's. That they have calenders at all is a bad sign.

After school ballet lessons or soccer practice, piano lessons, or karate, math tutoring, school projects and the most heinous of all, play dates. I grew up in a different time (yes when dinosaurs roamed the earth, very funny, Kate G.). We used to do fine making our own "dates" and actually got together and organized our own baseball games or football games. We managed without adults "organizing" or "supervising" us. In elementary grades I had a lengthy walk to school. I went not to the neighborhood school but to the one a block from grandma's house so I could have lunch at her home everyday (most of which I fed to her golden retriever). No sane parent alive today would allow their child to walk such a distance, such is the state of paranoia that pervades our society. (For the record, I never let my daughters walk half that distance alone until they were in middle school.) Were our parents negligent? Did they not want to be bothered? Not at all. They just let us do a lot more of our growing up ourselves.

We grew up a lot more self reliant and with the benefit of years of idly thinking. I actually had time to quite regularly go into the backyard and "play." Without benefit of electronic gadgetry I was forced to rely on my imagination. Today children have imaginations provided for them by companies with huge profit margins. People don't much trust their own minds anymore which is why so many folks watch TV commentators and shows that merely re-enforce their already rigidly held beliefs. No use challenging yourself to think when some blowhard with a TV show will do it for you.

True I spent far too much time sitting in front of the TV ("yabba, dabba doo!" I've probably seen every episode of The Flintstones, God help me). But we only had five channels to choose from. If there was "nothing on" we were left to other devices.

Is this one of those blog posts in which he doesn't write anything about movies?

So am I saying that I grew up in the "good ole days?" No, it wasn't Camelot (anymore than today is Spamalot). We didn't know it at the time but for movie watching those were the dark ages.

Finally, he's mentioned movies!

You wanted to see a movie back then, you went to the theater. Or you could watch a movie being shown on the telly, riddled with commercials and if of recent make, edited so you were spared "adult situations." In other words your choices were limited. You might watch The Maltese Falcon (1941) at a revival house, otherwise you waited for it turn up on TV. You wanted to go to the ball yard that night it was on? Make a choice. No such thing as VCRs, DVRs, Tivo or DVD players. Oh and and if you did watch the movie, be prepared for a commercial to pop a long, usually when they got to a "good part."

Today if we I want to watch The Maltese Falcon I walk over to my shelf of DVDs and there it is, I own the damn thing. Let's say I wanna watch Bogie in Key Largo (1948). Well I don't own that but my local video rental establishment is a three minute walk from the house. Checked out? Gosh, I may actually have to wait a few days. All this of course gets back to my vicious cold, which, by the way, I'm beginning to suspect might actually be malaria.

Home bound by illness? Not a problem. I can settle on the sofa with The Marx Brothers, a Preston Sturges film, The Godfather (1972), maybe a Fred and Ginger film or a Busby Berkeley or one of my Bogie DVDs. Not in the mood for any one of them? The video rental store is a stone's throw away and of course TCM (the world's greatest TV station period exclamation point) might have aired something recently that I wisely recorded for later viewing.

All of this is to say that I have survived this recent illness with the help of Vitamin C, Tylenol, cough drops, Kleenex, a comforter and the magic of being able to watch feature length motion pictures right here in my own home. How cool is that?

Way cool, dude!

Hey italics guy, you're freaking me out. Stay the heck out of my posts.

Just trying to help, you're attitude totally --

Out, damn you!

I hope to resume regular film posts featuring my sharp wit, wry observations, insightful comments and hyperbolic adjective laden praise in the next day or so. And if you're wondering why the picture of Melanie Laurent atop this post my response is...you have to ask?

Five Movies and One Bad Cold -or- the Ancient Art of Film Blogging While Sick *Achoo!*

This is really brave of me. Or foolhardy. I'm on day two of a horrendous cold. I know, its too early, cold and flu season doesn't kick off for another few weeks, but I've got the whole deal. Sore throat, congestion, exhaustion, achiness. I've avoided serious illness and injury my whole life but ever since I became a teacher I've suffered an inordinate number of colds and the occasional flu. So it's silly of my trying to post, but blog I must.

The bright side to colds is that it gives you time to sprawl on the sofa and watch a movie. Let me catch you up with what I've been watching both immediately before this cold struck and during the onslaught. As I write I will be pausing to sneeze, sip orange juice and groan loudly, but you out there in cyber world will never know the difference.

So here's what I've seen.

Closely Watched Trains (1966). First of all that's a great title. But it has a lot more going for it than a pretty name. The film is from Czechoslovakia and won the Best Foreign Language Film Oscar. It's a touching coming of age story with World War II as the backdrop. Wow. If you're not quite sure what pathos is just rent this film. There is humor aplenty which is really hard to do when you've got Nazis running about and people getting killed. But the laughs are there and not in a way that will offend anyone. There is a young man at the center of the story who mainly just wants to lose his virginity. Jir Menzel directed. Four decades later his I Served the King of England (2006) was a big hit and written about by yours truly. It's a beautiful movie to watch and to think about. To tell the story it does, to end the way it does and not be emotionally manipulative is an achievement in itself. The story telling is restrained in the way many East and Northern European films are. The natural eccentricities of the characters are allowed to come though without any broad strokes from the director. The film is rife with deadpan moments from people just being themselves, whether duplicitous, goofy, or horny. That extraordinary events are transpiring around this collection of souls doesn't stop them from being true to who they are. We get to watch. neat.

Paris (2008). The wife and I caught this at the theater Sunday. In addition to the fact that the film has been well received, we wanted to see it to get another look at Paris the city, where he'd had such a grand time at the end of last year and where we plan to go against soonest. The movie did not disappoint on any count. Juliette Binoche was among the featured cast and that's always a good thing (although I do find it sad that she reportedly has a great crush on me while here I am in a state of marital bliss). Its an episodic movie which means there's a bunch of stories going on. This is a risky kind of film to make but it works here because all stories and characters are strong. There's not point at which you think, "not this jerk again." Any movie that clocks in at well over two hours and seems too short is good. Also in the cast is Melanie Laurent (photo above) who I, and millions of others fell in love with this past Summer for her performance in Inglourious Basterds. This is such a different movie and she's playing such a different person that it took me an embarrassingly long time to recognize her. She's going to be a big star, folks. Yes, of course she can act, and of course she's beautiful, but she's got the requisite film presence highlighted by that captivating face. Romain Duris as the 30 something dancer who needs a heart transplant probably gets the most screen time and he's wonderful. You may recognize from Moliere (2007). Cedrick Klapisch directed Paris and did a terrific job. Much to ruminate on about life and love. There's not overly dramatic score or outrageous behavior to muck it all up as so often happens in American movies. People going about their lives facing love, heartache, death, the possibility of own's one death and even just the day-to-day stuff is plenty anyway. Can't ask for more in movie.

Murder, My Sweet (1944). The cold had hit full force Monday when I returned home from a day's labors and opted for this wonderful film noir. You see enough of Dick Powell as a sappy, constantly smiling leading men in musicals and you're ready to swear him off. But then he turns up as Philip Marlowe, of all people, and all you can say at movie’s end is, "encore!" Based on Powell’s previous work -- whodathunkit. But Powell is second only to the great Bogie himself in playing the ultimate hard boiled detective. Edward Dmytryk (please someone, buy him a vowel) provided masterful noirish direction in one of those films that makes black and white cinema photography stunningly beautiful. Claire Trevor and Anne Shirley co star. Ms. Shirley retired from acting after this, at the ripe old age of 26 and what a loss. She was a looker. Though not quite in the same league as the best of the Marlowe films, the Big Sleep, Murder, My Sweet is still one of the better noirs ever made. It's sufficiently complex without being totally confusing and it's peopled by a wide variety of characters both mundane and creepy. In the latter category, Otto Kruger (wasn't that the name of some Nazi bigwig?) is so slimy, smarmy, disgusting and despicable you just want to reach through the screen and slug him. Yuck! A film worth watching every couple of years.

Un Secret (2007). It'd been about a year since I'd seen this in the theater and its one of those films that begs a second viewing. From France and director Claude Miller, it is the story of a young teen who discovers the family secret, which relates to the Holocaust. We see him as an eight year old, a fifteen year old and as a grown man. The film bounces about between those three time periods as well as a look back to WWII and the events that constitute the big family secret. The ubiquitous Matthew Amalric (A Christmas Tale (2008), The Diving Bell and the Butterfly(2007)) plays the grown up version of the boy. The delicious Ludivine Sangier, plays a tragic figure and Cecile De France is the mother. Here's another movie that takes a chance. Audiences can get impatient with films that bounce around in different time periods, especially when the introduction of certain characters seems confusing. Patience pays off and any lingering confusion can be cleared up with a second viewing. It's not a Holocaust film, per se. In fact just what kind of movie it is is best left to one's own interpretation. It certainly is about family, relationships and the kind of pain that can't possibly go away.

A Midsummer Night's Sex Comedy (1982) . Five movies, one from Woody Allen. That sounds about right. If 20% of the films you watch are from Allen you're enjoying life. This however, is not one of his better films. He supposedly wrote it in two weeks and it shows. There are many wonderful parts and characters, as in all of Allen's films, but the whole never holds, if you know what I mean. Based in small part on a similarly named play from some bloke named Shakespeare and to a slightly greater extent on Ingemar Bergman's Smiles of a Summer Night (1955), its the story of three couples seeking love and sex at a Summer House over the course of a weekend. Allen along with Mia Farrow (in her first pairing film pairing with Allen), Tony Roberts, Jose Ferrer, Julie Hagerty and Mary Steenburgen comprise the sextet. It's wild and whacky and features one of the best lines ever from an Allen film, which is going some, I know. When discussing love one character wonders aloud whether it is possible to have sex without love. Allen retorts that the two may be mutually exclusive. "Sex alleviates tension and love causes it," he opines. In the interests of preserving my marriage I'll refrain from comment.

That's it for me, Mr. Sicky McSickster. Now back to the sofa and perchance another film....

What was Your Favorite Part?

Back when oldest daughter was a little girl I regularly took her to the movies. Inevitably upon leaving the theater she'd look up at me and ask, "What was your favorite part, Daddy?" I'd dutifully answer then ask the same question of her. It is not the type of query most adults pose to one another. But I don't see why they shouldn't.

A sure sign that you've just watched a bad movie is that once the closing credits roll you quickly to start to forget everything you just saw over the preceding two hours. I saw the 4th installment of the Indiana Jones series last year and not only can't I tell you a blessed thing about today, I couldn't have recounted a single scene the day after seeing it. Great movies achieve their status because they are memorable and they have scenes (or "parts") that are indelible.

Many such scenes became part and parcel of our culture. For example the "you talking to me?" scene from Taxi Driver (1976), the "I coulda been a contender" scene from On the Waterfront (1954) or "the frankly Scarlett I don't give a damn" scene from Gone with the Wind (1939). Those are cinematic moments we share within our society and for that they are special. But there are also personal favorites, some of which may have only a handful of fans. Below I share some of mine. And I'm so taken by the idea I'd like to start a website called "What was Your Favorite Part?" in which people submit a brief description of a favorite film scene with a few words about why it resonates with them. I was careful to say "I'd like to" start it because frankly I don't have the time to. Classes start for me later this week and I'll be working again soon and I've got the great American novel to finish and then there's the demands on my time from adoring fans. I'm hoping one of you out there will pick up on the idea. It should be fairly easy to start and manage and should be a lot of fun. Whattaya say? Someone? Anyone?

In any case I've gotten the ball rolling. Here now, as promised are a selection of my favorite parts of movies. Some are well known, others more obscure.

I like the part in To Be or Not to Be (1942) when Joseph Tura (Jack Benny) in the guise of a Nazi dignitary meets with Gestapo Colonel Erhard (Sig Ruman) and plays him like a drum. He even feigns indignation at a joke made at the Fuhrer's expense, putting the bumbling Colonel on the defensive. He also flatters the colonel by saying that in London he is known as "Concentration Camp Erhard." Benny is masterful in the scene, Ruman the perfect stooge and of course they were directed by Ernst Lubistch so no wonder its so good.

I like the part in Follow the Fleet (1936) when Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers are doing their final dance number. It is my favorite of all their cinematic dances together which is saying something considering how many great ones they performed. The song is "Let's Face the Music and Dance." It's elegant, athletic and elevates the rest of the movie from cheesy musical to poetry. Everything from the set, to the costumes to the orchestration are perfect. Most of all Fred and Ginger are perfect.

I like the part in Goodfellas (1990) when Joe Pesci asks Ray Liotta "what's so funny about me?" It is a deservedly famous scene that Pesci reputedly wrote. The first time you watch it you get nervous right along with Liotta. Indeed the second and third and 20th times have the same effect. You sense the danger of Pesci's character and in turn the danger of the world in which they live. It build and builds and then releases wonderfully into laughter.

I like the part in The Great Escape (1963) when Steve McQueen as Hilts takes on the whole German army in Germany, no less, with nothing but a motorcycle and his wits. This is the first film I ever truly loved and this scene is part of why. McQueen hadn't a chance but that he gets as far as he does is absolutely thrilling. His last desperate attempt to jump the last fence ends with him tangled in barbwire but he accepts his fate with a wry smile. What a cool guy!

I like the part in Animal House (1978) when Bluto (John Belushi), D-Day (Bruce McGill) and Flounder (Stephen Furst) kidnap the horse and take it to the dean's office. Belushi is hilarious running head of the others, stopping, squatting, looking left, looking right, eyes wide arms and legs out as if ready to pounce. Bluto and D-Day send Flounder back in to shoot the horse though its just a gag as the gun holds only blanks. What a surprise when the horse dies anyway, from a heart attack. All Bluto can say, over and over, is "Holy sh*t," in Belushi's inimitable style.

I like the part in The Aviator (2004) when Leo DiCaprio as Howard Hughes takes Cate Blanchett as Kate Hepburn for a plane ride. The music is Benny Goodman's "Moonglow" as Hughes gives his date the controls and the plane soars over Los Angeles. We feel like we're right there in the cockpit enjoying the thrill as the plane approaches a hill then elevates comfortable higher to safety. Exhilarating.

Whattaya Lookin At?

Damn you. There you are out there waiting for me to write something. You check every so often to see if I've posted something new. Like I need this pressure.

You probably know that I saw The Hurt Locker (2008) last week. You're waiting for me write about it. What's the matter, you wonder, didn't care for it? On the contrary. The Hurt Locker is the kind of film going experience that helps one realize that yes, good films still get made. There's hope. The Hurt Locker also guaranteed that I would never, ever wish that I had served a tour of duty in Iraq -- not that I ever had. But no, I'm not going to devote a whole post to it. I just don't feel like it, okay?

You also are wondering if I'm going to write about Hitchcock in general or one of his films in particular because, after all, there were a couple of his films on TCM yesterday. Both of those movies starred Cary Grant, and it was day on Turner so doesn't it stand to reason I'd be writing about him? Fact is that I watched To Catch a Thief (1955) for the first time in many moons. I still don't particularly care for it. Love Grant, love Grace Kelly (huhha hubba) and Lord knows I'm a huge Hitchcock fan but that particular movie just doesn't do it for me. And I don't feel like writing about why.

You also probably recall that I had recommended Marked Woman (1937) starring Bette Davis and that it was shown on TCM Saturday. Surely I'll be wanting to write about that. Yeah, well I guess I could discuss it and if I did I would remark on what a fine performance Bogart gave as a good guy in a movie replete with bad guys. But I think I'll pass on that. Don't wanna.

If you're really in the know you maybe aware of the fact that earlier last week I recorded a couple of Harold Lloyd films when it was his day on TCM. (Which reminds me, how do you know so much about me?) These were my first Lloyd pictures and I loved them. I was thunderstruck in The Freshman (1925) to see my home away from home, Memorial Stadium right here in Berkeley right there in the middle of a 1925 movie. Memorial Stadium is where I've been going for eons to see the University of California Golden Bear football team do battle. Some of the football scenes in The Freshman were shot there just a year after the stadium was completed and yes,smarty pants, that's well before my time. Loved The Freshman but enjoyed Safety Last (1923) even more and only regret that I didn't record more Lloyd films. But as for a whole post on it...not gonna happen.

So I know what you're doing now. You're wondering, is something the matter? Does the guy have one of his cases of writer's block or has he been sick or is he down in the dumps about something? None of the above. I could write a novel so absent is any writing obstruction (and indeed I'm trying). My health has never been better and I'm tearing up the treadmill and the weight machines at the local YMCA. As for my spirits they're soaring. Happy days and all that. Ya know there's actually two things I do better when times are tough: sleep and write. Depressed, busy, or in a grind? I sleep like the proverbial log (say, have you ever seen a log actually asleep?). In those circumstances I also write with the ferocity of Proust on cocaine. ( I gotta know, does that line about Proust on coke make sense?)

Please don't get your panties in a bunch. I'll be writing stuff and nonsense and much a do about something related to films soon enough. I'm just not going to force it. You've done enough by making me feel guilty for not writing in three days. You and your prying eyes. Your nosiness. Your needs. I've got needs too, ya know. Like tomorrow, fer instance. I'm taking one of my day long excursions to the ocean (Pacific, if you must know). It's a long ride on public transport in which I do a lot of reading. Then I walk along the beach totally in awe of the waves and the vast expanse..blah, blah, blah. I even wrote a post about such a day last Summer.

So that's that then. I feel kind of bad about how harsh I was at the beginning. Actually, I quite appreciate your interest in this blog and thank you for reading. I just need my space. (Now why do I feel like I've been talking to myself?)

O Muse Where Art Thou?

Haven't written much recently owing to a case of writer's block the size of Mount Rushmore.

Shame too, I had a lot to say about obsession in films focusing on Jake Gyllenhaal's character in Zodiac (2007). I was also going to pontificate about John Ford's Fort Apache (1948) paying particular attention to the Lt. Col. Thursday as portrayed by Henry Fonda. Still another writing was to be an ode to Cinema Paradiso (1988). Had one post about the way people to respond -- that is, overreact -- to criticism of film's they like. Lot about that recently on the blogs of preeminent critics Jim Emerson and Roger Ebert.

Every time I'd start a new post I would positively sail along for a good sentence or two then grind to complete halt. It seems my muse went on vacation and didn't bother to let me know. There are numerous out of work muses who could have substituted, not to mention those muses who have only recently graduated from muse university.

I may yet address those topics above mentioned and others that my brain thought were capital ideas but I couldn't find words for. Such was not a problem in June when I posted on this here blog just about everyday. Admittedly this was with mixed results but sometimes a blogger feels just swell just tossing anything out into cyberspace hoping someone will derive meaning or a chuckle from it.

One of the problems I've had with writing is that I just finished re-reading F Scott Fitzgerald's Tender is the Night. Trying to pen anything after reading that makes one feels a hack, at best. It's akin to listening to Sinatra then trying to sing "I've Got You Under My Skin." I'd preceded Fitzgerald with Hemingway (The Sun Also Rises, if you must know) so I've been building up to a serious case of writing inferiority. It won't help that I've just started American Pastoral by Philip Roth. Perhaps my writing would improve if I spent hours reading textbooks. Maybe not, but at least my ego would flower.

Thankfully I don't try to make films so I can watch all the best of them with no ill effect. However sometimes I'll be so enraptured by a film that it'll be a while before I can commit to the next. It's pretty much a guarantee if that if I watch something like Grand illusion (1937) in the afternoon, it'll mean no film that evening. (Say, has anyone developed the idea that I watch a lot of films from reading this post or previous ones? True story: I do. No apologies for that. Tonight I'm going to the Pacific Film Archives here in Berkeley to see Letter from an Unknown Woman (1948) on the big screen. Jealous? Thought so.)

With any luck this little exercise in self analysis, while having bored you silly, will kick me back into gear. Then I can resume entertaining, delighting, inspiring and engaging if not any readers, at least myself. Who knows I may even re-tackle topics like Fort Apache, Zodiac or my quest to eliminate the stupid designated hitter rule from baseball.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a prospective muse to interview....

(By the way the picture above is of Jake Gyllenhaal and Robert Downey Jr. discussing my blog and speculating as to why I haven't written so much recently.)

What's It To You? The Different Ways of Viewing the Same Film

I couldn't believe I missed it. Because the starting time of youngest daughter's graduation was moved back and because it then ran for three hours and because my destination was so far away, I missed it. I missed a party I'd looked forward to for nine months. It was the year end party held by the faculty of the school I used to work at. Most of my former colleagues, many of whom I'd not seen since late last Summer were there and I was to be honored for my 20 years of service to the school. But circumstances conspired and I missed it.

What did it mean?

For the two weeks since then I've tried to derive meaning from failing (through not fault of my own) to make it to the party. I could simply decide that it was the bad fortune of two important events overlapping and, though it was a crying shame, had no further significance.

But no, I must find meaning, import, symbolism. Clearly this was open to interpretation.

So it is with films. I wrote about this in a post yesterday about Holiday (1938) a supposed romantic comedy that I view as an attack on the moneyed class and an endorsement of people "finding themselves."

The true magic of art is that the same example of it can mean different things to different people. I don't know if this is especially true of films but it most definitely is true of films. I've never be one to disabuse someone of their notion of what a particular movie means; however we should all be ready and most willing to share our perspectives.

It's also interesting to note that our own interpretations of a film can change from one viewing to the next, often depending upon our state of mind when we see it.

I first saw Sunset Boulevard (1950) as a horror story. That creepy house, the monkey burial, the way Norma Desmond talked and walked. Next I viewed it as a indictment of Hollywood. Another viewing convinced me I was watching a story about how desperate people sometimes find one another and form a symbiotic relationship that can destroy both hosts.

That's what makes a film a classic. You can view it countless times and each time see it as if through a different prism.

I find that many of favorite films have myriad layers. The Searchers (1956), The Godfather (1972) and Jules and Jim (1962) are examples of films that give me something new each time. I love The Sting (1973) but haven't watched it nor wanted to watch it in years. I've exhausted its possibilities.

Most of my favorite foreign films, and particularly those from France, and most particularly those from Francois Truffaut are worth repeat viewings just to derive something new each time. Part of this is the subtlety of the work. Characters are less mannered in a lot of French cinema. Stories are less reliant on action scenes. Plot points are more carefully developed.

As an audience we intuit more in our initial viewings, then start to discover more "facts" relevant to the story. We can even be influenced in subsequent viewings by reviews we've since read or conversations with others about the film or, in the case of movies based on real events, from having learned about the "real story." We can also come to feel comfortable with the characters, as I have, for example with The Searchers' Ethan Edwards.

With I Loved You For So Long (2008), I was struck the first time by the amazing performances, particularly from Kristin Scott Thomas. I was also curious to watch the story unfold. When I saw the same film again I was able to watch how the story unfolded and, though still blown way by the acting, paid closer attention to how those great performers related to each other. Consequently I saw the movie in a different light, which I can't go into without spoiling the ending.

Of course knowing how a story is going to turn out strips away a distraction, so that with subsequent viewings we're able to focus on other aspects of the story. It's not always easy to appreciate camera angles and dolly shots when you're sweating out what's going to happen to the hero.

Today I watched John Ford's My Darling Clementine (1946) for the third time in a year and found myself struck by how beautiful a film it is. There's an amazing shot just before the shootout of dawn breaking, we watch the light come up simultaneous with seeing Old Man Clanton raise his head. His face goes from darkness to full light, dominating the frame. It's Walter Brennan's face, big as life and its a great shot.

So if someone asked me about the film right now I'd talk about some of the camera shots whereas as few months ago I'd have gone on about something else, such as Fonda's performance. It's actually quite common to to be initially taken in by the actors and later appreciate the director's part in the film. I almost never hear anyone rave about Michale Curtiz, the director, when they talk about Casablanca (1942) and that's a great injustice. Curtiz did a remarkable job, something that has become increasingly evident to me.

So which is it? Is All Quiet on the Western Front (1930) an anti-war film, or a study of very young men in extraordinary circumstances? Is Do the Right Thing (1989) a look at latent racism, or the impossibility of living up to its title? Is Wings of Desire (1987) a celebration of life or a meditation on death? And is Anton Chigurh in No Country for Old Men (2007) supposed to represent death, pure evil or is he just one bad ass killer? And what sticks out, is it Javier Bardem, the cinema photography or the Coens' attention to detail?

I'll put it thusly: When I was a history teacher and would give a test I would always include an opinion question at the end. "How can there be a wrong answer to an opinion question?" I'd often be asked. "There are no wrong answers." I would reply. "But you will only get credit if your answer is well thought out and if you can offer some evidence for it."

So it is with films. There are no wrong interpretations. But you owe it to yourself to think it through. And, oh by the way, be prepared to have a whole new interpretation next time.