A Scary Movie For You: "Creep"

Oh, and Happy New Year, by the way.

I'm always on the lookout for a good scary movie. Most of the ones I choose are either bad Japanese or Spanish "style before substance" films ("somethin' weird is going on, but who knows why?"), but occasionally -- VERY occasionally -- I run across a gem.

So I give you "Creep."

Yeah, I get thrilled by movies about people exploring underground passageways. And dialog ALWAYS sounds less cheesy when the actors are British. But this is EXACTLY the sort of movie I love: realistic characters running around in real time, dealing with a totally logical menace. Plus gore and humour and beautiful cinematography. It's "Texas Chainsaw Massacre" reconfigured. And I mean the original, film, the GOOD one. Creepy, creepy, creepy.

Freaked me out. Upset me. Good movie.

Bonus! Another film that may or may not be good.

"Dreamcatcher" ... So, what did this have to do with "Dreamcatchers," again? And why is Donnie Walhberg saying "Oooby-ooby-doo" at me? Oh yeah, it's a Stephen King movie. The back story sounds uncomfortably "It"-ish, but the messed-up alien story is incredibly WOW. I bought the book. I don't want to read about little kids bonding. I want to read about fungus growing on people's faces. Shiver. Memo to King.

Sweet Mink

It still shocks me, digging through the feminine duds in an antique store, to come across a small gutted mammal with its head and feet still intact. I can't reconcile these gruesome puppets with the fashion accessories they once were, rakishly hanging around a rich lady's neck with dead paws a-dangling.

In the pre-guilt days of fur coats it seems that few people were concerned about the ethics -- not to mention the taste -- of such things. And once in a while (in the July 21, 1928 issue of The New Yorker) you run across a cute fantasy that portrays the animals as somehow ENJOYING the process of being trapped, killed, skinned, and carted out for tea:

THE MINK -- is only at home in the forest -- until immortalized in a Russeks Mink Coat. Then he forgets his wildwood wanderings, becomes sophisticated, and wouldn't recognize a muskrat if he met it in the same Rolls Royce.

This ad for Russeks Fifth Avenue makes me think of a lyric that's always equally delighted and baffled me, from the film "The Opposite Sex":

Why do mink--
(Yes, why DO mink?)
willingly let themselves get trapped?

The song goes on to say that mink allow themselves to get trapped "for the opposite sex," which could also explain why frogs (yes, why frogs?) willingly let themselves get run over on the highway. At least frogs are doing it the opposite sex of their own species.

You know what? Fur coats ARE absolutely beautiful and I swoon in their presence. But somehow I don't think I could bring myself to buy a new one, and even if I did I don't think I could ever wear it, which certainly defeats the purpose of having one. I DO have a totally utilitarian bear-skin muff, but I never use it because not even a bear can encompass all the crap I carry around with me.

Armchair Caving

I'd like to say "put me in a cave and I bravely explore the smallest crevasse," but the truth is more like "put me in a cave and I scream 'help, I'm stuck, there are bugs, get me out!'"

No matter my reluctance to actually squeeze through the dark, buggy confines of a real-life cave, I love to read about OTHER people going into them, which is why Roger Brucker's book "The Longest Cave" is such a treat.

It's the story of the Mammoth/Flint cave system, and in particular the attempts of the authors (and many others) to survey and connect them. I've always thought that the grueling nature of caving was just about "squeezing through that tight spot" or "ducking under that stalactite," but Roger Brucker brings the truth home. Have you ever spent five hours crawling on your belly through a dusty passage only slightly bigger than your horizontal body, trying to find the end of a mysterious, extended tunnel, occasionally sleeping, rarely given the opportunity to turn around?

No? Well you're not alone, because apparently nobody's ever gotten to the end of that passage (called "Left of the Trap"). And therein lies some of the beauty of "The Longest Cave." It describes in a matter-of-fact way the places that humans JUST CANNOT GO, because even the most acclimatized of us simply do not have enough stamina. And that's incredible.

Although Brucker's style tends to be of the "We walked through the passage, Clive kept on singing, we told him to be quiet" variety, he really does maintain the tension until the very end: the connection of the Flint and Mammoth systems to create the world's longest cave. He's not a great author but his passion and his first-hand experience more than make up for his stylistic stumblings.

As an aside I've discovered that it's almost impossible to actually see a MAP of these caves; the maps in Brucker's book are not very detailed, and there don't appear to be online sources for ANY Flint/Mammoth cave maps. I wonder why? I bet they're kept pseudo-secret to prevent people from wandering into them and getting lost.

I'd Buy Anything By...Thomas Dolby

When I was in grade school, Thomas Dolby was my idol, an oddball nerdy boffin who somehow managed to be cool. Since nobody thought I was cool when I played around with computers, I hoped that someday I could be "just like him."

That never came to be, and even though Dolby veered off his golden path after his very first album, I still pick up his infrequent releases and I still enjoy them...

...though not as much as I enjoy "The Golden Age of Wireless," his debut album with a perfect mix of traditional pop instruments and evil buzzing synths (ala Gary Numan). Some say it's aged poorly but I vehemently disagree; it's so fresh it stings the skin and sprays fruit juice everywhere.

But let's go back further than that, to his first single containing a rough song that almost sounded like a demo: "Leipzig." It's one of my favourite songs and Dolby does it justice in his recent "Sole Inhabitant" tour (yes, he's doing it all himself, totally live). Oh, the lyrics:



So yeah he got pretty cheesy in his later years. Somebody -- perhaps him -- decided to ditch the esoteria and the buzzy synths and start hanging around with Eddie Van Halen.

But why dwell on the cheese? Instead, here he is performing "Hyperactive" live, at a time when his music still had "bite." The musicianship and sheer funkiness of this version is amazing, and check out Adele Bertei's -- ahem -- moonwalk.



The must-have album? "The Golden Age of Wireless" is a new wave head-trip, usually dark but always catchy. The album to avoid? "Aliens Ate My Buick" (all the worst elements of late-80s pop rolled into one). For fans only? I suppose that would be the "Howard the Duck" soundtrack, which I haven't stumbled across...but when I do I'll buy it. S'truth.

Uptight Reviewer Faces the Future

I recently mentioned the joy of watching the "talking pictures" creep up on The New Yorker's stodgy film reviewer ("Bergman"). Just three weeks before the below article, the reviewer had been poo-poo'ing talkies.

Now (July 14, 1928), "The Lights of New York" has arrived and Bergman is eating crow (while simultaneously being a bit poo-poo-ey in the process):

At the Strand is "The Lights of New York," the first one-hundred-per-cent talker. Conversation, action, and plot are all very poor, but you will find it interesting as a museum piece. It would have been better silent, and much better unseen. The talking films have not even progressed to their infancy yet. Bad as it is, though, the film shows what I have been very reluctant to believe, that audibility will be a great help to the movies.

Reading these magazines sixty years after the fact is occasionally like watching a blind man stepping into traffic*, though other small articles are noting the shockwave that was about to hit Hollywood (studios rushing to implement sound, actors rushing to elocution lessons).

I'd like to point you in the direction of a good scholarly resource about this topic, but instead I'll direct you to "Singin' In the Rain." Seriously.

* What's the next runaway bus, speeding towards the 1920s blind pedestrian? I guess that would be "Black Tuesday" fifteen months from where I currently am in the magazine's history.

Dr. Seuss Inhales Flit

From the July 14, 1928 issue of The New Yorker:

We now know Dr. Seuss was inspired by the same drug the "Betty Boop" cartoonists were using: pure, uncut Flit, right up the nose.

(Kids, don't inhale Flit, seriously).

Strange, Bigoted Interjections

Maybe this shouldn't shock me -- I tend to move in a very educated, socially-capable, easy-going crowd -- but twice this past week I've encountered people who have emitted strange, bigoted interjections in social situations.

I'll be the first to admit that negative generalizations are easy to acquire; when I talk about "meatheads" and "hootchies," I'm laying a negative stereotype on people I hardly know, and I need to constantly remind myself not to jump to conclusions. But I like to think that the stereotypes I fall prey to are based on less superficial evidence than religion, skin colour, or gender.

I'm not going to get into an in-depth discussion about bigotry -- since the causes and effects differ depending on the person who says them, the setting they're in, and the target of their venom -- but it seems to me that people who make socially-obnoxious, bigoted comments are probably responding to some combination of three things:

• Ignorance. They just haven't thought things through, or they're basing their assumptions on inadequate information.
• Anger. They've got some sort of chip on their shoulder, and they focus their anger on some group of people in order to direct it away from themselves.
• Social Inadequacy. They don't know how to attract positive attention so -- like schoolkids -- they "act out" and try to shock people. And they probably aren't aware of how they're perceived when they do this.

How do you confront somebody who does this sort of thing around you? That depends. If they're ignorant, you may be able to point out the flaws in their reasoning. But if they're angry or if they are socially handicapped, arguing with them is probably what they're HOPING you do...then they can get angry at YOU, or revel in your attention.

David Gilmour, "Remember That Night"

David Gilmour's mammoth live DVD is called "Remember That Night," but the night I REALLY remember was when I saw him -- and the first post-Waters version of Pink Floyd -- play two shows in the old Jay Stadium. I was sixteen and it was my first big concert out on my own, escorted by my super-cool Aunt Julie, there to see a band that both of us were passionate about.

So now Gilmour's back again with a new live show and a new bunch of Floyd re-interpretations, including all the songs off his latest album. You might be wondering how it looks and sounds. Well...

He's got his favourite musicians with him, first off. Bassist Guy Pratt has been touring with him forever, and so has Jon Carin (who, thanks to touring with Roger Waters as well, probably knows the songs better than anybody). Old Floyd-mate Richard Wright is there being typically stoic and capable, and -- wonder of wonders! -- Roxy Music's Phil Manzanera is the second guitarist. Sweetie.

The weird thing is, watching this concert, you'd think the only people on stage were Richard Wright and Gilmour, plus maybe the drummer because he's slightly to Gilmour's left. The shots are single-minded and static, as though the cameramen are incapable of a pan. The few shots of the audience show a crowd who is very happy to sit down and relax, except for the few people who'd managed to sneak their alcohol in and who cut a very sad picture dancing by themselves, because they're football hooligans and they're paunchy.

The strangest thing is the almost complete disappearance of Jon Carin in the second act. If you've seen other Gilmour and Waters live shows, you know that Carin does EVERYTHING, jammed in behind his keyboards, singing and playing that guitar he manages to awkwardly fit in behind all the equipment. But I swear that you don't see him AT ALL during the second half, as though he had something crappy hanging out of his nose after the intermission. Poor Jon, does so much and nobody cares but me.

And Gilmour? Still sounds great in every way, and even manages to rock out a bit, though the entire set is more laid-back than chuggy-psychedelic, which is probably what happens when you include David Crosby and Graham Nash in the lineup.

Poor David Bowie is the latest sacrifice to the "Comfortably Numb" meat-grinder. They always need somebody to do the Roger Waters parts, which are short and thankless and which end in the middle of the song...before Gilmour's final, celebrated, show-stopping guitar solo. Since Gilmour has recently been casting CELEBRITIES in this role (David Bowie, natch), they insist on doing it their own way, which is always pretty awful.

But I'm spoiled, see. I saw that gorgeous duet with Rachel Fury back at Jay Stadium, and even though that particular concert has never been released on DVD, I still ritually pull out the videotape ("The Delicate Sound of Thunder") and watch it again and again. They managed to do that (overplayed, cheesy, but remarkable) song properly once-upon-a-time, why can't they do it again?

Waters' versions have sucked too, if it's any consolation.

The highlights? I'm not rabid about Gilmour's new album so I'll skip those songs. They do a pretty much complete version of "Echoes" (which leaves you wondering who's doing the squeaky parts), and Bowie's good on "Arnold Layne" (yay!)

But the real show-stopper is the song that Gilmour quixotically resurrected during his last tour, and here it is again: "Fat Old Sun," a forgotten piece of Atom Heart Mother fluff. When he comes in at the end with his distorted guitar...you die, it's pure power.

Thanks Dave. You're weird but I love ya.

A Christmas Drag Show: "It's DeLovely!"

If you thought I was going to let Christmas go by without a treat, you're thinking CRAZY!

Here's the fictional story of me and a miraculous wooden bird, to the tune of Anita O'Day's "It's DeLovely." It's all true, I swear!



Production Notes:

It's silly to call these things "Mini Drag Shows," since they take far more work than a drag show ever does. I decided to conceive and film one in a single day, which meant rushing a lot and losing some footage. Fortunately the second unit stepped in (errr, that's me too) and we made our Christmas deadline with some make-up shots.

You'll be amazed to know that the bird is NOT animatronic, nor is it a green screen effect! Our special effects technician (moi, ici) rigged it up in the old-fashioned way. Try keeping a cat away from an effect like that. You can see an intrigued Zsa Zsa during the early part on the couch.

My version of iMovie is the most up-to-date one available for OS X.3, but it is still INCREDIBLY limited. You're allowed a single video track, so you can't lay down multiple takes and see how they compare. You can split a video clip once, but both segments must remain on the timeline if you want to keep using them, and the "dragging rules" become stranger the more clips you split apart. To cap it all off, once you have cropped a video clip, it is considered to be permanently edited; you can "restore it," but then ALL of your edits to the clip are gone.

Tedious, tedious, tedious. But free.

I'm happy with the way the quick cuts turned out but you can't imagine the work involved.

Now, About Anita

It's only now that I realize that Anita O'Day -- the only jazz singer I've ever really enjoyed -- died last year. I bought a copy of her autobiography two years ago and it arrived with a decidedly crooked signature; I suspect she was getting fragile even by that time.

So Anita, this one's for you. Thanks for your music.

Silent

You go to work because you want to finish a big project. Your part of the building has about thirty people in it, but today there are only five or six. Everybody is sober, expectant. Your workmate brings cookies. The atmosphere is motionless, static, calm. People chat, their moods are between office and home.

You put your headphones on and do your job. People leave, occasionally, you see them out of the corner of your eye. You eat cookies and listen to your music and you work, work, work. You are hardly aware that time is passing, lunch is over, it's late afternoon.

During a break you talk with your workmate. He's leaving soon to pick up groceries and go home. After he leaves you go back to work, you finish your project, you get up to stretch your legs and look around.

The building is empty. No more chatter, just the sound of the air-conditioning. You are standing in the middle of a place where people bustle and work and chat, and now their cubicles are empty. Their coats are gone.

You walk around, hoping somebody has stayed behind so you can say goodbye to them. The offices are dark, closed. The receptionist's computer has been turned off and her sweater is on her chair. Through the windows in the atrium you see the darkening sky, the trees bending over in the wind, night is falling, it feels like something bad is happening.

You hear the vending machines. The coffee pots are empty. It's cold outside. The world has gone home. Something icy has hit your heart.