A Person Who Fascinates You, and Why?

This is in interesting one. I find that I keep listing individuals as "heroes" when I'm diligently inquired about such things, but I realize, frequently, that perhaps there is an inherent disconnect between someone we admire for their pluck, and those we just find plain, damn interesting.

Take, for example, Walt Disney. I've listed him as a hero and I believe that to be mostly true. For those of you who seem to avoid adverbs on social media and can only think in absolutes (like so many who installed 45), 'mostly' means 'not entirely.'

Yes, another adverb. Learn to see them.

Ahem.

Walt did something I could smack the shit of him for. Literally. I could punch him in face, repeatedly. Strangely, not for his supposed anti-Semitism. That's too nebulous. Only one real book mentions it. No. What makes me irked?

He turned states' evidence during the House Committee on Un-American Activities (HUAC), making sure anyone who was trying to unionize would be blacklisted. He helped, basically, create the Hollywood Ten.

I do not approve.

But that tarnishes, but does not eliminate my fascination with the man. He has also brought great joy to the world. My world, specifically. I cannot deny that.

As we age, we learn that as our hair greys, as does the concept of morality. Surely the churches and the morality police see such things as immutable, black and white. Never is morality a spectrum, which, as for many of a certain age, we eventually realize.

Disney has, over the years, even as a corporation, has moved on this spectrum. They still fight against unions and living wages.

And, yes, it's fascinating.

Today, I'd like to give two responses. Right now, out in theaters, there's also The Greatest Showman, a musical that idealizes the famed P. T. Barnum.

He's the other one I'd like to submit for consideration-and in opposition to Mr. Disney. Unlike Disney, a man who created wonder, but made mistakes, I have tended to see Mr. Barnum in the opposite light. He was a charlatan, a grifter, who, in his own way, make good. Yes, he hired people of special and unique needs and talents and profited off of their (as the times were, as for now, they would be much more accepted, in my humble opinion) misfortunes.  Surely, the argument now is for the elephants he placed under his control, but I'm referring to the humans in his coterie. They were labelled freaks and put on display. But they had homes, lives, cash flow, when, before that time-they may not have had such luxuries. It was wrong, what he did.

But, as the tales would have it? He would truly consider the community home. He provided for them, gave them legal access...when it behooved him, of course. Trust me, what he did, he didn't realize. By marginalizing them to the sidelines in showmanship, he inadvertently created an unneeded phobia which would keep them fighting for their rights for years-but that was not a conscious choice at the last turn of the century.

The man, plain and simple, fascinates me. There is still some debate on if he said, "there's a sucker born every minute!" That means he sees us all as a mark. I'm okay with that, to some extent.

Cause, well, it tends to be true. Look at Washington, DC. Look at television commercials. There's even fake news. But, at the very least, I get the sense that Barnum is winking at us with elaborate showmanship. That old vaudevillian, "well, you asked to be entertained, didn't you?" way. I keep circling back to this man and what made him tick. He was, in the end, an entertainer-those tickets sold, even against our better judgement. That, to me, takes some talent-one that goes way beyond marketing.

If you could live anywhere, but it has to be a place you've never been...where'd you go?

Assuming, of course, that money is no object, because, after all, aren't we dealing in the wonders of idealism here?

We are. This is supposed to be making me write. Not bogging me down with pesky realities like trying to find a job.

Strangely, knowing the way my noggin works, however, I don't think language would ever be an issue for me. It might be for my husOtter, just because he's one of those kinds of men that read Klingon and understand 42 different dialects.

But can't utter a single word. That would be okay, in all actuality, we'd survive, but I might have to do all the talking if a ninja attack would arrive, ya know?

That being the case, of course I'd live wherever there is a Disney, afterall. California would be my first choice, but, yes, I've been there and I already have a ton of friends. It is so much like my previous home in Colorado that transitioning SoCal would be a breeze.

But what about not having Disney?

Now we're talking. Before the silence hits, I will say one location of one particular Disney Park would draw me to it like no other.

Paris. I, as a young boy, learned sign and, since it was based on French, took a shine to it as early as fifth grade. As I grew up, I learned this was something called a francophone. Some really interested in France and the French language. Had a real knack for it then. In fact, after doing one of those really awesome and relaxing past life regressions, I noticed a draw to the Deep South, where I live, sorta, today.

Could I have been a Cajun? Could explain a few things.

But Paris, the home of writers, painters, credos, and dreams calls to me, even this late in my life. Grant you, I've heard of Paris Syndrome, where Japanese tourists arrive and are completely dissatisfied with their French experience to the point of severe depression-this could still happen, I'm sure. Even if I don't get to that Disney park just beyond in the 'burbs, to live in a flat and have cafes and health care and food, I'd be good.

There's a Disney there too.

I'd be more than willing to make a go at Shanghai or Hong Kong, for sure, heck, even Tokyo. Their chorus of voices is loud, to be sure, but the French take the proverbial cake.

However, let's go one better. I mentioned it as a home to the literary elites, but what about across the Chunnel? I mean, London? Again, I'm picking cities, but, in the end, I admit, I like what cities offer, but decry them for what they can't maintain for me.

My dogs.

But London might even do me one better-with showcases of writers and the arts that I can also heed. Grant you, there's is a tea cup to my French roast, and I get that and doubt I'd make the switch. However, everything else is up for grabs.

Again, like Paris, I'd love a flat of some sort, with a foyer where I could hang my bicycle and views of something.

See? Dreams.

London, Paris. I'm like everyone else.

But not in this last part. Those two cities don't offer something that I also need.

Temperature.

I'm a warm weather person. It's just the way I am. London's got delicious fogs to write about henchmen in; Paris has spring evenings that are mild and perfect for wine and stargazing over car horns.

I joke, frequently, especially during this recent cold snap, about moving to Cuba, the US Virgin Islands and the like.

Key West calls me.

A haven for people like myself and warm with tiny houses-I know I'd fall in love with it. Yes, the most recent Irma hurricane slapped the city senseless, and who knows if it'll ever recover.

But we're talking ideals, remember? Like I could ever afford to live there. Of have my family fly in from the mainland.

Still, these are my answers.

Ten Interesting Things About Me

Okay, I usually like to keep a distance, here, when I compose. The less you know about me, the more you can see who I am through my authorship. Like, for example, yesterday's topic for writing challenge. It asked for me to describe my first kiss AND my first love.

Yeah, no. Just can't go there. Sure, it exists somewhere, but, no, I just can't write about that.

Too private.

But, the pause of yesterday led to today. Today's topic was to author ten interesting things about myself.

Since yesterday I left you in the lurch, I figured I should, at the very least, try to find those ten moments that work on the definition of who I am. Maybe, for those out there in readership-land, you'll understand a bit more of where I'm coming from.

Here it goes.

The honest truth? I don't find myself very interesting. But, then, again, I have to live with this yutz all the time.

The clothing choices, alone, kept me away. I look awful in white.

10.  I went to college to become a minister.  Yes, there's a story. See, Ma was pretty open when it came to religion. She didn't force it like so many parents, but, in retrospect, she encouraged me to find enlightement where I found it would. My older brother, working his way through another girlfriend, elected to try the marriage thing and, through contacts, found a Lutheran Church. The minister was a friend of the family, a colleague of my uncle, also a man of the cloth. My biological father had us baptized before he left this mortal toil, a concession my mother made that I may never fully understand, even after all these years. That was always there, a reminder. So, after my brother went to this local church to get married (and divorced, five months later), I elected to continue to go. No, I didn't get all church-y, either. But something clicked. [in later moments in my life, I realized that it was the spiritual-ness I connected with, necessarily the ceremony or doctrine, but, that, my friends is a blog post upon itself]. By the time I got ready for college, I noticed I had aced a ton of vocal music, a knack I have since lost. I knew I wanted a private school. I knew I wanted a small school. And, yes, the college I went to in north, north, north Minnesota was where I sailed away to.

No, I never became a minister.

9.  I've written about 7 plus novels. Fact: They all suck moosedick. However, strangely, I've ghostwritten, twice, and those seemed to do well, but I never followed up on them. So if I am using someone else's idea, I'm fine, I guess. None of them have been published. None have been worthwhile. Most are not digital, either, and have been lost to the ages.

8.  I used to write for a 'zine.  Before there was the internet, subversive behavior and community growth was run by the college writing underground, and they had a cheap copier. We started small, in a small city, but eventually got advertisers. I was paid very little, and was really brought on board because of connections I had with a local theater. Yeap. Wrote their movie reviews. And since I didn't have to worry about the public, I could say, "fuck" alot in my reviews. We grew and grew and as I watched, dumbfounded, a newspaper grew. From them? I learned how to be a journalist. It's why I revere the Fourth Estate a bit more than Faux News does. I even would do ride alongs with the local fuzz and report on the crime beat. Yes, this could have been my profession.

7.  I'm somehow related to Edwin McMasters Stanton. Okay, I'm still learning about this one. But, yes, I'm related, via marriage to Mr. Stanton, the Secretary of War under Lincoln. When Mr. Lincoln was shot, the VP proved to be very ineffective-and Mr. Stanton, a blowhard with a strong personality, supposedly took over. At least, that's what some historians say. And, his wife was, somehow, married into our family.

6.  I have a strange hobby with my dreams and tarot cards. I write them down, if they're strong enough. I can't explain it. I can only tell if I slept well if I knew I had a dream, even if it fades away. Yeah, into dreams. No, not like the metaphors. Like, when you actually sleep and, you know, dream. And, yes, I will interpret dreams.

5.  I am, most likely, part Amish, mostly Irish, raised by Jewish traditions. My grandparents elaborated, once, about how my grandmother (or was it my grandfather)'s family left the River Brethren Order ages ago, but we were still related to them. However, we're still trying to find that link. Other than I kinda look like many of them. Another tale was that, on my mother's side, my Great Grandfather was a immigration officer on ships coming from Belfast.  One day? He got off the boat. And he was supposed what they called "Dark Irish," with dark complexions and dark hair.  Ma went on to get a Jewish husband who is a great guy-and inadvertently taught me the ways of Judaism, by just being...awesome.

Actual house where the crime was committed. Wait. There's something writable in this.

4.  An uncle of our family was a detective in rural Pennsylvania that had to investigate a very famous homicide.  I was also informed that the "Smith" in the nonfiction book, Hexed, was a distant uncle. Seems a group of young Amish boys were creeped out by a new minister in the community of York, PA, and killed him. But didn't just kill him. Severely dismembered him, so his spirit would not come back and haunt them. The book is horrifying in it's simplicity. They were supposedly 'God-faring.'   This was in the 1930s.

3.  I meditate and pray every morning, after reading poetry. Wait, you don't? Why are people so surprised by this? I vary the poetry, it just gives me something to think about. 

2.  My first job of my career was right up the street from where I basically grew up.  I applied to twenty different positions back in the fall of 1992. There was no internet, so these were cold calls, I just sent an application and resume and called, long distance. A few nibbles, including a possible job in Devil's Lake, North Dakota-yeah, no more winters in the North. But a weird phone call arrived and a secretary asked how soon I could arrive at an interview-an hour from my parents' home. "I can be there in an hour." I got the job.

And stayed there for 20 years.

1.  My father's name is on the moon. My father worked with Northrup Gruman and helped with the creation of the lunar lander with the Saturn and Apollo projects. As such, they all signed large poster documents and buried them on the moon, beneath a plaque, to commemorate everyone. So...if they ever colonize the lunar surface. My dad's name is there. Yeah, the guy who died in 1974.

My Earliest Memory

The back of the chair was wooden, a gnawed frame that held two green cushions that formed the part where you, well, sat. The color was ubiquitous in the 70s. I remember seeing it everywhere, that much I do remember. The foam within those cushions was horribly firm, as if the modern chemicals of today, harbored by secret Ikea chemists, had not been discovered yet. They had a wire frame, as well, that had worn through where the cushions rubbed up against the black wooden frame. The arms were held up by a series of small, carved posts, simple pieces that were created with a spinner and carving knife. For some reason, I recall these were also quite gnawed as well, as if the family dog had elected to redecorate. But the fact was, the dog was small thing, according to the pictures, so I have no idea how he could reach the armrests for a decent munch.

This color, only solid. And uglier.

I don't know why this horrid chair comes to mind. I was lighter then, able to sit at the top of the back-cushion, something that gave the illusion that I was riding on the shoulders of the person seated, but, well, I remember that wasn't happening. My legs dangled, pudgy and pajama-ed. Before me was a tableau.

A blue terrycloth robe's collar, folded over and forcing little rivulets of fuzzies to jut upwards like wayward weeds on an alien landscape. There, my father's bald head reared up. I remember there were several red lines, scabs, from the razor he had attempted to use to finish shaving his head. He had to. He was losing his hair in clumps.

He was dying of cancer. The whole concept of chemotherapy was brand new, apparently, and this symptom has not changed in the process. The calendar fills in the rest of the dates-he passed away in 1974, so I had to have been 4 years old. He had resigned himself to the fact that he would be dead soon, and, as my mother elaborated, he was between induced comas, from what she even remembered.

The memory, I'm thinking, was someone put me on that chair, behind his head to tell me to cut his hair. The hair that did not exist, but in the realm of ironic-ness.

This is my earliest memory. I like to recall that my mother insisted I remember this man, this twig before me, for he wasn't going to be around soon. The words still form in my head but I cannot recall the exact moment of their recitation. But those words? They haunt me, as they are something you should not have to explain to a four year old, I'm thinking.

And there I was, pretending, at four years old, to give a haircut to a man who would be father. I do not recall his face, I do not see his smile anywhere in my memory.

Just the back of his bald head, burn marks and all.

As I write this, a young person is walking across the parking lot in front of the coffeehouse. He's holding a hot-pink tablet in one hand, his other, his own four year old. What will her memories be? He won't hopefully have to consider his existence like that young father of mind did.

That is my earliest memory. I keep thinking it shouldn't be, I shouldn't be afforded that thought. But with deeper retrospect-yes, it is the memory that works. As soon I had a memory to work with, that infant that would be me, he only saw a man that was slowly losing his existence to a disease. I would be remembering a scarecrow. But with this memory, the silliness of it all, I'm okay. He's okay, there, in my memory. Getting an imaginary haircut from a 4 year old.

Five Problems with Social Media

Dang. Has it been so long since I've written? I'm not sure what came over me. Normally, there's a stress to write and I don't like that stress, so I cut myself from the authoring stuff, here. So I'll see a movie. Say I'm going to write about it, but time passes and I get all stressed out.

It's not like a have a public. Maybe if they were banging at my door, I'd feel worse and, ergo, more motivated to post something up on there here boards.

I'm going to try, I really am. I noticed two trends over the past 2017. I wrote, for sure, when it came to fiction. I really did. That part was a breeze. And so was meditation. When you wake up, every day, and attend a job where the adults talk about wanting you dead-okay, not with those words, but swinging Trumpisms around like rocks from a slingshot, the stress is increased even on simple things like, what you can eat or not eat for lunch. 2017 became a big stress ball since that fucking election. That's where it hit me. All these friends who, well, like one of them said, "my actions should speak to you, Roo, you know we're cool with your marriage."

Yet their action of voting for Trump and his neoNazi Pence would be the actions speaking to me.

That was the stress of this past year. And, to cope, fiction and meditation were the only two goals that kept me alive and kicking. The gym? I keep hurting myself, I noticed, and that kept me away from that. And food? I hate monitoring my food. But I noticed, when I lost the weight? I was better-I was a better person. I have to keep that in mind.

And add those to the ways I can deal with manifestations of stress.

Which leads us to here.

I stopped journaling. I stopped blogging. Fiction? That's glorious and wonderful. But when it came to reality? I just couldn't deal with it.

And I need to.

I'm blogging. I'm not going to say if I'm going to do this every day or once a week, because, again, such a commitment would just stress me out. Take it or leave it, I'm just announcing I'm going to try to be a better person this year.

Which brings me to today's suggested topic-

Five Problems with Social Media

I don't have any. No, really, I don't. The fact is, when I moved in 2010 to Florida, I had just started to dabble with it. I had an app on my new Blackberry and it helped widdle away the hours in queues at Disney World; but, moreso, it linked me to my past as I move abruptly into an uncertain future. I never felt apart.

But I'm also not an idea. For every good, there is a bad. I would not be a practitioner of Tao if did not see the bad and the good in all things. Here? I saw a few, but it only came about because of time and use, like cigarettes, when you can't get up the mountain anymore. I will say this, I doubt I'll stop using my social media stuff. I'll just keep my eyes open.

1.  Everyone's doing it.

Everyone is doing it, basically. To curse it to the ground would mean a great many people would be cut off from the world. I know people with very specific needs, for whom social media is a boon. A place for persons who social anxiety is a bit too much; adults who have language delays but have the ability to type out a sentence or two using spell check and grammar checks.  But that's the first issue.

Everyone is dependent on it. I will say, My time at the gym is my time without my phone. When I'm with my clients? Yeah, phone's away. Here? When the entire world is watching, it's hard to get away from it, even if you don't want to. Like TVs. Worse? Since we're dealing with the full spectrum of humanity, that means the same message will not yield the same results. I mean, look at 45's ascendancy. Had the nation not been staring at their screens, they might have listened to things like results, science, and intelligence.

2.  Loss of Self.

I know many of my friends online from real life. And they're awesome. But what they post? That's not them. How many of them did I know supported marriage equality, yet still posted things about 45? They were jumping on their bandwagon. That wasn't them. Or was it?

It has become difficult to see the person to what they show. A person becomes a series of snippets and tweets. As every person who has become a victim of being misquoted, "that's been taking out of context." I have enough sense to pause and see what the deal is-but most do not. Social media is killing the whole individual to a series of hilarious memes.

3.  We are now a Product.

My disdain for corporation was only magnified when 45 assumed power. I realized that as I sipped my Starbuck's waiting in line at Disney World. The fact is, we cannot escape from corporations. No, they aren't people. And they don't see us as such, either. But if I like a company, they have my business. I choose that.

But Facebook sells us to corporation. Google, always watching, sells our information and demographics to the highest bidder. Makes sense. We aren't people. Facebook is free, afterall. They have to earn revenue. And that means selling us out like shares of stock.

That, to me, is a problem. I should have a choice in that. Disney? Sure. Watch me buy ears again.

The choice is mine.

And Google, to some extent. They gained a lot of kudos with their fight for net neutrality. They have my information-they've learned to tailor information to find what I am looking for.

But social media has done little to encourage that loyalty.

4.  Loss of nuance.

I'm lucky. I work with the Deaf, and, if you know anything about them, as a culture, they know nothing about white lies. They are blunt, direct, and straightforward. Nothing is technically wrong with that. They lack nuance and subtleties that make life a bit more bearable on the other side of the coin. But my friends who are devout followers of their faith? They don't shove it into your face; they won't even mention it in passing.

But you go to their media splash? You're going to get punched in the nose with enough Jesus loincloths this side of a Hebrew pornshop. That's not them. But they're not authors or artists. They haven't been trained to select their expression in direct paths, instead, just putting out what they feel is correct. I guess this kinda ties into my other missive, but this works more on the expressive side of things. I get it, again, because I'm used to the Deaf, telling me like it is. So I get it. But? Most don't have that safety net.

Think about vaguebooking. A family member recently posted, "at the hospital." Nothing else. Everyone freaked out. Yeah, they might have done that on purpose, to gain attention, but, in actuality, it's the lack of nuance. They should have done their usual who-what-why-when-where-how stuff for the benefits of an audience.

Fuck that, I know.

5.  It's a Physical Addiction

It's obviously hitting some part of our brain. I notice, when I do go without social networking for a while, I get quiet until another hit. I also get this way without really good food. We're human. It's fun to connect to people. And the fact that there's a response with a larger audience is exhilarating.

And, like all things that feel good, addiction can rear it's ugly snarl. And most people know alcohol can be bad. We can avoid it. But our current society is so dependent on computers, let alone, social media, many young kids just don't realize the need to break away.

That's a dangerous thing.

Movie Review: Valerian the City of a Thousand Planets

I feel bad for science fiction. It, like fantasy, seems like it could be proliferating in our omnibus of media, but, in reality, when it comes to the movie, again, like fantasy, there's really only a smidgen of films that are TRUE science fiction.

Star Wars, believe it or not, is not. It's a space opera or fantasy.

Not that it matters. 

Star Trek fits the bill frequently, but the movies are hit or miss, and tend to have a crapload of television reruns to satisfy our science fiction movie tastes. Fantasy? Lord of the Rings? That's the only active fantasy title out of a Disney movie that I can really think of. Oh, don't get me wrong, there's a few gazillion titles, but in my movie-phile brain, why can't I think of them off the top of my tiny head? Because they didn't make that much of a mark on me or the public?

I will admit, however, one title does pop up-the Fifth Element, by Frenchman Luc Besson. 

Yeh, there we go.

As soon as I start to see that, other titles pop into my noggin. Aliens. The Fly. (I tend not to count the superhero genre, since they tend to go fast and loose with the science items). 

So, yeah, it took a bit of work to get to that point. 

Thank Fate for Monsieur Besson. 

Leave it to the French to bring us more science fiction, I mean, really. These are the guys who brought us Jules Verne and every wonderful thing after that! But science fiction is rare, as itself as a genre. It tends to be absorbed into other genres, like fantasy or high adventure. Rarely, however, do it seem to live the life it proposes. Even a dystopian nightmare isn't truly science fiction-it's a setting. 

But where the science takes center stage? Rare.

What's also rare? A movie that isn't a franchise. Or, at least, not yet. 

Which brings us to Valerian and the City of a Thousand Planets.

Valerian is a French comic book and Luc grew up with it. Imagine a hard-boiled military man who works for Alpha, a spacestation with a few million inhabitants. Here's the deal that's bound to piss off the uncreative-millions of those inhabitants are from different alien races. All in harmony. All adapting to their specific needs on this huge city, living a life with others they may or may not get along with.

See? Fiction, for sure. No wall being threatened here.

The point being, the who premise is inviting. Of course, our military man, played by Dane DeHaan and his counterpart (I dare not say sidekick, for, I noticed, even if he gets the top billing, her character is truly the protagonist) Laureline, investigate a kidnapping after obtaining a McGuffin. 

On a sidenote, this is Laureline's film. She is played by Cara Delavigne and is a sight to behold. She is slick, to the point, and fascinating. 

That's what I mean. Were this an Amercian title, I don't know if we'd see the same kind of well-rounded female character with so much of the film relying on her.  

The film starts off with a delicious bang, with the prerequisite bickering of the two leads, keeping their dialogue moving forward.  They head to intercept said McGuffin at a setting that can only exist in science fiction. A multidimensional "Great Market" where people use virtual reality to make deals. The sequence is creative, exciting, and, since people are in at least two different dimensions, science fiction-y.

But Valerian himself is the weak link here. He needs a certain confidence that this performer, who every time I've seen is engaging and excellent, seems uncomfortable and unauthoritative. His limp portrayal is strangely lacking, as if he doesn't want to be there. He doesn't bark commands, he merely suggests them. I want to see more from this young man. Just not here. 

The fact is, this is a foreign film. It meets all the notes of the French aesthetic, while meeting all the requirements of solid plotting that American films excel at. Also part of that aesthetic? 

This film is lush. We have five different biomes of existences and each and every denizen is given full digital renderings in eye-popping colors. 

It's glorious. So, even when the film wanes in the second act as characters prep for the finale, you don't mind as much. Laureline is kidnapped and Valerian has to do some old school sleuthing and subterfuge to obtain a "Glam-Pod," played by R and B singer Rihanna. 

I can't review her. I fucking love her and her music. Cause if I did review her part I'd have to point out, well, the camera loves her, she looks awesome, but, ah, she can't act at all. She doesn't have that strength. Even when she is digitally removed from the movie (she is, after all, a shapeshifting jello GlamPod), she doesn't have the presence to hold the character to the audience. Unfortunate.

I should not have said that. Because I want you to like this wonderful movie. It's really good. 

So good, that I noticed a trend. People who like French films are find with the title. People who liked Lucy, also from Luc, they liked this movie. And if you liked the Fifth Element? You'll be fine. 

Did I mention it's lush? 

Movie Review: Baby Driver

I guess, when you think about it, we grow accustomed to many things. Like, the fact that pink eye is part of growing up, that older brothers are homicidal, and that Hollywood, when given too much cash, forgets about art-and wants to make more cash.

We've talked about it here before. How show business will not give the creative types too much control if there's a potential to make money. The formula is there and they have a great many second and third houses to be concerned about.

And there's successes, truly. I mean, look at my own last review. I love Spiderman: Homecoming. But it's a sequel/reboot, shared studio to create more cash out of the cash chow.

But it's also a good, fun, movie that works.

Is this comfortable enough for you?

We're comfortable about that. We've grown accustomed to this comfortable situation. I've lost hope on the summer movie release titles-having dissolved into a series of sequels of stories I'm following. Good sequels, well-made sequels.

This is what a surprise looks like. Sorta like this Baby Driver movie.

Then there's a shocker. An upstart. I'm reminded of my loft Oscar goals. I like to see, at least, all of the Best Picture nominations. For, every once and a while, you'll stumble across a title that completely and utterly blows your socks off. This year? It was Lion. I was sobbing at the end of this wonderful picture. At the end of Chocolat? We ran out for ice cream to discuss the power of sweets. A total surprise.

Another delicious surprise.

Not only that? Big budgeted surprises. Titles made from experienced people making good choices for a complete and engaging film.

Baby Driver falls into this. Now, if you watched the trailer, you'd think it's a comedy, and, certainly, it is light on it's feet, but not because of humor-but because the film is dancing. Without actually dancing.

Baby Driver is a film created by the English writer and director Edgar Wright, a filmmaker I've been impressed with before. Most noteably, he's the wit behind Simon Pegg's vehicles, Shaun of the Dead, Hot Fuzz, and At World's End. All three movies are labeled BritComs, but there's something else hanging onto each one. Each had a measured heft to them. I would almost call them horror comedies, but there's a line in each film where the thematic elements about the depth of violence, or the will to go on in a bleak situation, rise and overtake each picture. But the change is so subtle, you won't note the mood switch until after the movie's over. That's skill. That's entertaining us until you pull out the heavy guns.

With those successes, Mr. Wright went ahead and old the Hollywood execs his newest title, Baby Driver. In it, an incredibly handsome, hard-of-hearing, youth, played by Ansel Elgort, is biding time with a crime lord until he can get out of the business of being a getaway driver. The youth's hearing is taken into account throughout the entire movie, and every scene has a beat to it, a dance, if you will, with every point and movement falling to something within the soundtrack. Of course, as far as tropes go, we know that the last act of someone's life is never any good, and those about to retire will always get roped into something they probably should not be doing. In this case? One last crime of his crime boss, Kevin Spacey.  Mr. Wright not only attracts Spacey, but also rounds out the movie with Jon Hamm, Jamie Foxx, and Jon Bernthal. Top notch performers that bring a strong script alive. Yes, even though we can pretty much make the calls on this tale we've seen before-they are brought to life so smoothly in such deft hands, there's a feeling that this is new, different.

I'm furious that these titles are still in play. I mean, really...

Car chases, like the fluff of the Fast and the Furious franchise, here are real. No special effects, no CGI. No tanks, subs, or anything. If you know your cinematic history, look to movies like Bullitt, with Steve McQueen, or the Smokey and the Bandit, with Burt Reynolds. Masculine pieces, to be sure, but I found that was sidestepped without becoming stereotypically, by sticking to the story and the characters. Everyone has a goal, this is crime after all, and they're going to get what they want. Now, for all my floral language of this subject, the film is violent. We're dealing with crime and their aftermath. Secondly, the youthful lead, very much the "baby-face" of the title, is, well, youthful. I think his lack of performance ability was emphasized because you had such powerhouse performers like Kevin Spacey and Jamie Foxx intimidating everyone. Ansel has the look, to be sure, but my ability to engage him on a much more personal level was not present. With time, however, if he continues to find movie jobs like this one.

And, yeah, he's also wonderfully good looking.

There is that.

Now these car chases? Awesome and make up all three acts of the film. They are very much on the level, filmed at eye level, so they are engaging and exciting. Lotsa smoke, lotsa torn rubber. The script makes a point of having the characters talk about the cars' needs and how car selection takes places.

Music, however, has to be mentioned. Hearing and sound are profoundly part of the protagonist's story arc and the film really does a good job painting the screen with an audiotory palette. Songs are selected for the kind of crime and need for pacing and speed. We listen to, and it gives the film for us brought up in the 80s with MTV, that we are almost watching a satisfying music video.  It gives each chase and interaction a newness and a perspective that the audience may have already experienced, and, with that, I commend the film's novel approach.

I am bias, too, I love crime movies. So this works on several levels. Go and enjoy. Tell us what you think!

Movie Review: Spiderman: Homecoming

Another summer. A time when the blockbusters and tent poles were erected and hurled at us with such advertising abandon, you prayed that seeing the movie would make the commercials stop. Alas, like last year, the studios are releasing so many big event movies, the market is saturated. We benefit, as an audience, because the formula for success has become so ingrained, that, in the end, even bad movies are, well, kinda okay. No one tries anything new.

So, yeah, it's been a bit of a pause since the last review. What's there to really notice. I've been going to the beach and catching up with family. You know, those other summer options.

We treated ourselves to Spiderman:  Homecoming, however, this week and I can't help thinking I should be saying SOMETHING. Yes, I'm comic book geek. Yes, this whole genre of film, the superhero film is something that was basically created to keep me ordering popcorn. I am okay with this.

I can see every plot twist and turn and, yeah, it's like wearing a decent pair of shoes.

Now, understand that, back in 2000, it wasn't like that. Back when Spiderman came out with Tobey McQuire, I was impressed with the X-Men. A movie that was, well, like reading a really good book. It had plot twists, numerous characters and raised our expectations. Marvel sought to expand it's empire, so it sold the rights piecemeal, and gave a decent serving of it's most popular character, Spiderman, over to Sony. And 2002 it came together in the first Spiderman actioner, with Tobey McQuire. It was old school, using a single villain, and made a fairly decent, almost a thriller, movie. The imagery was shadowy, the themes heavy.

My criticism was that, while an excellent movie-Peter Parker, the actual Spiderman, should be dealing with teenager-y things. He should be a schmoe.  While expertly crafted, the film did not showcase the young men that I met in the everyday world of my profession. No awkwardness. Plot mistakes were the only mistakes. The pressure of hiding from your parents.

One of the things that gets the LGBT community in league with supers? Such similar things. A secret, two-faced life in their youth. I didn't see that in the first three movies. It got better when they relaunched the title with the Amazing Spiderman, with having a younger actor, but he, too, did not play out the fabricated reality of a high school student living two timelines. Good movies, yes. I'm reminded that Einstein Bros bagels are not real bagels. They're good, yes, but not kosher. Not true bagels. Flip that over to Spiderman's movies. Good stuff, actually, But a bit far from the source materials.

Then Disney bought Marvel. Since Sony had the rights, they pretty much had to let Sony/Columbia pictures pull their own weight with the title-but did request a picture deal for Civil War and this title, Spiderman:  Homecoming. Sony's name still got sloshed onto the opening credits and can earn the cash-but Disney keeps their intellectual property adorned properly and can use him again and again-with scripts they author and approve.

Which brings us to this picture.

It's good, like really good. Like, there were three specific moments when I was actually surprised and did not see this coming. Me. The Old Codger of Movies. I mean, I like to think that I've seen every single superhero movie on the big screen. And there were still moments where I was not sure where the storyline would go.

In this one? They did go back to the beginnings and just pluck a small villain that is not as popular. Better, they cast the Vulture with Michael Keaton. Now something should be said about Mr. Keaton. He's is experiencing a third act in his professional career and I freeking love him and the public should, too. Why? Because he is good looking enough that the camera is kind to him-he could play just about every one, but his demeanor is that of the Everyman, someone both you and I would know and trust. This is at play here, because I found with his portrayal of the Vulture, there's something very approachable about him. There's a sympathy for this devil. He is tired of the millionaires like Iron Man/Stark getting rich and popular, when all he wants to do is put food on the table. He reminded me of Ian McKellan's Magneto, a man who survived the internment camps of Nazi Germany-a bitter, angry man with damn good reason to be so. I believe Ian; I believed Michael.

Which is why I think this actor is going to be getting more recognition in the years to come. He did not get an Oscar nod for Spotlight last year, but, because of him as the center protagonist, I trusted the path the narrative took. He was the heart of the piece and because of his soft voice and relaxed manner, the sticky subject manner of the film was easier to approach. That's not something simple to do across a movie screen. And here he is again, making a villain that is also sympathetic. Yes, he will kill, but, as you will see, it's because it's his family that is linked to the events.

And you need to see this. I consider it one of the better movies in the superhero genre.

Because, finally, if you've read any of the Spiderman titles, this is what you see. The stage actor Tom Holland is finally close enough in age and stature, I can see him in an actual high school. He did not just stammer and act uncomfortable. A decent script captures the angst of the high school experience and then, even though it isn't resolved, layers a second story over it, about a boy who has super powers and notices something profound going on. He's nice, not a tough guy, massively approachable and that, given Keaton's nemesis and a series of engaging action scenes makes for a tight motion picture.

My issue? It's so good, there's going to be a sequel, and given youth-sometimes such storylines are difficult to maintain. The audience grows up. The kid onscreen does not. And the sequel becomes a bit of a mash.

But? If they stick to their guns? Maybe it'll pull through. I hope so. A perfect storm has formed over this little teen-now-spider and I'd like to see more of it.

Movie Review: The Mummy

My poor husOtter. He tried, when we first started dating all those moons ago, to see what made me tick. I found paperback copies of Frankenstein and Dracula scattered under his coffee table and end table, all the pages shortly dog-ear-ed. He'd apologize, and admit, eventually, that I would have to see my horror movies alone. He'd ride the Haunted Mansion, but a walk-through house was too much.

Horror, as it seems, is a very personal and distinct experience. We all have those things that scare us to immobility; we also have those things we allow. My mother? She LOVED Hitchcock movies. When I would come home from the video store in high school on a Saturday night, they were all that was left that the rabble did not wish to see. She and I would watch bevies of those thrillers. Bring home Friday the 13th? Halloween? No. But Fatal Attraction was a standout. She had what was safe scary, what she could digest. And that which was unacceptable.

Even I do. I believe, for my tastes, that horror should be a personal experience. Regardless of the body count, the settings should be dark, intimate, alone, and isolated. There's a sense of impending doom, a sense that there's a chance we will not get out alive.

My checkbook, for many years, was the Universal monsters. Yeap. All those classic baddies. Drac. Frank. Creature from the Black Lagoon. I LOVED them. I played Dungeons & Dragons as a player-character, but when it came to Dungeon Mastering? We played, "Chill." The horror role-playing game. In it, my friends took part in a secret society bent on removing evil and monsters and specters from the Earth.

I love it.

But, because I write it? I should be able to look at it with a decent discerning eye. I, for one, was actually okay with the recent announcement of Dark Universe from the execs from Universal. They've always had the lid on big screen movies, surely, but also they have been able to keep all of the top famous monsters in the game. Dracula, Frankenstein's Monster, the Werewolf-all are pretty much public domain, but every few years, they crank out another clunker to keep an eye on the IP. With Dark Universe? They were hoping to do what Disney has done with Marvel. What is that, like, 17 titles that are some how interwoven?

Follow the example, too. Keep lite, keep it moving, have simple and direct logic, let the story carry itself.

The first title out of the gate?

The Mummy.

Now, this is a difficult one to beat. See, they re-made it, in glorious 1930's caper format, back in the later 90s and it was a terrific tribute to the older horror movies. I'm sure you saw it. It was fun. During the depression, the exotic was fearsome, so it made sense that a monster would come from overseas. The remake held to that. It had pyramids and secret codes and growing menace. There were jumps and screams, and, yes, everyone looked like they were having fun.  That remake? That was a good movie. It was even scary in parts. I mean, they took the girl! She could die!

Now? They bring it back. There was that hope that maybe it was good. I like the idea of Dark Universe, but, hey, I read comic book serials, so I'm kosher with it with crossover after crossover. Let's do this, right?

But this? I'm not sure, totally, what happened. The acting? Good. The set pieces? Strong. Music's there, special effects? Bright and easy.

The fault? Story.

Again, look at me, I'm going for the writing thing again. You can't have everything perfect and have a shit tale to tell.

In the first thirty minutes, we subjected to three different flashbacks. Flashbacks that are brought up, again, 30 minutes later, adding no additional information. The story concerns two military men who branch out (how, exactly does that happen-the term court martial comes to mind. Even the CO says, "why do I let you get away with this AGAIN..." Again?????) and go fortune hunting. They get themselves in a quagmire and call in a drone strike (okay, how does that happen?), and unearth the evil within. An Egyptian princess, punished to mummification forever, her soul stuck between the Worlds.

The soldier?

Tom Cruise.

Now? Hold for a second. That name conjured up an image in your head of him. Probably running and yelling. His last seven titles have used this technique.  Running. Yelling. Taking command. Running. Yelling.  I am still stymied on how this dude is so famous. Yes. He is talented. But with replaying roles over and over again, the shine is wearing off.

And in this tale, he's no different. In fact, the script just makes him argue everything. They make it sound like all he wants is money, so when the tale gives him it, he suddenly grows a moral code.

And, and, and....I'm whining. I think I'm hurt. I wanted this movie to be better.

Even a better Tom Cruise movie.

An archaeologist, only we can't say that, because you'll think Indiana Jones, shows up (in the middle of a war zone....with GREAT hair and a perfect forehead) and they had a one night stand. He stole her notes to find this tomb. Wait. So, he goes out. Meets a nice girl. In downtown, where? Bahgdad? I didn't know they had reopened the singles cafe again. Not only that, they have their meet-and-greet, and he rummages through her stuff, stealing a detailed map.  In the digital age.

Doesn't the military have a purpose overseas? I guess it's to support Tom Cruise.

Played by Annabelle Wallis, she's not a good Tom Cruise woman character, either. I have consistently noticed, especially in the Mission: Impossible Cruise vehicles, women are afforded great roles by him and his studios. Here? She just stands there and acts surprised. Yes, she even becomes a victim. Three different times.

But, you know, Tom is there to save her. And others!

Russell Crowe plays Dr. Henry Jekyll (yes, THAT one) and seems to be the only one having fun with the role. Not a normal character of tradition horror, his storyline is brief and entertaining-but ultimately, just a review and clarification of the plot put forth. Seems they've set this princess loose and she's undead, a mummy. She cannot move on to the heaven, hell, or whatever. Her immortality is to give her a chance to find the perfect male, a specimen that the god of death can inhabit.

Now, you know, of course, who that is going to be, right?

Those that die? Have to die in honor of the plot. There are brief sparks of horror tropes of zombies. But we've seen that. We have a huge attack on London. Not private scary moments in alleyways. Not jolting moments. AN ENTIRE CITY. And yet, no one is freaking out.

So much for intimate, I suppose. I don't care for the characters, outside of Jekyll and the Mummy, herself. So they could all die, and I'd be okay.

Not a single sense of peril.

And that's not horror. That's not scary. In fact, one character, dies, comes back as some kind of monitor or something, but none of the others do.

Such threads lead to a very poor opening for something that is supposed to be part of a franchise.

Is the movie good? Maybe. Not as a horror movie. As Mission: Impossible Lite, perhaps. When your story crashes from the get-go, there's not much else to go on.

If at all, Universal to look to what works well in franchises that have stayed the course. Bond films are consistently engaging and trying new things, with mixed results, but arcing segments. Disney? They have this to a cash cow. They just tell the director they should kowtow the producer and the story and keep everything slight. Warner Bros has recently learned this with mediocre hits of Watchmen and Batman/Dark Knight. They tried to keep that artsy-fartsy feel, but, as soon as they let the story unfold, you have a hit, like Wonder Woman. It can be done.

If they want it to.

See, like here, we have the Invisible Man coming up with Johnny Depp. Perfect. A series of murders without a single suspect on camera. Link the homicide. Media picks up the lurid tale and the lead detective is attacked, but escapes with the help of Dr. Jekyll's society. Seems they are looking for the same phantom. An Invisible Man.  Someone the Feds would LOVE to get their hands on. Tight corners. Seemingly a ghost in old homes, hidden from view, where people wouldn't look for scientist hiding and making more of his mysterious elixir.

It can be done. But keep the tone focused. Scare us. Don't make it big. Keep it small.