Reading Diary June 2007

Books read online are in green.

1. Red Lightning, John Varley. Disappointing, depressing follow-up to the exuberant Red Thunder. First half in a tsunami-struck Florida (interestingly, written pre-Katrina) is absorbing, but ultimately has nothing to do with the point. Mars and Martian society never really come alive, and the part about the revolution has been done better by Robert A. Heinlein. Varley is also all too eager to score points regarding contemporary politics to do service to his story. In all, reminds me of how Star Trek III messed up everything that was good about Star Trek II, and there's no condemnation lower than that. Edited July 4 because I'm an idiot. That's the trouble with movies that have numbers instead of names. Thanks, Damian!
2. The Truth-Teller's Tale, Sharon Shinn. Another lovely, romantic fantasy in the world of Shinn's The Safe-Keeper's Secret. Not much suspense, but Shinn writes so well I don't care. She writes the kind of books that make you want to race ahead to see how everything comes out while turning the pages slowly because you don't want them to end.
3. Midnight Choir, Gene Kerrigan. Very mixed feelings. Starts out as an interesting, many-layered police procedural set in modern Dublin, but about halfway through begins to leave a bitter taste in my mouth. Synott is too sympathetic a character to be someone I love to hate and too hypocritical and corrupt to be someone I can root for.
4. Bone Valley, Claire Matturro. A little high on the wackiness scale at times, but some good moments. Loved the Florida panther. Hard to believe that a dedicated crunchy-granola-type like Lilly would be so ignorant about the gigantic environmental mess on her doorstep.
5. If I Never Get Back, Darryl Brock. Bloated time-travel fantasy, deeply unsatisfying on so many levels. Well-researched but too eager to show it off, as with gratuitous encounters with the James brothers and too many quotes from contemporary documents. If Brock wants to write about the beginnings of pro baseball, why does he drag the Fenians into it; and if he wants to write about the Fenians, why does he spend so much time giving us play-by-plays of baseball games and completely bypass their failed invasion of Canada? Only the least interesting of the plot strands is resolved, and the ending is an obvious cheap set-up for a sequel.
6. Still Life, Louise Penny. A pretty good effort from first-time novelist Penny: thoughtful, with engaging characters, and often beautiful prose. But her inexperience shows in her unsure grasp on the omniscient authorial viewpoint, whipping in and out of people's heads at an annoying rate, and the way various plot points fail to add up (if Yvonne thought she had inherited Jane's house, why paper over the walls in a way that would have made it impossible to live in or sell?). After such a leisurely, unconventional build-up, it was disappointing that the final confrontation with the villain was pure Thriller/Horror Movie 101.
7. The Robber Bride, Margaret Atwood. Tony, Charis, and Roz are great characters, but I couldn't empathize with them as much as I wanted to. Still moping about the worthless men Zenia took from them 30 years earlier? Zenia did them a favor, and I loved it at the end when she told them so. Hated Boyce, the gay assistant -- the only thing more annoying than a guy who quotes at you nonstop when you're trying to have a serious conversation is a guy who quotes at you and then finishes off with the author's name.
8. Flight, Sherman Alexie. A very slight book -- read it in a morning -- not as funny as I'd hoped, but with a very affecting ending. Zits is too young to know this, but if some random guy comes up and starts quoting Nietzsche at you, watch yourself. Made me want to know more about Crazy Horse.
9. The Target, Gerri Hill. Equal opportunity suckitude: proves that books about lesbians can be just as stupid, predictable, and badly written as those about straights.
10. Transformation, Carol Berg. Got interested in Berg through her shared site DeepGenre. Was rewarded with this thoughtful fantasy about culture conflict and the unlikeliest of friendships. Convincing characterization and well-drawn cultures. A bit disappointing that, after the kickass magical battle, the climactic physical battle takes place offstage while one of the heroes is recovering.
11. North of Market Street: Being the Adventures of a New York Woman in Philadelphia, Harriet Boyer. I always enjoy reading things set in Philadelphia, but this was very odd. The book is entirely devoted to complaining about how unfriendly Philadelphians are and how living north of Market St. puts one beyond the social pale. It might be true (even today North Philadelphia is pretty undesirable), but seems like a very slight premise for a novel. Something with an actual, you know, story might have been nice, like the experience of being a female medical student in the 1890s (which is what I thought this was about).
12. Don't Look Down, Jennifer Crusie and Bob Mayer. Fun but not totally successful collaboration between romance writer Crusie and action/adventure writer Mayer. Crusie seems to have set the tone, but she's lost control of some of the stuff that make her books so great: the way the lovers get together is unconvincing, their later conflict more so, and some seriously loose ends are left dangling (hello! did Daisy try to kill herself, or what? And how's she doing?). On Mayer's territory, the whole art theft/mob/CIA plot is impenetrable and the body count disturbingly high for what's, on the whole, a light romp. On the plus side, Lucy's a great heroine, her relationship with Daisy and Pepper is terrific, the sex is hot (Crusie's into bondage these days, it seems), and details like the coin check convinced me that Wilder is the real deal. I'm looking forward to the next Crusie/Mayer project, since advance word is that they've ironed out some of the kinks.
13. California Fire and Life, Don Winslow. The opening, with its short, smartass chapters, is a bit offputting, but persevere and soon you'll be swept along on a wild ride involving arson, murder, the Russian mob, the American dream, corruption, and true love. A good writer can make anything interesting, and you'll be eager to absorb whatever Winslow tells you about fuel loads, insurance law, and Georgian furniture. Jack Wade's a great hero, smart and stubborn, although a few hundred pages too slow to realize one crucial fact; but when you think you've got everything figured out, the story twists hard, then twists again.
14. The Compass Rose, Gail Dayton. OK, so sexy magic chick is married to 4 count 'em 4 smokin' hot men (and another woman) and she won't have sex with them because sex is too complicated? And she doesn't see that not having sex is what's complicating everything? Suuuuure. There's some good stuff going on here, but the large number of personalities and relationships makes for very uneven storytelling; Obed and Aisse get especially short shrift. Also completely ignores the possibility of homosexual relationships, even among the Spartan-warrior-pair-bonded Tibrans. The final battle is laughably anticlimactic.
15. Good Omens, Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett. The Apocalypse has never been funnier.
16. Snow Flower and the Secret Fan, Lisa See. There's a story in here somewhere screaming to get out, but it's trapped in this conventional, cliched tale of friends who have a misunderstanding. See has beautifully depicted women's nu shu language and life and culture in remote 19th Century China ; I wish her characters had received the same attention.

Movie Diary June 2007

Movies seen for the first time are in green.

1. Going Hollywood (1933), Raoul Walsh. Another movie that promotes the idea that stalking is romantic, only this time with gender reversal, with French teacher Marion Davies going after crooner Bing Crosby. Davies, with her overcareful enunciation, seems lifeless; I've never cared much for Crosby, but I must admit he sounds awfully good here.
2. Take the Money and Run (1969), Woody Allen. Remember when Woody Allen movies were funny? This mockumentary about the world's worst bank robber is the first of them all where Allen demonstrates his triple threat skills as actor/writer/director. It's amazing how fully formed his persona of neurotic dweeb already is in this first outing.
3. Too Many Crooks (1959), Mario Zampi. Very slight story about gang of inept criminals who mistakenly kidnap the wife of a shady businessman (Terry-Thomas), only to find he's delighted to have her gone. Best part is George Cole as the head crook, who can't keep his accent on straight. Brenda de Banzie as the kidnapped wife has some funny moments as she takes over the gang, but she pathetically goes back to her husband at the end.
4. Larceny, Inc. (1942), Lloyd Bacon. Uneven tale of ex-cons who buy a luggage store to break into a bank, from a play by S. J. and Laura Perelman. Edward G. Robinson spoofs his gangster image, something he did much more effectively in the earlier Brother Orchid. Jack Carson engaging as always.
5. They Drive By Night (1940), Raoul Walsh. Negligible melodrama about truckers, not really helped by the presence of Humphrey Bogart or George Raft. Ann Sheridan co-stars as the waitress who becomes involved with Raft; I'm constantly amazed by the reminder of the crude remarks that supposedly nice guys could get away with making to women. Ida Lupino shows some signs of life as the predatory wife of Raft's boss, although her breakdown is a stupid plot contrivance. It's not her fault, but once Robert Osborne mentioned that Bette Davis had played that role in an earlier film, I kept seeing Bette saying the lines.
6. The Sign of the Cross (1932), Cecil B. DeMille. Orgies! Lesbians doing seductive dances! Empresses bathing in asses' milk! Lions devouring Christians! Too bad these delights had to be surrounded by a tedious and conventional plot. Starring Claudette Colbert before she became a virgin and Fredric March when he was young and (who knew?) beautiful.
7. Bound for Glory (1976), Hal Ashby. Excellent, low-key biography of how Woody Guthrie got to be Woody Guthrie, effective without ever being preachy. I forgot there was a time when David Carradine could act (and sing).
8. Rain (1932), Lewis Milestone. The scene where Sadie Thompson (Joan Crawford) goes down on her knees to the dominating missionary Mr. Davidson (John Huston), and her subsequent hollow-eyed brainwashed conversion, are appalling. Davidson wins my Fuck You Award. I don't think the movie disapproves of him enough, or for the right reasons.
9. The Awful Truth (1937), Leo McCarey. I don't like Irene Dunne even when she doesn't sing (and she does); her whole repertoire consists of simpering, smirking, and drawling. But she's punished plentifully for it in this comedy, both by the movie's unquestioning acceptance of the double standard -- Cary Grant has been fooling around, but the only issue is whether she has too -- and by her horrible clothes, which include the world's most ridiculous hats. Grant comes off somewhat better, since he gets to look good until his loser nightshirt at the end. Both of them are arrested adolescents who make things worse for each other and themselves because they can't tell the truth, but Dunne seems more mean-spirited in her attempts to keep Grant from moving on to somebody new.
10. The Adventures of Robin Hood (1938), Michael Curtiz, William Keighley. Give me Errol Flynn in some tights and I'm a happy girl. But this rousing historical adventure also boasts a top-notch cast, witty dialog, gorgeous costumes, and fabulous action sequences.
11. I Married a Witch (1942), Rene Clair. Funny, light romance with a very sexy Veronica Lake and Frederic March, no longer so young or so beautiful. Great contributions from Cecil Kellaway and Robert Benchley.
12. Mississippi Masala (1991), Mira Nair. Disjointed story of intercultural romance, but hello! Denzel is hot. Best parts are the sequences showing the heroine's family in Uganda.
13. The Picture of Dorian Gray (1945), Albert Lewin. Beautifully crafted and creepily effective version of the Oscar Wilde story. More voiceover than I normally care for, but it works. Script full of Wilde's finest aphorisms, delivered in George Sanders' most cultivated sneer. Fabulous use of color to reveal the portrait at critical moments. Also featuring a very young and lovely Angela Lansbury as the tragic Sybil Vane. Edited August 7 because George Sanders is not a 19th Century French novelist.
14. Made in Paris (1966), Boris Sagal. The kind of smarmy sex comedy I absolutely cannot stand, with extra added bonus stalking and '60s sexism. But killer clothes (that orange evening gown in Louis Jourdan's show? fabu!) and killer Ann-Margaret. As for the ending, let me just say: wrong choice, girlfriend.
15. While the City Sleeps (1956), Fritz Lang. Sassy, exciting noir drama about newspaper reporters hunting for a serial killer. Rampant sexual harassment and the usual dubious '50s psychology (best line is when the sissified killer tells his adoptive mother, "You wanted a girl, Dad wanted a boy. Guess neither one of you got exactly what you were looking for"). Interestingly, neither the slutty columnist (Ida Lupino) nor the adulterous wife (Rhonda Fleming) winds up dead.
16. The Amazing Adventure (1936), Alfred Zeisler. Nonsensical but entertaining story of bored plutocrat who supports himself for a year as a workingman, based on a novel by that perennial chronicler of the upper classes, E. Phillips Oppenheim. Nobody's motivations make any sense, but Cary Grant is as appealing as ever, and the clothes and decor pure eye candy.
17. Waitress (2007), Adrienne Shelly. I was going to write a whole review of this but realized I don't really have that much to say. Keri Russell was good, Nathan Fillion was cute, and Andy Griffith was funnier than he's been since he hung up his sheriff's uniform. Shelly was really talented and her murder was a terrible tragedy. Didn't mind most of the plot holes but was bothered by the fairy-taleish ending: there's no way Jenna could continue to live in the same town as her controlling, violent, jealous ex-husband without his killing her. (Edited July 18.)
18. My Favorite Wife (1940), Garson Kanin. OK, I've officially seen this movie ENOUGH. There'd be no plot if either Nick or Ellen Arden (Cary Grant and Irene Dunne, in their second go-round) acted like an adult for 5 minutes. Gail Patrick has her usual thankless role as Grant's scorned second wife; I know I'm supposed to hate her, but she's totally the innocent victim here. Randolph Scott puts a manly twist on the emasculated Ralph Bellamy part as Dunne's desert island companion. Newsflash, Cary: your wife was alone on an island with that guy for 7 years? She did him.
19. The Bigamist (1953), Ida Lupino. Holy cow, how can a movie about a guy violating one of 1950s society's most fundamental taboos be so freaking dull? Lupino plays against type as a nice-ish girl who falls for married Edmond O'Brien in spite of herself; but it's not his fault either, because his wife Joan Fontaine drove him to it by being a career woman and not wanting to adopt a kid. Laughed at one cheeky meta-reference: on a tour of Hollywood homes, the bus driver points out the house of Edmund Gwenn, who here plays the social worker who discovers O'Brien's double life.
20. Outrage (1950), Ida Lupino. Moderately interesting story about a rape victim (Mala Powers). Enjoyed seeing the operations of the orange grove where she fetches up.
21. Walk on the Wild Side (1962), Edward Dmytryk. Ever since TCM started their Screened Out series, I've been waiting for them to show this magnificently cheesy, monumentally perverse mess from a Nelson Algren story. You can tell it was written by a man: numerous references to what a soft, easy life the prostitutes have, despite having to sleep with slimy politicians or be beaten by psycho enforcers. Features an unforgettable performance from Barbara Stanwyck as a lesbian brothel owner obsessed with sculptress/whore Capuchine, who's so laden with ennui and world-weariness she's practically comatose. (I really bought them as lovers when Stanwyck coaxes, "C'mon, you can sculpt me again," and Capuchine pouts, "Aw, you don't really want to.") Mucho sexy Jane Fonda makes the most of her small part as a teenage prostitute. Also stars Laurence Harvey as a Texan farmboy named Dove Linkhorn and Anne Baxter as a Mexican spitfire/cafe owner. Really, there's no snark you can add to that.
22. A Cinderella Story (2004), Mark Rosman. I was willing to go along with this movie up to a point, and that point was when Sam (Hillary Duff) started raging on Austin (Chad Michael Murray) for not being brave enough to deserve her or something, and I went, "Where did that come from?" Duff is a pretty girl, though weighted down with too much eyeliner. And I may be the last middle-aged broad in America to clue into the fact that Murray is cute.

Bye-Bye, Burke

Yes, it's true. Burke is gone, he's really gone.

Is it a good thing or a bad thing? Well, good, I guess. In real life, Isaiah Washington seems like a raging asshole, I never found his public expressions of repentance convincing, and I'm sure his continued presence on the Grey's Anatomy set made for a very tense working environment for everybody.

Even in terms of the show, it's OK. I first got into the show when Burke was covering up his hand tremor, and I was entranced by the apparent bond between him and Cristina. It took me a while to appreciate what a demanding, impossible-to-please control freak he was. The plotline might have been interesting with Burke continuing to work with Cristina after humiliating her like that (dumping her at the altar after she turned herself inside out for you? And saying that you're doing it because you love her enough to let her go? Dude, get a grip). But it seems a little Mer/Der redux, whereas now they might get some mileage out of how the invincible Cristina deals with being human like everybody else.

The only real downside is I'll miss looking at Isaiah on my TV screen. It's pathetic, you'd think there'd be some internal mechanism you could use to say, "That guy's a horrible human being, I don't find him attractive any more," but there isn't. It's just another example of the undeserved slack we cut pretty people in this world: no matter what appalling things they've done, we still like looking at them. Probably just the way that THE Preston Burke's friends would have used to justify continuing to hang around with him after the way he acted.

So, it's all good. I'm fine. Really. I'm fine. Seriously. Fine.

*sigh*

Delicious Anticipation

Yay! Hell's Kitchen is back. Another fun season of watching British super-chef Gordon Ramsay bellow, bully, and abuse a group of chefs hoping to land a quarter-million bucks and a great job. I'm not aboard the Ramsay-is-so-hott! train (he actually does, as loudmouth Vinnie said, look like a shar pei), but I find him vastly entertaining. No one of the contestants really stands out for me so far, but I'm solidly behind Waffle House Julia, whose colleagues treated her with inexcusable rudeness and snobbery to their own detriment (well, duh, wouldn't you think a short-order cook would be the first choice to fry eggs?).

I'm also looking forward, with some trepidation, to the third season of Top Chef, which starts tomorrow with a face-off between the top finishers from Seasons 1 and 2. After their nonstop pettiness and accusations of cheating, not to mention the outright assault, the entire cast of S2 (aside from Marcel) is dead to me; they make even S1's Stephen and Tiffani look good by comparison. Plus, Ilan isn't fit to flip Harold's burger. So you know which team I'm on.

S3 proper starts next week. It looks like they have made some needed changes, including hiring Lee Anne Wong to coordinate the challenges and adding Ted Allen as a judge to bring some warmth to the rude and dismissive Tom Colicchio. Let's hope the producers learned their lessons from what went wrong last time, cast the cheftestants for talent rather than personality, and keep the focus on the food, not the drama. (In other words, follow the example of Shear Genius, which managed to be remarkably professional, pleasant, and conflict-free.) But if it starts to look like S2 all over again, I'm out of there.

It'll be interesting to watch the two shows side by side. Although both are cooking competitions, they really call for different skills. TC stresses creativity, thinking on your feet, and doing your own thing; HK values consistency, organization, and teamwork. Not to mention a thick hide when Ramsay unleashes his blistering tongue on you. Ah, yes, this should be fun.

Edited June 7 to add re: TC S1/S2 Smackdown: what I said.

Reading Diary May 2007

Books read online are in green.

1. Deadly Advice, Roberta Isleib. See post May 3, 2007.
2. Jamaica Me Dead, Bob Morris. Even with a huge chunk missing from the middle (what is with publishers' QC these days?), it wasn't too hard to figure out what was going on. But the setting was pretty entertaining, and the characters OK to hang out with (although I could have lived without the stereotypical mystic Indian). Seriously, though, who carries around a signed first edition? That's what paperbacks are for.
3. Sarah Canary, Karen Joy Fowler. Another fragmented, elliptical meditation on race, class, and especially gender. Who or what is Sarah Canary? She is a blank canvas for others to project their ideas of being female onto: thus, to Chinese railroad worker Chin, she's an immortal; to a psychologist, a madwoman; to a naturalist, a feral human; to feminist Adelaide Dixon, a discarded mistress who turned on her betrayer. Interesting and at times funny, but never quite comes together.
4. Saddled with Trouble, Michele Scott. Subpar writing and an idiot heroine made me abandon this book far, far from home.
5. Bone of Contention, Roberta Gellis. Much better outing for Magdalene la Batarde than the second book in the series (although the title has no relevance to the story). In the mode of Ellis Peters, Gellis does a pretty good job of interweaving her characters' concerns with people and events on the national stage.
6. Instrument of Fate, Christie Golden. A glorified D&D adventure disguised as a novel -- and I say that as someone who likes D&D.
7. Her Smoke Rose Up Forever, James Tiptree, Jr. I remember some of these groundbreaking stories from the early '70s, but it's interesting to see them all collected together. Not all of them are masterpieces, but it's good to be reminded how talented, and how revolutionary, Tiptree was.
8. The Crimson Petal and the White, Michael Faber. I was going to write a huge rant about this, but I just don't have the energy. Starts off well, but loses momentum as soon as William moves Sugar into her flat, mostly because we don't have any clue what Sugar feels about any of this: is she really in love with William? how and when did that happen? Just when it seems like the story might be kicking into gear again, the oh-so-clever ending comes like a slap in the face to readers who have stuck with the book for almost 900 pages. Gahhh. I've read worse books, but few that have made me so angry at the waste of promising material.
9. Air, Geoff Ryman. Funny, charming, thoughtful, and altogether enjoyable. Except for the last five pages, which no doubt are supposed to be Deeply Symbolic of something or other, but are just plain disturbing.
10. The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, Michael Chabon. How can a book so funny be so amazingly tender and profoundly sad? Devoured the whole thing in one glorious day and only wished it were twice as long.
11. Quality Street, J. M. Barrie. Play on which one of my favorite Katharine Hepburn movies is based. Just as adorable as the film.
12. Dead Man's Ransom, Ellis Peters. Ran out of new stuff, so I'm back to Brother Cadfael. This book has one of my favorites scenes in the whole series, where Cadfael questions the cattle-man Anion in Owain Gwynedd's court.
13. The Pilgrim of Hate, Ellis Peters. Peters has an unfortunate habit of trying to present conversations and situations as if they can only mean one thing, when clearly there are alternate explanations. Doesn't help when she puts the real motive in the title.
14. An Excellent Mystery, Ellis Peters. Well, not really so much, with Peters doing her ineffectual "look over there" handwaving, but still an enjoyable read.
15. The Raven in the Foregate, Ellis Peters. One of the more genuinely suspenseful of the late Cadfael oeuvre.
16. The Hermit of Eyton Forest, Ellis Peters. Some interesting goings-on, with a victim and murderer who for once both deserve their fates. But Rafe of Coventry is a little deus ex machina, and there's more than a little wish-fulfillment in the way Hugh Beringar, himself a holder of villeins, connives at the escape of Hyacinth.
17. The Heretic's Apprentice, Ellis Peters. Solid detective work by Cadfael and a truly dramatic climax, with a maguffin worthy of the fuss.
18. Tomb of the Golden Bird, Elizabeth Peters. After a brief return to form in Guardian of the Horizon and The Serpent on the Crown, Peters is back to phoning in the mystery while she dwells on the domestic relations of the vast and quarrelsome Emerson clan. After all, who could possibly be interested in such petty matters as the discovery of King Tut's tomb, political unrest in the post-WWI Middle East, or a tomb robber who somehow blows himself up when we could be discussing the stormy state of Sethos and Margaret's marriage (maybe Amelia, with her vast knowledge of psychology, could teach these two a little about communication skills), the need for Ramses and Nefret to have some independence (it only takes them 3 months to decide to do what Amelia planned for them from the beginning), or whether Bertie and Jumana will finally get together (they do, in one of the most rushed and undramatic romances Peters has ever penned). Even Amelia disappoints, as she fails to deliver her usual blithe outrageousness (she does figure out the baffling cipher, but it's a meaningless clue that leads nowhere). Also, the book is riddled with annoying grammatical errors that should have been cleaned out by a good copy edit.
19. Killer in High Heels, Gemma Halliday. Reads like the author was writing with a Chick Lit Checklist in hand: "Wacky young single heroine with the libido of a hamster? Check. Offbeat creative job? Check. Ditsy friends, including obligatory gay guy? Check. Tough sexy man of mystery? Check. Obsession with fashion, including rampant product placement? Check." Too bad the checklist didn't include anything like clever dialog, believable situations and motivations, characters readers can care about, or actual clues pointing to the killers.
20. Ghost of a Chance, Amy Patricia Meade. Another period effort with no sense of history at all. A vast wave of indifference engulfed me as I read this and I tossed it aside halfway through.

Movie Diary May 2007

Movies seen for the first time are in green.

1. The Break-Up (2006), Peyton Reed. Much better than I thought it would be, with a realistic, potentially optimistic ending. Serendipitous timing; it's set in Chicago, where I happened to be on business.
2. The Mating Season (1951), Mitchell Leison. Terrific little comedy about young couple from different classes and their mothers. Makes great use of the sassy Thelma Ritter, and even turns Miriam Hopkins' brittle mannerisms to advantage. In fact, only John Lund as the husband drags the operation down.
3. Stella Dallas (1937), King Vidor. Three-quarters snooze, one-quarter soap. I spent an hour and a half yawning and fidgeting, wondering what all the fuss was about. Then Stella made her big renunciation, and from then on the tears just wouldn't stop. Can't say I enjoyed it, but I understand how it achieved its reputation.
4. Hamlet (1948), Laurence Olivier. I don't remember this bothering me before, but I had to turn it off when Hamlet was slapping around his mother: too much like spousal abuse, especially since Beatrice seemed much more like Hamlet's age than Ophelia. (According to IMDb, Eileen Herlie was 13 years younger than Olivier; Jean Simmons was 9 years younger than that.) I know this version was considered revolutionary for removing scenes and characters (including my favorites, Rosenkrantz and Guildenstern), but it's still basically a slow-moving, stagey, and overly reverential treatment of the play. And Olivier might be a great actor and stuff, but he looks ridiculous in that blond 'do. What genius director came up with that idea?
5. Ball of Fire (1941), Howard Hawks. Barbara Stanwyck is a genuine breath of life to Gary Cooper and his encyclopedia-writing pack of "eight squirrely cherubs." Hawks capitalized nicely on both Stanwyck's brassiness and Cooper's stiffness. Also featuring an amazing supporting cast, from Henry Travers and Oscar Homolka to Dana Andrews and Dan Duryea, who specialized in giggling psychopaths.
6. Guys and Dolls (1955), Joseph L. Mankiewicz. My sister really hates this movie, but I kind of love it, despite the fact that Marlon Brando can't sing, Frank Sinatra is horribly miscast as Nathan Detroit, they cut out one of Adelaide's best songs and some of the best lines . . . where was I going with this? Oh, yeah, the love part. I love the mostly terrific music, the snappy Damon Runyon dialog, the stylish opening sequence, the crap game dance, the comic delights of Vivian Blaine as Adelaide, and most especially Sheldon Leonard as Harry the Horse. I can't help it. I'm a fool for the man.
7. In Harm's Way (1965), Otto Preminger. Bizarrely retro WWII movie, even filmed in B&W; except for the fairly adult sexual content, might have been made in 1945. John Wayne and Patricia O'Neal essentially reprise their roles from earlier war films as the misunderstood hero and the worldly wise, understanding nurse. This is the sort of movie where a rapist (Kirk Douglas) has to die, but we're supposed to sympathize with what led him to it and find his death gallant and heroic; also, Wayne's callow, wrong-headed son (Brandon de Wilde) learns better but still dies so his dad can be proud of him. Only real surprise is that O'Neal is allowed to be the sexual aggressor and not be punished for it.
8. Heartbeat (1946), Sam Wood. Like In Harm's Way, this movie seems to come from a much earlier time than it does, since it has the awkward, uneven pacing and lapses in mood most often found in early talkies. Ginger Rogers plays an 18-year-old French reform school girl with a dopey innocence that is about as convincing as . . . her portrayal of the teenage Sarah Bernhardt in The Barkleys of Broadway 3 years later. (I like Rogers, but this is not the kind of material she does well.) Film wastes its assets of Basil Rathbone as the Fagin-like proprietor of a school for pickpockets and Adolphe Menjou as a shady ambassador.
9. The Secret Life of Mrs. Beeton (2007), Masterpiece Theater. Odd, shapeless story of the woman who created the most successful domestic manual in history. Can't quite decide what story it wants to tell or what tone it wants to take. Anna Madeley rather charming in the role of Isabella Beaton. I appreciate Masterpiece Theater's reaching out to find fresher material, but their recent efforts have not been terribly successful.
10. A Soldier's Story (1984), Norman Jewison. Slow-moving but absorbing account of investigation into the murder of a black sergeant at an Army base during WWII. Intense performance from Denzel Washington in an early role.
11. Stalag 17 (1951), Billy Wilder. See post May 29, 2007.
12. Quartet (1948), Various directors. Dated and predictable collection of short films based on stories by W. Somerset Maughm. Can't decide which is the most offensive to women; they're all pretty good candidates.

As Close As I'll Ever Come to Marcel Proust

Like most Inside the Actors Studio junkies, I've been mentally preparing for my appearance on the show someday when my brilliance has been generally acknowledged. Now that notanillusion (by way of Doppelganger) has posted her own responses to James Lipton's/Bernard Pivot's/Marcel Proust's questionnaire, I feel entitled to do the same:

What is your favorite word?
Brouhaha. Don't you feel better just saying it?

What is your least favorite word?
Panties. *shudder* Is that an item of clothing an adult woman should be wearing?

What is your favorite curse word?
I've never quite understood whether this means the one I like the most or the one I use the most. The one I like the most is "shitload"; it's so, um, evocative. But the one I use the most is "fuck" and its variant "fuck me."

What sound or noise do you love?
The plish-plash of the ocean, the running of a river.

What sound or noise do you hate?
Any sudden loud noise, but especially those earsplitting alarms parking garages use to let people on the street know someone's coming out.

What turns you on or excites you?
Good writing, beautiful music, good food.

What turns you off?
Self-righteousness.

What profession other than yours would you like to attempt?
Chef. Except for that whole getting up early and working hard part.

What profession other than yours would you not like to attempt?
Most of them, but let's go with "toll collector."

And finally, if Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
"Elizabeth I, Ben Franklin, Katharine Hepburn, and a few of the gang are waiting for you at the sundae bar."

Free William Holden

Apparently, some people don't like Stalag 17, Billy Wilder's 1953 movie about life in a German POW camp. They're bewildered by its mix of drama and black comedy, or they find the pacing uneven, or they're upset that it doesn't show camp life as one of unrelenting misery. I must disagree: I think it's one of the finest movies about World War II ever made, a taut, crackling, nail-biting thriller.

Stalag 17 stars William Holden as J. J. Sefton, a cynical, opportunistic, less-than-upper-crust Bostonian with a chip on his shoulder the size of Montana. Unlike his fellow prisoners, who view it as their duty to escape, Sefton is an entrepreneur who has made a pretty comfortable life for himself by trading freely with both the Germans and the Americans and is in no hurry to leave. His mercenary attitude makes him extremely unpopular in the camp; when it becomes clear that someone in the barracks is feeding information to the Germans (Sig Ruman as Sgt. Schulz and Otto Preminger as kommandant Col. von Scherbach), he becomes the number one suspect.

Of course, it's not him; so who is it? Hoffy (Richard Erdman), the strangely complacent barracks chief? Duke (Neville Brand), the vigilante braying loudest for Sefton's blood? Cookie (Gil Stratton), Sefton's flunky? Animal (Robert Strauss), the amiable slob with a thing for Betty Grable? Joey (Robinson Stone), the sole survivor of his aircrew who seems to have a serious case of PTSD? No, it's Price (Peter Graves), the big, blond Security man, who's really a German himself. I pride myself on my ability to detect culprits before they're revealed, but I never saw that one coming.

Sefton figures out the clever mechanism by which Schulz and Price communicate, learns the traitor's identity, then exposes him to the other inmates so neatly, so intelligently, it's awesome to behold. And the ending, in which he ruthlessly tosses Price to the German guards as a distraction to even the odds as he smuggles a saboteur (Don Taylor as Lt. Dunbar) out of the camp, is as cold-blooded and poetically just as anything ever put on screen.

It's a shame Holden was such a handsome guy and was forced to play the leading man type, because he was born to play the antihero. Both in Stalag 17 and the earlier Sunset Blvd. (also directed by Wilder), he sizzles, he incandesces, in a way he never did in any of his stalwart hero roles. When he plays a good guy, all stiff with righteousness, it's like he's holding himself in; but when he plays a heel, all sneering wisecracks and arrogant swagger, it's like he's letting himself go free, and that's a beautiful thing.

As always in a Wilder film, the characters have a striking moral complexity. The obvious example is Sefton, who starts out a cheerful collaborator, willing to bribe or barter with his German captors to buy himself an extra comfort or privilege. But Cookie is his eager helper and toady; isn't Cookie just as complicit, just as morally responsible? Yet no one resents or scorns him the way they do Sefton, perhaps because Cookie is obsequious where Sefton is superior. His bunkmates hate Sefton for his success and their need of him; in their desperate desire for the commodities and services he provides, they also become willing to look the other way, to ignore their own complicity. Their rage boils over into mob violence once the accusation of spying gives them the excuse, but it's notable that what the action really frees them to do is plunder Sefton's possessions without guilt.

Sefton, meanwhile, shows that he is not the louse everyone thinks he is; if he were, why would he be so upset by their accusation, or by the realization that the true traitor is still free to work his malice? He could lie back and let events take their course; instead he uses the same devious skills that made him so hated to unmask Price and clear his own name. Then, instead of embracing his sheepish mates' acceptance to resume his black-marketeering ways, he throws it back in their teeth, stepping up to undertake the daring escape with Dunbar under the Germans' very noses. Is it really all because of possible reward money from Dunbar's rich mother? Well, to paraphrase Sam Spade, I'm sure it's one more item on that side of the scale.

Wrong Questions Scoreboard

Here's a round-up of the books I bought because they were recommended by Abigail Nussbaum:

Really Loved: Middlesex, Air, Howl's Moving Castle
Liked More than Not: Her Smoke Rose Up Forever
Truly Despised: The Crimson Petal and the White, Cloud Atlas, 1610: A Sundial in a Grave

In other words, Abigail's score was just slightly better than 50/50.

That's deeply disappointing to me, because I love the way she writes and I wanted to associate myself with someone of her obvious thoughtfulness and erudition. Also, it would be handy to have an infallible guide to direct me effortlessly to things I would like and away from things I wouldn't. Instead, I'll just have to treat her like any other critic: hopefully but not blindly, without losing my grip on my native skepticism. At least I get the pleasure of reading her reviews.

Not So Much With the "Boom!"

After last week's intensely awesome episode of Heroes, I was filled with unbearable anticipation for this week's climax. Maybe it was inevitable after the build-up, but I must say I found myself distinctly . . . underwhelmed.

Here, with a big nod of gratitude to the great posters at TWoP, are my Top 10 Unanswered Questions of the Heroes Finale:

1. What the hell ever happened to the Haitian? And what about Hana Gittleman? And Claude?
2. Why, after all those hints about Candice's real appearance, did she revert to Candice-shape when Niki knocked her out?
3. After 87 episodes of Hiro searching for the damn sword, why did he just tamely hand it over to Ando before going off to kill Sylar?
4. Why, after being clearly and distinctly told that he needed to cut Sylar's head off, did Hiro just stab him? Without stopping time first?
5. What is Ma Petrelli's power? Or Charles Deveaux's?
6. Why was Mohinder suddenly under the delusion he's a medical doctor?
7. Since Peter wasn't, in fact, the only one who could stop Sylar, what was the point of their final confrontation? And why was it so lame? (Seriously.)
8. If Peter was supposed to conquer Sylar/the bomb through the power of love, why didn't he?
9. Why did Peter need Nathan to fly away?
10. What the hell did saving the cheerleader have to do with enabling Nathan and Peter to save the world? Especially since Peter was the one who was threatening it in the first place?

Oh, well. None of this is to say that this season hasn't been one of the most exciting, satisfying TV experiences ever and that I'm not already counting the days until September. Just for the record, you can put me in the camp of people who think that Hiro's dad is Kensei, aka The Lone Samurai. Join me in the fall when the shocking truth is revealed!