War of the Worlds?
Now Playing: Supertramp - Breakfast in America
Topic: Grunts, rants, and others

It started off well enough: a "cosy" portrait of a typical, dysfunctional American family in Newark, NJ (never mind that the docks Cruise "works" at are in fact in Brooklyn). Two kids, a wise-ass, screaming Dakota Fanning, and a moronic teenage Justin Chatwin; one mom not old enough to have had them both; her new, SUV-equipped second husband, and the errant dad unable to cope with the kids for the weekend. It would have surely ended in disaster, except that daddy got lucky: the Martians intervened!

Right you are, you guessed it. I have gone, betrayed my instincts, and watched Steven Spielberg's "War of the Worlds". And to make a long story short: the special effects team could well earn an Oscar nomination for their untiring efforts trying to save what soon became a doomed movie. Everyone else involved in this abysmal venture, including Mr. Spielberg, should receive a two-year ban from the movie industry. Maybe then they will think before they "act" the next time around.

As I said, it really started off well enough. H.G. Wells' concept of the aliens has been splendidly updated; the introduction of the protagonists almost succeeded in making you forget all the negative propaganda that led most of tonight's visitors to the theater. And the first appearance of the Martians, whose ships were apparently buried beneath our world for eons, was a remarkable piece of digital special effects. But then the idiosyncrasies started to set in and from then on it was a downhill affair. Like: just after the magnetic storm caused by what appears at first to be 27 lightening strikes into the same spot knocks out all the cars, power supply, cellphones and even watches, Cruise & film family promptly find the only car still working. One that obviously never needs gas, despite being a van that at best of times only gets about fifteen miles per gallon.

It goes on like that. Mr. Cruise manages to knock out the huge alien ships with less than a handful of hand grenades. Ms. Fanning, naturally, never learns her lesson(s) and constantly wanders off, runs off, and is generally off, in a wide-eyed still reminiscent of the cheesy "bug-eye" postcards that Hallmark used to sell.

The nearly packed midnight audience mostly laughed throughout the movie. American theater crowds are strangely participative, and this one literally exploded with four-letter expletives when - with most of the Eastern Seaboard destroyed - the aliens miraculously missed the Boston neighborhood where the ex-wife, new hubby, and her parents appeared on a stoop, obviously unruffled by the world-wide catastrophic events.

In summation it is clear that Byron Haskin's 1953 version, starring Gene Berry and set in small town USA, was clearly more believable and better acted for a tenth of the cost. And that neither film even comes close to to Orson Wells' 1937 radio broadcast that cause real-life panic among the far less jaded listeners of the New Deal era.

Batman Ends..
Now Playing: U2: Sunday, Bloody Sunday
Topic: Grunts, rants, and others

With Batman there is always hope. Well, at least the hope that with this "Batman Begins" it all finally ends. Having just seen it I must conclude that even actors such as Michael Cain, Liam Neeson, and Morgan Friedman have a need to fill the coffers with easy loot now and then. Why else would they agree to sprout platitudes and other horrid script lines besides such shallow entities as Kate Holmes and Christian Bale?

Mostly the movie consists of really bad dialog, confounded by mediocre cinematography. Although not alone in the category of "Let's make money at all costs", it clearly is among its leading examples. Hollywood has been moaning a lot lately about lost ticket sales and dwindling audiences, especially when compared to previous years. The obvious answers - create better movies, check out what went right then as compared to what is wrong now - are seemingly not options for this generation of movie moguls. Instead, they grasp at straws and publicity stunts. Nothing new there, except perhaps the freneticism with which those old tools are reinvented. When it became clear the Mr. Spielberg's presence on War of the Worlds was not enough to save the film from the critics, Mr. Cruise quickly - and literally - jumped into the breach, creating enough public noise for both himself and his current sweetheart, Ms. Holmes. Obviously Hollywood's managers learned the Jolie-Pitt lesson quickly.

Clearly the movie summer will dwindle away without producing any real hits (in the old-fashioned sense of movie block busters). Until now only one category of movies has produced enough entertainment value to make going to the theaters an enjoyable experience: the animated features. Maybe the Hollywood big shots need to watch features like the recent Madagascar; maybe then they would learn that creating exiting and enjoyable content does not require stars jumping down everyone's throat (or sofa's, for that matter).

Cruise, Dakota, and other aliens..
Now Playing: Queen: Bohemian Rapsodie
Topic: Rambling Rumminations

When Orson Welles broadcasted his (almost) namesake's classic War of the Worlds on October 30th, 1938, he caused New Jersey residents to flee their homes en masse. Despite the inclusion of disclaimers, that it was all just fiction, the folks in New York's bracken backwaters actually believed the actor's rendition of Martians terrorizing the state.

Not to worry - it won't happen this time around. The only possibility of a stampede following Tom Cruise and Steven Spielberg's version of the same story would come about as a result of simply too much bad acting. Mr. Cruise, paired up with another midget thespian, Dakota Fanning, has largely survived the last decade because of his undeniably good looks (at least where the face is concerned - there isn't much of a body!), and because there simply isn't much in terms of competition in the leading young men category these days.

Lately, however, his public antics about Ms. Holmes and the Scientologist Body-snatchers, are beginning to erode what ever goodwill his besotted fans have left. Who knows? Maybe this utterly forgettable mis-adaptation of a movie will be the start of a movie era without Cruise-control! My only regret would be: why hasn't this happened sooner.

Meanwhile, over in the Jolie Pitts of domestic violence-oriented movies, Mr. and Mrs. Smith duke it out in true American fashion: guns blazing! It could have been a lot worse. Although the movie owes its box office success more because of domestic dramas off the set, it wasn't half bad. The camp acting by both stars ensures that nobody but the densest imbecile from Wisconsin would take it as anything else than a farce. And as such it has a quite a few laughs, if you can overlook the regrettable inclusion of Vince Vaughn, who - unfortunately - did not get shot in the first scene of the movie.

Summertime, and the living is..
Now Playing: PR's Esquire Album: Sarah
Topic: Grunts, rants, and others

Sometimes, even a Methuselah like myself can still get distracted by a temporary image of perfection - and the ultimate destruction thereof. Naturally I am talking about a woman - what other type of perfection is there?

It happened today, on the F-Train, the orange line that wiggles from my working domus in Brooklyn to the relaxation (or aggravation) that is Manhattan. She wasn't young anymore; I would have probably not wasted any thought on one of those fleeting, pubescent phantoms that the current clothing trends impose on the general public. No, she was a woman of substance, most likely older than her nearly flawless skin allowed for. Skinny but superbly shapely legs, neatly folded in the old-fashioned, angled way. A tempered blue suit ensemble: medium length skirt following the Hedburn curvature, from her thighs to her hips; an open, untrimmed jacket continuing the travels to accentuate her certifiably perfectly rounded breasts covered by a nondescript, off-white cotton top closed around the neck.

The seemingly too young skin added a subtle glow to a face fringed by a deceptively straight-forward haircut of blonde and brunette streaks curving from a center part around the high cheek bones to her even chin. Not too much make-up to distract from the frosty blue eyes. Both the two worn briefcases and the intent with which those eyes followed some arcane article in the business section of the NY Times spoke of the Brooklyn Heights, or the again Yuppies' Park Slope section; destined for a mid-town office. As did the understated jewelry. My uncouth assessment of her may not spell perfection to any one but myself; it does not matter, because such distributive voyeur democracy is not my goal in telling this incident. Merely it preambles its ultimate destruction - at her own hands no less.

My perspective of women has always started at the shoes, slowly winding its way up to the crowning diadem of eyes and hair. I try to give all aspects equal time, unless some characteristic flaw aborts the undertaking early. Not today, not immediately at least. I enjoyed the bliss while it lasted, much like an art aficionado enjoys a long lost painting or sculpture by his or her favorite artist.

I doubt she noticed my observations; instead, a few moments before we rolled into 34th Street station, she folded her newspaper and presented the world with a full view of her face: beautiful jaws moving with the intensity of a maelstrom, now gaping open like the tunnels of the subway, now clenched in the horrible mastication of chewing gum.

Call me prissy, call me anything - but at that moment the reduction of her image to a mere New Yorker felt like a desecration, like Rembrandt pouring tar onto the Night Watch.

And then she was gone. As was the morning.

An old love returns..
Topic: My mind's attic

Twenty years is a long time, even for a life as varied as mine. Seeing an old flame after two decades again can be a shock to one's system, and this meeting - while expected, even planned - was no different. Obviously my age showed more than hers; she had gained a little weight, befitting for her years, but the former sleekness and near casual elegance was still there: when I held here it almost seemed as if time had never intervened.

Not surprisingly she had become more complex over the years. Her easy-going ways were gone, replaced by a desire to be everything to everybody. In that she simply had followed the times: they all did it, old and new, old flames as well as new loves. You simply have to accept it, come to terms with it, learn the new ways - as hard as it can be.

In that respect the Nikon D1X, however, seems to be in a class of her own. Then - twenty odd years ago - she was simply called the F2, a couple a dials crowning the trim, black body, and she snug into your hands as if she was just another appendage. Simplicity was the name of the game in those, demanding of everyone to know the rules and concepts from the ground up. Those who tried to short-cut their way into that partnership between you and the camera found nothing but frustration at the processing lab.

Nowadays, of course there is no lab, except perhaps for a handful of die-hard purists. Here and now, all you need is cash: the world of mega-pixels is your oyster. Shoot, discard, try again. Eventually even the most moronic amateur will get lucky, the glut of digital images bloating the Internet is ample proof of that.

Still, yesterday's reunion felt like the old days. Once we were reacquainted, once I had acknowledged her technical superiority, my Nikon and I quickly became an item again.

Some love affairs are simply destined to last forever.

Is it over? Yes?!
Now Playing: Pink Floyd: Dark Side of the Moon
Topic: Grunts, rants, and others

"To the Dark Side he has gone" - George Lucas that is. Judging by the ooh's and aah's the press has unilaterally showered on Master Lucas' final installment of the Star Wars series, I may well be the one dissenting voice. Not that I would be so presumptuous as to include my meagre efforts here with the mainstream opinion makers, but I find it somewhat disconcerting that my own take of the second (first?) trilogy is diametrically opposed of the public reviews. Am I really the only one who liked The Phantom Menace, and who thought Jar-Jar Binks was funny (and largely stole the movie from the, ahem, actors?

Maybe there is something to the New York Times' view that Star Wars was never about acting. But I cannot quite swallow that; just look at the original trilogy's line-up: Sir Alec Guinness, Harrison Ford, Peter Cushing, Carrie Fisher, and - yes - Mark Hamill. James Earl Jones (who definitely has gone over to the dark side of Verizon) voiced Lord Vader.

Then Lucas made us believe all the pyrotechnics because they were the thick icing on a cake of real human drama, enacted by thespians of considerable stature and a supporting cast of experts. Now he wants us to swallow the poor showing of actors by smothering them in fantastic layer after layer of computer pyrotechnics.

Granted, the visuals were all spectacular, in each and everyone of the six movies. But to watch Hayden Christensen drone out pomposity after pomposity, starring into the camera with about as much conviction as third grader doing his first school-play, that was simply too much. The other's are not much better. Ms. Portman has shown elsewhere that she can indeed act. Lumbered with an absolutely boorish script, none of the performers really stand a chance. Not even Ian McDiarmid as the Senator cum Emperor, and his is the fleshiest part of the lot. Only one character has remained true to the original: Yoda, as brought to life by the inimitable Frank Oz.

And yet, see it you must. If only to find closure after watching three decades of the slow murder of a good idea by its originator.

Movie summer's (almost) here..
Now Playing: Nancy Sinatra: Bang-Bang..
Topic: Rambling Rumminations

Every year, shortly before the Tony Awards are doing their bit for corporate gloating on Broadway, the press, especially the respectable dailies like the New York Times, offer a little rant about the up and coming summer blockbusters. The annum horribilis of Hollywood, known to you and me simply as 2005, is no different. This year's Time list, lead by the unavoidable "final" episode of Star Wars, however, stands out because of the uncommon number of remakes and sequels being readied for the ever lurking descent into B-Movie territory.

The nature of the movie industry naturally ensures that there will always be films which - despite best efforts by the marketeers and name droppers - respond to the laws of gravity quicker than others. Take, for example, such recent big ticket efforts involving names like Denzel Washington, Tom Cruise, and even the previously unsinkable Tom Hanks. All were hyped with the kind of money the involvement of this superstars demands. Other than on the shelves of Blockbuster, where they are gathering dust, they disappeared from view faster than you can say "DVD".

This summer promises to swell the ranks of galactic failures more than any previous theatre season. Hollywood's moguls apparently think - wrongly, it seems - that the current wave of retro will work at the box office, too. Why else would anyone re-invoke the long exorcised spirit of "Herbie", the formulaic wise-ass Volkswagen? Or conjure up ninety minutes of Jeanie and her hapless husband, straight from the nineteen-sixties boob-tube to tomorrow's DVD Jewel Case? This one starring that Kidman woman, already guilty of messing up another remake: The Stepford Wives", who this time will ride a broom and twitch her nose at a shrinking crowd of cinema goers. In a year that sees two of the top-selling sequel releases, the already mentioned Star Wars and number four in the Harry Potter franchise, that crowd is already unnaturally thin. Adding insult to injury will come in the form of "The Honeymooners", the TV classic made famous by Jacky Gleason. In the 2005 version a nearly all black cast is led by none other than Cedric, the so-called "entertainer" - a misnomer if there ever was one. Where Mr. Gleason was funny, Mr. Entertainer can at best manage pathetic.

It does not end there. Another so-so return to the archives is led by Adam Sandler and Chris Rock, including a seemingly ageless Burt Reynolds who in turn led the 1974 original. It wasn't particularly good then, it hasn't improved during the remake. Following on its heels is Mr. and Mrs. Smith, a badly disguised remake of Prizzy's Honor which in 1985 featured two superstars of the dark comedy genre, Kathleen Turner and Jack Nicholson. Both Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie certainly do not have the necessary charisma to pull off such a feat. And let's not omit the inimitable Johnny Depp who lately had such a great run, career-wise, that time has come for him to participate in a predeterminate failure called Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

The original, based on a book by (and directed by) Roal Dahl, one of the true masters of the absurd children's fantasies, starred Gene Wilder and a cast of unknowns, then with limited success. It went on to become a seasonal TV staple, and a favorite video rental. The remake claiming not to be remake not only stands out because it has been directed by another master of the macabre, Tim Burton, but also because every male leading actor, from Nicholas Cage to Christopher Walken were at one time mentioned as possible leads. Adding to its history of problems were replacements at the screen writing desk, cost overruns (what else is new?), and of course, on-set clashes between actors and Mr. Burton. From what I've seen thus far, the result fits well into the summer's list of wannabe hits - fat chance!

Hollywood, and its outlying satellites New York and London, are seriously running out of ideas. With the industry's outright refusal to make anything but politically correct movies, anyone looking for more than shallow entertainment will have to look abroad for the few morsels distributors will allow into our theaters. Small wonder the so-called art house theaters are thriving. Once the Star Wars mania has passed through town, those movie houses on the periphery are looking awfully good.

Yet another cinematographical travesty!
Now Playing: Travelling Wilburys - Tweeter & The Monkey Man
Topic: Grunts, rants, and others

Bloody Hell! This time the Yanks have really done it! I mean, I do, at times, like my hosts, the ludicrously mislabeled "Americans". Mostly they are indeed harmless, despite their absolutely horrid taste in decorating and politics. Two character flaws one may hope time will eventually correct, one hopes. Yes, I know, they do have a tendency to blow up parts of the planet; but again, that overeagerness to play with guns and fire can be traced back directly to the aforementioned aberrations in taste: ugliness at home and in the White House can only lead to aggravating behavior abroad.

All this nonsense I can forgive; even the poor choice in First Lady's and arrogant pugs at their sides. But the destruction of an icon's literary pinnacle? No! And No! again. For that insult - i.e., the celluloid version of The Hitchhikers's Guide to the Galaxy - a Hollywood index finger obviously aimed at the intelligent world beyond the US borders, those responsible must be made an example of. The have just jumped ahead of everyone else, bypassing even the two new popes, Arnold (of California) and Benedict (of Rome), in the queue of those who will be put against the wall when the revolution comes.

It started off well enough: using snippets from the actual radio broadcasts, the just released movie version of Douglas Adams' hit series of the same name seemed to want to follow the story as have millions of readers and listeners since 1969. Unfortunately that positive sentiment is first assaulted by the choice of a colored fellow (who could not act if his life depended on it), only to be savagely murdered about one third into the movie. From that moment on the viewer is presented with unfunny hogwash dreamed up by some feeble mind in Hollywood. Mr. Adam's master symphony of humor, irony and sarcasm - the only known trilogy containing four books! - gets only a passing glance, no more than absolutely necessary to ensure the probable sequel.

The net result is a disgustingly unfunny waste of everyone's time and money, a twin offense which, I am sure, is illegal in most parts of the universe. One can only hope that there is an equivalent of the Vogon constructor fleet, and that they are indeed on their way.

Dateline Philadelphia
Now Playing: Nothing but the gushing of the huddling massess..
Topic: Rambling Rumminations

The decision to come here, Philadelphia, was made by an aggressive Chinese woman waving tickets in my face and shouting "leave now" with frightening urgency. Why not? I have never been there, and I needed to leave the nuisance that is New York City.

The place is surprisingly clean for a US metropolitan area. My hotel, a few blocks from Washington Square, sits in the center of the gay district; rainbow flags are fluttering everywhere. This being the weekend the streets are mostly empty, still, the city has a distinctly European feel too it. It's architecture, the mews, the small shops and an abundance of tiny restaurants and bars - it all seems to have been imported straight from London or Paris.

Maybe, if the day warms up a bit, I will play the gawking tourist for a little while. Never tried that one before.

Hey, you there - yes, you in the mirror..!
Now Playing: Pink Floyd: Us & Them, reprieve
Topic: My mind's attic

"Time heals all wounds" - or so some imbecile who probably could not see the clock tower properly once said. This old bucket of BS has been with us ever since. Trust me, there is no truth in. If it does anything, then time likes to rub salt into your abrasions and cuts until tears come streaming down your face.

Until a few years ago I was able to fool most people, including myself, that I would be forever impervious to the cringes from yesteryear. Time could not touch me, I never stood still long enough. It is not a matter of getting old, but a matter of being unable to forget what will make you old. Like that one ridiculously glorious sentiment you threw aside for a - in hindsight - cowardly reason (me being the case in point here).

Now that the gashes from the distant past are wide open again, all I have left is anger pointing inwards. It is already too late for even pain.