Anthony Rizzo: Meatball Destroyer


Through the early part of the 2014 season, Chicago Cubs first baseman Anthony Rizzo seems to be bouncing back from an unlucky (his BABIP was atrocious and unsustainable) 2013.  This is lucky for me, because he’s one of the few bright spots on the 4-10 team, and one of the only healthy players on my fantasy team.

The MLB Fan Cave has a possible reason for Rizzo’s reemergence as a solid hitter: batting practice with meatballs.

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Streaming Choices: Howard Zinn: You Can’t Be Neutral on a Moving Train (2004)


In Streaming Choices, I take a quick glance at the world of cinema available on Netflix Instant, Hulu Plus, Amazon Prime, and other streaming services.

Rating: Two and a half stars (out of five)

Leftwing writer, professor, and activist Howard Zinn led an eventful, opinionated life.  He grew up in poverty and never had a book in his house until he found a frayed paperback on the street.  He ran bomber missions in World War II.  He led a group of his students at black college at numerous civil rights protests.  He and a few other activists negotiated with the North Vietnamese to release American pilots when the U.S. government wouldn’t.  And that’s the problem with Howard Zinn: You Can’t Be Neutral on a Moving Train.  It’s all recounting the man’s activities, one after the other, without truly getting to the heart of what they mean, or where they come from.

A few times, Zinn gets a bit introspective about his writings and activism, but these moments are too rare.  Directors Deb Ellis and Dennis Mueller don’t prod him to continue in these times, rather content to fall into hero worship and a pattern of “This happened, then this happened, then this.”  Sometimes Zinn will remark that seeing something (poverty where he grew up, his first activism rally where he was hit by a nightstick, his misgivings about bombing a French town to punish German soldiers after WWII was effectively won) that “affected [him] greatly,” but the film stops there.  How did it affect him?  What specific things pushed him to write about them?  What about the looks on peoples’ faces when police brutality occurs?  But no, it’s just a vague recollection and onto the next bullet point.

Ellis and Mueller fail to negotiate the downsides of activism, too.  They get Zinn to mention how every war is supposed to be the last one, and how it’s like a drug for countries.  But if activism is this enlightened, higher calling to upset people into rethinking their place in the world and changing their behaviors, hasn’t Zinn’s anti-war rhetoric failed on some level?  War still exists, and the latest failed war, Iraq, was in its early days as this documentary was shot.  They don’t ask him about how he’s shifted tactics to convince more people on the need for peace.  It’s all about the so-called world changing, in-your-face attitudes of ’60s-style activism, with no mention of how that movement got jaded and petered out.  Zinn doesn’t say anything about disillusionment with his cause, or the possible boomerang effect of being in everyone’s face can have, but I suspect that’s because he wasn’t asked about it.

Luckily, it’s not entirely dreary.  Zinn himself was a magnetic man (he died in 2010), and one I would like to learn more about from a less hero-worshipping angle (full disclosure: I’ve never read anything by him).  But he was an engaging speaker, charming, and you can tell he genuinely cared about people, the world, and the United States.  He thought they can be better, and that’s an admirable, hopeful quality people respond to.

Unfortunately, this activity checklist of a film fails his messages.  Documentaries do not necessarily need a dramatic structure (“This happens, therefore this happens, but this happens, therefore this happens,” and so on), but they shouldn’t be blander than history books, either.  Howard Zinn: You Can’t Be Neutral on a Moving Train lacks emotional details about why these issues matter to society, and historical details about each event in Zinn’s life.  At an hour and 17 minutes, the film has plenty of room to explore more.  But it always chooses the easy route of, “Look at this Great Man,” when the Great Man probably would have been plenty willing to discuss the less-than-great parts of his life.

Howard Zinn: You Can’t Be Neutral on a Moving Train is currently available on Netflix Instant.

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2013: The Ever-Evolving Top 10


The media landscape is awash in top 10 lists every December.  Movies, TV episodes, news stories, et al get their due in publications and websites alike.  It’s exhausting, and more than a little too “final” for my taste, and a big part of the reason I don’t usually write them.  This could be wholly due to my bias as a non-professional who is unable to see, hear, read, or generally experience these media in the time they are released.  If I make it to the top of the film criticism mountain, perhaps I’ll one day feel better about choosing what represents the best films of a given year.  But as things stand, I am left every year with a pile of potentially great movies I was unable to see for financial, time, or availability reasons.  It usually takes me until the following summer or later to get a solid understanding of a year’s cinematic slate.  Even then I have plenty of blind spots I wouldn’t if I were, say, Michael Phillips, who sees 400 or more new releases every year.

This is a long way of saying my annual top 10 list is a constant work in progress, even if it ultimately, mostly reflects the general consensus of other lists of its kind released months earlier.  Maybe I’m violating the media rule of timeliness, but I have also had more time to reflect on 2013′s best films than the deadline-focused people I look up to.  I think that reflection has value and gives perspective.

Now, before I get to my constantly shifting, amorphous blob of a top 10 films list, I feel it’s important in the name of full disclosure — as much as I’d like to be, I’m still far from an expert — to list every movie I saw that had some sort of release (theatrical, video on demand, Netflix Instant, film festival, etc.) in 2013, in chronological viewing order.  You’ll note that I am still missing plenty of notable movies, including Short Term 12, Fruitvale StationThe Act of Killing, and many others.

1.  Sun Don’t Shine (dir. Amy Seimetz)

2.  The Playroom (dir. Julia Dyer)

3.  42 (dir. Brian Helgeland)

4.  Oblivion (dir. Joseph Kosinski)

5.  Iron Man 3 (dir. Shane Black)

6.  Before Midnight (dir. Richard Linklater)

7.  Man of Steel (dir. Zack Snyder)

8.  The Bling Ring (dir. Sofia Coppola)

9.  Upstream Color (dir. Shane Carruth)

10.  Pacific Rim (dir. Guillermo del Toro)

11.  Room 237 (dir. Rodney Ascher)

12.  Mud (dir. Jeff Nichols)

13.  John Dies at the End (dir. Don Coscarelli)

14.  Only God Forgives (dir. Nicolas Winding Refn)

15.  Pain and Gain (dir. Michael Bay)

16.  Drinking Buddies (dir. Joe Swanberg)

17.  Gravity (dir. Alfonso Cuarón)

18.  Star Trek Into Darkness (dir. J.J. Abrams)

19.  12 Years a Slave (dir. Steve McQueen)

20.  This is the End (dir. Seth Rogen, Evan Goldberg)

21.  Aziz Ansari: Buried Alive (dir. Will Lovelace, Dylan Southern)

22.  John Hodgman: Ragnarok (dir. Lance Bangs)

23.  Salinger (dir. Shane Salerno)

24.  Mike Birbiglia: My Girlfriend’s Boyfriend (dir. Seth Barrish)

25.  The Hunger Games: Catching Fire (dir. Francis Lawrence)

26.  Frances Ha (dir. Noah Baumbach)

27.  American Hustle (dir. David O. Russell)

28.  The Heat (dir. Paul Feig)

29.  Red 2 (dir. Dean Parisot)

30.  White House Down (dir. Roland Emmerich)

31.  The World’s End (dir. Edgar Wright)

32.  Stoker (dir. Park Chan-Wook)

33.  The Wolf of Wall Street (dir. Martin Scorsese)

34.  Captain Phillips (dir. Paul Greengrass)

35.  Prince Avalanche (dir. David Gordon Green)

36.  Passion (dir. Brian De Palma)

37.  Her (dir. Spike Jonze)

38.  Thor: The Dark World (dir. Alan Taylor)

39.  Dallas Buyers Club (dir. Jean-Marc Valée)

40.  Sarah Silverman: We Are Miracles (dir. Liam Lynch)

41.  Nebraska (dir. Alexander Payne)

42.  Inside Llewyn Davis (dir. Joel Coen, Ethan Coen)

43.  All Is Lost (dir. J.C. Chandor)

 I’m unsure 43 is even a statistically significant number of 2013 releases to have seen to determine the year’s best, but based on this sample, I can say 2013 was one of the finest cinematic years of my life.  Very few of these were even mediocre, and I’d say none of them were true disasters.  Even the worst ones, like Oblivion and Passion, had a lot to offer from visual and thematic standpoints.  That’s a tremendous achievement for an industry perpetually on the media chopping block for “always” catering to the lowest common denominator.  It’s difficult to choose just 10 from this list, and I can only imagine the choice will become more difficult as I continue filling in the gaps throughout the year as more DVDs become available.  That said, here is my for now top 10 list of 2013 films.

10.  Mud (dir. Jeff Nichols)

As will become a theme in this list, Nichols is among a group of wildly exciting young filmmakers — with the semi-arbitrary age cutoff of 45 – who have had just as much impact on my psyche as the industry’s elder statesmen and long deceased masters.  His three films, Shotgun StoriesTake Shelter, and now Mud are among their years’ best, with Take Shelter being an all-time classic of paranoia and religious devotion to one’s beliefs.  Mud might not quite reach those heights, but it is a sizable achievement itself.  Nichols internalizes Mark Twain’s greatest works about boys longing for adventure and juxtaposes that desire with Matthew McConaughey’s title character, hiding from both the law and organized crime on a small island near his and the boys’ hometown; he’s the grown-up boy adventurer who never took responsibility.  Regret, disillusion with modern romantic relationships, divorce, and devotion play major parts.  The seemingly anachronistic explosive climax worked for me better than it did most, largely because it is symbolic of Mud’s realization of the reality he lives in.  He takes responsibility and sees his world blow apart in a visceral way.

9.  The World’s End (dir. Edgar Wright)

Wright, another in the under-45 group, has long shown a knack for depicting different stages of friendship onscreen while displaying a kinetic visual style and love of genre conventions.  Shawn of the Dead was about man children finally becoming adults and Hot Fuzz was about men with extremely different (and difficult) personalities coming to appreciate and work well with each other.  His latest with his frequent collaborators, Simon Pegg and Nick Frost, grows up without losing the energetic camerawork or genre trappings.  The “robots” these friends fight on their (mostly reluctant) 20-years-in-the-making pub crawl are among the best of the Body Snatcher mold, but the film has more on its mind than simple entertainment.  Pegg’s Gary is a variation on the arrested development character he played in Shawn, but he and Wright take a far darker tack with him.  His alcoholism is a problem for all his lapsed friends, and none want anything to do with him, although he promises a night of fun to escape their equally (though more socially acceptable) dreary adult lives.  The film’s primary choice — forced enlightenment and security versus intellectual, however limited, liberty — is a deep one, and it does not shy away from the downsides of both choices.

8.  All Is Lost (dir. J.C. Chandor)

Director Chandor, on only his second feature, creates something unlike the rest of the current filmic landscape.  All Is Lost is close to being a silent film, but with a modern twist: sound design plays a huge role.  Robert Redford’s sailor may not say more than a couple lines, but the creaking of the boat, the rushing waves, the rubbery stretching of the life raft craft an aural experience which, when paired with the harrowing images, envelopes the audience in the moment.  Small nods to Buster Keaton abound, but Chandor deftly makes these moments horrifying rather than comedic.  He understands how film techniques are elastic and shows a magnificent grasp of how to manipulate them to make them his own.

7.  Only God Forgives (dir. Nicolas Winding Refn)

Refn might be my favorite director in his prime.  Much like Chandor’s entry on this list, Refn’s film does not place a premium on speaking.  Only God Forgives rather takes stark, archetypal images and pits them against each other in a hyper stylized world that looks rather unlike our own.  Ryan Gosling’s Julian goes on a Freudian quest, at his domineering mother’s (Kristin Scott Thomas) demand, throughout Bangkok’s underground boxing scene to avenge his brother’s (deserved) death.  Psychological horror imagery pervades, hands are lost, karaoke is sung.  It’s a semiotic smorgasbord, one I cannot wait to see again and again.

6.  12 Years a Slave (dir. Steve McQueen)

Although it is perhaps the most important — for America’s grasping its brutal history, for the director’s race — film released in 2013, 12 Years a Slave does not prop itself up on its own importance.  It’s a vibrant work that captures the beauty of the American south — the wind going through the weeping willow trees is pure art — and the brutality inflicted on slaves.  It is not a film concerned with entertainment, so much as discussing, in blunt terms, what it means to keep other human beings as property.  Devin Faraci at Badass Digest wrote that 12 Years a Slave is a horror film, and I’m inclined to agree.  Everything that happens to Solomon (Chiwetel Ejiofor) is akin to the terror inflicted in slasher movies, but McQueen takes the judgmental distance out of the equation, which is itself remarkable.  McQueen’s images speak for themselves, and he presents them matter-of-factly so as not to editorialize something that is inherently evil about the world.

5.  Before Midnight (dir. Richard Linklater)

Linklater, Julie Delpy, and Ethan Hawke continue their saga of Jesse and Celine, nine years after we last saw them in Before Sunset and 18 years after they met in Before Sunrise.  They’re now in their 40s, married by common law but not ceremonially, and they have twin daughters.  They’re bored and struggling with what it means to stay monogamous over a lifetime.  The emerging fight throughout the runtime is shattering, with both sides making great points about sacrifices made for each other, and neither being happy about the tradeoffs they’ve made in life.  Gone is the soaring butterflies of the first two films, replaced with hard reality; it’s the difference between an uplifting campaign and the difficulties of actually governing.  Despite the world-ending rhetoric of their fight, the film’s ending suggests this is another in a series of arguments they’ve had, and they remain a couple, maybe not forever, but for now.  That’s more realistically hopeful than the endings of either previous entry in the series, and I look forward to seeing where Jesse and Celine are as they cross 50.

4.  Gravity (dir. Alfonso Cuarón)

Remarkably similar to All Is Lost, Cuarón’s film is even simpler, possibly the simplest story of everything on this list.  It’s a parable of dealing with and moving on from life’s challenges.  He does not need to imbue it with more to chew on, because that’s as powerful a message as any in human existence.  From the opening calamity to the joyous final shot, Sandra Bullock’s Ryan Stone only has survival and rebirth on her mind.  If she succumbs to self-doubt, she won’t make it.  If she doesn’t succumb to self-doubt, she still might not make it, but she’ll have her pride intact.  So she tries and she overcomes every mounting problem.  It’s beautiful without considering the technological marvel the film is.  The spectacle of sitting by myself, fully enraptured by the screen, is one of my favorite moviegoing experiences, one I hope to replicate in the years ahead when Gravity becomes a staple of repertory houses.

3.  The Wolf of Wall Street (dir. Martin Scorsese)

Untrammeled, gleeful greed is not something the movies often show onscreen, even if that is the reason behind making most of them.  Usually filmmakers are burdened by trying to give the audience characters to like and root for.  Here, Scorsese is unconcerned, and he weaves a story about the most money-obsessed culture — indeed, that’s their only focus, as they are unconcerned with providing services or products to others — in our society: Wall Street.  Leonardo DiCaprio’s Jordan Belfort builds an empire based on tricking people into thinking they will become rich, and he teaches even the dimmest bulbs in his circle to defraud other human beings.  His system is something anyone who has spent time in sales has experienced, and that bell rings clearly and frighteningly with every immoral transaction Belfort makes.  Scorsese shows how exceedingly fun this lifestyle is, because greed is fundamentally fun, but he never fails to show the emptiness at its heart.  The fact that Belfort and people like him led to the 2008 financial crisis and haven’t received more than a slap on the wrist is unsettling at best, and Scorsese wants us to know that this is not all right.

2.  Inside Llewyn Davis (dir. Joel Coen, Ethan Coen)

This has to be the most serene movie the Coens have made. It’s funny, but not uproarious. It’s unordinary, but not truly absurd. Its protagonist is a misanthrope but not one totally undeserving of sympathy. But despite it not reaching for the extreme, it never fails to be sublime.  Llewyn is a pathologically difficult person, but he comes from a place of uncompromised art, which we of course admire when it’s successful. Orson Welles may have been an unqualified genius, but his dealings with people before the Mercury Theatre must have been insufferable, what with all the eating, drinking, and womanizing. What if he’d stumbled out of the gate instead of lucking into the complete artistic freedom afforded him to make Citizen Kane? I bet he’d have ended up something like Llewyn.  And it’s not like the movie takes place in an ironic universe devoid of hope that one might expect from the Coen brothers. Ulysses the cat finds his way home. Llewyn’s dementia riddled father flashes a moment of recognition that resembles pleasure at hearing his son’s music. The cat he hits on the road might be cut, but it limps away seemingly dazed but otherwise okay. And most of all, the ending should give Llewyn, a man with a morose, but talented, singing voice all the hope in the world: If Bob Dylan’s nasal, wiry voice could make him a superstar, surely the smoother, melancholy Llewyn Davis can scratch out a (somewhat) steady living in the folk environment.

1.  Her (dir. Spike Jonze)

Technology will continue to seamlessly integrate itself into every aspect of human experience.  That’s an important idea to consider, and could be the subject to any number of films going forward.  But it is merely background in Her.  What concerns Spike Jonze, like all great storytellers, is human interaction and possible ways forward when complications arise.  Theodore (Joaquin Phoenix) is crushed by the baggage of his recent past, and his rut is threatening to derail his life permanently.  Samantha (Scarlett Johansson), his artificially intelligent operating system, is a thinking, learning, growing entity capable of loving him the way he needs.  At least for a time.  What about what she needs?  Is Theodore able, or more importantly, willing, to sacrifice his desires for her?  The give and take between Her‘s principle characters is something every person in a relationship deals with, and the heightened sense of distance between them — they can never truly touch — makes matters worse.  Is physical distance a true killer for a relationship, or can people work through it?  More profound is the way Jonze builds an emotional and psychological distance between the characters, as Samantha’s unique ability to learn creates a zen-like worldview, frustrating to the necessarily more grounded Theodore.  And if things end in a life changing relationship, is that truly a bad thing?  If a lesson is learned and love occurred, Her suggests it’s a rich time in one’s life.

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Wedding Ingratiation Tips


I went to a wedding this weekend at which I only knew my girlfriend and her immediate family; it’s why I haven’t written anything since Friday.  I felt I needed to make a positive impression on the bride, Emily’s (she would be my girlfriend) former neighbor and one of her oldest friends.  It worked, so I have some incredibly specific advice in easily digestible bullet point form.

1.  Imply your grooming is all about looking nice and not for opportunistic, superstitious reasons.

On dermatologist’s orders — long story short: razor burn is significantly worse for me than the average man — I’ve had a beard for the last year and a half, only shaving it once in that time because I royally screwed up trimming it.  Before we left for St. Louis Friday, I took an extra few minutes in the bathroom and emerged with a hairless face.  I looked five years younger and clean as a whistle.

What nobody at the wedding needed to know is that I mostly did it for hockey.

The Chicago Blackhawks’ final regular season game coincided with Saturday’s ceremony, and it is NHL tradition for players and fans to grow beards for as long as the team remains alive in the hunt for the Stanley Cup.  But you have to start fresh; no cheating.  I took the opportunity to score points with strangers by doing something I planned for months to do anyway.  It made it extra special when I realized the Hawks would likely (and Sunday’s games’ results bore this out) play the St. Louis Blues in the first round, and my superstition took place in a room surrounded by Blues fans.  They have received enough support from the baseball gods in that town, so my covert call to the hockey gods to continue my favorite team’s run of success shouldn’t be too much to ask.

2.  Don’t be too creeped out by the pop-up town where the wedding takes place.

New Town, St. Charles, Missouri, is an unnerving place.  It’s beautiful, with European-style canals, a town square designed for foot traffic (including a comic book store, which I greatly appreciated), and gorgeous brownstones everywhere.  But there’s something amiss about it.

It appears out of nowhere in the middle of a giant field.  Everyone is pleasant, too pleasant.  Children ride their bikes and laugh without being snotty bastards to the people in their way.

New Town feels like a 19th century utopia town.  The idea is to pull for each other and be self-reliant, a mark of perfection the rest of us lowly degenerates on the outside must strive to be, just as Sir Thomas More intended it.  Lucky for those of us at the wedding, we visited the place before it devolved into bickering and bitter strikes over the disgust at having to do everything for the “benevolent” overlord who created the town.  Disaster narrowly averted.

3.  Prepare yourself so as to avoid complaining about physical pain.

My dress shoes look nice.  They shine, they fit well enough, and I look good wearing them.  They also hurt like the Dickens if I wear them too long because the heels are razor thin.  I once walked a mile to a job interview in them and my heels bled and scabbed for weeks.  Why women wear shoes that do this to them regularly, I cannot comprehend.

There is a simple solution: insulation.  I need to wear more than nylon dress socks.  I tossed on my thick cotton Haynes socks and slid the dress blacks over them.  The bright white shone through the black, but my feet didn’t bleed.  I did not complain, and all was well.

4.  Dance.

I am not good at dancing, but I am good at looking dumb.  People like this.  Always do it.

5.  Make silly faces at the flower girl(s).

This wedding had co-flower girls, two cousins a couple months apart in age.  They were adorable, giggling their way down the aisle.  They spent the better part of the reception hopping, running in circles, and laughing in delight.

They also chose me as their antagonist for the night.  Every time I looked at them, they stuck their tongues out, hid, or obstinately crossed their arms.  No matter how hard I tried, they would not give me high fives.  I think it was all in good fun, or maybe I’m a monstrous goon.  Either way, I started mirroring their defiance, and they had fun playing the goofy face game with me on the dance floor.  By the end of the night, with one flower girl in tears of exhaustion, I finally tapped her on the shoulder and leveled with her.

“I’ve been trying to get a high five from you all night.  It made me sad when you ran away,” I said.

Through sniffles, she lifted her hand and wound back before giving me her best high five.  The games had not been for naught.  I had succeeded.

I think people liked me.

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Streaming Choices: Barbarella (1968)


In Streaming Choices, I take a quick glance at the world of cinema available on Netflix Instant, Hulu Plus, Amazon Prime, and other streaming services.

Rating: One and a half stars (out of five)

Camp is a tool filmmakers have at their disposal when they want to show something craven about society.  It’s a purposeful way of going over the top, to get in the audience’s face in an accusatory fashion, to confront them about the behavior they’re complicit in by being part of civilization.  Drag queens make us question beauty standards for women.  John Waters — sometimes with the help of the purest drag queen of them all, Divine — makes us think about the way we treat the “other.”

Camp is also my least favorite kind of comedy.  Even when done well, its in-your-face aspects are grating, loud, and it’s hardly ever as revelatory as it purports itself to be.  It’s a prank that screams its way to a feature length it can’t sustain.  When camp is done poorly, it makes something already tough to sit through into a slog that requires a full week of stopping and starting to watch an hour and 40 minute movie.

Which is what I did with Barbarella (although allergies and Benadryl played a part), a movie that tries to be big and outrageous about the women’s liberation movement gaining steam at the time, but which invariably takes every opportunity to go cutesy instead of confrontational.

Everything about Barbarella is small, a sense that is only heightened by its poor decision to go with the 2.33:1 aspect ratio.  The anamorphic lens is a stylistic choice to expand the scope of a film, used to brilliant effect in Sergio Leone’s Spaghetti Westerns, with their European cliffs and vistas.  It needs a big canvas to be properly implemented.  Barbarella does not provide that canvas.  Its sets and props are all so plasticky, with nary an outdoor shot in sight.  In this way, the anamorphic lens only showcases the lack of scale director Roger Vadim was working with.  A return to the Academy Ratio (1.33:1) would have added a retro charm to accompany the film’s Ed Wood-esque special effects, and it would have masked some of the set design’s insufficiencies.

That smallness extends to the story, or at least its telling.  Barbarella, played by a seemingly (and rightfully) confused Jane Fonda, is sent by the president of Earth into the cosmos to find Durand Durand, an Earth astronaut who has created a weapon of mass destruction.  She is supposed to use any means necessary to find him and bring him back, which means her body. It’s a mess.  What should have been an A to B, cause-effect narrative becomes a jumble of vignettes about a sexy lady in space encountering wacky creatures to do it with, including a blind angel.  Each scene break features an excuse to put Fonda in a different lascivious costume, too.

Barbarella could have been the basis for a seriocomic exploration of the way society treated women at the time (and in many ways, still treats them) and in how women could give themselves more agency.  In some ways, Barbarella uses her body to get what she needs, which could be considered a sly way of empowering her and women at large, but it’s a limited and sad notion.  Vadim may have thought he was showing an enlightened, independent woman because she was openly sexual, but every cinematic choice belies this.  She is a tool of the future Earth’s government, operating on an assignment to please a man (the president), and her only way to accomplish her goal is to give physical pleasure to everyone she meets.  She doesn’t get to display her brain, she has nothing in the way of wit or charm, and she’s an empty vacuous creature who doesn’t make a choice of her own throughout the picture.  It all seems like a too personal attempt by Vadim to show off what was “his” to the world.  In turn, the movie is all crummy style with a substance completely opposite of what it’s selling.

Barbarella is available on Netflix Instant, if you want to watch an example of how to totally undermine the message you want to send.

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Streaming Choices: The Frozen North (1922)


In Streaming Choices, I take a quick glance at the world of cinema available on Netflix Instant, Hulu Plus, Amazon Prime, and other streaming services.

Rating: Three and a half stars (out of five)

Buster Keaton was a master of understatement.  Everything he did, he kept his face as close to straight as possible.  His facial acting was measured as a matter of degrees, unlike his chief contemporaries, Harold Lloyd and Charlie Chaplin.  Their goofball plasticity added to their charm, whereas Keaton gained his by being the king of deadpan without having to actually speak.

Keaton both plays up and subverts that deadpan quality in his short The Frozen North, which he co-directed with Eddie Cline in 1922, right before his run of classic feature comedies throughout the rest of the ’20s.

At the “last stop on the subway,” a snowed in backwater town in the middle of nowhere, Keaton proves himself to be a rather malicious fellow unlike any other in his oeuvre.  His bumbling remains, however, as he attempts to rob a casino using a cardboard cutout of the town’s public enemy number one as his wingman.

He barely escapes from his bungled robbery and heads home to see a man and woman canoodling on the couch.  In the most darkly comedic turn of any Keaton film, he impulsively shoots them both before a dialogue card appears.  “I’ve made a mistake.  This isn’t my house, or my wife,” as he jolts out the door.

Let’s examine that for a second.  Buster Keaton, whose cinematic career revolved around stunts and derring do in service of finding safety — think the hurricane sequence in Steamboat Bill Jr. or his attempts to save his beloved in The General — shoots two people in cold blood.  And he brushes it off with a wickedly funny line about mistaken identity, heightened further by his utter dismissal of moral culpability.  The minimalist facial acting remains the same, but this time, he shades it with just enough of a hint of mischievous evil to unsettle the audience.

Another tool in his repertoire here is the setting.  Until his later big budget epics, Keaton was content to use the greater Los Angeles area for all it was worth in his shorts and early features.  They were often dusty, rocky pictures, but here the snow is stark.  It pops at the audience.  It makes them think, “Buster Keaton doesn’t belong here.”  But there he is all the same, using a cane that keeps sinking in the snow, being flummoxed at how to cut into the lake for ice fishing, being the victim of a rooftop avalanche.

Keaton’s patented befuddlement remains throughout the short as his and Cline’s camera stays static and nonjudgemental despite the horrific things his character does to others.  This is all for a reason.  We’re supposed to be concerned about what’s happened to the nice guy with the stone face who makes those wonderful falls.

The short’s punchline ending both reassures the audience of Keaton’s general “good guy”-ness while hinting at the darkness inside all people.  It’s a great conceit only diminished by the film’s incomplete nature, which makes some of the middle parts a bit confusing.  We don’t get the full story of his numerous relationships with the town’s women, the chases feel a little disjointed, and the stunts lack much of the kooky inventiveness of his later work; save for a great sequence of tug-of-war with an Inuit ice fisherman.  Overall, though, the greatness outweighs the bad (which isn’t Keaton’s fault, anyway), and The Frozen North is a speedy 17-minute romp that offers more than just completism for his greatest era.

The Frozen North is available on YouTube, embedded below.

 

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An Ode to the Perfect Parking Job


Last night I performed the ultimate feat of urban living.  I worked late into the evening because I’m a terrible procrastinator who does not plan well.  My girlfriend and I live on the far north side of Chicago, a wretched hive of cars and villainy (re: potholes).  If you don’t beat your neighbors home before rush hour, you’re out of luck.  As 10 p.m. rolled around and I was just turning on our block, I knew my parking choices would be limited to some second-rate places, like the morning rush-restricted lane (no thanks, 6 a.m. alarm clock) or the block that a week ago featured gunshots I had to call into 9-1-1.

Things looked grim.  I inched my way down the street, letting each gap of more than a couple feet enter the realm of possibility.  My 2009 Chevrolet Impala, Reginald VelJohnson, is not the nimblest of beasts.  Rather, he is ungainly and difficult to maneuver under the best circumstances.

Dud after dud after fire hydrant, nothing presented itself.  I sensed another long night of searching for some kindly real estate large enough to fit Reginald would be on the docket.

But wait, a glimmer of hope.  I saw a spot, one that would have normally resigned me to defeat, between two darkened cousins of Reginald, black and blue Chevys, parked tantalizingly far enough apart to dream on.  I pulled along the cars and put my car in park in the middle of the street.  I needed a closer view.

Using my hands as the world’s least reliable rulers, I measured the distance between them and deduced I would have just enough room to squeeze in.

“Maybe,” I said aloud, uncaring about what the neighbor walking his dogs would think of the guy walking around his still running car, talking to himself.  I returned to the driver’s seat and steeled myself for the most skillful driving I had ever attempted.  I adjusted the driver’s side mirror to properly gauge my distance from the curb.  I turned down the volume of the close game between the Cubs and Pirates that was going down to the wire.  I did not want any distractions.

I shifted to reverse and made the cut.  So far, so good.  Oh crap, the blue one is right there.  “No way will I get this,” I thought.  But I cut the wheel the other way and straightened.  Now I found myself wedged at an awkward angle that resembled a capitalized Z.

“Oh boy,” I said.  I twisted the wheel and reversed an inch.  I twisted again and tapped the gas forward.

Bounce!

“Disaster!” I thought.  My eyes darted around.  Gone was Mr. Judgmental Dog Walker, and nobody else saw.  My hands gripped the wheel again and I dug in for the long haul.

The tires squeaked as they shifted on the damp pavement.  I had a beads of sweat from concentrating so hard.  Forward, stop, turn, backward, stop, turn, forward, stop.  This went on for 20 minutes.  But eventually, the job was done.  Reginald was nestled safely, with maybe an inch and a half total between his bumpers and theirs.

Car front park job

Car Back park job 2Now, I better hope my neighbors go to work in the morning, because there’s no way I’ll get out of there.

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