Notes on a popcorn movie, Hollywood Boulevard.

Opening lines can be tough.

They have to hook you in, make you want to continue the journey, and imply that the time spent won't be a waste. That's a lot of value judgment riding on a few words. Then there's a philosophical question regarding what is, or isn't, of "value". Further complicating matters is that the concept of what is of 'value' shifts. A divertissement on a mildly stressful day may have enormous value, but try one's patience at other times.

This week's shared motion picture experience was 'Hollywood Boulevard'. It had been my entry in a friend's 'bad movie night' competition. It wasn't the movie chosen to be screened that evening, but it did intrigue my friend enough that he asked to come over to see it. Perhaps my description of its content as relying heavily on 'guns and naked female breasts' had something to do with it. That very description reflects upon my age. When I was a callow youth (as opposed to being a callow adult)(ba-dum-dum), gentlemen didn't use certain words in mixed company. There is a much better description of the movie within the movie itself. The premise is the old standby of 'young girl goes to Hollywood to become a star', but that's just the opening line. Most of the movie is a send up of the low budget bottom of the triple bill drive in passion pit school of filmmaking, made by a company which specialized in low budget bottom of the bill drive in passion pit movies. In one scene, the star of such a movie (Mary Woronov) tries to convince the director (Paul Bartel) to increase the size of her part by changing the script to eliminate the other female characters. Killing them off, she reasons, will further audience sympathy for her character, whose suffering will then illuminate the human condition. The director replies, "This is not a film about the human condition, this is a film about tits and ass!"

Once upon a time in Hollywood, there was a low budget studio known as American International Pictures (A.I.P.). It was created in 1954 to make inexpensive movies which would be sold as double bills. Enter a new film producer named Roger Corman, who had a picture called "The Fast and the Furious', filmed on a $50,000 budget in 10 days. Distribution rights went to AIP after they promised Corman enough money to make two more movies. 'The Fast and the Furious' became AIP's first release. AIP turned out a series of schlock sci-fi atomic bomb monster movies, teenage hot rod rock and roll movies, beach party movies, and a series based on Edgar Allen Poe stories. It was also a training ground for folks who would later become major industry talent. In 1970, Corman started his own company, New World Pictures. New World continued the AIP style, made schlock, and did it on the cheap. In the process, they provided a training ground for more folks who would become major industry talent (the late Jonathan Demme, Ron Howard, Joe Dante, etc.), and added a pick up distribution arm for films by European directors like Fellini and Bergman.

'Hollywood Boulevard' was made on a bet. In 1976, producer Jon Davison bet Roger Corman that he could still turn out a movie as cheaply, and in as little time, as anything Corman had done. Corman took the bet, and gave Davison 10 days and $50,000. Twenty years had passed since 'Fast and Furious', and that amount wasn't going to go as far. Davison knew he would need to reuse footage from other New World movies. He'd made the bet in cahoots with the two guys who had been editing New World's trailers: Joe Dante (Gremlins), and Alan Arkush (Rock and Roll High School). It became the first directing job for both. The movie was shot on what used to be known as 'short ends', film left over after a scene was shot. Such pieces were saved and sold to low budget filmmakers. They didn't just purloin footage from other movies by the way, they also made good use of costumes and props from low budget classics like 'Death Race 2000', 'Battle Beyond the Sun', 'Big Bad Mama' (a personal favorite), 'Night Call Nurses', and etc.

Miracle Pictures. If it's a good picture, it's a Miracle.

The film opens with a hand drawn logo for 'Miracle Pictures', which turns out to be on the side of a van at a movie shoot. Director Eric von Leppe is busy filming a sky diving scene. He is staring at a plane overhead. His star, Mary McQueen, wanders by while stating, "Things are looking up." The back of the van opens, and a movie producer, whose name is only given as 'PG', steps out, adjusting his zipper. He is followed by a half naked starlet. PG wanders over to the director, complains that the scene being filmed is costing him a fortune and could have been done cheaper if they had used miniatures. He follows that up with one of my favorite movie lines, "Listen, remind me, I wanna pump up some more laughs in that crucifixion scene. More sex." Which prompts von Leppe to ask, "Well, which is it going to be"? PG replies, "More sex. It's cheaper."

The director, played by low-budget director Paul Bartel ('Death Race 2000', 'Eating Raoul', 'Scenes From the Class Struggle in Beverly Hills', and the wonderful but rarely seen 'Secret Cinema') just happens to have the name of Boris Karloff's character from a 1963 Corman cheapie, 'The Terror'. That movie, by the way, was filmed on sets left over from a previous AIP production. During the credits sequence, the name of Jeffrey Kramer, the actor playing Miracle Pictures' writer, is seen as our heroine walks past a poster advertising the movie, 'Jaws'. Mr. Kramer's first movie role was as a deputy in that picture. He plays Patrick Hobby, which is the name of a hack writer in a series of F. Scott Fitzgerald short stories. The script for 'Hollywood Boulevard', by the way, is credited to 'Patrick Hobby'. The actual author of the script was Dan Opatoshu, a member of the writer's guild who could not be credited for his work on a non-union movie. He was given credit as 'Assistant to Mr. Hobby'. It's that kind of movie.

The bad jokes, the funny jokes, and the 'in jokes' fly fast and furious. There are cameos tucked in here and there; at one party, Forrest J. Ackerman could be spotted off to one side. Mr. Ackerman was the editor of 'Famous Monsters of Filmland', a magazine to which many of my generation, including myself, were devoted. I have heard that in one particular scene, in which a familiar looking creature is seen reading the script for 'Atomic War Brides' before throwing it into a toilet, future director Jonathan Demme played 'Godzina'. By the way, in an interview segment, Bartel's director discusses his upcoming project, 'Atomic War Brides' and notes, “What we’re trying to do here is combine the legend of Romeo and Juliet with high speed car action and a sincere plea for international atomic controls in our time.”

In the film there a production assistant named 'Scotty', a blond guy with an easy smile. The part was played by Jonathan Kaplan, who had already directed a few exploitation titles for Corman, and who would soon get serious attention with one of my favorite independent titles of that era, 'Over the Edge'. He would go on to direct 'Heart Like a Wheel', and 'The Accused'. Just as a by the by, one of the jobs in the movie he seems to enjoy is turning a firehouse on a bevy of starlets in a wet t-shirt contest.

Paul Bartel as Director Eric von Leppe, and Jonathan Kaplan as Scotty.

There's also a musical performance from Commander Cody and His Lost Planet Airmen, performing a somewhat indecent song. Playing the saxophone is Weird Al Yankovic. The group disbanded after filming their scene.  

 

Perhaps my favorite moment takes place at a drive-in theatre where our heroine has gone with her agent, and her script writing boyfriend, to see their finished movie, "The Machete Maidens of Mora Tau".

 

                        

The agent, played by Dick Miller, is named Walter Paisley, which was the name of Mr. Miller's character in Corman's 1958 beatnik artist opus, 'Bucket of Blood'. As the trio waits for their movie's debut, a scene from 'The Terror' plays onscreen. In it, a young Dick Miller talks with Boris Karloff. Seeing Dick Miller 1976, watching Dick Miller 1963, is worth the price of the DVD in my book. If you can get one - it's out of print. There was a very limited edition BluRay made form the master negative. Copies can occasionally be found on eBay.

(Blogger is acting up - above is Dick Miller as the agent Walter Paisley. Below is our heroine from   Hollywood Boulevard, Candice Rialson as up and coming starlet Candy Wednesday.)

 

There are too many jokes, and too many connections to mention here. As a movie, the film is the equivalent of popcorn. Not terribly nutritious, but a hell of a lot of fun.
 





Notes regarding Heroes and movies.

There are several things I should be doing, so of course I'm going to ignore them and work on a blog post instead. The venomous expression of politics, with its accompanying slithering about, have made Facebook and Twitter a fly over zone for now. You know, I've never been fond of that 'fly over' expression, as it seems to me to be a bit of rhetoric that seeks to be divisive; it has a pejorative built in. I will note that the non 'fly over' portions of the country are those portions of the East and West coasts that are home to those awful liberal 'elites' (i.e. "blue" on a political map). They are almost magical areas where sanity still seems to prevail these days. Those areas fare better in everything from quality of life studies to education, health care, happiness, financial stability, and generate a sizeable portion of the country's income. Which explains why the Trump administration's budget and tax plans seem to target those very areas. I don't want to leave that statement unsupported, but I shall for now.

From 'Black Sheep' (2006)

There are plenty of other statements I'd like to make without posting voluminous notes to support my comments. I could, for instance, point out that two of our governments' agencies which heavily influence the daily life and future of our country are the Office of Management and Budget, and the Environmental Protection Agency. The two men in charge of those agencies were both politically active in their respective states. If one were to take an honest look at the financial health of those states, the status of education in those states, the tax burden, etc. ad infinitum, one of the first things one might notice, if one can look behind the curtain of tourist and relocation PR, is that both states are financially distressed to the point of being referred to economically as "sinkholes". Their people are largely poor. Their educational systems are in disaster mode. These states are the bottom of our country's barrel. These men are regarded by the current administration, and their enablers, as heroes.

Gal Gadot as Wonder Woman. More than a gal with a sword.

A recent discussion with a friend raised the issue of the Hero, and the Hero's place, in our entertainment culture. I had finally caught up with the 'Wonder Woman' movie, which was widely praised and a huge financial success. While it was delightful to have the super hero figure be a woman, there was little else to differentiate it from any other superhero movie, and I pointed out in discussion that the movie simply substituted a female lead for a male. Kind of like the change of sex for the role of Hildy between the stage play and movie of 'The Front Page' to the remake version known as 'His Girl Friday'. The hero role being female was simply a change, it didn't inform or impact the story. 'Wonder Woman' had the same tired tropes as any other superhero movie. I should point out that I'm just making observations; no judgement on the product is intended. It is product, and that statement isn't intended as a judgement either. I found it to be an enjoyable and entertaining movie. I'm not trying to impose my thoughts or vision on it. You know, I hate this. I hate having to qualify every statement; in this case to make it clear that I have no problem with female superheroes, lead roles, or action figures. I'd like to see more of them, and I'm delighted that young girls (or older girls, or women of any age) can have female fantasy figures which might inspire their dreams and persons.

Gal Gadot as Wonder woman,  her sword placed as if it were...
umm, nevermind.

The discussion veered to the first 'Star Wars' movie, which I rushed to see on opening day after reading a review which linked that movie's themes to Joseph Campbell's books, 'The Hero With a Thousand Faces', and 'Myths to Live By'. Such themes reflected some of my interests, and both books had been influences on my thinking. Thoughts of a hero's quest have been rambling around my brain due to the movies I've watched these last three nights.

Sunday afternoon was spent at a younger friend's home attending his monthly 'movie night'. The idea is that there is a stated theme; each person attending should (if so moved) bring a DVD of a movie reflecting that theme, and give a very quick pitch on its behalf. Those in attendance write on slips of paper the name of the movie which most appeals to them. The slips are put into a hat, from which one slip is selected, providing the selection to be viewed. The theme this time was 'really bad movies'. The winner was 'Black Sheep', a New Zealand indy effort in which a flock of sheep become ravenous flesh eating killers of humans. It's got blood, guts, a middling implied criticism of money making science, a zombie or two, and makes particularly good use of sheep flatulence. Science, in this case, was a substitute for magical forces. The male hero is a younger brother with a phobia about sheep, who has returned to the family ranch to sell his interest to his evil and deluded older brother. The boy, in his journey, must confront and overcome his phobia, confront and overcome his brother, and become action oriented enough to overcome his nelly attributes to fight off the marauding sheep for the survival of the main characters and all of mankind. The girl hero arrives to expose animal abuses at the ranch. Her journey moves her from babbling about new age mysticism to becoming an action figure fighting the sheep, helping the younger brother to survive, saving mankind, and, of course falling in love with the younger brother.

Experience (Danielle Mason) and Henry (Nathan Meister) in the midst of a long day fighting sheep. 

The sheep(le) are out to get you , you know. Be warned.

John Wayne as Ringo.

Monday night, a friend unexpectedly had free time and came over to watch one of the movies I wanted to see and delete from my digital video recorder. We settled on the 1939 'Stagecoach'. In it, the male hero escapes from jail in order to extract revenge on three bad guy brothers who killed his family and whose false testimony put him in prison in the first place. His journey includes fighting to save the stagecoach from Indian attack even though a sheriff has him in shackles. The girl hero is less action oriented, instead proving herself as a caring, nurturing goddess despite being thrown out of town by the uplifter ladies league for being of questionable moral character in her choice of employment. The movie took great pains not to use the word prostitute, and greater pains to not state that another female character was pregnant. The hero, named Ringo, was played by a youngish John Wayne. The good-bad girl was Clare Trevor, who had top billing. The rest of the cast was character actor heaven. It's the kind of movie which keeps things moving in an attempt to distract the viewer from questioning some sizeable holes in the story. I could, and should, go on at length about the movie, but that will have to be its own post in that great someday in the sky. I'll just note this about one iconic shot - Ringo is first seen, standing by the side of the road, his shotgun male appendage held akimbo. As he walked towards the stagecoach, I noticed was that he didn't fill out his jeans all that well. Simply put, John Wayne had a saggy female pear shaped ass. Otherwise, he was the slightly nelly butch straight shooter who treated the good-bad girl with the respect that no one else could muster, save perhaps for the drunken doctor who was really Scarlett O'Hara's father.

 

Last night, another friend came over on the spur of the moment. We watched the 1940 'Thief of Bagdad'. (Note to the Turner Classic Movies channel: the print quality was shameful.) Sabu, then 16, played the titular hero. He spends a portion of the movie as a dog, due to a spell by an evil wizard. He also helps a wronged Prince regain his throne, helps the Prince save the woman the Prince loves, copes with an ill tempered genie, fights off a giant spider without falling into an aqueous pit inhabited by octopi, visits magical places, and triumphs over other similar adversities while fulfilling prophecy. For his part, the Prince is cut from the same sort of slightly nelly English male cloth as an Ashley Wilkes or Sebastian Flyte. He must overcome magical blindness, find his Princess, and defeat the usurper of his throne, the very magician whose anti-education, pro-punishment, rule by fear, power mad greedy attitudes starves the population, and provides the evil which engulfs several kingdoms. In this, the oldest of the movies being noted, the hero journey for the Princess involves staying out of the clutches of the evil wizard, and falling instantly in love with the Prince who speaks in poetic phrases.

Two of the movies involved Princesses (Thief of Bagdad, and Wonder Woman whose journey includes learning that she is the daughter of Zeus and Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons. She is out to kill Ares, the God of War. In classical Greek mythology, Hippolyta was Ares daughter. The movie's comic book mythology avoids the potential complications of that one. In Stagecoach, One might make a case for the woman traveling to meet her husband being a Princess stand-in. She was a Southern Lady, which figures slightly in the Grand Hotel on wagon wheels plot. The girl in Black Sheep starts as a satirical take on new age hippie throwbacks and could thus be said to be a Princess stand in, but was otherwise just a modern gal who proves to have some gumption.



Black Sheep (2006) Experience got a gun.  



In a sense, three of the movies had magical realms;  Black Sheep's was the New Zealand farm in the countryside which left me wondering when the hobbits were going to appear; Wonder Woman's realm was an island protected by Zeus' magic cloud cover, and Thief was set in ancient Iraq's mythical period. If there was a magical place in Stagecoach, it was Ringo's ranch in Mexico where he and the good-bad girl could live in blessed happy ever afterness if only they could reach it. It was only mentioned, never seen, and not integral to the story.

In all four stories, the heroes overcome obstacles, and fight for their happiness, as well as the common good. All of them must deal with the sacrifice of friends or relatives along their journeys' paths. In all but Stagecoach, the heroes save the world.

Of these four movies, the only one which didn't involve magical forces was Stagecoach. Well, unless you count too many bullets, or killing all of your enemies in an impossible situation (the main event occurs off screen). This American myth has a wronged hero, willing to suffer the penalty of 'doing what a man's gotta do'.



The Stagecoach about to depart a rest stop, even though they know Geronimo is out and about.
John Carradine (far left), Andy Devine (holding the reins), George Bancroft (riding shotgun), Chris Pin-Martin as the innkeeper, Louise Platt as the woman traveling to meet her husband, Donald Meek as the milquetoast liquor salesman, Clare Trevor as the good-bad girl, John Wayne as the Ringo Kid, Berton Churchill as the thieving bank manager. 
Thomas Mitchell, who won an Academy Award for his drunken doctor, is not in the picture.

Now, let's go back for a moment to those two erstwhile heroes of the right, the men in charge of the nation's budget, and the nation's environment. They present themselves as John Wayne he-men out to conquer a world gone mad due to the ideals of those annoying liberals who want to feed the hungry, house the homeless, educate the masses, and provide health care in a reasonable manner. Needless to say, these men do not fit the hero myth. Their 'common good' is what is good for the power brokers who pay them, those who steal people's money, food, kingdoms, and who unleash unholy forces in the name of profit.

Conrad Veidt, the evil wizard of Thief of Bagdad, plots how to cover up his orange hair.
No wait, that's not right... Mr. Veidt played Nazi Major Strasser in Casablanca, and
the murderous somnambulist in the silent German expressionist classic 'The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari.'

What we need these days are honest nelly heroes, their butch helpers, angry women, and pissed off teenagers to work together to rid ourselves of the usurpers of power, who prefer their people uneducated, sent off to endless wars, fighting each other at home for scraps of food, so they can't unite to fight the evil taking over the kingdoms. But that would be the old school hero journey, and involve magical help. Even the American West loner hero living by a moral code seems decidedly old fashioned now. Folks are counting on the investigation being held by Mr. Mueller as magical help. In so many ways, it's the same old tropes.

A proposal to protect our schoolchildren from gun toting maniacs.

It is difficult to even begin saying something, or anything. "Rampant killings" sounds harsh, or isn't harsh enough, or could possibly be trounced upon for insensitivity at this difficult time. The struggle to use words that won't prove incendiary when noun meets adjective has become stupefying. After yet another massacre by white racist hate mongers incident of the type which has so recently occurred in a Florida high school, it becomes imperative to avoid all of the currently popular social media platforms; they become deadly cesspools of unhinged 'call and response' political insanity. 

One of the first posts I saw after this incident occurred was a 'meme' which condemned liberals who wouldn't let the families involved suffer mourn in peace, insisting instead on using what happened to promote their anti-gun agenda. I should point out that at that moment, I hadn't seen a single post calling for gun control. The issue was raised by the person condemning it.

This reminds me of a number of posts from alt-right wing conservative folks I know. A recent photo of an American flag flying proudly in the breeze was accompanied by text which noted something on the order of "Liberals say this triggers Muslims". I think there was more, but I don't remember if one was supposed to 'share' or 'like' to show support for the flag, country, Christian God, or for possibly murdering the liberals. What struck me is that I live in what is regarded as the most 'liberal' state in the union, but I've never heard anyone, not one single person, make such a suggestion. It's a phony argument that does little more than sow dissention through the use of trite soundbite phrases coupled with what are supposed to be soul stirring images (i.e. propaganda). One might be forgiven for assuming that the flag in the photo was billowing due to all the hot air expounded in its direction. Hot air seems to be all our country's Congress and politicians can muster these days, aside form giving enormous tax breaks to the wealthy and to the corporations. Oh, sure, there is some righteous indignation being spread about, some of it from the lefteous. (Sorry about that one.)

This morning, this image was posted and 'shared' with me:

 

I wrote a couple of lines of commentary about the message on the above t-shirt. As soon as I finished, Blogger closed either of its own accord, or possible outside interference by a deity. I have decided not to tempt fate, becoming a wishy-washy adult who fails to respond to inanity, just in case.

 

The simple fact of the matter is this: the Republicans sold out long ago to moneyed interests who give them millions. The Democrats, many of whom have also enjoyed the same largesse, sputter, putter, mutter, and do nothing substantial.

It remains to us, and to survivors, to do something. The Republicans show every sign of being terrorized by the thought of angry women targeting them. If anyone has any doubts that the protests of the last year haven't been effective, just look at how the White House crew couldn't get out of the line of fire fast enough when it was revealed that they had a wife-beater amongst their midst. Oopsie, it was more than one. I hope women take up this issue. I do not wish to add to their burden, it's just a thought based on the observation that they seem to be the only ones getting any action out of this administration. Outside of the rich, and the corporations, I mean.

Therefore, I am moved to suggest a new approach, based on the line of reasoning previously espoused by some of our finer Republican elected officials. There is a simple, and direct way to solve the problem of adults, or for that matter, kids, taking guns into a school and going on a rampage of destruction.

Arm the kids. And make schools 'open carry'. If every kid in the classroom, hallway, gym, music room, lunchroom, or bathroom was armed, there would be far less incentive to shoot at them; they would be able to shoot back and defend themselves as God intended. No one is going to push their way into a kindergarten with evil intent when there is a roomful of armed preschoolers on hand.  Students will no longer feel comfortable bullying one another, not when their intended target is aiming a glock semiautomatic at their little heads.

Oh, sure, there may be a few problems for teachers when homework assignments are given out, or discipline is required, but so what if we lose a few? It's not like our government wants those kids to get a decent education. If that happened the kids might realize that the folks who should be working to protect them are little more than lying thieving bastards who have set the kids up for a lifetime of menial jobs and starvation wages, lightened now and again by the receipt of a box of canned vegetables to prove that government cares.

I would further suggest that the both the White House and Congress allow open carry of firearms. Then, when the kids go to visit on 'learn about your government day', they might do themselves some good.



"Time goes by so slowly..."

It's been awhile. The first thing I thought of to write was to quote a line from the mid 1950's song 'Unchained Melody'; "Time goes by, so slowly, and time can do so much...."

The song was composed by Alex North, who composed scores for Hollywood movies. In this case, the movie was 'Unchained'. The lyrics were by Hy Zaret, who refused the movie producer's request to put the film title in the lyrics, which is how that title came about. 'Unchained' is a little known (and little seen) 1955 film about a man in an experimental 'prison without walls' who struggles with a decision to escape and reunite with his family, or to finish out his sentence. Among the cast is Todd Duncan, the baritone who was hand picked by George Gershwin to perform the role of Porgy in 'Porgy and Bess'. Mr. Duncan was the first to record the song, by the way. In once scene, filmed at the experimental prison in Chino, California, Dexter Gordon can be seen playing his saxophone. He was incarcerated there at the time, for possession of heroin. His playing was dubbed by Georgie Auld.



The shoreline by our campsite at Little Tupper Lake.
It really is a lovely spot.

There were a number of loons about, including 13 of them
together. That's not a common occurrence, by the way.

I'd been thinking often about getting back to this blog, without doing so. Today, as I was looking something up, this page opened of its own accord. Perhaps I hit a shortcut button, I don't know. It seemed like a good suggestion, so here I am. Since the last entry here, I've managed to keep myself busy, as usual. This year, it took forever to put the garden to bed, as the season extended into November. (I made a ton of pesto which I froze and am happily consuming.) I went off on another adventure camping/canoeing trip to a wilderness area of the Adirondacks (a bit stressful this year, as the old friend with whom I go camping spent the entire week being most disagreeable). And I started up my radio show again after almost a year and a half's sabbatical, etcetera. Christmas was a bit of a bust; the largest dinner I think I ever made was cancelled when friends declined to travel due to snow. Extreme cold a few days later ended up freezing the pipes, which translated into losing heat and hot water. The loss of essential services was not an auspicious start to the new year. What was possibly my personal all time best Christmas tree, and decorating job, was destroyed, destroyed again, and yet again while being moved for the accessing of heating pipes. I could go on with a litany of slights and challenges from the universe, but I've little desire to do so, and I doubt that anyone cares - including myself.

Here's a few of my garden photos, all taken in mid to late October.

I was about to go on about the state of the world, my country, my friends, movies in general, watching a Fred Astaire movie last night, the projected Stephen Spielberg remake of 'West Side Story', spinning this or that fantastical tale along the way (all too true, however), tying it all in with concepts of time, and life as an open air prison; but I've just noticed the hour, and I've already spent too long choosing which photos to post and getting this far. I probably won't be able to get back here for a couple of days, but I do intend to do so. There's so much to note as we sink into the abyss.

Falling by the wayside

March? I haven't posted since March? Jeepers (mentally adds, singing, 'creepers, where'd ya get those peepers...'). Makes me wonder just what the hell I've been up to all this time. I'd write a bit of it out if I could remember any of it. Actually, I do, but much of it isn't that interesting, and a large part of the rest would be stressful ranting and raving about the political situation in my country. There have been a number of wonderful movies I've watched, or watched again. And there has been the garden, of course. As for the movies I've screened, there have been so many it would be a minor miracle if I could still name them all. The idea was to write them down here, making notes about each, but that project fell by the wayside.

A page from the Tyndale Bible.

Now there's a phrase I haven't used for awhile, "fell by the wayside". While it's meaning is readily apparent, the origin of the phrase may not be. It goes back to a 1526 translation of the Bible by William Tyndale. It was the first bible in English to be translated from Greek and Hebrew sources, and the first to hit the printing press. There had been an earlier version (the Wycliffe Bible) in Middle English in the late 1300's, but due to its use in a pre-Reformation movement, it was banned in 1409. By the late 1400's, owning one could bring the death penalty. But that's another story. The Tyndale translation, by the way, became a principal source for the King James version of the early 1600's. The "fell by the wayside" reference is from the Gospel of Luke, chapter 8, verses 5 thru 8. It occurs just after a mention of unclean spirits being cast out of Mary Magdalene and two other women, and concerns a farmer who went out to sow his seed. The sower was a bit sloppy, and some seed 'fell by the wayside'. In fact, a lot of it seemed to fall by the wayside. Only that seed which fell upon the 'good ground' was productive. Just after the teaching of this parable, the Teacher walked upon the waters, a pretty nifty act.

Now that I've wandered off onto this tangent, I'm no longer sure of where the heck I was headed. Was it to post a few pics from the garden? Or the chance to write mildly amusing commentary on making my own tomato paste, or the adventures of putting up copious amounts of fresh homemade pesto against the depravations of winter? (I used up the very last of last year's pesto a few days before starting this year's batches.) Or were the seeds a reference to all the movies I've watched lately? Or haven't watched?

A part of the larger garden at Solar Hill (which I help maintain) where my garden is located.
At the top of the photo is a bit of the playground for the Neighborhood Schoolhouse

More of the Solar Hill garden. Just off to the left are a large number of peonies, one of which can be seen here.
The Japanese dogwood was kind of spectacular this year; it demanded a photo.

A portion of my garden this past June.

Another part of my garden in mid to late Spring.
There's lots more, including other seasons. I'm considering starting a garden blog.

That last bit in the text above (the 'haven't watched' part) refers to an attempt to screen the RKO 'Hitler's Children' for one of my younger friends. While he's knowledgeable about independent movies from the late 1980's or so up to today, he's somewhat less aware of earlier movies. At any rate, my younger friend is going to be a first time daddy soon. He made his announcement via a Facebook post whose only content was a sound file that mystified a number of folks. It was the sound of the baby's heartbeat in the womb. Now, he's never seen any of the Nancy Drew movies, and thus has no associations what-so-ever for Bonita Granville, or, for that matter, with cowboy star Tim Holt, both of whom have the lead roles in the movie. So one night not long after the incidents in Charlottesville with tiki torch bearing American Nazis, white supremacists, and the follow up ravings of Donald Trump in the role of President of the United States, we settled in to watch this bit of lurid potboiler propaganda history.

The film starts out with a Nazi rally (above), and proceeds, via flashback narration, to a 1933 confrontation between American students in Germany, and a group of teenage male Nazis in training. A fight breaks out, during which wholesome Nazi Tim Holt holds onto the American's baseball bat, refusing to give it back. Plucky Bonita Granville looks him in the eye and suddenly exclaims, "Heil Hitler". When Holt's arm rises in automatic salute, she punches him in the stomach. When the German headmaster refuses to stop his charges from fighting, the American teacher (Kent Smith, giving a performance only slightly more lively than a cigar store Indian) simply yells out, "Achtung!", which causes the German boys to fall into line. If only it were that easy in real life. We then see a little bit of the school room education of the day:

Just after Tim Holt's praise for Hitler in the clip above, my young friend asked me to stop the movie. Under the current political climate, and being an expectant father, it was too much. His heart had started racing, and he was beginning to have a bit of a panic attack. We were only about 10 minutes into the film. Thinking back on it, it was probably a good thing we changed the picture. I'd have freaked out if I was an expectant parent, too. And I'm not just thinking of the scene in which a young mother to be hopes her birth is painful as a tribute to the Führer. This picture gets far more lurid and serious.

Of course, the reverberations of movies like 'Hitler's Children' into our own time should give us pause. We currently have an administration in power which excuses the outrages of the far right, pretending there were good people amongst them, condemning those on the left for their part in the violence (even though every report I saw or read stated that the 'antifa' crowd only resorted to violence when the Nazi types began charging at women, children, the clergy, and people with brown skin). Pictures that came out of the event were startling.

Is it live, or is it Memorex?

Today I turned 67 years old. My parents divorced when I was quite little; my mother was gone by the time I was 6 months old. My father, my brother, and I lived with my Aunt and Uncle in what had been my Grandfather's house. My Uncle had fought in WWII. When television came in, I wasn't allowed to have it on much after 5pm, when my Uncle got home. The noise and cacophony of tv shows with children's laughter, and especially sudden loud sounds, unnerved him and he would fly into rages. I won't dwell on it, or on what would now be easily recognizable as PTSD, except to say that I often felt terrorized as a child. The experiences I had in those years would come back to affect me later in life. As it turns out, I was diagnosed as having PTSD too. The stresses and coping mechanisms from those days got me through my first years on my own in the late 1960's, the Vietnam war protests, getting beat up because I had long hair, being beaten up and/or threatened for being perceived as gay, being shot in the head (not as serious as it sounds, except for the psyche - it was delivered via a pellet rifle after I was seen returning a European kiss on the cheek to a male friend returning to Germany. Still, the bullet lodged in my skull and they thought I might have some damage.) During my years managing bookstores in NYC, my assistant was from Pakistan. When the Ayatollah Khomeini returned to Iran, my assistant became agitated and predicted the rise of ultra conservative Islam. He was in New York studying to become an architect so he could build decent homes for the poor of his country. He told me flat out that with the rise of conservative Islam, he was concerned about returning home; he might be killed for becoming educated, and going to the United States. The best cashier I had was a gorgeous black woman from the Caribbean, with a lilt in her voice which would make most people smile. My warehouse manager, who was the guy I trained to run the science fiction section, was from Cuba. You get the idea; I had a lot of friends and co-workers who, if they were around today, might face deportation. The sad fact of the matter is that my country is rounding people up. Some have been deported, some are being held. Many on trumped up charges, or minor traffic style violations. Now a  movement is on to deport those who were brought here as children, who grew up here, and became part of the fabric of life here. Legal protections for transgender folk are being removed. Repealing the right of marriage for gay folks won't be far behind. The Trump Department of Justice has already insisted that gay folks are not entitled to job protections under federal anti-discrimination laws. Confrontations in the culture wars continue, and will, until decent normal everyday people start to riot. And what then? Well, perhaps that's why the Trump administration has 1.2 Billion dollars in the Federal budget for 'detainee beds'. I have been accused of having a decidedly liberal paranoia about this, but I could spend several hours writing out the reasons for such suspicions, and pointing out the similarities between the US today and Europe in the early 1930's. You're free to laugh at me if you want, I won't mind. But I will remind you that Nazis are on the march. In America. They may be carrying mass market torches, but that doesn't change the fact that they are there, marching, provoking, waiting. Their own leaders will tell you that an army is being built. We have a President who threatened violence from his supporters if he wasn't elected. His supporters threaten violence if he is removed from office. Go ahead and laugh some more. But remember the following image when the 'arrests' start. It was painted on a fence in California a few days after the Charlottesville events. And you'd better hope to hell everyone in your family is straight, and white. A lot of the seeds being sown aren't for flowers.

The snow this time

Another snow is falling.

I have things to do, but I don't feel like doing them.

Watching the snow is peaceful, even with the roar of traffic going by; the sounds, not of quiet, but of tires on wet asphalt, punctuated by the whirrs of small motors, and the occasional groans of trucks.

I haven't been able to write much, and what I have been able to get out has been in orgasmic spurts on Facebook, commentary meant to attract the reader to news stories that seem important.

There are too many stories.
There is too much to try to understand.
There is too much to think about,
there is just too much.

One night last week, I watched 'Gojira', the 1954 Japanese movie that was altered for release in the United States, where it became known as 'Godzilla'. I dare say everyone knows the outline of the story: a few years after the atomic bomb, a monster arises from the seas, a monster that shows little use for logic, a monster bent on destruction.

Such plots call for a scientist who will quell the beast. In 'Gojira', that role was filled by Takashi Shimura, known to film buffs worldwide for his roles in the films of Akira Kurosawa. In his role as the scientist fighting Godzilla, every time the camera zoomed in for a close-up of his concerned face, all I could see was his face at the end of Kurosawa's 'Ikiru', in which he plays a bureaucrat struggling to find the meaning of life, his life, as he dies of cancer.

The picture I want to use as illustration shows the actor, in the snow, on a child's swing. It has a stock photo company's watermark on it. A lot of photos which used to be considered to be in the public domain are now claimed as the property of such companies. They want to be paid for their use, and the amount they want to be paid, even for a blog almost no one will read, is not cheap. I know the progression of this takeover for a fact, as for several years I have done occasional searches for particular photos, and watched as this has happened. In this case, a 65 year old photo from a Japanese movie is claimed to be under the ownership of a stock photo company. Much of the world seems to be becoming divvied up by owners who were not creators.

The snow outside of my window isn't sticking to the road yet, but is already piling up on the earth which had just started to suffer the appearance of crocus and the earliest signs of Spring.

About two weeks ago, I woke repeatedly throughout the night, which is not at all an unusual occurrence. That evening was different, however, in that every time I woke, I was in the same dream. I only remember the part at the end, from my stirring in the early morning. That's a metaphor, I suppose. In the dream, people were being rounded up. Color was draining out and everything was becoming, well, not black and white, but gray. Gradations of gray. Gray upon gray. People were being rounded up and sent off to somewhere. Younger men were being sent to the army, that much was known. Other people were being sent someplace unknown, to be unknown. I managed to sneak away from the roundup, and made my way down a long corridor which seemed an endless void. There were doors everywhere, lined up neatly, evenly, like some Levittown style apartment house. As I came close to my door, the corridor was flooded with people, people rounding up people, people trying to escape, there was a crush of people. I managed to open the door to my place, and snuck in, hopefully unobserved in the chaos. It was my space without a doubt. Except that my stuff had been largely removed. The furniture that was left had been covered by sheets and tarps, resembling one of those old closed up apartments opened years later with layer upon layer of dust covering everything. That was when I woke up.

The snow covers the world like layers of dust.

I feel stupid. I may have misread the situation, and the intentions of the Trump coterie. I just read several of the comments made by Nikki Haley, the new United States Ambassador to the United Nations. The situation in my country grows more surreal by the day, by the hour. I'd long assumed that the takeover by the reactionary right was an attempt to gut the government, to remove any help given to the working class, to move as much money and resources as possible to the rich, the oligarchs, the robber barons of our time. This seemed like the natural, and predictable, outcome of years of de-regulation, of lies and distortions by media representing the far right. A fight that had used the religious culture wars had paid off, but the cost was Donald Trump and the destruction of the Republican Party. I think I was wrong. I should have kept focus on the religious right. They don't just want to end abortion, or end gay rights (and gays). They don't just want their version of Sharia law, a world in which the husband will rule the home, with an obedient wife to wait on him (if she knows what's good for her - by now a working life in an often corporate culture should have taught women that they are expendable, their roles replaceable).

As I look at the proposed cuts to -this year's - budget, the toll in human misery can easily blind one to the toll on science, on the arts, on international aid, basically everything. I thought these people were simply ignorant of the interdependencies of the world, and had no understanding of the outcome of their actions.

But it's what they want. They are depending on it. Many of this crowd are fundamentalist Christians. The Bible is their word, their God, infallible, and Trump is His servant. They are not here to destroy the world so the United States can take over, so the moneyed class can acquire more than they already have. They are here to destroy the world. Period. They seek nothing less than to force Armageddon; they aren't looking for the end times - they consider that we are already in the end times. They are looking to hasten the end.

Mr. Trump isn't the intransigence and chicanery of the Republican Party come back to haunt them. He is their monster, rising out of the sea of their despair, come to destroy.

And me? I'm just another observer, a loser at life, swinging back and forth in the snow.

Time. Again.

This morning I'm a little hung up on the concept of time. Again. Which means that we've monkeyed around once more with its perceived linear construct for the purpose of Daylight Savings. These days, it's about the only 'savings' most people have. I waited until this morning to set my clocks ahead. For a brief moment, I considered setting them so far ahead that I'd have to deal with the Morlocks rather than the Trump reality show.

For those who have forgotten, or for the uninitiated, the Morlocks are creatures who inhabit a utopian/dystopian future in the H. G. Wells novel, 'The Time Machine' and its various subsequent radio, film, and television adaptations. In its future epoch, long after nuclear wars have devastated our planet, humans have evolved into two distinct branches. The Eloi live on the planet's surface enjoying -without work- a strife free existence of idle play, lush vegetation, and meals of fruit provided for them. Their only task is reproduction. 'Eloi' is the Hebrew plural for 'lesser gods' in the Old Testament. Think idle rich. The workers of this future have lived in the dark underground for so many eons that they can no longer tolerate light. They are the Morlocks, who tend the machines, and collect and provide fruit as food for the Eloi. Central to the story is a giant sphinx. This is more of a Greek sphinx that an Egyptian one. In Greek legend, the Sphinx asks a riddle. Those who can not answer it are killed and eaten. And therein lies the relationship between the Eloi and the Morlocks, who are, as you might guess, meat eaters.

I have the 1960 George Pal film adaptation in my DVR. I saw it at the movies back when it was released, and I've never forgotten it. In the part of the pretty blonde girl in distress (there was always a pretty blonde girl in distress back then) was Yvette Mimieux, who would be emblazoned into my consciousness in 1964 as the epileptic surfer girl love interest for tv's Dr. Kildare, as personified by the sigh-worthy Richard Chamberlain. The first episode of the two parter was called "Tyger, Tyger", a reference to a poem. I searched it out, and that is how I began reading William Blake at the age of 13. Surfer girl had grand-mal seizures, which was my introduction to such crises and attendant terminology. Also in the movie, in the part of 'best friend', was Alan Young. Mr. Young was quite well known to me, as he had been appearing on tv since 1958 as Wilbur Post. My father's name was Wilbur, so of course I was amused by this coincidence of nomenclature, and a fan of the show. The show was 'Mr. Ed', whose hero was a talking horse. Considering the movies and tv shows I watched as a kid, (which included action heroes like Superman and Zorro, do-gooders who wore capes and extremely tight pants) no wonder I was/am so fucking weird. (Sorry for the language there. I had considered the euphemistic 'fugging', which Norman Mailer utilized in 'The Naked and the Dead'. That tome was written in an era in which such words could not be seen in print without risking some quality time in prison. When Mailer was introduced to Tallulah Bankhead, she immediately remarked, "Oh, Yes. The young man who can't spell." As I often engage in battle with various spell-check and auto-correct programs, I am loathe to be the old guy who can't spell. At least my time at the computer isn't in the basement where I won't have to deal with a biologically acquired aversion to bright light while indulging in carnivorous pursuits. No, I'd be the Time Machine's narrator, trying to help the poor thoughtless Eloi survive. In my version of the story, the Morlocks are led by Steve Bannon.

I first recorded The Time Machine when it was last on Turner Classic Movies a couple of years ago, and deleted it after watching. That was before I got the video projector. When it was shown again last month as part of their Academy Award films run-out, I recorded it again. (It won for Special Effects.)
It should be noted that the lengthy set of steps going to the dome under which the Eloi eat and sleep were originally built for the 1944 MGM version of Kismet, which detailed fun with Muslims in old Bagdad. They were used every now and again, most memorably (for me) as the steps to a library on the Twilight Zone. By the way, in the Time Machine novel, neither the narrator, nor the machine's inventor, are named. In the 1960 movie, the hero is referred to as 'George'. Which was the G in H. G. Wells. Furthermore, when George sits in his machine in the movie, we see an engraved plate on the console which states, 'Manufactured by H George Wells'. In need of space on the DVR, I thought I'd delete the movie, but as I had only watched the Victorian era part of it via the projector, I decided to catch the rest of it first, which I did a few days ago. Seeing the various future sets, and noticing how cheap some of them were, there was no way I could erase it yet. It was just too much fun.

As it happens, there is a fairly recent entertainment trend of the last couple of years with which I've been intending to catch up. I first noticed it with a Fox tv series in which Ichabod Crane wakes up to fight the Headless Horseman, as well as various minions of darkness, in present day Tarrytown, NY. There are now three or four shows whose heroes travel around in time to solve whatever existential crisis is featured that week. I find it interesting that as vampires returned to being a bit passé, as zombies began wearing thinner than their ragged clothing, and as superheroes became too numerous and oversaturated, the problems we face are now solved through time travel. I should point out that one of the new tv shows, based on a 1979 movie, has a plot in which H.G. Wells uses his time machine to visit the present to track down a time traveling Jack the Ripper. I suppose in my mental casting for the ripper, who is out to destroy whatever he can, the part will be played by Stephen Bannon. Or maybe Stephen Miller.

Dreams remembered

For the last few days those moments just before waking have provided a continuation of the same dream. I don't remember most of it; Dreams often fade quickly. I can recall that just before waking, in an era in which people with education were suspect, a roundup of intellectuals and dissidents had begun.
I was trying to save people, including myself.

Every morning has seen an intention to write in this space. I have started many posts, and left them abandoned. I am certain of the cause; it starts, much as it always does, with reading the news. It just happened again as I began sipping my coffee on a beautiful late Spring morning during the last official month of winter. The news makes me wonder about the use of winter as a metaphor.

For many years, I have kept a file in the "pictures" section of my computer labelled "Dreams Remembered". It consists entirely of old, often fading, photographs of men together, or women together. They are part of a history intentionally buried. When such images were found, often I would guess after the owner of the photo passed, they were destroyed by concerned family members. A good number of them escaped attention even though the pictures seemed to show affection between the subjects. After all, people note, men and women were freer to show affection to each other in days gone by. Such photos depict good friends, or family members. Yet now, in a more liberal time, many such photos seem to imply other relationships were depicted. They may be mementoes of a more innocent time, but they are also stories lost, or destroyed. For those who can see what is there, they are dreams remembered.

Two civil war soldiers in a hand tinted photo from the Library of Congress, posted to the Shorpy site.

Lest anyone assume that over interpretation is involved, here's a relatively sedate photo in which closeness

is portrayed, but there is no physical contact. Poet Walt Whitman is on the left, Pete Doyle on the right.
Pete Doyle, it should be noted, was Whitman's lover.

Having one's picture taken in those days was expensive. There was only one copy per photograph.

Were these two friends sharing an expense, a memento of a friendship, or something more?

As the process of photography changed and the cost was reduced,

some photographs began to suggest a little more about the nature of a relationship. 

These dreams come to mind due to a four night drama program which has been unfolding on the Disney owned ABC broadcast television network. "When We Rise" is a slightly fictionalized story of three people whose lives intersected in San Francisco, and the parts they played in the gay liberation movement.  The first part was shown on Monday, just a few days after the newly installed U.S. Attorney General rescinded and abandoned the previous administration's policy that allowed transgender teens to use the bathroom of the sex with which they identify. The new Attorney General had promised, just a few days before, that despite his past record in the segregated South, he would uphold civil rights of all Americans. He was passed on a party line vote, "conservative" and reactionary Republicans outnumbering the Democrats. The mini-series episode that night portrayed a time, in the first years after the Stonewall riots, when gay men and women were considered mentally ill, were routinely denied the rights of Americans, were routinely dismissed from their jobs, thrown out of their homes, denied housing, and just as routinely beat up and/or killed by thugs and police alike. I remember all of it, and was not ready for the pain it brought back.

Anita Bryant, pictured above, was a singer and orange juice pitchwoman who campaigned to rescind a Florida law

which banned discrimination of the basis of sexual orientation. She famously said that she would prefer

"my child be dead than homo".

The second night of the mini-series was postponed due to the new President of the United States giving an address to the entire assembled Congress. The speech was remarkable for dropping Mr. Trump's confrontational style, acting like an adult instead of a raving lunatic. The immediate response from the press, which Mr. Trump had constantly belittled, castigated, accused of making up stories (i.e. the unfavorable ones), and declared the enemy of the American People, was overly kind, remarking that he suddenly seemed presidential. They didn't really discuss his misrepresentations, distortions, outright lies, and attempts to cover up what may or may not be the truth.

Last night's episode of 'When We Rise' focused on relationships being built by the story's participants, the elation of the election of a gay man (Harvey Milk) to the San Francisco Board of Supervisors, his assassination 11 months later, and the rise of what was being called a 'gay disease'.

The episode ended with one of the principals holding a protest in which people in San Francisco began posting the names of friends and lovers lost to this new disease onto the side of city hall. I've been crying a lot. The memories of the death of dear friends, the men with whom I was forming my family, have been overpowering.

This morning, intent on resuming my post of thoughts arising from the old movies I've been watching, I logged onto my computer to discover news that the new Attorney General had been caught lying about his contacts with Russia. These contacts, as well as a number of others surrounding the new administration, seem to expand into an ever deepening well. There are lies upon lies. As the stories of investigations into these incidents become public, they aren't just denied, the press is accused of making them up to discredit the President. Also in the news were further stories about the new administrator of the Federal Communications Commission and his repeal of polices protecting access to the internet, programs which helped the poor afford the internet in their homes, and rules of privacy which had hemmed in internet providers ability to keep records of what sites and information anyone had accessed. All of this is, of course, in the name of fostering business growth and competition. Such information would never be used to assist in rounding up people.

Other news stories concern the President's travel bans, people being deported due to such criminal backgrounds as having traffic violations, people being detained for hours or days without warrants, people having their identification papers checked as they left a flight which started and ended within the United States, and so forth. When the travel ban was imposed to protests and legal actions across the country, Homeland Security backed the President. They will be getting 15,000 new agents. The Department of Defense will get billions, partially to fund new atomic weapons. Other areas of the budget will have to be cut; these include monies for health care, social security, education, and the arts.

The man in the center of the above photograph is Bix Biderbecke. He is one of the men who was instrumental in the development of jazz. He was an alcoholic who died young, at the age of 28. He was gay.