Here In Ham-A-Lot

by Thomas M. Pender

While I tend to scoff at people who are fascinated and/or obsessed with “the royals,” I must admit I’m a bit of a Kennedyphile, which pretty much amounts to the same thing in American terms.  It’s not that I’m a fan of the clan, who were simultaneously the most successful and the most cursed family in our nation’s history.  No, “fan” is not the right word.  I guess it’s just amazing to me that so much right and wrong could dwell among and happen to the members of a single family.

As an interested party, I do seek out and absorb all the information I can on John, Bobby, Jackie, Teddy, Joseph and their ginormous family tree.  If there is a movie, book or miniseries about the turbulent lives of these people, I’ll at least give it a look.  Sometimes, this garners me even more interesting facts on the clan . . . and sometimes this is a tremendous waste of time.

Available on DVD, the 1983 TV miniseries Kennedy, starring Martin Sheen as the 35th President, is a good example of a great show, in terms of acting, research and writing, for anyone’s who’s interested.  Today, however, the topic is the more recent (as in 2011) cable miniseries The Kennedys, with Greg Kinear as JFK.

The show does have quite a bit of positive in it: Kinnear does a respectable job as John, taking on the Boston accent, the hair and the furrowed brow.  Barry Pepper, a personal Hollywood favorite of mine, does well as burdened brother Teddy, though for some reason (probably to cover the very un-Bobby twist in Pepper’s nose), this Bobby has quite the distracting proboscis.  Katie Holmes shocked me a bit by doing a decent job as Jackie.  I suppose I figured she wasn’t ready to handle this kind of serious drama, but she did.  In the acting category, the only real eyesore is Tom Wilkinson as corrupt ringleader and patriarch Joseph P. Kennedy.  Wilkinson is a great talent, to be sure, but he looks to be at least one human head taller than the real Joe, about 75 pounds heavier, and he seems to be trying to act the part, rather than just acting it.

The worst element, however, is the writing.  Totaling just eight hours, and attempting to cover 1960-68, with numerous flashbacks going back to the very early 20th Century, every historic scene seems rather rushed.  Compared to the ’83 Kennedy, this gives us less information in twice the airtime.  There also doesn’t seem to be any new information here.  If you know very little about the Kennedy years, you can learn something from this show, but if you were alive and had a television or a newspaper subscription back then, this will just seem like a very fast newsreel.  Since the Kennedys have been so overly researched, analyzed, judged and publicized over the years, I would think that any further attempts to dramatize them would at least have a fresh angle, or at least a few shocking previously-uncovered facts.  This offers none.

The worst element of the worst element is the syrupy-sugary-sweet tying up of loose ends in scenes that could never possibly have taken place, given the characters of these real people.  Jack promising Jackie he’s going to be a better husband, just an hour before he’s killed.  LBJ (who loathed the Kennedys) telling Jackie that the White House won’t be the same without her in it.  By the final episode, I was physically scoffing and rolling my eyes at these fairytale endings.

If you don’t know much about the Kennedy years and family and you’re interested, look into the Sheen show.  Whether you already know something about the clan or are looking to learn, The Kennedys will teach you nothing.

Play It Again, Sam Rockwell

by Thomas M. Pender

Another undersung hero of Hollywood that I greatly enjoy is, no doubt, a name you won’t recognize.  He’s been part of a couple of Tinseltown’s bigger films, so you would probably recognize Sam Rockwell’s face before his name.  His presence on the screen is completely magnetic, even in the smaller roles he has taken.  Rockwell is one of these rare talents who can humor with just the right kind of smile, frighten with another kind, and whether he’s in a comedy, drama or thriller, make you wonder what he’s up to at all times.

I first saw him in the John Turturro oddity Box of Moonlight.  I have only found Turturro himself to be entering once or twice in his entire career, but the plot intrigued me here.  Turturro plays a frustrated and pressured man who suddenly sees everything running backward around him.  Through a misadventure, he finds himself in a secluded area, where he discovers Rockwell’s eccentric character living alone.  I wanted to see this film solely based on this character, as shown in trailers.  He wears a Davy Crockett coonskin cap and a buckskin jacket, shoots at random objects with a rifle, and keeps a box in which he claims he has trapped some precious moonlight.  This is a character worth seeing!

In the excellent Michael Hoffman 1999 retelling of Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Rockwell hardly has any lines at all, yet his facial expressions alone entertain in every scene we see him.  The entire production is well worth seeing, starring Kevin Kline, Michelle Pfeiffer, Rupert Everett, Stanley Tucci, and Calista Flockhart, who was cast as the flustered and desperate Helena because she was playing the flustered and desperate Ally McBeal on television at the time.  Here, again, Rockwell is practically a part of the scenery among this ensemble, but he will entertain you!

In that same year, he starred in two blockbusters: The Green Mile with Tom Hanks, and GalaxyQuest with Tim Allen.  The Green Mile was his first chance to really shine a light on himself as the killer “Wild Bill” Wharton.  His humor comes to the surface in some scenes, but mainly he is creepy in this one.  This sort of range no doubt opened even more doors.

Confessions of a Dangerous Mind, based on television star and producer Chuck Barris’ memoir and/or novel (depending on whom you ask) linked the eccentric actor with an eccentric person to portray: Chuck Barris, the creator of The Dating Game and the creator/host of The Gong Show.  Whether or not you believe the tale, Barris claims in the original book that he was also a government assassin while putting on silly television shows.  Rockwell was a perfect choice for this role.  He laughed at himself, at the circumstances, and the world at large.  You’ll laugh with him.

I found A Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (painfully ridiculous) and The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford (a movie as needlessly long as the title itself) impossible to enjoy, though no blame can go to Rockwell.  I next caught Rockwell in Frost/Nixon. This is a completely dramatic part for him, and again a background role.  He grabs no spotlight here, but helps the story along with a more humble part.

I have written an entire review on 2009’s Gentleman Broncos.  This little-known, little-spoken-of gem somehow got itself attached to the much bigger film Paul by having its trailer included on the DVD.  Even more than Paul, I wanted to see Broncos based solely on this trailer.  Most people will find it either slow and boring or silly beyond repair, but it struck me just right, mainly due to Rockwell’s over-the-top, low-tech fun in a dual role.  (Well, not so much a dual role as two renditions of the same role.)  This is strictly human cartoon territory, where nothing is to be taken seriously, and Rockwell again selected a role to demonstrate an extreme into which he can stretch.

This is what draws me to actors.  Range.  So few actors these days actually have any.  Once they do two movies and people know their names, they pick easy roles and pretty much portray themselves without any acting at all.  It’s the actors who strive and reach, who can be just as dark a villain as they can be a shiny hero.  As hilarious as gut-wrenching.  I would love to see Rockwell take on strict human drama, where there is no smirking allowed, but I have no doubt he could accomplish this.

In short, if the name “Sam Rockwell” is attached to a film, you will enjoy it!

Caroliteraoke: A Mock "Review"

by Thomas M. Pender

Last year at this time, I performed in a local Macon event entitled "Caroliteraoke."  This was a holiday version of "Literaoke," which had become a local phenomenon of folks performing literal analyses of rather ridiculous song lyrics.  Inspired by author Steve Almond's original skewering of Toto's "Africa," this comical performance practice is enjoyable to write, perform and hear.  Being Christmastime, I thought it would be timely to reprint my "review" of the lyrics in "Rubber Chicken Soup."

You don't have to be familiar with this rather obscure Elton John song to grasp the writing, just follow along and enjoy.  However, if you wish to listen to the original tune before, during or after reading, it can be found on YouTube at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iXP5OXm3v8k.

HO! HO! HO! (Who’d Be A Turkey At Christmas)

by Elton John and Bernie Taupin

An open letter to Elton John and Bernie Taupin, entitled simply “How Not To Get A Visit From St. Nicholas”:

Christmas is a time of giving.  Of joy.  Of Santa Claus.  Or, for you Brits who can’t seem to follow the superior traditions of your more successful offshoot country, “Father Christmas.”  Here’s a guy who takes it upon himself to provide all the world’s people with free gifts every Christmas morning.  To accomplish this, he must get around the world and visit every house in the span of an evening.  This is a pretty great thing.  Something that deserves thanks.

The song "Ho! Ho! Ho! (Who'd Be A Turkey At Christmas)" is NOT a great “thank you” card!  Let’s review:

Sitting here on Christmas Eve

With a brandy in my hand

Right out of the gate, we’ve established that you’re drinking.  This song was, in fact, penned and recorded during Elton and Bernie’s infamous drinking days.  So, in short, nothing we learn from you from here on out is trustworthy, or should be taken to heart.  A truly magnanimous warning.  To continue:

Oh, I’ve had a few too many

And it’s getting hard to stand

Now, Mr. Taupin and Mr. John, you have upped the ante, by informing us that you are so wasted, vertical maintenance has been breached.  Again I submit, and now with even more rigorous fervor, the two of you should not be trusted to convey accurate information.  A mere four lines into this ditty, I’m already wondering why it was written, why it was recorded, and why I’m still listening to it.  Frankly, I think it’s the giggling, babbling elves and the obviously schnockered background screechers.  I don’t know where this song is taking me, but I do know that I’m going to enjoy witnessing the wreck at the end of the journey.

Next:

I keep hearing noises

From my fireplace

I must be going crazy

Or the brandy’s won the race

I concur.  If you are, in fact, hearing noises from your fireplace – and we assume here that either it is not the crackle of a hearty fire, or that your blood-alcohol level has reached such proportions as to render you incapable of recognizing the sounds coming from a standard fireplace – that you have indeed lagged behind brandy in the Christmas Derby.  Speaking of your hops-inspired hearing impairment:

And I keep hearing

Ho Ho Ho!  Guess who’s here?

Your fat and jolly friend draws near

Ho Ho Ho!  Surprise, surprise!

The bearded weirdie’s just arrived

I say “Halt,” gentlemen.  We’ve established that the singer is home (or, at least, he believes he’s at his house) on Christmas Eve.  He is hearing someone (physically present or not) saying particular phrases.  Now, if we give enough credit to this soused troubadour, we can say he has established that it is Santa Claus’ weaker cousin Father Christmas who is arriving to distribute gifts.  To me, one of the last things one should do upon learning that someone has arrived at his house to give out freebies is to insult him!  Here, the slosher – er, the singer – has already called Papa Christmas “fat” and a “bearded weirdie,” while somehow attempting to make up for this slap in the face with a lame “jolly” tag.  Well, I don’t know about Daddy Christmas, but with the Star-Spangled Santa Claus, this behavior will earn you a healthy-sized briquette in your stocking!

On my roof there’s snorting sounds

And bells inside my head

My vision’s blurred with colour

And all I see is red

Being a literature buff, I’ve always enjoyed the writing device of symbolism.  Not one to assume or accuse, nor even to imply, I do find it interesting that someone in the music business would use the word “snorting” in a song that involves, to some degree, “snow.”  Perhaps it’s not the brandy that’s causing the slosher to see and hear assorted yuletidian images, if-you-know-what-I-mean!

There’s a pair of large-sized Wellies

Coming down my flue

And the smell of burning rubber

Oh, is filling up the room

Okay, a wee bit of American translation is needed here.  “Wellies” is a common Brit term for Wellington boots, which are big, bulky, shiny black boots one could safely associate with Father Santa.  However, without this knowledge, it makes the stanza vague at best, and deliberately confounding at worst.  Was this song written with the intent to only be distributed in Merry Old England?  Or did the creators feel that foreigners didn’t deserve an explanation?  Without one, we are left to wonder why the smell of burning rubber is filling up the room!  And if you do know what it means, you are horrified by the realization that someone in the household – drunk or otherwise – has lit a fire in the fireplace, on the very night that Santa Christmas is due to drop down that particular architectural orifice.  Presents, you say?  “Like hell,” Pop Claus retorts, as he shinnies his way out of the brick birth canal to leap into his sleigh and tear out of this alcoholic’s abode!  As if to overemphasize how plastered and how ignorant he is, the singer actually repeats the insulting chorus:

And we keep hearing

Ho Ho Ho!  Guess who’s here?

Your fat and jolly friend draws near

Ho Ho Ho!  Surprise, surprise!

The bearded weirdie’s just arrived

So, as he has insulted the world’s nicest person this side of The Easter Bunny, virtually guaranteeing he will never again receive another solitary Christmas gift, he rebelliously kicks it home with more name-slinging.  Now, that takes guts!

The Great Vonnegut

by Thomas M. Pender

I have to sing the praises of Kurt Vonnegut Jr. for those who have never read his works!

Vonnegut (November 11, 1922 – April 11, 2007) wrote such amazingly worded novels, he could sway his readers’ emotions and thought processes.  Not everything he wrote is worthy of praise – in fact some is so repetitive and cyclical, you will think you’re trapped in rap lyrics! – but a few gems are well worth crowing about.

Player Piano was his first novel, and it tells the story of man versus machine in a society where machines are replacing humans.  Right out of the box, I have to say I loved the title.  Having nothing to do with the story, the player piano is a simplified image of a contraption that, while normally operated by a human, runs on its own.  Brilliant!  The story immediately grabbed my attention, and held it through every page, so I immediately went on to his next work.

The Sirens of Titan astounded me, plain and simple, for the accomplishment in the writing itself.  Without changing anything about his main character’s actions or motives, Vonnegut manipulates how the reader sees him and changes how we think of him.  You spend the first third of the book thinking the hero is the best guy in the world, the second third wondering what the heck he’s really doing, and the last third thinking he’s the worst guy in the world . . . all through the power of Vonnegut’s wording!  As a writer and aspiring novelist, I see this as superhuman skill and talent.

Slaughterhouse-Five is about a man who becomes “unstuck in Time.”  He is constantly juggled through scenes from his past, present and future.  He experiences World War II Dresden, the planet Trafalmadore (as a human zoo display!), 1950s American married life, and his own murder in 1976 Chicago.  (Published in 1969, this would be in the near future.)  You feel for the character, and you learn from his predicament, as well.

Mother Night had a profound effect on me.  The theme is “You must be careful what you pretend to be, because in the end, you are what you pretend to be!”  This was meant as a cautionary tale, featuring an American who pretends to be a Nazi in World War II Germany.  The character has good reason to do so, but sees himself as a monster because his reason does not change the evil he is doing.  Still, I took this lesson as a positive: If you pretend to be the person you want to be, you become that person!

I was also very affected by a story written in screenplay form, Fortitude.  Published in the short story collection Wampeters, Foma & Granfalloons, it tells the story of a very rich woman who should have died long ago, but is being kept alive by a building full of machines.  Only her head remains in its original form.  She is prevented from committing suicide when she becomes too depressed over her situation, so she exacts some wonderfully poetic revenge.  Here again, I was impressed by how Vonnegut evokes strong emotional reactions from his reader.

While I was incredibly disappointed in one of his most lauded books, Breakfast of Champions, I find Vonnegut’s work to be completely original in tone, and I will miss his writing.   In general, his work makes you want to laugh, but before you can laugh, it makes you think, and in thinking, you realize that what you just read isn’t funny, but kind of sad or infuriating.  I have no idea how he did that, and I’m incredibly jealous.  However, as a reader, his books are a playground for the mind.  If you’ve never read his work, I recommend you start with the first novel, Player Piano.  It’s a fine introduction to his style, and if you like it, you can easily progress from that.  If you love the written word, and the magic that a masterful writer can conjure, give Kurt Vonnegut Jr. a try.  In whatever way you are affected by his words, you will certainly be affected, which is a rare and wonderful thing in the world of literature!

Mr. Monk Takes His Medicine . . . And Impresses Tom

by Thomas M. Pender

The USA Network series Monk, starring Tony Shaloub as former San Francisco police detective Adrian Monk, was known to me by commercials alone for many years.  For whatever scheduling reasons, I never got the chance to check the show out for several of its first seasons.  However, the first episode I ever saw impressed me so much that it stuck with me for a year until I was able to track it down, and it also got me to watch the show regularly.

Monk, known as “The Defective Detective” in promos, was San Francisco’s most brilliant detective, who figured out the identities of murderers and motives for murder by the craziest and tiniest of details.  Then, according to the first episode, his wife of many years was killed in an auto explosion.  He was so in love and connected with his wife Trudy that her death affected his personality and connection with the world around him.  He fell victim to every phobia known to Man, particularly mysophobia, the fear of germs.

This first episode I was exposed to was entitled “Mr. Monk Takes His Medicine.”  (I would learn later that practically every episode started with the words “Mr. Monk.”)  In it, he allows a suspect to get away due to one of his fears, and he is shamed by this.  His psychiatrist (a semi-regular character, who helps as Monk constantly tackles his fears) gives him a prescription to try.  Of course, Monk is afraid to try it.

A while ago, I wrote a column on two of the most romantic lines I’d ever heard in films.  This one episode, which moved me a great deal, includes the single most romantic scene – or more specifically, gesture – I’ve ever seen.  When Monk arrives home, and lays awake in bed wondering what to do, he goes to his closet.  Since his house is meticulously germ- and dirt-free, it’s no surprise that when he goes to his closet to pull something down from the shelf, it’s in a zipper-sealed bag.  Unzipping the bag, he removes a pillow and lays back down with it, deeply inhaling at the corner of the pillow.  We next hear the voice of his late wife, who appears to him (as I later learned she does periodically) and holds a conversation with Monk about his mistake, the pills, and his fears.

I was dumbstruck by this.  The man, fictional though he may be, loved his wife so much that when she passed away, he kept her pillow in a sealed bag so that it would still smell like her.  This is ingenious writing.  The vision of Trudy even tells Monk that there’s no way the pillow can still smell like her after she’s been gone so many years, and he painfully replies that he can still smell her.

As I saw more and more episodes of Monk, the character quickly became one of my favorites.  He is a humorous character, but also a sympathetic and in his own way, a heroic character.  There are many reasons to like and to cheer for Adrian Monk, even though he has so many issues to conquer.  For me, his greatest quality is his love and devotion for his wife.  Some would say he is wasting his life by staying alone and mourning a lost spouse, but I believe that as long as someone is happy – either by moving on after a spouse’s death or by loving them alone – this can be a very romantic thing.

Certainly, the pillow ranks high on the romantic scale, whether or not the aroma of Trudy Monk’s hand cream and shampoo are still on it, as Adrian insists.

If you’ve never seen Monk, and enjoy characters who will intrigue you as they entertain you, I highly recommend the show.  If you are interested in this particular episode, it is the ninth episode of the third season, and is available for rent or purchase in the third season box set.  Also, it is available on Best of Monk, an eight-episode compilation of the (fan-picked, no doubt) best episodes of the eight-season run of the show.  Monk Takes His Medicine represents the entire third season, so I imagine that it touched a great many more viewers than just me.  I hope if you see it for the first or 100th time, it touches you likewise.

Jesus Don’t Surf . . . Entertainingly, Anyway!

by Thomas M. Pender

I never got the chance to watch the HBO series John From Cincinnati during its original run back in 2007, but I did catch the teaser ads.  I was very intrigued at the curiosity campaign, which showed Bruce Greenwood walking up the beach from the ocean.  Wearing a body suit and carrying a surfboard, he stops walking, looks stunned and confused, then looks down.  He and the viewers notice that his feet are about six inches off the ground!

This intrigued me, and not being an HBO subscriber, I looked forward to the day I could see it on DVD.  Well, that day came this past week.  Luckily, I saw the entire one-season show through Netflix and I didn’t purchase it.

Ugh!

I’m a fan of symbolism, when it’s used wisely.  I loved reading The Grapes of Wrath and One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest in the 11th grade, because Mr. Farah explained how the characters symbolized well-known characters from the Bible, including Jesus Christ Himself.  As I mentioned in a review some weeks ago, Christian messages distributed to the general public as entertainment should be packaged in digestible wrapping, not force-fed.  John failed miserably here.  Nothing is digestible.  I sort of understand some of the biblical symbolism, but not thoroughly, and I certainly didn’t enjoy doing it.

One of the reasons I was originally anxious to see the show was because the cast was literally filled with actors I perceive as capable: Greenwood, who I thoroughly enjoyed in the UPN’s Nowhere Man, Rebecca (Risky Business) De Mornay, Ed (Modern Family) O’Neill and Howard Hesseman, who can’t seem to leave Cincinnati behind!  This is his third television romp in that town, after starring in WKRP In Cincinnati and The New WKRP In Cincinnati.  However, when I finally got to see it, I discovered that these fine folks’ performances, while fascinating, were mired in confusing and convoluted dialogue.  In a way, it was like watching Shakespeare: you can sort of follow the basic plot, but you have no idea what individual monologues and back-and-forths are all about.  It was constantly and increasingly frustrating.

One major exception to the great casting was Greyson Fletcher, who played young surfer Shaun.  I read that he was quickly cast based on his skateboard skills alone, which would transfer well into surfing skills.  I believe it!  Fletcher is about as good an actor as Laurence Olivier is today!  It was like witnessing Day One of a mannequin learn to walk and talk.  I’m not sure I ever saw the kid blink once . . . or smile . . . or emote in any real human fashion.

I can’t really tell you if Austin Nichols, who portrayed the title character, is a good actor.  He spent the entire show grimacing as if forced to suck a lemon, and talking like he was the love child of Rain Man and E.T.!  It was incredibly irritating, particularly in the beginning of the show, when he only speaks words he hears other characters say, and only knows a few lines.

JFC was not a bad idea for a show, but it was created and delivered with no clarity whatsoever, leaving us with one confusing mess.  I seriously defy anyone to watch a single scene of this ten-episode series, and explain to me what the characters are talking about.  It’s that bad!  A shame, really.  If they had simplified the dialogue in order to tell an entertaining and digestible story, I might actually feel bad it got cancelled.