For your consideration, a brief tome:
Poverty can be liberating
But I would not recommend it.
No alarm clock in the morning,
No uniforms to fit,
No cable TV ads or news bytes here,
No wireless internet.
The world goes on without me
And I don’t mind a bit.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Saturday, January 8, 2011
John Wayne, An Appreciation
For your consideration, the following article I published on Helium today. Politics aside.
John Wayne, Actor (An Appreciation)
John Wayne was the definitive Western Hero. From his early years as one of the “Sons of the Pioneers” to his breakout role in “Stagecoach” in 1939, and all the way through to his last film, “The Shootist,” Wayne was the personification of Western Swagger -- a combination of confidence and righteousness that could never be defeated. Eventually he only had to play himself: just his name at the top of the marquis told the audience what to expect. In that sense Wayne, born Marion Martin, became the stereotype of the Victorious American Hero. His other roles, even in war epics, did not bring out that same reassuring, old shoe comfort of knowing what to expect in a John Wayne Western -- lots of action with Wayne standing tall as the gun smoke cleared. His image became so indelible that even his outfit stayed the same from film to film, character to character.
A John Wayne character was simple, straightforward, and sure. And yet, among his dizzying body of work, there were many standout performances of characters layered in complexity, even downright ugliness, that allowed Wayne to portray a character unlike and beyond his persona. Knowing the actor is Wayne colors our appreciation and enjoyments of these roles now, where Wayne is the actor instead. But these are stellar performances in masterful films. For your consideration (listed by year of release):
“Stagecoach” (1939), directed by John Ford, is one of ‘39’s bumper crop of great films that included “Gone With The Wind” and “The Wizard of Oz.” it also marked Wayne’s emergence as a star, playing the young, wronged man on a vengeance trail that gets hijacked by his efforts to help his fellow passengers survive a harrowing run through hostile Indian territory.
“Red River” (1948), directed by Howard Hawkes, is my second favorite Wayne film of all time. It is his most complex performance as an uncompromising and often cruel tyrant of a cattle boss during a drive. In a film filled with rough men and sharp edges, Wayne’s performance is spot on and courageously unsympathetic.
“Fort Apache” (1948), directed by John Ford. In this brilliant story of life at the edge of the frontier lived under the command of a blind megalomaniac, Wayne gets to play the more understanding junior officer to Henry Fonda against type as the tyrannical, ill-advised cavalry commander who foolishly leads half his command into disaster. The balancer between the two men is perfect.
“Hondo” (1953), directed by John Farrow. This film may have gone a long way to creating the persona Wayne eventually would become -- self assured, rigged individualist with an unyielding moral compass. Army scout Wayne comes across a woman and her son who seem oblivious to an impending Apache uprising. The horsemanship alone is thrilling, and the scenery breathtaking in a taut, well told story.
“The Searchers” (1956), directed by John Ford. Not only is this my favorite John Wayne film, it is one of the greatest American films of all time. Wayne portrays a hardened Civil War veteran, bitter from his losses, who takes his nephew on a relentless quest to rescue his niece, kidnapped by Indians during a raid on his family’s home. The film is brutal and honest, showing the humanity and inhumanity on both sides. And Wayne’s turn as fractious Ethan Edwards is spellbinding up to the very last scene.
“Rio Bravo” (1959), directed by Howard Hawkes. This is one of several virtually interchangeable John Wayne oaters. The plots are all similar with Wayne in the same shirt, cowboy hat and bandanna and wielding a Winchester with his handgun gently riding his hip, bringing or upholding justice with the help of an assortment of secondary characters that always includes one has-been and/or drunk who rises to the occasion and achieves a level of redemption. This one, with the help of Dean Martin as the drunk (yes, he could act), Ricky Nelson as the arrogant young gun, Walter Brennan as the cantankerous deputy (does anyone do cantankerous better?), and Angie Dickinson as the way too young love interest, is the best of this crop.
“The Alamo” (1960), directed by John Wayne. For a long time this film was looked down upon as a bit of bombastic self-indulgence. The truth is, this was Wayne’s personal homage to American heroism, with himself in the director’s chair as well as portraying Davy Crockett. There are more than one pretty speech, and it takes a while to get to the final battle, but that battle is rousing, tragic and heroic all at the same time. For a study in heroism, it is interesting that Wayne chose a battle that ended in defeat. The men who died there were America’s 300 Spartans. And though Wayne did not have to stretch to portray Crockett, he did one thing admirably well. Casting himself and casting Richard Widmark as Jim Bowie lent credibility to the film because Crockett and Bowie each was fifty years old at the Alamo.
“The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance” (1962), directed by John Ford, is another of the great American films, an amazing study of new versus old and the true nature of doing what’s right. Wayne plays the odd man out in a romantic triangle who rises above his beliefs and feelings to help Jimmy Stewart bring civilization to the West and earn himself a grand political career in the bargain. Lee Marvin is a standout in the title role\.
“True Grit” (1969), directed by Henry Hathaway, gets an honorable mention here because Wayne earned an Oscar for playing Rooster Cogburn, the one eyed codger who becomes protector of a vengeance seeking 14 year old girl. I saw nothing remarkable in the film and believe the Academy was rewarding Wayne for his body of work. I thought Wayne was being a bit too much Wayne and the action more improbable than a Clint Eastwood spaghetti Western. And with the new version out, it seems certain that these filmmakers missed much of the wealth in Charles Portis’ 1968 novel.
“The Shootist” (1976), directed by Don Siegel. Wayne is an aging gunfighter dying of cancer, who manages to find a way to go out in a blaze of gunfire. The character is a stoic, sad, old, finished man looking for one instant of his long gone youth to relive. With Jimmy Stewart as the doctor who diagnoses him and Lauren Bacall as the boarding house matron who rents him a room are wonderful, and Ron Howard -- who has often said he learned much about filmmaking from working with Wayne on this film -- plays Bacall’s son, an impressionable youth who relishes in Wayne’s violent past and present as much as his mother abhors it. This was Wayne’s 184th and last film, a fitting end for a man who died of stomach cancer in June 1979.
John Wayne, Actor (An Appreciation)
John Wayne was the definitive Western Hero. From his early years as one of the “Sons of the Pioneers” to his breakout role in “Stagecoach” in 1939, and all the way through to his last film, “The Shootist,” Wayne was the personification of Western Swagger -- a combination of confidence and righteousness that could never be defeated. Eventually he only had to play himself: just his name at the top of the marquis told the audience what to expect. In that sense Wayne, born Marion Martin, became the stereotype of the Victorious American Hero. His other roles, even in war epics, did not bring out that same reassuring, old shoe comfort of knowing what to expect in a John Wayne Western -- lots of action with Wayne standing tall as the gun smoke cleared. His image became so indelible that even his outfit stayed the same from film to film, character to character.
A John Wayne character was simple, straightforward, and sure. And yet, among his dizzying body of work, there were many standout performances of characters layered in complexity, even downright ugliness, that allowed Wayne to portray a character unlike and beyond his persona. Knowing the actor is Wayne colors our appreciation and enjoyments of these roles now, where Wayne is the actor instead. But these are stellar performances in masterful films. For your consideration (listed by year of release):
“Stagecoach” (1939), directed by John Ford, is one of ‘39’s bumper crop of great films that included “Gone With The Wind” and “The Wizard of Oz.” it also marked Wayne’s emergence as a star, playing the young, wronged man on a vengeance trail that gets hijacked by his efforts to help his fellow passengers survive a harrowing run through hostile Indian territory.
“Red River” (1948), directed by Howard Hawkes, is my second favorite Wayne film of all time. It is his most complex performance as an uncompromising and often cruel tyrant of a cattle boss during a drive. In a film filled with rough men and sharp edges, Wayne’s performance is spot on and courageously unsympathetic.
“Fort Apache” (1948), directed by John Ford. In this brilliant story of life at the edge of the frontier lived under the command of a blind megalomaniac, Wayne gets to play the more understanding junior officer to Henry Fonda against type as the tyrannical, ill-advised cavalry commander who foolishly leads half his command into disaster. The balancer between the two men is perfect.
“Hondo” (1953), directed by John Farrow. This film may have gone a long way to creating the persona Wayne eventually would become -- self assured, rigged individualist with an unyielding moral compass. Army scout Wayne comes across a woman and her son who seem oblivious to an impending Apache uprising. The horsemanship alone is thrilling, and the scenery breathtaking in a taut, well told story.
“The Searchers” (1956), directed by John Ford. Not only is this my favorite John Wayne film, it is one of the greatest American films of all time. Wayne portrays a hardened Civil War veteran, bitter from his losses, who takes his nephew on a relentless quest to rescue his niece, kidnapped by Indians during a raid on his family’s home. The film is brutal and honest, showing the humanity and inhumanity on both sides. And Wayne’s turn as fractious Ethan Edwards is spellbinding up to the very last scene.
“Rio Bravo” (1959), directed by Howard Hawkes. This is one of several virtually interchangeable John Wayne oaters. The plots are all similar with Wayne in the same shirt, cowboy hat and bandanna and wielding a Winchester with his handgun gently riding his hip, bringing or upholding justice with the help of an assortment of secondary characters that always includes one has-been and/or drunk who rises to the occasion and achieves a level of redemption. This one, with the help of Dean Martin as the drunk (yes, he could act), Ricky Nelson as the arrogant young gun, Walter Brennan as the cantankerous deputy (does anyone do cantankerous better?), and Angie Dickinson as the way too young love interest, is the best of this crop.
“The Alamo” (1960), directed by John Wayne. For a long time this film was looked down upon as a bit of bombastic self-indulgence. The truth is, this was Wayne’s personal homage to American heroism, with himself in the director’s chair as well as portraying Davy Crockett. There are more than one pretty speech, and it takes a while to get to the final battle, but that battle is rousing, tragic and heroic all at the same time. For a study in heroism, it is interesting that Wayne chose a battle that ended in defeat. The men who died there were America’s 300 Spartans. And though Wayne did not have to stretch to portray Crockett, he did one thing admirably well. Casting himself and casting Richard Widmark as Jim Bowie lent credibility to the film because Crockett and Bowie each was fifty years old at the Alamo.
“The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance” (1962), directed by John Ford, is another of the great American films, an amazing study of new versus old and the true nature of doing what’s right. Wayne plays the odd man out in a romantic triangle who rises above his beliefs and feelings to help Jimmy Stewart bring civilization to the West and earn himself a grand political career in the bargain. Lee Marvin is a standout in the title role\.
“True Grit” (1969), directed by Henry Hathaway, gets an honorable mention here because Wayne earned an Oscar for playing Rooster Cogburn, the one eyed codger who becomes protector of a vengeance seeking 14 year old girl. I saw nothing remarkable in the film and believe the Academy was rewarding Wayne for his body of work. I thought Wayne was being a bit too much Wayne and the action more improbable than a Clint Eastwood spaghetti Western. And with the new version out, it seems certain that these filmmakers missed much of the wealth in Charles Portis’ 1968 novel.
“The Shootist” (1976), directed by Don Siegel. Wayne is an aging gunfighter dying of cancer, who manages to find a way to go out in a blaze of gunfire. The character is a stoic, sad, old, finished man looking for one instant of his long gone youth to relive. With Jimmy Stewart as the doctor who diagnoses him and Lauren Bacall as the boarding house matron who rents him a room are wonderful, and Ron Howard -- who has often said he learned much about filmmaking from working with Wayne on this film -- plays Bacall’s son, an impressionable youth who relishes in Wayne’s violent past and present as much as his mother abhors it. This was Wayne’s 184th and last film, a fitting end for a man who died of stomach cancer in June 1979.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Dutch Pride, American Style
Just when I thought justice was taking a vacation in America, Baseball's Hall of Fame has finally elected Bert Blyleven to its honored shrine. This is the greatest honor in Baseball, sort of an immortality. It took 14 years to get there -- I think after 15 a player becomes relegated to the old timers committee. So, bully for you, Bert!
Blyleven is a partioular favorite of mine, of course. He was born in Zeist, Holland. His parents immigrated to Canada when he was two, then to the US. I believe that Blyleven, who won 287 games in the Majors, often playing for second division teams and saddled with hard-luck losses, is the only Dutch born member of the Hall.
Go, Orange! Conquer the world! Well, maybe we don't want the headaches So just have fun!
Blyleven is a partioular favorite of mine, of course. He was born in Zeist, Holland. His parents immigrated to Canada when he was two, then to the US. I believe that Blyleven, who won 287 games in the Majors, often playing for second division teams and saddled with hard-luck losses, is the only Dutch born member of the Hall.
Go, Orange! Conquer the world! Well, maybe we don't want the headaches So just have fun!
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
How To Train Your Dragon
Animated feature length films always have provided movie makers with considerable freedom to tell their stories in fantastic ways, although, almost by definition, these stories are geared toward younger audiences. Still, two factors are essential to lasting success. First, the material has to work on more than one level, appealing to young viewers and their parents. Second, and paramount, the story has to be a good one.
Walt Disney Studios had a virtual monopoly on animated motion pictures until single cell animation became too costly while cheaper to produce programming invaded television, allowing young viewers to engage with a less critical eye and a shorter attention span, and their parents to ignore the proceedings altogether. Family night at the movies was dying along with the G-Rated film.
It may be fitting that Disney’s “The Little Mermaid” is credited by many with starting a resurgence. But it was that studio’s “Beauty and the Beast,” which became the first animated film in history to be nominated in the Best Picture category at the Academy Awards, that gave animation total legitimacy as a current art form. Then CGI (computer graphic imaging) smashed open the floodgates with quality artwork and effects. When aided by quality writing, something the people at Pixar do consistently, animated films became mainstream entertainment for all ages, whether mixed with live action or not. The Oscars created a new category just for animated feature length films; last year, Paxar’s “UP!” was nominated for both Best Picture and Best Animated Feature, winning the later.
The key is story. Fantastic animation cannot surpass a terrible, dull or unbelievable script, but an odd or mediocre animation effort can still touch our hearts or our heads if the story is compelling. This year’s early animation hit, “How to Train Your Dragon,” proves the point. Although it is likely that Pixar’s “Toy Story 3-D” will win best animated film this year, my vote would be for “Dragon,” a product of the less consistent but sometimes brilliant people at DreamWorks. Visually, the film is sharp, smart and stunning, but it is the complex storyline, presented simply, that enthralls us. I did not see it in 3-D and can imagine the thrilling scenes of flying dragons and bursting fireballs would have been spectacular, but, as with any good film, “Dragon” does not depend on gadgets to work.
The story, by co-directors Chris Sanders and Dean DeBlois, and writer Will Davies, is based on a novel by Cressida Cowell. In a mythical corner of Scandinavia, Vikings and dragons are at war. Young Hiccup, son of the chief, discovers he cannot kill a dragon. Instead, he learns how to be a dragon whisperer, which threatens to make him more of an outcast than he already is. While his fellow Vikings lust for dragon blood in what they believe is a righteous cause, Hiccup learns that the dragons have their own problem, one that has caused them to act aggressively toward the humans. But he cannot convince his father, or the elders, that dragons are not the enemies the Vikings believe them to be. The consequences could spell disaster for everyone, humans and dragons alike.
Many themes find resonance in the telling. Cruelty is cruelty, even again your enemy. Loyalty does not always mean agreeing with your leaders; sometime opposing them in favor of what is right is true loyalty although you might be smacked down for it. And judging anyone, no matter who or what they are, without all the facts is not only unjust, but dangerous. Finally, right will prevail if we work together to achieve it. These are powerful; ideas that no one is too young to discover.
Add to the mix a young crop of aspiring dragon hunters who themselves are more misfit than Viking, yet become the cornerstone of the film’s dramatic resolution, and a wide variety of dragon types, shapes, and sizes, and you get a wild, fun-filled story with a strong set of messages about tolerance and understanding that does not have to preach to win its point, or the audience.
Walt Disney Studios had a virtual monopoly on animated motion pictures until single cell animation became too costly while cheaper to produce programming invaded television, allowing young viewers to engage with a less critical eye and a shorter attention span, and their parents to ignore the proceedings altogether. Family night at the movies was dying along with the G-Rated film.
It may be fitting that Disney’s “The Little Mermaid” is credited by many with starting a resurgence. But it was that studio’s “Beauty and the Beast,” which became the first animated film in history to be nominated in the Best Picture category at the Academy Awards, that gave animation total legitimacy as a current art form. Then CGI (computer graphic imaging) smashed open the floodgates with quality artwork and effects. When aided by quality writing, something the people at Pixar do consistently, animated films became mainstream entertainment for all ages, whether mixed with live action or not. The Oscars created a new category just for animated feature length films; last year, Paxar’s “UP!” was nominated for both Best Picture and Best Animated Feature, winning the later.
The key is story. Fantastic animation cannot surpass a terrible, dull or unbelievable script, but an odd or mediocre animation effort can still touch our hearts or our heads if the story is compelling. This year’s early animation hit, “How to Train Your Dragon,” proves the point. Although it is likely that Pixar’s “Toy Story 3-D” will win best animated film this year, my vote would be for “Dragon,” a product of the less consistent but sometimes brilliant people at DreamWorks. Visually, the film is sharp, smart and stunning, but it is the complex storyline, presented simply, that enthralls us. I did not see it in 3-D and can imagine the thrilling scenes of flying dragons and bursting fireballs would have been spectacular, but, as with any good film, “Dragon” does not depend on gadgets to work.
The story, by co-directors Chris Sanders and Dean DeBlois, and writer Will Davies, is based on a novel by Cressida Cowell. In a mythical corner of Scandinavia, Vikings and dragons are at war. Young Hiccup, son of the chief, discovers he cannot kill a dragon. Instead, he learns how to be a dragon whisperer, which threatens to make him more of an outcast than he already is. While his fellow Vikings lust for dragon blood in what they believe is a righteous cause, Hiccup learns that the dragons have their own problem, one that has caused them to act aggressively toward the humans. But he cannot convince his father, or the elders, that dragons are not the enemies the Vikings believe them to be. The consequences could spell disaster for everyone, humans and dragons alike.
Many themes find resonance in the telling. Cruelty is cruelty, even again your enemy. Loyalty does not always mean agreeing with your leaders; sometime opposing them in favor of what is right is true loyalty although you might be smacked down for it. And judging anyone, no matter who or what they are, without all the facts is not only unjust, but dangerous. Finally, right will prevail if we work together to achieve it. These are powerful; ideas that no one is too young to discover.
Add to the mix a young crop of aspiring dragon hunters who themselves are more misfit than Viking, yet become the cornerstone of the film’s dramatic resolution, and a wide variety of dragon types, shapes, and sizes, and you get a wild, fun-filled story with a strong set of messages about tolerance and understanding that does not have to preach to win its point, or the audience.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
The Princess Bride
Directed by Rob Reiner. Screenplay by William Goldman, from his novel.
In the mid-1970’s Diane and I somehow got a hold of a small paperback by William Goldman. This is the same William Goldman who demanded -- and got -- $400,000 to write the screenplay for “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid,” in one blow finally getting screenwriters their due forevermore. After all, where would a movie be without a script? An Academy Award winning script at that and nothing but happy endings.
“The Princess Bride: was a horse of another color, a careful, cunning tongue in cheek fractured fairy tale. Di read it first, laughing out loud next to me. “What?” I’d say and she’d tease, “You’ll just have to wait,” to which I’d reply, “Well, hurry up, then!”
When I finally got my turn I too would LOL and she’d ask, “Where are you?” or, “Have you met Miracle Max yet?”
My favorite feature of the book was that the passages in the real world, with grandpa reading to his ill grandson, were printed in red ink, which seemed so unreal by comparison to the expected bold black ink used for the narrative of young Wesley the farmhand and Princess Buttercup.
Alas, that edition is long ago toast. I have not seen any new edition with this delightful feature.
Fourteen years after its publication, Goldman adapted his novel into a screenplay for Rob Reiner. The 1987 film has become a fan favorite, a charming and funny spoof of fairy tales that stands tall among them at the same time.
True love dominates the film, but not in a yucky kid un-friendly way. A young boy, at home with an undisclosed malady, reluctantly allows his grandfather read him the same story grandpa used to read to his son, the boy’s father. Before long, the kid is hooked and so are we.
Wesley and Buttercup fall in love. Feeling unworthy of her, Wesley, in true fairy tale fashion, goes off to make his fortune in the world with full intent to come back and marry the girl. Word gets back to Buttercup that Wesley’s ship was attacked by Dread Pirate Roberts, who, it is known, takes no prisoners. Presuming Wesley dead, she vows never to love again.
Five years pass. The Prince of Florin decides to marry a commoner, as is his right no matter the girl’s feelings, and chooses Buttercup. It is a ploy, of course. She is expendable in his plans to wage war on neighboring Guilder. Three mercenaries kidnap her to put the plan in motion, but a mysterious and dangerous man foils their plans and rescues Buttercup. By accident he reveals his true identity to her -- not Dread Pirate Roberts as she thought, but her long lost true love Wesley.
Prince Humperdinck captures Wesley and takes Buttercup back. He orders Wesley tortured to death. With the help of two of the original mercenaries, even though he is mostly dead, Wesley rescues Buttercup once again and all will be well.
It is the telling that is so much fun, ripe with humor and filled with honor. And love. A wonderful subplot involves Indigo Montoya, one of the kidnappers, on a quest to avenge the murder of his father years before by a “six fingered man.” that man turns out to be the prince’s henchman. The highlight of the film comes as Indigo repeats the mantra that has kept him going: “My name is Indigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.”
Stage great Mandy Patinkin plays Montoya. His adversary is played with a brilliant combination of bravado and cowardice by Christopher Guest. Andre The Giant plays Fezzik and Wallace Shawn is Vizzini, the other two members of the kidnapping trio. Gary Elwes plays Wesley with all the confidence of a leading man -- one wonders why his career has had so few leading men to portray. Robin Wright is Buttercup in a breakout performance. Chris Sarandon is wonderfully evil as Prince Humperdinck. In a delightful cameo Billy Crystal is Miracle Max and Carol Cane his wife, Valerie, the wizard and witch who help restore Wesley to life. Fred Savage as the young boy and Peter Falk as Grandpa frame the story artfully. Under the deft direction of Rob Reiner, the cast is perfect in this at once romp, at once genre story.
The music is by Mark Knopfler, the eclectic force behind Dire Straights , songwriter and film score composer. The song “Storybook Love” was written and performed by Willy DeVille, taken at Knopfler’s suggestion as the theme song for the movie, and earned an Oscar nomination for best song.
The Twentieth Anniversary edition has a trio of extras that are worth your time, none more so than when Mandy Patinkin, holding back tears, marvels out loud at the realization that, as an actor, he got to be part of something memorable and special at least once in his career.
It was “The Princess Bride.” If you never have seen it, treat yourself. If you have seen it, revisit the film. You will be amused and charmed.
In the mid-1970’s Diane and I somehow got a hold of a small paperback by William Goldman. This is the same William Goldman who demanded -- and got -- $400,000 to write the screenplay for “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid,” in one blow finally getting screenwriters their due forevermore. After all, where would a movie be without a script? An Academy Award winning script at that and nothing but happy endings.
“The Princess Bride: was a horse of another color, a careful, cunning tongue in cheek fractured fairy tale. Di read it first, laughing out loud next to me. “What?” I’d say and she’d tease, “You’ll just have to wait,” to which I’d reply, “Well, hurry up, then!”
When I finally got my turn I too would LOL and she’d ask, “Where are you?” or, “Have you met Miracle Max yet?”
My favorite feature of the book was that the passages in the real world, with grandpa reading to his ill grandson, were printed in red ink, which seemed so unreal by comparison to the expected bold black ink used for the narrative of young Wesley the farmhand and Princess Buttercup.
Alas, that edition is long ago toast. I have not seen any new edition with this delightful feature.
Fourteen years after its publication, Goldman adapted his novel into a screenplay for Rob Reiner. The 1987 film has become a fan favorite, a charming and funny spoof of fairy tales that stands tall among them at the same time.
True love dominates the film, but not in a yucky kid un-friendly way. A young boy, at home with an undisclosed malady, reluctantly allows his grandfather read him the same story grandpa used to read to his son, the boy’s father. Before long, the kid is hooked and so are we.
Wesley and Buttercup fall in love. Feeling unworthy of her, Wesley, in true fairy tale fashion, goes off to make his fortune in the world with full intent to come back and marry the girl. Word gets back to Buttercup that Wesley’s ship was attacked by Dread Pirate Roberts, who, it is known, takes no prisoners. Presuming Wesley dead, she vows never to love again.
Five years pass. The Prince of Florin decides to marry a commoner, as is his right no matter the girl’s feelings, and chooses Buttercup. It is a ploy, of course. She is expendable in his plans to wage war on neighboring Guilder. Three mercenaries kidnap her to put the plan in motion, but a mysterious and dangerous man foils their plans and rescues Buttercup. By accident he reveals his true identity to her -- not Dread Pirate Roberts as she thought, but her long lost true love Wesley.
Prince Humperdinck captures Wesley and takes Buttercup back. He orders Wesley tortured to death. With the help of two of the original mercenaries, even though he is mostly dead, Wesley rescues Buttercup once again and all will be well.
It is the telling that is so much fun, ripe with humor and filled with honor. And love. A wonderful subplot involves Indigo Montoya, one of the kidnappers, on a quest to avenge the murder of his father years before by a “six fingered man.” that man turns out to be the prince’s henchman. The highlight of the film comes as Indigo repeats the mantra that has kept him going: “My name is Indigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.”
Stage great Mandy Patinkin plays Montoya. His adversary is played with a brilliant combination of bravado and cowardice by Christopher Guest. Andre The Giant plays Fezzik and Wallace Shawn is Vizzini, the other two members of the kidnapping trio. Gary Elwes plays Wesley with all the confidence of a leading man -- one wonders why his career has had so few leading men to portray. Robin Wright is Buttercup in a breakout performance. Chris Sarandon is wonderfully evil as Prince Humperdinck. In a delightful cameo Billy Crystal is Miracle Max and Carol Cane his wife, Valerie, the wizard and witch who help restore Wesley to life. Fred Savage as the young boy and Peter Falk as Grandpa frame the story artfully. Under the deft direction of Rob Reiner, the cast is perfect in this at once romp, at once genre story.
The music is by Mark Knopfler, the eclectic force behind Dire Straights , songwriter and film score composer. The song “Storybook Love” was written and performed by Willy DeVille, taken at Knopfler’s suggestion as the theme song for the movie, and earned an Oscar nomination for best song.
The Twentieth Anniversary edition has a trio of extras that are worth your time, none more so than when Mandy Patinkin, holding back tears, marvels out loud at the realization that, as an actor, he got to be part of something memorable and special at least once in his career.
It was “The Princess Bride.” If you never have seen it, treat yourself. If you have seen it, revisit the film. You will be amused and charmed.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Year's End, Year's Beginning
It has been a while since I last blogged. Our lives have become so complicated that the idea of -- and the time to dedicate to -- writing a blog has been difficult to attain. I hope to do better, but over the next several months our lives are still in limbo and I keep spending my time in frustration: hurry up and wait. I wish things could be finished, and yet wish they never happened. Major changes in our lives offer me the opportunity to grow and remind me of what is really important.
Enough said.
Oh, one more observation: it took me until I was 60 before I began to understand all those things I have come to believe about stuff. I knew it in my head, but my heart held out for more ----- stuff. Stuff is nice. It makes life easier to go through. But what matters are the people in our lives and how we treat them. I know that sounds trite, but when you look around you and really see what others feel, the words ring true. Stuff -- stuff -- doesn’t matter.
Don’t get me wrong. I like my stuff. I only realize how wrapped up in getting stuff I had become and I lost sight, lost touch, lost meaning along the way. I only hope I genuinely am on the right road once again. Which doesn’t mean I won’t go out and get Mark Twain’s Autobiography or the newest Christopher Moore novel fresh off the press. It means I would rather spend time with any of you.
Now for a note of a more positive nature. Earlier this month Richard and Caiti Devine-McPalmer welcomed their second son into the world. His name, in keeping with their own tradition, is Franklin Finnegan Devine-McPalmer. Richard likes Presidential names -- but when I heard the choice I was puzzled. After all, Benjamin Franklin was never a President. But then I remembered Franklin Pearce (okay, I’m the only one who does, and that’s barely), and then FDR, author of the second and tragically unfulfilled Bill of Rights.
Caiti likes Sesame Street characters. They kicked around the name Grover for awhile but waited until the baby arrived and told them his name himself. Good choice, Franklin.
On a scarier note, a good friend has had major heart surgery -- a wakeup call that helped us get our priorities in order and gave us much needed perspective. Prompt attention to subtle symptoms probably saved his life. Recovery will be difficult but he is well on the way.
Enough welcome myself back blather. I a looking forward to 2011 as a year filled with promise and appropriate conclusions. May each of you be blessed with curiosity and wisdom, and of course, peace.
Enough said.
Oh, one more observation: it took me until I was 60 before I began to understand all those things I have come to believe about stuff. I knew it in my head, but my heart held out for more ----- stuff. Stuff is nice. It makes life easier to go through. But what matters are the people in our lives and how we treat them. I know that sounds trite, but when you look around you and really see what others feel, the words ring true. Stuff -- stuff -- doesn’t matter.
Don’t get me wrong. I like my stuff. I only realize how wrapped up in getting stuff I had become and I lost sight, lost touch, lost meaning along the way. I only hope I genuinely am on the right road once again. Which doesn’t mean I won’t go out and get Mark Twain’s Autobiography or the newest Christopher Moore novel fresh off the press. It means I would rather spend time with any of you.
Now for a note of a more positive nature. Earlier this month Richard and Caiti Devine-McPalmer welcomed their second son into the world. His name, in keeping with their own tradition, is Franklin Finnegan Devine-McPalmer. Richard likes Presidential names -- but when I heard the choice I was puzzled. After all, Benjamin Franklin was never a President. But then I remembered Franklin Pearce (okay, I’m the only one who does, and that’s barely), and then FDR, author of the second and tragically unfulfilled Bill of Rights.
Caiti likes Sesame Street characters. They kicked around the name Grover for awhile but waited until the baby arrived and told them his name himself. Good choice, Franklin.
On a scarier note, a good friend has had major heart surgery -- a wakeup call that helped us get our priorities in order and gave us much needed perspective. Prompt attention to subtle symptoms probably saved his life. Recovery will be difficult but he is well on the way.
Enough welcome myself back blather. I a looking forward to 2011 as a year filled with promise and appropriate conclusions. May each of you be blessed with curiosity and wisdom, and of course, peace.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Hunting Dragons
From the Unpublished Memoir of a Dragon Hunter
I have spent my academic career on an errand of folly. Some might call it a quest but many might, and far too many have done, call it a colossal waste of time. And yet, through my journey, which always has sought the truth, I have had the opportunity to travel to many places and see many things. Just never what I sought in the first place.
This was no surprise: finding what I sought would have been earth-shaking.
To put matters simply, I long have wondered why dragons exist in legend and mythology world wide, with reports of actual sightings, even battles, as late as the Fifteenth Century, and yet no physical evidence of their presence exists. At all. Not one skeleton, even a skull, or an egg or a horde of gold in the base of a mountain can be attributed to such a beast. Are they legend only? Myth? Or are they some sort of creature driven to extinction by men so utterly that even their bones are gone?
Every question begat more questions. It seemed to me that perhaps dragons were some sort of prehistoric memory lodged in the human collective consciousness from a time long, long ago. After all, every one of us is fascinated by dinosaurs even though those magnificent creatures died out millions of years before humans appeared on the planet. Yet there were mammals around during the Age of the Dinosaur -- has memory followed evolution? If so, are dragons part of that memory?
Still, the only dinosaurs to appear in actual human existence came from fiction, like “King Kong,” “The Lost World,” “One Million BC” or “Jurassic Park.” one can argue that the same can be said for dragons, but this would be inaccurate. Among Western civilizations, stories exist of recent encounters, and in the East dragons are an accepted part of current mythology -- clearly a unique interpretation of the animal’s existence.
Then it occurred to me: Dragons fly. It seems a universal constant. The Chinese claim that a dragon has to turn 4,000 years old before it gets its wings, but that does not prevent it from flying much earlier in its life. Western dragons almost always have wings already. And yet, dragons are massively, frighteningly large. Given the rules of aerodynamics, a creature that large would need incredible musculature and extremely long wings to act, essentially, as acrobatically as a hawk one hundredth its size.
Unless -- and here is the revelation -- a dragon has no bones. even with considerable size, an animal unencumbered by the weight of a skeleton made of heavy material would require considerably less strength to achieve the same graceful flight. I imagine a skull of calcium but a skeleton of cartilage -- much like a shark.
One other component adds to my revised picture of dragons: fire. Many dragons are purported to breathe fire. Perhaps all can. If that ability exists, and how it might remains a mystery (like purring in cats), then the probability is that a dragon’s body, or a goodly percentage of it, acts like a bellows and hot air balloon. Imagine if you can a shark flying a dirigible with total maneuverability, and a dragon comes closer to being an acceptable reality.
Still, why have we found no trace? Do dragons self destruct upon death? Or are their skulls so similar to those of other creatures that they have gone misidentified? Forget horns and think more of alligators -- who, on land, have been mistaken for dragons (see Saint George and the) -- or giant pythons -- who have been mistaken for sea serpents in the water.. It works in reverse: when Greeks uncovered the skull of a dinosaur, they looked at the thing from the wrong angle and invented the only explanation they could come up with -- a Cyclops. Truth be told, we are still revising our understanding of, and visual imagery of dinosaurs to this day, as new evidence emerges.
Perhaps a dragon lies somewhere in the Alps or Caucasus Mountains awaiting discovery.
Of course, we believe in God without any evidential proof beyond what human beings have written, invented, or done themselves. Why not dragons?
I have spent my academic career on an errand of folly. Some might call it a quest but many might, and far too many have done, call it a colossal waste of time. And yet, through my journey, which always has sought the truth, I have had the opportunity to travel to many places and see many things. Just never what I sought in the first place.
This was no surprise: finding what I sought would have been earth-shaking.
To put matters simply, I long have wondered why dragons exist in legend and mythology world wide, with reports of actual sightings, even battles, as late as the Fifteenth Century, and yet no physical evidence of their presence exists. At all. Not one skeleton, even a skull, or an egg or a horde of gold in the base of a mountain can be attributed to such a beast. Are they legend only? Myth? Or are they some sort of creature driven to extinction by men so utterly that even their bones are gone?
Every question begat more questions. It seemed to me that perhaps dragons were some sort of prehistoric memory lodged in the human collective consciousness from a time long, long ago. After all, every one of us is fascinated by dinosaurs even though those magnificent creatures died out millions of years before humans appeared on the planet. Yet there were mammals around during the Age of the Dinosaur -- has memory followed evolution? If so, are dragons part of that memory?
Still, the only dinosaurs to appear in actual human existence came from fiction, like “King Kong,” “The Lost World,” “One Million BC” or “Jurassic Park.” one can argue that the same can be said for dragons, but this would be inaccurate. Among Western civilizations, stories exist of recent encounters, and in the East dragons are an accepted part of current mythology -- clearly a unique interpretation of the animal’s existence.
Then it occurred to me: Dragons fly. It seems a universal constant. The Chinese claim that a dragon has to turn 4,000 years old before it gets its wings, but that does not prevent it from flying much earlier in its life. Western dragons almost always have wings already. And yet, dragons are massively, frighteningly large. Given the rules of aerodynamics, a creature that large would need incredible musculature and extremely long wings to act, essentially, as acrobatically as a hawk one hundredth its size.
Unless -- and here is the revelation -- a dragon has no bones. even with considerable size, an animal unencumbered by the weight of a skeleton made of heavy material would require considerably less strength to achieve the same graceful flight. I imagine a skull of calcium but a skeleton of cartilage -- much like a shark.
One other component adds to my revised picture of dragons: fire. Many dragons are purported to breathe fire. Perhaps all can. If that ability exists, and how it might remains a mystery (like purring in cats), then the probability is that a dragon’s body, or a goodly percentage of it, acts like a bellows and hot air balloon. Imagine if you can a shark flying a dirigible with total maneuverability, and a dragon comes closer to being an acceptable reality.
Still, why have we found no trace? Do dragons self destruct upon death? Or are their skulls so similar to those of other creatures that they have gone misidentified? Forget horns and think more of alligators -- who, on land, have been mistaken for dragons (see Saint George and the) -- or giant pythons -- who have been mistaken for sea serpents in the water.. It works in reverse: when Greeks uncovered the skull of a dinosaur, they looked at the thing from the wrong angle and invented the only explanation they could come up with -- a Cyclops. Truth be told, we are still revising our understanding of, and visual imagery of dinosaurs to this day, as new evidence emerges.
Perhaps a dragon lies somewhere in the Alps or Caucasus Mountains awaiting discovery.
Of course, we believe in God without any evidential proof beyond what human beings have written, invented, or done themselves. Why not dragons?
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