"I hope I was able to serve your travel needs today," said the outsourced voice on the other end of the connection. His accent placed him somewhere in South Asia, certainly not in a stuffy LAX terminal where I was standing making the call. I had a sharp intake of breath allowing me a second to contemplate my hopefully resentful and sarcastic answer but then realized I was not in the mood for such biting humor.
"You've got to be kidding me," was my reply quickly adding, "You most certainly did not."
According to an unfriendly United employee obviously unhappy with his unfriendly minimum wage position, I was late for my check in. United's decidedly non-customer friendly policy states that check-in must occur at least 45 minutes prior to boarding. Doing so gives airport security more time with their secondary screening of white senior citizens. After all, it was white senior citizens who were the cause of the terrorist threat that was foiled in Heathrow two weeks before my departure thus preventing me from including Old Spice deodorant in my carry-on.
My Asiana flight arrived late in LAX. My run from the far-away overseas terminal to domestic check-in almost proved to be successful. And here comes the second culprit in my personal blame game.
I was stopped mid-run by a smiling African-American gentleman wearing a light, comfortable-looking blazer. Apparently this was an airport employee; his photo was laminated to a badge hanging from said jacket. Thinking I was going to be informed to slow down – although outside of the Olympics and your neighborhood park, where else can one spy a number of individuals sprinting? - I stopped to listen to this man who asked me for my flight info. I easily procured this memorized information and he calmly told me I had plenty of time. He even went on to tell me exactly which terminal I need to head to.
Thinking I heard the starter pistol fire with his conclusion, I was just about to take off when he then – with that same smile – began to hit me up for money. You see, he wasn’t an airport employee as I am sure you knew from the beginning. I cite jet-lag for my error of judgment. He was collecting money for some sort of charity, although it was probably just for his own wallet. All I had in my pocket was one thousand won – probably worth about one US dollar – that he greedily snatched from my hand proclaiming in satisfaction that his charity accepts all currencies.
I gave up the last of my souvenirs and continued my dash.
But I was late. And no one at the United terminal or at their call center a world away was the least bit helpful. The next flight I could get on included a 10 hour wait. Stuck in LA, I decided to do what everyone in LA does – head for a mall.
The visitor's center in LAX is productively-hidden next to the unclaimed baggage carousel and was staffed by a tiny man who more-than resembled Mr. Miyagi. Unfortunately his wax-on, wax-off advice was no help to this Daniel-san. He told me I should go to the beach at Malibu. I had no intention of heading to a beach with luggage and a laptop so he pointed out two malls for me on a direction-less map. Thank God my taxi driver was much more helpful and dropped me off at the Howard Hughes Center, no more than four miles outside of the airport.
This outdoor mall was as perfect as the weather: a bookstore to waste time in, plenty of eateries to refuel, and a multiplex complete with an IMAX theatre. Even better, there was a bus that went directly to LAX for $1.75; much cheaper than my $15 cab fare out there.
I arrived back at the airport of my discontent two hours early with a belly full of popcorn and lighter attitude after seeing Little Miss Sunshine, an attitude which immediately became heavier.
United informs me that my 10 PM flight has now been pushed back to 1 AM. I am now numb with wasted time. My first thought is to become even more numb by consuming massive amounts of airport-priced alcohol. Unfortunately, everyone else trapped in this particular terminal has the same thought. The tiny airport bar is packed. I doubt that even Mr. Miyagi could slip in and saddle up to the bar for his after-work hit of sake. Plus, baseball playoffs are about to begin and the Angels game is contributing to the crowd.
I look to be entertained by the game from afar by peaking over patrons' heads as I try to get a buzz from secondhand alcohol fumes. I am successful in neither.
Looking back, I should have rented a locker for my bags at the airport. I should have taken one of those "Stars of LA" tours. I should have called the airport and checked on my departure time allowing me to catch a double feature. I should have changed flights back in the Philippines taking me to Tokyo instead of Korea. But limited sleep and well-more than 24 hours of wearing the same clothes can impair anyone’s judgment.
I find it unfortunate that an otherwise successful and interesting trip to a completely different part of the world – a brand new adventure – end so dismally in Los Angeles. I also find it unfortunate that LAX is as unaccommodating for its patrons in function and support as TO is in accepting critiques from the press. If Seoul Incheon International is the Taj Mahal of airports, then LAX is the dumpster situated behind Lincoln Financial Field. Midway, by the way, would be the living room of your crazy neighbor who owns five cats.
Back at work I'm informed that I'll be heading out to South Dakota before the year's end. Here's hoping such plans do not involve LAX or United.
As Always,
theJOE
31 December 2006
21 November 2006
Korea – Day 4
I don’t know why Americans complain about the hassles at airports. Manila’s Ninoy Aquino International Airport has it that you cannot leave the Philippines without paying a deportation tax. The cost was 500 PHP, which equates to just under $5 USD. Or the price of a Whopper. I turned my bill – among the last of my pesos – over into the waiting hand of a federally-licensed employee, a dark and slimy slug of a man, who I am certain pocked the money instead of placing it into the cash register.
At least he performed the deed with a smile.
Manila gave me two final send offs. The first was salesgirl working in one of the promenade stores that are squeezed into the margins of the isles. She informed me that her co-worker thought I was cute. I stated that my wife agrees with her.
The second was the furry little rodent, a small mouse or chipmunk, that kept darting throughout the Asiana lounge.
Korea was beautiful. I sat in the main terminal of Incheon and watched the sun’s rays triumphantly arc into the tall, curved windows allowing total access to the skyline knowing that these same rays recently surrendered to darkness back home. With the sun came life. More and more travelers, vacationers and commuters alike, began filling the airport. Lights turned on as the various bodegas sprang to life and commerce.
My day trip into Seoul wasn’t scheduled to depart until 10 AM, giving me four hours to roam around, get breakfast, chat with a few locals, get rid of breakfast in their extremely clean restrooms, and watch a football match’s results from the previous day. As nice as Incheon is, it simply cannot fill in four long, jet-lagged hours when you are on the wrong end of customs.
The day trip into Seoul was extremely pleasant but perhaps too short. This was the guide’s first solo expedition and occasionally struggled with her English. My excitement of seeing this Asian country won out over her detriment and my lack of sleep.
Seoul presented itself as any international city. The new, the modern, the hi-tech was crammed right into the mountain relegating the old, the antique, the historical to back ways and malls. For, as is the case with many old cities, especially on an island, space is always limited.
The tour highlighted the top tourist traps. The Blue House, South Korea’s equivalent to the White House – minus the cowboy hats – was beautifully snuggled between the mountain and river Han as a perfect symbol of power. Next came the Jogye-sa Buddhist Temple and Gyeongnuigung Palace, Seoul’s yin-and-yang representing the current with the display, and the Seoul Museum of History, which would have been much more impressive if English was more prevalent. Perhaps this was simply South Korea’s answer to the entirely-French Louver.
Lunch consisted of …get ready for this… Shabu-Shabu. It was presented as a Korean barbecue, which made the marinated chopped steak come out a lot more tasty then the seafood mess presented back in Manila. My full belly prevented me from saying “thank you” in Korean. Either that or it was my inability in learning the multi-syllabic phrase.
And any tour just would not be complete without shopping. Actually, this tour could have withstood the stop as Korean trinkets are even more cheaply-made there than the junk pedaled in America.
Then, with Shabu-Shabu in my belly, the tour bus headed back to the airport for my eventual flight across the ocean and home. Customs was a breeze and after two Jack-and-cokes, the lights in the cabin dimmed, as did my eyes. America waited for me.
My connecting flight in LAX did not.
As Always,
theJOE
At least he performed the deed with a smile.
Manila gave me two final send offs. The first was salesgirl working in one of the promenade stores that are squeezed into the margins of the isles. She informed me that her co-worker thought I was cute. I stated that my wife agrees with her.
The second was the furry little rodent, a small mouse or chipmunk, that kept darting throughout the Asiana lounge.
Korea was beautiful. I sat in the main terminal of Incheon and watched the sun’s rays triumphantly arc into the tall, curved windows allowing total access to the skyline knowing that these same rays recently surrendered to darkness back home. With the sun came life. More and more travelers, vacationers and commuters alike, began filling the airport. Lights turned on as the various bodegas sprang to life and commerce.
My day trip into Seoul wasn’t scheduled to depart until 10 AM, giving me four hours to roam around, get breakfast, chat with a few locals, get rid of breakfast in their extremely clean restrooms, and watch a football match’s results from the previous day. As nice as Incheon is, it simply cannot fill in four long, jet-lagged hours when you are on the wrong end of customs.
The day trip into Seoul was extremely pleasant but perhaps too short. This was the guide’s first solo expedition and occasionally struggled with her English. My excitement of seeing this Asian country won out over her detriment and my lack of sleep.
Seoul presented itself as any international city. The new, the modern, the hi-tech was crammed right into the mountain relegating the old, the antique, the historical to back ways and malls. For, as is the case with many old cities, especially on an island, space is always limited.
The tour highlighted the top tourist traps. The Blue House, South Korea’s equivalent to the White House – minus the cowboy hats – was beautifully snuggled between the mountain and river Han as a perfect symbol of power. Next came the Jogye-sa Buddhist Temple and Gyeongnuigung Palace, Seoul’s yin-and-yang representing the current with the display, and the Seoul Museum of History, which would have been much more impressive if English was more prevalent. Perhaps this was simply South Korea’s answer to the entirely-French Louver.
Lunch consisted of …get ready for this… Shabu-Shabu. It was presented as a Korean barbecue, which made the marinated chopped steak come out a lot more tasty then the seafood mess presented back in Manila. My full belly prevented me from saying “thank you” in Korean. Either that or it was my inability in learning the multi-syllabic phrase.
And any tour just would not be complete without shopping. Actually, this tour could have withstood the stop as Korean trinkets are even more cheaply-made there than the junk pedaled in America.
Then, with Shabu-Shabu in my belly, the tour bus headed back to the airport for my eventual flight across the ocean and home. Customs was a breeze and after two Jack-and-cokes, the lights in the cabin dimmed, as did my eyes. America waited for me.
My connecting flight in LAX did not.
As Always,
theJOE
03 October 2006
Manila - Day 3
Welcome to the 21st Century, where the Internet has made our world, our cell phones and attention spans smaller. From SMS IMing and digital communications to MySpace and YouTube to television adverts for web sites. If you are not online, well, you’re totally off. In the Philippines, however, a Third World Asian country, where priorities are obviously different, not being online for a day isn’t the greatest of worries. Or at least it wasn’t for our clients on my third day in Manila.
Wednesday had me hopping around a bit as visiting a couple of different clients were on the agenda. Saw a number of jitney-type buses out on the streets that were totally wild. These vehicles of public transportation were no higher than a standard SUV, certainly not taller than Ford Expedition, but about three times as long and with an open back that the passengers used as a hop-in/hop-out portal. Generally these bus were all stainless steel in appearance like a Hot Wheels car or perhaps like the buses that still appear in old or period-piece movies before businesses realized that moving billboards made much more sense. Luckily America’s mighty corporate influence has yet to make its full presence known in the Philippines, allowing these buses all to sport their own unique look as the drivers seemingly decorate their steeds with outlandish themes: surfin’ Hawaii, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Sylvester & Tweety, Bob Marley and on and on and on. What is equally amazing is that the insides of these buses must totally be tight as one certainly could not stand upright in it. But they were everywhere.
The drive around also allowed me to get a good look at Metro Manila where tall, glass skyscrapers complete with helipads stood side-by-side with shanty-town sheds and their peeling plaster facades and rusted tin roofs. Hardly a love shack. Across the street from the Pan Pacific stood a Buddhist Temple that looked equally out of place as our 21-story hotel. Unemployment, I was told, is not all that high as menial jobs are created simply to keep a workforce in place. Pulling up to our hotel, as an example, would have two or three attendants opening the cab’s door and seeing you into the hotel where another employee would actually push the elevator call button.
None of these sights, however, prepared me for the fact that one of banks we visited, one of the largest Philippine banks, responsible for million of dollars in transactions coming in from abroad, was totally offline for our visit. Problems with their DNS provider. And hey, stuff like that happens, but the point here is that they didn’t really care .”No Internet,” they said with a shrug of their shoulders.
I shrug right back. After all, they flew me around the world on their dime. However, I feel slightly more foolish with my shrug that their indifference swallows whole with a smile. Their lives are right outside, across the street at the Shabu-Shabu. I’m a six-foot Anglo that still has recycled airport air residing in my lungs. But this world is small. I can comfortably retreat digitally: photo gallery of my most recent trip to England, getting the new Ghastly Ones’ release from iTunes, news on the Phillies, even this blog.
”No Internet,” they said.
No good tacos either. But I leave tonight.
As Always,
theJOE
Wednesday had me hopping around a bit as visiting a couple of different clients were on the agenda. Saw a number of jitney-type buses out on the streets that were totally wild. These vehicles of public transportation were no higher than a standard SUV, certainly not taller than Ford Expedition, but about three times as long and with an open back that the passengers used as a hop-in/hop-out portal. Generally these bus were all stainless steel in appearance like a Hot Wheels car or perhaps like the buses that still appear in old or period-piece movies before businesses realized that moving billboards made much more sense. Luckily America’s mighty corporate influence has yet to make its full presence known in the Philippines, allowing these buses all to sport their own unique look as the drivers seemingly decorate their steeds with outlandish themes: surfin’ Hawaii, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Sylvester & Tweety, Bob Marley and on and on and on. What is equally amazing is that the insides of these buses must totally be tight as one certainly could not stand upright in it. But they were everywhere.
The drive around also allowed me to get a good look at Metro Manila where tall, glass skyscrapers complete with helipads stood side-by-side with shanty-town sheds and their peeling plaster facades and rusted tin roofs. Hardly a love shack. Across the street from the Pan Pacific stood a Buddhist Temple that looked equally out of place as our 21-story hotel. Unemployment, I was told, is not all that high as menial jobs are created simply to keep a workforce in place. Pulling up to our hotel, as an example, would have two or three attendants opening the cab’s door and seeing you into the hotel where another employee would actually push the elevator call button.
None of these sights, however, prepared me for the fact that one of banks we visited, one of the largest Philippine banks, responsible for million of dollars in transactions coming in from abroad, was totally offline for our visit. Problems with their DNS provider. And hey, stuff like that happens, but the point here is that they didn’t really care .”No Internet,” they said with a shrug of their shoulders.
I shrug right back. After all, they flew me around the world on their dime. However, I feel slightly more foolish with my shrug that their indifference swallows whole with a smile. Their lives are right outside, across the street at the Shabu-Shabu. I’m a six-foot Anglo that still has recycled airport air residing in my lungs. But this world is small. I can comfortably retreat digitally: photo gallery of my most recent trip to England, getting the new Ghastly Ones’ release from iTunes, news on the Phillies, even this blog.
”No Internet,” they said.
No good tacos either. But I leave tonight.
As Always,
theJOE
29 August 2006
Manila - Day 2
Am I allowed to discuss clients’ name, work details and meeting specifics in my personal blog? More importantly, do I want to have my work, which is already more invasive than kudzu, occupy space that is supposedly designated for personal freedom? The answer to the latter is obviously no, however, certain events within have a personal demand insisting that some light reveal that which was once hidden.
Not that any of which I am about to reveal was all that hidden to begin with.
Apologies.
The bank, a large, successful bank in the Philippines, had an impressive edifice. The marble walls that greeted us were gray in both stature and ascetics. Gray in attitude was the armed guard who did not make eye contact, but was certainly watching. His M-16 rifle slung over his shoulder pointing down, but ready to unleash the murderous rage that it was assembled for in a second’s notice, a wish that the guard perhaps secretly wanted to grant. The lobby was sunny as was the attitude within. The large atrium with its long teller window was amply staffed welcoming its customers in a style that is very quickly being forgotten in the US. But as we progressed higher, the sun, light and attitude rapidly changed.
The meeting was scheduled for the fifth floor. Within a server room. Not the usual place to display an online system, but seeing as how this was primarily a meet-and-greet to high-level IT staffers, not entirely shocking. But this fifth floor hadn’t seen a paint job since the 1970s. Hallways, offices and cubicles were cluttered, stocked to overflowing capacity, with boxes, monitors and PCs. The computers lining this mass grave were easily 286 and 486s as three-and-a-half-inch drives could be spied on all of them. I was looking for the much-more elusive five-and-a-quarter knowing that they had to exist within the pile. In the server room itself sat an immense dot-matrix computer and more monitors – just monitors – their black soulless screens crying out to be turned on displaying their VGA action just one more time before their eventual retirement.
Here was to be our stage. Fourteen chairs of all different colors and sizes pulled from any available cube or office, sat lined up in two rows. And so we began.
Stage two of the presentation involved a conference call overseas. With London. And New York. Yes, the humor of the situation most certainly did not escape me. I actually traveled to the Philippines in order to have a phone conference with New York City. I had a laugh over that when the agenda was released. But not one of those boisterous, hearty, deep-from-the-belly-and-laugh-out-loud kinda laughs. Nor was it one of those damn-smart, getting-the-in-joke type of short, hilarious burst of laughter one can get from seeing Anchorman or American Splendor. Oh no. This was one of those situations where your body doesn’t know what to do, so instead of crying, you laugh. It’s a weak, sweaty and totally phony laugh. And I laughed.
The time zone difference actually worked out well for this instance. The conference call was scheduled for 8 PM, allowing my party to conduct the affair from the hotel’s business center, which actually ended up being pleasant. Contributing to this change of attitude was the fact that just across the hotel lobby from the business center was one of the lounges and in that lounge was San Miguel beer. Nothing beats conducting business than doing so with a friend or two. Or six. Or seven. And Saint Mike and I were becoming fast friends.
As Always,
theJOE
Not that any of which I am about to reveal was all that hidden to begin with.
Apologies.
The bank, a large, successful bank in the Philippines, had an impressive edifice. The marble walls that greeted us were gray in both stature and ascetics. Gray in attitude was the armed guard who did not make eye contact, but was certainly watching. His M-16 rifle slung over his shoulder pointing down, but ready to unleash the murderous rage that it was assembled for in a second’s notice, a wish that the guard perhaps secretly wanted to grant. The lobby was sunny as was the attitude within. The large atrium with its long teller window was amply staffed welcoming its customers in a style that is very quickly being forgotten in the US. But as we progressed higher, the sun, light and attitude rapidly changed.
The meeting was scheduled for the fifth floor. Within a server room. Not the usual place to display an online system, but seeing as how this was primarily a meet-and-greet to high-level IT staffers, not entirely shocking. But this fifth floor hadn’t seen a paint job since the 1970s. Hallways, offices and cubicles were cluttered, stocked to overflowing capacity, with boxes, monitors and PCs. The computers lining this mass grave were easily 286 and 486s as three-and-a-half-inch drives could be spied on all of them. I was looking for the much-more elusive five-and-a-quarter knowing that they had to exist within the pile. In the server room itself sat an immense dot-matrix computer and more monitors – just monitors – their black soulless screens crying out to be turned on displaying their VGA action just one more time before their eventual retirement.
Here was to be our stage. Fourteen chairs of all different colors and sizes pulled from any available cube or office, sat lined up in two rows. And so we began.
Stage two of the presentation involved a conference call overseas. With London. And New York. Yes, the humor of the situation most certainly did not escape me. I actually traveled to the Philippines in order to have a phone conference with New York City. I had a laugh over that when the agenda was released. But not one of those boisterous, hearty, deep-from-the-belly-and-laugh-out-loud kinda laughs. Nor was it one of those damn-smart, getting-the-in-joke type of short, hilarious burst of laughter one can get from seeing Anchorman or American Splendor. Oh no. This was one of those situations where your body doesn’t know what to do, so instead of crying, you laugh. It’s a weak, sweaty and totally phony laugh. And I laughed.
The time zone difference actually worked out well for this instance. The conference call was scheduled for 8 PM, allowing my party to conduct the affair from the hotel’s business center, which actually ended up being pleasant. Contributing to this change of attitude was the fact that just across the hotel lobby from the business center was one of the lounges and in that lounge was San Miguel beer. Nothing beats conducting business than doing so with a friend or two. Or six. Or seven. And Saint Mike and I were becoming fast friends.
As Always,
theJOE
22 August 2006
Manila - Day 1
Monday in the Philippines was considered to be an off day. Sent here to work, though, this relaxing day of wishful sightseeing and recovering from a touch of jet lag no worse than the Phillies current Wild Card standings was instead spent upgrading our soon-to-be sold-and-recently-downgraded-to-three-star Hyatt Hotel to the very opulent five-star rated Pan Pacific deeper into town and going through my work for the upcoming two-day Q&A blitzkrieg presentation for which this trip was all about. Plus, the monsoon season, much like Kevin Smith’s humor, had yet to fully surrender saturating the island with rain and humidity.
The Pan Pacific features two lounges, one public, one strictly for guests, and boasts a casino, nightclub and eleven different eating establishments. We tried two that night, and kinda wished that number was divided by itself.
Initially my boss, and Indian-by-decent who can generally eat anything, and I were coaxed into the Shabu-Shabu. Sort of like Benehana back home, Shabu-Shabu had a grill sitting in the middle of the table. You then selected from a long, stainless steel buffet table your choice of raw – let me say that again, raw – meat to go into the pot and see it cook before your very eyes. Well, in front of eyes that were interested, which this American was certainly not.
We then settled, no, I think the proper word should be resorted, to eating at a Chinese restaurant across the main hall. Where everything was deep fried. And covered in some sort of seafood-based paste with appetizing names like “oyster paste”. And greasy. And stringy. Haven’t the Philippines yet discovered the ancient recipe for general’s chicken?
Fortunately the Palm Lounge, residing at the top of the hotel’s twenty-one floors, became our saving grace. I was introduced to San Miguel, the Philippines’ answer to Heineken. The lounge offers comfortably-dim lighting and a smashing pool table. Smashing, of course, is what I ended up performing on it as I am certainly no Minnesota Fats. Although, I can twirl a pool stick just as charmingly as Tom Cruise. Plus I’m not a freako Scientologist, so I have Tom beat there as well.
It is with a belly full grease, a bladder waiting to pass San Miguel and my boastful one-upping of an A-list star that my first full day on the other side of the planet came to an end. My room has a magnificent view of both the bay and the streets below me. And it’s still raining. Tomorrow, clients await.
As Always,
theJOE
The Pan Pacific features two lounges, one public, one strictly for guests, and boasts a casino, nightclub and eleven different eating establishments. We tried two that night, and kinda wished that number was divided by itself.
Initially my boss, and Indian-by-decent who can generally eat anything, and I were coaxed into the Shabu-Shabu. Sort of like Benehana back home, Shabu-Shabu had a grill sitting in the middle of the table. You then selected from a long, stainless steel buffet table your choice of raw – let me say that again, raw – meat to go into the pot and see it cook before your very eyes. Well, in front of eyes that were interested, which this American was certainly not.
We then settled, no, I think the proper word should be resorted, to eating at a Chinese restaurant across the main hall. Where everything was deep fried. And covered in some sort of seafood-based paste with appetizing names like “oyster paste”. And greasy. And stringy. Haven’t the Philippines yet discovered the ancient recipe for general’s chicken?
Fortunately the Palm Lounge, residing at the top of the hotel’s twenty-one floors, became our saving grace. I was introduced to San Miguel, the Philippines’ answer to Heineken. The lounge offers comfortably-dim lighting and a smashing pool table. Smashing, of course, is what I ended up performing on it as I am certainly no Minnesota Fats. Although, I can twirl a pool stick just as charmingly as Tom Cruise. Plus I’m not a freako Scientologist, so I have Tom beat there as well.
It is with a belly full grease, a bladder waiting to pass San Miguel and my boastful one-upping of an A-list star that my first full day on the other side of the planet came to an end. My room has a magnificent view of both the bay and the streets below me. And it’s still raining. Tomorrow, clients await.
As Always,
theJOE
21 August 2006
Manila - Getting There
The lightning arced sideways in the sky; its electric white and hot blue appearing as a flashbulb pop at a birthday party. Being several hundred feet in the air while viewing this didn’t quite have the same affect however. Surprisingly, the flight was still quite smooth. Or perhaps going on twenty hours of flight-time, I was just numb.
I was going to the Philippines, I was informed, making this not only the longest trip I’ve ever been on for work, but also personally – my previous excursion to a Pacific island was my Hawaiian honeymoon. The itinerary that was provided to me established that I would safely be in the air for most of the day. The term "safely", of course, being the variable, "most" being the constant. From the time I woke up on Saturday morning, which seems like three or four days opposed to the two that the date on my watch shows me, my life was full of acronyms. PHL to LAX to ICN to MNL.
LAX was insane. Not only was the weather extremely hot outside, but the bustle and congestion inside did not alleviate the heat any. A fun observation from LAX’s International terminal was that tall, English-speaking Anglos were definitely in the minority; but that could simply be LA for you. The company sprang for business class, which allowed me access to the Asiana lounge, another treat. Finding it, however, was a bit more of a trick. The end result was pleasant enough, and that’s all that matters.
Asiana’s business class was both comfortable and spacious and the stewardesses did their best to make the 12-hour flight quite not feel like 12-hours. Maybe 10-and-half instead. Between reading, perhaps a three-hour nap and the in-flight movie (The Sentinel starring Michael Douglas, Keifer Sutherland and Kim Basinger, mediocre but watchable, 6 out of 10) it wasn’t until the final hour-and-a-half that I really wanted to be on the ground more than anything. No, there was one thing that I wanted more. I really just wanted to turn around and go back home.
Seoul Incheon International was beautiful. Sleek modern designs placing tall windows in between walls of neutral grays, calming off-whites and wood-paneled floors. Flat screen monitors were conected in every gate broadcasting news and sitcoms. While waiting for my connecting flight – standing, mind you, no use sitting at this point – I was greeted by a church youth group heading to Manila for a week’s vacation. They were a fun and lively bunch with plenty of smiles, everything a church-based youth group should be. I think they were excited to see an American and were able to practice their English a little. We just went through the absolute basics first.
Where was I from? Philadelphia.
Do you know where that is? Just below New York.
How old was I, they asked. I lied and said thirty. They lied right back and said I was both young and handsome.
They wanted to know what I thought of Korea. I truthfully told them I could not wait to explore Seoul some upon my return.
We parted with waves and more smiles.
Flying from Seoul to Manila is when I noticed the lightning. And the rain. Still, the flight itself wasn’t bad. Perhaps business class has better stabilizers than coach.
Manila International was everything Seoul was not. Cafeteria-tiled floors, institutional greens, low ceilings. I was greeted with a blue flag welcoming me to "Bird Flu Free Philippines", which I guess is welcoming in that manically humorous way. What was surprising was customs. Unlike some of the European countries I’ve been to – Italy and France – where incoming customs are a joke, Manila actually has queues, scans your passport and collects the customs form.
The rain hadn’t let up even though monsoon season is coming to a close and the taxi’s heavily-tinted windows did not allow me to get a good view of the ride in. One of the elements of travel that I enjoy the most is that first ride in a foreign city. Even if it’s just a highway, I like to see how the signs are laid out, what the lights look like, the cars on the street. Through the black-glazed windows, I was afforded none of that as only the brightest of signs penetrated. Also penetrating was the driver singing to love rock love ballads. Not much else to listen to on a Sunday night, I suppose.
Monday morning and the rain started up again with a clap of thunder. Hopefully I will be able to post again this evening with a report on my day in Manila.
As Always,
theJOE
I was going to the Philippines, I was informed, making this not only the longest trip I’ve ever been on for work, but also personally – my previous excursion to a Pacific island was my Hawaiian honeymoon. The itinerary that was provided to me established that I would safely be in the air for most of the day. The term "safely", of course, being the variable, "most" being the constant. From the time I woke up on Saturday morning, which seems like three or four days opposed to the two that the date on my watch shows me, my life was full of acronyms. PHL to LAX to ICN to MNL.
LAX was insane. Not only was the weather extremely hot outside, but the bustle and congestion inside did not alleviate the heat any. A fun observation from LAX’s International terminal was that tall, English-speaking Anglos were definitely in the minority; but that could simply be LA for you. The company sprang for business class, which allowed me access to the Asiana lounge, another treat. Finding it, however, was a bit more of a trick. The end result was pleasant enough, and that’s all that matters.
Asiana’s business class was both comfortable and spacious and the stewardesses did their best to make the 12-hour flight quite not feel like 12-hours. Maybe 10-and-half instead. Between reading, perhaps a three-hour nap and the in-flight movie (The Sentinel starring Michael Douglas, Keifer Sutherland and Kim Basinger, mediocre but watchable, 6 out of 10) it wasn’t until the final hour-and-a-half that I really wanted to be on the ground more than anything. No, there was one thing that I wanted more. I really just wanted to turn around and go back home.
Seoul Incheon International was beautiful. Sleek modern designs placing tall windows in between walls of neutral grays, calming off-whites and wood-paneled floors. Flat screen monitors were conected in every gate broadcasting news and sitcoms. While waiting for my connecting flight – standing, mind you, no use sitting at this point – I was greeted by a church youth group heading to Manila for a week’s vacation. They were a fun and lively bunch with plenty of smiles, everything a church-based youth group should be. I think they were excited to see an American and were able to practice their English a little. We just went through the absolute basics first.
Where was I from? Philadelphia.
Do you know where that is? Just below New York.
How old was I, they asked. I lied and said thirty. They lied right back and said I was both young and handsome.
They wanted to know what I thought of Korea. I truthfully told them I could not wait to explore Seoul some upon my return.
We parted with waves and more smiles.
Flying from Seoul to Manila is when I noticed the lightning. And the rain. Still, the flight itself wasn’t bad. Perhaps business class has better stabilizers than coach.
Manila International was everything Seoul was not. Cafeteria-tiled floors, institutional greens, low ceilings. I was greeted with a blue flag welcoming me to "Bird Flu Free Philippines", which I guess is welcoming in that manically humorous way. What was surprising was customs. Unlike some of the European countries I’ve been to – Italy and France – where incoming customs are a joke, Manila actually has queues, scans your passport and collects the customs form.
The rain hadn’t let up even though monsoon season is coming to a close and the taxi’s heavily-tinted windows did not allow me to get a good view of the ride in. One of the elements of travel that I enjoy the most is that first ride in a foreign city. Even if it’s just a highway, I like to see how the signs are laid out, what the lights look like, the cars on the street. Through the black-glazed windows, I was afforded none of that as only the brightest of signs penetrated. Also penetrating was the driver singing to love rock love ballads. Not much else to listen to on a Sunday night, I suppose.
Monday morning and the rain started up again with a clap of thunder. Hopefully I will be able to post again this evening with a report on my day in Manila.
As Always,
theJOE
02 July 2006
Superman Returns, Upgrades and even Reprises
“They can be a great people, Kal-El, they wish to be. They only lack the light to show the way.” And the words of Jor-El via Marlon Brando, both spoken from beyond the grave, can not only be referring to the human race, but also director Bryan Singer and his able contingent of writers and fellow producers who delivered a Superman film the likes of which has never been seen – although one could easily ponder that if Dick Donner had access to modern-day technology, this would have been his film as well.
From the ground up, Superman Returns flies. It picks up, in case you haven’t heard, five or so years after the events chronicled in Superman II. Lex Luthor is out of jail and eager to pickup on a real estate scheme similar to his plan in the original Superman: The Movie but this one is of planetary proportions. As a result, Singer and screenwriters Michael Doughtery and Dan Harris wisely move away from bringing in a comicbook-inspired super-baddie to rough up our hero and instead focus on Luthor’s hatred of a “god in blue tights” revolving much of the main fight in a (Super)man vs. nature spectacle.
Whereas the main star of the film is probably the extensive but-brilliantly-done CG F/X, most of the actors step up to bat as well. Brandon Routh’s Reeve-esque performance highlights his ability to be both heroic and commanding as well as stammering and sheepish while performing as the titular bespectacled civilian identity. Two-time Oscar winner Kevin Spacey channels Gene Hackman and plays up Luthor’s sharp smile conning the audience one second and killing them the next. Even Frank Langella’s Perry White seems comfortable. Only Kate Bosworth’s Lois Lane, although adequate enough, seems to lack that passionate fire that makes Lane such a compelling character.
The film is filled with Breakfast of Champions scenes and action staged to please both the general audience and fanboys as well. For those who care, be sure to take note of the nods to Action Comics #1 (1938), Man Of Steel (1986) and a very clever re-cap of Superman’s first two films all told via Luthor’s model train room.
Unfortunately, not even this film is perfect as the results of the finale are dealt with in a depressing manner that not only spoil the mood but also the tempo of the film. Then there is the sub-plot dealing with the mysterious lineage of Lois’ son that perhaps boldly goes into territory that even the much-more brazen monthly comics have yet to go. The pondering of this question really only proves that maybe those comics are best left to such exploration allowing the movies to grow as fantastical companion pieces. Spider-Man’s Sam Raimi might be only director to fully grasp this concept. Until, at least, Christopher Nolan creates another Batman film.
As certain as believing that a man can fly, Singer crafts a tale full of magic and wonder that almost makes the 20-year wait manageable – as long as Singer’s follow-up appears faster, than say, a speeding bullet.
As Always,
theJOE
From the ground up, Superman Returns flies. It picks up, in case you haven’t heard, five or so years after the events chronicled in Superman II. Lex Luthor is out of jail and eager to pickup on a real estate scheme similar to his plan in the original Superman: The Movie but this one is of planetary proportions. As a result, Singer and screenwriters Michael Doughtery and Dan Harris wisely move away from bringing in a comicbook-inspired super-baddie to rough up our hero and instead focus on Luthor’s hatred of a “god in blue tights” revolving much of the main fight in a (Super)man vs. nature spectacle.
Whereas the main star of the film is probably the extensive but-brilliantly-done CG F/X, most of the actors step up to bat as well. Brandon Routh’s Reeve-esque performance highlights his ability to be both heroic and commanding as well as stammering and sheepish while performing as the titular bespectacled civilian identity. Two-time Oscar winner Kevin Spacey channels Gene Hackman and plays up Luthor’s sharp smile conning the audience one second and killing them the next. Even Frank Langella’s Perry White seems comfortable. Only Kate Bosworth’s Lois Lane, although adequate enough, seems to lack that passionate fire that makes Lane such a compelling character.
The film is filled with Breakfast of Champions scenes and action staged to please both the general audience and fanboys as well. For those who care, be sure to take note of the nods to Action Comics #1 (1938), Man Of Steel (1986) and a very clever re-cap of Superman’s first two films all told via Luthor’s model train room.
Unfortunately, not even this film is perfect as the results of the finale are dealt with in a depressing manner that not only spoil the mood but also the tempo of the film. Then there is the sub-plot dealing with the mysterious lineage of Lois’ son that perhaps boldly goes into territory that even the much-more brazen monthly comics have yet to go. The pondering of this question really only proves that maybe those comics are best left to such exploration allowing the movies to grow as fantastical companion pieces. Spider-Man’s Sam Raimi might be only director to fully grasp this concept. Until, at least, Christopher Nolan creates another Batman film.
As certain as believing that a man can fly, Singer crafts a tale full of magic and wonder that almost makes the 20-year wait manageable – as long as Singer’s follow-up appears faster, than say, a speeding bullet.
As Always,
theJOE
25 June 2006
Patience. And not just from youth.
With the release of the second full trailer and an extensive article in this week’s Entertainment Weekly, I am quickly reaching the end of my fanboy-induced patience regarding the new film, Superman Returns. Wednesday can’t come soon enough it seems. Startlingly enough, this is the first time in a while where that fanboy sense, which has been steadily been disappearing over the past three or so years, has been allowed to make a quick return engagement.
Superman: The Movie was released in December or 1978, just in time for the Christmas holiday. Star Wars came out a full-year earlier, but to my second-grade mind, Star Wars’ appeal, not to mention its merchandising, which I was sure to strike big-time with a little help from Jolly St. Nick, was still growing strong. However, literally being weaned on comicbooks thanks to my Grandfather, Darth Vader, X-Wing fighters and the entire mystical Force couldn’t compete with the likes of Superman. After all, this movie had promised me that I would believe a man could fly.
On opening day, my parents pulled a totally unexpected move, and one that would endear me to them forever: the took me out of school early to catch the matinee premiere. My folks were rather hardened with me skipping school for fake illnesses, so deliberately pulling me out just past lunch to see a movie – and a superhero movie at that – was nearly inconceivable.
With the advent of the Eighties getting ready to warm up and replace Disco with New Wave, theater multiplexes were still in their pre-historical state. One of the nearby malls’ General Cinema boasted an incredible six screens (I would see Superman II at this theater in just two summers) while the Eric at another mall had the much-less mind-blowing four. There were still three one-screen houses in the area that presented first-run movies. The Harwan was in Mt. Ephraim and would end up lasting the longest and go on to show second- or third-run screenings right up to the new Millennium. The Westmont, located in, you guessed it, Westmont, sported a balcony. In later years the Westmont spilt its room into two screens and later became a village playhouse. It is now closed up and sitting on what I’m sure is pretty valuable land. Finally, The Century theater sat directly on the corner of the White Horse Pike and King’s Highway, about a mile-and-a-half East from the Harwan. The Century was abandoned, eventually torn down against a lot of public protest, became a drug store for a fortnight and is once again abandoned. In 1978, however, when the Century was still king, I saw that film and I believed.
Almost 30 years later, a new Superman movie, one to rival Dick Donner’s 1978 epic is about to be released. Responsibilities will not permit me to skip work for a matinee, nor do I have the patience to wait in a queue with teenagers and college students for a midnight showing. I will most assuredly being seeing the film in the 24-room strong corporate-sponsored and equally-soulless theater complex that’s in walking distance from my Cherry Hill house. But my wife will be there with me. We’ll hold hands during the exciting parts and she’ll smile as the youth returns to eyes that are quickly forgetting childhood dreams. And I can’t wait.
Much like that winter in 1978, I find that it’s not just the film of Superman Returns that is exciting my inner-child, but the build up for the event. Already-forgotten is X-3 and the Pirates of the Caribbean sequel is sure to be a fun film, but when is that being released anyway? There is another film being released this July that should relate to and produce excitement from my college years with just as much fervor as Superman has to my primary school days, but sadly isn’t. The film: Clerks II.
No need for a discussion or breakdown here on Kevin Smith’s rebellious and nigh-vulgar look at the convenience store industry that debuted in 1994 and spawned a short-lived animated series and couple of comicbooks and, oh yes, four more features all based on his characters. But then Smith said goodbye and looked eager to continue his growth as a filmmaker, which I applauded. Jersey Girl was released ten years after his debut and although not his strongest film, took him out of the pool he was playing in, which definitely seemed to quickly be running out of water.
Clerks II just seems like a retread, a return to comfortable ground, a way to play it safe, which is definitely uncharacteristic of Smith and perhaps one of my wary reasons and the cause of lukewarm feelings. If he is giving in, no longer catering to the rebelliousness of youth and refusing to live by his dreams, then why should we as viewers or fans? Staying in comfortable environs means commuting to college instead of living on campus, giving into the past is like continuing to use the air popper when microwave popcorn is just so much quicker and comes pre-buttered.
And perhaps I’m wrong. Maybe this feeling is exactly what Smith is counting on and looking forward to disproving. Maybe his jokes will still be relevant, much like a man in blue tights and a red cape is still relevant, and still needed.
I will see Clerks II. Not on opening night, but with my friends. Maybe once the crowds have calmed down. I’ll sneak in my flask and divide the warm liquor into each of our cool cups of soda. I’ll laugh and permit my non-jaded youth to once again jump free in the twinkling of my eyes.
As Always,
theJOE
Superman: The Movie was released in December or 1978, just in time for the Christmas holiday. Star Wars came out a full-year earlier, but to my second-grade mind, Star Wars’ appeal, not to mention its merchandising, which I was sure to strike big-time with a little help from Jolly St. Nick, was still growing strong. However, literally being weaned on comicbooks thanks to my Grandfather, Darth Vader, X-Wing fighters and the entire mystical Force couldn’t compete with the likes of Superman. After all, this movie had promised me that I would believe a man could fly.
On opening day, my parents pulled a totally unexpected move, and one that would endear me to them forever: the took me out of school early to catch the matinee premiere. My folks were rather hardened with me skipping school for fake illnesses, so deliberately pulling me out just past lunch to see a movie – and a superhero movie at that – was nearly inconceivable.
With the advent of the Eighties getting ready to warm up and replace Disco with New Wave, theater multiplexes were still in their pre-historical state. One of the nearby malls’ General Cinema boasted an incredible six screens (I would see Superman II at this theater in just two summers) while the Eric at another mall had the much-less mind-blowing four. There were still three one-screen houses in the area that presented first-run movies. The Harwan was in Mt. Ephraim and would end up lasting the longest and go on to show second- or third-run screenings right up to the new Millennium. The Westmont, located in, you guessed it, Westmont, sported a balcony. In later years the Westmont spilt its room into two screens and later became a village playhouse. It is now closed up and sitting on what I’m sure is pretty valuable land. Finally, The Century theater sat directly on the corner of the White Horse Pike and King’s Highway, about a mile-and-a-half East from the Harwan. The Century was abandoned, eventually torn down against a lot of public protest, became a drug store for a fortnight and is once again abandoned. In 1978, however, when the Century was still king, I saw that film and I believed.
Almost 30 years later, a new Superman movie, one to rival Dick Donner’s 1978 epic is about to be released. Responsibilities will not permit me to skip work for a matinee, nor do I have the patience to wait in a queue with teenagers and college students for a midnight showing. I will most assuredly being seeing the film in the 24-room strong corporate-sponsored and equally-soulless theater complex that’s in walking distance from my Cherry Hill house. But my wife will be there with me. We’ll hold hands during the exciting parts and she’ll smile as the youth returns to eyes that are quickly forgetting childhood dreams. And I can’t wait.
Much like that winter in 1978, I find that it’s not just the film of Superman Returns that is exciting my inner-child, but the build up for the event. Already-forgotten is X-3 and the Pirates of the Caribbean sequel is sure to be a fun film, but when is that being released anyway? There is another film being released this July that should relate to and produce excitement from my college years with just as much fervor as Superman has to my primary school days, but sadly isn’t. The film: Clerks II.
No need for a discussion or breakdown here on Kevin Smith’s rebellious and nigh-vulgar look at the convenience store industry that debuted in 1994 and spawned a short-lived animated series and couple of comicbooks and, oh yes, four more features all based on his characters. But then Smith said goodbye and looked eager to continue his growth as a filmmaker, which I applauded. Jersey Girl was released ten years after his debut and although not his strongest film, took him out of the pool he was playing in, which definitely seemed to quickly be running out of water.
Clerks II just seems like a retread, a return to comfortable ground, a way to play it safe, which is definitely uncharacteristic of Smith and perhaps one of my wary reasons and the cause of lukewarm feelings. If he is giving in, no longer catering to the rebelliousness of youth and refusing to live by his dreams, then why should we as viewers or fans? Staying in comfortable environs means commuting to college instead of living on campus, giving into the past is like continuing to use the air popper when microwave popcorn is just so much quicker and comes pre-buttered.
And perhaps I’m wrong. Maybe this feeling is exactly what Smith is counting on and looking forward to disproving. Maybe his jokes will still be relevant, much like a man in blue tights and a red cape is still relevant, and still needed.
I will see Clerks II. Not on opening night, but with my friends. Maybe once the crowds have calmed down. I’ll sneak in my flask and divide the warm liquor into each of our cool cups of soda. I’ll laugh and permit my non-jaded youth to once again jump free in the twinkling of my eyes.
As Always,
theJOE
16 May 2006
5 A.M.
I harshly and suddenly woke from a dream at 5 AM by a thunderclap signaling the oncoming apocalypse. This wasn’t simply God bowling his strikes, rather the Almighty had decided to completely demolish the entire bowling alley with pins, balls and vending machines complete with unwinable trinkets that truly have no place in Paradise still inside. This happened directly above my house.
By the time my breathing got under control and the coolness of my skin warmed with the beaded perspiration, the awareness that the end of the world was not upon us just yet slowly rolled to the surface of my consciousness like a wobbly gutter ball moves with lackadaisical determination towards its final destination. It was still 5 AM. Plus eight minutes. I would be pounding the clock/radio silent in another 90 minutes. It would ignore my pleads, beckoning me to arise and prepare for an 8 AM conference call to Toronto. But seeing as how I am presently awake, and the rain showering on my roof is certainly not contributing to the pleasant return to sleep, I move forward.
My legs swing off the mattress and I smile inwardly with the smallest sense of satisfaction that I have beaten the radio, at least for this morning. Its commands will go unheeded today; the impotence of its digital display no longer necessary.
The remainder of the early morning passes without much significance. Shower. Coffee. A weary treading of footfalls. Sometime in-between, the rain stops and the sun does its best to try to break through the cloud cover. What rays that do penetrate accentuate the greenness that abounds in the aftermath of a spring storm. The azure leaves on the hickory tree stand out vividly against the slowly-breaking grey sky.
But I have no time for beauty. I cannot allow my mind to drift before the caffeine releases the racehorses of my synapses from their starting gate. The wetness in the atmosphere hangs equally heavy with the thoughts of the day before me. Toronto this morning, California at lunch where the day’s sun is still new, New York this afternoon. My company’s phone bill lights up like a North American passport. Most use the stillness of the morning to begin their day with calm reflection. I use this break to debate calling in sick, ignoring all responsibilities that have become accustomed to this adult life.
The sky is quiet now. God’s obviously taking a coffee break reading the Washington Post with a Boston crème because He obviously doesn’t need to watch the calories. And with the end-of-the-world obviously on hold, I boot up my iMac and get to work because, after all, there’s much to do.
As Always,
theJOE
By the time my breathing got under control and the coolness of my skin warmed with the beaded perspiration, the awareness that the end of the world was not upon us just yet slowly rolled to the surface of my consciousness like a wobbly gutter ball moves with lackadaisical determination towards its final destination. It was still 5 AM. Plus eight minutes. I would be pounding the clock/radio silent in another 90 minutes. It would ignore my pleads, beckoning me to arise and prepare for an 8 AM conference call to Toronto. But seeing as how I am presently awake, and the rain showering on my roof is certainly not contributing to the pleasant return to sleep, I move forward.
My legs swing off the mattress and I smile inwardly with the smallest sense of satisfaction that I have beaten the radio, at least for this morning. Its commands will go unheeded today; the impotence of its digital display no longer necessary.
The remainder of the early morning passes without much significance. Shower. Coffee. A weary treading of footfalls. Sometime in-between, the rain stops and the sun does its best to try to break through the cloud cover. What rays that do penetrate accentuate the greenness that abounds in the aftermath of a spring storm. The azure leaves on the hickory tree stand out vividly against the slowly-breaking grey sky.
But I have no time for beauty. I cannot allow my mind to drift before the caffeine releases the racehorses of my synapses from their starting gate. The wetness in the atmosphere hangs equally heavy with the thoughts of the day before me. Toronto this morning, California at lunch where the day’s sun is still new, New York this afternoon. My company’s phone bill lights up like a North American passport. Most use the stillness of the morning to begin their day with calm reflection. I use this break to debate calling in sick, ignoring all responsibilities that have become accustomed to this adult life.
The sky is quiet now. God’s obviously taking a coffee break reading the Washington Post with a Boston crème because He obviously doesn’t need to watch the calories. And with the end-of-the-world obviously on hold, I boot up my iMac and get to work because, after all, there’s much to do.
As Always,
theJOE
01 May 2006
Marillion
The latest version of iChat allows the user to broadcast their current iTunes track, a nifty little app that allows other iChat (or higher end IM users) participants to get a little insight as to what you are doing or what you are listening to. Plus, this is simply a great way to proudly show off your snobbish tastes in music to those who are deemed less-enlightened.
My best friend, Scott, doesn’t have iChat, nor is he allowed to use an IM program in his workplace. Instead, he emails a network of people a list of whatever tune he is bopping around to in hopes that this happy vibe is picked up on and continued.
A number of these recent emails have been directed around the Scottish prog-rock band, Marillion. Marillion never hit it big in the States (only 1985’s Misplaced Childhood had two singles chart in the US, “Kayleigh” and “Lavender”), but had a fair-sized and committed fan base here whose fanatical ways could almost be considered cultish. For a while in college, I was such a member. But not any longer.
Scott was responsible for the initial Marillion introduction, but I didn’t immediately jump on-board like I was doing with other such new found discoveries; after just sampling Dream Theater, as an example, I bought their current discography as quickly as possible. At the time, Marillion’s original lead singer, Fish, got fed up with the group and their label and struck off on a solo career only to be replaced by Steve Hogarth, whose somewhat effeminate ways that were oh-so stylish at first became more and more annoying as the Century concluded. I thought Fish sounded like a Peter Gabriel knock-off (and he did, but unlike Hogarth, as the Century ended I gained a deeper respect Fish) and Hogarth’s Marillion tended to be a little quieter, kind of in a similar manner as how Anderson, Bruford, Wakeman, Howe is quieter to the balls-out rock Yes presented during the early Trevor Rabin years. But after a while, much like drinking bad diner coffee, the saturation set in.
The end of Fish’s career and Hogarth’s first two releases were the prime recording years of the band, in my mind as a fan anyway (1984’s Fugazi, 1985’s Misplaced Childhood, 1987’s Clutching At Straws, 1989’s Season’s End, 1991’s Holidays In Eden ). They maintained a hip progressive status by allowing those four or five releases to maintain a loose theme, mixed up the ballads with the rockers, varied the length of songs from 11-minute epics to two-and-a-half radio cuts and came across as artsy, haunting, raw and silly with their lyrics.
What especially made it fun to be a fan in the early 90s were their occasional US tours. The band solidly understood that without these passionate fans their US sales would be a lot worse, so they eagerly did meet-and-greets sometimes before, but mostly after, their shows. They listened, shook hands, signed autographs and eagerly accepted alcohol. Often times their shows would feature little surprises in the set list. My knowledge of their library was growing but still limited when compared to Marillion long-timers, known as “Freaks” taken from one of their lyrics, “All the best freaks are here” - or at least I called them freaks. I also call my motorcycle-riding, volunteer firefighter neighbors freaks as well, so that title might not be considered canon. Still, it was that unexpected element, that possibility of that one gem heard live, that certainly keep the crowd interested.
Their future releases, unfortunately, became significantly uninteresting.
After two efforts, it was as if Steve Hogarth played artistic traffic cop and purposefully directed Marillion’s efforts away from anything remotely related to a Fish-y progression. After all, such an endeavor worked for Van Halen. Right?! Hmmm, next question please.
Alright then, how about this one: why did Marillion move away from foot-tappin’, moody, memorable Prog Rock and embrace a much-more obtuse and significantly more moody style of Prog-Rock?
Two easy answers. The first, obviously, being that all music is subjective to the listener. Not being much of a blues fan, I can honestly say that I never got personal enjoyment from Stevie Ray Vaughn’s music. I would have been kicked out the local record exchange if the guys there ever knew that. But then MP3s kinda kicked out the local record exchanges, so my secret is safe.
Answer number 2. Maybe Marillion understood that Prog Rock was dying quicker than the memory of gas prices falling under a buck. Maybe they wanted to truly embrace that indie spirit and make music that could not fully be classified into one genre.
Another answer exists that is just as easy. Maybe my own tastes changed. Maybe as I got more into classical, jazz, electronica and instrumental scores I cared less and less for this new alternative, this new direction, a band was taking.
1994 saw the release of Brave, a morose concept album that just didn’t have sustaining power. Brave, however, did have one treasure – the love ballad “Made Again”. This was one of those truly beautiful songs that you would sing to your wife on your wedding date, even though I did not.
After Brave, the band put out their last great work, 1995’s Afraid Of Sunlight. Truly progressive and filled with atmospheric works that harkened back to Fish’s time without being derivative. Unfortunately, this trend would not last.
By the time This Strange Engine and Radiation were released (1997, 1998) I was out. Gone. Vanished like a puff of smoke ala Keyser Soze. I listened to tracks that Scott threw at me. I eventually threw them back. Scott, like the loyal friend he is, remained loyal to the band much longer than my scant 6 years. However, he too, rode off into the wind sometime after the Century mark.
Scott stills likes from time-to-time to, as the Boss commands, capture a little of the glory of. For this rocker though, well time slips away and leaves you with nothing mister but boring stories.
Here’s hoping this wasn’t one of them. And no, I'm not signing off with a Marillion lyric either.
As Always,
theJOE
My best friend, Scott, doesn’t have iChat, nor is he allowed to use an IM program in his workplace. Instead, he emails a network of people a list of whatever tune he is bopping around to in hopes that this happy vibe is picked up on and continued.
A number of these recent emails have been directed around the Scottish prog-rock band, Marillion. Marillion never hit it big in the States (only 1985’s Misplaced Childhood had two singles chart in the US, “Kayleigh” and “Lavender”), but had a fair-sized and committed fan base here whose fanatical ways could almost be considered cultish. For a while in college, I was such a member. But not any longer.
Scott was responsible for the initial Marillion introduction, but I didn’t immediately jump on-board like I was doing with other such new found discoveries; after just sampling Dream Theater, as an example, I bought their current discography as quickly as possible. At the time, Marillion’s original lead singer, Fish, got fed up with the group and their label and struck off on a solo career only to be replaced by Steve Hogarth, whose somewhat effeminate ways that were oh-so stylish at first became more and more annoying as the Century concluded. I thought Fish sounded like a Peter Gabriel knock-off (and he did, but unlike Hogarth, as the Century ended I gained a deeper respect Fish) and Hogarth’s Marillion tended to be a little quieter, kind of in a similar manner as how Anderson, Bruford, Wakeman, Howe is quieter to the balls-out rock Yes presented during the early Trevor Rabin years. But after a while, much like drinking bad diner coffee, the saturation set in.
The end of Fish’s career and Hogarth’s first two releases were the prime recording years of the band, in my mind as a fan anyway (1984’s Fugazi, 1985’s Misplaced Childhood, 1987’s Clutching At Straws, 1989’s Season’s End, 1991’s Holidays In Eden ). They maintained a hip progressive status by allowing those four or five releases to maintain a loose theme, mixed up the ballads with the rockers, varied the length of songs from 11-minute epics to two-and-a-half radio cuts and came across as artsy, haunting, raw and silly with their lyrics.
What especially made it fun to be a fan in the early 90s were their occasional US tours. The band solidly understood that without these passionate fans their US sales would be a lot worse, so they eagerly did meet-and-greets sometimes before, but mostly after, their shows. They listened, shook hands, signed autographs and eagerly accepted alcohol. Often times their shows would feature little surprises in the set list. My knowledge of their library was growing but still limited when compared to Marillion long-timers, known as “Freaks” taken from one of their lyrics, “All the best freaks are here” - or at least I called them freaks. I also call my motorcycle-riding, volunteer firefighter neighbors freaks as well, so that title might not be considered canon. Still, it was that unexpected element, that possibility of that one gem heard live, that certainly keep the crowd interested.
Their future releases, unfortunately, became significantly uninteresting.
After two efforts, it was as if Steve Hogarth played artistic traffic cop and purposefully directed Marillion’s efforts away from anything remotely related to a Fish-y progression. After all, such an endeavor worked for Van Halen. Right?! Hmmm, next question please.
Alright then, how about this one: why did Marillion move away from foot-tappin’, moody, memorable Prog Rock and embrace a much-more obtuse and significantly more moody style of Prog-Rock?
Two easy answers. The first, obviously, being that all music is subjective to the listener. Not being much of a blues fan, I can honestly say that I never got personal enjoyment from Stevie Ray Vaughn’s music. I would have been kicked out the local record exchange if the guys there ever knew that. But then MP3s kinda kicked out the local record exchanges, so my secret is safe.
Answer number 2. Maybe Marillion understood that Prog Rock was dying quicker than the memory of gas prices falling under a buck. Maybe they wanted to truly embrace that indie spirit and make music that could not fully be classified into one genre.
Another answer exists that is just as easy. Maybe my own tastes changed. Maybe as I got more into classical, jazz, electronica and instrumental scores I cared less and less for this new alternative, this new direction, a band was taking.
1994 saw the release of Brave, a morose concept album that just didn’t have sustaining power. Brave, however, did have one treasure – the love ballad “Made Again”. This was one of those truly beautiful songs that you would sing to your wife on your wedding date, even though I did not.
After Brave, the band put out their last great work, 1995’s Afraid Of Sunlight. Truly progressive and filled with atmospheric works that harkened back to Fish’s time without being derivative. Unfortunately, this trend would not last.
By the time This Strange Engine and Radiation were released (1997, 1998) I was out. Gone. Vanished like a puff of smoke ala Keyser Soze. I listened to tracks that Scott threw at me. I eventually threw them back. Scott, like the loyal friend he is, remained loyal to the band much longer than my scant 6 years. However, he too, rode off into the wind sometime after the Century mark.
Scott stills likes from time-to-time to, as the Boss commands, capture a little of the glory of. For this rocker though, well time slips away and leaves you with nothing mister but boring stories.
Here’s hoping this wasn’t one of them. And no, I'm not signing off with a Marillion lyric either.
As Always,
theJOE
14 April 2006
Smerconish
Got to be a guest on the Michael Smerconish Morning Show today discussing if all the technology at our disposal here in the 21st Century has indeed made live better …easier?… or if it’s contributing to more and more cases of ADD.
Okay, I wasn’t a guest. I just called in. But it was cool. Smerconish puts on a good show where he uses common sense to deal with daily topics; common sense that remarkably enough tends to make things controversial in today’s morally ambiguous PC world.
My contribution to the show came as a result of Michael mentioning that his voice mail message prompts his callers to email him stating that he can answer them quicker through email rather than returning a call. I wholeheartedly agree because this is the exact set-up I currently have on my business line. In fact, I went on to say, that clients who contact me via email get preferential treatment and priority than those who strictly leave VMs.
Smerconish enjoyed hearing that and took delight in that matter that he wasn’t alone in this. I responded saying we should start a revolution.
He called me his “pal.” Yeah.
Good way to start the morning.
Okay, I wasn’t a guest. I just called in. But it was cool. Smerconish puts on a good show where he uses common sense to deal with daily topics; common sense that remarkably enough tends to make things controversial in today’s morally ambiguous PC world.
My contribution to the show came as a result of Michael mentioning that his voice mail message prompts his callers to email him stating that he can answer them quicker through email rather than returning a call. I wholeheartedly agree because this is the exact set-up I currently have on my business line. In fact, I went on to say, that clients who contact me via email get preferential treatment and priority than those who strictly leave VMs.
Smerconish enjoyed hearing that and took delight in that matter that he wasn’t alone in this. I responded saying we should start a revolution.
He called me his “pal.” Yeah.
Good way to start the morning.
26 March 2006
Continuity – An Introduction
One of the best aspects about reading sequential comicbooks month-by-month is looking not at the minutiae, that is, the fine aspects of the story – and don’t get me wrong, it is this very same minutiae that draws a reader in and gets them involved with the character and moves the story and defines the moment – rather, where does the story go in the span of years other than months. How does the character grow and react to a continually changing environment. Does the one moment that is hyped as “nothing will ever be the same again” actually have long term effects?
Looking at complete runs on a title throughout the months where new challenges are met, races are run, moral differences are breached and key relationships wind up being just as trivial as stopping the generic bank robber, my date-conscious mind seeks to place these events in a particular order. Where do key crossovers fit in with the general direction of a run? Certain matchups have to happen before certain events because of location or costume updates. Key characters that have multiple monthly titles obviously are not performing these deeds simultaneously, regardless how supernatural they may be.
This is definitely a tall order and even borders on the insane. After all, all these comics were written, drawn and edited by entirely different people at entirely different times. But finding this proper sequence can be fun – not to mention a unique insight to the psychological ordering of my mind. Yes, issue 324 occurs after issue 323 numerically, but issue 324 happens to be a flashback tale chronicling events leading up to issue 300. This continuity presents such a timeline.
Now, to quote the immortal Beatles, do you want to know a secret? The creation of this continuity timeline, this linear representation of a shared universe that always seems to be a buzzword amongst us geeks, is truly nothing more than a grand excuse to go back and re-read all these countless titles amassed over 20+ years of collecting. Going through back issue upon back issue has allowed the re-discovery of long-forgotten treats as well as the unearthing of a number of blunders that once were an embarrassing part of my collection are now fodder on eBay (so to paraphrase a well-worn saying here in Philadelphia politics: bid early, bid often).
Parts of this blog will be highlighting such treats, as well as the occasional blasting of a youthful and shameful purchase. As always, being an ambassador of the medium, I totally invite you to check out any titles or storylines mentioned in upcoming posts. If you have questions, feel free to join in a discussion.
As always,
theJOE
Looking at complete runs on a title throughout the months where new challenges are met, races are run, moral differences are breached and key relationships wind up being just as trivial as stopping the generic bank robber, my date-conscious mind seeks to place these events in a particular order. Where do key crossovers fit in with the general direction of a run? Certain matchups have to happen before certain events because of location or costume updates. Key characters that have multiple monthly titles obviously are not performing these deeds simultaneously, regardless how supernatural they may be.
This is definitely a tall order and even borders on the insane. After all, all these comics were written, drawn and edited by entirely different people at entirely different times. But finding this proper sequence can be fun – not to mention a unique insight to the psychological ordering of my mind. Yes, issue 324 occurs after issue 323 numerically, but issue 324 happens to be a flashback tale chronicling events leading up to issue 300. This continuity presents such a timeline.
Now, to quote the immortal Beatles, do you want to know a secret? The creation of this continuity timeline, this linear representation of a shared universe that always seems to be a buzzword amongst us geeks, is truly nothing more than a grand excuse to go back and re-read all these countless titles amassed over 20+ years of collecting. Going through back issue upon back issue has allowed the re-discovery of long-forgotten treats as well as the unearthing of a number of blunders that once were an embarrassing part of my collection are now fodder on eBay (so to paraphrase a well-worn saying here in Philadelphia politics: bid early, bid often).
Parts of this blog will be highlighting such treats, as well as the occasional blasting of a youthful and shameful purchase. As always, being an ambassador of the medium, I totally invite you to check out any titles or storylines mentioned in upcoming posts. If you have questions, feel free to join in a discussion.
As always,
theJOE
16 March 2006
A short story that should have been treated as a short film.
Let’s not look at BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN as the “gay cowboy” movie or as “the film that should have won the Best Picture Oscar.” Let’s avoid the clichés that cinema as an art form reflects the political nature of society and let’s definitely not tiptoe around the assumedly politically-correct stance that the homosexual community needs to rally around this film and treat it as a benchmark. Instead, let’s look at BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN as a film, something many reviewers (and fans) refuse to do.
From its opening scene of a lonely pre-dawn road through the entire first act filled with Canadian majesty masquerading as the purple mountains of Wyoming, film auteur Ang Lee tries his best to illustrate the solitary life that a sheep-herder must certainly face. This solidarity continues its theme as Ennis and Jack learn that they are a definite minority and how their lifestyle affects other choices they must deal with.
BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN possess a number of fine and memorable scenes, most of which occur in the following two acts where Ennis and Jack, apart from each other, do their best to simply live life. Lee’s base camerawork coupled with beautifully-authentic looking sets helps capture these cinematic moments. Where BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN fails is its inability to place these individual moments into a cohesive and compelling film. Lee fails in glancing over this solitary cowboy life by providing nothing more than the quickest of glimpses. As a result, BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN as a whole appears as nothing more than filler material padding a short story.
The silent moments in a cowboy’s life is a topic that has been illustrated in more compelling films than this. Kevin Costner’s OPEN RANGE is perhaps the most current example. A handful of good scenes does not make a complete narrative and Ang Lee and James Schamus have partnered on better collaborations than this.
Heath Ledger’s Ennis is a one-dimensional rough and stoic cowboy of old whose press has surprisingly outshone that of Jake Gyllenhaal’s work, whose character – and acting – is definitely the superior of the two.
Not to slight Annie Proulx’s magazine story, it appeared that Lee and Oscar-winning writing team of McMurty and Ossana failed to forget the basic premise of adapting a single short story into a full-length feature. Great scenes become highly memorable but without a cohesive story combing such scenes into a greater sum results in an unimpressive product.
As Always,
theJOE
From its opening scene of a lonely pre-dawn road through the entire first act filled with Canadian majesty masquerading as the purple mountains of Wyoming, film auteur Ang Lee tries his best to illustrate the solitary life that a sheep-herder must certainly face. This solidarity continues its theme as Ennis and Jack learn that they are a definite minority and how their lifestyle affects other choices they must deal with.
BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN possess a number of fine and memorable scenes, most of which occur in the following two acts where Ennis and Jack, apart from each other, do their best to simply live life. Lee’s base camerawork coupled with beautifully-authentic looking sets helps capture these cinematic moments. Where BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN fails is its inability to place these individual moments into a cohesive and compelling film. Lee fails in glancing over this solitary cowboy life by providing nothing more than the quickest of glimpses. As a result, BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN as a whole appears as nothing more than filler material padding a short story.
The silent moments in a cowboy’s life is a topic that has been illustrated in more compelling films than this. Kevin Costner’s OPEN RANGE is perhaps the most current example. A handful of good scenes does not make a complete narrative and Ang Lee and James Schamus have partnered on better collaborations than this.
Heath Ledger’s Ennis is a one-dimensional rough and stoic cowboy of old whose press has surprisingly outshone that of Jake Gyllenhaal’s work, whose character – and acting – is definitely the superior of the two.
Not to slight Annie Proulx’s magazine story, it appeared that Lee and Oscar-winning writing team of McMurty and Ossana failed to forget the basic premise of adapting a single short story into a full-length feature. Great scenes become highly memorable but without a cohesive story combing such scenes into a greater sum results in an unimpressive product.
As Always,
theJOE
02 March 2006
Oscar Rant 2006
What a year for movies, eh? Well maybe not, seeing as how attendance levels were consistently down throughout the year. Two-Thousand Five, and let’s mark it now shall we, is the our first year without a Lord Of The Rings movie. And sorry, Peter, as cool as Kong was, it didn’t feature an Hobbits!
This year’s Top 10 grossing films featured Jedis, teenage Wizards, a Lion, an alien invasion, a 25-foot ape, a montage of weddings, the chocolate factory, the Bat, CGI zoo animals and a vehicle spotlighting Brad and Angelina’s romance. Once again and consistently so, none of those top-grossing films broke into the elite of the nominations. Even DreamWorks’ Madagascar failed to receive a nod for Animated Feature. And aside from the typical Visual Effects, Sound Editing, Costume Design groups (Star Wars’ only entry: Makeup) only Batman Begins was able to break into the Cinematography category – not Original Screenplay but hey, Hollywood is hardly the place for dreams.
Also as usual there is one film that generates all the typical buzz about it and regardless how well received it may be, I find myself uninterested and even uncaring about it knowing full well that I’ll see it on DVD after it wins its multiple statues on March 5. Last year that film was Million Dollar Baby. This year’s darling, and not surprising, is Brokeback Mountain.
The choice not to see the film is not political nor is it a product of a religious boycott, both of which are perfectly valid statements. Rather, I grew up watching westerns. If there was ever anything I would want to do on a magical trip to the past, it wouldn’t be visiting Camelot or participating in the Last Supper or watching the raising of the flag on Iwo Jima – all of which would be ridiculously grand. No, no, I would want to be a Post-Civil War cowboy out exploring the Great West. Rescuing nieces from Indians like in The Searchers, being a shotgun-riding pioneer from How The West Was Won or simply annoying the Mexicans ala Clint in Fist Full Of Dollars.
Why deconstruct one of the last great American myths? Answer: obviously because this is the 21st Century and everything needs to be deconstructed. I guess. I simply fail to find entertainment in the basis of Annie Proulx’s tale. And, naturally, all this will be recanted in an 8 point font somewhere on my blog after viewing the aforementioned DVD. Have to hand it to Ang Lee; the man keeps making hit after hit.
I did see nearly everything else, and, naturally, comments abound. I invite you to read on and feel free to post comments on my blog. What follows are highlights from some key categories as well as mentioning those absent. This is not a list of picks because, after all with politics being what they are in the Academy, very rarely does the deserved win.
Picture
There was none better, I believe, in 2005 then Paul Haggis’ Crash (please, most definitely not to be confused with the same titled movie by David Cronenberg). After seeing it, and thoroughly being amazed, I instantly knew that this movie was so good that it would be completely ignored by the All-Knowing Academy. Six nominations later quickly had me cast aside my sour prediction.
The Academy may have done right by one movie – and certainly not to slight either Good Night, And Good Luck or Munich – but there were two hefty absences from the ballot.
And the envelope please… Cinderella Man and Walk The Line. Two major biopics that were feel-good without being saccharine, strong without being smothering, honest without being preachy. Honorable Mention: The Constant Gardner, a political-preachy film that deserves to have a larger audience.
Director
Fact: Capote was truly a great film. Aside: not too sure if Bennett Miller deserves the nod. Replacement: Ron Howard. Cinderella Man is the film that should have brought him home the Oscar; not A Beautiful Mind.
I’m rooting for Clooney and Spielberg on this one. Steven for making Munich visually stunning; George for keeping Good Night, And Good Luck so beautifully simple.
Supporting Actor
The only category that I wouldn’t mind seeing Crash lose to this one as Paul Giamatti needs to win. One of the biggest crimes this century in Hollywood was not allowing this man to win for American Splendor or Sideways. Redemption needs to be made and justice meted out.
Absurdity at its best: William Hurt for A History Of Violence. If over-the-top buffoonery is to be awarded, then Bill Shatner and Christopher Walken need their Lifetime Achievement Awards.
And the envelope please… how’s this for a replacement? A little known B actor named Clifton Collins who truly gave life to the killer Perry Smith in Capote. Dare it be said that part of the excellence Philip S. Hoffman’s performance is due to this man.
Another suggestion. If Hurt is allowed a nomination, then where the hell is Jack Black’s for King Kong? Or Tim Robbins’ for War Of The Worlds? All kidding aside, how about Daniel Craig or Ciarán Hinds for Munich? And speaking of, where the hell was Eric Bana’s Actor nomination?!
Original Screenplay
Again, none better this year then Crash. The timeliness and poignantly political nature of both Good Night, And Good Luck and Syriana should both be commended, even though the slightly unstructured complexity of the latter was a bit of a downfall.
Although certainly not surprised by its absence, it’s my opinion that one of the most original thrillers of the year was The Skeleton Key, a film that really warrants higher exposure than it got.
Adapted Screenplay
Tough category this year, and, tons of absences. Three of the five were stellar picks: Capote, The Constant Gardner and Munich. A History Of Violence came as a little surprise, especially because the adaptation of the John Wagner/Vince Locke graphic novel could have been so much stronger. See the film first, then read the gn for the full and complete – and better - story.
And the envelope please… The Lion, The Witch And The Wardrobe, Walk The Line, Layer Cake, King Kong, Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy and Jarhead. Absentees each and every one with Narnia being the most grave loss.
Animated Feature
Difficult to believe and equally difficult to admit, but the Academy got it right with the nominations of Corpse Bride, Wallace & Gromit in The Case of the Were-Rabbit and Howl’s Moving Castle. Truly, may the best film win but not only was Wallace & Gromit the best Animated film, it was one of the year’s best in general as the cheese eater and his silent friend prove once again that their adventures are nothing but magical. The other two nominees are certainly worthy contenders. Miyazaki-san won the Oscar three or so years back for the phenomenal Spirited Away. Howl, not as visually or artistically compelling as Spirited Away or especially Princess Mononoke, still possesses a great charm. Same can be said for Burton’s Corpse Bride, whose animation style is as wonderfully unearthly as the film’s content. In Bride’s case, the film might not be award-worthy as Henry Selick, who directed Burton’s classic The Nightmare Before Christmas back in 1993, was not involved. For those missing Selick’s animation style, be sure to check out the underwater animation scenes from 2004’s The Life Aquatic With Steve Zissou.
Rant, cheer, groan, smile or complain, the simple – and yes, perhaps sad – truth of the matter is that after Sunday the traditional holler of, “Ride ‘em, cowboy!” is going to have a completely different connotation.
I’ll be cheering on Crash as well as Wallace & Gromit in hopes that entertainment and solid story-telling is still rewarded. See you on the Red Carpet.
As Always,
theJOE
This year’s Top 10 grossing films featured Jedis, teenage Wizards, a Lion, an alien invasion, a 25-foot ape, a montage of weddings, the chocolate factory, the Bat, CGI zoo animals and a vehicle spotlighting Brad and Angelina’s romance. Once again and consistently so, none of those top-grossing films broke into the elite of the nominations. Even DreamWorks’ Madagascar failed to receive a nod for Animated Feature. And aside from the typical Visual Effects, Sound Editing, Costume Design groups (Star Wars’ only entry: Makeup) only Batman Begins was able to break into the Cinematography category – not Original Screenplay but hey, Hollywood is hardly the place for dreams.
Also as usual there is one film that generates all the typical buzz about it and regardless how well received it may be, I find myself uninterested and even uncaring about it knowing full well that I’ll see it on DVD after it wins its multiple statues on March 5. Last year that film was Million Dollar Baby. This year’s darling, and not surprising, is Brokeback Mountain.
The choice not to see the film is not political nor is it a product of a religious boycott, both of which are perfectly valid statements. Rather, I grew up watching westerns. If there was ever anything I would want to do on a magical trip to the past, it wouldn’t be visiting Camelot or participating in the Last Supper or watching the raising of the flag on Iwo Jima – all of which would be ridiculously grand. No, no, I would want to be a Post-Civil War cowboy out exploring the Great West. Rescuing nieces from Indians like in The Searchers, being a shotgun-riding pioneer from How The West Was Won or simply annoying the Mexicans ala Clint in Fist Full Of Dollars.
Why deconstruct one of the last great American myths? Answer: obviously because this is the 21st Century and everything needs to be deconstructed. I guess. I simply fail to find entertainment in the basis of Annie Proulx’s tale. And, naturally, all this will be recanted in an 8 point font somewhere on my blog after viewing the aforementioned DVD. Have to hand it to Ang Lee; the man keeps making hit after hit.
I did see nearly everything else, and, naturally, comments abound. I invite you to read on and feel free to post comments on my blog. What follows are highlights from some key categories as well as mentioning those absent. This is not a list of picks because, after all with politics being what they are in the Academy, very rarely does the deserved win.
Picture
There was none better, I believe, in 2005 then Paul Haggis’ Crash (please, most definitely not to be confused with the same titled movie by David Cronenberg). After seeing it, and thoroughly being amazed, I instantly knew that this movie was so good that it would be completely ignored by the All-Knowing Academy. Six nominations later quickly had me cast aside my sour prediction.
The Academy may have done right by one movie – and certainly not to slight either Good Night, And Good Luck or Munich – but there were two hefty absences from the ballot.
And the envelope please… Cinderella Man and Walk The Line. Two major biopics that were feel-good without being saccharine, strong without being smothering, honest without being preachy. Honorable Mention: The Constant Gardner, a political-preachy film that deserves to have a larger audience.
Director
Fact: Capote was truly a great film. Aside: not too sure if Bennett Miller deserves the nod. Replacement: Ron Howard. Cinderella Man is the film that should have brought him home the Oscar; not A Beautiful Mind.
I’m rooting for Clooney and Spielberg on this one. Steven for making Munich visually stunning; George for keeping Good Night, And Good Luck so beautifully simple.
Supporting Actor
The only category that I wouldn’t mind seeing Crash lose to this one as Paul Giamatti needs to win. One of the biggest crimes this century in Hollywood was not allowing this man to win for American Splendor or Sideways. Redemption needs to be made and justice meted out.
Absurdity at its best: William Hurt for A History Of Violence. If over-the-top buffoonery is to be awarded, then Bill Shatner and Christopher Walken need their Lifetime Achievement Awards.
And the envelope please… how’s this for a replacement? A little known B actor named Clifton Collins who truly gave life to the killer Perry Smith in Capote. Dare it be said that part of the excellence Philip S. Hoffman’s performance is due to this man.
Another suggestion. If Hurt is allowed a nomination, then where the hell is Jack Black’s for King Kong? Or Tim Robbins’ for War Of The Worlds? All kidding aside, how about Daniel Craig or Ciarán Hinds for Munich? And speaking of, where the hell was Eric Bana’s Actor nomination?!
Original Screenplay
Again, none better this year then Crash. The timeliness and poignantly political nature of both Good Night, And Good Luck and Syriana should both be commended, even though the slightly unstructured complexity of the latter was a bit of a downfall.
Although certainly not surprised by its absence, it’s my opinion that one of the most original thrillers of the year was The Skeleton Key, a film that really warrants higher exposure than it got.
Adapted Screenplay
Tough category this year, and, tons of absences. Three of the five were stellar picks: Capote, The Constant Gardner and Munich. A History Of Violence came as a little surprise, especially because the adaptation of the John Wagner/Vince Locke graphic novel could have been so much stronger. See the film first, then read the gn for the full and complete – and better - story.
And the envelope please… The Lion, The Witch And The Wardrobe, Walk The Line, Layer Cake, King Kong, Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy and Jarhead. Absentees each and every one with Narnia being the most grave loss.
Animated Feature
Difficult to believe and equally difficult to admit, but the Academy got it right with the nominations of Corpse Bride, Wallace & Gromit in The Case of the Were-Rabbit and Howl’s Moving Castle. Truly, may the best film win but not only was Wallace & Gromit the best Animated film, it was one of the year’s best in general as the cheese eater and his silent friend prove once again that their adventures are nothing but magical. The other two nominees are certainly worthy contenders. Miyazaki-san won the Oscar three or so years back for the phenomenal Spirited Away. Howl, not as visually or artistically compelling as Spirited Away or especially Princess Mononoke, still possesses a great charm. Same can be said for Burton’s Corpse Bride, whose animation style is as wonderfully unearthly as the film’s content. In Bride’s case, the film might not be award-worthy as Henry Selick, who directed Burton’s classic The Nightmare Before Christmas back in 1993, was not involved. For those missing Selick’s animation style, be sure to check out the underwater animation scenes from 2004’s The Life Aquatic With Steve Zissou.
Rant, cheer, groan, smile or complain, the simple – and yes, perhaps sad – truth of the matter is that after Sunday the traditional holler of, “Ride ‘em, cowboy!” is going to have a completely different connotation.
I’ll be cheering on Crash as well as Wallace & Gromit in hopes that entertainment and solid story-telling is still rewarded. See you on the Red Carpet.
As Always,
theJOE
28 February 2006
And Now The News...
Found a few interesting news items that deserve commenting:
From Movie & TV News @ IMDb:
Would Apple Buy Disney?
Rumor spread flood-like through the Internet over the weekend that Apple Computer might make an attempt to acquire the Walt Disney Co. The rumors were touched off by an item in Barron's. It noted that Apple now boasts a stock-market value of more than $60 billion - $10 billion more than Disney's, and that when Disney completes its acquisition of Pixar, Steve Jobs, who heads both Pixar and Apple, will become Disney's largest shareholder, with four times the stake of Michael Eisner and seven times that of Roy Disney. Several analysts forecast that Apple will soon develop a movie downloading service for its video iPods, which are expected to sport larger screens in their next evolution. "From an intellectual property standpoint, [an Apple-Disney merger] would be a match made in heaven," Washington D.C. intellectual-property attorney Alan Fisch said in the Barron's article.
Imagine that. Apple has always been regarded as a dark horse. And even though this little upstart of a computer company gets its sleek products and simple logo big-time movie and TV placements, it is still treated as "the other computer platform." iPods command more than 80% of the mp3 player market, but a vast majority of their owners hook up to iTunes through their PCs. Yet here they are, the company that started back in 1976 when the two Steves, Woz and Jobs, strung together a few circuit boards inside a wooden box to, essentially, create the Apple I, is now possibly taking over an industry giant.
Giant. Disney is oh-so much more than Snow White, The Lion King and a few amusement parks. They are ESPN. ABC. E!. Touchstone. A&E. Giant! And now they might be Apple.
Granted, the deal is hardly signed yet hence it is unknown what Apple's controlling stake would be, however, one only needs to look at the previous merger between AOL and another media giant, Time Warner. I believe the question more at hand is, what would this merger do for Apple? Will Apple Computers start to take their proper hold of a blind nation whose dependency on a second-rate operating system such as Windows is so grand it truly is mind-boggling? Will iMacs and G5s and PowerBooks start appearing more in homes and cubicles than on film? Imagine, a nation waking up one day realizing that the "other" operating system is actually the better one.
Dreams, perhaps, only dreams. But isn't Disneyland a place where your dreams can come true?
If you are interested in finding out more about Apple Computers and their beginnings, please check out a fine book called Apple Confidential 2.0 by Owen Linzmayer. Or you can always just buy an Apple computer.
From NHL on OLN
SHUT DOWN
Flyers captain Keith Primeau will sit out the rest of the regular season, nearly four months after sustaining another concussion. Primeau was injured Oct. 25 after taking a hit from Montreal's Alexander Perezhogin, the latest and most severe in a list of head injuries the center has sustained in a 15-year career. He had one goal and played in only nine games for the Flyers this season.
Not a surprise announcement, and definitely not a joyous one. After to coming to the Flyers from the Hurricanes in 1999, and the Red Wings before that, Primeau had a career best season in 2000-2001 scoring 34 times with 39 assists. After that season he began getting hurt more frequently leading to less and less ice time and points alike.
Still, he was the captain and to many fans signified all that was good, and especially all that was rough, for the Broad Street Bullies. Disappointing that the player who is captain no more will not return to the ice.
Surprisingly, Primeau did not announce his retirement. In doing so, the center would have freed up about $3M for the salary-cap strained Philadelphia team. A team that could use another solid player.
This year has shown the depth the team has had as injuries have abounded all season long, most particulary all-star Peter Forsberg, returning to Philadelphia with a gold medal, who has continuously been battling a pulled groin. The addition of Petr Nedved has certainly answered that call and has helped out Golden Simon Gagne work his way to being an NHL leader in goals. Now Handzus, Johnsson and Therien will all be on the injury report for indeterminate amounts of time.
Just past the Olympic break, every game until season's end is inter-conference. This includes four more games with hated rivals the New York Rangers, the team that sits three points above the Flyers. And for as well as Hitchcock's team is going, questions still remain. Can the Flyers remain strong with depth while still nursing injuries? Just how healthly is Forsberg right now? Why is Antero Niittymaki still the backup goalie? And Joey, do you like movies about gladiators?
One thing is certain. With 24 games left, there is still plenty of time to game on.
As Always,
theJOE
From Movie & TV News @ IMDb:
Would Apple Buy Disney?
Rumor spread flood-like through the Internet over the weekend that Apple Computer might make an attempt to acquire the Walt Disney Co. The rumors were touched off by an item in Barron's. It noted that Apple now boasts a stock-market value of more than $60 billion - $10 billion more than Disney's, and that when Disney completes its acquisition of Pixar, Steve Jobs, who heads both Pixar and Apple, will become Disney's largest shareholder, with four times the stake of Michael Eisner and seven times that of Roy Disney. Several analysts forecast that Apple will soon develop a movie downloading service for its video iPods, which are expected to sport larger screens in their next evolution. "From an intellectual property standpoint, [an Apple-Disney merger] would be a match made in heaven," Washington D.C. intellectual-property attorney Alan Fisch said in the Barron's article.
Imagine that. Apple has always been regarded as a dark horse. And even though this little upstart of a computer company gets its sleek products and simple logo big-time movie and TV placements, it is still treated as "the other computer platform." iPods command more than 80% of the mp3 player market, but a vast majority of their owners hook up to iTunes through their PCs. Yet here they are, the company that started back in 1976 when the two Steves, Woz and Jobs, strung together a few circuit boards inside a wooden box to, essentially, create the Apple I, is now possibly taking over an industry giant.
Giant. Disney is oh-so much more than Snow White, The Lion King and a few amusement parks. They are ESPN. ABC. E!. Touchstone. A&E. Giant! And now they might be Apple.
Granted, the deal is hardly signed yet hence it is unknown what Apple's controlling stake would be, however, one only needs to look at the previous merger between AOL and another media giant, Time Warner. I believe the question more at hand is, what would this merger do for Apple? Will Apple Computers start to take their proper hold of a blind nation whose dependency on a second-rate operating system such as Windows is so grand it truly is mind-boggling? Will iMacs and G5s and PowerBooks start appearing more in homes and cubicles than on film? Imagine, a nation waking up one day realizing that the "other" operating system is actually the better one.
Dreams, perhaps, only dreams. But isn't Disneyland a place where your dreams can come true?
If you are interested in finding out more about Apple Computers and their beginnings, please check out a fine book called Apple Confidential 2.0 by Owen Linzmayer. Or you can always just buy an Apple computer.
From NHL on OLN
SHUT DOWN
Flyers captain Keith Primeau will sit out the rest of the regular season, nearly four months after sustaining another concussion. Primeau was injured Oct. 25 after taking a hit from Montreal's Alexander Perezhogin, the latest and most severe in a list of head injuries the center has sustained in a 15-year career. He had one goal and played in only nine games for the Flyers this season.
Not a surprise announcement, and definitely not a joyous one. After to coming to the Flyers from the Hurricanes in 1999, and the Red Wings before that, Primeau had a career best season in 2000-2001 scoring 34 times with 39 assists. After that season he began getting hurt more frequently leading to less and less ice time and points alike.
Still, he was the captain and to many fans signified all that was good, and especially all that was rough, for the Broad Street Bullies. Disappointing that the player who is captain no more will not return to the ice.
Surprisingly, Primeau did not announce his retirement. In doing so, the center would have freed up about $3M for the salary-cap strained Philadelphia team. A team that could use another solid player.
This year has shown the depth the team has had as injuries have abounded all season long, most particulary all-star Peter Forsberg, returning to Philadelphia with a gold medal, who has continuously been battling a pulled groin. The addition of Petr Nedved has certainly answered that call and has helped out Golden Simon Gagne work his way to being an NHL leader in goals. Now Handzus, Johnsson and Therien will all be on the injury report for indeterminate amounts of time.
Just past the Olympic break, every game until season's end is inter-conference. This includes four more games with hated rivals the New York Rangers, the team that sits three points above the Flyers. And for as well as Hitchcock's team is going, questions still remain. Can the Flyers remain strong with depth while still nursing injuries? Just how healthly is Forsberg right now? Why is Antero Niittymaki still the backup goalie? And Joey, do you like movies about gladiators?
One thing is certain. With 24 games left, there is still plenty of time to game on.
As Always,
theJOE
25 February 2006
Romantic Appetizer Needed More Main Course Meat
Cameron Crowe is certainly no stranger to romantic movies, however, instead of opting out for the ridiculously cliché romantic comedy or an ultimately sappy one on the other end of the spectrum, Crowe simply makes his films real and relies on much of his own personal experiences. ELIZABETHTOWN falls perfectly into this category. But, unlike many of his past successes, ELIZABETHTOWN fails on several thematic fronts and, more so then any previous film, save for the mediocre SINGLES, appears as nothing else than an excuse to wrap a story around a killer soundtrack.
Orlando Bloom’s Drew and Kirsten Dunst’s Claire do share a great on-screen chemistry and their all-night talk session on the phone draws the audience into the beginning stages of their relationship; one that you hope to see succeed knowing full well that a happy ending is in store for all. Well, other than Drew’s dead dad, of course.
For Drew, his issues of failure and the conflicting desire to re-build versus the impending dark date with his own personal destiny are what drive the character. When first introduced, Drew’s mantra is, “I feel fine,” and even the most naïve of viewers are aware of the fact that he most certainly is not. During the course of the film, he is told by Claire to “let go.” Still later, the childhood ed flick featuring Rusty ends with the positive note of, “building a new house.” Both of these key moments are thematically ignored. The closest Drew ever comes to “letting go” is struggling over a cremation vs. burial issue. A new house is never built. Instead he discovers an old one filled with estranged family members and a rock-n-roll cousin he befriends.
Where the film succeeds is during the latter part of the final act when it becomes a road movie. Music and cinematography merge together as Drew discovers, and enjoys time with, his father. The solitude Crowe creates while listening to the likes of Tom Petty, Elton John and U2 capture those personal moments that relate oh-so well to real life.
ELIZABETHTOWN meets the requirements of good familial memories, the desire for new love and the quest for the open road but this particularly personal tale from Crowe is perhaps too introspective leaving the viewer with nothing more than montages of a Southern wake and cell phone call that totally used up all those "whenever" minutes. Drew becomes a good character to watch and enjoy. It is unfortunate that his story does not match up with the likes of Lloyd Dobler, William Miller or Jerry Maguire.
As Always,
theJOE
Orlando Bloom’s Drew and Kirsten Dunst’s Claire do share a great on-screen chemistry and their all-night talk session on the phone draws the audience into the beginning stages of their relationship; one that you hope to see succeed knowing full well that a happy ending is in store for all. Well, other than Drew’s dead dad, of course.
For Drew, his issues of failure and the conflicting desire to re-build versus the impending dark date with his own personal destiny are what drive the character. When first introduced, Drew’s mantra is, “I feel fine,” and even the most naïve of viewers are aware of the fact that he most certainly is not. During the course of the film, he is told by Claire to “let go.” Still later, the childhood ed flick featuring Rusty ends with the positive note of, “building a new house.” Both of these key moments are thematically ignored. The closest Drew ever comes to “letting go” is struggling over a cremation vs. burial issue. A new house is never built. Instead he discovers an old one filled with estranged family members and a rock-n-roll cousin he befriends.
Where the film succeeds is during the latter part of the final act when it becomes a road movie. Music and cinematography merge together as Drew discovers, and enjoys time with, his father. The solitude Crowe creates while listening to the likes of Tom Petty, Elton John and U2 capture those personal moments that relate oh-so well to real life.
ELIZABETHTOWN meets the requirements of good familial memories, the desire for new love and the quest for the open road but this particularly personal tale from Crowe is perhaps too introspective leaving the viewer with nothing more than montages of a Southern wake and cell phone call that totally used up all those "whenever" minutes. Drew becomes a good character to watch and enjoy. It is unfortunate that his story does not match up with the likes of Lloyd Dobler, William Miller or Jerry Maguire.
As Always,
theJOE
22 February 2006
Beginning with a touch of George Carlin
Let's start this whole blog thing off right...
In the vein of George Carlin, here's something I can do without:
Songs that sound like there's a party going on in the recording studio where everyone is singing and clapping along with the band. They just need to shut up.
As Always,
theJOE
In the vein of George Carlin, here's something I can do without:
Songs that sound like there's a party going on in the recording studio where everyone is singing and clapping along with the band. They just need to shut up.
As Always,
theJOE
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