RIORI Presents Installment #210: George Tilman, Jr’s “The Hate U Give” (2019)

The Film…

The Players…

Amandala Stenberg, Regina Hall, Russell Hornsby, Lamar Johnson, Issa Rae and Algee Smith, with KJ Apa, Sabrina Carpenter, Marcia Wright, Lonnie “Common” Lynn and Anthony Mackie.

The Plot…

Starr lives in a lower-income black neighborhood, but she attends a largely white prep school. Torn between two worlds she knows how to keep her balance, even if the center may not hold.

Then the tipping point hits home. Starr becomes a witness to her childhood friend shot to death by a white police officer. Starr now finds herself bound between those two worlds as she tries to do the right thing regardless of her upbringing, her neighborhood, her education…her family, who always taught her to follow her gut.

But thanks to the ensuing media circus surrounding the shooting Starr’s guts are totally wrenched.

The Rant…

Here’s a serious question, and if you gauge it even-minded you know I ain’t fooling: Ever been harassed by the cops?

I mean cops. Not police officers. I respect those guys. Follow the difference. Police officers try to maintain law and order (kinda like that TV franchise), serve the community at large and occasionally hunt down the bad guys at large, too. Growing up we got to know the local officers on a friendly basis. They would tool around on patrol in our neck of the woods—which was usually a quiet beat—and would chat up the neighbors. They were as threatening as our local mail carrier, and he carried pepper spray. Simply put, I never panicked when that prowler was cruising down my street. Why? I wasn’t doing anything wrong so those guys didn’t give a f*ck about me. I was too young to rob a bank. I was too young to have a bank account.

On the other hand cops are f*cking bullies. Throwing their weight around, looking down on civvies with their whining, thumbs always hitched on their gun belt, and usually—but not always—reflecting the stereotype that they are registered at the local Dunkin’ Donuts. The police don’t harass you; they wanna fix the situation quick and be out of your hair. There are crack dealers hovering around the high school. But cops

Again I hate bullies. I mean I really f*cking hate bullies. Had to deal with many over the years. When the police see fit to hire these men-children who excelled at scoring illicit lunch money in high school and then give them access to firearms and souped-up squad cars with blinding spotlights that when they hit your face there is no way to not look under the influence of something. Makes one wonder: What did I do? It’s usually fear that wafts off your nervous face, even if you’re white. Or black. Or Martian.

Here’s a simple metric trending how one should and should not be considered as an officer of the law:

Q: “Why do you want to join the Force?”

Correct A: “I want to serve the community, uphold the law and keep the peace.”

Incorrect A: “I want a gun.”

You follow?

Here’s a story. My kid has issues. Forget that, she has the lifetime subscription. Teenage anxiety disorder on Red Bull. She sometimes lashes out and gets impetuous for no real reason. On more than one occasion she had called the cops on me because she did not like how I disciplined her, like when I caught her hacking into my PayPal account. The outcome was no more PayPal and I reset my account. Never raised a hand. When the sh*t went down, either theft or hiding crappy grades, in her mind panic felt it proper to call on the local authorities to settle the matter. I grew to dislike being on a first name basis with the local colonial police officer as first responder and offering up coffee. Again.

The final time this circus act happened the familiar officer had a ride along. He was a rookie; the officer told me so. Told you I was on a casual basis with man. His newb  was all hale and hearty and nervous and full of Boston Cremes. First night out according to the officer, very green. Over many months I got to know the officer. He was police, said little, by the book and f*cking tired of visiting my house for the same bullsh*t. Freshen your mug? Nah. The man probably felt like leaving to go sweat some actual perp.

His ride along could not but help follow the rulebook, and even the rulebook had creases. He demanded info, but wouldn’t let me speak. The officer warned me about his hungry attitude prior while we chatted and ignored coffee in the kitchen. Oh boy. The newb was pandering, condescending and husky. Nothing I did not say swayed his imperious conduct. My kid was sniffling in the next room and the cop sweated her, insisting she went to the hospital. He was 25, over 6 feet tall and could not keep his thumb off his sidearm. The kid was 10 and rubbing her eyes. You figure it out.

Needless to say the trip to the ER was brief. The consequences of her small potatoes crime had set in and she wanted to go back home. The cop was having none of it, and blamed me for putting her in the hospital. Did I mention the cop put the idea in her mind and drive her to the ER himself? In a prowler? I followed close behind. Once at the ER the officer just shrugged because the cop wasn’t technically out of line, but when my kid insisted on wanting to go back home and the cop would not let up. His superior had had enough. He was tired and frustrated to have to “follow the book.” The kid wants to go home. Not in our jurisdiction. Good night. We went home. In my car. No more Hello Kitty accessories anymore. Too bad, so sad.

There’s a funny coda to all that melodrama. My mom lives in a sorta subdivision, populated by old farm homes in a pocket neighborhood. There once was a bridge that connected the drive to the main street, and also a right-of-way leading out the back. The bridge was condemned, therefore there was now only one way in and out of the neighborhood. Only a single thoroughfare, which was admittedly inconvenient.

For a time there was a police car stationed near the intersection that led into the neighborhood. You see, the road was once used as a shortcut for people to get to the main road quicker, which was illegal because the right-of-way was to be used exclusively by emergency vehicles and the residents in the neighborhood. Lots of drivers sped like the all the demons in Hell were chasing them. My mother believes in the Golden Rule and is a very cautious driver. Me too because, you know, cops.

The cop pulled my mom over. She was not speeding. She followed the rules of the road. She did not have to hear the siren go whoop-whoop. My mom pulled over just shy of the right-of-way as the squad car creeped up behind. The cop squeezed his way out of his ride and started flipping that clip book stalking up to her car with all the drama of molasses dripping from a jar in January.

It was the same cop! The newbie. Mr Krispy Creme. He tried to cite my mom on trespassing. Again, there was that very obvious sign at the entry to the right of way saying it was not a through street, and only residents and emergency vehicles were permitted. It was clear as day on the sign. My mom mentioned to the cop that she recognized him (from his visit weeks earlier, natch) and he knew where she damned well lived.

“What? Do you want to read the address on my license?”

Face was lost, and my mom was free to go. She later called the colonial police to complain. What I just wrote was pretty much verbatim. Smelled like the rookie was trying to dole out tickets, not enforce what the sign said. Again cops are f*cking bullies, and there’s that thin blue line to consider.

What’s that you say? What blue line? I’ll tell ya. Back in the day that expression mean that the police were the first defense against crime and civil unrest. Fine. Nowadays the phrase is akin to “don’t ask, don’t tell.” What happens in the precinct stays in the precinct. For a good examination of this philosophy check out Pacino’s turn in the biopic Serpico. Fifty years on the film still resonates and perhaps explain why cops—white cops in particular—are quick to put holes into non-whites. For a reference contact Daryl Gates. Moving on.

The history of our modern police force is a tricky one. The concept did not originate with the precept of upholding the law. No. Hate to break this to you, but in an early iteration police officers were assigned to capture and punish runaway slaves back in the bad old days of the Civil War. Upholding the “law” to be sure, but the motive was wrong and the end result was wrong, even by 21st Century standards. Or 20th. Or 18th. Legalized bullying.

It was antebellum South. During the Colonial days the proto-policemen were more of less just glorified night watchmen. Think mall security. In the South the Confederate cops were bounty hunters, paid to hunt down runaways. Key word: hunt. These “lawmen” were not driven to serve and protect. There were recently liberated n*ggers on the run and needed to be brought to “justice.” Some things never change according to the nightly news. Consider this and compare:

An old school North Carolina police badge (ca 1860s):


A modern police badge (no disrespect to Illinois PD):

How far we’ve come. Yeah, it’s just a shape. But so is a swastika. No, I’m not saying cops are Nazis. Of course not. However why wear your proverbial heart on your sleeve like above? If a modern badge represents law and order, then why do so many cops ignore that precept? Consider the matter of the Trayvon Martin’s murder or George Floyd’s been strangled to death. If you have been watching the news as of…forever, cops tend to panic and mow down black and brown people at an alarming rate. And nothing is done to correct it. Even Derek Chauvin—known to abuse his badge—got off lucky for killing Floyd (and he might definitely get shanked while in stir). But what about the multiple school shootings that have plagued this nation for over a decade? Most caught are white and go under analysis. These demons killed kids and as punishment they get hugs. If it was a black guy who aimed the rifle he would be hanged. Lynched.

There is a kind of precedent here. I was alive in the early 90s, and was witness to the Rodney King trial on the major news networks.  For the uninformed, King was driving drunk on LA’s I-210. The cops pulled him over, dragged him out of his car and proceeded to beat the pulp out him. All four of them. And they walked, despite the whole tragedy being caught on video. It was understood that King was mixed up with drug dealing, and so was Floyd. Did they need to be beaten and killed for it? No  duh. Then was the undoing for the notorious “command presence” of the LAPD, and the bigoted chief of police Daryl Gates threw up his hands in frustration and let the n*ggers run riot, which is what they did. Again, no duh. The biggest, nastiest mob mentality since the Watts riots in the 60s. All because the bullies—the cops—got off with a slap on the wrist. If that.

A final scenario for you who have yet to discern the difference between police officers and cops. Say you got pulled over for speeding, and all too common moving violation. I don’t know about you, but whenever I pulled over all the nasty, though irrelevant, misdeeds run through my mind. What else could I be stung with? That’s nuts, but you may have committed a crime and the officer has your driving record as well as a sidearm. More times than not you sweat.

When the officer strolls up to your overtaxed car there are two scenarios that could go down. One conducted by the police and one from a cop. One never happens but should as the law looms at your drivers’ side door. Read:

“Hello. I pulled you over because I clocked you at going 80 in a 50 mile an hour zone.” Then comes some panicky haggling from the motorist. “I hear you. May I see your license and registration, please? Thanks.”

That would be in a perfect and just world. Here’s the common reality:

“Do you know how fast you were going?”

Kinda passive aggressive right? Like there’s no correct answer, especially at the end of the month. Do not talk, do not argue and be slow opening that glovebox, all the while a thumb on the weapon. F*cking cops. This sh*t is an everyday thing for folks, getting pulled over and automatically struck with fear. You know why you got pulled over, but what if this scary cop has access to all the naughty things you’ve got away with thus far? Boosting CDs from the local Best Buy. Dine and dash. Cheating on your significant other. But that’s neither here nor now, just a speeding ticket. Maybe later on the nod and plow into a church group. Somehow scoring a street legal assault rifle means to ventilate a bunch of kids. Or demolish the Oklahoma Federal Building on a lark. Forget all that. For now you got off lucky; just a speeding ticket.

But what if you were black? And with that star shining—glaring—at you…?

The Story…

Garden Heights is not the place to live. Unless you grew up there like Starr (Stenberg) has, from her formative years to now.

Place has unfairly gotten a bad rap, even by her parents’ standards. Starr’s mom Lisa (Hall) insisted she gets the finest education possible. This means enrollment at Williamson Prep, the best private school in town. Or rather across town, across the tracks and Starr is their only black student.  She’s stuck between worlds.

The Heights is where Starr can be herself. Everyone is a neighbor and the neighborhood’s flaws make it family. A dysfunctional family, mind you. Such a reminder comes to Starr when she goes to a local house party and runs into her old bestie, Khalil (Smith), fellow Harry Potter fan and one-time crush. When gunshots ring out she and Khalil make a break for it, driving away as if all the demons from Hell were chasing them.

Bad move. Chasing all right. The high speed escape catches the notice of a local black & white, with an emphasis on the white part. The two are pulled over, and well…

Khalil’s funeral causes a media circus. With Starr as the key witness in Khalil’s murder she’s forced to chose sides. Garden Heights or Williamson?

Perhaps neither…?

The Breakdown…

I often thought that 2Pac was a misunderstood artist. Like he was more what his fans thought rather than who he was. His brash, outspoken image tempered with intellectual leanings entranced and confused rap fans of all stripes. I found his lyrics to be very literate, which was not the flavor in Columbus. But he sold, and was the second hip-hop performer to reign with a white fanbase as well as secured in black culture. Before that? Run-DMC. I may be a fossil, and this may be lame street cred, but I do enjoy some solid hip-hop to this day that no doubt influenced Shakur. I was a still a pup back in the 80s when rap became a legit music genre. I grew up with Run and crew, Kurtis Blow, GrandMaster Flash, the Beastie Boys, LL Cool J, Salt ‘N’ Pepa, Public Enemy and all those folks. In the 90s there was Gang Starr, Tribe, Dre, Biggie, Coolio and 2Pac, natch. Cut me some slack, I was a white kid from the suburbs. Daily Operation is still the best East Coast album from the early 90s. DJ Premier utilized jazz samples exclusively, so there. I am a hip-hop nerd.

*silence, crickets*

See you in the comments section.

What led to Tupac’s undoing I feel that despite how smart, cagey and literate he was—both in art and attitude—he eventually began to believe his own press. It became Thug Life rather than THUGLIFE, and some fabricated media stunt about a rivalry between Biggie from the East Coast and Shakur from the West. That sham was perpetrated from the boys in the basement to up record sales. I blame the true thug Suge Knight behind the artifice, and he only got jail time, again, for his back alley scheming. To quote Chris Rock: “Biggie wasn’t assassinated. Tupac wasn’t assassinated. Those n*ggas got shot.” Dead as doornails, which was then most folks caught on the the chicanery. I mean why would Shakur hang out with gangstas? Such an image betrayed his whole muse. Nobody is weak to their own fame, no matter what happens. It’s a shame he had to be shot and killed because of that. Being used for being brash.

However being brash back in the day was essential to the nascent hip-hop scene; gotta get noticed somehow in this vanilla, dollar burning economy. A rap artist who told it like is as well as the Last Poets did back in the 70’s, however in the 90’s is was novelty. Social commentary was always inherent in rap, but it wasn’t until Tupac that the fusion of street poetry with actual poetry in the rhymes became legit. Sure, other artists were slamming their fists against the white establishment, but the likes of NWA, Public Enemy or even Arrested Development were far less subtle in delivering the word. Those artists were more akin to Gil Scott-Heron than Langston Hughes.

Like Tupac’s rhymes THUG delivers the word in a uniquely literate manner. It wasn’t just because the plot was adapted from Angie Thomas’ award-winning novel of the same name, but the cinematic version flows like reading a novel. And I never read it. To be sure (beyond this installment) the book garnered a lot of attention. More than one would expect from a YA novel. And true to form: you wanna to get a book read? Ban it. No cap. Tell everyone. Even better? Adapt it to streaming or cinema. Thomas’ novel earned many accolades across the board, and within the context of film it shows.

No surprise THUG is a character drama, and we have quite a few characters at work. I was duly impressed with Stenberg as Starr. She carried herself very well and very pro. Really well. I was not aware she started her career in earnest with The Hunger Games franchise. I’m not terribly familiar with the series, books or otherwise. What I do know about Suzanne Collins’ dystopian flavor on YA novels is that the cast is vast and wide, both in print and on screen. If the Carnegie Medal, Coretta Scott King Book Award and Edgar Award doesn’t justify the The Hate U Give‘s publication, then I don’t know what more could coax Hollywood to commit print to screen. Makes me wanna actually read the dang thing.

Anyway, back to that whole character drama thing. Yes, Stenberg shined, but the juxtaposition she was cast in reminded me of the rampant woke community. I mean, duh. Y’all just figured out people of color have been marginalized for centuries? Now you want to take up the flag cuz you just figured out (minus including those who were ostensibly outcasts in our society? Shoosh). I saw Starr as passing in reverse, and doing so as casually as she could. Consider Tiger Woods back in the day. Or even Obama. “Passing” was a risky thing hundreds of years back, as well as rather odious. The term stems from when a black person had a fair enough complexion to “pass” for white, and entitled to all the luxuries/opportunities that came into view. Stenberg’s Starr didn’t pass in the traditional sense. She was well aware of her standing at Williamson, and minded her grades and her trade. Her classmates regarded her as a novelty, waiting for her to go full ghetto. All in woken fun you see? Hell, even the lighting goes from shrill as school to warm back home. Subtle, but demanding.

Despite the narration, Starr stood staunchly between two worlds. Stenberg was confident without being uppity. Thoughtful of her place within and without school, and even Garden Heights. She was always quick on her heels to say what needed to be said at a given moment. She must’ve felt personally responsible as to what tragically happened to Khalil, her once best bud. Stenberg was passing in reverse, did a good job, and that was a shame since such crap happens all the time to what the woke crowd would deem degrading. Starr was perceived as an “Oreo” and her shrinking violet schtick was just an act. Passing.

But THUG also presented—if not demanded—a sharp supporting cast. It was a rogue’s gallery of sorts. It’s always lurking in the periphery for a character drama. What was great about this time out is that the traditional stereotypes were blurred for our story. Despite what I made a stink about above there is social relevance here. Again, duh, but not cookie cutter. Starr’s story of self-reliance and integrity was ably fleshed out by a really smart and sometimes subtle supporting cast. Smart as in shrewd. The supporting cast were smartly chosen as to illustrate the usual archetypes of growing up black in a downtrodden neighborhood without being mawkish.

Ex-con Mav tries hard to be a good dad, and he is. Paid his dues and is now a pillar of the community. Lisa is a caring and dedicated mom and wife. Lost, learned, loved and keeps on loving knowing full well every good moment is transient and what she could’ve lost again every day. Khalil was not the star anything (and may have gotten into some bad business), except be a good Joe who still cared for his childhood friend, Starr. Not a lot of “Good Joes” in movies like this; closest I can recall is Ricky from Boyz N The Hood, and even he was kinda smarmy. All points covered in what could’ve been a moribund take on life in the ghetto. Even if there was no ghetto. Garden Heights was tableau as a black Mayberry; this is how we are. It could be anywhere, which is why it resonated so well. This sh*t could happen to you. All of us.

Hold on for a bit for another thing, but later. We’ve read a lot of other things here, but later is for a bit later. Hold on and anyway.

I must get to the diamond in the rough, Anthony Mackie. He’s become one of my favorite and reliable character actors. He slides into any role either as a warm hero or an icy villain with equal aplomb. Sure, most MCU fans recognize him as the erstwhile social worker cum Avenger Sam Wilson (AKA: The Falcon), streetwise, driven and palling with Captain America (he was also the first black superhero to get his own ongoing comic book series. No cap and no Cap). His Mr Hyde roles are best illustrated here as well as his role in Half-Nelson, a warm thug with a heart of coal. Conniving, dangerous and is convinced the world owes him many favors. Despite how sinister his gang lord King is here he’s still relatable. We all know a schemer in our lives, but never one who’d be sympathetic to. In sum, Mackie was a badass antagonist, always quietly stirring the pot. Slick.

Overall, THUG hit like a play. I know it was based on a book, but that is not the same as a play. For those million years in high school English once you’ve read enough Shakespeare once you see it live there’s no turning back. THUG was staged with very choice breaks to let the drama leap into the next act, like Garden Heights against the world of Williamson and back again to Starr’s boisterous home. Pacing was smooth and crucial to how this drama-of-errors played out, and we know how I take to pacing. In fact, despite the rough story THUG was a very smooth, cool, thoughtful film. Made you think, but not upside the head with some brickbat.

Hey, wait a moment. There’s that other thing though, but later. We’ve read a lot of other things here, but later is for a bit later. Hold on. It’s not what you call me—

Like Top Gun: Maverick a lot could have—should have—gone ridiculously wrong. Perhaps a PG-13 version of Menace To Society starring a sepia-toned female with no access to being strapped. Not here. THUG was a coming of age story (a label I hate), but the whole mess of high school antagonism paired against police…cop brutality fares far from the suburbs. There’s familiarity at work. Unless you’ve been up on the news, and most of those victims were white aimed at by another disenfranchised white boy. It’s all enough to be both a learning experience and a better reason to call in sick and hide in your closet. THUG had this omnipresent feel of being sheltered. Despite the film’s “open world” execution through Starr, we as the audience understood the need of a dashboard. We should also cringe, but not out of social status. We acknowledge the pudge and the belt. And deaf ears.

Finally and thanks for holding on. Being addressed as African-American is still a label. It’s not what you call me, but what I answer to. Like Chris Rock exclaimed, “Run! The media is there!” Black Americans are black; most have long since settled for that moniker despite a very large contingency did not come from Africa and emigrated from the Caribbean to America in search of a better job. A good chunk of our darkies never knew Africa. Despite what the safe newscasters use as African-American. Ignoring a very large, black community that are now dubbed African-American by the PC white media figures. Such a pandering, blah label to address at least 1/4 of the US (who in the past built the f*cking US) is insulting. Kinda like how Starr had to balance both sides. I do not know a single black person who uses that epithet. A old co-worker friend of mine told me his folks hailed from the Dominican Republic, and he was just him. Labels are just labels, and don’t define you. Neither do badges.

To paraphrase Kurt Vonnegut for the woke crowd: “All your protests are nothing but banana cream pies.”

The Verdict…

Rent it or relent it? Rent it. For once we have a movie like this that isn’t preachy. My breakdown was more preachy, and not nearly as well-staged. A very smart film.

The Musings…

  • “Neither version of me.”
  • K: Was that a gun? Yes. Yes it was 🙁
  • “We know this is hard right now.” “Do you?”
  • K: Trauma. It’s one of the worst words.
  • “I didn’t name you Starr for nothing.”
  • All those mixed looks at the funeral reception. It was a tad on the nose.
  • K: You can’t blame yourself for what you can’t control. Word.
  • “Being black is an honor.” Being white is trite.
  • Daddy?!?
  • What was all about the shoes? Was it about walk a mile in mine?
  • “Duh?”
  • The white hoodie.
  • I can’t breathe. A full year before.
  • “Where you live doesn’t define who you are.”

The Next Time…

Wow. Jim Carrey must’ve been really vying for The Majestic Academy Award for acting in this role. Let’s let him show us something, please?


RIORI Presents Installment #208: Michael Mann’s “Collateral” (2004)

The Film…

The Players…

Jamie Foxx, Tom Cruise, Jada Pinkett-Smith, Mark Ruffalo, Peter Berg and Bruce McGill.

The Plot…

Cabbie Max picks up Vincent, a man who offers him a big fare simply to drive around LA. The promise of easy money sours when Max realizes that Vincent is a hitman. Max is no negotiator, but now it’s either just  to “go along with it,” or keep Vincent’s bounties off the back of a milk carton.

Buckle up.

The Rant…

The other day I got to bored at work, Happens to the best of us. I fell upon one of the myriad lists on eBaum’s World. The subject? “25 Awesome Jobs That Actually Suck.” The list was kinda revelatory, and not just because I had a few of them back in the day. I could relate. Some of the gigs I read were chef, radio personality, journalist, musician and teacher. All vital prospects in the employment field and only vital if you can with comfort scream every dang say, “Thank you, Sir! May I have another!?!”

A lot of that eBaum list was bunk; they were the worst of the worst, and totally subjective. The throughput was how stressful those professions felt. Namely, the effort put in was not worth it. For example I spent 15 of my nine lives working in kitchens, and only half I regret using minus sick days (cuz I didn’t have none). I did my radio thing for 5 years, and believe you me (if you saw the Josie And The Pussycats installment) it’s hard to be natural on air with the ghost of the FCC breathing over your shoulder. I freelanced for about that long, and learned fast to never, ever do punch up. If the reporting wasn’t relevant let alone honest covering the story, into the circular file your scribblings went. I played sax and drums for fun since the first Bush was in office in high school, and later college, and even later grad school. Worked with some very cool and encouraging music heads as well as a decidedly dumb punk group in college. I played drums like a sober Bonzo. Just to make noise and have fun. Risky pre-Spotify, but who else cared beyond the basement? No one, and only the most dedicated axe-slinger might see being signed. Such a prospect/pie in the sky may suck the fun out of performing after a time. You know, when it comes an actual job.

Sub teaching was a zoo. Enough said. Moving along.

Many rackets on that list seemed real cool, albeit in a bell hooks kinda way; your soul ground into dust for maybe an eventual, crossed fingers reward. The stress factor was against the promise of the brass ring, I was surprised soldier didn’t make the list, despite being the third most stressful job in America. The first and second are air traffic controller and teacher, respectively. Can’t really argue there, then again those were stats probably assessed by some nosy think tank trying to crack some code. To what end I don’t get. All jobs are stressful. The severity is based on the workload. Like the seemingly insurmountable piles of work adhering to persnickety rules of the FCC. Maintaining order from chaos and still managed to serve a fine plate hewn from more profanity than an early 90s Andrew ‘Dice’ Clay concert. Adding filler to boring stories to make the very boring just somewhat boring, and the shredder always loomed.

Boo. Hiss. Business as usual. Frustrating and, yes, stressy.

In my endgame I found eBaum’s list for lacking. So I posted on Quora (what I deem to be the NPR of threads) and gathered some more intel from average Joes and Janes for some frank answers about work politics. Barring stats I uncovered some truths I couldn’t argue with. Combat soldiers were indeed there, as well as surgeons, cops, lawyers, even game developers topped as stressful and somewhat not quite cool. I had a few suggestions, but kept it shrewd. Asked about people who were in the Secret Service. Protect the President and ward off counterfeiting? Well, they are part of the Treasury. Mail carriers, thanks to the pandemic stop by every home on their route, mostly naked to COVID (or angry dogs, or angry humans) and can’t swerve according the whole “Neither snow nor rain…”. Test pilots. Trash collectors. Truck drivers. A lot of gigs requiring travel, since getting there is half the fun and always a stressful matter. Ever lose luggage? We’ve all had to get somewhere else at sometime or another, often at the mercy of a pilot, bus driver or Lyft.

Or via taxi, the black sheep of public transportation.

I found myself trolling the Net to get some dope on being a cabbie in relation to this week’s installment. Me stumbling onto eBaum’s list was just serendipity, but thanks to the folks on Quora I got something of sorta objective opinions. Other victims of work related stress—to my surprise—were pro athletes, actors, and folks in advertising. They were never on my radar, but neither were cabbies, Many threads spoke about people in public transportation in general. Cabbies in specific.

One of my fave films is Scorsese’s Taxi Driver (the ultimate “And you think you’re having a bad day?” movie). The scenarist Paul Schrader made a point claiming that in the big city who is more invisible than a cab driver? Taxis are ubiquitous in  NYC, Philadelphia (where SEPTA is notoriously unreliable. I speak from experience) and especially in LA where when 5 people go out to dinner they take 6 cars. Cabs are everywhere and nowhere in LA; you could hop from hood to hood and never touch the street (again, experience) since the driver is no more than an afterthought. The cab is just a door and unload whenever. Where you headed? Just like Ishmael, soon forgotten. Keep the change.

Like poor Travis Bickle, his story is that he’s just there to drive, clean up fluids and be forgotten. Cabbies must see a lot of sh*t on their routes. Learn a lot, too. Hell, the volume of drunks barfing their spleens out on a nightly basis in the back seat must scream the sorry state of our species. Must be like an abused child who can’t defend themselves, not if it might mean a good tip. Sounds like being a cabbie is worse than being ignored. It’s worse for being needed by no one and everyone. Invisible/

I wasn’t kidding when the planets aligned on eBaum’s, Quora and Collateral. What I gleaned from the AllMovie review Collateral was a flick about a cabbie taken hostage by a hitman. It ostensibly starred Tom Cruise, but the pinion on which the story hung was about a hapless cabbie played by Jamie Foxx. After watching Collateral, the story was a crucible about how a overextended cab driver could see too much and not but help but accept his circumstance. Dang, talk about stressful.

Where to…?

The Story…

Like Missing Persons sang, “Nobody walks in LA.”

Cab driver Max (Foxx) only got his hack license to supplement his prospective as real estate agent. Something legit, securing luxurious timeshares for the ultra-rich in the tropics. Of course. That is a pipe dream, and he’s had this part-time gig for over a decade. Ah, well. Pays the bills.

One evening Max picks up a curious fare. Curious because the passenger does not strike him as a person who takes cabs. He says is name is Vincent (Cruise) and offers Max a fat wad of $600 just to have him tool around LA. No direct destination, just to go where Vincent says. No questions asked.

Six hundred bucks for a ride! Max is no fool. Okay, Vince! Where you headed?

Vincent’s next mark. Turns out he’s a professional assassin, and has some work here and there around the City of Angels. A bit of business to finish. Vince is a kind of a philosopher king, quick to share his calmly and clinically relayed to Max under now dire circumstances. Vince isn’t a bad guy, just a businessman, and so what if his business is killing. It’s not him, it’s his assignment. Now Max is Vincent’s driver, and that is the primary concern.

Max is just along for the ride…

The Review…

Michael Mann is a curiosity amongst directors. He fancies himself an intellectual and a voice for characters are always against all odds. He is also an architect, and although he’d probably deny it is more of an engineer than auteur. I’d bet he’d scoff at auteur theory as I do. Said theory claims that the director is the author of the film, which is utter nonsense. If you ever sat back after watching a movie there’s this very, very long list of people that made what you just enjoyed happen. It’s called the closing credits for a reason. I also like to think that Mann would agree with that sentiment; the director is only one of many, despite putting the final stamp on the film. Be it an intellectual property right, always attempting to respond to those existential traits that make us human, or just build a foundation from a solid story. François Truffaut he ain’t, and whew.

Mann’s muse is finality. His signature on the bottom line.

Abruptly switching tacks prolific sci-fi and comics writer Peter David put it best to wreck the whole auteur conceit. He once commented in his column in the Comics Buyer’s Guide that (paraphrasing here) if auteur theory was real then at the end of the opening credits we’d read directed by this guy and written by that guy in a single frame. My point? I agree with David, but from what I’ve seen of Mann’s output he couldn’t possibly give two sh*ts either way. The man is an engineer, and his sharp angles leave no room for hand holding or Hallmark Channel sentimentality. As far as Mann’s motivation goes I’ll quote the opening line from Douglas Fairbairn’s notable 70s novel Shoot: “This is what happened.”

That is what I’ve always found refreshing about Mann’s work. No frills, no filler, no hugs, no bullsh*t. Just raw story. This is what happened.

I first got hip to Mann’s work with his 80s TV work, Miami Vice and Crime Story. Look, I know I was barely out of Pampers when these series aired, but even as a Nintendo-addled whelp I found Mann’s deliberate and methodical use of characters compelling (as far as a 10-year old can figure. He made me a fan of Dennis Farina, too). If you can recall the pilot episode of Miami Vice, when our pair of MTV cops Crockett and Tubbs are en route to settle a score of revenge and cocaine trafficking. Our two leads are on the road, silent and dour with Phil Collins’ arresting, but melancholy song “In The Air Tonight.” Neither Crockett of Tubbs appear rigid with anxiety and/or stress. Nope. Mann just has the two leads stare dead ahead, framed in the confines of the car. I found that neat. A pretty good way to sum up where Mann points the camera.  This is what’s happening. Deliberate.

Now. One of my fave films to watch when I don’t know what to watch I go to Mann’s Manhunter. The often forgotten prequel to The Silence Of The Lambs. Unlike the stylish take Jonathan Demme made with the 1991 movie—examining what sanity is supposed to be—Mann’s movie is a mostly straightforward crime procedural smothered in PTSD. Clarice was trying to find her legs in Lambs. In Manhunter semi-retired FBI profiler Will Graham—portrayed by a very haunted William L Petersen—is just trying to learn how to walk again. He was the agent who caught Hannibal Lecter. It left scars, metaphorically and literally. Where Demme’s direction of Sir Anthony Hopkins portrayed him as both elegant and brutal (think The Curious Case Of Dr Jeckyll And Mr Hyde), Mann’s Lecter was portrayed by venerable character actor Brian Cox, and he was f*cking pissed that Graham nabbed him. When Will sweats Lecter for some insight about catching a new killer Cox is far less accommodating than Hopkins was. Staging again. Graham was in the same cage as Lecter, also metaphorically and literally. Petersen’s thousand mile stares speak volumes on how Mann applies the pressure of finality in his work.

There’s a reason why heavy-hitter Tom Cruise didn’t get top billing in the Players section. It’s simple: he was not the lead. Last time that happened I think was back in the 80s with his role in Rain Man. Dustin Hoffman was the “star” (and nabbed the Oscar), but Cruise carried the film. Supporting all the way. Did a damn good job, too, as well his support for the same reason. Thanks to Tom’s aloof performance Collateral was Foxx’s movie. I learned that taxi drivers are invisible in the grand scheme of cities, but they also hold the infrastructure sh*t together. Like urban cabbies Foxx was a supporting actor, but Collateral was his show all the way. It’s amazing how far the guy has come. More on that later.

It’s been suggested that Collateral was neo-noir, but what the heck does that mean? Well, back in the day there was this sub-genre of the whodunnit called film noir. Such films took their cue from the “hard boiled” style of a crime novels. Dash Hammet, James Cain, Raymond Chandler and others. Stories about anti-hero detectives slumming it to solve cases no one in proper society would give a sh*t about. Always shot in black-and-white. Consider the real-life, still unsolved rape and murder of The Black Dahlia. Film noir was a gritty but still stylish film production using light again shadow casting a murky atmosphere over a mystery movie. Classics like Double Indemnity, The Third Man and The Big Sleep are prime examples. The genre collapsed when Technicolor became the norm, or rather evolved. Maybe. Not sure, wasn’t there.

The aesthetic didn’t die with the dawn of color however. The sensibility remained, and thanks to color films of hard-boiled, mean street stories of urban decay found a broader palette, so to speak. Consider the harrowing Scorsese trio of Mean Streets, Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore and Taxi Driver. In a similar vein Collateral proved that the formula is still alive and kicking. Film noir was all about atmosphere, and the neo-noir of films like Collateral are hours that stretch; the atmosphere isn’t as punchy like its parent genre. Instead we have sprawling and somewhat lugubrious movies. K’s acumen and casual comments set a stage. She offhand said she liked the cityscape of LA at twilight. Looked like it was remastered, and how was it mapped out? Keen. Like I said film noir may be dead, but neo-noir still crawls. The city in color glitters. Alluring, but seldom golden. Again atmosphere is paramount; the cold, hard, well-lit downtown LA is accidentally pretty, but every silver lining has a cloud. K is a cinema savant. She caught the vibe neo-noir before I did with Collateral. I know she has never had any notion about what neo-noir was let alone film noir. My partner in blogging crime catches things I miss. What I’m getting at is that an outside opinion can be more informative that what you see. When I am so very concentrated in watching these flicks. I miss stuff. She who doesn’t watch too hard says, “Hey. What was that?” Well, that and she is a total Cruise fangirl and almost bludgeoned me for having missed Top Gun: Maverick on opening night.


Consider, if you will, Poe’s poem The Raven. His most famous work is not “punchy.” It creeps and crawls, unfolding dread at every verse. The atmosphere stretches so and draws you into the poet’s inner turmoil, and f*ck dear Lenore. That was a loss leader, so the narrator is wracked with ennui. Loss and losing (somewhat akin to Max’s beloved REDACTED). Poe was keen with his exposing the nastiness people may resort to justifying a questionable means to a usually scurrilous end. Or deny if it ever was worth it; regarding Poe as Vincent our doomed poet who very invested in revenge. Looking at Collateral through the lens of Poe Mr Allan might just have been a fountainhead from which noir scenarists took some hints, or maybe Chandler et al. After viewing Collateral I took away something smacking of The Raven‘s portent. Max’s predicament may be for nevermore, or for Vincent either. The way that night’s fare rolls out sh*t’s gonna collapse. The center will not hold. Nevermore. Did I mention how dark all this was, regardless of LA’s twilight sparkle?


Being observant is crucial with neo-noir mysteries since their pacing is so deliberate. Such observations help with films like Collateral. Recall atmosphere is key, and this movie had it in spades. It took some time to get comfortable, and then uncomfortable. Keep on your toes. Dread’s at every corner. It’s not unlike Foxx getting comfy in his role as an accomplice. In fact, I can’t recall a movie where Foxx ever got to play a victim, especially some oddly stalwart hostage.

Now about Foxx. I have been simply amazed as how he’s evolved as an actor. First time I saw him perform was on the seminal sketch comedy show In Living Color. He was one of several actors that cut their comedy teeth on that subversive show. Others included David Alan Grier, Shawn and Marlon Wayans and, of course, Jim Carrey. Consider its rival SNL that gave birth to “serious” actors like Dan Ackroyd, especially Bill Murray and even Adam Sandler. This rogues’ gallery rose above just mugging for laughs on Color, but left-field Foxx jumped the hurdles. I was surprised he sang as Ray Charles in the titular movie. He was so grizzled in Jarhead. Made a solid, sympathetic super-villain in Andrew Garfield’s turn as Spider-Man. Intense and vulnerable homeless cellist in The Soloist. To the point: the guy has range. A far cry from the failed fifth diva in En Vogue on ILC.

Cruise also has range, but has been all too often relegated to being the cocky, handsome guy (read: the original Top Gun). Given the opportunity Cruise can flex his chops. I mentioned Rain Man, but with films like Vanilla Sky, Eyes Wide Shut and (for good or for ill) Far And Away Cruise can be more more than just—only—Maverick. Collateral is another example of him being understated, yet still a potent force. His Vincent is distant and aloof, and it’s just a front. He does not translate as a conventional villain. Vincent may invite some empathy, but still is very, very dangerous. That’s because Cruise plays him as both cagey and feverish, not unlike his “jobs.” Cruise was one cool customer here. The anti-Maverick. Couldn’t tell what his revenge tactic was as a means to an end. Vincent felt like a real hitman, calculating and assured that nothing would go wrong, yet still able to surprise. He reminded me of another hitman character, but since I couldn’t recall who Cruise fit the bill. K: He’s got a bad mouth, and I don’t mean swearing. He’s weak and full of sh*t, which made for a nice dichotomy paired against desperate, panicky Max. Spot on.

made another keen observation: Collateral had a cold and saucy feel. I said she wasn’t familiar with noir genre, but that cold observation hit hard. In truth the flick sometimes came across as hollow; familiar and had been done better with panache. As far as noir flicks go Collateral was fairly rote as stories go, even regarding Mann’s scorched earth direction. Our leads were great, but the story had been done before, and better (EG: Key Largo, Sorry Wrong Number and again Double Indemnity). Still the device is too delicious to not revisit. Director Mann, who is well acquainted with moody crime dramas anchored Collateral within classic procedural tropes. The story might have been juicer if the cops were absent from the story. Leaving Max flapping in the wind, no sign of rescue. And Vincent opened up to show his fangs, which was also absent too long until the final act. The ambience was there, but it felt slick. A tad contrived “in the heart of the city” claptrap. There are enough hiccups to remind us this is a neo-noir flick. We had a slow crawl, mean signature. A mystery/mission to unfold. Nothing new. However by the third act I caught the spin, shrouded before by the dry story about “getting away with it.” That is very tired. Very tired indeed, no matter how Sonny Crockett slick.

There is a “however” coming. Wait for it.

There was a game is afoot, Watson. Recall the Poe examination before? There was another analogy that crossed my mind well into the screening. Another analogy. Poe’s darkly comic tale of “William Wilson.” It was in the Jeckyll/Hyde vein (despite being published decades before Stevenson’s proto-psycho thriller), when two men who shared a name—twins separated at birth as it was implied—grew up to be polar opposites. One corrupt and a hedonist, the other upstanding and virtuous. No shocker these two guys despised each other, one always ruining the other’s reputation. The “moral” of the story is that they were both one and the same. Sides of the same coin, and one cannot exist without the other. It all came to a head when the two Wilsons clashed resulting in a duel and…well, go read the story.

Related to Collateral duality between Max and Vincent was like Stockholm Syndrome, but in reverse. The jailer sided with his prisoner. That vague “William Wilson” feeling. These two men are indeed opposites, but their motives are not. Max is a dreamer, waiting for action to just drop in his lap. Like Vincent’s easy $600 invites. Vincent is just tired, wallpaper. Not the lead of the film, just the imp of the perverse (Poe again) and doesn’t really have his heart in it all. Recall the scene spent with Barry Henley’s Daniel and you may follow. There’s a dreamy quality to Collateral. Mann’s movies have a signature, and that signature is always condensed to a singularly: raw story. Collateral drifts in and out of the metaphysical, almost like some tenet. Blurred. Not to mention a great deal of allegory, but more felt than seen. Made the tension icky and mushy. Why would one of the best no-nonsense, solipsistic directors be given over to some whim of existentialism?

Guess what? Gotta theory.

Like Travis Bickle, cabbies witness a whole sh*tload of urban decay along their collective routes. It must get surreal; these animals are human? A real rain and whatnot. We are not watching a “trad” neo-noir movie here. I’ll go so far as to claim Collateral with all its existential underpinnings should not have any business in the 21st Century. Fantasy films are passé, and that MCU folderol don’t count. Consider this along the lines of Wilson: is Max on a dream trip? Is Vincent even really there, first overing the fare of a lifetime and not ditching/whacking him when he gets too nosy? A trip to jazz club, before god? I mean really, he gets to rescue the fair damsel in distress as endgame. Max has desires stuck on the back burner (and the other side of his sun visor). Are Max and Vince actually the two Wilsons? Or some sort of hockey helmet Tyler Durden? Man, I feel Mann let this flick get carried away, but to where? In the endgame I felt Collateral was occupied with the neo more than the noir. The flick followed the “rules,” but the plot got muddled. Not very Mann, sorry to say.

Watching Collateral play out in the final act codified—at least for me—why Mann’s movie felt a tad rote. There was no claustrophobia; funny since the bulk of the film was in a taxi, anchored by a classic procedural device. Any sense of desperation being off the radar never felt genuine. The danger didn’t clench enough. Unlike most of Mann’s output I could see through the cracks here and that all would not end well, minus any neat little bow. His work with subtle surprise. Like the Crockett and Tubbs ride; you know sh*t gonna go down, but never how. And definitely with very little cues. A great deal of Collateral was hazy, subjective and littered with jump scares that are not Mann’s go-to to reeling you in. In the endgame the film was good, mostly engaging, above average acting, but all-in-all could’ve been better.

Wrapping stuff up, after I edited this installment I think I had misled you. Yes, Collateral had all the hallmarks of neo-noir (which we again we not watching, that and also had an accidental Goethe bent), but it wasn’t all that bunk which brought me back to Earth. Collateral was Gothic horror winding through the dirty streets of LA. The Raven and “William Wilson” again. All three possess a loose, literary aesthetic of fear and haunting. Fear and haunting were aplenty in Collateral, but muted. I think Mann overextended himself. A crime story should be meted out with the thunderous booms of rubber stamps and bullets chasing bullets.

Not the poignant scribbles of a goose quill. Better luck next time.

The Verdict…

Rent it or relent it? A mild rent it. A curious left turn from a fascinating director. However some of these things did not like the other.

The Musings…

  • “Nobody notices.”
  • Did Cruise “age” for the part?
  • “Definitely not from ’round here.”
  • So much for the cleanest cab.
  • “I don’t know any Rwandans.”
  • Dang. Look at those gas prices.
  • “You don’t have the trunk space.”
  • K: Sarcasm solves everything.
  • “I’d thought you’d be taller.” Wink wink, nudge nudge.
  • Silver…
  • K: Cruise is a hitman, and he never changes rides. Good point.
  • “What a great story.”

The Next Time…

College is important, but playing in the marching band’s Drumline is importanter.


RIORI Presents Installment #200: Tate Taylor’s “Get On Up” (2014), pt. 2

The Film…

The Players…

Chadwick Boseman, Nelsan Ellis, Octavia Spencer, Jill Scott and Dan Ackroyd, with Craig Robinson, Viola Davis, Lennie James and Brandon Smith.

The Plot…

Like with the First Man on the moon, astronaut Neil Armstrong, we examine the life and times of the “Godfather Of Soul,” “The Hardest Working Man In Show Business,” “Mr Dynamite” himself, the incomparable James Brown! Yeah!

The Intro…

Yeah. So. This is my biggest, dumbest blunder here at RIORI I ever had to own up to: an unfinished post. What the heck?

No, it wasn’t outside opinion that marred Get On Up‘s shakedown. It wasn’t me being disingenuous in reviewing a movie I hadn’t seen. It wasn’t even the all too possible probability of me being too pished watching this movie and dissecting the scenes where James Brown was the guest star at the Ice Follies one year. Nope.

I destroyed my notes before I finished the installment. Due to technical difficulties updating my WordPress account, it was me being sloppy. Sorry about that. That’s all. I mean how can I tear apart a movie without the proper context? My always snide observations and remarks missing? P’shaw. My readers deserve better and effrontery belittles the Standard. For you, my faithful subs. I apologize.

From here on out I’ll write down a proper review of the movie, well, properly. I’ll cut right to the chase. If you want to check out The Rant from months back (if only to get reacquainted with my tenor responding to Get On Up) click here. Please do. It’ll make stuff all the clearer. I hope.

Again, I apologize for being sloppy and thank you for being patient. Now where were we…?

The Story…

It often follows that when a great talent comes along, hardship may have had a large influence on their muse. Either by wit or grit, cream will rise while the scum gets scorched. However, on a very rare occasion, both cream and scum complement each other. Like when bold gospel music gets messed up with down and dirty R&B and in turn gets truly, gloriously funky.

Young James Brown (Boseman) knows all about being in a funk. Poor, undereducated and borne from two parents that should’ve never tried. Still, mom and dad instilled in James to never take any bullsh*t from anyone. Especially those well-heeled white folk that would just count out James as another n*gger. Stand up and shout, kid.

James has an ear for music. Rhythm and the blues and the grand showmanship of gospel. Stumbling through his troublesome youth the only real constant James had was song. Not music, mind you. Song. The performance, the display, the beat of music. Song. It was the only thing that was steady, in heart and a determined, stubborn ego. Hard work is always hard on yourself, especially when have a pernicious desire to prove something, ipso facto a unique talent.

James was all about song, performance, the spotlight and self-promotion. He became the hardest working man in show business. Mr Dynamite, with his funk and his moves and he single-minded approach to life and show. He was self-evident, flawed, brilliant and played by his own rules. Rules that struck a chord with audiences, both literally and metaphorically. And despite all of his achievements, hit singles and iconic standing all Brown wanted was respect by any means possible.

His means were both drive complemented by failings. When such opposites meet a legend is created…

The Review…

Okay. Let me get something out of the way, straight up: Tate Taylor directs black movies for white folks. After seeing Get On Up, as well as The Help Tate’s execution has the air of paternalism towards blacks that borders on an anti-Uncle Tom. Embracing black culture and history without a real emotional investment, at least for us moviegoers.

I found The Help both overrated and odious. Skeeter’s anonymous account of black maids in her Southern town and all the travails they faced played out as if she were interviewing the domestics not as people but as test subjects. That and the solid acting came from Viola Davis and Octavia Spencer, yet Emma Stone, Bryce Howard and even Alison Janney held the spotlight. This is kind of storytelling would’ve gotten Faulkner into trouble with the rise of the Civil Rights movement. Paternalism, charity and tokenism mars any movie about black culture in America

Actors are not ciphers—vessels to be filled with whatever, whenever to satisfy the director’s whims (not unlike how Boseman’s James treated his band. Read on). Nor should such roles make white folks feel guilty of their privilege being taken for granted. In a word: preachy.

Tate, it’s a movie FFS. You want to mount a soapbox? Go find one. They’re hard to come by nowadays. Just direct a story.

All right. Had to speak up. Questions/comments? Watch The Help and Get On Up and then we can debate Tate’s direction and muse. I’m not trying be a gatekeeper, but I have a rather unruly James Brown collection in my library; I might know a few things about guy’s musical legacy.

Back on track, despite how I took issue with Taylor’s vision, I appreciated the execution with his twist on the tried, true and predictable linear plot progression of many, many, too many biopics. Up was non-lineal and considering Brown’s history certain “chapters” (more on that later) of his biography say more about the man than the expected rags-to-riches spectrum. This was important. Unlike, say David Bowie or Madonna, Brown never tried to reinvent himself. He was a force of nature with varying hairstyles. He just was with some telling touchstones. Like chapters, which bookended the various highlights and low points of his life and times.

Taylor’s movie was more like a memoir than a biography. Bios—like their sister autobiographies—tend to be linear. We watch and/or read how the person of interest grows up, finds their calling and the diaspora that said life dealt them, both good and ill, from cradle to approaching the grave. Most bios read this way, like Johnny Cash’s life story Cash, or almost anything David Halberstam or Ron Chernow ever put to paper. Same usually goes with biopics. Ignoring the directors’ need for creative liberties, most biopics are also linear, like Howard’s Cinderella Man, A Beautiful Mind and Frost/Nixon, Zwick’s Glory and Boyle’s 127 Hours. These kind of cinematic journals are often satisfying despite their straight line. Or leaning back towards those unspoken creative liberties all the better for it.

Taylor opted for the left turn. Not unlike adaptaions such as Penn’s Into The Wild, Pulcini and Berman’s American Splendor and Chazelle’s First ManGet On Up likes to bounce around. A bio is linear. A journal, a memoir, a diary highlights key moments in the subject’s life, regardless of when they occurred. The first (and best) scene in Up illustrates the worst in James Brown, when his drugged up ego finally lands him in jail for a legit reason. As a kid even I saw this on the news, which may have indirectly caused my curiosity about the man.

But what about the best stuff? Four stars and a bouquet for not letting the rabbit out of the hat too soon. Namely, the next scene recounts James and the Flames under fire en route to a USO performance in Vietnam. That in turn lands in the backwoods of Georgia where young James cut his teeth on music and dealing with his dysfunctional (read: totally f*cked up) upbringings. This back and forth motion created some weird tension, like we didn’t really know where the story was headed. It both kept you on your toes as well be kept informed as to who’s show it was, and it was Brown’s show all the way. Always front and center stage.

That being said, Up was Boseman’s show all the way. Regardless how Tate’s direction was pandering and scattershot, this was Boseman’s movie. He was James Brown. From the craggy voice to the swift moves to the monumental ego to feed, the actor was all heart and soul here, pounding his performance in yo’ face. The man should’ve won some award for his portrayal. Up did get nominated for stunt work(?), however the late Boseman made a name for himself for biopics well before he adopted the mantle of T’Challa in the MCU, his swan song. No awards, save a nomination for Best Special Effects (??), but beyond the whatever Boseman was always clutch for his roles. He was never Chad the actor, he was the chosen role. Assuming the mantle. As I watched Up, I did not see Boseman. I saw Brown, and it was a magnificent performance right down to the make up and hairstyles. Dedicated he was, and his style was infectious. Too bad he didn’t sing the songs himself. Might’ve sounded pretty good. Now we’ll never know. A pity.

Offhand: Boseman never spoke out about his cancer diagnosis. Instead he made many, many stops at childrens’ hospitals for oncology in T’Challa garb much to the kids’ delight. That might have been a veiled surety of his limited time, but in the larger picture it’s about selling the goods, not reaping the rewards. Dig?

So since we probably agree the Up is a staunch character study (and ignoring most of Taylor’s soft lobbing stuff), let’s delve ever deeper into Boseman’s world of funk.

The matter of Taylor’s non-linear storytelling indeed stirred the soup. Since Brown’s story was most likely as scrambled as Taylor’s direction the final product recalls a particular ep of the old sci-fi series Fringe. Stay with me here. The plot was about a serial killer who stole his victims memories before the inevitable late night party. The B-plot was the opposite. The antagonist was a psych, and was rescued by a kind woman that comforted him, guided him, taught him not everyone was out to hurt him. Namely young Brown was saved by a patient soul who introduced him to music as salvation. Gospel. The gospel truth. It’s all a scrambled mess, but it flowed well. Talent seldom follows a straight path. So does non-linear storytelling. In any event, I found Taylor’s style the only meat on the bone with Up. The rest was eyewash. Very good eyewash mind you, but really did not flesh out the story. The end result was Up being Boseman’s tour de force performance…but that was the only meat on the bone.

Enough grousing. There were some very nice touches—flourishes—that Taylor shot, almost as if by accident. Once more I may be reading to deeply into the film, big a big story about a big entertainer demands big thinking. Or at least paying attention for some modest (but still big!) context clues. For instance, there was some matter about clothes and especially shoes that got some screen time. The brief REDACTED scene where young James stole some shoes. A lot Brown’s fancy dancing hinged on how he swivel his steps. Some more screen time dedicated to when Brown was finally earning some dough and invested in some fly, custom kicks for all to see. How the man strutted to and from his shows in the guts of the arena, those stack heels snapping. Like I said, I may have been investing too much time ignoring the filigree of the movie, but in the endgame Brown wore a lot of shoes in the metaphorical sense. Putting it another way walk a few miles in Brown’s shoes. I liked that.

Another aspect of Taylor’s direction invited a question regarding a legend: is there such a thing as a humble ego? Not fragile mind you, but one being ready to slink back into a shell when the risk of failure seems nigh approaching. Brown dealt with a lot of sh*t growing up and getting on the music scene. Something informed me in the film that Brown that the man was cagey about his job. It was always about the show, and that was fine. but what if something went wrong. It was hinted in Boseman’s uptight performance that all of it could end either on a whim or the VC blasting his plane out of the sky. It was always about the show; it was what James lived for unless he couldn’t. There was never an unless, Mr Lorax. It’s somewhat amazing how much an ego may grow against personal responsibility. Kudos to Taylor that.

There was also significant storytelling gimmick I dug in Up. Hang on. I’m trying to be positive here, which has never been my strength. I suspect you all may have tired of my incessant bile, so here’s one of few shout outs to Taylor, whom I’d like to believe he did his best. However misguided that came across.

You know about the theatrical term “breaking the fourth wall?” No? Allow me to catch you up on things. The term refers to when an actor or the entire cast addresses the audience directly as if letting them in on some secret. Boseman did this quite a bit throughout the film, but only as part of the dialogue. He was trying to convey who was really in charge of things, if only to reassure you that under his control everything will turn out fine. Just pay attention. Or else. Boseman’s panache was paired with great timing. When he spoke to us it was as if, “You follow?” Oddly reassuring since the air of the film was whatever random splat stuck. His asides made for a sharp throughput.

One more noteworthy thing about the film: great staging. It was the chapter thing, and not just the scatter of Brown’s life and times. Despite the non-linear storyline, these “chapters” as they were constructed a sturdy timeline/history of Brown’s rise to power. It almost made up for the haphazard documentation what made Brown become Brown. Don’t misunderstand me. Taylor’s style was overall pedestrian and formulaic as biopics tend to go, but a simple twist like the staging keeps your interest going. Worked for me if only in “get on with it” attitude. Maybe I felt this way since I consider myself an amateur Brown scholar. Maybe.

It’s a decent movie, albeit rather pandering, and sometime too stylized for its own good. Yes, I was just gushing a moment ago, but it was in spite of the clunkiness of the narrative. Meaning the story was cool to watch, but more often than not it felt like trying to drink a bottle of Pure Leaf iced tea while driving: fits and starts of slaking a thirst while your face and lap gets splashed. We learned that James was not his best around the opposite sex, messed around with controlled substances, an absolute tyrannical taskmaster where his sidemen were just pawns in his career and a somewhat puerile need to prove he was the best at…”everything” with precious little nuance. But ever the devil’s advocate I suggest that may have been the point. In sum the film lacked guts, played it safe and didn’t allow the other principals to breathe, let alone play. Up was rather stiff.

Yes, Bowie and Madonna were into reinvention, but never James. He was Mr Brown, and paid the cost to be the boss with unflinching determination. K claimed that you just got to got to be yourself and be good at it. Not to mention being good at being bad. It’s a classic yin and yang. You gotta embrace both with determinism and grace. That’s how I see it. I hope that Taylor tried to display that, too. I really do.

Chadwick Boseman. 1976-2018.

The Verdict…

Rent it or relent it? A mild relent it. I cannot stress enough how this was Boseman’s show all the way. He was fantastic as Brown. The surrounding movie? Wallpaper. Very nice wallpaper, but still just gravy. And no biscuits.

The Musings…

  • “Please, call me ‘Mr Brown’.”
  • Just goes to show don’t do DUI armed.
  • “I’m in a h*nky hoedown!”
  • K: Isn’t that the guy from Ghostbusters? I was surprised, too.
  • “I ain’t heard a thing since my radio got busted.”
  • K: It does go good with ice cream.
  • “Drums…”
  • K: Read him his fortune.
  • “Velma pregnant.” “Congrats.” K: Always double check your work. Amen.
  • Steak and eggs? Now you’ve made it.
  • “The man in front got to be The Man.”

The Next Time…

A put-upon career woman needs some Parental Guidance from her estranged mom and dad. Not advice, per se, but to be budget babysitters in a pinch.

Say it with me now: what’s the worst that could happen?

Answer: SUGAR!


RIORI Presents Installment #198: Vadim Perelman’s “House Of Sand And Fog” (2003)

The Film…


The Players…

Jennifer Connelly, Ben Kingsley, Ron Eldard, Shohreh Aghdashloo, Jonathan Adhout and Frances Fisher.

The Plot…

When Kathy falls behind on her taxes, the bank seizes her family home and puts it up for auction. She’s had a bad streak ever since her husband ran out on her and she doesn’t earn enough to keep things liquid. Now she loses her home as the final insult to her injurious dire straits.

Colonel Behrani is a retired military man from Iran, now a US citizen. He’s been looking for the ideal bungalow for his wife and son to set down some roots, as well as reminiscent of their beach house on the Caspian coast back home. He feels he’s found the ideal home for his family here in the Pacific Northwest: Kathy’s.

Despite that the Colonel’s intentions are good and his claim legit, Kathy will not lose the house she grew up in to some strange foreigner without a fight.

Legal…or otherwise.

The Rant…

Let me tell you about the house I grew up in. Both of them. All three actually.

I was born in Dallas, whisked away as a baby to Wilkes-Barre, PA on the fringe of the Poconos. My folks told me later it was a nice place to live. I had to take their word for it because I was 2 at the time and therefore my first home was a mystery to me. You can’t go home again it seems. Still, the fact that I lived somewhere before my childhood gives me pause; you never really know home until you’ve left it. Again, I was too. We can get all elegiac later.

Post potty training I was whisked away with infant sister to the Lehigh Valley. It’s one of the last places in this country where metro holds hands with idyll well and populated by folks who don’t appreciate that. This isn’t my usual cynicism talking. The LV is vibrant, both culturally as well as topography, unfortunately too many of its denizens are ardent philosophers about where the grass is truly greener. My response? About five miles down the road. Might be a dairy farm there. Moo.

Everyone likes farms, especially when they’re right around the corner. My current residence is adjacent to a corn field and an apple orchard (more on this later). The Interstate is less than a mile away and I can barely hear it. Yeah, the LV’s the best of both worlds, however redolent with fussy locals who’ve never been to Dallas, let alone ever consulted a road atlas.

There’s a theme brewing here, you understand.

My first proper home (from ages 4 to 18) I grew up was in Allentown, PA. It was pretty average, and nothing like the Billy Joel tune. For one, the steel mill was in neighboring Bethlehem and I only spent one summer on the Jersey Shore. In sum, A-town never painted a picture. It was there and there I was from pre-K to high school with all the mundanity at the ready. This might sound a lot like your home town, but more John Mellencamp than Bruce Springsteen if you follow. I’m more a Mellencamp fan, so there.

I was all but four when my folks airlifted me from outside Scranton by way of Upstate New York (don’t ask) into A-town into one of the many homes that transient Air Products families used and abused and sold all within a year’s time. Cutting to the chase and drugged out fantasy from the 60s became a garish reality in the 70s, especially home decor. I was four and explored my new home day one stem to stern. What the hell were the previous occupants thinking? The color scheme of everything was the typical Ford-era nightmare, all avocado green, burnt orange and baby sh*t brown. The wallpaper in the hallway was like gold lamé, like the color off Freddie Mercury’s onstage cape. Stucco ceilings, incongruous wallpapers in the bathrooms, and someone had lopped away the original wooden bannister and replaced it with a wrought iron one, like the kind that would be useful outside. And who the f*ck has wall to wall carpeting in the freaking kitchen?

I was four. Welcome home.

I mention all this is because no matter what condition your house is in it’s irrelevant to how one makes their home.

Here was the good stuff. I had my own room, whilst two sisters had to share a bedroom until I left for college. We had a big backyard with a jungle gym and a sandbox and eventually a small garden I tended to. Nothing survived, but it made me feel like I was manipulating nature to coax withered tomatoes, and that’s always worthwhile. We had a finished basement to play in, where I displayed my Lego models, and later my NES collection and console. The walls were real pine, and easy tack posters to. I ransacked every map from my folks’ monthly ish of NatGeo and turned the place into an atlas, both of Earth and the rest of our planets. Mom wasn’t too keen on it all, but hey, it sure beat all the Mad magazine fold-outs I used to have. What, she worry?

Later still I hooked up cable TV and a beater VHS so I could abuse to watch late night talk shows far away from anyone else as well as my odd, pirated/dubbed videos from the local Blockbuster. In retrospect I always wondered why the staff there never raised an eyebrow with I rented a VCP, the latest titles and a handful of blank cassettes. The FBI never came to my door. Funny what sticks. As for late night TV? I’ve always been a night owl, and staying up late back then to watch Conan on his first show was a good way to end the day. He always had the best musical guests.

Like most of you out there in the blogosphere it might’ve taken some time to settle into your digs. Betcha a bit of the above woolgathering might apply. All that’s not necessarily nostalgia per se, but after a few years your house gradually takes on the identity of your home, security, quirks, spoken and unspoken rules alike. And yes my parents corrected all the LSD-meets-HGTV phantasmagoria over the course of 20 years, especially including no more greasy-ass deep pile in the scullery (goddam burnt orange, the color of satanic eczema). That and the railing was restored to its proper wooden glory. Way easier to slide down.

Like I said, quirks. All homes have them. Even more so with my second home.

It wasn’t really my home. It wasn’t even the ‘rents. It was my grandparents’ summer rental on Fire Island. I touched upon the place way, way back in The Way, Way Back installment. My grandparents actually had two rentals. One was a friend of my grandma’s who had moved away to Massachusetts and had no interest in crashing there for any further summers. For like 10 years, me and my sibs spent every July there in the only slum in town. The place was a blight on the shiny cottages that made up the municipality. Neglected (I had to once one crawl up the roof with fence slats and bailing wire to replace a screen that was the foyer for the mosquitoes hovering over the above level septic tank. Good times) so much so that the master bath had to be upgraded in the late 80s to meet code, or else. I went from a kid to bathing in a clawfoot iron tub during the Cold War years to the then state-of-the-art plastic plumbing. I opted for the outdoor shower meant for after a day on the beach. Like I say again, quirks.

Despite its compact size the house was thoughtfully big. Its architect knew that this place was a summer home and demanded maximum space at an economical package. Wanna jam a lot of people on a summer rental for maximum yield? Right, lotsa bedrooms. Between me, my two sisters, mom, dad, grandma, grandpa, aunt, other aunt and uncle we we able to bunk up together without sharing a bed, and the only bedroom I had was the ignored one adjacent to the master bath. This summer home—called a “Coffey House” after its designer, a man known for efficiency and damn the zoning rules—was a place designed to invite family members to hang out, if only for a month. For good for ill.

No shock here, but most of it was for the good. I got away for many Julys to splash in the ocean, ride my bike, listen to my stereo at odd volumes (this meant both CDs and radio shows. I always picked up the good stuff from the City late at night), beachcomb, abuse my NES on a daily basis and abuse myself with caged booze and weed with friends on the beach with no full moon to rat us out. Far, far away from landlocked PA, with next to no traffic to avoid. None, actually. There were no cars in that little ville. It was oh so quiet when the HPS lights sputtered to life. Curfews were pointless. It was an island; where were we to go? I mean me and my then clutch of high schoolers on leave squatting on the pier and talking heady teenage sh*t well until midnight. Time well spent.

My summers at the grand ‘rents place was where I flex my mental muscles in a creative fashion. I made driftwood sculptures, read a lot of my fave books to this day, wrote stories on my dad’s laptop and discovered Van Morrison, which I punished my family with on my beater jambox 25/8. We both could do worse. It was that kind of rambling that molds one’s teenage outlook on life and what it could be, with no noisy cars around and a Discman spinning at around 9 PM playing REM’s Reckoning at mind shearing volume. “Harborcoat” escorted me to the pier. Nice that.

As of 2005 I live here, still in the LV. Bethlehem, the neighboring city to A-town where the actual steel mills were. It’s a very old farmhouse, built well before 1776 and had been expanded as late as 2007. It’s a tangle of local history. Many different families have lived here. To cut to the quick, my room is the whole of the loft that is the third floor. Lotsa room for a bed, a chaise lounge, way too many books, way too many DVDs, WAY too many retro game consoles (everyone by Sega, including a dead Game Gear), my clothes, this desk and this iMac (which contains all my writings as well as my obscenely large iTunes library). All bow down to arrested development.

The kids’ room is right below, decorated in a scheme we’ll call post-modern Goth. A giant collage dedicated to My Chemical Romance. Box spring and mattress on the floor, no frame. My old beater CD jambox with the prerequisite stack of Paramore albums at the ready. Make up station and her Precision bass and amp nearby. Way too many lightening chargers. I durst not touch any of it. Might ruin her system. Did I mention her color scheme is black and grey dappled with black? All hail adolescence.

The rest of the place is just there. Kitchen. Bathrooms. A basement that has my washer, dryer and and my infeasible comic book library. Some back room with a fireplace that gets a lot of use in cooler months; that’s where I do most of my reading. It’s also where my turntable is, as well as my infeasible record collection. Also some porch screened in that gets a lot of use in the warmer months; that’s where I do the rest of my reading. Also where my the bird feeders are, just outside (as well as those stupid, hungry squirrels). It’s home. A (former) chef’s life is frustration incarnate, but pays okay, and the need to wind down into comfort is as vital as if you were criminal lawyer, a firefighter, a nurse or a misguided writer. I’m fortunate enough to even have a fireplace. Like my old college roomie claimed, “Home is where you hang your ass.”

Perhaps you may have gleaned from this rant’s tone that home is where you find it, if not mold it. Why am I telling you all this? Simple. a house is not a home until you stamp your mark on it. That garish tableau about my childhood home my parents sent into rehab became a fine place to live. That run down shack of my grandparents was a fine place to waste away the summer. My place now? Well, the Wi-Fi is spotty in places, but blame the stone walls. The mortgage is getting paid on time. We have ducks and geese in the yard since we’re so close to the creek, along with duck and goose poop littering the driveway. That and the driveway repaved last year. And permanent residence of a couple of Northern Cardinals who always swoop by the large bird feeder, regardless of which yard I plant it according to the seasons. It’s all fine.

All this claptrap makes a house a home. It’s an abstract thing. What you may consider hearth and home I may never approach without the aid of a service dog and a Geiger counter. Again, we could all do worse.

Or for the better. Wherever we grew up, the concept of home was informed by our presence. What we did there, what were learned there, what we ate there, etc. A house is not a home blah blah blah. We all dig that line, because it’s true. Regardless of knotty pine walls, bad carpeting, dry rotten screens, carpeted kitchens, wallpaper that Roger Daltrey might’ve used as a cape at Woodstock and who the f*ck carpets a kitchen? All in all, the quirkiness of your home makes it more than a house, right? And eventually when that house feels like a home, questionable decor and curious angles become like, well, family. Reassuring, as ugly as a home could be.

Now hear this: if ever you’ve moved away from your old home and old neighborhood, do years later you wonder who’s living there now? Can’t go home again and all that. Because there are new residents, well, residing in your old home. No way. That was my home. Did the new owners change things around? You know, to better suit their living? Like carpeting in the kitchen? Perish the thought.

But it’s not your home anymore. Hasn’t been for years. In truth it stopped being your home once you left it, either literally and/or metaphorically. All that is left are the memories, those tones of home. And you know what I’ve said about the myopic lens of nostalgia, and nostalgia is fleeting since it dwells in the past. Gone. But you in your present home do not dwell in the past. Right?

Do you? Don’t you?

The Story…

As it’s been said you can’t go home again. Especially when the bank puts up your home for auction and you get evicted.

Such is Kathy’s (Connelly) predicament. Her husband left her, as well as left a ton of unpaid bills and bank statements getting ever higher with each day. She’s teething her way through rehab, can’t stop smoking and can’t stand her surroundings. Not her family home. Place was built from scratch by her Uncle, perched high above on the Northwest cliffs overlooking the Pacific. Its a nice piece of property plagued by ghosts and overflowing ashtrays. Now the bank tells her to vacate or else.

Enter one Massoud Behrani (Kingsley). A former colonel in the Iranian Air Force, he decides to move to America to set down some fresh roots. After leaving his bungalow in disgrace, the Colonel’s been working odd jobs to pay for a new home. He comes across a notice of a bank seized property up for auction. Kathy’s place.

Kathy is kicked out with nowhere to go and the Colonel moves in. Finally a place to call home for his wife (Aghdashloo) and teenaged son (Adhout). It may not be on the Caspian, but it’s better than staying in a hotel. Kathy’s loss is the Colonel’s gain. There is all this paperwork to validate both efforts.

Kathy’s claim has all but evaporated. Her uncle built that house from tinder, and although she never liked the place at least it was her place. Hers.

Home is where you hang your hat. Or your face. Or the end of your rope.

Otherwise it is just property.

The Review…

Here’s something for you. It’s considered one of the most major, forgivable plot holes in modern American cinema. And it barely relates to this week’s film. Check it out.

Unless you’ve being living in the Duggar’s family compound for the past 40 years or so, you’ve most likely have seen Raiders Of The Lost Ark. You know, Indiana Jones’ first (and best) foray into archaeological action and the problems messing with religious artifacts. The plot hole is introduced in the first act, kind of like foreshadowing. Indy recovers the golden idol with the mass of your average sand castle, absconding with it only to have his smarmy rival Belloq steal it away. All that trouble just to lose the fool thing, as well as Alfred Molina in the process.

The plot hole is thus: Indy never needed to be in the movie. The Nazis got the Ark in the endgame, despite Jones’ nosing around. So why include our intrepid albeit goofy sand-sifting hero in the first place? Simple. Indy was the lead, but he was also the audiences’ avatar. We saw and adventured through the movie through Jones’ eyes. He was the audience, or we were he. Without Harrison Ford, Raiders would come across as nothing more than a never-ending episode of The Mystery Of Oak Island. At least with Raiders we got to see some gold. And melting Nazis.

How does that classic globetrotter have anything to do with House Of Sand And Fog? The answer is more esoteric. Whereas with Raiders, Jones—our accident prone hero and tour guide—didn’t need be on retainer. With House we had no proper antagonist. House was a drama of duality, but neither party was on the side of the wrong or the right. Heck, the only possible sinister aspect of the film was Eldard’s misguided cop, and even he was an opportunistic ‘tard. No spoiler there, really.

Here’s another analogy I wish to drop. Yes, I figured Spielberg was a smart enough director to try and recreate the action and fun of those old Alan Quatermain shorts he adored in his youth. In sum, Raiders was a comic book adventure and us the readers as hero. Vicarious film fun at its best, duh. I feel that there is a twisted side of “going along for the ride” as with Indy and company. Cutting a film informed by what the director believes the audience wants. We don’t want to see an absence of a protagonist, nor do we want to be fed what a protagonist “should be.” I bring this little nugget to light as a response as to how harrowing House was. Who do you get behind?

Now for something completely different.

Not much of a surprise I’m an otaku. An anime fan, mostly of the s/f kind. I’ve seen many anime adopting a patch of a Western aesthetic, and I’m not talking about the bowdlerized yet venerated Gatchaman legacy. Disregarding the 80’s take on GoLions (AKA Voltron), which was wedged into American sensibilities, I’m going to talk about an action anime that was deliberately designed for Western audiences. Before I go there, allow me to riddle you this: I once had a co-worker who through her college studies got to spend a week in Berlin (she was a language student). I advised her that when offered some lemonade (in re: soda and/or pop) it was not likely going to be lemonade. The Germans refer to soda and soft drinks as limonade. Kinda like folks around Atlanta call every kind of soda “Coke.”

Point? Stuff can get lost in translation.

In any event, director Osama Dezaki unleashed the incredibly violent, incredibly stupid actioner Golgo 13: The Professional. It was about the ultimate hitman for hire, often hung up with distractions of unwanted vagina, unwanted money and anything that got in the way of offing unwanted wealthy people. Duke Togo (yes, that was his name) had the eye of a sniper blessed with zero pulse. It was one of the first anime designed directly to appeal to American audiences. And it was awful. Admittedly the minimal plot threads offered a keen twist, but the primitive CGI (even for 1989. Dire Straits’ 1985 “Money For Nothing” music video was more innovative) was as much an insult to American feelings as Beavis & Butthead was 20 some years ago. At least that brainless duo was funny. If you ever are curious to watch Golgo 13 all the way through, you can almost hear Dezaki shrug and say, “What?”

In sum, a director should never assume what the audience needs—not wants—to watch. Director Perelman is Ukrainian, once part of the “Evil Empire,” and please forgive the stereotyping. Russian literature—and by extension classic cinema—is inspired by failure, desperation and pining for the Earth to be engulfed by the sun ready to go nova and not leave fresh towels in the hotel bath. Doubt me? Here: what’s the inspiration for Tolstoy? Death. Dostoevsky? Murder. Gogol? Grotesquerie. Solzhenitsyn? Isolation. Russian artists have been given the short shrift for their muses, yet often a spade is a spade. Life can often be harsh so it’s best we talk about in frankly. For example, Ivan Illych died chasing a dislodged kidney as his endgame. Who’s hungry?

The Russian muse is a grim one. House was a very terse, bleak movie. I dare not question director Perelman’s motives since misery equals company. Like Golgo 13 his take on Dubus’ existential novel, nothing will go well, end well, let alone end well properly. Meaning a sense of full circle closure. By House’s raison d’être, that’s not the point. The movie was always about how the other half lives, as heartless as what that invites.

Let’s get this out of the way again. House is devoid of both protags or antagonists. Both primaries have very real, very honest motives for loving in the titular house. Yet the dynamic is all about a challenge, a conflict where both lines are drawn for the same goal: a place to live. And stay.

There’s a mystery there. A few actually. More on that later.

Besides the terse melodrama, I kinda figured out the message of House, and the polite discord it invited. Namely, families—regardless of size—are alike all over. It may have been the sole pinion that we as the audience could dance around. Like I spoke about earlier with my houses as homes theory, family is what makes a house a home. It’s based mostly on motive, meaning the desire to set down roots. In House, Kathy shouldered her “home” when it once becomes a burden. The Colonel spies her house as an ideal home to set down roots in America proper. It’s all an ideal, and always fading. Houses are physical, homes are ethereal. The responsibilities are equal with both. Again, families are alike all over.

Which my be the heart of how the tragic played out. Again, House had no antagonists. Just a pair of desperate people trying to live their lives for the good. Proper? Kathy was trying to get her sh*t together, battling booze, bills and a bailed husband. The Colonel just wanted to have a decent place for his family to live like back in Iran. Where was the adversary? None really. There was the theme of fleeing an unpleasant history afoot. It was not that overt, however, nor something corporeal wreaking havoc on our principals. It was some calumniator; an organic, all too familiar entity that ruins the lives of people all the time.

Red tape. Bureaucracy.

There may be spoilers ahead, but with House that might be a matter or interpretation.

Kathy lost her house due to red tape, unfairly and in error. The Colonel obtained her house thanks to the banks operating under false pretenses unbeknownst to Behrani. mentioned why not the two make a deal? Like Kathy be the landlady and charge rent to the Colonel while she took up residence in the guest house? A fair point, but then this might’ve resulted in more conflict, which the plot already had plenty of. No. Events unfolded in a way that there had to be a clear winner, which there would be none. Too many outside forces were inadvertently colluding against Kathy and the Colonel and the struggle was taken out on each other. If felt like divide and conquer where only the banks and the lawyers profited. Like I said, bureaucracy. At its finest.

Connelly was hot on the heels of her Oscar win for A Beautiful Mind. Her performance as Alicia Nash—the long suffering wife of a schizophrenic math genius—carved out a nice niche as a skill for playing both desperate and vulnerable. This may have not been lost on the esteemed scenarist Akiva Goldsman when the casting call came around for House. Here Connelly is a different kind of desperate. Unlike in Mind, she invited her predicament, wallowing in ennui, many empty wine bottles that should not be there and an ashtray that also should not be so convenient. She hates her house and all the history it contains and only comes to value it when the place gets taken away. Unlike Alicia Nash, Kathy is hard to sympathize with. I mean, if you were at the bottom of it all, wouldn’t you still be secure with a roof over your head? In essence, when Kathy accidentally punctured her foot it said it all for me. So little, too late.

Desperation worked both ways in House. Yes, yes. It’s criminal to lose one’s home. It’s often funny/tragic when it gets bought by new owners. Recall my ribald recollection of the fever dream of my first home. Took my folks maybe 15 years to correct all the design schemes cooked up by too much deep pile and low cut 70s cocaine. When it came time to leave I couldn’t even fathom any new occupants taking reign over my family’s “perfect” domicile.

Of course I was wrong. A house is a house, objective. A home is subjective, right? We’ve well established that. For the Colonel, Kathy’s house was more than a home. It was a retreat, a refuge. A fresh start, but from what?

If you paid attention watching House (as assured am I that you did after you reloaded the popcorn), it came quickly apparent that the story took place in the 80s. The cars, the tech, the fashions. K took note of the retro, glass Mountain Dew bottles strewn about Kathy’s place. All screamed Trickle Down theory, and equally beaten down. In early scenes we learned that soon after the Colonel earned his citizenship he had to work menial jobs to make ends meet—lightyears beyond his esteemed military career back in the Middle East. He kept up appearances for his family until the time was right to set down roots; Horace Greeley might have had the right idea. Here’s the itch: if the Colonel was doing so well back in Iran, why emigrate to the US with rocks in his lunchpail? Why was Kathy’s old house so damned the house?

History lesson. Number 2 pencils only.

The aforementioned was implied in the movie, and only in a fart-and-you’ll-miss-it scene. It spoke volumes to me. Moving on.

If you remember when Coke changed its formula to Pepsi’s or the Sega Master System being rival to the NES you might also remember Oliver North on trial implicated in the Iran Contra Scandal all over the major networks. No? Help is on the way.

Back in the bad ol’ 80s, it came to light that the US secretly sold weapons to Iran as quid pro quo to sell contraband weapons for the uprising in Nicaragua. In sum, a global village designed to pay Peter by robbing Paul. This was illegal, by the way, and way too much money changing went down. Needless to say, many in the Iranian military wanted out before this turned into a very hot potato. Many in the Iranian took flight, claiming sanction in the US, their bestest of besties.

In the movie, when the Colonel’s son insists to his dad the really didn’t sell those jets, the man looks away and says something sardonic. Like it was just a necessary business decision. Or it may have been done for the greater good. Or for him. It was a throwaway scene, but it wasn’t. Small wonder why the Colonel and his family fled Iran in such a desperate, haphazard way, Especially when Nadi got so pissy about their new digs. noted “Why make changes to the house if its only temporary?” That was another part of the puzzle regarding the Colonel’s intentions about what should be just so. Also, why was Nadi always left out of the loop?

Get it now? No? That’s okay. Pencils down.

also noticed there was a lot more not being told. She commented background noise. True. She’s sharp and was correct. The drama generated essential tension, but rather removed from the dramatis personae. This story was a about a house, the main character, the pinion. However both principals had waffling reasons to own the house, but had no sincere investment. It became an existential pissing contest. A matter of control, but of what? Neither protags were set up to gain anything, and the actual house was nothing more than a chess piece. The plot circled around loss. All was a very thorough exercise in futility. No one cares to care. Dire.

Okay, let’s chat about our leads. This being melodrama, as well as dual character study there were two sides. Overall, their impetus was fear. Insecurity was the watchword, and since home and hearth always means stability, Kathy and the Colonel’s regard to the house was the total opposite. Did I mention that? As mentioned, Connelly excelled at desperate, but here only after her ambivalent home was taken away. She vacillated between indifferent and afraid of her place. She always had this wide-eyed gaze expecting the inevitable, but also denying that time would ever come. Until it does, then it’s all shock and awe and how the hell did I get evicted from my uncle’s house that I despise? Being kicked out on the street invited reality right quick.

Now let’s chat about Kathy’s backstory, a matter that always informs the first act. She’s been abandoned, teething through sobriety, “not smoking” and always shuffling through a pile of bills that aren’t addressed to her. And she always has an excuse for all of it. Sad, and there’s another aspect of Kathy’s denial that is very potent as well as explanatory for her circumstances. Recall her blankness. I figured the word “drink” had a dual meaning.

Sure, escaping the grip of booze is very hard, but Kathy’s station was twisted. Most folks who attend AA are trying to get their sh*t together, clean up and get real. Kathy was stuck (and was documented at length in the book), and that sense of stuck oozes from Connolly’s performance. Hell, she doesn’t even like her house, but it sure beats her car. Throughout the story, Kathy would simply not give up the ghost, perhaps because the house was where everything…stopped, as did her “life.” It’s often been said that living in past is damaging, but what about a damaged past that one wears like a sign of strength? In her endgame, her attitude about her tenuous grasp on life is akin to the child who breaks their toys so other kids can’t play with them. No one else—especially like the “upstanding” Colonel—gets to ruin her home. Petulance, if not fast out brattiness was Kathy’s motive.

It goes without saying that Sir Ben Kingsley is an esteemed, versatile actor. If you have any doubts—of which you shouldn’t—check out the Thunderbirds and/or The Physician installments, or just watch Ghandi or Dave or Sexy Beast. I always took note that KIngley’s features are also very versatile. He was born in India when under British rule, therefore has a certain refined cadence in delivering lines that always sound natural. His lineage also may contain Russian and Jewish stock, so, yeah diversity. How an actor delivers their lines are just as important as their motion and subtle facial action, and Kingsley rules with that. His skill of nuance was essential in spinning House‘s story.

Kingsley’s Colonel, at first, comes across a dignified man. More like stiff. Later working odd jobs to earn enough capital to buy Kathy’s bank action house, he comes across as at ease, albeit a bit—how could I say this?—slimy. Ulterior motive haunts this man, but for what end? Just as Kathy’s death spiral takes hold, the Colonel attains a death grip stiff up lip. I’m just buying a house; nothing to see here. Recall what I said about Iran-Contra above? There’s nothing wrong. This is fine. Look at the view! Enjoy it while we have it because we must move on. The ulterior matter. It’s just a house at an opportune time. A home may lie elsewhere. May, which is a calculated lie. Kingsley comes across as knowing, but really just a different color of insecurity like Kathy’s. She didn’t want the home but needed it. The Colonel doesn’t need the home but wanted it. Kingsley’s rigid, confident, worldly manque belies fear. Fear being uncovered. Kingsley’s stiff upper lip comes across as a desperate man, and his latest property purchase was nothing more a prop, a canard. He once was a decorated soldier, but not anymore. Not since the jets his son implied. Kingsley’s stalwart perform and was both proud accessory and unyielding pride. The man was great. And scary.

Here’s the last part of the cast’s trifecta. Ron Eldard crashed onto the scene way back in the 90s as the traffic cop who pulled over a “blind” Al Pacino in Scent Of A Woman. A former Coast Guard sailor, and all that matters. This was Eldard’s best dramatic role. Maybe his true first. I felt that his Lester was the true “bad guy” with House. Lester carried himself as very immature as well as opportunistic, much worst that our principals. Regarding Kathy’s predicament was keen to take note of there’s always flirting if they’re just “friends.” K also commented about trust birthed from despair (my sentence, her insight). Aren’t cops (ipso facto) trained to follow the law, no matter how cling…no excuse. How desperate was Kathy to set up digs with an unfaithful father, husband and cop? Misery loves company—invites it. It was the best invitation Kathy had had in forever.

As always, pacing is my red-headed stepchild. House‘s pace was smooth and creeping. Although we learned about Kathy and the Colonel’s ulterior motives regarding the property, there was that mystery afoot. The aforementioned theory about a flight from the Iran Contra mess. Why did Kathy’s husband leave her holding the check? Neither of these questions were adequately answered, and that may have been the director’s aim. Sh*t rolls downhill, regardless of direction. In sum the final act kept you guessing. Not exactly nail biting, more rather unconsciously poking at that sore tooth with your tongue.

This was a very difficult installment to write, which is why it took so long to post. In my cinematic memory I can’t name many films where the resolution is bittersweet and there are no clear winners. Or clear losers, for that matter. RashomonDog Day Afternoon, The Third ManTime Bandits and almost every movie in John Carpenter’s filmography ends on an ambivalent down note, House was no different, considering the James Joyce-esque touch where the end is the beginning is the end. A breathless cycle of loss and gain and loss. If there was any carp I had with House is was that there was too much melodrama, namely anytime Eldard entered the picture. He was good, but oily, and his taking advantage of Kathy’s vulnerably was the stuff of mid-level soap operas. It was some forced drama got injected just to hold our attention. Patchwork. We already learned that this caper would not end well. Pummeled into minds was more accurate. Scenes like those tasted like being led by our noses. That being said, House was lean and mean, but to make the story better it needed to be a bit leaner.

K commented that so much was wrong in the name of right. No memories were worth all this trouble. Well said, kid.

This is why you can never go home again. It’s not there.

The Verdict…

Rent it or relent it? A mild relent it. House was a good movie, no argument. However it was so tragic and bleak that repeat viewings would just be an exercise in masochism. Once and done, I say.

The Musings…

  • “Things are not as they appear.”
  • It was only matter of time for the racism factor to appear.
  • ‘Boycott Grapes?’
  • Don’t drive by the house. Never get out of the boat. Never rub another man’s rhubarb…
  • “There’s no one to call.”
  • Lester sure has a lot of friends.
  • “They’re already at home more than I ever was.”
  • That stupid dripping faucet.
  • “I just wanted things to change.”
  • Wait. Super Nintendo?
  • “I feel found.”

The Next Time...

Super spies Tom Hardy and Chris Pine are both vying for the affections of Reese Witherspoon.

Of course you know This Means War.


RIORI Presents Installment #192: Ron Howard’s “Frost/Nixon” (2008)

The Film…

The Players…

Frank Langella, Michael Sheen, Kevin Bacon, Sam Rockwell, Matthew Macfadyen, Rebecca Hall, Oliver Platt, Toby Jones and naturally Clint Howard.

The Plot…

In 1977, with Watergate still heavy on America’s mind, journeyman television personality David Frost is curious about Nixon’s unwillingness to discuss the scandal. He manages to convince the disgraced president for a few interviews to allow the man a chance to set the historical record straight. Warts and all.

Only Britain would go to Nixon.

The Rant…

Yeah, yeah. I’m still tweaking the site. I’m trying to make it read a little more efficient, read more pro and lend a hand to any newbs that link here. Ain’t that a great line of bullsh*t or what? Now on with this week’s lucky contestant.

Every time I watch the news—which isn’t often—I ask myself, “Who in the world would want to be the President?” After air traffic controllers, EMTs and javelin catchers the presidency must be the most stressful job in the world. Sure, there are perks. Nice house, Air Force One, Camp David, unlimited travel opportunities, the occasional park named after you and whatnot. However most of the time it’s being under constant scrutiny, tons of desk jockeying, dealing with skeezy lobbyists and not to mention skeezy heads of state from around the world, always butting heads with Congress, signing more stuff and being blamed for the sh*t the previous president set in motion, which overrides your original platform. Small wonder Reagan got addicted to jelly beans, LBJ to Fresca and JFK to Marilyn Monroe. We all seek release in our own way.

Do you want to know what I think the biggest thing that’s a strike against being president? Tough, shush and listen: it’s the lack of privacy. You would always be under the microscope by the government, your constituents and the media in equal, oft strident measure. Understanding the president is the international face of America they gave up their privacy as soon as they were sworn in, if not even on the campaign trail. Here’s the Oval Office, friend. This is as small as your world gets now, plus you better lose that ashtray.

Like with any other public office, the President’s face is omnipresent. State Of The Union? The President. A memorial speech? The President. To apply weight to a PSA? The President. The opening pitch at the Nationals opening season? The Easter Egg Roll on the White House lawn? A summit? A press conference? Prez Prez Prez. Whew. With all that public spectacle the President deserves some privacy. Like that’s ever going to happen. Here’s a minor example of what I’m getting at: you may recall when President Clinton adopted his dog Buddy and they went jogging together (with an unobtrusive coterie of Secret Service agents along for the ride) in the early morning? No big deal; folks jog with their dogs all the time. Ah, but this was the President going for a jog, with the First Dog in tow, no less. Out came the jogging camera crew to cover…how Bubba and Buddy went for walkies.

That kind of jive is unquestionably silly. A man and his dog. A matter of state. The internet cracked in half. Whatever and change the channel. The guy in the Oval Office needs to feel normal now and again. To get away from it all once on a while, hence Camp David, and even that isn’t sacred anymore. Jeez, where does the uber-stressed out uber-politician find some R&R?

They don’t. Not really. The last time I heard that some President got any quality time was when Teddy Roosevelt went camping or hunting a jillion miles away from a newspaper. Or tubby Taft being the ultra baseball nut (he was the first Prez to throw the first pitch of the season, as well as accidentally creating the seventh inning stretch) and never missing a home game for the Washington Nationals. Or even when Obama played Wii Sports with Sasha and Malia before bed. And how the hell do I know all this crap if we’re talking about possible Presidential privacy?

Wanna lead the country? Take down that Facebook page. Ain’t gonna need it no mo’.

Here’s the flipside.

There are many adages regarding how those in high places must be careful when minding their productivity and quality therein. “Who watches the watchers themselves?” “Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.” “No, I am your father!” Warnings and cautions to those in power better watch their ass when it comes to public relations. And let’s face facts, many presidents were caught with their pants down, so to speak. Jefferson, JFK and Clinton all got tagged as cheaters. Lincoln had clinical depression. Grant was a functioning alcoholic. Both Hayes and Dubya’s ascent to the throne were in question. Obama smoked. Trump once hosted a reality show. No one’s perfect, but to have their dirty laundry aired by the papers, the radio, Fox News and Google? Where does it stop? Should it? Should the Prez be accountable for every bare scintilla of action, which may effect the government in particular and the republic as a whole?


Sometimes those angular secrets reveal the intentions or even the true nature of the President. Either some hidden agendum or a skeleton in the closet (“Mr Jefferson? Sally Hemings on line 2. It’s a girl!”) may affect the normally rational judgment we hope our elected leaders posses. Or not. Most of us couldn’t be bothered by what gets churned out on Capitol Hill so long as our roads are paved and the price of Arizona tea never goes up. But there are inner workings, always inner workings that drive the president beyond his public office. It’s called being human, and most humans regardless of title have at least one hidden agendum in the closet. The best presidential example?

You guessed it. Richard Milhaus Nixon.

This choice is not just because of this week’s movie. Nor is it how his administration crashed and burned into scandal and dust. It’s about how “the mighty have fallen.” Drop the portcullis. Release the hounds. Unleash the Kraken. The failed Nixon administration and the ensuing folderol is a shame really. Nixon was born to politic, but the demons that plagued him from the past came to the fore once in office. Heist by his own petard and boy did the man go down in flames, and not some blaze of glory. Go f*ck off America. And Cambodia. And Laos. And accountability. Dammit, Tricky Dick, WTF went wrong?

To keep it short, it was an open secret that Nixon kept a list of his enemies towards the end of his time in the White House. He had over 20 names on the list, including trusted NPR columnist Daniel Schorr and beloved leading man Paul Newman (?). I forget who stated this regarding Nixon’s list, but if a man has to make a list of his enemies he has too many enemies. Rev Martin L King was also skeptical about Nixon’s intentions regarding his politics, him telling a Nixon biographer, “If Richard Nixon is not sincere, he is the most dangerous man in America.” MLK passing judgment. Consider that for a brief moment.

I did some honest research before tackling this installment. Since I wasn’t around when Watergate went down, I bounced around from site to site to get the whole picture. And boy, that picture was drawn by dozens of artists on retainer. Way too many details. So much so that when I unravelled the matter, I still felt there was more to the story. I even asked a few co-workers about the scandal who were around when I wasn’t.

For the uninformed (read: me) back during election year 1974, when Nixon was pursuing a second term, he and his cronies wanted to dig up some dirt on his possible rivals come November. The DNC was being held at the Watergate Hotel, so via espionage and burglary five thieves busted into the complex with the aim to wiretap the place so the committee to re-elect Nixon could get some straight dope from those on his Enemies List. They were caught red-handed, hired by the goons in Nixon’s inner circle. Understanding the dire fix he was in, definite impeachment looming large, Nixon had to decide to either sh*t or get off the pot. He got off the pot, resigned and took flight.

My older co-workers agreed, “Yes. That was pretty much it.”

Watergate was a warning beacon and/or a cautionary tale of when the President’s right to keeping certain things private—under wraps—could turn rotten, or at least misguided. Despite my limited understanding of Nixon’s rise and fall, I could not but help to view him as a tragic figure. I’m talking his foibles, not how he conducted business. I mean, one did inform the other, but keeping it all bottled up was Nixon’s ultimate downfall. Which is sad. He was probably the most qualified person to be President than any other in the 20th Century. He served in the Navy, becoming a decorated lieutenant post-Pearl Harbor (despite being a birthright Quaker, who do not condone violence in any form). He had a sterling record as a California congressman and later in senate (despite his very far right leanings, even for the 1950s). He was Ike’s VP. Despite losing to Kennedy in 1960 he handily won the 1968 election by a virtual electoral landslide (his 301 votes to Humphrey’s respectable 191 and Wallace’s paltry 46). In power he upgraded Medicaid and even helped the EPA get off the ground. And in 1972 only Nixon could go to China, literally.

All these political accomplishments, and still. Talking about his “Enemies List” opens a door into a very successful politician and a very insure man. With Watergate, his demons were laid bare, and they had been lurking al along. Recall MLK’s comment. As Prez, Nixon cut a presence. He had a unique voice and mannerisms that exuded assuredness. He truly mastered the “bully pulpit” stance that Teddy Roosevelt pioneered almost 80 years hence. Nixon was good at spin. He was also adept at denial. The man had many bones to pick from dinosaurs in his youth. After all I looked up on the man I got the impression that what got Nixon into politics—and he was very good at it—was not a desire to serve his country, but rather prove to all those “enemies” from his past, “See? How ya like me now?” That skein got unwound very fast in 1974. More like a tidal surge from a man’s tortured mind. It’s all very sad in hindsight.

And consider this: if Nixon did own up to his crimes? If he did apologize for his malfeasance? Would he seem sympathetic?

Like I said, it would be up to the court of public opinion to decide. Not an impeachment hearing…

The Story…

Not long after President Gerald Ford—perhaps the last just man in Sodom—pardoned Richard Nixon (Langella) for his involvement in the Watergate Scandal, the outrage bubbled up. What the hell really happened? Wiretapping? Where are those tapes? What’s on ’em? What are you hiding, Dick? The impeachment never happened, but there was still the court of public opinion to answer to. You were our elected leader and you abused your power! Understandably, Americans were very upset the President tried to hoodwink them, and instead of standing trial, Nixon resigned and fled. In the endgame there was no apology for the man’s misdeeds.

It was more like the reckoning. It was true Nixon never owned up to his alleged crimes; the man was proud and wanted his stained reputation cleansed. If not for the public’s satisfaction but for his. Nixon was firmly convinced he had served his country well, therefore deserving a modicum of respect. An opportunity to explain to America his side of the story may improve his image, which had been tarnished for far too long. Yes, Watergate was a huge mess, but even the lowest of the low is entitled to at least one second chance. Right?

Enter David Frost (Sheen). A ribald TV personality from the UK, Frost’s equally at home emceeing game shows as he was conducting talk show interviews. A clown, for lack of a better term. Fluff was his medium, aided well with having a nose for the next hot property that came down the pike. Ever opportunistic, Frost hatched the idea that would make him a legit (or at least respectable) TV journalist. He watched Nixon’s resignation on the tube and had a corker of an idea: sit down with the disgraced former President and interview him. Get the scoop on all that went down leading up to Watergate. The ratings would be huge! As well as a chance for Frost to crack America.

It took a few years, but Nixon caught wind of this upstart young Brit’s plan to bring the true Nixon to the masses. Nixon figured Frost as an easy mark, a lightweight, and in front of the camera he could spin whatever came to his mind while this whippersnapper could just sit still, cringe and experience Nixon The Man in full force! The former president could explain away everything while this limey tot would have to just sit still and quiver whilst being broadcasted to millions of Americans. To Nixon this would be the best of both worlds: speak his peace and demonstrate the authority that his f*cking former subjects refused to respect.

Such scheming didn’t account for two things: Frost’s artless on air ambition, and Nixon’s failure to understand he’s not President anymore.

We’re going live in three, two, one…

The Review…

Ron Howard is no stranger to historical fiction. I examined his biopic Cinderella Man here, much to my delight. His Apollo 13 was a real crowd pleaser. His Far And Away not so much, but at least we got a history lesson on how the Howard family set down roots in America. A Beautiful Mind won a (dubious) Best Picture Oscar, and introduced most of us to the almost forgotten mathematician John Forbes Nash, Jr. He explained away better than anyone the intractable Moby-Dick by recounting the maritime exploits that inspired the novel with In The Heart Of The Sea. Howard even directed a pair of documentaries regarding the Beatles and Jay-Z (read that again). Safe to say the guy knows his stuff and has his thesis on its way to the AFI. Probably already there, with a program at the ready in Howard Film Studies.

After watching many, many of his films I believe I understand Howard’s appeal. Ron spent so much of the time in his youth starring on TV shows (EG: from Andy Griffith to Happy Days) that how a studio works to create a solid investment—hopefully a profitable one—there must be an efficient formula to get the job done. Such an ethos plays out in practice with his films. His movies are of middlebrow entertainment, aided by keen scenarists, solid actors and overall an engaging story. Not a lot of flash and splash (in fact, most of his films that apply that kinda formula ain’t that good. Read: The DaVinci Code movies), and whatever style gets spun a decent amount of substance makes up for any of the usual Hollywood trappings. I’m thinking about those comments Scorsese made about the MCU not being cinema. Whatever that means, especially regarding Howard’s output. Movies are meant to entertain first, and maybe become examples of art. I figure Howard just wants to direct good stories. And if the films get an award? That’s nice, but awards are fleeting in showbiz, whereas maintaining a good reputation is priceless.

So the numero uno appeal of Howard’s movies is their efficiency. The pacing is always spot on. His best films are like playing Ocarina Of Time (“Hey! Listen!”): just challenging enough, yet still rewarding. Your curiosity never wavers about what the next scene’s gonna deliver. However…this gets formulaic. The best directors always play their hands. It’s their signature, but sometimes it works through innovation, not revolution. Spielberg has been getting away with faces of shock and awe ever since Duel. Namely, we expect a certain madness to our fave directors’ methods. I now claim that when some sort of twist invades a good directors’ manque, makes them think twice, proposes a challenge, ah! Something to be reckoned with! Gimme a shot. Like all good directors try. Hey, Coppola was the pinnacle of mediocre until he was handed the script to The Godfather films. I’d like to believe that Howard rose to a similar challenge with Frost/Nixon. Seemed that way to me.

So what was different this time out for Richie Cunningham? Frost/Nixon‘s script. It was based on a stage play. And it showed in the best way possible. Instead of applying the term “pacing” as the ace in my hole of movie watching, substitute “efficiency.” Howard’s overall directorial style is efficiency; can’t say that enough. On the whole precious little screen time was wasted filler; scenes there just to pad out the story for story’s sake, not a movie. Efficiency is the watchword of any play. There are no second takes in a play. There are no editors. Even the director is relegated to the wings when the curtains go up. This spirit carried over with Howard’s approach. Nixon had a solid docudrama feel, a Ken Burns type air, but not handling the subject matter. The direction. Every shot, every scene, told a very deliberate story. Deliberate, doubtless with Howard’s experience in TV. This was a movie about a series of TV interviews, correct? The connective tissue between Frost’s drive, Nixon’s “charm,” and the whole production is about seeing. There were plenty of shots regarding Clint Howard as the director of the interviews tugging at both Frost and Nixon equally, for production value. This whole affair was about image, not truth, justice and Nixon having his way. Nixon was compartmentalized like a proper three act play. Here and now. Take. Here and now. Take. And so forth. Sounds boring, but don’t confuse boredom with efficiency. With Howard at the helm, Nixon was—as jazz fans understand—in the pocket.

I found another key aspect of this play-to-film wonderfully curious. Howard is known to have a gentle but omnipresent hand on his cast members. Not like that, you pervs. The actor whisperer. Since Nixon was based on historical events, Howard managed to coax honesty out of a parcel of rogues who have in other films acted like…themselves, only here to frame the narrative. Not to crack wise, but to commit.

Here’s what I’m screaming: Rockwell, Platt and Sheen are loose cannons. It’s their stock in trade. Yet with Nixon they were playing muted versions of their schtick. We traded comedy for the gaunt sweat act. Rockwell’s characters are usually blowhards and Platt’s are as equally blustery. Sheen knows no bounds as a a fixture of quirky cinema (EG: Midnight In Paris, The Underworld movies as well as The Twilight Saga). The only quirks here with Nixon is playing shallow and way out of his league as Frost. This is our protagonist? The guy to get the job done? He’s as equally ineffective has Nixon to get a straight story. And yet it works. These ruffians are the cinematic version of the Classic muses: Practice (Frost), Memory (Reston) and Song (Platt). All foils to Tricky Dick, our Melpomene here. The muse of tragedy. And what’s more Classic than a three act drama after all? More on those three stooges later.

And calm down. There’s drunken ranting on the way. Relax. I’m a professional.

Speaking of Nixon’s portrayal, Langella is a character actor extraordinaire. If the guy can be Skeletor, he can be Nixon without any air of mimicry. Despite the truth that Nixon’s personality and mannerisms are so entrenched in America’s pop culture (read: like Star Trek, Star Wars and the purple stuff vs Sunny D debate) that him bringing something new to the screen is nothing short of engaging. Nixon was a human being, after all. Shoddy president, sure, but someone was demonized as he was back then was still a person with feelings like all of us. Thanks in part to the story’s timeline, Langella pulls of a Nixon that most Americans may have never seen: not being the president, at least not in body. Langella pulls off the charm and cagey personality of the late Nixon, as well as his well honed, lizard-like guardedness that became all he was post-Watergate. Langella’s Nixon oozes charisma and menace in equal measure, all the while ratcheting up the tension so the audience may get the to see him crack, given enough of Frost’s rope if at all. In sum, Langella was great at being Nixon the performer.

As Langella’s foil, Sheen did a remarkable job of both overcoming and mining from his fanciful roles that prepared him for assuming Frost’s mantel. Sheen’s Frost quickly learned he is way in over his head with his pet project. The man was so hungry for the interviews he’d do/pay almost anything just to prove he’s legit. No shocker that the very few had much faith in Frost, and for good reason. Sheen delivered his character as shallow as a carnival barker, which isn’t straying from the truth. On some level Sheen’s Frost had the media cache of Rod Roddy, and a lot of back alley dealing was done in order to fund his little, dangerous venture. Um, I’m no tele-journalist, and perhaps back in 1977 things worked differently, but would bush league Frost make a Faustian bargain just for ratings?

Yes. And he did. The watchword regarding Sheen’s performance as Frost is shallow. Almost plastic. Desperate and insecure, and his swinging lifestyle made by his journeywork had in no way prepared David for his Goliath. Sheen is codependent (he never seemed to be alone with himself), buoyed by a carefully etched personality and a wooden smile. Frost’s jet-setting image was a very obvious, but less engaging affront. It’s him trying to dress the part (K)but the imperious attitude that has served him so well in the past is flayed naked when it gets down to the nitty-gritty of hard journalism. Sheen’s Frost was shallow; he was entrenched in it. Always with the grin. I kept waiting for Frost to crack well before Nixon might. You noticed how his posture kept changing during the shoot? (K). Like Nixon, Frost was a human being, too. Sheen was awesome as a flawed crusader, but just as imperfect as his opponent was. We earned his sympathy, but it took until the end of the second act. Before that I wanted to slap Sheen silly enough to knock the Valence off his scalp.

Beware of things in threes. The third leg of this potential media blunder stood on Kevin Bacon’s Jack Brennan. Nixon’s lap dog. Bacon, as we all understand and six degrees notwithstanding, is probably the most successful, viable character actors over the past 50 years. And why not? What can’t he do (besides surviving the first Friday The 13th movie)?

Bacon’s Brennan is the Spock to Frost’s Kirk and Nixon’s McCoy. He’s the superego. The negotiator and the one member of the cast who truly understands the make or break nature of Frost’s project. That lap dog crack wasn’t to be snarky. (K) If the interviews make Nixon look bad it’ll make Brennan look very bad, the one who never abandoned the man the rest of an underserving country did. Loyalty, no matter how blind, and anything less would be turning his back on his country. And Nixon. Jeez Brennan is so dedicated a confidant to the former president he even sounds like Nixon. In politics as well as potboiler TV journalism Brennan can see the whole picture. The man has a great deal invested in not only serving Nixon, but protecting an image.

Bacon is stern, passionate and supposedly painted as an antagonist. His Jack doesn’t really come across that way. There’s another major reason why Bacon has been such an in demand character actor for decades. He’s very versatile. Although his Jack a dedicated officer, he’s conflicted. Some other infected his Commander In Chief into impropriety. Bacon plays Brennan not as some blind patriot, but hopes the interviews go well, exonerate Nixon and reassure Jack that he wasn’t backing a losing horse well after the race ended. Bacon’s careful image is so practiced and polished that if its stretched too far it’ll break. The creeping stress and strain Bacon exudes is chaffing against his kind and professional appearance. Overall watching Bacon squirm and sigh and sometimes crack a smile displays the very best of his versatility. If you doubt this, recall his performances in Tremors, Footloose, Stir Of Echoes and/or Diner. Greatest hits here with Jack Brennan. He was the fulcrum upon which two uber-egos are teetering.

Okay, enough man crushes. Since Nixon was ostensibly based on a play there are only small roles, never small actors. The trio of Frost’s coterie/brain trust that was Oliver Platt, Sam Rockwell and Matthew Macfadyen provided a sturdy backbone to keep time on task, not fluffing Frost’s jittery ego. Sure, their his entourage, but not in it for fortune and elbow-rubbing. There’s a mission here, which is proudly introduced by Sam Rockwell’s Reston. He’s a holdover from the self-righteous crusading against The Man yippie, cynical and bitter. I love it when Rockwell gets to be Rockwell. His style is almost always pleasantly unhinged that comes across natural. He’s the kind of character actor that thrives on assuming a role that is not outside his schtick. If you’ve ever seen The Way, Way BackSeven Psychopaths,or Matchstick Men (all covered here, duh) then you know what I mean. His part kinda gets the ball rolling if you consider it.

Oliver Platt is famous for his onscreen prattle, and with Nixon it’s no different. The mouth that walks like a man. He may be considered comic relief, but under the circumstances of Frost’s baby he’s not intentionally funny. His bluster and “what the hell are we doing here, man?” You ever seen Apocalypse Now, with Dennis Hopper as the photojournalist? Platt was like that, only less manic. His was more like his gorge was always on the way to being buoyant, and it took Rockwell and especially Macfadyen to reign him in.

And speaking of Macfadyen—the aide de camp—his icy logic keeps Frost in check (there’s a kind of mechanics at work here with Nixon, don’t you think). His Burt is the antithesis of Jack. Where Brennan was active, trying to be “the man behind the man,” Birt was the man behind the curtain. Always reigning in Frost’s frustrations and anxieties. Keep the eyes on the prize. Birt reminded me of Mr Spock, and that’s a complement. Someone had to keep Frost out of the clouds. Truth be told Macfadyen was more like Mr Data, telling it like it is, and with a conviction so stern you could not but help to listen to him when he was on screen. Macfadyen was the tonic that the rest of the cast needed, as did we. Escape the silly flights of fancy and get back to work, people!

So that’s the cast. Like I said, Nixon was based on a stage play, so there were no small roles. Solid acting all around. Sounds like I have no gripes. Psych!

The technical aspect of Nixon was a bit dodgy. The air of crusading got a bit repetitive and tiring. A lot of spinning wheels. It felt like after a while we knew the film’s outcome, but not in the way Howard’s Apollo 13 did. We know the crew of the Odyssey REDACTEDNixon got very busy at times. The bottom end of the second act got rather frenetic, our intrepid rubes trying to get their sh*t together after the early interviews turned into Nixon spin doctoring. Call this nervous tension. If all of these histrionics are designed to make us all uneasy, only to make the final reveal all the more rewarding, then the job got done. If only in a cheaped fashion. It’s a minor carp, but it still stuck at me. Talk about a literal media circus.

The key scene in the entire movie may be the best, but also may have been totally fictionalized. Nixon as I repeat was based on a stage play of the same name, and as with plays there’s no room for “filler.” However with the shrewd and efficient Howard at the helm, he know how to bring his audience back down to Earth.  By this I mean he permits his oft wizened protagonists [EG: Jim Lovell, John Nash, The Grinch (no fooling here), etc] a small window of opportunity/redemption to turn things around in their favor. This tactic plays out in what I’ll call the “drunk dial” scene. If this was a true story, it was a vital foreshadowing of the final interview. If Howard made it all up…it would still be cool.

We’ve been led across an hour and 45 minutes of post political posturing and way too many 70’s era fashions. There better be a glitch in the Matrix if we’re gonna wrap up little slice of while we’re still young. We’ve learned the stakes grow ever hight as one interview becomes another interview. We still don’t truly understand what the endgame is. Frost seeking legitimacy or Nixon demanding redemption? Until the call.

I won’t give it away. The crux of the whole story resting a single scene and I’m gonna blow the load? That’s worse than spoiling. That’s just a dick move (no pun intended).

Keeping it simple: Frost gets to passively bleed a tipsy Dick dry before their last on air day together. That’s it, that’s all and pay attention when that scene arrives. Howard efficiency at its best. And it sure would’ve been a cool story if it ever was.

I guess I should wrap up now. I’ve been longwinded but surgical in this week’s installment. The subject matter demanded it. There were no easy answers from Nixon. I think that one message I could’ve walked away with it’s always very hard to have that talk with the man in the mirror. The guy that knows everything. Every little detail, speck, foible and good deed in the reflection.

Sure beats being grilled in a stranger’s house by some limey playboy with a perm.

The Verdict…

Rent it or relent it? Rent it, indeed. Although Nixon was dense as well as cluttered in equal doses, Howard’s trademark efficient direction made for a very absorbing historical. Funny thing though is it still had that tightness and intimacy that comes with a play. Guess I’ve watched My Dinner With Andre once too often. Inconceivable!

The Stray Observations…

  • Sheen has perfect, distracting hair.
  • “You and Vidal Sassoon.”
  • Nice metaphor with The Great Escape there.
  • “I got six.”
  • Does Kevin Bacon ever age?
  • “I wouldn’t want to be a Russian leader. They never know when they’re being taped.”
  • (K) Don’t make promises you can’t keep.
  • Rockwell has a good shaggy hippie look going on, because a decade after the Summer Of Love is what he looks like.
  • “Can I play Deep Crack?”
  • Sometimes a cigar is not a cigar.
  • “Those are real Bunnies?”
  • Hey, Platt does a good Nixon. Maybe better than Langella.
  • “No holds barred.”

The Kudos…

And so concludes our series of pulverizing biopics and fictional histories here at RIORI. I never knew how much of you in the blogosphere were so interested in such movies. The hits have been crazy. Thanks. Guess I should try this again sometime. Perhaps with a different genre. We’ll see.

Thanks again for tuning in and all the likes. We should do this more often. 🙂

The Next Time…

And now for something completely different. It’s time to bone up on some classic animated comedy for the New Century. It’s the Looney Tunes: Back In Action! Catch it, Doc!

RIORI Presents Installment #191: Morten Tyldum’s “The Imitation Game” (2014)

The Movie…

The Players…

Benedict Cumberbatch, Keira Knightly, Mark Strong, Allen Leech, Rory Kinnear, Matthew Beard, Matthew Goode and Charles Dance, with Alex Lawther and Jack Bannon.

The Story…

When England entered the fray back in World War II, she was a starving nation. As an island country, supply ships were the lifeblood of the nation. However said ships were regularly torpedoed by the Axis’ U-Boats and the Allies’ planes shot down before landing. Why? It was an enigma.

Or rather the Enigma: the Nazis’ supposedly unbreakable coder/decoder, the ultimate machine made to deliver encrypted orders. Every day the codex changes, and every day Allied aid is rendered flotsam, jetsam and burning flak. Impossible to determine when the next attack will strike. The UK needs to crack those codes and soon, or all will be lost.

England’s best mathematicians have been beset to cracking the damned machine, and have been bested over and over again. Time is running out, and who could ever be sharp enough to find a pattern? Well, humble, eccentric mathematics professor Alan Turning has a notion, but first it must pass military muster. And it eventually does: Fight fire with fire. Create a machine to defeat a machine.

Turing’s so crazy that he just might make it work.

The Update…

Yeah, yeah. I know. Always streamlining yet still dropping down traffic cones. Those orange ones. They mean beware. Like Pete Townsend lyricized, “The music must change; For we’re chewing a bone.” I’m now getting down to the marrow, out of respect for my subscribers. Namely be more direct and quit the fluff. You’ll get it later. Hopefully.


The Rant…

Here we are, yet again. This is the penultimate installment of historical fiction movies (until a fresh one comes a-creeping), that the formers have been received quite well here at RIORI. I’ve been genuinely surprised and quite pleased. I guess it’s kinda significant, since the likes and visits have been off the minor scale that this blog reaches. Thanks fer yer support.

Here we go…

Once a while back while waiting for my auto to be serviced, I picked up a then recent issue of Time magazine while in the waiting room. Time magazine, where I always go for the truth. Some article I gleaned was about a computer program that could beat the “Turing Test” courtesy of the nice folks at Google, natch. It broke down the program algorithms of human speech so to mimic responses to the user’s questions and answers. There was a sample of the journalist’s discourse with the computer that ran Google’s digital Rosetta Stone to illustrate how smart the program was in imitating human conversation. Nifty.

Before we lurch any further, I feel the definition of what the “Turning Test” (AKA “The Imitation Game.” Hey! Like the movie!) is. Dr Turing hypothesized that a test for intelligence in a computer, requiring that a human being should be unable to distinguish the machine from another human being by using the replies to questions put to both (definition courtesy of the OED). Sort of a like a game of poker, with a heavy amount of bluffing.

I’ll cut to the chase of what the article said: Google’s advanced whatsit failed to pass. Why? By responding to human questions in an all too human way. Simply put, Google Turing kept changing the subject when it did not know how to respond. This happened often. A lot. Not unlike a lot of flesh and bloods who find the conversation awkward. Since the interviewer knew he was chatting with a computer didn’t make for a decent double blind, how the program kept changing the subject was key to making it feel akin to dealing with a telemarker rather than a member of the human race.

In true Google fashion, the conversation ran like ads, suggesting products, demographics and the (failed) Google Glass quite a bit. Much face was lost. Blame the humans with the discourse, not the one that started it. It felt to me that the program didn’t fail at mimicking human conversation (it was transcribed in the article). It failed mimicking human nature.

More on that later. Open the pod bay door, Hal.

Do computers really “compute” anymore? The original, ginormous, granddaddy of ’em all computer ENIAC did just that back in the day. Calculating mathematical equations that, in short, helped the Allies to win World War II. ENIAC was the first digital computer. It was as big as a trailer home, used vacuum tubes instead of non-existent microchips to store memory of less than that of ten digit decimals, and was modular but never really portable—it could be dismantled for transit to another lab, which required a few trucks. ENIAC didn’t have WiFi or even Solitaire. Not a feature was stirring. Not even a mouse.

Ho ho ho.

Modern computers, like my iMac, iPhone and iPad, do indeed compute. They use math in order to run programs. However they don’t use a ten digit decimal memory, instead they employ bytes. 00 and 01. Positive and negative. Kilo, mega, giga and tera. Yes or no, perhaps what Turing was getting at when he hypothesized how a computer could “think.” Could a computerized device think for itself? Hence his imitation game, which—Time magazine notwithstanding—has been lost time and time again over the past thirty years or so. Modern computers don’t think in the classical sense, but they do the thinking for us. Modern computers suck at human nature, but they excel at predicting it.

What am I getting at? Glad you failed to ask. Here’s a quick Turing-esque question: what’s your mother’s phone number? I’ll wait.



Did you look at your phone or did the correct ten digits ran through your brain? These days, I’m placing my bets on the former. I do it too, and my senior mother lives with me. Chances are your entire contact list is there on your smartphone so you don’t have to bother remembering it. Here’s a relevant story: once upon a time I called Apple tech support to deal with something hinky with my new phone, and knowing full well it’s hard to tweak your mobile while talking on it I opted to use mom’s phone to make the call.

It didn’t go as planned.

The IVR was useless, so I pressed zero. The CCR was useless, because she failed to hear me say I was not on my iPhone but was using my mother’s which was why the accounts didn’t jibe plus it’s hard to tweak oh you get it. Long story short after our planet made its annual stroll around the sun the Tech asked me to specify exactly which iPhone was I calling about. I gave her my number and clarified I was talking on my mother’s line, and then gave her mom’s.

“Wow! You knew that off the top of your head?”

Sheepishly I said, “I checked my contacts list on my phone.”

My mother. As of this installment I still haven’t committed her number to memory. Any why not? That’s what mobile phones are for.

It’s about the anti-Turing test. Computers can’t think outright, even in these challenging times. But they can think for us. Examples? I don’t know your phone number, but you could call me if you wanted. I don’t know what level your PC is at in the latest iteration of Gears Of War, but your team does and you’ve never met any of them IRL. Nor should you, nor does it matter. Spotify knows what you want to listen to. Tinder knows how desperate/horny you are. Your Apple Watch knows your pulse rate and you don’t and you never thought about your pulse rate until you strapped that gizmo over your wrist in the first place. You’re welcome and thank you.

I figure you follow, but thanks to the tenor of this tale I’m probably going to retell a story of why I gave up online video games and why MMOs concern me. The reason? It was an addiction, and my brain left my mind for two years. It was also something bit more sinister, and I’ll bet Turing would’ve never calculated this game:

I heard about some matter back in 2001 regarding some plane crashes in NYC. I knew about hunting for 7 star plus weapons for my PC in Phantasy Star Online, v 2.0 on my Sega Dreamcast via side quests and trading between myself and my online cadre at 2 AM, every AM from London because the USA server was littered with dooshes. It cost me 5 Euros monthly, but was worth it.

My Dreamcast and knew this so I didn’t have to. Pew pew pew. Rather my diminutive, curvy, cutie pie HUnewearl could score free items from my teammates just by me being high level as well as being female (BTW the Dreamcast was the best 6 gen console ever). The game had it’s primitive algorithms; being the first console with built-in online capability (56k dial up or broadband. No WiFi yet), and you could download games as well as upgrade hard copy in the forms of new quests, advancing difficulty and of course always new hacks and treasures. For 2001 online gaming, it was very immersive. So much so that were three priorities in my life back in 2000-02: PSOv2, work and booze. Eating and the g/f became mere distractions. I’m not kidding that the game became my life. Like so many addictions, you cannot wait for your next fix, be it a drink, a smoke or a raid party. It becomes all consuming, and when your addiction is calmed by the power of a machine, a computer, well you’ve just given up freewill and sunshine to level up your team of customized skins.

The computer is thinking for you by that point. It guides your moves, urges and business. It’s not really that different than saving numbers in your smart phone, or digital photos on your hard drive (the app can sort them out for you) or every bit of info about your life in the Cloud. You don’t have to remember sh*t anymore, even how to write a proper blog. Grammerly will tell you how to write good. I mean well. It’s all there in the bits and bytes of your lives, either waiting for you to initiate something or finding some link that may engage you. Sad? Cynical? Doomspeak? Yeah. The truth? Getting there.

As if wasn’t made clear by now, I’ve always been wary of unbridled technology run amok. It’s usually tied to advertising and profit in some fashion, telling what you want, by billboard and website alike. I’m not a luddite, though; I don’t think technology is evil in itself, but how it is used isn’t always about creating viable COVID vaccines. Sometimes tech is used to create COVID and its evil brood, if you hear what I’m screaming. Computers are only as helpful as their users, and what they program and access can make our society rise and fall. These days, thanks to the Internet we have a wealth of information and a dearth of wisdom. Social media is an echo chamber and crypto currency is a select swindle. Did you put a third mortgage on your home to finance a PS5? Why do I ask this stuff?

So, is what the imitation claimed accurate? Can we tell if computers can think, even in the abstract, like HAL in 2001: A Space Odyssey? Like AI? I don’t think so, not yet anyways. However if we reach that point in the not so distant the computers will do fully think for us like in The Matrix and we’ll be downgraded to just mere applications. Apps, the programs that run your “lives.”

Turing may have been right in his conjecture. I can almost hear him turning over in his ashes…

The Review…

In my never-ending quest for simplicity and efficiency I decided with this installment to forgo The Story section en toto. Hope you read the above Warning. I finally figured there’s no need to re-encapsulate the movie’s plot that I already encapsulated in The Basics section. We can all read. That’s why we’re here, I hope. Otherwise you got lost and the link to DraftKings is here. Now double down, ante up, whatever and thank your mom for the sandwiches.

Ostensibly, The Imitation Game was about how the eccentric and brilliant mathematician Alan Turing (Cumberbatch) created the first truly digital computer to decipher the Nazi’s uncrackable Enigma. And you’d be correct on that notion, to a point. You could’ve also viewed the story of Turing coming to (reluctant) terms with his homosexuality, and that’s not far off either. Myself, ever the contrarian, had a different view. Mine was about “passing.”

It’s a sinister term, trying to prove/con oneself an equal citizen in an intolerant society. Racism, sexism, ageism. Happens everywhere around the globe. Even the Japanese, some of the most accepting people on Earth harbor some prejudice against the native ainu that live on Hokkaido island to the north. Akin to how the Aussies regard the abos, or the failing caste system in India, or how the American white majority get over on the black and the brown. The other. The misunderstood. Like classic Greek playwright Aeschylus proclaimed, “Everybody is quick to blame the alien.”

When all others were not, that was Alan Turing. Passing. If not for a military strategist and no more than a vacuum cleaner salesman, he had attempted to assimilate himself into a man’s world. Back then, I guess being eccentric and creative wasn’t macho enough. And if you were gay playing in a straight domain? Heaven help you and your naughty bits. As the Brits say Turing was “quite the other thing.” As was his intellect, work and inspiration. Consider this irony: back in the day being a gay man in Britain was a crime, not unlike with Nazi Germany. Think about that.

In this context, passing is a dangerous game. I believe the terminology harkens back to the antebellum South during Reconstruction. You know, when all black slaves were freed but not really “freed.” Passing was where lighter-skinned blacks could hoodwink for white folk and thereby evade racist antagonism…so long as they kept a low profile. Passing for white. Due to intolerance, bigotry and the threat of violence “mulattoes”—an ugly term in and of itself—had to hide who they were to survive. Passing meant denying a very basal part of all humans: identity and lineage. Cumberbatch’s Turing was very much in the closet before the closet was built. Going so far as to marry “his girl Friday” Joan Clarke (Knightly), his number one cryptographer. It was more like a man married to a man really married to his work. It was icky to watch, despite Turing and Clarke were ideally fast friends and great partners. Turing and Clarke knew it was a sham, but their union was for the greater good. Heck, even being the man who hired a woman as supervisor on the greatest codebreaking is history? That got Turing into a lot of hot water, if not from the Army than that of public opinion.

All right, enough muckraking. Should’ve said all this in The Rant, but all that truck does come to bear on the overall feel of Game. Namely, this movie was a period piece, but not like Merchant/Ivory or Shakespearean whatnot. The film could’ve only been told in a few sparse years. None of Turing’s seeds would grow to bear fruit if not for the War. That’s a matter of historical fact. The story would not have worked if not under all that pressure. Turing’s story of his imitation game (computer or homosexual) could never be told across a continuum. It’s like the story of John Harrison, who back in 1700s developed a successful, working chronometer for ships at sea to measure longitude. It took five years for Harrison to build it and a few centuries later to understood how it worked (it was still in use in the early 20th Century). We could not have had such a leisurely pace afforded with Game. We just couldn’t. It wasn’t like Charles Babbage woolgathering about his “difference engine.” stakes were too high, and the events could’ve only happened in WWII.  A sort of synchronicity, if you will. There have been other recent biopic films that tackled similar scenarios (EG: The Theory Of Everything, Hidden Figures, Lincoln, etc), but none of them had so much palpable urgency. If not for WWII, and the US not entering the war, the Great Depression would never end, the baby boom would never have happened and we wouldn’t have any iMacs to post blogs on an nonexistent Internet. Desperate times invite desperate measures, and desperation was Turing’s primary modus operandi. Not necessarily to beat the Nazis at their own game, but to prove his theories could be not only feasible but true and even put to positive use. Turing would’ve proven right, earn validation and not have his little secret discovered. Yes, he was indeed driven, but to what end? Turing needed to pass.

It was all about the passing. For all the sexual identity navel-gazing Game indeed had excellent tension, and did not dwell on homosexuality in the abstract. The dire cryptography race got laid on thick and fast; we learned the stakes at hand, and right quick. Game may had been labelled either a drama or a biopic. In execution it was neither: it was a spy thriller. Not like James Bond per se, but there was this always looming tick tick tick and Turing had got to get his sh*t together before he cracked after hearing the daily death tolls on the radio once more. Again, the stakes. Okay, Game was a biopic, but it played like a keen thriller. Time was ever running out, for the Allies as well as Turing’s grip.

Cumberbatch’s perpetual exasperation with duty to king and country and trying to reconcile his research as an extension of his emotions made for delicious drama. The man really sold it. His Turning was angsty but not drenched in cinematic bathos; no hand wringing thought there was a lot to wring about. I did some snooping around online to determine whether or not Turing was a prodigy, autistic, or just a plain eccentric genius. Maybe all three, but not all at the same time. Results were inconclusive. Cumberbatch’s performance and idiosyncratic behavior gave me pause. Sure, it was just acting—really convincing acting, mind you—but it smacked of something. And all the better film for it.

Speaking of autistic tendencies that Turning may or may not have had, I’ve found that really sharp people relish patterns, not unlike our good doctor did. Consider this tale: I had a childhood friend who was an ace at math and music. He played a few instruments and sang, both quite well. But his room was always a mess. No, check that. It only appeared to be a mess. In fact, his yard sale run amok living quarters was a very particular filing system. He always knew where everything was, he just didn’t bother to put things away normally like we passing do. Here: three large mounds of laundry on the floor in selected parts of the room. One clean. One dirty. One comprised of what to wear for the week, socks and all. Books on the floor he had read or wanted to reread. New stuff piled on his dresser. CDs strewn all over the floor for this month’s playlist. New, still wrapped discs at the foot of his unmade bed. He never made his his bed. Quite logically since it was just going to get all messed up come bedtime. And please, don’t touch anything unless you ask first. You might f*ck up the system.

After you have watched Game, you may be nodding your collective heads. My old friend had Asperger’s Syndrome, a mild form of autism. Namely, it results in abnormal but usually harmless behaviors revolving around patterns and rituals as a matter of some senses of control, regardless of the circumstance. Kinda like not changing your socks in the middle of a winning streak, but with a purpose. C’mon, we all let our dirty laundry pile up too much once in a while. But do you have a tape measure at the ready to gauge how high the pile was before it was laundry day? Not that, but yes him. One meter. Always.

Moving forward, I read a sobering response on Quora (hey, it’s better than anti-mask Uncle’s Facebook screed about COVID was created on Venus…which might begin to make sense after a bit) as to whether or not Turing had Asperger’s? Here’s what the forum post reported:

“Diagnosing historical figures can be tricky, and can get a lot of people riled up. That said, if you have enough anecdotal evidence of their behaviour during life, there are diagnostic criteria that can be applied. Psychologists have done this with Turing, and found he met all six of the…criteria for Asperger’s.” Courtesy of P Howell, who also claimed to be autistic. It was a thoughtful response from someone with a similar condition, so I decided to include it here? Valid? Yes. Sound? No, but more honest than anything on TikTok.

Coming back to Earth, Game was a character study alright, but not just the usual tortured genius type. Kinda wondered if Cumberbatch did his research of the character beyond just research. I understand one open-ended comment from a Quora forum does not a doctorate make, but still Cumberbatch sold a quirky genius serving his country with a not-too-deep seated agenda: proving if a computer could think like a person and (you guessed it) pass the grade. All the while you watch Game you know full damned well that Turing does not give two rat sh*ts about the war. He’s used the military’s funding to prove his theories to others and himself. Cumberbatch’d Turing was trying to prove to England that he was something. He was right. He could pass as well as Christopher could calculate. The desperation of this sweats out of Cumberbatch’s performance of Turing, even when he wasn’t sweating. In sum, the man was perfect for the role and really, really sold it. I wasn’t watching stoic Sherlock Holm—er, Ben Cumberbatch. I was watching Alan Turing as if I had met the man (yeah, Ben was that good). I can’t say enough good things with Game.

Except in one way. It wasn’t the fault of the performances, god no. It was the tonic when his Turing slipped in to analog rather than digital mode. These were the scenes where Game got cringey, but deliberately and may scare away erstwhile, adroit, well-heeled moviegoers. Pay attention.

First of all the subject matter of Game was kind of a niche market. Namely early computer science nerds and WW2 history buffs (EG: nerds with a Masters’). Stuff like that is not the flavor in Columbus, which is why despite rave reviews the sales showed it didn’t reach the masses. It’s funny, though. Even for the somewhat arcane history stuff Game was pleasantly accessible, more so than one might’ve thought. The acting is top notch, duh. There’s all sorts of intrigue, drama and palpable tension. My g/f found the movie very interesting and she’s usually into rom-coms and Disney flicks. But she’s also a big Cumberbatch fan, and we found his Turing, terse and angsty as he was he was still human, flawed and may have spent way too much time with “Christopher.” Cumberbatch played more like a computer himself, rather than a flawed human. He lacked sympathy towards others and was often impatient with his peers. Petulant and believing he was the smartest guy in the room (he was) and better than the rest. Sympathy and redundancy, that’s how computer interface works. Little wonder of Turing’s frustrations. Being logical only goes so far. Sometimes it’s best to pick one’s battles, even if you’re unsure as to what you’re battling. That kind of dichotomy requires patience to digest, and since most of Middle America has precious little—always screaming at the microwave to “Hurry up!”—to simultaneously watch and digest a film is anathema and that’s how Waffle House stays in business 24 hours.

…I did it again, didn’t I? No matter…

Here’s a conceit that screams white light in Game: It’s often said that characters are supposed to be likable. Wrong. They’re supposed to be relatable, interesting. Here’s an example: horror writer Clive Barker who created the Hellraiser franchise claimed that the demonic Pinhead never did one nice thing over the span of seven movies, yet he still gets marriage proposals via email to this day. Interesting, just like Cumberbatch’s Turing. I’m not talking proposals, I’m talking posthumous respect. In the final analysis, cracking the Enigma was his show all the way. Cumberbatch’s portrayal will never achieve Gump-like adoration, since he was such a snot. But his performance was about an interesting snot. Gold stars all around for characterization. In sum, you need to see this film.

Speaking of acting, Mark Strong is fast becoming one of my fave character actors. His is very good at being mean. From 1917 to Green Lantern to John Carter Of Mars he has raised being callous, indifferent and belittling to the protagonists he has to deal with in his films. He’s also very smug about it. It’s always a ton of fun to find a villain you love to hate, especially when the bad guy believes erroneously he’s in the right. And who wouldn’t like to bust a stuffy bureaucrat in the chops? Moving on.

Secondly, Game was a non-linear movie, but again strangely more accessible than one might’ve believed. Yeah, I covered a few non-linear flicks here at RIORI (EG: The FountainTristram Shandy, I’m Not There, etc) and they have been a little disorienting to watch. However the flashbacks and jumps in Game are tastefully done. Meaning they are bookends to the A plot. We get involved in Turing’s mission, and once there’s a breath, boink, back in time forward in time. It felt the director was very “calculating” to lighten things up once in a while, if only just for a change of pace. It was kinda akin to when Shakespeare would inject some levity in a play moments before the sh*t went down. Catch us off guard. Tyldum wanted us to catch up, take a breather and then back into the churning circuits. I found that neat.

Towards the final act of Game, I found myself asking, “Was all of this just interrogation?” Was the movie designed to make you question identity, digital and/or analog. If that was the case it was a very good questioning, minus the good cop. Game may have been about cryptography, sexual identity, passing and the never to be fully understood human condition, but it felt to me the movie was prodding me to go a little deeper. I got a hidden message beneath the whole folderol with cracking the Enigma and the dangers of Turing stepping out of the closet. That was overt. Something told me that there was an undercurrent—a code—that director Tyldum wanted me to crack. It may have been all subjective, but I felt there was some code lurking, waiting to be cracked.

The first proto-social media algorithms. Names, times, objectives. Get them all in line and a private code may reveal itself. That’s FaceBook. That’s Twitter. Unfortunately TikTok. Was Tyldum suggesting that accidentally Turing invited social media into our world as we know it today? Let his imitation game reach its fruition to suppose what humans wanted to get from computers? Dictate their lives? Make people second guess everything? Enhance egos? That may be a stretch, right?

Maybe, maybe not. I was probably reading too much into it. But overall Game was a great length of code, inviting decryption even for a basic app like me.

The Final Analysis…

Rent it or relent it? Rent it. Game is a sturdy flick, filled with lots of intrigue and excellent drama. A solid biopic of an interesting person in a unique situation who exited too soon leaving a lot of unanswered questions. Also with a representative performance that well demands, “Why?” Queue up and make up your mind. I did.

The Stray Observations…

An explanation: I’ve decided to quit the movie watching as a solitary job and now I go over to my girlfriend’s place on the weekend to watch this week’s assault on the senses together. She makes some pretty keen observations with this film, so then I added them to my notes and credit her where credit is due. Whenever you read (K) in the notes or observations, it was her comment not mine. It’s good to get a second opinion.

  • “Pay attention.”
  • (K) That’s a lot of numbers.
  • “The carrots got into the peas.”
  • If only hunting for a job was as easy as solving a crossword. My mom’s a crossword freak. WW2 would’ve ended in week if she were born sooner.
  • “You just defeated the Nazis with a crossword puzzle.”
  • (K) The simple was so simple it was tricky.
  • “When people talk to each other, they never say what they mean….They say something else and you’re expected to just know what they mean.” Kinda like texting.
  • That smirk.
  • “We love each other in our own way.”
  • Here’s a keen urban legend about Alan Turing: One of Turing’s fave snacks was apples (there’s a scene in the movie about that). Turing took his own life, and his bedside was an apple with a big bite out of it (“last meal”) tainted with cyanide, which the police noted. Story went that Steve Wozniak heard this tale and shared it with his partner Steve Jobs. Hence Apple’s moniker and logo. There are two kinds of stories: those that are true and those that should be.
  • “Is that it?”

The Next Time…

Did Micheal Sheen really try to Frost/Nixon, as portrayed by Frank Langella? We’ll see as RIORI‘s series of biopics comes to an end.

Thanks for coming along.


RIORI Presents Installment #190: Tate Taylor’s “Get On Up” (2014), pt. 1

The Players…

Chadwick Boseman, Nelsan Ellis, Octavia Spencer, Jill Scott and Dan Ackroyd, with Craig Robinson, Viola Davis, Lennie James and Brandon Smith.

The Basics…

Like with the First Man on the moon, astronaut Neil Armstrong, we examine the life and times of the “Godfather Of Soul,” “The Hardest Working Man In Show Business,” “Mr Dynamite” himself, the incomparable James Brown! Yeah!

The Rant…

True to form, this installment culls deeply from a personal, hands deep in pockets kind of nostalgia. The owned, best kind.

Ah, but the Temps. They could sing. As a little white kid with all the coolness cachet of a sack of flour, I knew I couldn’t plead like David Ruffin, but I liked what I heard. I recognized Motown music as soulful without really understanding what that meant. It was something good, and a nice change of pace from infinite rotations of Graceland (still a great album BTW). A bit more oomph, if you catch my drift.

My mom’s fave Motown group—despite being a 60s Beatlemanic, which was federal law for girl Boomers back then—were and are The Four Tops. It was the first concert she caught back in college. Her alma mater is back in Virginia, and her being from a white bread New Jersey circa 1966 the concert was a revelation. Soul music wasn’t a hot topic back in her hometown, but had a firm foothold in the South. The Motown groups would make regular circuits all around this side of the Mississippi, and were a seasonal fixture in her college town. College gigs were common back then. Like back in the 90s when I caught some newb shock rocker Marilyn Manson. Funniest club date ever, but that’s another story.

So moms caught the Four Tops at the height of their career. She went to an all women’s school, which required much screaming and flailing and perhaps pantie-tossing as these sweat ‘n’ soul guys rocked the stage. She told me how they danced in perfect synch, and when not swiveling they would huddle arm in arm for the ballads, like their cover of Stevie Wonder’s “Your Love Is Sweeter Than Ever.” When it came to the rockin’ songs like “Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch” lead singer Levi Stubbs had the audience in the palm of his hand. I’m making it more dramatic than what my mom saw, but she read this bit and couldn’t argue. To this day whenever she hears a Tops’ tune on the radio, from my iTunes library and/or in the car she starts doing the butt dance and fingerpopping like she did back in the day. Play “It’s The Same Old Song” and it’s Pavlovian; she drops everything and starts to groove. She’s in her 70s. She’s 20 again. It’s a sight to behold. Grow old but don’t grow up, right?

An aside: Moms has always been a sucker for singles, regardless of genre. It’s residue doubtless left over from that Tops’ show. For instance, she drove her father mad with endless rotations of the Dion classic “The Wanderer” back in high school. Whenever Van Halen’s “Jump” comes on the air her reaction is always: “This is a classic!” She’s said the same thing for Alice Cooper’s “School’s Out.” She also prefers AC/DC with Brian Johnson over Bon Scott. There’s no accounting for taste, I’ve heard. When I shared such tidbits offhand with my old bartender friend he blurted, “Yer Mom’s cool!” She also attended high school with a young wallflower named Joe Walsh. That Joe Walsh. He was already ugly then. Moving on.

Back to her concert revelation. Think about that for a moment. Never ever in your wretched life have you ever caught your favorite musician in their prime and knew it. My mom was one of the chosen few: it was actually the Tops’ first national tour, like all across the USA. The way she tells it, she knew what was going down back then. It was a revelation.

Me? Sure, Motown was cool. I love Stevie Wonder and the Temps and Marvin Gaye and all those cats. Great songs to sing along with even if you’re not Ruffin. However growing up on punk and prog and…well, Elton my tastes in tunes demanded a little more oomph. A little more grit. A lot more horns (I played sax in band, remember?). A little more…soul.

Enter Stax Records. Deep southern soul. Aretha, Otis, Carla, Ike, Booker T and the MGs (“Memphis Group” for the curious) and especially my guys Sam and Dave. I loves me some Sam and Dave. They never sang a bad song. Never. One of my fave songs by them was their first single, “You Don’t Know Like I Know.” I blare this from my car at mind shearing volume as if I drove a low rider. It was in reality an early 90s Volvo sedan. Whatever. Sweat and soul and defiantly not pretty like Motown was. Moms was never much for Stax. Takes all kinds.

Okay. To prove some sort of point in how Stax operated in stark contrast to Berry Gordy’s empire of smooth, here’s a choice tale about how sometimes the best accidents result in the best songs down in Soulsville, USA. Have a seat. Here’s a beer. Shaddap and lissen hup.

The following is an excerpt from Henry Rollins’ Do I Come Here Often? (Los Angeles: 2.13.61 Publishing. 1988) when the infamous LA punk icon got to interview the legendary Issac Hayes about when he was a house songwriter at Stax back in the mid-60s. Here’s Ike’s tale:

“…Starts in a big ol’ room like a movie theater…The toilet was up in the corner of the room. I’m sitting in the center of the room, up against the wall by the piano, playing.  And Dave [Porter, fellow Stax songwriter] said, ‘Man, I’ve got to use the john.’

“He went to the restroom, and I struck a groove. And I said, ‘Damn, I don’t want to lose this thing…Hey man! C’mon!’

“And he said, ‘Hold on! I’m coming!’ And he came out the john with his pants down saying, “That’s it! That’s it! Man, I got the title!” And hey, we sat down and wrote ‘Hold On, I’m Coming.’ You know, it’s a funny thing the way these tunes come out.”

Huh. Chances are Motown’s hit factory never sought inspiration from taking a dump.

That being said, and as with all legends—be it Arthurian, Spider-Man or musical—there always is a wellspring. Whether is be the smooth and poppy grooves of Motown or the girt and grease of Stax, if soul music be where the twain met and/or splintered thanks lay to James Brown and his Famous Flames. Both sides of the card. Grit and groove. Shine and tarnish. Inspired both ends of the spectrum and spreading the gospel—again, so the speak. Brown was a visionary, with his trailblazing fusion of gospel, classic R&B and funk, informing both Houses and endless musicians to this day. Even to this day—15 years after his passing—where his standards can be omnipresent thanks to nostalgia, constant revisionist history of his craft and miles and miles of samples culled for rap songs he’s still a force of nature. As I suggested, his songs could be sweet like Motown or lowdown as with Stax. Brown was so explosive that he was a genre unto himself within soul music. Doubtless that some of the Godfather’s style influenced Otis Redding, Solomon Burke and Aretha. Brown was the Jackie Robinson of funk, brought it to the masses and informed both Motown and Stax how it should be done.

I know, I know. I’m laying it on thick. Some folks dismiss Brown’s catalogue as old hat, so saturated his tunes have been co-opted into popular American culture. However consider this one final story about how a young James left his first mark on the world stage. Only Hendrix at Woodstock outshone James live. Once more into the breach, my friends and quit groaning or else no nap time and no juice boxes with graham crackers. Roll out the towels.

There was this concert film back in the early 60s, The TAMI Show. It featured many up and coming musicians to strut their stuff and doubtless doing so would push record sales. There were a lot of cool acts in their infancy on display on TAMI (“Teenage Awards Music International” for the record). The Beach Boys. Chuck Berry. Smokey Robinson. Marvin Gaye. The Supremes. All on the guest list, including James Brown and the Famous Flames and also some snotnose British Blues group calling themselves the Rolling Stones.

The historical record went down claiming James and the Flames stole the show. The kids went bonkers. The Stones waited in the wings as the act to close the show, and they were agog with James’ performance. It was kinda like, “We have to follow him?” Mick and crew were amazed and delighted by the Flames’ act and figured that guy Brown had the right idea.

For years upon years we know Mick Jagger in concert likes to preen and strut and boogie and play to the audience. I caught the Stones back in the early 90s, and of course I expected Mick to swivel and shake. I was not let down. But if it was not for James Brown, I doubt the Stones wouldn’t’ve enjoyed their legacy so long. They would’ve died after the inaugural Monterey Pop festival playing so aloof. Save Keith, natch. Only kryptonite could kill Keef. The red kind, natch.

If you ever caught some classic videos on YouTube of Mick and the boys performing their frontman came across as too cool for school. Mick’s gestures made him appear aloof, like the audience didn’t deserve his talent. After he and his band watched James and the Flames cut it up, the modern Stones appeared. Instead of Mick affecting the stance of him waiting his turn at the pool table, TAMI showed him bouncing and dancing and swerving and getting into it as we expected him to do well into his 70s. Not unlike James Brown in his 20s. Jumpin’ Jack Flash is a gas, gas, gas now.

Hey, if some then unknown soul brother could alter the course of Britain’s premier rock institution, well, I guess must be a story behind that…

The Apology…

I supposed some you out there in the blogosphere noticed the “part 1” tag attached to this week’s installment. Welp, here’s why:

Due to technical difficulties—namely me trying to reconcile the differences between WordPress’ classic editor and its new block editor—the remainder of this installment got wiped. Sorry. Lost my notes, lost my media, then lost my crackers. Sorry.

Instead of scrapping the whole wad I decided to post the first half; The Breakdown part broke down. Why? Either to maintain my oh so rigid posting schedule and/or maybe drum up some tension and cliffhanging (like when Capt Picard was captured by the Borg at the end of TNG’s third season) as to what may have made Get On Up either compelling or never mind. Wait and see.

Ah well, don’t fret none. Get On Up‘s part 2 will be concluded in the future. Hopefully by then by then I’ll have learned to stop toggling/vacillating between too many Safari tabs. Not to mention not putting my faith in autosave too much.

Until then, stay tuned. 🙂

The Next Time (God willing)

As the first computer scientist, Dr Alan Turing devised his test—better known as The Imitation Game—based on an idea that a computer could be said to “think” if a human interrogator could not tell it apart, through conversation, from another human being.

Read: “passing.”


RIORI Presents Installment #189: Damian Chazelle’s “First Man” (2018)

The Film…


The Players…

Ryan Gosling and Claire Foy, with Jason Clarke, Kyle Chandler, Shea Wigham, Corey Stoll and Lukas Haas.

The Plot…

This film fictionalizes the account about how Neil Armstrong overcame the trials and tribulations of being the first astronaut—the first human—to ever set foot on the Moon.

That’s it. Short and sweet. You’re welcome.

The Rant…

I’ve noticed this resurgence of Flat Earth societies on social media, which is where I go for “the truth” if you dig. These yo-yos proffering some pseudo-science to disprove facts the ancient Greeks figured out long before any Karen had it out with any exasperated manager. I’ve since learned that the ancient Babylonians realized the Earth is round based on simple astronomy (EG: how the sun and moon move across the sky). This conspiracy theory has bubbled up again en masse within the past four years, coincidently enough. It’s rough to be a YouTube subscriber and not see all these posts regarding science versus erroneous empirical evidence. I’ve watched a view channels, and those trying to disprove our amazing planet is nothing more than a D&D-esque platform for humanity to play upon. Never mind the other planets are round, or the moon of the sun even. Nope. God’s just been f*cking with our sense of time and motion for thousands of years. Sure. You ever heard of Occam’s Razor?

Huh? What’s that? You haven’t? Did never catch a screening of Zemekis’ Contact? That movie was based on a novel by uber-astronomer Carl Sagan, who is still held in high esteem in some circles. His book was a feasible, scientifically minded s/f story about how aliens may want to communicate with us. Long story short the movie posited two scenarios. Either astronaut Jodie Foster actually contacted some extra-terrestrial signal or the whole mission was just one big, expensive, international hoax for yuk-yuks. Occam’s Razor says that the simplest answer tends to be the correct one. Either Jodie heard something or John Hurt spent an obscene amount of cash to make Earth’s population look like a bunch of rubes with he mother of all practical jokes. Made you look! Regarding the Flat Earth theory either the firmly established laws of time, space, gravity, general relativity are wrong or Kyle with his Twitter feed and has streamed way too many classic eps of The Outer Limits is correct ignoring basic psychics your average junior in high school understands. Noodle that.

I have a point coming up regarding Flat Earth myopia, and it’s a simple, Occam kind of inquiry. Say these yahoos are correct and we’ve been living on a God’s snooker table for millennia. My response to that theory is thus:


These would-be kindergarten Keplers are so very insistent, if not in a frothing frenzy to prove that our planet is planar one must ask: So what? What’s your point? What do you get out of that?


Humans are an advantageous species. We look for ways to overcome obstacles in the most expedient fashion. Hell, take the COVID vaccines. I’m not some shill for Merck, but I’m pretty sure vaccines take some time to be developed. My mother told me about the polio epidemic in the 50s and how quick Salk made his vaccine available, despite some resistance. Kinda like now (BTW, we presently have not one but two viable vaccines for corona developed within a year, yet Africa has been dying of AIDS going on 40 years. Hmm). We want quick solutions to problems, and like Occam, we want the simplest, most efficient solution.

Solving the COVID crisis is not even in the same league as the Flat Earth theory, but it’s akin to it based on scientific, empirical truth upset the whole “So what?” argument. We know the outcome of effective vaccines (EG: less death, fewer masks and an unencumbered opportunity to go to a movie theatre again). We know the benefit. So what’s the benefit of a flat planet? What does this swift, direct and totally fallacy do to help the true believers? Haven’t seen that on YouTube yet, but I’m willing to wager a small sum that such videos exist. I’d like to meet those folks and sell them this historic bridge in Brooklyn for a dollar. A Canadian dollar. Don’t get nervous.

The best evidence I know of to firmly debunk this silly, unscientific, shut-the-hell-up-already Flat Earth theory can be laid at the feet of—no big surprise—NASA.

Let’s set the way-back machine to July of 1969. The intrepid crew of Apollo XI set down on the moon, the first time in history humanity was off-world. While astronauts Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin were doing geological surveys and taking selfies, command module pilot Michale Collins was in lunar orbit, waiting for his buddies to finish up their day at the dirty beach. History was made and our daring spacefarers made it back to Mother Earth intact, with no small help from the seasoned pilot Collins.

I feel that Collins got the short shrift in NASA history. No, he didn’t make and giant leap for whomever. He was a space valet driver if you think about it, but he was the most seasoned pilot in NASA, cutting his conning teeth back in the Gemini program where young astros were learning the physics of outer space HALO.

One of the highlights of Collins’ career as an astronaut was essentially writing the rulebook for space docking procedures. Hey, all those capsules and satellites and excursion modules had no computer guidance, and they had to fit together somehow. Early NASA flights were seldom self-contained like the ISS is today. Lotta Lego action back in the Gemini program. That’s where Collins had made his bones.

Back in 1966, Collins and company were practicing docking maneuvers during the Gemini X program. The goal was to dock a space capsule with an “Agena Target Docking Vehicle.” Essentially a satellite to—you guessed it—practice docking maneuvers. At the rendezvous point, Collins took this photograph as he approached the Agena (photo courtesy of NASA):

Slow down there. What’s that I spy with my little eye in the background? Looks like Earth, curvature and all. This snap was taken in 1966, before Neil and friends made it to the moon. This was high orbit. I see clouds and the ocean and a hurricane forming and perhaps Argentina and a distinct curved horizon. Pool tables aren’t curvy.

Which leads us to the other conspiracy theory, the bastard stepchild of the Flat Earth myth: NASA faked the moon landings. Now here come the other witless True Believers. Those who claimed the moon landing was a total sham. Again, why? What favor does it give you dingdongs? Stanley Kubrick made up that mock set so LBJ could thumb his nose at the Soviet Federal Space Agency? I view this mentality akin to pranking a stranger with a dozen delivered pizzas. Sure, it could’ve been made a hoax with a big deal Hollywood budget and an isolated soundstage at Area 51. A lot of these would be skeptics claim that the actual film director Kubrick was commissioned to stage the hoax with his expert eye and nifty special effects created by wiz-kid Douglas Trumbull that made their s/f epic 2001: A Space Odyssey such a visual tour de force. Of course it could be done! And it was!

To what end I ask?

Yes, the visuals in 2001 are striking—even 50 odd years later—at least from the tech angle. However all those heavenly bodies in the film, from the moon landing to our intrepid astronauts jetting out to Jupiter are against obvious matte paintings. Very good matte paintings mind you—for the time—but the original story told that Bowman, Poole and HAL were heading off to Saturn to search for intelligent life, not Jupiter. Why the switch? F/X wizard Trumbull nixed the Saturn voyage because he couldn’t create an accurate looking Saturn. This was reflected by how Jupiter in the final cut looked like a cotton candy Chupa-Chup. A very good cotton candy Chupa-Chup, but still just a matte painting.

Wait. To compare here’s a photo from an Earth-based observatory of Jupiter courtesy of NASA back in 1967 (read the log entry), a year before 2001 debuted:

Now here’s a shot of “Jupiter” from 2001, released in 1968:

So let’s get this straight: Kubrick faked the moon landings, despite the film tech at the time was slightly less sophisticated than NASA’s bag of tricks. 2001 dropped a year before the Eagle landed, yet Trumbull was unable to make Saturn look like Saturn, but create Jupiter as a photograph of a photograph of Jupiter. You doubters can go along with debating the film’s feasibility (like a a bow and arrow could  overpower an AK-47 in the wrong hands), but you’ll argue against two dead master filmmakers who admitted their limitations making the ultimate, scientifically accurate s/f movie they couldn’t reproduce with a NASA-sized budget, leaving Lyndon kicking a foot against his Fresca machine.

That’s the trouble with conspiracy theories: they technically can’t be disproven. With every shred of doubt comes a sliver of evidence to the contrary that only invites another theory refuting the evidence. It’s all paradox. It’s all Schrödinger’s Cat. These fallacies just encourage the theorists that they are right, the Universe is wrong and in the end it leads to nothing. Nothing save some self-righteous dolt with a YouTube channel established firmly to be an anthropological buzzkill. So what if the Earth is flat? So what if the moon landing was faked? To what end?

Mostly justifying insecurity, paranoia, the warm fuzzy you have knowing “the truth,” as well it is as bad as you think and, yes, They are out to get you. Now, here’s your sandwich board, scrawl THE END IS NIGH on it, take this bell and go stand on that street corner. Some like-minded nabob may strike up a conversation.


Regrouping, chances are you not familiar with Michael Collins and his story. But you all know who Neil Armstrong was. His story was about being the first man on the moon. He brought back this postcard for all Mankind:

The Story…

Hello? Did you not read The Basics above? Short and sweet?

The Review…

Before we commence with the usual folderol I’d like to share a whimsical story about Neil Armstrong. Not about the man, per se, but the idea of the man and what he inspires.

In college I played sax in the marching band. My then girlfriend played baritone horn. The thing looked like an oversized bugle, but with valves, and bell angled at the audience and you had to carry it like a sack of groceries. They gave off a pleasant, sonorous sound in harmony with the tubas. Every year at band camp, to break the ice and generate morale for the freshmen, the upperclassmen would design a tee shirt to wear during practice. My girl once laid some trivia on me that back in his schooldays Neil Armstrong played in marching band, and played the baritone horn! Upon dropping this science she asked me for my opinion (for some weird reason. I played sax. I already had my John Coltrane’s Crescent album art emblazoned on my tee) as to how maybe incorporate this Armstrong story into a baritone tee. My answer was simple: you ever see online one of those huge, round screens Pink Floyd used to use in their live shows? Superimpose the moon on one with a caption that read, “SUMB Baritones. Still first in space.”

It didn’t happen, but it would’ve been neat. I’d’ve bought one.

Anyway, most folks in modern history lionize Neil Armstrong as the “greatest astronaut ever.” He wasn’t. No one astronaut in the Apollo flight plan were. Those guys were all aces, quick on their feet, able to multitask, savvy in engineering and able to deliver the goods when the “real science” needed churning out down on Earth. Armstrong was a solid engineer and a crack pilot. These days, you want a sortie on the ISS you better carry multiple diplomas earned from universities in New England and/or California. Or even the UK. These days the scientists surf on sine waves more than they can tolerate altitude sickness and subsist on Gerber’s for a few days. These days its all tech and numbers. Back then it was a gamble with gravity. No, Armstrong wasn’t the greatest astronaut, but come Apollo XI, he was the most qualified to command the mission, and he got the job done. The proof is on Betamax somewhere, I think.


*raps pointer on chalkboard*

For our fourth of seven movies in a series that revolve around historical fiction/biopics this week we have First Man. Since I’m an amateur astronomer and have always been nuts about space travel I couldn’t wait to see the film. I’d naturally been drawn to the story (doy) about how Neil Armstrong became…well, Neil Armstrong. First man on the Moon. Awesome! Shots of early NASA history! Behind the scenes of Neil’s homelife against his job…his mission! Why wasn’t this film made sooner?

There are reasons.

First was one of those long gestating projects in ol’ Hollyweird. Not quite in Development Hell, but pretty close. A lot of gears had to turn for the film to grind into being, and timing—as they claim—is everything. So much so that a bit of serendipity was at play back around, oh, 20 plus years ago.

Acclaimed actor/director Clint Eastwood had just wrapped up his NASA dramedy Space Cowboys. Fun flick BTW, a lilted take on the Mercury program meets Geritol. In 2003 author James R Hansen released the official bio of Neil Armstrong titled First Man: The Life Of Neil Armstrong. Clint opted the book for the film rights in 2005. As things went, Eastwood dropped the project (as well as starring in the movie) and First went adrift for awhile. Until Universal and DreamWorks took up the baton, and then assembling a crew to make First happen that was ragtag but proved fruitful. A lot of movies under production work this way, often with success. The original Lion King happened in a ramshackle fashion. It took decades for Forrest Gump spring from page to screen. Even One Flew Over The Cuckoos’ Nest was optioned by Kirk Douglas (who wished to star as McMurphy) only to have son Michael Douglas merely finance it. Sh*t happens, then it fertilizes.

First became a reality piecemeal. Director Chazelle got a lot of applause for his La La Land and rewarded with the Best Director Oscar back in 2016. With that clout La La star Gosling came along for the ride, even though Emma Stone—whom I would enjoy touching—got the Best Actress ho-ha (and IMHO would’ve made a pretty good Janet Armstrong with First). It’s odd how a story like Armstrong’s took so long to tell, at least on the big screen. Not to mention how First technically didn’t stall at the Seventh Level. It’s kinda a nod to how Armstrong gradually rose in the ranks from test pilot to Gemini to Apollo to the moon. Good stuff takes time, and patience is rewarded. All that and it doesn’t hurt that Dirty Harry made the first move, punk.

Chazelle knows how to rope you in. Man‘s cold open sure got my attention, you better believe it. He showed that in NASA the stakes are always high. Over the moon, so to speak (let me have that one, okay?). We’re focusing on the early space program and the people behind it. In our minds we know that those first daring men risked life and limb in the name of exploration, science and informing Khrushchev to get bent. In the film however, everything, everything is dire. There’s a scene where Janet Armstrong explains that she’s used to funerals. That pretty much sums First up. Risk, risk and more risk. From Armstrong’s daughter Karen to death spirals to onboard fires after watching this I could only marvel at how young NASA managed to succeed more than fail back during the Space Race. This was frontier territory. The risks were indeed great, but also relentless. I could mention great tension, but I’d rather say I wasn’t going to the bathroom for two-and-a-half hours watching First. And I know how to tap a pause button.

Which you may have to do watching Man. There are a lot of blink-and-you’ll-miss-it details, allusions, foreshadowing, Easter eggs and a lot of other nice touches that one could have learned in basic 7th grade language arts. The cold open is good place as any to set the tone for the movie, despite it being a tad misleading as well as winking, but in a polite way. As the NASA works out the kinks for the Mercury, Gemini and Apollo programs, the camera focus gradually gets less grainy. The use of a Steadicam in the first act made for great visual tension, if not visceral terms. I prayed both were cut back for the second. And they were. As this little technique clears up, we realize we have two plots diverge but never really break. We had Neil’s mission and Janet at home with the kids. Frontline against homefront. The camera work there is at “home” things are jagged, like watching an old ep of NYPD Blue. When Neil’s “at work” everything is much smoother Even as we may know a chunk of NASA’s historical record, sure space exploration a “purely scientific endeavor” (quotes mine), but there was always an undercurrent of competition with the Soviets. More like a pissing contest. I doubt that the astronauts and their wives attending yet another funeral were ignorant of those in the cat’s bird seat in DC not paying for the services.

Noise seemed to be a prominent force here, or the absence of it. We all know that there is no sound in the vacuum of outer space (or now you do), and director Chazelle using this nugget of astronomy to create a character from it. No shocker when Armstrong and Aldrin touched down and ventured out of the Eagle there would be jarring silence. However, silence was the enemy for several scenes in the movie. Silence. The not knowing. Every time something went adrift in the film was like immediate foreshadowing well into crisis. Deafening silence. Without such a distraction you had to believe your eyes as to what the hell was going on. Sensory deprivation was a very clever way to hook the audience in. We were dealing with extremes through all those early NASA days. Everything was dire. Every bolt secured, a coffin. Why not make the movie audience chew on their finger and toenails to get hooked on Neil and company’s exploits in scientific uncertainty?

That being said, fear is another potent draw in First. Gosling as Armstrong, no matter how qualified for the job is a walking contradiction. Seasoned pilot and later seasoned astronaut. Loving family who is always waiting for the space boots to drop. Duty to God and Country despite both failed his REDACTED. Many scenes in First had this air of, “Please, not again.” It’s not surprising that danger lurked around every corner of the Space Race, but I felt another funeral was always looming. An undercurrent. Sure, space exploration was paramount, but what about the folks Earthside that weren’t risking their lives but lived through potential loss vicariously thanks to the proud NASA goals? In a word: Who? The “who” is what created the finest tension in the film. The off-world exploits were damned fine, but what about the people the astronauts should come home to? In one piece if any? Remember, none of this is real, yet all of this is real. Perhaps in some obtuse way, but you are damn observant when you sprout gooseflesh as I did watching First. Many times.

I was totally mesmerized come act three. I had held Neil’s hand for over two hours. I felt every minor victory and every pronounced shiver. As Chazelle was a skilled director, throughout all that tumult—all those minor ups and major downs—if there were any solid truth in it, I got why Armstrong had to get to the Moon. Not for science, quite not for NASA and surely not for taking a whiz on the Soviets. For closure.

What’s out there? Something lost? Someone? REDACTED?

First is both a harrowing and joyous film. Shakespearean in execution and Steinbeck in structure. First is a many-headed hydra. It makes you uncomfortable, then engaged, then uncomfortable being engaged until elation comes without warning. Thank the even comedy and tragedy and appreciative understanding that Armstrong had made it to the moon well before this biopic hit theaters.  The film requires an easy concentration. There is a lot to digest, but it goes down easy with Chazelle confidently at the helm. He’s very clever with First. It’s tricky to balance art with commerce with La-La Land, but on the whole he succeed. if only in a modest way.

It’s too bad First ended up here at RIORI. It truly is.

The Verdict…

Rent it or relent it? By all means rent it. First is—in two word words—a success. Short and sweet.

The Musings…

  • “It’ll be an adventure.”
  • Gosling’s haircut is ridiculous and absolutely perfect. It was an era of discovery and very bad haircuts.
  • “Jiminy?” Well, when you wish upon a star and all that.
  • I enjoyed Gosling’s vocal affect.
  • “Now look at all the crayons!”
  • Oh God, Karen’s bed.
  • “I married Neil because I wanted a normal life.”
  • The Gemini VIII scene was worth the admission price alone.
  • “If I had a choice I’d take more fuel.”
  • Why were foot pedals for freezers abandoned? Kinda like tap toe hi-beams?
  • “I’m done.”
  • Here’s some cool trivia: The glass that NASA used for their craft’s windows? Pyrex. No cool super-polymers back then. Found that clever.
  • And yes, I’ve seen Silent Running. Trumbull’s Saturn then was no less convincing.
  • “You’re Dad’s going to the Moon.”

The Next Time…

Get up! Get On Up! Get up! Get On Up! Stay on the scene! Get On Up! Like a sex machine! Get On Up!

RIORI Presents Installment #187: David Gray’s “The Lost City Of Z” (2016)

The Players…

Charlie Hunnam, Robert Pattinson, Sienna Miller and Tom Holland, with Angus Macfayden, Edward Ashley and Pedro Coello.

The Basics…

Major Percy Fawcett is a cartographer of some repute, however that never gained much attention in his fellow explorer’s social circles. So-called poor breeding does not mean Fawcett is of poor character or courage. Or drive.

In 1906, Fawcett stumbles, literally, onto an opportunity like no other the Royal Geographic has ever known. On assignment to settle a border dispute in the Amazon—demarcating the boundary between the natives from encroaching on the rubber barons’ land and vice versa—Fawcett by pure accident comes upon ancient arfticats, suggesting a forgotten civilization in the middle of the Amazon basin. Undiscovered and untouched by the indifference of time. Incredible.

Now how does a mapmaker, no matter how skilled, convince the upper crust of the Realm’s bravest explorers that there is wonder in the jungle which needs further scrutiny?

Simple. Fawcett drops everything, absconds from the Empire to the Amazon and goes native, immersing into a world of discovery, both personal and anthropic.

He was never heard from again.

The Intro…

Much to my surprise regarding the last installment tackling Ron Howard’s biopic Cinderella Man I received quite a bit of positive feedback. A lot more than usual. A lot more, like chain mail level. I wasn’t planning on getting much feed back if any outside my small circle of subscribers, and since this week’s movie happens to be another historical drama I figured, “Heck, let’s have a few of these curious movies clog my account and see how well they stick.” So I rearranged my Netflix queue to get a mini marathon going. I chose six more varied biopics to roll on down the pike. Lucky seven. Like I said in the Cinderella installment, it’s creative license versus the historical record and how they should blend into good cinema. Let’s see what happens next.

An aside: Yes, I still use disc-at-a-time, and yes I do have access to streaming video. So why use the Triassic version of movie renting as I’ve done for over 20 years? Simple. Two reasons: one, Netflix’s streaming service is still in its infancy. Their digital library is infinitesimal compared to their hard copies. I’ll catch up when they catch up. Two, like why I gave up MMO’s, me having access to all that online cinema at the diff of a nose would render me off world and you’d never hear from my wretched ass again.

Stop cheering.

So then, what’s on the menu this week? Have a seat and put on the lobster bib.

The Rant…

What is it about movies involving discovery seem so sexy?

Slow down there. There’s a quarantine on and the CDC may be in cahoots with OnlyFans. Remember social distancing.

I’m not talking about Indiana Jones-esque movies. Not exactly. I’m talking about those adventure stories that penetrate the subcutaneous cockles of our curious hearts. The kind of films that get our blood pumping about new adventures and exotic locales and treasures to unearth that may end up on American Pickers. Discovery, that’s the ticket. All the best adventure movies have that. Whether it br digging in the Egyptian desert for forgotten tombs, hacking through the triple canopied jungle perusing a legend, or venturing into outer space. Heck, that last one is what Star Trek’s all about, and the latest series is even called Discovery. It’s all about “let’s go!” paired with a healthy dose of “now what?”

Discovery One was the name of the spaceship that took Bowman, Poole and HAL to Jupiter in 2001: A Space Odyssey and beyond the beyond. One of NASA’s shuttles from their now mothballed fleet was also dubbed Discovery. Shackelton’s expedition to Antarctica in 1901 was christened as such. There’s the Discovery District in Toronto, a city within a city exploring the practical medical applications of biotechnology. And also the Discovery Institute, a Seattle-based, non-profit think tank to examine the human condition under the auspices of intelligent design. Flaky, but interesting. Who knows what they might discover? Maybe aliens set up shop here once, I dunno.

Why is discovery sexy? It’s very potent. It drives you. Humans like to learn stuff. Scientists live for it. We like to know new things, for good or ill. Recall in 2020 due to the decimating wildfires in Australia, multiple new species of marsupials were discovered. Granted, not the ideal way to a zoology kickstart, but at least it was good news. Why was that? Why in hindsight Down Under was ablaze and fire fighters from all over the world were desperately trying to suppress massive fire lines the liked we…Oh, look! A new, HUGE glider mammal came out to play! Thank you, fire suppressant! Hell, sure beats wanton destruction en toto.

Like tearing open that umpteenth pack of Pokemon cards and finally scoring that holofoil Ho-oh after so many loser scratch-offs. Woo-hoo! My determination (and luck) paid off! Acquiring fresh knowledge invites more, and all the usefulness—again, for good or ill—that it brings. In more fanciful terms, wouldn’t it be cool if we found remains of an ancient Martian civilization? Or developed anti-gravity? Or teleportation? Or even had Cyberpunk 2077 drop bug free? Hell to the yeah.

You might be asking me if I would care to listen: what was that about exploration movies being sexy? Good question.

In a soft science kinda way, exploration and discovery are sexy. Proving a theory. Going against the grain out of principle and being rewarded for it. Unlocking that secret level on your latest JRPG acquisition. All of that results in an almost exultant feeling of “Eureka!” mixed with “I told you so!” Heck, you’d run around Athens naked after unlocking that side quest about matter displacement, without NeoSeeker and shampoo still in your hair. Drinks all around. Reaching that “a-ha” moment feels pretty damn great, be it understanding algebra to creating a recipe to mastering stick shift. Discovering, and later being an adept can be an awakening. Mind clearing. All is well. I can impress a girl at a bar now with this knowledge, or maybe ace that physics exam. You’ll discover what’s a better chance.

Discovery is always a personal experience, but you know you have to share it with someone. Without a curious audience to maintain, your a-ha moment would be no more than a curiosity, afetish. Think about Watson and Crick, or the Wright Brothers, or Jobs and Wozniuk. All of their strange work proved successful. Eureka! Which is why it’s so damned hard to convince the cynical public that what these folks figured out might aid the greater good! It’s personal, meaning it’s precious to those who seek it and often some arcane hoodoo that flat-earthers just won’t buy into.

That’s often the trouble with discovery. Since it’s an inner elation, it’s rough to share without a context. It’s like the old saw that says the problem with getting something done right the first time is that others never appreciate how difficult it was. Time takes time, like how Hawaiians figuring out how to Spam actually edible. The guys in Northern Africa discovering how razzed their goats got after eating berries applied the scientific method and learned what the goats learned on their own: this coffee tree bears fruit that gets you hyped! How long do you think that brewing the stuff and drinking it caught on? Hundreds of years. Those goatherds were onto something, but precious few listened. They were only nomadic Ethiopians, not nutritionists. Vaccines, a round planet and pushing Betamax as the superior format (two out ion three ain’t bad) took some time even being backed by informed enthusiasm. Where’s your mask?

Discoveries can be tough pills to swallow, often annoying the status quo. A lot of great discoveries gestated for far to long until they saw the light of day, mostly kept in the dark by skeptics, folks without imagination and the business-minding having no easy way to find a way to make a buck off a new find. For example, the Wright Brothers first successful flight was reported by the press was relegated to the back page; no one could believe man powered flight could truly exist, even with photos available and Photoshop decidedly not. There were the “Two Kids From Cleveland” Jerry Siegel and Joe Schuster who created the first and best superhero Superman. The Man Of Steel back in the 30s almost never got published because the guys at DC publishing said no one could believe a man can be faster than a speeding bullet etc. According to Business Insider in 2017 the property of Superman had a net worth over $1.9 billion. Hell, even that life-saving gear the parachute had to be demonstrated, if front of God and everybody, by the inventor of the modern design we use today. Franz Reichelt had to jump from the Eiffel Tower to make his point. Good thing all those discoveries had happy endings. Read: eventually profitable. Up, up and away!

No matter how gracious we claim to be, there is always the secret joy of “I told you so” when your discovery bears fruit or not. To paraphrase Galileo after being unfairly sweated by the Roman Inquisition after his astronomical studies, “All truths are easy to understand once they are discovered; the point is to discover them.” It’s sinful pride of a very low degree, but still delicious. Sticking up a psychical middle finger to all those would doubted you out of ignorance or lack of vision. Being able to tout your hard-earned research and earning some respect? Ha, that can feel very sexy indeed. Having the last word, proving your mettle and perhaps even earning some concessions from the lowly one who doubted and mocked you for your fanciful notion of “Ah-ha!” Hopefully we’ve all been there at least once. Edison must’ve had that feeling weekly. Ever hear of that Spanish proverb, “Revenge is a dish best served cold” (now you have)? The point I’m reaching here is not about getting even, but being vindicated. I prefer the one about the monk Dom Perignon after he perfected his method for champagne: “…I am tasting the stars!”

Exultant. That is what sexy feels like beyond the bedroom and the beach. Tantalizing. Revelation. Not sexy per se. Glamourous. That’s what it feels like to be at the right time in the right place. All eyes on you, and you were both steadfast and lucky that your discovery eventually attracted an appreciative, respectful public.

Or not, nor ever. Their loss.

The Story…

In the early part of the 20th century, the British Empire still held sway over most of the civilized world. To be understood that Britannia was not the conquering, civilized race it once was, but they still were the dominant political power on Earth. The British were known far and wide for their explorations of the world and what influence they spread—for better or worse—but even now at the turn of the century acquiring huge swaths of land in the name of King and Country was not as vital as maintaining a presence on a global level.

No. It’s now no long quantity but quality. Resources instead of colonizing. Do not disturb the locals and how they conduct business. Get them to work for you. However first things first in this new capitalism, get the lay of the land, then set up trade.

Enter one Percy Fawcett (Hunnam), a seasoned and well-respected cartographer, as well as a card-carrying member of the Realm’s Royal Geographic Society. He has been fortunate enough in his life to be around the upper crust of his fellow royal explorers, but nary an accolade to befound on his jacket. Centuries old antagonism still clutters the minds of proper Britons, and Fawcett being Irish? Well, it’s been a polite uphill struggle to earn some honest recognition from the Society. Whether it may ever come, who knows?

Well, have you ever heard about how opportunity comes disguised as hard work dressed in rags? Percy has been assigned some hard work, and already feels quite rough shod and ragged. Turns out there is a border dispute in the Amazon. The rubber barons stake claim on one side of a river and the natives the other and none the twain shall meet. Unless a skilled mapmaker like Fawcett can literally draw the line. The Kingdom needs its rubber with as little grease as possible, so the Society dispatches Fawcett and his partner by proxy Henry Costin (Pattinson) to the Amazon basin to lay down stakes, once and for all.

No sooner do Fawcett and Costin approach the end of their trek—well deep into hostile native territory—does Percy literally stumble onto something curious: pottery. In the depths of the jungle. He knows the natives know nothing about throwing pots, so what are this shards doing here? As well as those curious growths of trees in symmetry, suggesting agriculture? Those smooth stones, they didn’t just fall into order. Someone once must have placed them there. Long ago.

Could Fawcett and crew have accidentally discovered a lost city in the middle of the jungle? He’s not certain, but if perhaps if so hen he returns to the Society after his work is through and reports a potential discovery he may not be considered…so “Irish” anymore.

The Breakdown…

I read all the dripping with caramel reviews of The Lost City Of Z—both the book and its film adaptation here—and for the life of me I just didn’t see what the hoo-ha was all about. All the praise, all the accolades, all the nominations from indie film fest from around the globe. All of it. I’ve learned after all these years on blogging to not watch the chosen movie in one sitting. It’s not a race. Depending on the film’s length and my free time I on average stretch the viewings over three evenings, and not necessarily consecutive evenings. Why? Despite the time crunch, I’ve found I need a little time in between to digest what I’ve seen. You kinda miss things in movies when you watch it beginning to end in one swift marathon dash to the coast. At least when you’re trying to both enjoy and dissect said movies. It was like when I caught Scorsese’s apology Best Oscar film The Departed. My friends and I walked out of the theater scratching our heads, trying to make sense of the last scene. We left in separate cars and doubtless both my friends and I were having a synchronous inner monologue trying to decipher how Mark Wahlberg REDACTED Matt Damon. It dawned on me by the third light, and there they were waiting. I flagged them down.

“It was his REDACTED!” And they nodded with enthusiasm.

It finally made sense, but only after 30 minutes in the car ruminating over the movie I had just watched. Thus being said, I now need time apart from a RIORI selected flick to actually “get it.”

Get it?

After finishing Z I appreciated my way of scrutinizing movies. Better well done than half baked. It took me a few days to “get” Z, but not without some confusion and letting some hubris get in the way.

I did not see what the big deal was with Z. As far as this blog is, the movie fit The Standard. Its budget was $30 million, but only netted about $20 million worldwide. The Tomatometer certified it fresh at 87%. Audiences felt differently at 57%. Critics loved it, while the average janes and joes either took it or let it alone. That being noted, I have a theory as to why Middle America didn’t much take a shine to Percy Fawcett’s exploits, and of course it fits in with my discourse. Let it be known that for the first time here at RIORI I sympathize with the popcorn heads. Shock and awe with conclusions to draw. Stay tuned.

At first I found Z to be a bit of a bait-and-switch. Recall what I said above about discovery and its lusty charms? Right, well that was what I was expecting: a hale and hearty period piece all about perils and pleasures of discovering the unknown, like with classic adventure films like Gunga Din or Lawrence Of Arabia. Action, adventure, globetrotting, terra incognito, treasure hunting and the like. That pair are period adventure pieces like Z, out of their time but still designed to take any audience elsewhere. Anywhere but here, but here you will stay, in your armchair, nachos at the ready and let the movie be your guide.

Just like Z? As the Brits say, “Quite the other thing.” Shocker. Can I have some nachos?

What follows is not a complaint about the quality of Z. Not at all. I found precious little flawed with this period piece…once I finally “got it.” Took a long time to get there, too. Like a week. At first glance—the first act I watched proper—Z felt nothing like your typical period biopic adventure. It rather felt like a British parlor novel, telling the tale of a well-to-do riding on their success (or family’s success) as status while “lesser” folks sally forth on their own questionable path to success, whatever that may be. The movie read like the “White Man’s Burden” in reverse. Meaning the (racist) drive of white men to civilize the natives got turned around as role reversal. It read as a shade jingoistic. My mind wandered. Sure, the historical “record” was elegant and intriguing, but there was a serious lack of tension over the next two-plus hours. This normally would’ve been a major issue on my side. My usual lighthearted nature would be rankling and eventually I’d calm down and doze off with the disc spinning, losing the chapter number, waking up to a day I didn’t know and an empty pint of Ben And Jerry’s melting into my shirt. Like I’ve said before, no tension, no story, no attention. Hand me a paper towel or three. I got nacho cheese on my knees.


There was a story here and, hear me Middle America, patience would be rewarded. Perhaps that’s why it wasn’t the flavor in Columbus. Yes, the pacing was languid, but that may have been the point; a storytelling device. Perhaps director Gray knew what folks wanted in a historical adventure movie and decided to turn it on its ear. For instance casting Hunnam as Fawcett. Most of such films always have to have some sort of Alan Quatermain kind of hero, full of derring-do and arcane knowledge of lost treasures. Think Indiana Jones or…well, Alan Quatermain. Hunnam’s a versatile character actor, with roles as diverse with Cold Mountain to Children Of Men to Pacific Rim. All somewhat modern roles, to which I found Hunnam as a historical figure—albeit not a very famous one—hard to back. Especially considering how overall reserved he played Percy. I never considered him an actor of nuance. I didn’t buy him as Percy, but I cashed in on him portraying Percy or any other unsung adventurer. Again, wait until the next act.

In fact, all the major players here are pretty comfortable in their own skin, despite what treacherous unknowns the Amazon might have in store for them. Might’ve been the stereotype British stiff upper lip, but I didn’t get that impression. Another reversal of expectations. The cast themselves were patient, as was the film, as how one should watch it. I insist over several evenings. Gray’s direction was very methodical, ensuring you understood the story over the money shots. Hunnam and especially Pattison (who was still grandly shaking off the shadow of Edward) have an easy chemistry, with carefully measured dialogue. Barring the courtroom scene, words are just useless replies to one another, bookending wonder and fear.

I just implied Pattinson further digging deep away from being a viable property, which is a good thing. Hunnam may not be a household name yet, but he truly demonstrate he can carry a movie, with all the top emotions on healthy display with Z. Again I never pictured Hunnam as the leading man type. He had a dire elegance at play here, and therefore a lot to digest as to whom Fawcett was, besides a man at ease with Nature. I was pleasantly surprised by his performance.

This was not your usual fare regarding both biopic and adventure story. Z was carefully measure, frame for frame. There we precious few surprises. Everything flowed. It was a story first and a movie second. It was akin to a live action article from NatGeo, and I believe most folks read that magazine for the photos. The cinematography was nothing less than smart. The music was a polite afterthought; the sound effects served as a better backdrop than any Horner score. After a few nights Z felt perfect, but there was still a nagging feeling that I had been had. I hadn’t, but I suppose I got duped by the collective what an adventure film should be. Sometimes such flicks should not be all whiz-bang. Sometimes you need to stretch out and understand the adventure—the discovery—should lie between you ears.

In the endgame, Z played like the book the film culled from, but I never read the book. It just felt that way. This was the difference three evenings at home made rather than two-and-a-half hours in an impersonal theater or melting into the couch with a stream. Z was a patient movie that tried audiences’ patience. Mine included. When I slowed down and took my time I discovered—again, get it?—a lush adventure story told at the end of the Victorian Age of exploration, and a man’s search for truth, within and without. Also we should understand the story was never about finding a lost city. It was about the ideal. The thrill of discovery.

And to my surprise, I made it back in one piece.

The Verdict…

Rent it or relent it? Rent it. A solid adventure film, despite the Merchant/Ivory-esque execution. Don’t watch it in one sitting, especially with a bag of Cheetos. You jeans will thank you.

The Musings…

  • “Someday you and I will go hunting together.”
  • It must’ve been odd, if not a relief, to stumble onto opera in the jungle. A “taste of home,” per se.
  • “We might be too English for this jungle.”
  • Why is the lighting so soft in the first act? It is because the hardest is yet to come?
  • “Welcome to the inner circle.”
  • Racism takes many forms.
  • “That bugger wishes he was back on the South Pole.”
  • “Savage” is a relative term. Especially paired against the “sophisticated” combat of the Great War.
  • “A green desert.”
  • For the record, it’s Zed, not Zee. It’s a British thing.
  • “I must go back.”

The Next Time…

Sir Anthony Hopkins plans to take The World’s Fastest Indian motorcycle for a ride into history, Agent Starling. Fly fly fly!


RIORI Presents Installment #186: Ron Howard’s “Cinderella Man” (2005)

The Players…

Russell Crowe, Renee Zellweger, Paul Giamatti, Bruce McGill, Paddy Considine, Craig Bierko and naturally Clint Howard somewhere in the mix.

The Basics…

The Great Depression hit America hard, but determined albeit washed-up boxer James J Braddock hit back harder.

After suffering a career-ending injury in the ring, not to mention the nation’s economy going to hell, James still pressed on to keep his family together and well away from Hooverville. Of course it was a struggle, especially when it came to finding dependable work with a bum wrist, but James had weathered trouble before he was rich and famous. Now he’s going to have to start over. No depression of any kind will keep him from taking care of his family. He’s waiting for the next round.

It’s kind of funny, however, that a streak of bad luck could sometimes lead to a “lucky break,” even if in a left-handed sort of way.

The Rant…

It’s been said that Ron Howard is unique in the pantheon of great directors. He makes movies that are crowd pleasers as well as critical darlings. It doesn’t really come as much of a surprise really. Howard has been on sound stages ever since he played little Opie on The Andy Griffith Show (now try to get that theme song out of your head) and later as average Joe High School Richie Cunningham on Happy Days. He was raised in front of the camera with his baby bro Clint under the watchful eye of their character actor dad Rance. It was a sort of family industry. So after being in front of the camera for years, it came as not much of a surprise that Ronnie wanted to get in on some movie action. With his CV, Howard was more than up to the challenge.

Howard’s breakthrough film Splash was a hit. I caught it at the drive-in when I was kid where I got to see a young Tom Hanks flexing his comic chops. I didn’t get the whole art and craft of filmmaking when I was 8, but I knew what I liked and I liked Tom Hanks. He was silly. The rest of America felt that way, too and so the guy’s star rose high enough to eventually team up with a well-seasoned Howard a decade later to deliver Apollo 13. Both movies were big treats and critical smashes. The left-of-center fairy tale romance that was Splash and the nail-biting adventure in NASA history that was Apollo 13 both had something going for them, and it wasn’t Hanks. Okay, it wasn’t just Hanks.

Let’s reel back a bit. Splash was an auspicious start for a director to be noticed. It helped, no doubt, Howard’s education forged in TV and film for decades offered perspective. With that backlog, Ron’s created a bag of tricks to make most of his films the Pied Piper to America’s willing audience. A lot of great directors have one. It’s called their signature. You know when you’re watching a Scorsese film (or a Kubrick, Hitchcock, Burton or Carpenter film) before you read the credits. Howard has a signature: quality. Regardless of the story, casting, staging, lighting, choreography or stubborn prima donnas, he more times than not makes a movie that is satisfying. Fleshed out, driven of purpose and above all pleasing to the eye. Many great directors achieve these things, but Howard manages to always execute his films with warmth. That’s the ticket, that’s his signature.

Sidebar: It’s been said that Howard is the model to which all child actors should aspire. Ron has no drug rap, no criminal record, an all around nice guy, caring dad with his daughter Bryce making her own splash in Hollywood, and a guy driven of purpose: to make good movies for everyone to enjoy, audiences and critics alike. However I’d like to believe to former trumps the latter. Let’s face facts: Howard’s films are to simply be enjoyed. Just sayin’.

Howard’s covered a lot of thematic territory over the past forty years. He’s done romance (the aforementioned Splash), comedy (Parenthood), fantasy (Willow), action (Backdraft), thriller (Ransom), biopic (Pavarotti) and sci-fi (Cocoon). All of them with varying degrees of success, thanks mostly to the skill of delivering warmth. However one genre that has never betrayed Howard’s vision is that of historical drama. Apollo 13, Frost/Nixon, A Beautiful Mind, Far And Away and this week’s victim. Granted not all of these films have been great, nor exactly warm, but they were executed well and very shrewdly.

This is the part where the rant ceases being a Hallmark card.

Here’s what I mean by Howard being shrewd regarding those dramas. Being shrewd is the antithesis of being warm. From my understanding Howard stays faithful to the history of the story but also knows when to deviate from fact to make better fiction. It’s like what that oft-misquoted quote is from The Man Who Shot Liberty Valence. I’ll maul it a bit more here: “When the legend is better than the facts, print the legend!” He’s been known to do some sweetening with his historical dramas, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing when done right. Heck, a lot of good directors deviate from the story for a better film (EG: Coppola’s Apocalypse Now is both a watered down and over the top reinterpretation of Conrad’s Heart Of Darkness). Often that’s how it goes down. On occasions, however translating the legend gets clunky (check out the U-571 installment, for example). Shoehorning. Not warm, neither shrewd. Not in Howard’s bailiwick.

Being forewarned what follows are spoilers. Kinda. The difference between spoiling and clarifying depends on which story you stumbled onto first: the movie or the source. Avert your eyes if you must, but there’ll be no blue book waiting after this history lesson. The following may, may be considered spoilers, but not in the sense that I am giving away any crucial info to ruin your day. I’m divulging the mundane, historical record that got tweaked in contrast for a juicier filmgoing experience. Now shaddap and watch this filmstrip.

*raps chalkboard with pointer*

Settle down. And who stole my goddam apple?

All right then.

Jim Lovell did not say, “Houston, we have a problem” in Apollo 13. In reality it was, “Houston, there is a problem.” The tweaking of the line made it more personal, y’know? More urgent. Mathematician John Nash’s long-suffering wife Alicia stood by him as he wrestled with schizophrenia in A Beautiful Mind. In reality she divorced him unable to endure the stress of it all (they later reconciled and John lived as her boarder for the rest of his days. They had no kids. That and the whole pen exchange was totally made up). Holding it all together was the underlying story in the movie, and what can be accomplished if you keep plugging away. Divorce is the antithesis of that, head against the wall. Nixon admitted he was involved in a cover up, not a victim of one. Cinderella Man got its fair share of massaging also.

Still with me? Good. Moving on.

It’s a tricky thing. There’s always that whole thing about creative license balancing the historical record. Let’s face facts, most movie goers who like biopics could give two sh*ts about the Wikipedia page. They want to be entertained, rightly so and have never read a Marvel comic book in their lives (or a book at all). The historical facts attached to/inspiring the movie only really apply to the curious, and curious I am. Curious enough to share some Cinderella Man factoids. Not to decry Howard’s direction. Quite the contrary. How he was cagey in tweaking just the right “facts” to deliver a better movie. One that draws you in. This is important. Duh.

Here’s the story of Cinderella Man. The historical record is telling. Yes, Braddock revived his boxing career and won the Heavyweight Title against Max Baer in 1935. Okay. Baer was never the assh*le he was portrayed be in the movie. Sure, he was a rock star boxer, but still a professional athlete. When he knocked out and ultimately killed his opponent, Baer was very distraught by the accidental death. He even gave up boxing for a while. When returning to the ring before the title bout, Baer contacted Braddock of putting the championship fight on hold due to Baer’s fears, worry and knowing Braddock was no longer in his prime.

That Max Baer makes for a sh*tty villain. “Pussy” may be a better word. But there are no “villains” in boxing. This wasn’t the WWE. Baer was not Braddock’s nemesis, he was his opponent. But a movie about a comeback kid needs an antagonist. Bingo, Baer the pompous asshat was borne, and someone to boo at and call a bum or palooka or whatever pussy terms they used back in the day. Conflict is what drives a story and earns an audience. Being a good sport on the losing end does not. Howard knew this, and we—I—bit.

That’s just a small sample of Howard’s shrewdness when it comes to tweaking the facts to promote the legend. It’s safe for me to assume/speak for all of you that history can be pretty boring. It’s been said that the victors write the history, and I believe there are very few accurate stories in history that are exciting as the legends. Good examples? There were not just three hundred Spartans at the battle of Thermopylae. Leonidas and his army had scores of vassals, squires, cheerleaders, caterers, etc to get the job done. Marie Antionette was not so flippant as so suggest the hungry Parisians without access to bread should eat cake instead. In truth the doomed lady-in-waiting allegedly declared, “Let them eat the crusts (from the paté).” Yeah, just as insensitive (if not more so) but not as tantalizing as cake. Einstein never defined insanity. The source is attributed to part of the Narcotics Anonymous manifesto dating back to the early 1980s. Guess Einstein was sexier.

You follow? With historical drama, you gotta spin to sell it, but it has to be the right kind of spin. The record is almost always a straight line. Facts don’t entice as much as tears in the fabric do. A director needs a little wiggle room (read: creative license) to make the facts read out like a legend. People like to believe in legends, get behind them, wish they were the real thing. Howard got that, which is why Apollo 13 was a summer blockbuster as well as Oscar fodder.

If we’re talking spin, that’s kinda like how James J Braddock’s story dropped. And rose up.

The Story…

In the mid-1920’s “The Bulldog Of Bergen,” James J Braddock (Crowe) was the toast of Heavyweight Championship Boxing. Wiry, fast and could take a licking and keep on hitting. He had it all. Fame. Fortune. His devoted wife Mae (Zellweger) and three wonderful kids at his side. A nice house in Jersey, money in the bank, and James on the up and up in practicing the “sweet science.” The fortunes a wishful man dreams about.

That was all before the Great Depression hit, financially ruining James’ family. Not to mention his career. The Braddocks sold virtually everything to survive, including their liquid income, solid income and family home. Matches dried up. James was feeling the strain, physically, emotionally and most of all paternally. It was in his final fight he broke his right wrist, effectively ending his career. So much promise broken by so much pressure. All of it textbook tragic.

Years later, James is pulling itinerant work at the docks, One afternoon he’s visited by his old friend and trainer Joe Gould (Giamatti). Despite James being cut loose years ago from the boxing commission, Joe’s wrestled up a bout for James to score some quick cash. That’s what friends do in hard time. The opponent is just some chump, but the kitty is a healthy $250. James says he’ll give it shot hoping for some groceries for the next month or so. There are four mouths to feed. As well as a dream deferred.

Of such humble beginnings—or second chances—a legend can be borne. Again.

The Breakdown…

Cinderella Man may not be Ron Howard’s best movie, or the most praised, but it is the probably the most quintessential.

All the director’s skills are on naked display here, but nothing is overplayed. Man never wears out its welcome. There have been oodles of historical dramas that freely overplayed their hands, even those made by great directors. Kubrick’s Spartacus, with its soap opera trifecta of Kirk Douglas, Jean Simmons (no, not that one) and Tony Curtis. Zwick’s Civil War masterpiece Glory that—how can I say this?—seemed more about alienation than honor at times. Mank’s Cleopatra, the end.

Man never hammers down how downtrodden and maudlin Crowe’s Braddock was. As of this installment Cinderella Man dropped in 2005, 15 years ago. Those in the know have heard that Crowe can have quite the temper. I’m not sure if this is true. Back in the years he could do know wrong in the early aughts, his onscreen personas overrode any offscreen antics. As I like to way too many times say never confuse the artist with the art. Considering here with Man, whatever hothead Crowe is on his days off, that rumor only enhances his performance as Braddock here.

Crowe has an ability to be earnest, whichever role he’s chosen (since LA Confidential. We’ll ignore Romper Stomper and especially Virtuosity today) and that’s a key aspect of his Braddock. He does eager and determined well in equal doses, most likely like any real working Joe in those times; reality versus finality. Despite his reputation, Crowe’s Braddock is rather nondescript after the cold open. We get the underdog treatment, but Howard being shrewd he pulls back the melodrama just enough to educate us that, yes, James is not totally out, but a guy who is down on his luck. And there was a great deal of luck to be down on in the Braddock household. He’s just doing what to do to get by with his family. It felt like polished cast James lugged was a kind of albatross, a reminder of what went wrong. We’ve all been there (and many are still there, thank you COVID) asking “What did I do to…?B

Between Crowe’s earnest performance and Howard knowing how to spin a yarn, our hero is neither a sad sack nor bitter. Like I said determined, as well as unsure of himself after such a crushing loss of his career and his home. Vulnerability; it works every time. Crowe’s roles have been rough and tumble for years, only hinting at enough vulernabilty to make us get behind him. Recalling everyone’s fave boxing story to glory RockyMan is unabashedly romantic, and also it’s the most likable Crowe has even been as an actor, and that’s saying something. No tossed phones nothing.

Crowe’s foil Zellweger was an odd casting choice at first. She seemed somewhat out of place. Her Mae was a little too precious, however still held enough on her own. Odd casting call for the first act, but her performance as Mae does grow on you. I could think of a dozen other actresses to play Mae (oddly enough Lizzy Caplan topped my list, with Emily Blunt a close second. Must be the hair), however with time and how the plot unwound I kinda got why Miz Renee got picked. Her character unfolds gradually over the three acts, like in Shakespeare but written by Ring Lardner. Mae knows more about what’s unfolding before James, or we do. The undercurrent, the tension of what is truly at stake with James’ second chance—earning more money at the risk of his own safety—is a proud and well presented Howard touch regarding family being stronger together than apart (EG: having the kids go stay with Mae’s sister “for a bit” is not an option in the Braddock home). You can see this tack in some of Howard’s other movies, like Apollo 13 or even Cocoon and Willow. This is technically a family film, but not in Disney fashion. Overall, Zellweger had the good head on her shoulders and proved to be more than just a concerned housewife. I was surprised.

The last leg of this troika is Giamatti’s Joe Gould, the Dr McCoy of the central players. Let me get this out front: I love Giamatti. He’s in the same caliber of the late, great Sean Connery. Meaning Paul’s been in a lot of questionable films, but he’s always good. I love his “gift for gab” in all his roles, and his Joe Gould is no exception. Probably the best role he got to demonstrate his verbiage. His motormouth delivery as a huckster and trying to be a decent, well, “Joe” in hard times when his friend James is covered in existential mud. If you consider it, Joe was James’ saving grace and unflappable in his ability to get back into the ring. James was under confident, Mae was scared and Joe was the attaboy huckster. I like that kind of graceful comic relief. Sometimes we all need a buddy without realizing it, especially from a familiar well that’s always there to dip in.

Okay. Let’s talk nuts and bolts.

Howard is notorious for establishing the ideal settings for his stories. Among location directors, scenarists, second units and/or very good sound staging he gets the job done, and the dreary world of Man is no exception. The period pieces are great, doubtless enhanced with tasteful CGI. Howard’s Great Depression here is repression, opression. The ultimate gambit of the haves being so ignored that the downtrodden are everyone’s out for themselves. The first act of Man is about futility and desperate measures, all sepia toned and glaring, almost like foreshadowing to James’ downfall.

It’s all gradual. It’s enticing you. It’s enlightening. It’s the hook. Like Crowe’s earnest Braddock, Howard lures you in with atmosphere and especially scenery. In the second act—after Braddock got his second chance and scored—the sepia tones gave way to sharper hues, hinting at he future. The fog is lifting. James won a few matches. Earned money to pay the bills. Some sunshine of the man’s back. And notice how the boxing audience gradually gets larger and larger. Another Howard trick: get behind the hero, be a part of the moment. I was.

Now the meat of the matter, the Maguffin. The boxing scenes. Granted we never see James punch frozen cattle carcasses, but the mounting matches fit that bill. Those near knuckle bouts were exciting and visceral, and I was never into boxing save Nintendo’s “Punch Out!” (and I never won). I sure as sh*t got amped watching these bouts, especially for the amazing editing and clever use of effects. Meaning when James shattered his wrist in his “last bout” we got an azure X-ray snap of the injury. Later on in the comeback fights, we get the cerulean flashes every time James takes a hit, and comes blinding with the final bout. It’s almost overwhelming, the hurt, the hurt, the hurt. But as fans we know why and who Braddock is: a fighter, but not for the purse. Not for milk. Not to be defeated.

Yes, the fighting scenes were exhilarating, and the tender moments of family and just getting by were kindly sentimental but never schmaltzy. The balance between pathos and desperate struggle was neatly packaged making for great tension. Another aspect of this balance was the pacing, my pissy muse. Man had a feeling of a classic three act play, where everything lined up just right to tell the narrative. Now not everyone knew the history of James Braddock like we did the failed mission of Apollo 13 where it was all over the TV news back in 1970. Braddock’s story was far more prosaic that the misadventures of astronauts. That was the key to Man’s simple wonder. It’s a underdog/comeback story with a nice, neat gift-wrapped happy ending standing above romanticizing the past and plunking the right amount of history into the story to make Crowe’s Braddock seem like a neighbor. That is what makes a shrewd director great. Focus on the story and don’t forget who you’re sharing it with.

Man had just the right amount of melodrama, action and bending the truth to be a real crowd pleaser. I sure was pleased, and quite satisfied. Good story, good execution. The most straightforward Ron Howard film ever. And in these times of bloated biopics, where the lead is granted to win the Oscar, it’s a relief to have a very good film win zilch.

“I want to go out like a champion. I want to be carried out.”

Time to throw in the towel. Ha.

The Verdict…

Rent it or relent it? An absolute rent it. You’ve probably figured out when the installment is this sober (even if I wasn’t) I loved the movie. I scored a hard copy off eBay. Nuff said.

The Musings…

  • The milk thing.
  • “I got in a fight…”
  • For a Kiwi, Crowe does a good Joisey accent.
  • “Hey Joe, this is Joisey.” See?
  • Lotta good accents here.
  • “Welcome to Noo Yawk.”
  • I’ll stop now.
  • “I won.” Mug. Delightful.
  • The empty apartment thing.
  • “We all know the name of the game, and it sure as hell ain’t pugilism.”
  • Was there some sort of Chariots Of Fire, Jew versus Catholic undercurrent going on? Well, Braddock did use the orthodox position and that is the greatest Dad joke about religion and boxing you will ever read today.
  • “I think I can go a few rounds with a dancing Baer.”
  • The good luck handshake thing.
  • “Milk.”

The Next Time…

Another historical drama! Cool! This time we follow Charlie Hunnam deep into the Amazon searching for The Lost City Of Z! Catch it!