The King's Speech (Impediment) - You're A Prince and A Prince Could Be King

For some reason after viewing "The King's Speech" the Broadway musical "You're a Good Man Charlie Brown" got stuck in my head. In a prelude to the shows rousing opening number, Charlie Brown's sister Sally and frenemy Lucy make frank assessments:

SALLY:
The only thing wrong with my big brother, Charlie Brown is his lack of confidence, his inferiority and lack of confidence. His clumsiness, his inferiority, his lack of confidence...


LUCY: Now Charlie Brown has what you call a failure face, Linus. Notice how it has failure written all over it. Study it carefully. You rarely see such a good example.

These words could well describe Prince Albert Duke of York (Colin Firth), son to King George V (Michael Gambon), brother to Edward Prince of Wales (Guy Pearce) and husband to Elizabeth Duchess of York (Helena Bonham Carter). Despite the pedigree, Albert - nicknamed Bertie - is withdrawn and suffers from a terrible stammer. Comfortable enough in the security of his wife and children to communicate, he crumbles into a stammering mess in the presence of his intimidating king father, and adventure-seeking playboy brother.

As Duke of York public speaking is a requirement. After Albert staggers his way through a closing ceremony address at Wembley Stadium, Elizabeth determines to find help for her long suffering husband. Following many failed attempts she happens upon speech therapist Lionel Logue. An Australian expat with unconventional therapeutic techniques, Logue gets the assignment. Albert, loath to submit to another therapy after repeated failures, acquiesces, and a final effort to be rid of his ruinous speech impediment is begun.

That The King's Speech was originally an as yet unproduced play, tied to the feature film fast track, comes as no surprise. This is a film where people talk. A lot. Some more skillfully than others.  The screenplay by David Seidler is clever, affectionate, wise and above all supremely entertaining - an adjective overload but it barely scratches the surface - never a turgid chamber piece one might expect considering its theatrical roots. The King's Speech is a triumphant sports drama disguised a a drawing room drama.  You root for Prince Albert to succeed. He's down but not out, and about to face the fight of his life. It's Rocky for the Scripps National Spelling Bee crowd.

Portraying the man who would be king, Firth's subtle facial tics, halting speech and awkward physicality reveal nobility despite an ego crushing affliction. Firth's Prince Albert is poignant, imperious and prone to fits of pique. Firth takes what could have been a one note character and creates a man of substance. What ails Prince Albert is more psychological than physical and he is forced to tear down emotional walls and build a trusting bond with Logue if he is to be healed. Albert's transformation via Firth is subtle and moving.

With all this praise for Colin Firth what's left for Geoffrey Rush's Lionel Logue? Rush is remarkable.  He is such a unique talent. When I saw Amadeus for the first time and F. Murray Abraham's Salieri, I knew within 5 minutes that I was seeing an Oscar winning performance.  And that is how I feel about Rush here. His Logue is a quiet force. Whether he's entertaining his sons with an impromptu rendition of Richard the III (a foreshadowing of events to come), or tutoring Albert with trecherous tongue twisters (try saying “I have a sieve full of sifted thistles and a sieve full of unsifted thistles, because I am a thistle sifter" 5 times quickly) he emits certitude and earnestness. The guy's a total mench.

There are many other performers worthy of mention, but chief amongst these is Helena Bonham Carter.  I've never been a fan, but she's terrific here. Cheerful and charming; the perfect foil to high-strung Albert. She's the glue that holds Lionel and Albert together. The great woman behind a man who could be great. Bonham Carter has never been as appealing. With compassionate brown eyes and a dry wit her Elizabeth is at ease with royals and commoners alike. That Elizabeth will one day be Queen Mother is never in doubt; Carter gives her the shoulders of Atlas and the heart of a protective lioness. Bonham Carter's other film roles oft times seem so dour. Here her smile illuminates the screen.

Guy Pearce as elder brother Edward, first in line to the throne, gives the shallow callow man-child a conflicted nature. In a scene where he mercilessly teases Bertie's stammer, he is at once pleased and pained by the power he has over his younger brother. He is protector and tormentor. And when Edward's ascension to the throne is inevitable, his anguish is genuine. He's bitterly aware that he lacks the stomach or backbone for the task. Edward's malady is internal and he is the weaker of the two brothers, despite outward appearance.

Back to that lovable loser Charlie Brown. At the conclusion of You're A Good Man Charlie Brown he ponders what it is to be a "good man" and determines that it's trying your best and making the most of what you've been given in this life. He has always been a good man but never realized it because of his perceived shortcomings. Who would have thought that Prince Albert - King George VI - would have so much in common with the round headed kid.

"You're a good man Charlie Brown you're a prince and a prince could be king
With a heart such as yours you could open any doors you could go out and do anything
You could be King Charlie Brown you could be king!"

I Love You Phillip Morris - Larceny and Faggotry Together in Perfect Harmony

About 5 minutes into " I Love You Phillip Morrris" when a handlebar mustachioed character shrieks "Come in my ass. Come in my ass" as Steven Russell (Jim Carey) pounds him from behind, one realizes that any pretext of political correctness has been eschewed in favor of an unPC shock and awe campaign.  Russell is a loving husband, dedicated father, and police officer;  he's also a closeted gay man. As his world begins to spiral down beginning with a failed reunion with his biological mother,  Russell reevaluates his life, and decides to come out as a "faggot". 

Off to South Florida he goes to begin life anew. But Russell immediately discovers that any self-respecting Floridian queer has an image to maintain, and takes to petty crime and embezzlement to maintain the lifestyle to which he and new lover Jimmy have become accustomed. Inevitably this leads to prison. 

Carey's Steven Russell bears little resemblance to the self-hating alcoholic closeted homo-son he portrayed in the TV movie Doing Time On Maple Drive in the early 1990s. Then, the only good gay was a gay with HIV or a self-loather of the Maple Drive variety. There's something selfish in the way Steven Russell takes to this new lifestyle after a half-life of secrecy. He's making up for lost time and unapologetically goes about getting his fill, world be damned. And that's nice for a change when other real world flaws outshine the flaw of gayness itself and the personal psychic wreckage it supposedly leaves in its wake.  That Russell is gay is the least of his concerns.

Once incarcerated,  Russell takes to prison life like lube to orifice and soon he's manipulating the penal system as well. These manipulations include the eponymous Phillip Morris, a fellow inmate that he has taken a shine to. Soon the two are bunkmates and romance blossoms.  

It comes as no surprise that ILYPM is written and directed by Glenn Ficarra and John Requa, the writers responsible for the bitterly funny and surprisingly sweet 2003 Billy Bob Thornton vehicle Bad Santa. That movie had the magic touch of Director Terry Zwigoff.  Here freshman directors Ficarra and Recqua acquit themselves nicely with a sometimes hysterically funny and bizarre script based on a true story, but they never seem able to mold Carey into a fully fleshed character. It's a fun performance, but too external and mannered to be believable.

The curve ball here is Ewan McGreggor as Phillip Morris. A somewhat effeminate wisp of a man with a lilting southern accent and a delicate constitution, Morris is the prisonyard Blanch Dubois. And Steven is all too ready and willing to be the stranger whose kindness Phillip will come to depend upon. What could have been a mincing cliche feels vivid and believable in McGreggor's hands.

ILYPM is no Modern Family for the big screen;  deep tongue kisses, dick sucking and conscience-free thievery flourish.  We've come a long way baby. Sorta. 

Strangely, a narrative voiceover has been added. It reeks of afterthought. It's unnecessary to the film and adds nothing other than an opportunity for Russell to say "I'm really not as awful as I seem" in as many different ways as possible. An apologia for what has transpired. 

God forbid a film character should be gay and less than a saint, more than a best friend, and capable of a wide range of behavior separate of butt fucking and circuit parties without having to saying "I'm sorry". 

Ultimately the dark sarcastic script prevails, with a third act revelation both absurd, cruel and fittingly appropriate. Like a dish of sweet and sour pork from my third favorite Chinese restaurant, ILYPM filled my tummy (with laughs), but still I felt a little empty and dissatisfied after.

Weapons Of Marital Destruction - Fair Game

review to come

Where Have All The Flowers Gone? Gylne Tider That's Where

STARS OF YORE, NORWAY CALLS

Have you seen the Gylne Tider video that's gone viral, popping up on youtube and trending on Yahoo? I had it posted here for a minute, but it was pulled due to copyright issues.  Dozens of faded American - and a few international - stars from the 80s (not the 1880s), some obscure, some less so, and a few - confoundingly - whose lights still shine brightly today, lip sync to  The Beatles "Let It Be" while gyrating lethargically before a green screen (which becomes a stretch of heavenly beach and endless horizon).  

It's all a promotional ad for season 4 of Norwegian talk show Gylne Tider (Golden Times. Apt, no?).

The lighting guy for this video should receive a Gullruten - the Norwegian version of the Emmy - for his visual magic. 

Some of these "stars' didn't look this good twenty-five years ago in their heyday. Now they all resemble the 30 year younger version of Jeff Bridges we've seen in trailers for the upcoming movie Tron - Legacy. Shiny smooth and not quite real. 

Tanya Harding, Ana Alicia (Falcon Crest), Larry Drake, Rickie Lake, George Wendt, Glenn Close and Kathleen Turner are a few of the more than two dozen luminaries packed into this six minute video. Oh, Benny I miss LA Law. I miss you! At least Turner has the good sense to keep her mouth shut. She smiles thinly, but never lip syncs.
What can one expect from season 5 of Gylne Tider?
Mel Gibson, Sean Young, Robin Givens, Kirk Cameron, Peter Scolari (he of those erectile disfunction ads) Melissa Sue Anderson and Dames Judy Dench and Meryl Streep (Streep's a dame by now isn't she?). Word is, that they and other celebrities yet to be determined, will gather to reinterpret "Pass the Dutchie"

The Douche Files - Porking

Is there any way to wear a pork-pie hat un-ironically post 1959? I just saw a bohemian hip dude with a straw pork pie hat and his son was wearing one as well. (I assume it was his son. This is LA after all it could have been his "son" but then I might be forced to notify the authorities.) And the kid's Affliction t-shirt and onset childhood obesity didn't help matters. I wish I could have been so cool when I was a fat 11 year old, trying to hide in teal Dittos and a sleeveless rust colored down vest. Anyway, pork pie hats make me feel like I'm dying a bit inside every time I see one. I  think I must associate it with artistry, and every jealous bone in my body tenses up. Only successful artists dress that shittily. And I know it all comes down to the fact that the only kind of hat I can pull off is a ball cap turned backward, and you just can't get away with that any more. Oh, and just wondering, does an 11 year old really need a caramel macchiato?

I'm Not Wild About Harry (Ostensibly about Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows part I)

There, I've said it. I recently viewed the new Harry Potter And The Deathly Hallows movie, and though it might put me in a class reserved for George Bush "evil doers" and supporters of Obama's health care reform, for lack of a jazzier way of saying it, the film is simply not my cup of tea. (I wish more film critics would excuse themselves from harsh judgement of films that simply do not appeal to them because of theme, content or genre). I have an uneasy fear that the wrong person will catch wind of this heresy and I'll somehow end up on some sort of Megan's Law inspired Potter offender list. My address will show up in the registry and a little smudge darker than the villainous Voldemort's black heart will mark the spot on a Google street map where "the one who should remain voiceless" is located. I have no fear of death eaters, it's the fanatical Potterphiles lurking in every nook and cranny I'm concerned with. When it comes to my general disinterest in all things Potter a DADT policy has served me well.  

Incidentally, I'm completely unqualified to give a critical opinion of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows" or any of the previous films in the series. I've not seen them all (I have seen parts I, III, VI and now VII) and while I've found some of the films more entertaining than others, the overriding reaction is  "that's it?"  There is nothing wrong with the Potter films. They are visually spectacular and for the most part well acted (Rickman, Smith and Fiennes oh my). The underlying themes of prejudice, inclusion and otherness resonate,  but the Potter films  require an investment of time and a foundation in the mythology and universe of the characters that I've not made.  I've not read the books and won't be reading them any time soon. It's not snobbery, in fact it might be simple laziness.

I have somehow fallen away from these fantasy worlds that used to fuel my childhood. When I was 7 years old my favorite film was "Jack The Giant Killer" and I imagined myself as heroic and brave as Jack or as towering and fearful as the giant. At twelve "Close Encounters of The Third Kind" blew my mind and became number one in my heart and imagination.  In my dreams I scaled Devils Tower countless times and spent other nights sleeplessly anticipating my alien abduction.   But by the time I was fifteen, my favorite film was "Ordinary People".  Somewhere a shift had occurred;  The realization of a world that included joy and tragedy - sometimes in unequal doses - had at some point tipped, and the harsher facts of life were now reflected in the films I was drawn to. The earlier fantastical films transported me. My new affinity with films  grounded in grim authenticity reflected a sense of shared perception.

The "We are not alone" tagline of Close Encounters had become "I am not alone". And there was a comfort and power knowing that others were feeling what I was feeling, perceiving in a way that I understood and related to. My film tastes became less about escape and more about escape route. These more realistically rooted films conveyed a way to navigate the world without space ships, spells and monsters. 

 

I sometimes wonder if I've lost a sense of wonder and replaced it with adult cynicism.

I see HP&TDH with a friend who is wanting to cheer me up and who is also very excited to see the latest installment. Cheering me up, because my Special Olympics pug/sidekick Finney has passed away and I am ruminating reliving... too much coulda shoulda woulda.  Other than the first Potter film which I saw of my own volition,  parts III, VI and now VII have been at the bequest of others. But, it's a good opportunity to spend time with a friend or loved one, and there's a faint lingering hope that this time I'll get it, this time it'll click.  I'll finally get it and be transported. Ah, well.

Sometimes  films are more than the films themselves, they are the people you see them with, they are the conversations you have afterward, and they are the subsequent late night supper that washes away the bad taste of a film that disappoints by failing to meet or even approach an expectation.  And that is what HP&TDH is for me. It's a friend who wants to cheer me up as I mourn my dog's death.  We talk about our affection for animals, the ones we have loved and lost over a great meal at Lowry's (they have a fast food place in the Century City mall and my 8 ounce end cut was surprisingly tasty. In fact Lowry's seems more suited to a mall, without the kitch of the Beverly Hills locale). This is followed by the real main course: The movie.

What I can say is this: The film looks great in Imax. The sound is terrific. You get extra free parking with a movie validation. Harry Potter takes his clothes off a lot in this film. I guess he's just at that age. A certain character dies and his big soulful eyes remind me of my departed Finney. This makes me a bit weepy. 

My movie amigo is a doctor. Oftentimes he has to leave before the end of a film due to some medical emergency or another. His pager goes off twice tonight. He moves to an empty aisle seat so he can easily get up without disrupting others. This evening he gets to see Potter through to the end credits.

We meet up in the lobby afterward. The satisfied grin on his face tells the story. He rubs his hands together with a maniacal Potterphile delight.  He loved it. His favorite character is Beatrix Lestrange, he identifies with her ways.  I spit out that Lestrange is an evil bitch and hope she dies in the last film. We say our goodbyes and part ways.  I drive home feeling a bit better. I have been cheered a bit. The magic of movies is sometimes not the movies themselves, sometimes they are merely a catalyst.

I haven't given up entirely on films of the Potter ilk. I recently read that Bryan Singer is remaking "Jack The Giant Killer". The original film is not as I remember from childhood. It is in fact terribly acted and the filmmaking is barely a tier above an Ed Wood production. But I have a seed of anticipation in regards to the new adaptation. Maybe I'll feel with this one what I felt as a kid. I could be heroic. I could be a giant.

When I get home I am keenly aware of Finney's absence. There is a divot in the quilt where he had been sleeping.  A Deathly Hollow.  I am missing his coughing spells and sneezes that had only last week been an irritant .  I am missing his stinky breath and the tap tap tap of his toe toe toenails on the hardwood floors. I miss the way he would sit in front of the fridge with blind (both literal and figurative) expectation that food would magically drop from the sky whether I opened the door or not. I would ask him if he was expecting pennies from heaven. Pennies no. Morsels yes. His last meal was leftover turkey from Thanksgiving. And despite everything else, he wolfed it down with childlike exuberance. Finney never lost his youthful enthusiasm for food. Finney believed in the magic of morsels. He was transported by them.  And I am painfully aware that frequently reality is simply crushing.

A Hole In The Ace or What An Acehole

By count there are twelve employees huddled en masse behind the stretching counter at The Ace Hotel’s King's Highway Restaurant in Palm Springs. And to apply an overused but appropriate simile, they are the flailing body parts of a chicken run amok with its head cut off.  There’s a flap afoot that I’m not privy to. Instead, I wait at the entrance for what seems like an eternity (3-4 minutes in real time, but we’re dealing with that empty pit in my stomach), and am thoroughly ignored by the retirement-age hostess in her Florida Red State rust red dye job and over-sized Boca Raton glasses that harmonize nicely with the hairdo and lip liner. She too is distracted by this counter cluster fuck. She meanders over to add her unsolicited opinion, while I stew in my own juices. By the way, I’m hard to miss;  I might even be obstructing the flow of sunlight into the restaurant.

A minor Celebrity Rehab non-celebrity whisks by me in a pork pie hat, schlepping his equally with-it  doppelganger baby. Maybe Dad's taking a break from a symposium at the Betty Ford Center. He greets an awaiting table and slides in.  When did the great unwashed take over the world?  I haven’t bathed in two days, does that count for nothing? I notice that celeb rehab guy is placing his order anon and the server is fawning over his swaddled spawn.

I wait for some sort of fauxhemian acknowledgement or even a “ ’sup man “ from the hipster staff. Come on now. This place used to be a Dennys. I am transported back to my tender youth and that horrible high school pecking order. The waiters here are at the top. There’s an evolutionary relatedness, but that 1% DNA differential  makes all the difference. I am a chimp. Or at least, I feel like one. 

I seem to recall in restaurant etiquette there’s no need to be escorted to a counter seat, so I help myself to an end spot and eavesdrop. What were once twelve has diminished to 8. There’s a growing concern about a large party in the center of the room that also continues to grow with new arrivals. Apparently this quandary is of such monumental importance, it takes the entire staff to navigate a plan of attack. Time stops and I have gained the unwanted super power of invisibility. Servers stream past in low-slung hip huggers and tight plaid shirts, oblivious to my presence.  Their angsty put upon grimaces draw my attention, but I can’t seem to attract theirs at all, or a menu for that matter.  Like I said before, I’m hard to miss.

I grab a to-go menu from under the nose of Florida Red, and return to my seat with a heavy sigh and unrecognized superiority. I’m not going to ask for help. I’m going to endure and wait in suffering silence. Or I’m going to splatter myself in kitchen grease and self-immolate in protest. I choose the former. Passive aggressive till the very end.

The counter bunch has increased again. Ten. The restaurant manager expedites orders and calls out tickets like the line in a Michelin rated restaurant, but the holey-jeaned greasy haired staffers transmit a cool, disinterested interest.

There’s one other customer at the counter and he’s finishing up. I look to the table behind me. The “Trouble Table”. The one creating a stir. Congregated there I discover more trendy non-conformist conformists. Silverlake has spread to the desert and it’s not pretty. The patrons look like the wait staff. There’s more rear cleavage, beards and tattoos than a Roto-Rooter reunion.  It’s a modern version of The Last Supper: A long table where all the diner’s attentions are focused on the guy with the raddest facial hair.  In this adaptation, Thomas is doubting his lox are truly cured in tequila and JC feels more betrayed by his luke warm cheddar poblano grits than by any of his trendier-than-thou disciples.  I’m overdoing it. But damn it, I’m hungry.

And then “ What can I get you hon?” She wears a tired smile and sunglasses. At long last.

The wait is short. The food comes in less than ten minutes. Poached eggs, sour dough toast, Yukon gold hash browns, and a side of those grits. Maybe JC’s a bit of a nit picker. The poached eggs are overdone. I want those perfectly poached eggs that spill yolk like yellow motor oil. The ones Gordon Ramsey wets himself over, not these half hard ova. The sour dough toast is delicious. Texas style: Thick and a bit chewy. There’s a nice surprise with a roasted tomato, but the Yukon hash browns are a mushy off-white lump with no flavor. I save the grits for last as they hold the most promise. JC was right. Luke warm. There’s some flavor and a bit of heat provided by the chilies, but ultimately blandness wins out.

I whip out a legal pad and start jotting down some notes. Today is the day I shall start my blog. I’ll write about this disappointing encounter. The indignities I’ve endured. Without warning, I seem to have become the center of attention. At least 3 servers ask about my dining experience. “More water?”. “How is everything?” “Can I get you anything else?” What's with this latent loquaciousness? Suddenly I’m persona grata. Where was all this 30 minutes ago when I really could have used it? It’s like the wife beater that gives his wife flowers. Nice afterthought but what about the black eye? Is it the legal pad drawing them in? And a new thought enters my mind : Shit, I should have had the chiliquilles.

I thought I was going to write about food, but instead I am writing about the people who deliver it. What ever happened to a friendly greeting and a genuine smile? It’s been replaced with an aloofness and pretense that instantly puts you “in your place”. When did hip become rude and over it? Or has it always been that way?

I’m reminded of the video store movement in Los Angeles in the 90s after Quentin Tarrintino’s star rose with Reservoir Dogs and ascended with Pulp Fiction. Suddenly the lowly video store clerk had ascended as well. With an encyclopedic knowledge of cinema and an MFA in film studies, many video store employees emitted a palpable contempt and superiority to the inferior consumer. Tarantino had sharpened his skills with a stint at Video Archives in Manhattan Beach. This oft reported fact seemed to lift the lowly video clerk to a revered status, and there was an assumption that within every video store clerk was an undiscovered film auteur.( I served my time behind the VHS curtain when I was nineteen, and at the time it seemed like a dream come true: To be surrounded by the thing I love the most. But this was Redwood Valley, a small suburb of a less small town. Folks were more interested in Ghostbusters II than my burgeoning interest in non-mainstream movies.) Does anyone recall trying to get the attention of an employee at Cinephile, Vidiots, Rocket Video or Videoactive? Don’t interrupt that intense conversation behind the counter dissecting the highs and lows of Joseph Losey’s career, your membership might be revoked.

I thought I was writing about food. Then I thought I was writing about the folk that bring it tableside.

But once again I wind up here. It comes down to film. Writing it, watching it, being moved or changed by it. I guess this blog really is about movies, cinema, film… whatever you call it.

My dad used to say if I knew my homework as well as I knew the contents of TV Guide, I’d be a straight A student. I’ve been following the box office report since the age of twelve. I’ve been obsessed since I can remember. Continue to be. Opinionated. Over critical. Hypercritical. Hypocritical.

I get up to leave. (We’re back at the restaurant now. Think of the dream within a dream within a dream of Inception) Florida Red is distracted once more, doesn’t see my hulking form. Someone finally comes up, takes my credit card. Not the hostess. A waiter. Smiling friendly for a moment then indifferent as he drops my card and rushes back to the pick-up window. I turn to leave, and good ‘ol Red calls after         “ Come back Again!” I’d like to imagine that she’s only biding her time here, waiting for her ship to come in. Like many of us… Like those waiters… Wordlessly shouting, “This isn’t really me. This isn’t what I do.”

In the nineties, when I was a waiter (Yeah, I did that too. Not very well, but I tried.) there was a woman I worked with that had earned the nickname frowny (she in turn had a stalking customer she referred to as Mr. Salty because of his resemblance to Mr. Salty of pretzel box fame. But that’s another story). She had a fixed glower on her face that she reserved exclusively for customers. She pulsated with resentment. She was also one of the funniest people I had ever met. She preformed with a local improve group. Her characters were memorable and her sketch writing skills were concise and hilarious. Many of her colleagues went on to fame and popularity on Saturday Night Live. She went on to teach at the acclaimed school. I looked her up on IMDB recently, and it seems she has had a successful career parlaying her writing artistry. Many people I have met over the years have gone on as well, some to great artistic acclaim.

I’m still waiting for my ship to come in. Still waiting for that series to be picked up, that play to go off-Broadway, that spec script to draw a seven-figure payday. After all these years I refuse to give up.

I head next door to Koffi for a drink and to write something down. ( Koffi recommended, King’s Highway, not so much).  Fourteen-year-old Tony De Franco croons “Heartbeat, It's A Lovebeat” over the sound system. I sang that song in the sixth grade talent show and came in second place.  Haven’t heard much from Tony De Franco lately. Maybe he hit his stride too early. Maybe I haven’t hit mine yet. I suppose that's what I was trying to get to in a round about way.