A Dearth of Heroics

was just rapping last night with Kristia and she asked me if I ever speak to my mother (who passed in january 2008).  well, yes and no.  i rarely speak outloud to her. but i sometimes feel a tangible connection with my ancestors.  its odd.

well i told her that i rap with my mother through my music. that much of it was what she put me on to.  that’s from musicals, to mozart, to jimi hendrix, to bernstein.

what i didn’t mention was how i had a dream about my mother a few months back.  in it we were at a party in some big room.  and it was my mother when she was much younger but she had the knowledge of my mother in her last days (like Alia of the Knife in Dune).  and she was so happy that i was doing music.  she told me i was doing the right thing.  and to keep at it.  and to celebrate how good my music was she starting dancing around the room, playing guitar, and singing purple haze.  well, yesterday, on a strange impulse, i bought a record player at J&R Music World.  just needed to hear all my dormant, ignored records.  on impulse i pulled out “Are You Experienced?” and only today i found out that this was my mother’s record.  i thought i’d bought it at a yard sale — but this is one that i pilfered off her shelf.  on the back it reads (in her handwriting):

P. Hollie Holman

meaning she got this record in college when she lived in a dorm with another Patricia and so, to alleviate confusion, she went by the moniker: P. Holly.

amazing.

—-

Hey Ma — I feel you and hear you today.  We’re listening to Jimi this afternoon.  like you wanted.  feels melancholy, lonely, and strange without you.  Your birthday is in a few days.  i know.  i remember.  will always remember.  more than i will remember other things.  “let them eat cake,” you used to say.  and so we will.  in tribute to you, mom.  thank you.  for everything.

this week Howard Megdal and I decided to review Woody Allen’s new comedy Whatever Works.  Much though I love Woody, I found the movie wanting.  Larry David didn’t do too bad… and it was entertaining.  and funny.  But Allen seemed to sort of just phone it in.

Go to: PerpetualPost.com to check Howards review!

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Whatever Works — What Is Left To Say

AKIE BERMISS: When it comes to Woody Allen, I’m a fan.  Plain and simple.  Whatever his personal politics and moralistic relativism in real life.  Whatever the somewhat questionable attempts at playing jazz.  Whatever — Whatever.  I’m a fan.  And, I acknowledge, it could just be the Brooklynite in me.  That’s possible.  But I was raised on Woody Allen films.  I was saying “…and the portions are so small” in the cafeteria in fourth grade.  And wonder of wonders: no one laughed.  But I quickly learned that being inside of the Allen cadre is its own reward.

And to my mind, he is quite possible one of the last of his kind.  A writer-director of the highest caliber. With a distinctive voice and a steady hand at each step of the process.  Its rare to see that kind of filmmaker making pictures for big studios.  A rare pleasure where Woody Allen is concerned.

I went to see Whatever Works (which open this friday nationwide) in Manhattan at the Lincoln Plaza Cinemas.  And never have I felt more out of place that in that crowd.  Just a sea of grey hair and palpable aged-ness.  Lots of shabby plaid shirts tucked in to high-hoisted slacks.  Lots of old ladies carrying multiple handbags and wearing ironic declarative tee-shirts.  And then, little old me.  (by coincidence, I sat behind the only other visible group of young people and listening to their banter was a truly rewarding experience.)

But I think I got along just fine.

Style and Panache

The first thing you notice in any Woody Allen film is the soundtrack — he loves the old rag-timey swing on the early 1900s.  And you’re almost always going to get a pleasurable dose of that happy-fare when the movie starts.  The second thing you should expect is that strange lead character.  That angry, fidgety, wise-cracking New Yorker.  He is our straight-man.  Hilarity is begun there — with that character (occasionally, this character will be female too when Allen can find the right muse… a Diane Keaton or a Tracey Ullman or even a Scarlett Johanssen) and its good if you have a familiarity with Allen’s other films when Whatever Works begins because its starts off running.  Its a 400-level course of Woody Allen.  The main character, Boris (played rather solidly by an awkward but eventually perfect Larry David), is something of a genius — or so he claims — an intelligent, belligerent man.  The kind of guy that, if you know enough New Yorkers, you’d know well enough (or at least you think “when So-and-So gets old, he/she will be like that…”) — and he’s a real throw-back Woody Allen kind of character.  Where we’ve seen a great mellowing from Allen in recent years — a preference for more nervous, likable SARCASTS than the acerbic, unconscionable kind — Boris is a real cad.  Just a total creep.  He’s smart and he thinks everyone else is stupid.  And he can’t stand it.  I have to admit, I don’t know how Allen keeps coming up with more material. Just when you think he’s exhausted every sarcastic., biting comment on any given topic he rolls out a few more.  Its an Allen device that few people have been able to imitate.  Certainly these days its one of those signature moves that only he can do anymore.

Another brilliant move by Allen is the aside.  And this is what gave me even more of a throwback feeling because you just don’t get these conversational fourth-wall-breaking asides in screen-writing anymore.  Voice-overs, occasionally, but I think a lot of writers, directors, and producers are afraid of the direct aside.  Because its hard to write — it takes a skilled writer who can really make the character come across without seeming like he’s just babbling (note: the 20-somethings in front of me said, at the end of the film: “That was the most babbling movie I’ve ever seen.  What the hell was it about?) — and its even harder to shoot.  Static shots lose your less engaged patient audiences.  But I guess Allen’s got a built-in audience that knows how to handle a bit of verbiage.  Boris periodically (but not too often!) speaks directly to the audience and though the rest of the characters can hear and see him, the CAN’T hear or see us and basically its a sort of meta-joke that, again, requires a bit of Woody Allen experience to come off right.

Well, you have your comedic-hero protagonist.  Cantankerous, verbose, opinionated, and nervous.  So enter his foil: a pretty, naive little runaway from Mississippi who falls in love with said hero.  We, the audience have trouble believing it — but so does Boris.  That is the basic premise and, as with all comedic Allen films, hijinks ensue.  I laughed out-loud somewhat infrequently.  Never did I feel a need to hold my guts in — but I was thoroughly entertained.  I was reminded that a comedy doesn’t have to make an audience guffaw (though the loyal audience did guffaw a few times when the dead-pan lines came on the mark).  It can be hilarious without all the slapstick and absurdity that have become the norm of the day.

Negatives

As I will mention later, critical though I am — I’m not very comfortable saying bad things about Woody Allen.  But there were a few downsides to this film.  Compared to his greatest works — this is not really in the same category.  I’ve always though Allen was best when he had a group of players.  That’s why I can watch the Huston-Alda-Keaton pictures over and over even when I know all the jokes.  He was writing, the Duke Ellington used to, for his players.  And they brought something deeper and wonderful to the table.  At this point in his career, Allen is such a force that I don’t think there are many who are able to contend with his writing and direction in the same way. While there are some shining moments, Larry David has some a bit of trouble really sinking his teeth in to the character. Is it because he feels himself dressed in the borrowed robes of Mr. Allen?  or just a lack of acting chops?  Larry David does a great Larry David… but is he ready to branch out from that?  Can he?

And, in keeping with that Woody Allen Players idea, the other characters just don’t get the same attention that they normally would in an Allen script.  Maybe this is the lack of muse-spark that comes from being something of a solo master.  The thrill is gone, as they say.  He can still do it better than most.  But there’s no drama in the construction.  He’s got it all covered.  I saw Samantha Bee in there for about four seconds… and couldn’t help but think, “Man, now there is an  Allen actress ready to play  a serious role for him.” But she’s gone as quickly as she arrives.  That too of Ed Begley Jr  — whom I think of as one of the Christopher Guest Players.  But there could have been some real opportunities taken with the other character — regardless of who was playing them.  In that respect, the script falls flat and shows some alarming signs of fatigue.

The Summation

All in all, it was a great film.  And I DO mean film.  Not a movie.  Allen is a composer and his compositions betray his talent and dedication to craft.  Much of what we find to be funny today owes its success to Allen’s wild invention days of the 70s.  His anti-hero schlubbs, his idiosyncratic way of making New York a character in the story, his snappy dialogue — and on and on.

I liked it.   But its hard to keep harping on how good Allen is.  He is a master and, in some ways, above reproach.  At this point he is so singular, so particularly Allen-like, so impeccably funny — what is there to say?  How does one critique the master?  I am reminded of a song by another master of composition, Abby Lincoln: “You Made Me Funny.”  Allen is like that — he is a master AND a maker now.  Like a great jazz musician that can pick up any instrument still have their own particular sound, Allen’s writing and direction is so powerful that in recent years he’s been able to put people like Hugh Jackman and Will Ferrel and, now, Larry David into his films and still maintain that particular Allen vibe.

A success, I predict.  Its Woody Allen all over again.  And I’ll add it to my collection when its available on DVD. (The kids in front of me would probably disagree.  They were still puzzling over it as I left the theater seeming to want to give Allen the benefit of the doubt, but just not seeing how the film made any sense at all.  I almost suggested they go watch some of his earlier stuff… but I figured I’d leave that to the older set who will sound less ridiculous saying such things.)

Hello All  — this week I’ve been slated to defend the BlackBerry against the onslaught of the superior forces of the iPhone.  To write this article, I pictured myself as Winston Churchill feeling the full, oppressive weight of the Third Reich coming down on me and still try to keep Britain free from the beast at the gates (read: the iPhone).  enjoy.

go to: perpetualpost.com to read the iPhone argument by Jillian Lovejoy Lowery and the No Thanks, Neither argument my Molly Schoemann

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The Blacker The Berry, The Sweeter The Juice

AKIE BERMISS: I love my BlackBerry.  And I have loved it since before I even laid hands on it.  I have claimed, throughout these blogs, to be both a geek and snob; both a lover of gadgets and a lover of arcane media; a champion of progress but a devout advocate for simplicity.  So yes, I’m a bit mixed up.  Certainly — And who ain’t?  But when I first saw the BlackBerry I knew I had found a friend.  For the BlackBerry, above all things, is a smarthphone/pda/gadget that’s just a little bit mixed up.

Like everyone else I know when I first heard about the iPhone I drooled over it for months.  Being an AT&T subscriber I had every intention of getting one as soon as I saved up the money to pay for the plan.  But something happened to me in the months leading up the debut of the first iPhone.  I became disenchanted.  Something about the critical mass of people drooling over the latest from Apple, Inc. just made me a little ill.  And then I began to examine the phone more harshly.  Like waking up from a drunken one night stand to find myself next someone totally different than I’d gone to bed with (so to speak).  The iPhone is sleek.  Its sexy.  Its fast and small and bright.  Its wide window is a like a beautiful single eye looking out on to the world with wonder.  It can shake and twist and turn.  It lights up, it works as an iPod, it works as a phone — it works as a computer.  You can read eBooks on it.  You can read the NYTimes.  It has a billion awesome, too-cool-for-words apps.  And when you take it out of your pocket at a party — everyone wants to have sex with you.  Oh yes.  Its that powerful.

But something occurred to me.  Its too sexy.  Its too cool.  Its too sleek!  The iPhone will look good in my hand at a party, but it’ll never stick with me — it’ll be looking for someone better to answer to.  The iPhone could never be my friend — with me through thick and thin.  By my side.  Ride or Die.  None of that.  There would always be an off-balance-ness.  It would always be the George to my Lennie.  And when it comes down to it, I need someone I can trust.  And the iPhone — it ain’t that.

Something about the iPhone began to rub me the wrong way.  So exclusive you can only have one?!  Hey Apple, this is America. I have ready-money.  If I want seven iPhones — I should be able to buy seven iPhones in a sitting.  One for works, one for gigs, one for parties and social events, one for travel…

And the touch-sensitive screen has always been a bit a no-no for me.  I’ve got big clumsy piano-player hands.  that means small things get man-handled in my grasp.  And since my fingers are used to percussive trauma on a regular basis, I tend to hit things pretty hard.  You should see the ATM as my bank — dented as all get-out from my finger-whoopings.  And then when I try to use the iPhone my fingers are always hitting two letters or numbers on the punch pad instead of one.  Sure the little slide-me-to-wake-me-up stroke is cool, but if i need to send a text message fast, I can stop and sit down and start editing my many typos.  Its a sexy feature — to be sure.  But what’s it going to do for me?

I need something else for my day-to-day.  The iPhone is the girl you call when you’re single and you need to impress other single ladies at a party or something.  But she’s too much work for a grumpy old troll like me.  She won’t abide by the cigars and the whiskey and the vinyl LPs in my cardboard shelving units.  She’ll glare at all my leather-bound books; laugh haughtily at my extensive science fiction and fantasy collection; give my iPod classic an inferiority complex — and finally, she’ll be cooler than anything else I have around me.  Just too hip.

And when it comes down to it — there is a limit on how hip I really want to be…

Design: Form and Function

Now, the BlackBerry is a different beast altogether.  Where the iPhone is sleek, slim, and tall, the BB is short, boxy, and stout.  Where the iPhone is all transparencies and brilliant white, the BB is grey. and black.  And sometimes silver.  The BB isn’t made up and dressed up and gorgeous around the clock, the BB drools in her sleep.  She snores a little bit (hey, maybe a lot).  She likes to wear loose clothes and stay at home on weekends and eat burgers.  (Ok — so I’m romancing this up a little bit. And making the phone a woman — as suits my personal taste.  But whatever your predilection I’m sure you understand the contrast: one can feel comfortable and reliant on the BB to be there and do what it does without feeling like it disdains you for touching it…)  See, my first cellphone (back in ’98) basically looked like a graphing calculator.  It was a sad affair, but it lasted me a good long time.  And it got through all the dangers, toils, and snares I threw at it.  But when it died — years later — I decided I wanted something a little smaller and hipper.  Because, after all, the sign of progressive technology is just how small and weightless it is, right?  So I got smaller and smaller phones until, at last, I got myself a RAZR.  Well, friends, we all know how cool that phone is.  its so small, you can basically fold it up and put it in your wallet.  I would lose the damned thing in my pocket four or five times a day.  Like I’ve said, I’m not a small man.  And I’m not too clean and neat either.  My pockets usually contain about five dollars worth of change (and most of that is nickels), a couple of pens, my car keys, a bunch of receipts, napkins, pipe and cigar implements, lighters, and scribbled notes to myself on looseleaf.  In all that, I’m supposed to find a phone the size of baseball card when it starts ringing?  Are you kidding me?

And something occurred to me in those crazy RAZR years: there is a point where things get too small.  There’s a point where scientifically, yes, one could get smaller and lighter and less obtrusive — But why?  If I’m carrying my phone, I’d like to at least know it.  I know we all want to feel like we’re walking around with nothing on cause that’s so much cooler than carrying a bunch of crap any where.  But why should I aspire to that?  I’m already carrying around several books, a computer, music, headphones — why should I try to find something that weighs nothing to be my phone.  A little weight is nice.  In fact, a little weight is better than nice — its beneficial.  If a gentle breeze can knock my phone of the table, I’m in bad shape because control environments are hard to come by.  If I drop my phone on the floor and it breaks — then I’m out a phone.  If I drop my phone on the floor, and it bangs up the wood — well then my floor is nicked up.  I’m already something of a clumsy brute.  Everything I own is dented or cracked or scratched.  I don’t even really make an effort to preserved their out-of-the-box perfection because i know its pointless.  I need good, stout, strong tools that can do their work well in wind and rain and dark of night.

That’s the BlackBerry.  Its got a good heft in my hands.  Its screen is clear, but not fragile. I’ve dropped it a bunch of times.  Its still ticking.  I like the tactile feeling of pressing the actual buttons on the phone.  Their ebb and flow under my flashing fingers.  I enjoy the crinkly sound of the rolling trackball.  And the apps I use on the BlackBerry are not as varied and awesome as those for the iPhone, true.  But they get the job done.  I’ve got all my google applications — Gmail, google maps, google calendar — all synched up perfectly.  I’ve got a Twitter app (yes, and I use it even though people hate on Twitter with passion… despite, and I think it a worthy digression, twitter being influential in organizing the Iranian election protests this week).  I use miniOpera to surf the web and its less convenient than a real browser — but I didn’t really get my BlackBerry for surfing the web. Or playing video games, or shaking babies.  I still think of a PDA as a communication device, mostly.  So miniblogging on Tumblr, or Twittering, or Facebook posting.  Along with calls, and texts, and emails from my various accounts. Even GPS directions and listening to music!  With the BlackBerry, I am integrated.  And that, my friends, is very much the point.

When I take it out at a party, no one gasps.  And no one wants to sleep with me.  But, mind you, I’m still connected.  And me and my Blackberry — we’re fine just sleeping alone.