Slept just fine on the cabin’s big leather sofa, but I awoke with a complete mental storyboard of action choreography for the climax of a gangster movie that doesn’t even exist.
All the more reason to re-calibrate my imagination when I get back to the prescribed studio discipline tomorrow…
In Memoirs of a Geisha, the main character reflects on the advice of her mother, who taught that water, with time, can cut through the hardest rock, and, when blocked, will always find another way.
Why is it that everywhere I shift my attention, I’m reminded of the power of persistent, repetitive action? Is the universe using the method itself to make sure the concept gradually penetrates my stubborn personality?
When I look over the past dozen years or so, the most noticeable change I can recognize in myself is the transformation to high physical activity from a sedentary mode. It wasn’t initially inspired by a dream. Rather, it grew out of an apprehensive realization that I undoubtedly carried the same predisposition to heart disease that had claimed my father’s life. Out of weakness came strength—increment by increment, workout by workout, mile by mile.
So, there I have it. Out of my weakness to believe that I could achieve without grinding, habitual effort my dream—a dynamic life on the land, making art from a studio in the Knobs—can come a new practice and ritual which is the only course that will ever take me there. Yes, there will be obstacles and inner resistance. At times, the water will need to find an alternative path, but there is no alternative to the necessity of the “drill.” No other way than through the power of focused routine, and a life of productive habit.
Once again, I must read the words of Emerson and let them sink in—
In chemistry, the galvanic stream, slow, but continuous, is equal in power to the electric spark, and is, in our arts, a better agent. So in human action, against the spasm of energy, we offset the continuity of drill. We spread the same amount of force over much time, instead of condensing it into a moment.
Once more.
And again…
— Month of January workout totals: Swim-5; Bike-2; Run-2; Lift-8; Yoga-13
— Most who know me are aware that I ran—this is where I always have to stop and clarify or say something like “traversed under my own power,” since “ran” is not appropriately descriptive nor entirely accurate—50 miles on my 50th birthday. Later that same year I finished the Chicago Marathon under five hours. That’s my experience with long-distance running. At times I wonder why I didn’t keep it up, but usually I just wonder why I still feel any need at all to stay in running, biking, and swimming condition to be within striking distance of performing a triathlon. Well, it’s important to cross-train, I tell myself, and besides, staying in triathlon shape is not extreme, it’s just what I consider the baseline of physical fitness. I used to think of extreme as my friend who completed over 80 marathon runs, including one in all 50 states and all 7 continents (yes, I know, Antarctica). Or maybe extreme could be defined as competing in “Ironman” triathlons—a 2.4-mile swim, followed by a 112-mile bike ride, and then a 26-mile marathon on top of it, all in one day. And then I heard about the Hardrock Hundred, a 100-mile race that takes place in the mountains of Colorado. Is that extreme or what? Actually there are those who don’t think that’s enough of a challenge, and push the idea of extreme out to the borderlands of madness—the World Championship Quintuple Iron Triathlon. Believe it or not, that’s a distance equivalent to five Ironmans. There’a guy from Louisville who did it. He finished seventh, with a time that set a new U.S. record. A 12-mile swim, 560-mile bike, and 131-mile run. After four days, nine hours, and 40 minutes, he hobbled across the finish line, his body well into the process of cannibalizing his own muscle tissue. Do you think that’s extreme? Now try this—next November there’s a race in Mexico that requires ten Ironmans in ten days, and the Iron Kentuckian is thinking about an attempt. When I heard that I thought about the Athenian warrior Phidippides, who ran what’s considered to be the first marathon in the year 490 BC. He expired. We’ll keep you posted.
— The previous blurb brings to mind a recent article in Money Magazine that one of our clients brought to our attention. Jason Zweig explains in “The Thrill is Wrong” that the new science of “neuroeconomics” is helping investors understand that brain metabolism may cause us to make bad money decisions in much the same way we make bad decisions about food, drink, drugs and sex. Maybe they should add exercise to that list.
— After delivering my finished exhibition print to the Carnegie Center, Dana and I had a nice carnitas dinner in Lexington and then settled down to watch a late screening of Memoirs of a Geisha. I knew I’d enjoy it—actually, much more than Marshall’s “Chicago,” even though it’s garnered less acclaim—as I knew I’d enjoy “The Last Samurai,” because I can easily overlook the flaws in a picture like this. When the production design for a Japan-based story is this awesome, I can never leave the theater disappointed. I must make a note to check out any movie with set decoration by Gretchen Rau. It bothered me that they cast the two female leads with Chinese and Malaysian stars, but I think I was bothered more by the idea of it, going into the theatre, than during the feature. Ziyi Zhang deserved an Oscar nomination. It’s a powerful story, probably a better book, and almost worth the outrageous ticket price. Ken Watanabe is excellent once again, and I always get a kick out of seeing Mako pop up with his trademark scowl, even for less than a minute of screen time.
I hadn’t been feeling the tenderness in my knee, so I figured it was time to start running again. My waistline had been telling me the same thing for over a week.
I ran the full cross-country course out at Mack’s farm, half before the “Shared Silence,” and half after. Milton talked about how he categorizes and charts modern myth theories. I was still thinking too much about a couple movies we watched with David and Lee last night.
The Constant Gardener
The best thing about it is the editing. The worst thing about it is also the editing. That doesn’t mean it won’t win awards, but personally I think they went a bit overboard on the final product. Nevertheless, it’s probably a masterpiece, but, for some reason, I’m not sure about that.
Broken Flowers
Bill Murray may be Hollywood’s greatest facial minimalist since Buster Keaton. I could be wrong about this, too.
Although totally different, both movies were very creative. Both had superb casts and great music. On some level I think I’d already accepted this as a given, so I really doubt if either of these films will stick with me for very long. Maybe I’m just a little burned out on motion pictures lately, or, more likely, my thoughts have been occupied most of the day with something else.
I have afternoon plans to go to Lexington with Danny and attend a full Latin Mass—my first since the 1960s.
Ian’s face-recognition blog entry is hilarious. I had to try it, too. So I uploaded a recent picture of me that Dana likes.
Who the hell is Christian IX of Denmark?
Sulking, I looked through a few more pictures, and—you guessed it—I selected a picture of my notorious alter ego, Headley Lice.
No picture of Admiral Lice would return a result at the MyHeritage.com site. Very curious. The fear of this pirate’s dreaded wrath extends deeper than I ever presumed.
And so I used my old Muscle Club shot.
—Theodore Roosevelt— YES!
Then I took the big plunge. Uploading a photo of Dana in high school, I sought scientific proof that ever since the night I first watched El Cid, I had spent my youth trying to lure Sophia Loren into the pillows.
—Isabelle Adjani— Hmm, not bad…
Who the hell is Sophia Loren?
As Dana and I worked our way back toward Danville, we found ourselves near the Kentucky Theater, with the chance to catch a showing of “The Squid and the Whale” during its last week in Lexington. We hadn’t been in the adjacent State Theatre since the screening of Andrew’s movie last summer. Seeing this kind of film reminds me how much I appreciate the full spectrum of cinema, from the huge spectacles like “War of the Worlds,” to small literary pictures like “Squid.” I’m not enough of a groupie to outline any details, but I recognize the quality of the creative output coming from this particular circle of film makers, including Noah Baumbach, Wes Anderson, Jennifer Jason Leigh (Vic Morrow‘s daughter), the Wilson brothers, and others. The nature of the circle’s connection to talents such as Bill Murray, Gwyneth Paltrow, and Kevin Kline are unknown to me, but serves as a clear reminder that the movie biz is a relatively “small world” at the nontechnical level. “Squid” has obvious parallels to “The Royal Tenenbaums,” but it also triggered some reflections on “The Anniversary Party.” Beyond the dynamics of the artistic circle (usually behind the camera, but occasionally in front as well), these kinds of low-budget, quasi-autobiographical pieces tend to fascinate me when well executed, not so much because of the typical, self-reflective focus on dysfunctional relationships, but the way in which the art affects me at an emotional level and stimulates personal objectives. For me, that’s what movie-going has always been about—the lingering internal ripples of the following day (and beyond, if I’m lucky, or did a decent bit of homework before making my choice of feature). For instance, in spite of all the attention to the unattractive snobbishness of intellectual elitism, I come away from “Squid” with the distinct desire to reverse my practice of keeping at arm’s length the major works of great novelists—Dickens, Melville, Proust, etc. It brings to mind the words of Michel Seuphor, which I copied in my journal a while back: “You can never see too many things in a work of art. Itself, the work is a means for discovering what is already within us. The true work of art is more than its creator; it is always behind him; soon it enters another orbit not his, because the artist changes, he dies, while the work lives in others.” Twyla Tharp takes it a step further, examining the potential power of sub-art, with her story about Jerome Robbins: He was “a true man of the theater, who made a point of going to see everything because he could find something useful in even the worst productions. He’d sit there, viewing the catastrophe onstage, and imagine how he would have done it differently. A bad evening at the theater for everyone else was a creative workout for him.” No bad art, only bad observers? I wouldn’t take it to that extreme…
— Year of 2005 workout totals: Swim-73; Bike-28; Run-41; Lift-22; Yoga-9
— Month of December workout totals: Swim-4; Bike-0; Run-4; Lift-3; Yoga-8
— I’m satisfied with how I was able to maintain a good momentum of swimming during an unsettled 2005 that didn’t exactly lend itself to regular exercise; plus I’m pleased with how I managed to regain regular yoga practice at the end of the year (it helps to be watching Lisa Bennett-Matkin). Nevertheless, an odd tenderness in the right knee will cause a delay in my return to running form, but I’m expecting it to be a huge year for cycling instead. Brian M gave me his “hardly used” Shimano pedals—look out!
— Once again, my family had its annual Hot Wheels car race. When I try to explain this event to the uninitiated, the listener nods politely and probably can’t get past the idea of little boys playing with toys. My description fails to capture the rich generational traditions, the competitive repartee, and the comedic tone, not to mention the feast of delicacies, snacks, and tempting junk-food delights. And we have our announcers—two of them—so jaded and sarcastic that “real-life” fans would have long ago beaten them to a pulp in the parking lot after their summary dismissal by speedway executives.
— I humiliated myself last night by making the classic blunder of bringing a movie that I’d never watched to a get-together with friends. William H. Macy let me down with his dreadful “The Cooler,” and who in the world wants to see his saggy buttocks anyway? I suppose we salvaged the evening to some degree by attending the wildest midnight scene in Danville—the annual three-inches-of-confetti-on-the-floor bash at the Hamlins. It’s rowdy, loud, and lots of fun, if you don’t mind digging the little colored stuff out of all those personal nooks and crannies that WHM so gratuitously displayed to the whole world.
— I finished another Grandy-bo piece this morning (my tenth) that Caitlan ended up getting during the Clan’s Chinese (Chine-Yine) gift exchange. I’m finally achieving the loose, spontaneous style that I’ve been after for quite a while. Rita’s photo show was particularly moving for me, as though my torch had been passed to a new generation of documentarians. She’ll get better at editing down her images to a more focused presentation, but it was the kind of montage that I used to have such a passion for, and I’m happy that someone else wants to pick up where I left off. Now, if I can only convince her to take over the Seitz Reunion portrait…
— Our family gathering today was filled with much love, perhaps more that usual, if that’s possible. The gesture of generosity that was extended to Dana and me took us by surprise, and brought emotional closure to a holiday season that had seemed somewhat diminished by an inability to carry out our usual traditions at the Town House. What a thoughtful, caring thing to do! It made us realize that a tough, draining year was behind us at last, and how much everyone has missed Bruce.
• The issue of a nuclear Iran fully ignites as a major global crisis and precipitates some type of military action before the end of the year.
— reference
• Despite the conventional wisdom that Academy members won’t choose two portrayals of dead musicians back to back, long-shot Joaquin Phoenix takes home an Oscar for his Johnny Cash performance when Hoffman, Strathairn, and Ledger split the “progressive” votes.
— reference
• Voters, upset with a blatantly hypocritical broadening of investigations into the governor’s partisan supporters, cast ballots to further reduce the number of Democrats in the Kentucky House.
— reference
• Aggragetors and reading lists for RSS feeds will hit a tipping point of mass appeal in the same way that Web logs did in 2005, making blogs an even more popular “spectator sport.”
— reference
• Senator Clinton enters the autumn with such an insurmountable lead in funding over Kerry, Edwards, and her other opponents that the media acknowledges her inevitable nomination and shifts its attention to who might successfully challenge her on the Republican side, leaving the door open for Bayh to exploit her “frontrunner” status and surge in polls by the end of the year.
— reference
• Critics shower Tom Cruise with praise for finally “getting it right” with his decision to put the fate of his M:I franchise in the hands of “Alias” creator J.J. Abrams, and the partners follow their summer box-office smash with an announcement that Abrams will scrap “Alias” to develop a new “Mission: Impossible” television series starring Ving Rhames as the team leader, with “the voice” of the mission controller to be Cruise himself.
— reference
Dana and I decided to just go all the way with a “biopic grand slam,” and so we borrowed “Ray” from the library. Every so often I watch an Oscar-winner at work (Nicolas Cage in “Leaving Las Vegas” comes to mind) and I think, “Is this truly a performance that deserved an Academy Award?” This was definitely not one of those times. I’ll leave it to others more gifted than me to characterize Jamie Foxx’s phenomenal achievement.
As far as the movie goes, it makes “Beyond the Sea” look anemic by comparison—the difference between an obvious indie project and a big commercial picture with the highest production values. “Ray” is one of the best sounding Hollywood products in recent memory. The sound mixers deserved their awards every bit as much as the lead actor. Superbly directed, designed, and edited, the film is a technical masterpiece, but was it a better picture than “Million Dollar Baby?” No—because Clint delivers the full package that your heart is yearning for when you choose a movie like this. “Ray” has its moments—quite a few, and they’re exceptional—but failed to sustain a deep emotional connection for me. I cared more about whether Johnny Cash overcame his addiction in “Walk the Line,” and I really don’t think it was a function of who Ray Charles was or how good a job Jamie Foxx did.
I’ll continue to contemplate the similarities and contrasts of the four musical biographies I’ve discussed in my last two entries, and why one or another excelled in a particular area. In any case, each one of them is well worth the time, but now I plan to accept a couple new assignments in the spare-time department—the complete “Firefly” collection plus an early Paul Watkins novel…
It was quite interesting to watch “Walk the Line” and “Beyond the Sea” back to back. I found Spacey’s motion picture more cerebral, given a nontraditional structure remarkably similar to “De-Lovely,” which I thought was also very entertaining. Actually, both Porter and Darin were consummate American “feel-good” entertainers and their tribute flicks should come off accordingly. Kline and Spacey have just about cornered the market on “do-anything” talent in Hollywood, and I suppose that’s why Joaquin Phoenix blew me away with his wide-ranging portrayal, because I honestly wasn’t expecting him to be so outstanding in the role.
The Johnny Cash story hit me more at the gut level, just as it was intended to do, I believe. Everything about the movie was clearly geared to creating a powerful sense of intimacy. I’ve never been a Johnny Cash fan, so maybe that enables me to be convinced that Phoenix pulled off a monumental challenge with superb skill and dramatic fluency. If so, he’s elevated his stature to the upper tier in his generation and will surely be rewarded with ample nominations for top awards. I hope the same is true for
Reese Witherspoon. Show me something this young woman cannot do. I thought it might take a while to see another highly versatile actress grow up on the screen like Jodie Foster did, but here she is. I’d love to see her in a production with Foster, Laura Linney, or Jennifer Jason Leigh, but somebody has to be able to write a screenplay worthy of the sheer incandescence. And, of course, there’s always Broadway. Just wait. We’ll eventually see her tackle that, too. One thing is for sure—you’ll no longer see anyone do a biopic of a famous singer without personally recreating all the music.
Speaking of growing up on the screen, Kate Bosworth reminds me of a young Lynda Day George, with a pinch of WKRP-era Loni Anderson mixed in. I don’t remember her in “The Horse Whisperer,” and I’ve missed all her other films, so it was a treat to watch her so ably inhabit Sandra Dee… well, to watch her—period. She’s impressive. Now I’m looking forward to seeing if she makes us forget all the other Lois Lanes of the past 60 years.
I’ve gone on long enough. I don’t even have time to be watching movies, much less ramble about them, so let me just close with this:
As much as “Beyond the Sea” is a mental movie and “Walk the Line” is an emotional one, I find that it’s the Johnny Cash lyrics that I continue to mull over in my mind, and it’s the Bobby Darin melodies that I feel like whistling cheerfully throughout the day.
Yesterday I went to church at the Salvation Army, which inspired me to write a Thanksgiving prayer, so I treated myself to a sandwich at my neighborhood hang and wrote it out. I saw Tim and Jo Ann, learning that they’d been able to buy the infamous “Banker’s House” on Perryville Road and were in the midst of moving. They said that if they didn’t do it before the holiday, they might be too busy until January (Jo Ann) or April (Tim). Yep, that sounds about right for those two. I wondered how far into seven digits the sticker price climbed. They asked me how Bruce was doing. Given Tim’s long, long recovery from his accident, these are two people who understand the meaning of “slow progress.”
Afterwards I puttered around at home, taped plastic around the air conditioner in the mud room, and managed to fit in a nice cross-country run on Mack‘s Trails with Milton and Jim before joining the Strocks for an evening of relaxation. Terie invited me to share a delicious birthday dinner for Marty—venison chili with cornbread and salad, followed by cake and ice cream (mounds of it!), plus a DVD thriller with Kathryn Morris.
Later on, Marty and I both realized we were still in front of the tube watching, for no reason, a Will Ferrell movie with Mike Ditka that stunk to high heaven—because we politely assumed the other wanted to—so we promptly re-adjourned in front of the PS2, enabling the Galactic Empire to capture Hoth, the ice planet, and closed our night with a burst of energy.
Moral of the story— If you’re going to eat two bowls of chili, birthday cake and Breyers, be sure to run hills for five miles first.
Or maybe eight.
Today’s swim was as meditative as Tuesday’s was strenuous. Before I came home I walked over to the Jones Center and looked over the exhibition of sculptures. Standing in the painting studio among the half-finished canvases, I breathed in the vapors of turpentine and tried to get the Paul Watkins story out of my system (it made matters worse). Last night I listened to a 1993 radio interview that helped me gain a greater sense of the young man. The interviewer used the word “precocious,” but I must say I didn’t have that impression after having lived with David Halifax for a week. Well, I suppose most contemporary artists tend to squander youth before getting their act together, so any disciplined person who hits the ground running by the age of 20 is now considered prematurely developed.
I was talking to Marty about the novel and immediately he thought it would translate well as a motion picture. He chose Tobey Maguire as Halifax and Sean Connery as Pankratov. Not bad. I’d go with Michael Gambon or Brian Cox as the gruff, mysterious Russian myself (but who besides Cox could be Reichsmarschall Hermann Göring?). The character of Guillaume Fleury is trickier. John Turturro could have played him early in his career (maybe a bit too tall). Perhaps Jason Schwartzman would be a good match today, but I’m not familiar enough with his work. The likeness of Fluery that I picture in my mind is similar to a self-portrait by Pierre Bonnard. Marty suggested Adrien Brody—not bad again. He asked me how one gets to be a casting director in Hollywood, and I’m ashamed to admit that I came back with a snide reply inappropriate for a fourteen-year-old lad. Needless to say, it doesn’t please me when I witness a pocket of cynicism erupt from below the surface, like looking in the mirror to discover a conspicuous pimple.
Speaking of Marty, I had to pick him up from school yesterday when he was feeling too sick to wait for a bus ride home. I told him to stay warm, rest, take some vitamin C, and, so he wouldn’t miss any class time today, not to be “outside playing football after your friends get home.” When I talked to Terie later she said that he was fine. “Really?” I asked. “Yeah, he’s playing football,” she said.
My admiration for Charlton Heston is enormous—the actor, the activist, the man—and so I find it almost impossible to watch the last few of his movies I haven’t yet seen, such as The President’s Lady, Antony and Cleopatra, The War Lord, and Khartoum. Thinking about why this might be so brings to mind a conversation I had several months back with a librarian. I was lamenting the premature demise of James Clavell, and that there were no more of his novels left to read for the first time. She suggested I find an author who wrote in a similar manner, but that struck me as an unappealing solution. I wasn’t searching for a substitute. Instead, I yearned for a contemporary writer with an entirely different style to enjoy every bit as much, who would connect with me in a compelling and exceptional way. Have I now found that person? As I get deeper into
The Forger by Paul Watkins, I find myself wanting to read everything he’s written. I suppose that’s a reasonably good sign I have…
I finally went into the Central Kentucky Wildlife Refuge. It’s a fact—I’d never been beyond the parking lot. Why? Because I always told myself that if I had the time, I’d rather go to the Blue Bank Farm to be in our own knobs. While that notion is essentially valid, it allowed me to stupidly neglect an extraordinary natural setting right here in Boyle County. I ran the picturesque trails with some friends. Some might say this was a ridiculously hazardous thing to do under the circumstances, since it was raining and there were roots, loose stones, and lots of fallen leaves on the trail. The downhills were particularly treacherous; there were places where it would have been almost impossible to stop, and even slowing down before a level spot made the footing more uncertain. You know what I mean if you’ve ever run down a really steep grade. I know runners who won’t run on anything but a paved surface, fearing injury. They won’t even run on grass, which is my favorite thing on which to run—always has been. I remember how uninhibited I used to feel after watching a Johnny Weissmuller movie, and I’d run barefoot at top speed across the back yard with a rubber knife and give the Tarzan yell, which I thought at the time to be an exceptionally decent rendition of the Hollywood sound effect (for an eleven-year-old Ohio boy it probably wasn’t bad). I felt swift—I never paused to consider how it might look as though I were standing still if one of the Vagedes brothers had been running next to me. They were all sprinters from birth and grew up to challenge the rushing and stolen-base records of their day. I was never similarly fleet of foot. I didn’t run track in high school. I said it was boring to run in circles, but the true reason is that I wasn’t fast. I thought I would do better at a longer distance. In the late 60s track and field competition offered nothing over a mile run, so I went out for cross country. The distance was two miles. Today a two-mile run is a track event. I was still slow, but I got to run on grass. Dadbo was supportive and said I had a natural stride. It was nice to have my father tell me that he enjoyed watching me run, but we didn’t talk much about cross country. If he came to observe any of our meets, he kept out of sight. He must have thought it might make me nervous if I saw him. I’m guessing it would’ve helped. If I’ve ever possessed “the Means,” it wasn’t back then. Most likely, Dadbo knew that. In any case, I was usually injured because I waited too late in the summer to begin my training. On top of that, I had inferior shoes and poor coaching. I’m still relatively slow, but I can take a medal in my age group now and then if I’m in shape (and only one or two good athletes happen to show up in my category). But I’ve learned to run without injury at last—and I can pull out all the stops on a slippery October trail run among my fitness chums, with the keen insights of Paul Watkins reverberating in my psyche.
Tonight we watched the first half of Altman’s Nashville at Dr. Vahlkamp’s “Films of the 70s” series taking place at the Boyle County Library. There’s so much absurdity there I couldn’t appreciate when I saw it the first and only time, almost 30 years ago—like how in 1975 I dressed just like Elliott Gould playing himself. And then later I heard Spacey say to Rose that it looks like Altman will direct Miller’s final play for the Old Vic in London.
Joan and I joked on Saturday about coming to the HUB as a couple of beatniks on open-mike night. That made us think about the demise of Bob Denver, who we remember as Maynard (to most of America he was Gilligan). Don Adams passed away yesterday. The back-to-back deaths of these 60s-comedy icons got me to thinking about how far we’ve travelled since sitting in front of the tube as adolescents. “Get Smart” was a cool, funny show, Agent 99 had sex appeal to spare, and I never felt self-conscious about watching it. It won Emmys, like our favorite drama, “Mission: Impossible.” On the other hand, wasting your time watching a show like Gilligan’s Island” was inexcusable. Mombo would scold us for being glued to the TV set. Shows like Denver’s became known as “glue” in our household, and you couldn’t deny the obvious if stuck in one. There weren’t a lot of choices if you felt like watching television in the 60s, and even after all these years, it’s hard to believe I allowed myself to “glue down” and watch so much junk like that. Now they’re called classics, and people in Hollywood trip over each other remaking them as major motion pictures.
My morning was devoted to cleaning up the used smoker that belonged to Bill’s dad. I played the soundtrack CD from “Master and Commander,” realizing that it was the first time I had truly listened to it. Some of these discs become mere background music in the studio. It made me want to watch the motion picture again, and I kicked myself for letting Marty’s DVD sit around the house for a month this summer without indulging. I made the offhand remark to Bill that it’s the best historical action drama since “Braveheart,” and that might actually be true, but I said it without really thinking much about it. Nevertheless, it would be interesting to know more about the Weir-Gibson connection.
I love smoked fish, but doing it myself is an entirely new thing for me. The timing is perfect today, as we organize and clean in preparation for tomorrow’s departure. We had to soak the salmon in a mixture of brine and seasonings all night. I’ll monitor the smoking process as the rainy weather makes is way through the Straits of Mackinac. There won’t be any more fishing for us in the Les Cheneaux
on this trip…
After breakfast with Mombo, Joan, and Darb, it was time to shake off the corsair dust. Dana, Marty, and I traveled to Indianapolis and spent the holiday with Bruce. He was eager for activity, so we did a wheelchair trip to the fountain courtyard and took some pictures. Then Dana cut his hair while Marty and I watched the middle part of “Clear and Present Danger,” which features the Bogota RPG assault on the SUVs. Harrison Ford reportedly did his own stunt driving in the final escape. I knew that scene was coming up, but I’d forgotten how well it had been crafted. If Ford can use his clout to make sure “I-J-4” comes anywhere close to the excitement of that sequence, it won’t even matter if Indy has a beer gut. (But I’m certain that Steven Spielberg, George Lucas, and Frank Marshall couldn’t care less about my apprehensions when it involves their decision to monkey with that trilogy.)
I can’t get “Gates of Fire” off the front of my mind today. It’s at times like this I could use a basic intellect boost (remember that Krell device in “Forbidden Planet?”) and coalesce all my fragments of thought to produce a single, coherent insight. To be more specific, I keep thinking of Thermopylae, and what it meant, and, beyond that, the place it holds in our history. How many times has it inspired those who faced impossible odds, or given meaning to sacrifices that would serve no immediate purpose other than to lay the groundwork for a subsequent overcoming, or compelled strivers to place the welfare of the many over life itself? And if so, it must be true that knowledge of the heroic feat was present in the mental quiver of an educated person. Is that still true today? If you asked a hundred Americans old enough to vote, how many of them would recognize the word “Thermopylae?” And of those, how many would know what it meant? And of those, how many could explain its significance to Western Civilization? And of those, how many would believe it was a positive contribution to the world that followed? And who among them might speculate with me about how the event had perhaps influenced Wallace and his Scots? Washington and his Rabble? Houston and his Texicans? Churchill, Roosevelt, and Eisenhower and the ordinary men they motivated to storm death’s sanctum on both sides of the planet?
—may contain spoilers—
I wish I had the capacity to take Pressfield‘s premise—that Leonidas hand-picked the 300 Spartan warriors, not for their own character, but for the character of their wives, mothers, and daughters, knowing that the ultimate victory would come to pass when the embattled Greeks took heart from the conduct of the Spartan people, which would in turn be based on the Spartans observing the conduct of the women who would survive their slain husbands, sons, and fathers—and apply it to the national dilemma we face today. I wish I had the ability to write cogently about our collective response to the public posture of American women such as Cindy Sheehan, Evelyn Husband, and Shannon Spann, and what it may indicate for our future as a society, and the longevity of the institutions we inherit from the ancients—from that time when the very survival of human freedom as a concept balanced on a spear point called Thermopylae.
There now. If you managed to wade all the way through that swirling, whiny muck above to reach this point, dear reader, all I can do is kiss you lightly on the forehead and say, “Thank you. Now, please go hose yourself off…”
We were with Bruce on his birthday today. Delivered a package of cards, my Cosmosaic (the fourteenth), and a memory-foam pad for when he gets to go home. Perhaps that will be soon; he looked good. Brandon caught his flight to NC, wrapping up his Indiana summer. On the way home, Dana and I finished listening to “Gates of Fire.” I hope there’s truth to the rumor that Michael Mann has signed to develop the novel as a screenplay. It would make an incredible motion picture under his meticulous leadership. (Armand Assante as Leonidas?)
Josh was quiet, but clearly happy to be among family. I can’t remember the last time there were so many of us gathered together. The “Houseboat Trilogy” was a hit, and Seth deserved to get most of the glory.
Welcome back, Josh. Have a good time before you must return. Forgive us for the fake video violence that we create for amusement. We know that you’re a professional, and that the dangers you face are very real. We can play at fighting only because you volunteer to go to work behind a machine gun.
I’ve already mentioned that “Pirate Revenge” is done and ready for tomorrow night’s premiere. The family has previously seen a rough cut that’s pretty crude (home VCR edit with no sound track). On the surface, there’s nothing profound or meaningful to be found, because the “Houseboat Trilogy” has always been about indulging ourselves with a bit of silly entertainment for some good laughs and a few inside jokes. The original film was silent 8mm, shot in sequence during a 1971 lake vacation. It was short, violent, and very funny. The second part came 17 years later, when we celebrated Mombo and Dadbo’s 40th anniversary at Dale Hollow Lake. We’d made the shift to VHS by then, but it was also a spontaneous, in-camera effort, with some miserably poor post-production to spice it up. Now the characters from “Pirate Waters” had names and a context, so “Pirate Isle” was an instant classic within the Clan.
It looked like the next installment was going to be another of my many unfinished projects. I’d decided to shoot it more like a typical movie—get a lot of takes “in the can,” and then put it all together later. Seemed like a good idea at the time, but I didn’t have any capability beyond splicing clips from the raw Hi-8 footage to a home VHS deck. We recorded that master tape during a long weekend outing to Lake Cumberland in 1993. Brendan and I shot some filler months later, but basically nothing happened for nearly twelve years to bring the series to a conclusion.
But now, in the words of Petey the Pirate Urchin, “Everything’s changed,” because Seth rolled up his sleeves to reconstruct the entire production from scratch as a labor of love, adding his own natural sense of pacing and story coherence. The result goes way beyond my original vision for what was never meant to be more than another goofy contribution to the family archives, and I say that because the clean production quality of the Casablanca editing system at WREB lends an odd credibility to the composed footage. For me, this achieves two things. It provides a more satisfying entertainment experience rooted in our unique camraderie and shared humor, but, beyond that, it captures in one collaborative creation a intensely pleasurable look at the many raw talents and “playtime personalities” of the participants—the acting skills of Brendan in early formation, the not inconsiderable ability of his mother to craft a powerful characterization with minimal screen time, the hilarious histrionics of Jeanne, Susan, James, Jeffrey, Jerome, and others, the touching scenes of my parents together (demonstrating the typical respect they had for our endeavors by playing their roles straight), but perhaps more than anything, Seth’s embryonic media capability, which no one should fail to admire at his stage of the game.
Speaking only for myself, I think this oddball creation should be preserved and treasured forever.
