Quick(ish) takes - a few films and more!

Whisky Galore! - I watched this little postwar Ealing Studios British comedy on Saturday and loved it tremendously (and wrote a brief review here).  Netflix (or Qwikster?) carries this delightful confection, though snooping is required to purchase it in the US.  CONFESSION: I drank gin while watching this movie.  For the next viewing, I'll try to find an old-school blend to match it up properly.

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What's Up, Tiger Lily? - Punctuation in movie titles! - WOW has this film dated poorly.  But its constant objectification of women is spectacular.  The best part, really.

On the surface, it seems like the movie would be pretty good.  A young Woody Allen, fresh off of his screenwriting, TV, and stand-up successes was hired to direct his first film.  So he took two cheesy Japanese spy films, recut them together, and dubbed over irreverent dialogue to create comedic intrigue about the search for the world's greatest egg salad recipe.

The idea is cute and it's probably more difficult than it looks to sustain a narrative this way.  But, seriously, pick any Mystery Science Theater 3000 episode at random and you'll find more laughs in the 30 minutes of the Bots' banter than in the whole 80 minutes of Tiger Lily.  And it's not as if MST3K is contemporary either; it's twenty-two years old and still works.  Maybe Crow and Servo have spoiled us permanently.

I can't really recommend Tiger Lily as a good example of early Woody Allen.  In fact I'd recommend any other early Woody film: Take the Money and Run, Bananas, Play it Again Sam, etc.

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Breakfast at Tiffany's - A terrifying film about an out-of-control narcissist who uses every creature she comes across for sex, money, attention, and fame, hurting everyone including herself in the process.  But the real horror is that Holly Golightly was ever seen by anyone as a hero or role model.

(Source)

There's an entire volume of sociological studies buried within this film; a couple paragraphs in blog entry won't do it justice.

My wife correctly pointed out that self-obsessed a**holes (my term, not hers) were and are more acceptable when they're men as opposed to women (in film and elsewhere).  I have no beef with that statement.  That's one of the reasons I've never warmed up to The Western genre, which more often than not romanticizes the Arrogant American Male.  But I don't think Holly's glorification is comforting either.

In our post-film discussion, Kristen also referenced my dislike of Scarlett O'Hara, another strong but ruinously self-obsessed woman.  The thing is, I believe that Scarlett loves Rhett Butler; it's in the script and the acting.  But I do not believe that Holly can love "Fred".  There's no precedence for it in the script, nor is a sudden turnaround believable.

I'm not saying the film is bad.  It's actually a very interesting character study of a malignant narcissist running amuck in hyper-consumerist Manhattan.  I'd watch it again if I wasn't haunted by the hideous Asian stereotyped(?) character, courtesy of Andy Rooney, that Blake Edwards clearly finds uproarious.  Unless that's also part of the horror...

(Source)

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Ugh, just a little more space away from that image...

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Mad Men (Season 4) and The Wire (Season 1) - To end on a positive note, I'm experiencing such writer's bliss watching these two series fully explore characters through subtle narrative progression.  Tectonic shifts happening quietly, gradually; gracefully handled by the writers, directors, and actors.  A feature film, by its nature, is a best-of scene sequence.  To establish shading and subtlety takes considerable work, luck, and brilliance when one has only 100 minutes to tell a story.  When there's 600, 800, or 1000 minutes with which to work, the creative possibilities grow exponentially.  Though it takes steady hands to not get lost amongst all of the opportunities.  And when the process works right, this viewer feels no guilt watching television.

WHISKY GALORE! (The Film!)

Nominee for the greatest title EVER

Narrator
But in 1943, disaster overwhelmed this little island.  Not famine nor pestilence.  Nor Hitler's bombs.  Or the hordes of an invading army.  Something far... far... worse.

Bartender
There is no whisky!

In the middle of WWII, the small Isle of Toddy (100 miles from mainland Scotland) runs out of whisky.  Panic, woe, and melancholy consumes the populace.  Prayers are issued to the heavens for more whisky.  The answer arrives in the form of an English cargo ship that crashes on their shores.  Overhearing that the ship contains 50,000 cases of whisky, all of the men in the town sneak out to rescue the whisky cases before the boat sinks into the sea.  Joy instantly returns to the island.  Amidst the revelry, the locals must keep the whisky bottles hidden from the English military who are trying to bring the whisky back to the UK market so that government can collect tax on the sales.

I'm not sure how funny this 1949 film would be to anyone who doesn't find bliss in a brand new bottle of Scotch.  But for whisky lovers, this film is divine.  We are its demographic and it panders shamelessly to us.

"Four whiskies and the man is a giant?!" exclaims a woman about her young fiancee.

The local doctor replies, "It's a well known fact that some men are born two drinks below par."  Amen.

There's a lovely singing montage as the whisky cases are opened and thoroughly enjoyed.  Looking carefully, I saw bottles of Ballantine's, Black & White, Cutty Sark, Johnnie Walker, Islay Mist, Lang's, and Mackinlay.  And when the montage ends, the narrator slurs through his voiceover.

The great Alexander Mackendrick (The Ladykillers, Sweet Smell of Success), directing his first feature, does a solid job keeping the story hauling along.  His visuals are crisp and smart; especially the depiction of the English military detectives as a faceless shadowed mass of hats.  (There's a clear Scottish versus English undercurrent running throughout the film.)  The editing is great.  The end chase sequence works well and has a very appropriate emergency conclusion.

There's a last minute awkward shift at the end of the film that allows the picture to conform to the British Board's morality standards of the time, though upon second viewing this addition seems to be parodying the censorship.

Ultimately, there's very little deep or profound about this film other than its love of the uisge beatha.  Sláinte Mhath! to that.

Shana Tova, y'all!

Yesterday (actually Wednesday night) marked Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year.  I spent a good chunk of yesterday at services with my mom in Isla Vista, CA.  It was thus necessary to shirk blog duties.  Wikipedia has a very impressive Rosh Hashanah page, but I'll give you a brief recap right here:

Rosh Hashanah the start of a ten-day period wherein one takes stock of the previous year, or more specifically where one screwed up and hurt other people.  Rosh Hashanah is day one, the Day of Judgement.  Yom Kippur is day ten, the Day of Atonement.

In the literalist view of these ten days of Teshuvah, G-d determines what the next year holds in store for each individual.  On Rosh Hashanah the big Book of Life opens.  On Yom Kippur the determination is made and The Book is closed.

On a more personal level, it sets aside time for introspection.  The religious practices enable that.  One takes off time from one's usual daily schedule, gets dressed up, and goes to seriously loooooong services.  Lots of prayers.  Standing and sitting.  Sitting and standing.  Standing and sitting.  Repetition Repetition.  At some point, the mind slips away from the words and actions.  It goes to a quiet place and floats over the year left behind and all that's to come.  Sort of a Kosher meditation.  And because it's Kosher, there's a whole lot of "Man, I f----d that up" observations going on.

It's also a time for apologies.  And a time to consider what a real apology is.  It's not "I'm sorry if what I said offended you."  Rather it's "I hurt you. I was wrong. I'm sorry."  Culturally, we hear so much of the former and so little of the latter, that we need to make sure that when we say we're sorry we're truly apologizing and not transferring the burden to the other person.  And once we apologize, we neither expect nor demand forgiveness.

This is also the holiday wherein we hear the blowing of the shofar, formed from a ram's horn.  From a distance it looks odd and out of place.  But once sounded, it conjures feelings and images, primal and ancient.  I still enjoy it after thirty-three years.

I LOVE this picture for so many reasons. (Source)

We also eat sweet stuff to symbolize a sweet new year.  Apples and honey always head the list and I recommend that they be pared with white wine, brandy, cognac, or a Speyside single malt (of course).

It's also a great time to put together some realistic New Year's resolutions; resolutions that can be achieved through basic actions and adjustments.  For instance, for my new internet year, I'm removing all the hate-spewing blogs from my daily reading cycle.  Besides saving 30-45 minutes, it also removes considerable negativity from my day.  That poisonous energy is easy to come by, it's harder to part with.  I'm also removing as many distractions as possible from my iPod Touch.  At some point I started playing more App games than actually using my favorite toy for music.  These seem like simple little fixes when in fact they'll save me a lot of time and help clear my head for more productive writing sessions.

And on that note, I leave you with this mariachi band serenading a beluga whale:

Shana Tova!  A good year to all!

Single Malt Report (x2) - The Glenrothes 1994 AND 1991

Happy Whisky Wednesday everyone!

Last night I enjoyed the Raise the Macallan event in downtown LA.  Later in the evening, at another location, I made the rookie mistake of drinking bourbon, well bourbon.  Don't know if I should blame the waitress or the bartender for interpreting "whisky" as "bourbon".  But I give myself a sincere FAIL for drinking all of it.

I'm also awaiting an exciting delivery from Master of Malt who have been great with previous orders and customer service.

So much great whisky to write about!  Without further ado, the conclusion of my Glenrothes reports: The 1994 and 1991 vintages.

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The 1994

Distillery: The Glenrothes
Age: 11 years (bottled in 2006)
Finish: mixed casks
Region: Highlands - Speyside (Rothes)
Alcohol by Volume: 43%

thekrav's notes:

Let's begin with the name.  Why "The Glenrothes"?

Within Scotland, whisky production is divided up into six geographical regions: The Lowlands, The Highlands, Speyside, Islay, Campbeltown, and the Islands.  Speyside is actually within The Highlands region, but (due to the powerful River Spey) almost two-thirds of all of Scotland's malts are produced there so it gets its own regional status.

Within Scotland, within The Highlands, within the Speyside region, lies the town of Rothes.  Rothes sits on the west side of the River Spey in a glen surrounded by the rocky hills.  The "The" designation is something that it shares with other whisky brands like The Macallan, The Glenlivet, The Balvenie, and The Krav (one of these is not like the other...).  Though it seems showy and highbrow, it designates that the whisky within this labelled bottle contains product distilled and distributed by the whisky's producer -- and not distributed through an independent bottler like Signatory or Cadenhead's.  I also think Glenrothes includes "The" in its name because it shares the one-street town of Rothes with four other distilleries.  Thus it tries to establish itself as The whisky from the Rothes glen.

The previous two Glenrothes bottlings that I'd reviewed (Select Reserve and 1998 vintage) were included in a three-100mL-bottle-set that I bought at Royal Mile Whiskies in London.  This one was not.  I enjoyed this vintage at a free Scotch tasting at The Daily Pint on June 16th.

I'm grading this similarly to the 10-year 1998 vintage.  The honey note is still present in this one, but vanilla stands out the most, especially in the nose.  It's more dry than sweet.  Like its Glenrothes brethren, this whisky's finish is very short.

Also similar to the previously reviewed vintages, its texture is very light, though each one seems to be getting richer as I progress into the older bottlings.  Of course that could be psychosomatic; knowing a whisky is older and more expensive may subconsciously alter one's perception.

So that's something that I really caution other rookie whisky tasters: Forget about whisky age and price when tasting.  Miracles of chemistry form the flavor.  Sometimes hotter, livelier, youthful batches will be more to one's liking.  Sometimes a 12yr from one distillery will be smoother than an 18yr from another.

Keeping all of that in mind, I think that these Glenrothes prices remain too high.  For something of this age, quality, and high supply it costs too much.  I shouldn't be able to buy three bottles of Glenfiddich 12 for the price of one of these.


Pricing - Overpriced! at $70-80
Rating - 74

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The 1991

Distillery: The Glenrothes
Age: 13 years (bottled in 2005)
Finish: mixed casks
Region: Highlands - Speyside (Rothes)
Alcohol by Volume: 43%

thekrav's notes:

During that enjoyable (all free scotch tastings are enjoyable) Scotch dramming at The Daily Pint, the exceedingly enthusiastic Glenrothes representative kept pressing on us how rare the 1991 vintage is and how lucky we are to be sipping it.

Well, if it's so darn rare, why do I have some here right now at my desk?

It's not rare, but I was quite lucky to get a free sample.  AND I also have this 100mL from that three-pack of The Glenrothes purchased at Royal Mile.  So I've been able to sample it a few times, both neat and with water.  And it is my favorite of the four Glenrothes that I've tried.

The nose is sweet and sugary.  Definitely a dessert whisky.  Add in a tiny measure of water and the sweetness mellows, bringing forward the vanilla note from the 1994 vintage.

The palate, the best part.  Marshmallows and shortbread cookies.  The texture is very smooth, enhancing the dessert-y nature.  Adding water brings oaky notes to the forefront.  Thus I prefer it neat.

It almost evaporates on the tongue......and so does the finish (alas, sadly) like the other three Glenrothes bottlings.

The price range isn't great.  $90?  No way. $75?  Getting closer but still steep.  Again, between the four The Glenrotheses sampled (Select Reserve, 1998, 1994, and 1991), this one suits me best.  I've even saved a dram for another try with dessert some time very soon.


Pricing - Overpriced at $75-90
Rating - 83

The George Herman Hitchcock project: Table of Contents

Get it? It's a table...of....um...contents.

Last week's project introduction can be found here.

In surveying these two considerable careers, I've now seen the sizable task in front of me.  So what I've done is divide up their professional time into chapters, which will in turn allow me to compare and contrast with a little bit of control over the scope.

Behold, the table of contents:

Chapter 1 shows these two stalwarts in training -- Ruth in the minors and Hitchcock as a screenwriter and art director -- then continues on to their rookie efforts.

Chapters 2 through 5 highlight their less remembered early successes; I match Thirty-Nine Steps with Ruth's 1918 and his 1919 with The Lady Vanishes.

Chapter 6 documents both men changing teams (UK to US, Boston to New York) and the sensations they created on their arrivals.

Chapters 7 through 12 track their early prime.  I've matched up Ruth's 1923 with Hitch's Rope, 1924 with Strangers on a Train, and 1926 with Rear Window.

Chapter 13 rhymes Vertigo with Murderer's Row.

Chapters 14 through 19 detail their late prime and gradual descent.  And chapter 20 will close their careers.  These men didn't end on their biggest successes, so I'll provide a concluding post to brighten the subject up a little bit.

Giving the table a cursory look, yes, it's a little top-heavy (in honor of the subjects themselves?), but I've gotten a small headstart on the early Hitchcock films.  If I find a gem that's enjoyable to discuss, a chapter may be extended to a second post.  Also, once these gentlemen have entered their prime, I'd like to focus a little closer on some of Sir Alfred's individual productions.

So tune in next Tuesday for Chapter 1: When Boys Leave Home.

Look! Another table of......yeah, yeah, yeah, I'm going.

Crime and Punishment

Mikhail Romanovich Kravitznikov lay in a sickened daze, the fetid wind dragging musty odors from Lebezyatnikov’s rendering plant into this dank chilled hollow-walled gray undersized apartment.  Kravitznikov had stopped eating the day before; the bland tea Sonya had brought to his bedside this morning had long since gone cold.  Mikhail Romanovich turned slowly in his sweat-dinged sheets, the bedframe shrieking for relief. Kravitznikov stared down at the floor where amongst the dark scurrying bodies of starving rats lay a figure he had thrice slain.  Thrice!  First in the burning sunshine of adolescence, then again, hand forced by the pressures of the state.  Finally, a third time, because only a truly great man murders the same form thrice.  Thrice!

Mikhail Romanovich Kravitznikov said to himself, “What foolish cretin of a so-called author writes pages of unending paragraphs of characters talking out loud to themselves (with parentheticals, no less!)?  Is it Dostoyevsky?  Or Dostoevsky?  Fyodor or Feodor?  Curse history, multiple translations, and the Anglicizing of the Russian alphabet!  And what warped individual convinces himself that reading the same novel thrice (Thrice!) proves the brilliant mind of a truly gifted man?  It is I, Kravitznikov, also occasionally written as Mikhail Romanovich in adjacent sentences.  Mikhail Romanovich, I, purchased this particular battered dog-eared besmirched volume once my sweet ailing mother, Pulkheria Alexandrovna, declared great love for her own brittle copy of the tome.  And I, Kravitznikov, thus read this novel, he he he he, having unconsciously disregarded my past experiences with it.  The trudge, the strange suffering in the darkness, was slow and blurred, but yes it was I, a truly profound man like Napoleon, who thus finished it in the late empty hours.  He he he he he.  Then my mind dropped into the abyss of Nyx and opened the ancient wooden doors of dream; not of tortured horses or crumbling societies but of sewage laden Siberian fortresses.  It was a good dream.”

The white sun barely burned through the rotting yellow clouds and pulled angular shadows across the room. Mikhail Romanovich closed his eyes hoping that sleep would once again relieve him of the guilt of admitting that he found pleasure in the resolution of this overwritten book about crime and punishment.

Kravitznikov said to himself, “Mikhail Romanovich, you should recommend this but to only the most masochistic of wounded souls.  But beg of them to never complete it thrice. (Thrice!)”

Happy Friday! Jedi Kittens.

If watching these two videos doesn't warm the cockles of your heart, then you, sir, have no cockles.