It begins with Lubitsch

Last night (Sunday) I finally opened the Lubitsch Musicals box set from Criterion/Eclipse. It’s been sitting there, impatiently waiting to be sprung from its shrinkwrap.

I am an Ernst Lubitsch fan. As many filmies have noted, he’s The Forgotten Great American Director. Much of this is due to the paucity of available Lubitsch titles on VHS. An entire generation, or two, have not had the opportunity to watch more than one or two of his films, such as Ninotchka or To Be or Not Be, from the ‘40s. As fine as those titles are, Lubitsch’s style and charm is largely straightjacketed by the Hays Code that governed American cinema’s morality after 1934. Before the Code was enforced, Lubitsch was best known for his audaciously adult comedies. Characters slept around, broke hearts, mended hearts, flirted, then slept around again. And they were never punished by the movie morality gods for it. As a result, many of his early romantic comedies are much more mature and thought-provoking than their present day counterparts.

And despite all of the serious plaudits laid out above, these comedies are thoroughly goofy. Not stupid and childish, but more like a tipsy flirt.

LOVE PARADE (1929)

The first narrative American musical. And what a way to begin.

The first moments of the film: The credits are superimposed over someone flipping through a lingerie magazine, full of women in various states of undress. This cuts to a shot bursting with visual delights. In the center of the screen, dancing girls can-can. At the top of the screen blinking lights spell out “PARIS” in the night sky. And in every corner of the screen jut long erect necks of champagne bottles, framing the great French phallus of the Eiffel Tower. God bless, Ernst Lubitsch.

As a film, Love Parade is a fizzy bottle of champagne. Not a glass, but the whole bottle. It’s bubbly and sweet. Everyone moves about as if there’s a bottle open off-screen. And if the viewer just drinks it all in enough, she won’t notice how silly the story really is.

Let’s get this out of the way. Maurice Chevallier is a cad and a ham. The American female lust that chased him must have largely been due to the fact that he is tall and has a thick Gallic accent. He has only one emotion, goofy smile. Not necessarily happy, just goofy smile. This causes his acting to range from irritating to giddy. When I’d read that he had several asides to the camera/audience, I anticipated the worst. But in fact, his asides to the camera are very funny and work very well, like punctuation to a comic sentence. In Parade, he plays an attaché from Sylvania (Lubitsch loves to create fictional European countries) who gets kicked out of France from bedding too many broads.

Jeanne MacDonald is a treasure. Though her clothes stay on for the entirety of the film, she is maddeningly sexy as a randy Queen who desperately desires a mate. It’s a good thing that Chevallier, ever the male tart, shows up just in time to serve her royal needs.

Their first sequence together is the highlight of the film. He’s been ordered to see the Queen for punishment. And once the Queen looks up from the report of his exploits, she looks like she’s ready to eat this lanky Frenchman alive. The banter that follows between the two of them is intoxicating. Not necessary because of the dialogue, but because of the actors’ performances. Watch their faces. There is so much devilish fun in her eyes. His showy attempts to act coy fail spectacularly. Both appear ready to burst into laughter. The flirting works so well, that the viewer may just forget what the characters have actually said having been seduced by the dance they’ve done.

The supporting characters have a lot of fun as well. Chevallier’s Parisian servant (Lupino Lane) returns with him to Sylvania. (The fact that Chevallier’s character is not French, but does have a French accent, while the servant is French and does not have the accent is quite funny. Though this happened out of technical necessity, the film does address this in a joke that is, of course, of a sexual nature.) Once in Sylvania, Lane falls head over heels (literally) for Lilian Roth’s Lulu, a six-foot busty brunette in a French maid’s uniform…………

………wait, what was I talking about? Oh yeah, so though they engage in a playful shoving match, this is fight he’ll lose.

As far as the actual music goes, there’s a great joke at the end of the first full song. There’s some quality banter to “Anything to Please the Queen”. But other than that the other tunes neither offend nor astound. Characters burst into song because that’s what seems to happen when the little bubbles start to make people giddy.

And yes, the women are luminous and the men are ridiculous. The ending doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, but really, to a point, who cares?

MONTE CARLO (1930)

To today’s audiences Maurice Chevallier may appear…how shall I put this?...to have a certain lack of testosterone. But compared to the gentlemen of Monte Carlo, he’s Bruce Willis.

Jack Buchanan is completely miscast as a male lead, especially next to the feminine fountain of Ms. MacDonald. Part of it has to do with his face: a joker’s smile with no lips, protruding cheekbones, and beady eyes. Additionally, it’s in his voice. There’s an unusual emphasis on his S’s that aren’t so much the stereotypical sibilance that some equate with homosexuality. Rather the hiss is elongated and held, so that he sounds like Sterling Holloway’s snake Kaa from The Jungle Book.

Basically, he’s unintentionally unsettling. And he has no chemistry with MacDonald. As a result her mojo is lessened without an acceptable sounding board. Sexy sometimes takes two.

The scenario itself is ridiculous without being comically so. Buchanan poses as her hairdresser to……well, I don’t know….touch her? There’s a surreal song called “Trimmin’ the Women” sung by Buchanan and two other exceedingly feminine men about the joys of touching women while cutting their hair.

On top of the fact that the story doesn’t work, the lack of chemistry, the sparse and forgettable songs, the film is also limp in the humor department. It’s rare to see a film do so much to accomplish so little. 90 minutes of not much.

There are small positives. There’s some fun wordplay during a song at the beginning of the film. There’s also an inventive train/music montage that’s surprisingly artistic and effective. And MacDonald works hard to achieve her groove and her lovely face is expressive as always. Lubitsch plants some little clever visuals here and there, but, for the most part, Monte Carlo is a losing hand.

29 Weeks?!

For twenty-nine weeks that previous post sat lonely at the top of page. But no longer.

In an attempt to resurrect this blog, I have decided to largely focus on film (and occasional music) discussion/thoughts/reviews. The goal is to make these entries snack-sized yet filling. A few sips of scotch rather than a barrel of malt liquor.

This works better for you and for me, since this darned job-thing keeps my writing time limited. And I like scotch.

The site will also remain PG-rated, as far as language goes. This is a challenge for me since I love dialing up colorful metaphors when I have specific passions about film. This approach will be even more difficult since the films I’m currently watching are brazenly adult.

Note: I finally saw No Country for Old Men on Friday night, but I’m not ready to discuss. At first blush it was a lot better than I thought it would be. That may or may not change as it stews.

"And the roads are covered with a million little molecules."

We made it to Los Angeles. Our one-bedroom apartment was awaiting us. Despite the fact that it was a little crustier than we remembered, it was great to get in and close the door behind us. It's just as spacious as we'd remembered. Kristen will work her craft with colors and spaces to make it our home...

...of course our stuff hasn't made it to LA yet. We arrived on Weds. The movers will get here, supposedly, next Tuesday. So in the meantime, we're squatters. Squatters who are providing IKEA with some swell business, that is.

One thing that I've noticed immediately is that we get the Beach Breeze (caps necessary) all day. It is lovely. Really, I could lay on the floor for hours and just enjoy it. Then again we have no furniture, so that's about all I can do.

The park across the street is LA at its best. International patronage exercising, napping, and playing tennis all day. Something died in the bushes in front of the apartment recently. A rat, squirrel, Johnny Drama, or something. Luckily we're not downwind from it.

We get great water pressure in the shower, so much so that the water clears the entire bathroom sometimes. It's nice to be back in the land of REAL Trader Joeses. Can't overstate how much we appreciate being able to buy wine anywhere and at anytime. I mean, we bought a bottle of champagne at Target. Had to drive for 15 minutes just to find a bottle of champagne in Monty Co. MD -- but only from 11am-8pm, 6 days a week.

Per the pic in the previous post, my new car is great. She hauls. Kristen gave me a good idea for a name which I shall ponder. The car is insured, but my a$$ is not. Blue Shield, stop dragging your big feet. Speaking of which, we went to Lola's to celebrate our arrival. Much recommended.

I'm currently watching Fellini's Satyricon. I'd like to review it for this blog, but it may take some additional research. It's a tough, ugly film. There's a different kind of review coming next week that'll be much more enjoyable for you and me.

By the way, Norms.


It's good to be home.

MK HAS A NEW RIDE...

...and he's on the West Coast!

And he looks pretty happy. And he's going to stop referring to me in the 3rd person.

Quick Pics

In no particular order:
(You can click pics to enlarge)

This is how much we loved the Texas rest stop:


Breakfast:


A single tree that broke my heart:

(and a lucky shot in a moving car, i'm not handy with digital cameras)

It's a science:


First, life looked like this:


Now it looks like this:


Rates were pretty good here:


Arkansas BBQ delight:


ICBs with the fellas on Aug 24th


We saw several of these. Ponder this marketing plan for a moment.


Now stop pondering that. I leave you with this image:

I'm Bad, I'm Nationwide

OK. Some thoughts on this whole cross-country drive thing. Day 4 of 6. My memory is awful so this will work best as a list. (Kristen's blog has the details. Pictures coming soon.)

• In talking to folks (before starting this voyage) about the cross-country drive, I was able to place the responses in two categories. 1.) The Romantic starry-eyed "Oh I always wanted to do that! It sounds so fun." and 2.) "Yeah, I did it. So what's for lunch?"
  I should have paid more attention to #2. The people who did do this trip. There's nothing romantic about it. You sit in the car. A lot. And then some more. Then you go to sleep. You wake up. You sit in the car. A lot. And then some more. Then you go to sleep. Repeat.
  I LOVE to drive. This almost cured me of that love. I also love to listen to music. But one discovers limits after 30+ hours in close quarters. So, driving across this big lovely country is not romantic. It's physical and dry. It's also educational , expansive, and unique. But so are Don DeLillo's novels. Yet they're cheaper and less time consuming and unless you read while standing on your head, you'll get fewer headaches and backaches.
  All complaints aside, I'm glad I'm doing this. Kristen is a fantastic driving partner, and she hasn't suffocated me in my sleep. Yet.

• Graceland -- Yeah, we did it.
  I have a problem with Elvis. This white man is an international icon, worth nine figures in his death. Yet he earned his fame and fortune from co-opting (stealing) the songs from dozens of black men and women who died penniless. Yes, it's heartbreaking that he overdosed on prescription drugs, but Bessie Smith bled to death outside a hospital that wouldn't accept black patients. So, pardon me if I change the station when I hear him singing "Hound Dog". He also seemed to leach all of the raw sexuality out of his (stolen) songs' lyrics, then forced awkward 1950's retarded sexuality into his performances with his leg wiggles.
  But anyway.
  Graceland was much more entertaining than I expected. The guy had a really great house and entertained himself well. The car museum and AIRPLANES (yes, really) were fun to visit. You could see that he meant a lot to people and that he established himself as a unique product very well. The museum brushed quickly over his acting career and bloated end, which is probably a good idea. The guy served in the military rather than recording more million-dollar songs, and continued to serve despite his mother's passing. So he's a good American kid and always had great sideburns.
  One final note: The numbers that the tour often quote are questionable. They say that 1.5 billion people watched his live televised 1972 concert. Huh? Not only had his popularity greatly waned in this country, but......this was 1972......there were barely 3 billion people in the world and only a few countries outside of US and Europe had televisions, plus Elvis didn't catch on in Asia until the '90s. So, maybe 1 percent of the figure might work. And the "1 billion albums sold" figure. Again, let us count the amount of people in this world who have the ability to purchase recorded music. Then take that figure and subtract the amount of people who wouldn't buy American music. Then take that figure and subtract all of the people with good enough musical tastes not to buy more than one Elvis album...
  
• I thought I liked The Doobie Brothers. But I really don't. I think I did once. Not anymore. Every time their songs come up on my iPod, I wanted to bite the steering wheel.
  
• I'm not wearing socks anymore. Just flip-flops. Started it on my birthday, only interrupting it for my boot-wearing Graceland trip. My feet are white like marshmallows and bony like cheap steaks, but they are happy to breathe again.
  
• Rest Areas -- Stop there to pee. Don't pass them by. States are keeping them cleaner now. Much cleaner than the KFC/TacoBell/PizzaHut or Conoco crappers. Take my word for it. Plus if you pass one up in New Mexico, there are no pitstops for 90 miles. And there's really no tree to go behind when you're on the prairie highway.
  
• We stopped in Texas. Best rest area so far. And we hit a DQ there. Not much going on in Northern Texas. A lot of cows. One really big cross.
  
• Cracker Barrel, official white person dining establishment. For those of you on the West Coast, these grease shovel pits are everywhere. Wait, that was judgmental. I haven't been to one yet, though I did make a promise to Kristen that I'd go there. I will offer an official apology once I eat there and am impressed by the franchise.
  
• Motel Pillows -- different everywhere. Sometimes too big. Sometimes too squishy. Sometimes you have four, sometimes three. Sometimes I don't remember because I've slept like the dead. The other night in Oklahoma, my pillows smelled like mildew. How long does a pillow have to sit to smell like mildew? And how did it get damp enough for the spores to plant in the first place? I slept well that night.
  
• Motel room electric outlets. Seriously, we're out of the 19th century, let alone the 20th. Whomever designs and furnishes each room puts these things in places impossible to reach. Behind the bed that is glued to the wall. Behind the 200-lb television stand. And ones that are accessible are looser than a prostitute on payday (apologies). The other night Kristen and I both had to crowd around the bathroom sink to check our email, propping our laptop chords at the right angle so they wouldn't fall out of the socket.
  
• Barbecue is our national dish. It is delicious and American. If you're in the South, Southwest, Mid-West, or Mid-South go get some real BBQ. Really. Don't go to Denny's or Pizza Hut or Taco Bell. Get some ribs or chicken. Soul food for folks of any color. One more reason why I couldn't go vegetarian. It's blissful and the true local BBQ joints are unfiltered Americana. And it's so simple, meat on a fire. Frontiersmen, pioneers, sharecroppers, fur trappers. They took some meat and whatever was sitting around, cooked it over a flame and ate it with their fingers. And the sauces in the Mid-West now......

OK. I'm hungry and I think I'm supposed to go to sleep now. We're in New Mexico, tonight. Grants, NM. The Grand Canyon tomorrow. I've turned 29, got over a double ear infection, left my job, packed up my entire apartment, started this long drive, and I've barely had a moment to think about things. Nor exercise, which is getting kinda traumatic. Change keeps coming. I'll process this all later.

Bittersweet August

I sent my good bye email to the staff at DCTC today. Originally (as of last night) it was going to start with a bunch of jokes about how it was bittersweet -- bitter because I was pulling a late night and sweet because it was my last. But I decided against that because I know people read truth into sarcasm so instead I toned it down. Here it is:

It's 8/24 and I have now turned over my badge and weapon. The Silver Spring days draw to a close.

I want to thank all of you for helping me feel at home here. I am a much different person than I was on February 23rd, 2004. All of these responsibilities I have had forced me to grow up. Interactions with all of you helped me to think bigger, taught me how to problem solve.

The hiccups of turmoil and shining successes taught me that the heart of a company is its employees. We are more than just lines on a budget, the product comes from us. Thus this company's future is bright because it is made up of really wonderful people.

So this departure is bittersweet because I want to take you with me. Unfortunately our Civic is already full of luggage, plants, Lindsay Lohan fan club posters, and bottled water.
Be well, People! It has been an honor.
Thank you.
Michael K.


I'm turning 29 today too. My stomach's been in knots (more than usual). I'm probably a little nervous about the future. Possibly experiencing some withdrawal or separation pangs a little early from this life I've led for the past four years.

I'm not that worried about the birthdays in the 30s. My body's holding together relatively well. My most important pipes are still working, thank the Powers that Be (since the Powers that Be are always on the Blogging tip). I have hair where I shouldn't and missing it where it should be, but that's been going on for some time. Age has little meaning for me now, though I am moving to a place where the industry seems to think that it matters. But I've been too old for that industry for years, since at least 1991.

I'm going out for drinks tonight, er, in one hour. So I'm writing this post as fast as possible. No grammar or missing-word check. I've gotten generous material gifts from several people. Generous non-material gifts from so many more. I seem to get shaken out of my self-centered world when I find out that people miss me. So it's only appropriate to drink it away. Ha HA!

Going to have to finish this thought on the other side of 29.