Netflix Catchup - "Stranger than Fiction"

I’m finding that the older I get, the movies that interest me the most are the ones that try to do things that no one has tried before. Even if they aren’t wholly successful, at least they’re pushing the boundaries, and are original – a precious commodity in this age of sequels and “reboots.”

“Stranger than Fiction,” directed by Marc Forster and starring Will Ferrell, is just such a movie. This is a movie that you really have to pay attention to, as I discovered upon first viewing when I was so tired I could barely keep my eyes open. It tells the story of Harold Crick (Ferrell), an IRS agent with OCD who one morning suddenly begins to hear a voice narrating his life. The movie also tells the story of the narrator, Kay Eiffel (played by Emma Thompson), an author who is suffering from writer’s block, and cannot quite figure out how to deal with her main character – Harold. So are we to believe that Harold lives in a fictional world? Or is Harold truly schizophrenic, as a psychiatrist suggests early on in the movie?

It is with the character of Professor Jules Hibbert (a great, understated performance from Dustin Hoffman) that the two worlds are bridged. Declining a pharmaceutical cure to his ills, Harold seeks out Dr. Hibbert to try and determine, based on the narration he is hearing in his head, who might be writing the story of his life. On Dr. Hibbert’s advice, Harold tries to figure out whether he is living out a tragedy, or a comedy. And in doing so, he becomes closer to the young woman that he is auditing, a law student turned baker named Ana Pascal (Maggie Gyllenhall) who, through the sheer force of her personality, begins to bring Harold out of his shell.

All of the performances – those listed above, plus other supporting roles from Tom Hulce, Linda Hunt and Queen Latifah – are spot on. But the real revelation is Will Ferrell, who here plays it straight in much the same way that Bill Murray played it straight in “Lost in Translation.” Frankly, I’ve never been a big Ferrell fan, and I didn’t think he had this performance in him. But based on the evidence of “Stranger than Fiction,” Ferrell’s real future is in the kind of understated roles that other comics like Steve Martin and Robin Williams have succeeded in.

If I had to choose on word to describe “Stranger than Fiction,” I think it would be “delightful.” Whether one world, the other, or both is a fantasy is ultimately irrelevant. The direction is crisp, the acting is sharp, and the story leaves you wanting more. And, the use of music is terrific – always a plus in my book.

Random Monday Morning Notes

Sportsman and Sportswoman of the Year. Great choice by SI of Mike Krzyzewski and Pat Summit as the Sportsman and Sportswoman of the Year. This has been a rough month for iconic coaches, for very good reasons - and while one can get carried away very easily with the "coach as mentor/great person" meme, there seems little doubt that both coaches deserve that honor. For their excellence as human beings, as well as excellence on the court.

Tebow. No matter what you think of the guy (and everyone sports fan in the world has an opinion), the story is one of the most compelling ones in years. And now, it looks as if the Tebow Show may be coming to NBC next Sunday night, which will serve only to increase the hype and the scrutiny. My opinion? Oh yeah, I have a few. One, the guy is a winner, plain and simple. You don't do what he is doing right now if you aren't a winner. Some guys have it, and some don't. Two, I can't see him ever becoming a long-term great at the quarterback position. Three, I'm not sure that matters. Clearly, Tebow is a unique player, and if the Johns Elway and Fox can figure out a way to ride that to the playoffs (or even further), than it really doesn't matter how bad Tebow's stats or his mechanics are. Four, the constant proselytizing makes me really uncomfortable. With regard to his faith, I have no doubt that it is genuine. I have no doubt that he is doing good and great things away from the football field. It still makes me uncomfortable, and I much prefer the approach that Aaron Rodgers takes with his own faith. To read about that, head on over to Peter King's Monday Morning Quarterback column at SI.com. You'll have to go to page 4 or 5 to get there.

The Black Keys. I could only make it through the first song because I was exhausted, but if the rest of the new album is as good as that one, song, their new album may end up at #1 on my best-of list for 2011.

BCS. No question that these are the two best teams in college football. No question that the rematch is a farce. Until the minds that matter in college football come up with a better alternative (the plus-one game makes sense to me), we're going to end up with a ridiculous controversy like this every year.

That's all for now.

Day 5 - Swingin' With Santa and Louis

I used this one for my annual Christmas collection a few years back, but until now have never been able to find it on YouTube. I would have preferred a live performance, but in this case I'll take what I can get.

And so, today we present Louis Prima, with "What Will Santa Claus Say (When He Finds Everybody Swinging)?"

RS Greatest Guitarists

In recent years, Rolling Stone has made a cottage industry out of its “100/500 Best…” issues, which probably says more about Jann Wenner’s point of view than anything else. But I can’t really argue with the premise, because it is entertaining to hear what current artists and critics have to say about the masters of the past.

In the current issue, it’s the “100 Greatest Guitarists of All Time.” While many of these lists are great argument starters, that’s not really the case here, because everyone in the world knew that Jimi Hendrix was the greatest guitarist of all time well before they picked up this magazine. It’s really impossible to argue against the premise of Hendrix as greatest ever, although I suppose it would be fun to see someone try. There’s just no disputing that he did more with less than anyone who’s ever picked up the instrument. Of the albums of his that I own, my favorite is a live recording from Winterland, because it truly shows what he could do at the spur of the moment, in the heat of battle.

Since we got the Clapton cover, I should say a few words about him as well. He comes in at #2 on the list, another choice I won’t quibble with (although I would have been tempted to put Keith Richards there). For a long time I thought Clapton was overrated, because I happened to start buying his albums right around the time (late 1970s) that he was entering into his “mellow” phase. There were certainly some flashes of greatness on “The Fuse” from “Slowhand,” but outside of hearing “Layla” on the radio, I could never quite figure out what all the fuss was about.

What turned my opinion were two performances – one on the “Just One Night” album, where he laid down some incendiary solos on some old Robert Johnson songs; but more than that, a joint appearance on a late night TV show (I can’t even remember which one) with Robert Cray. Cray is an outstanding blues and rock guitarist, and his “Strong Persuader” album may be better than any single album that Clapton has recorded in his career. But that night provided a great opportunity for comparison, because both Cray and Clapton play Fender Stratocasters – so they were on a level playing field, so to speak. And on that night, Clapton just blew Cray away – getting sounds out of his Strat that Cray couldn’t even begin to approach.

As for the rest of the list, I’d say that Jeff Beck, Eddie Van Halen, Joe Walsh and Slash seem ranked a little high, while Neil Young, Prince, Richard Thompson and Lou Reed seem way too low. But that probably says more about my taste in music than anything else. And one other quibble – I might have found room for either Gary Rossington or Allen Collins on the list. “Free Bird,” anyone?

Day 4 - Johnny and Friends

Let's try something a bit different today. This is an excerpt from the December 23, 1970 episode of the Johnny Cash Show, with Johnny and June sharing a little quality time with their friends The Everly Brothers, Roy Orbison and others.

But there is a Christmas song within, as Roy turns in a beautiful version of "Pretty Paper."

For me, this is some awe-inspiring stuff. Enjoy!

Day 3 - Otis!

"Merry Christmas Baby," from the incomparable Otis Redding.

Day 2 - Vince Guaraldi Trio, with an assist

Two enduring classics - "A Charlie Brown Christmas," and "Christmas Time Is Here" by the Vince Guaraldi Trio.

"Oh that we could always see such spirit through the year."

The Musical Advent Calendar is Back!

You know you've been waiting for it all year, and now it's back - the fourth (or fifth) annual Musical Advent Calendar.

Today, we kick off the festivities with a nice, jazzy version of "Carol of the Bells" by Drew Davidsen.

It's December - it's now OK to say "Merry Christmas," and you can even enjoy holiday ads without guilt.

The Merry Christmas Theme

The posts this week are going to be few and far between, because I'm in San Diego for the marathon week otherwise known as the governance meetings and annual conference of the Association that I work for.

But I'm pleased to debut the holiday color theme for December, as well as provide you with a glimpse of the view out of my home for the next 6 days - the Marriott Marquis Marina in San Diego.

Not bad, eh?

"Composed," by Rosanne Cash

I have no qualms at all declaring Rosanne Cash’s “Composed” to be a great book.

The cover of “Composed” identifies the book as a memoir, and that is key to understanding what it is about. This is not an exhaustive biography. You’re not going to find a lot of specific details about various topics that people might be interested in – how Johnny’s marriage to Vivian fell apart, how Rosanne’s marriage to Rodney Crowell fell part – but that’s also the main reason why the book is so successful. This is an emotional book, a book that shares Rosanne’s point of view about many of the happenings of her [admittedly very interesting] life, and how those happenings shaped her voice as a person and as an artist.

I should confess that Rosanne has held a spot in my own personal music pantheon for a long, long time – believe it or not, even longer than her father. That being the case, it surprises me that she felt for years that her voice was inadequate, because I always thought it was incredibly strong – indeed, her greatest attribute until she fully developed as a songwriter. Reading throughout, it’s clear that she is her own harshest critic – which is probably a good thing for a musician to be.

More than anything else, this is a book of stories, stories that are told roughly in chronological order. Moving moments are sprinkled throughout, with an enormous emotional payoff near the end when she quotes extensively from the eulogies that she delivered over a period of 18 months for June Carter Cash, Johnny Cash, and Vivian Liberto Distin, her mother. There are so many interesting things in the book, it’s hard to single any one out, but I especially enjoyed the section where she describes how “Black Cadillac” came about, and have to admit I was a bit pleased to see her say that John Leventhal (her husband and producer) felt that a gauntlet had been thrown with the production work performed on six of the album’s songs by Bill Bottrell and responded with his own best work. Pleased, of course, because I completely agree with that assessment.

But no matter. One of my very favorite stories, near the end of the book, is when Rosanne recounts a visit (with her daughter, Carrie ) to Falkland, Scotland, where the family name originated, and a town her father had visited years before. This is a long excerpt, but I think it illustrates perfectly the reasons “Composed” is such a wonderful book.

On our arrival in Falkland late in the morning, we were disappointed to find that the palace was closed for the holiday week. Just about everything was closed down, in fact, except for a little restaurant at the top of the hill, where we had a ploughman’s lunch of bread, cheese and pickles – a more satisfying meal than one offered by any four-star restaurant. After eating, we wandered next door to look in the window of the Old Violin Shop. Almost immediately my eye was caught by a beautiful old teapot, which was nearly identical to one I had inherited from June after her death the previous May. It was a squat, cream-colored porcelain vessel with a delicate pattern of pink and gold flowers and flourishes around its middle. I wanted it badly, but the shop, like all the others in town, was closed. I then noticed a note pinned to the door saying that if assistance was needed, to call a certain number. After several tries, I reached a very polite gentleman who said he was just finishing his lunch but promised to come shortly to let us in. Carrie and I waited in the car, as the weather was turning quite bitter. A few minutes later Bob Beveridge, the owner, appeared and invited us inside. After he carefully retrieved the teapot from that window, I began looking around at the instruments, books, china, paintings, and other collectibles. As Carrie and I began exclaiming to each other about the wondrous collection he had assembled, Bob noted our American accents and inquired if we had come to research our Scottish roots. I told him that I already knew the origin of my Scottish ancestry, and I was merely visiting the place my family name originated.

“Like Johnny Cash?” he asked, in a friendly manner, after asking my surname.

I hesitated, as I seldom told strangers who my father was, but I felt an impulse to confide in him.

“Yes, like Johnny Cash. He was my father,” I said quietly.

His eyes widened. “I have something to show you,” he said, and left the room.

He came back with a photograph of himself with my father, taken during the filming of the television special. He then began telling me the story of my father’s visit.

My father liked to sit on a small cement post in front of the palace, Bob recalled, and to gaze at the square. All the townspeople came to speak to him, and he was unfailingly gracious and kind, which drew even more of the locals to him. He remembered that, one day, my father was in his car and came upon a boy whose bicycle had broken down in the road, so he picked him up and took him home. This boy, Bob explained, was now a man in his thirties, lived around the corner, and still loved to tell the story of the day he was driven home by Johnny Cash. Bob knew about my dad’s fateful meeting with Major Crichton-Stuart on the plane to Asia, and he told me more stories of those few days, twenty-two years earlier, when Johnny Cash, along with a film crew and his special musical guest, Andy Williams, had taken over the town of Falkland, and how the people had loved him and he had loved them back.”

Wonderful stuff. “Composed,” by Rosanne Cash – highly recommended.

Yes, It Was As Good As It Looked

Happy Thanksgiving Eve

"The dirty little secret of the dinner is melted animal fats: in all the recipes, somewhere it says, "Melt a quarter-pound of butter.""

- Garrison Keillor

The Sixth Floor

11/22/63 will always be day of infamy for those who lived through it. That day is the earliest memory I have; when your mom cries all day, that tends to stick with you. At the time, I didn’t have any idea what was going on, but I still remember that day clearly – even though I was only 3 years old.

During my Super Bowl trip to Dallas, I had the opportunity to visit The Sixth Floor Museum, the museum housed in the former Texas School Book Depository, where Lee Harvey Oswald (assuming, of course, that you are not a conspiracy theorist) fired the shots that killed President John F. Kennedy. Perhaps because of that first memory, I’ve always been fascinated with the presidency of Kennedy, as well as the assassination. And although the concept of housing a museum on the floor where the shots were fired (at one point during the tour, you walk past the windows where Oswald was perched, and can look down to see the view that he had on that fateful day) might be considered morbid by some, it is very well done, presenting a chronicle of Kennedy’s life and times as well as the circumstances of the assassination. It’s hard not to be moved by the experience.

These photos were taken outside, and confirmed what I remember reading once – the site of the assassination is something that you expect to be much bigger than it actually is. In fact, when you see the road where the motorcade was proceeding, it’s hard to imagine that the President of the United States was allowed to ride in an open limousine through such a small space. I suppose that times were simpler then, but on that day those times changed forever.

What is somewhat morbid is the fact that a large “X” is painted on the street at each of the points where a bullet struck the President (see above photo, at roughly the spots where people are standing). Which, of course, makes it easy to have someone take a picture of you “on the spot.” Why you would want to do such a thing is beyond me, but it was very popular on that day. And the shot where the ground is shrouded in snow? That is the infamous Grassy Knoll, also much smaller than I had pictured it in my imagination.

48 years ago. R.I.P.

The Perfect Antidote to Black Friday

One of my all-time favorite essays.

WITH ALL THE TRIMMINGS
by Garrison Keillor

It is a wicked world in which the power of any individual to cause suffering is so great and the power to do good is so slight; but here we are, the week of our beloved national feast, our annual homecoming, and signs of loving Providence are everywhere around us.

I am thankful to be alive. In Minnesota the lakes are freezing over in late November, and some men who envision a leadership role for themselves take their snowmobiles out onto the thin ice and fall through and drown in the cold water--their last thought in this life: "Boy, was this dumb or what?"--and so far I have not been one of them. Caution was bred into me: I never played with guns or made a hobby of pharmaceuticals or flung myself off a cliff while clinging to a kite. I read books instead. I read books in which men hearken to wild imperatives, and that is enough for me.

I am thankful for living in a place where winter gets good and cold and you need to build a fire in a stove and wrap a blanket around you. Cold draws people closer together. Crime drops. Acts of kindness proliferate between strangers. I have been in Los Angeles on a balmy day in January and seen the glum faces of people poking at their salads in outdoor restaurants, brooding over their unproduced screenplays. People in Minnesota are much cheerier, lurching across the ice, leaning into the wind as sheets of snow swirl up in their faces. Because they feel needed and because cold weather takes the place of personal guilt. Maybe you haven't been the shining star you should have been, but now is not the time to worry about it.

I am thankful for E-mail, which allows us to keep in touch with our children, and for the ubiquity of fresh coffee, the persistence of good newspapers, the bravery of artists, the small talk of sales clerks, the general competence and good humor I encounter every day. None of us is self-sufficient, despite what some politicians claim. Every good thing, every morsel of food comes directly from God, who expects us to pay attention and be joyful, a large task for people from the Midwest, where our idea of a compliment is, "It could have been worse."

I am thankful, of course, for Thanksgiving, a joyful and simple day that never suffered commercial exploitation and so is the same day as when I was a boy and we played touch football on the frozen turf and came to the table sweaty and in high spirits and kept our eyes open for flying food. My sister had good moves; you'd look away for an instant, and she'd flip her knife and park a pat of butter on your forehead. Nobody throws food at our table now, but in the giddiness of the festive moment, I have held a spoonful of cranberry for a moment and measured the distance to Uncle Earl, his gleaming head, like El Capitan, bent over the plate.

As I grew up, Thanksgiving evolved perfectly. It used to be that men had the hard work, which is to sit in the living room and make conversation about gas mileage and lower back pain, and women got the good job, which is cooking. Women owned the franchise, and men milled around the trough mooing, and if any man dared enter the kitchen, he was watched closely lest he touch something and damage it permanently. But I bided my time, and the aunts who ran the show grew old, and young, liberated lady relatives came along who were proud of their inability to cook, and one year I revolted and took over the kitchen--and now I am It. The Big Turkey. Mr. Masher. The Pie Man.

Except for gravy and pie crust, which take patience and practice, Thanksgiving dinner is as easy to make as it is to eat. You're a right-handed batter in a park that's 150 feet down the left-field line—it doesn't take a genius to poke it out.

Years of selective breeding have produced turkeys that are nothing but cooking pouches with legs. You rub the bird's inside with lemon, stuff it with bread dressing seasoned with sage and tarragon and jazzed up withchunks of sausage and nuts and wild rice, shove it in a hot oven; meanwhile, you whomp up yams and spuds and bake your pies. The dirty little secret of the dinner is melted animal fats: in all the recipes, somewhere it says, "Melt a quarter-pound of butter."

Think of the fancy dishes you slaved over that became disasters, big dishes that were lost in the late innings. Here's roast turkey, which tastes great, and all you do is baste. You melt butter, you nip at the wine, and when the turkey is done, you seat everyone, carve the bird, sing the doxology and pass the food.

The candles are lit in the winter dusk, and we look at one another, the old faces and some new ones, and silently toast the Good Life, which is here before us. Enjoy the animal fats and to hell with apologies. No need to defend our opinions or pretend to be young and brilliant. We still have our faculties, and the food still tastes good to us.

Walt Whitman said, "I find letters from God dropped in the street, and every one is signed by God's name." Thanksgiving is one of those signed letters. Anyone can open it and see what it says.

Reasons To Be Thankful, #1

I really don't think it's possible to have too many books.

"When Will There Be Good News?"

Kate Atkinson novels are constructed like a jigsaw puzzle. Until you get to the end, you are never quite sure how the pieces are going to fit together. The characters are the pieces of the puzzle, and the trick is in trying to figure out how, even though the pieces are far apart, they’re going to become part of a whole by the end.

“When Will There Be Good News?” continues the remarkable string of Atkinson triumphs that began with the magnificent “Case Histories” and continued with the outstanding “One Good Turn.” Like the first two books, one of the featured characters is Jackson Brodie, but here he is in a distinctly supporting (although critically important) role. Technically, you would have to call Atkinson’s books mysteries, but consider this: this is a story, at least in part, about a woman and child who are missing. And it is on Page 285 that Jackson Brodie is engaged to try and find the mother and daughter. That’s not what you would call your typical mystery.

There are two things that Atkinson does in each of her books that are just brilliant. One, she creates characters that are believable, sympathetic, and have depth. In “Good News,” there are at least four – Brodie, of course; but also Detective Chief Inspector Louise Monroe (who reminds one just a bit of Jane Tennyson, from “Prime Suspect”), Dr. Joanna Hunter, and perhaps most of all, 16-year old Reggie, the young woman who instinctively knows what is going on before anyone else has a clue.

The other thing that Atkinson does so brilliantly is to capture the reader from the very first chapter, in this instance with a snapshot of abject terror, as a young mother is out walking with her children. A strange man appears, and as Atkinson writes, “Everything was bad. There was no question about it.” That scene sets the stage for everything that follows, years later. And when the pieces of the puzzle finally come together at the end, the payoff is well-earned and entirely satisfying.

If you haven’t read a Kate Atkinson book, now is as good a time as any to start.