SOUNDTRACK 4 2 LOVERS

I redid my Everlasting soundtrack so I could load it in my iPod. I added some tracks, swapped out some others, dropped some completely. Most of the Suede songs were changed, as was the Aztec Camera and Depeche Mode. Low's cover of Spacemen 3 was switched with their collaboration with Spiritualized on the same track, and a different Low track was added that actually is being used in the story. I also needed some Weller in there. (Original tracklist is in the archives under the 6/21 post.)

Manic Street Preachers - The Everlasting
Mansun - Legacy
T. Rex - Cosmic Dancer
Sebadoh - Willing To Wait
Lara Michell - Crimson Flag
Miss Red Flowers - Velvet
Embrace - My Weakness Is None of Your Business
James - Waltzing Along
Small Faces - Autumn Stone
Gene - Drawn to the Deep End
Geneva - Closer to the Stars
Geneva - No One Speaks
Tindersticks - The Not Knowing
Suede - Since You Went Away
Rialto - Untouchable
Venus In Furs - Tumbling Down
Suede - Indian Strings
Aztec Camera - Walk Out To Winter
Primal Scream - I'm Losing More Than I'll Ever Have
The Style Council - Waiting
Paul Weller - The Woodcutter's Son
Kim Weston - Helpless
Herman's Hermits - The End of the World
Small Faces/PP Arnold - (If You Think You're) Groovy
Depeche Mode - It Doesn't Matter
Low - Will The Night (demo)
Spiritualized - Lord, Can You Hear Me?
Gene - Save Me, I'm Yours
The Jam - The Bitterest Pill (I Ever Had To Swallow)
James - Blue Pastures
Manic Street Preachers - The Everlasting [Stealth Sonic Orchestra Mix]
Gene - You'll Never Walk Again

Now I can listen to it wherever I am, whenever I need to get in the mood.

Current Soundtrack: "Passport Approved" import show on L.A.'s Indie 103.1

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website

[to leave comments, click on the time-stamp below, then scroll down on the new page] – All material (c) 2004 Jamie S. Rich

I CAN ONLY DISAPPOINT U

So, I am a bad citizen. Or, at least, a lazy one.

I walked down to the waterfront for the Kerry rally, arriving 45 minutes after the gates were supposed to open. From what I could see, there was one line that circled an entire city block. I walked towards the end of it, seeing zero movement as I did, and got about a quarter onto the Hawthorne bridge before I gave up. I couldn't see the end of the line, and there was a procession of equal length walking ahead of me, also looking for the end--so people I would be behind once we got there. In the time I was walking, the queue had maybe--maybe--moved the length of five people. I could also see that once it got around the block going to the other way, it snaked under the bridge, and who knows for how far.

I had showed up ready to play. I really did. I even put on sunscreen before I left the house. I was planning to make a day of it. But this was too much, so I bagged it.

Probably a good thing. I get a sort of tourettes in crowds, and it was starting to come to the surface. As I crossed the street, a family of three was coming towards me, walking as a wall, not giving me any room. As the mother edged me out into traffic, I called her a filthy name that my female friends would disown me for. The problem with swear words is they are generally one syllable, and they take no time to say. So, when they come out unnannounced, there is no reaction time to grab it and shove it back in. And this word was particularly sharp and would have probably cut my hand anyway. My thinking is, had I stuck around, someone would have likely beaten me up.

Since I was already downtown, I went to see Takeshi Kitano's new version of Zatoichi. I have to say, I was underwhelmed. Everyone I know that has seen it has been loving it, but I just felt eh about it. The film had moments, but in between those, it simply dragged. Also, I can't believe I've not read of anyone panning the horrendous digital effects. How distracting is it to be watching a samurai movie and a computer-animated sword slides through someone's body, splattering super-red computer-animated blood? Is this what technology has taught us? How to fake things so they look fake, thus shattering the illusion? There is also a moment at the end where two characters morph from their younger selves to their older selves that is pathetic. I can't believe someone didn't say, "You know what, Beat, just write that off as a loss and use an old-fashioned fade. Better to waste the money and toss out the effect than look bad."

Not to mention a final shot that just made me scratch my head. I really didn't get it. I mean, I understand what was going on, but I am not sure what Kitano hoped it would convey. One last attempt to make me say "whatever"?

Current Soundtrack: Blondie, Parallel Lines

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website

[to leave comments, click on the time-stamp below, then scroll down on the new page] – All material (c) 2004 Jamie S. Rich

AFTERNOON OF AN AUTHOR

Lunch today with James Lucas Jones to discuss graphic novels.

Over 3,000 words on The Everlasting after, listening to The Jam all the while. "Wouldn't it be something if the city planners anticipated people like me? They could name streets appropriately. I'd be wandering along and I'd find myself at the corner of Nostalgia and Heartache. People would whisper that there is a back alley where Confusion crosses with Clarity, and if you find yourself there, everything changes. Morrissey fans could spend late nights down on Maudlin Street."

Now to start watching movies for the August edition of "Can You Picture That?" due to go live this coming Tuesday.

The John Kerry rally tomorrow?

Current Soundtrack: Keane, Hopes & Fears

[to leave comments, click on the time-stamp below, then scroll down on the new page] – All material (c) 2004 Jamie S. Rich

NOW COME ON, BOYS, IT'S TIME TO LET IT GO

Backtracking a little bit, I originally reviewed The Killers' debut, Hot Fuss with a lukewarm response. Well, since then, it has grown on me considerably and I find myself listening to it all the time, digging on its strange narratives and John Taylor-ish bass lines. Turns out, too, that the track I despised, "Indie Rock 'n' Roll," is not on the US version, thus saving the record from having this huge speed bump in the center.

Similarly, if you had asked me what I thought of the second Interpol album, Antics, when it leaked, I'd have mumbled something about it being fine, nothing too great, but then I didn't love the first album as much as most people, blah blah blah. Well, turns out I am actually really into it, too. Repeated listens reveal a subtle simplicity, lots of hooks, and a generally more open sound than the dense Turn On The Bright Lights.

Finally, I seem to be having this thing for melodic, sensitive boys lately. Jen De Guzman turned me on to The Postal Service's Give Up, which is like electro twee. And I took a chance on Keane, since their name kept popping up, and was sucked into their melodramatic piano ballads. They have a real sweeping quality that reminds me some of old bands like The Origin and Blameless (you ever hear their absolute gem, "Breathe A Little Deeper"?) Hopes & Fears may be one of those albums that wears itself thin in the way Coldplay did, seeming nice at first and then just getting boring, but that kind of verdict is still out. The emotions are a little bare and that's working for me right now. And I swear I heard "Bend and Break" on some TV show before or something.

Single of the moment is Johnny Boy's "You Are The Generation That Bought More Shoes and You Get What You Deserve." The Manics' James Dean Bradfield produced it, and it's agitpop scrawled like graffiti on the Wall of Sound. The b-side is a noisy, distorted cover of Dyalan's "Subterranean Homesick Blues." I'm charmed. Plus, it has a female singer, so it helps me from feeling like I need to go out and buy a bunch of sweaters and stop coming my hair and become an indiot sad boy.

Current Soundtrack: Elvis Costello & the Attractions, Almost Blue (Ryko)

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website

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MEET EL PRESIDENTE

Rounding out my trend of watching the current crop of politically motivated documentaries, the store got in a screener of Nickolas Perry and Harry Thomason's excellent The Hunting of the President. It's the most straightforward stylistically of the crop, relying largely on news footage and new interviews, perhaps because there is just so much information here, frills would get in the way.

Inspired by the best-selling book by Joe Conason and Gene Lyons, The Hunting of the President is an examination of a right-wing campaign to take down Bill Clinton by any scandal possible, with Ken Starr being the most public face of the cabal. It's almost a political thriller, a labyrinth of behind-the-scenes deals and strange motivations, with the bottom line being that the Republicans behind it would take anything, true or not, that they could to knock Clinton out of office. It took years and millions of dollars to get to Monica Lewinsky, the only charge they found with any real foundation, and which ultimately didn't work as well as they had hoped in the end. I had known that the Clintons were exonerated in the Whitewater case, but I had not heard to what lengths the facts were bent and often fabricated to try to drag them down, nor the personal cost paid by Susan McDougal, who took the hit because she would not lie her way to freedom.

I had not heard, however, that both the Genifer Flowers and Paula Jones stories were not as concrete as we may have been lead to belief. Of course, it ends up coming down to which slant you prefer; the left has as much of an agenda as the right. Still, the case is pretty convincing once you ask those women to step aside so you can see who is standing behind them. Plus, the filmmakers are honest when it comes down to Lewinsky, and one of the strongest things that comes through in the movie is the hurt and betrayal felt by Clinton's friends and supporters that he allowed such a stupid thing to happen.

All in all, interesting viewing. Paul Begala closes the film by noting that the beauty of the information age is that information exists in forms that can't be squashed, and eventually it will catch up with the people who it needs to be caught up to.

I think this only leaves Outfoxed on my list. Oh, and a note to the marketing people behind The Hunting of the President: the fact that Thomason directed Designing Women is not really a selling point in this case. Regardless of how one feels about Meshach Taylor.

Never fear, I have been writing this week. Both Monday and Tuesday, I messed around some with a graphic novel project I am getting ready to pitch, and I also had a really good day on The Everlasting yesterday. I feel back on track. I've also started reading Craig Thompson's Carnet de Voyage, which I am happy to report is excellent.

Current Soundtrack: Primal Scream, Screamadelica

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website

[to leave comments, click on the time-stamp below, then scroll down on the new page]

FROM SUCH GREAT HEIGHTS, COME DOWN NOW

I was going to title this from a favorite Big Black quote, but decided "I don't know why I come here, I tell you I ain't no company man, but i can pull on a rope and kill a cow as well as any other fucker can," was too long in the end.

THE BOOK THE MOVIE IS BASED ON.

But, it would have fit. I just got back from seeing The Corporation, a pretty good documentary that is another in the line of politically charged films that are almost visual editorials, rather than documentary filmmaking in the traditional sense. The Corporation focuses on the idea that a business can incorporate and become its own entity, and the good and the bad (mostly the bad) that this new "person" can do. It presents a variety of sides, even though it's clear where the filmmakers fall, and has a lot of good information to impart. That said, it does faulter a little by suffering from too many Michael Moore-isms early on, leading with jokes to soften us up before it hits us with the hard facts. The style is lumpen, just a pastiche of clips from old films from the '50s, to suggest we're all so very naive--a technique as outdated as the mindset they are criticizing. Plus, I am tired of these guys feeling like they have to ease me into the film, like I wouldn't listen if they don't open with a couple of jokes. I'm here, I'm sitting in the chair, I paid, what confuses you about that? I'm listening. It seems to me you're adopting some of the advertising techniques you're villifying!

I also am once again a tad bit horrified by the smug, self-satisfied nature of the audience. Hissing for the bad guy, sudden outbursts of religious fervor when there is something you like, applause as the credits roll--honestly, I'm not really all that impressed that you are there. Just seeing these films doesn't get us off the hook as individuals. I know I'm one to talk, grabbing a Starbucks on my way home to blog about the film, but at least I know that I am ineffective and inactive. Far better are the kids outside the theatre who are doing what they believe in and trying to get Ralph Nader on the ballot (even if they can't understand that my refusal to sign is not me saying he has no right to be on the ballot, but just a show of non-support; by their fuzzy logic, I'd be an enemy for democracy by not throwing my weight behind Charles Manson getting on the ballot--he has a right to run, too, but not with my help).

*

I didn't end up going back to the Conference today. I just knew I'd regret it. I do want to note, though, the one thing I did learn there: independent comic book companies that pay advances are not actually out of line with other fields of independent publishing, and actually offer better royalty structures. Who knew?

Current Soundtrack: The Postal Service, Give Up

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website

TOO MANY WORDS, TOO MANY WORDS

Okay, so the Writers Conference turned out to be a bit of a bust. The Friday comics part was all right, with some very eager people attending; despite that, and though we were told that we actually did better than the first year they included screenwriting, it all seemed a bit lackluster. I know many of us were also a bit perplexed by some of the people brought on as "experts."

I went back today, though, to attend some workshops, and was simply appalled by the whole thing. It's exactly the sort of thing I hate about the writing community and publications like Writer's Digest. I am sure the people involved are sincere in their efforts, but it's the kind of event and the sort of instruction I see no value in.

Take the first workshop I attended, which was intended to inform people of what to expect of the process once they have had their book accepted for publication. Over the course of the 90 minutes, a total of 21 other people attended, some coming and going, and of those, only one of them was even possibly either my age or younger. Everyone was older than I was--and I'm no spring chicken at 32. And besides myself, only 3 other attendees were men. I found this very fascinating.

The workshop was conducted by a literary agent who himself was somewhere in middle-age--so, if nothing else, a voice with experience. However, the information he imparted was pretty basic, and often without nuance. For instance, he cracked what I thought was a joke about how whenever he calls an editor, he ends up getting the assistant or associate editor because the main editor is never at his or her desk. This may have been a joke, as I said, but he delivered it flatly and if he was kidding, it went over his audience's head. (One of them did, after all, ask him if the author had to pay for the reviews he or she receives in magazines, so I wasn't sitting with the largest letters of the marquee, if you catch my drift.) Yet, I started to wonder if it actually was a joke, because he explained the other things the editor might be doing instead of taking phone calls (meetings, lunch, etc.). I wanted to raise my hand and ask, "You know that you're just not important enough to talk to directly, right?"

There was also a general ageism underlying much of what he said. He seemed to have a problem with all the young editors in the business, since in general people with long-term careers in publishing move on to something else after a time. He felt these readers would not have the life experience to recognize quality work, and it felt a little like a dinosaur talking about how lizards don't understand what it's like being a large reptile, they simply can't understand what the view is like from several stories high--or, to put it cruelly, to be going extinct.

Of course, given the median age of the audience, they were right there with him. Certain attendees seemed to have a self-satisfied sense of entitlement, like college students hanging out at high school and thinking they know it all, they've been there before. It's funny, because it's the sort of stubborn belief in one's own smartness that older folks often accuse of the young--but then, we're always best at pointing out our own faults in others, yes?

And don't even get me started about when the subject of metrosexuals came up...

Even though I was thoroughly annoyed by the end of the workshop, I had intended to attend the one immediately following it, so I figured I may as well give it a shot. It was a long train ride out there, so I might as well make the most of it. The membership fee, which is several hundred dollars, was comped to me for being involved the day before, so having no financial investment was making it hard to stick it out. Still, the room actually filled up beyond the number of chairs available, and the group was a little more diverse. The women still outnumbered the men by about a 2-1 ratio, and now that I think of it, everyone may have been white. I was still probably at the bottom age range, though one guy that was definitely younger than me did wander in, only to leave again before it got started.

This second workshop was intended to be a "in the trenches" look at troubleshooting a novel to prepare it for publication. It was being run by someone from one of those companies that charges people to "edit" their manuscripts. The handout that was prepared for this topic began by informing us that a plot has three key elements: situation, complication, and resolution. That was enough for me. I was more than happy to give up my seat. (They also had a checklist of things your novel should have, the type of approach I am way too skeptical about. Have these people not see Adaptation, or did they not understand it?)

I have to ask, who are these people and where do they come from? What draws them to this kind of conference? (One of the women I talked to yesterday came to Pennsylvania for this!) In the first workshop, half the room claimed to have publishing credits; however, when it became apparent that most of them had merely taken advantage of online outsourcing, the agent informed them that actual publishers don't rate a pay-on-demand service with no rejection process as a legitimate credit. You could hear the hearts shattering. Do I dare ask what it's like to be so far along in life only to discover that you really aren't?

I was planning to attend a full-morning seminar tomorrow where you work with the first fifty pages of your novel and go over some rewriting exercises, but I am really wondering if I should even bother. I thought it might be fun and even enlightening, but now all I can think is I really don't want to have to catch the train early enough to be there by 8:45 in the morning if it's just going to piss me off.

Oh, well, at least I finished Life of Pi, which itself examines the idea of storytelling and what makes a story vs. reality--teaching me more through example than the whole weekend ever could. (Though, since I am being so contrary, I didn't like Martel's notes for book clubs in the back. It felt like he wasn't giving myself, or his story, enough credit to click. Plus, I take issue with artist's explaining their work, when it's really up to the reaction of their audience--as dumb as we may be. And no, Martel did not pay me for this review.)

Current Soundtrack: Come to the Sunshine: Soft Pop Nuggets from the WEA Vaults; Tindersticks, Don't Even Go There EP

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website

BLOW MY WHISTLE

So, I've learned a lesson about taking on big projects. While I thought it would be a good thing to rush through the CLAMP novel and get back to what I wanted to be doing, I've discovered this isn't necessarily true. I completely depleted my batteries and have been having a hard time getting back on track. Not to mention that every time I get on my computer, my eyes start burning and I don't know why.

I heartily recommend this lengthy article on John Kerry from The New Yorker. It seems fair, looking at both pros and cons, and as someone who often feels that he can't get off the fence about anything, perhaps I identify. It also takes Bush to task for possibly being the real "flip-flopper."

I watched Centre Stage with Maggie Cheung on Sunday, an excellent biopic about Chinese silent film star Ruan Lingyu. I immediately went online looking to see if any of her films were available, but came up empty--only to stumble on this today. Hurrah!

My schedule for the Willamette Writers Conference for Friday 8/6:

8:00 - 9:00 am: Comics Panel, moderated by Diana Schutz, also featuring Brett Warnock of Top Shelf and Scott Allie from Dark Horse

10:00 - 11:00 am: signing (supposedly Cut My Hair and manga I've worked on will be there)

3:00 - 4:00 pm: working with individual writers on pitches

My bio from the event: Shortly after dropping out of the creative writing program at Cal State Long Beach, Jamie S. Rich moved to Portland, OR, and joined the comic book world. He worked as an editor at Dark Horse Comics before hitching a ride with Oni Press, where he would spend the next six years, most of them as co-owner and editor in chief. In that time, he would work with an astounding group of talented people that included Stan Sakai, Andi Watson, Renée French, Christine Norrie, Greg Rucka, Chynna Clugston-Major, and Judd Winick, as well as winning two Harvey Awards. Despite this rather impressive workload, he managed to keep busy freelance editing for Brian Michael Bendis and Mike Allred; hosting a cable-access show about music and writing criticism in the Portland area; and rewriting the English scripts for various Tokyopop manga publications (including the soon to be published Clamp School Paranormal Investigators prose novels). In 2000, he published his first novel, Cut My Hair, through Crazyfish/MJ-12 (later picked up by Oni), and in 2004, he left his job in comics, nearly ten years to the day, to finish his second book, The Everlasting. He urges you to visit him at confessions123.com, and advises you to follow the target when you do.

Current Soundtrack: various Timbaland, Utada Hikaru, & Universal Poplab mp3s; The Kinks, Village Green Preservation Society (new edition) disc 3

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website

FILMSTAR, GIVING IT CLASS, LIVING IT FAST TONIGHT

My monthly picks for the video store have now been chosen. No theme this month, just movies:

* The Chocolate War starring Ilan Mitchell-Smith, dir. Keith Gordon

* Mademoiselle starring Jeanne Moreau, dir. Tony Richardson

* One, Two, Three starring James Cagney, dir. Billy Wilder

* Shanghai Express starring Marlene Dietrich & Anna May Wong, dir. Josef Von Sternberg

* Wait Until Dark starring Audrey Hepburn, dir. Terence Young

We're going to try allowing comments on the blog now. Though I like sort of just talking to myself, it has been asked for, so we'll try it. My ignorance about webwork has created a compromise, though, in that you can't really tell I am taking comments. But, if you click on the timestamp under this and future posts, you should be able to add your thoughts.

Current Soundtrack: The Al Franken Show

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website

DESTROY THE HEART

I don't own a Metallica record. Not one. I've never minded them, though, and always kind of liked songs like "One" and "Unforgiven." And I've always admired their dogged pursuit of whatever they decided their vision is, despite the legions of naysayers that felt they knew better. It's scary how often--and how recent--I quote ex-bassist Jason Newsted on selling out. "Yes, we sell out. Every seat, everywhere we play."

I don't fuckin' care. Sometimes the greatest rebellion is to do what everyone says isn't rebellion. While most comics readers I know bemoan how there are no real heroes anymore, I've always bemoaned that there are no real rebels. There is a sense to Metallica that, for all their money-hungry pursuits, they actually are doing exactly as they please. And if nothing else, they've never claimed not to want the money, they haven't hid behind that shield.

Turn your thumb out, and it means "I love you."

So, with that in mind, I go and see their new documentary, Some Kind of Monster, the extended therapy session that is the recording of their last album, St. Anger. That's no joke either. It's a therapy session. As in, they are paying a team therapist $40K a month to counsel them. When Newsted left, the remaining three members--James Hetfield, Lars Ulrich, and Kirk Hammett--hired a guy who advises baseball teams and things to help them come together as a band.

The film covers two years--half of them with Hetfield absent for rehab and recovery--of group hugs, bitter fights, and psychobabble as the guys learn to tell each other how they "feel" and ultimately create music again (it's fascinating to see the days events turn into the next song). I talked to one person beforehand who had seen the trailer for Some Kind of Monster and thought it looked staged, and at the time I argued that because of the position on non-reality these guys occupy, that what might seem fake or ridiculous to us is something they have to buy into. I stand by that, having seen the film now. They don't live in our world. The camera is also something you can't hide from, and even if two of the guys are faking it, there is always one guy in the room whose inner anxiety is coming through.

If you love the behind-the-scenes drama of rock bands, then this movie is for you. Be prepared, however, because it's extremely raw in parts. There is some real, honest pain on display here, stuff that is going to strike home for anybody who has ever been involved in a group endeavor where the principles can't do the basic thing of sitting down and talking to one another. Creative collaborations are often stained with the blood of bitten tongues and echo with the twang of hurt feelings, and after 20 years, it's no surprise these guys needed to get this shit out. The most cathartic moment comes when Lars has had enough of worrying about what Hetfield needs after his absence. He notes that every time he thinks of Metallica, the only word that springs to mind is "fuck." He says it over and over, finally getting two inches from Hetfield's face, and shouting, "FUCK!" God, the number of times I wanted to do exactly that! (Though never to James Hetfield, the big lug!)

It's fascinating to see how this all effects outsiders. Newsted never gets in on the process, and the interviews he grants sizzle with a repressed anger. Megadeth's Dave Mustaine is called in after two decades for a sit-down with Lars, and the damage this guy has done to himself--and had inflicted upon him by Metallica fans--as a result of being kicked out of the band is awful. Mustaine retains his dignity, though, by being able to note that his experience is not necessarily what the guys did to him, but just what he went through.

James and Lars, two seconds from a hug!

The other interesting character is the therapist, who isn't self-aware enough to see when he's outlived his usefulness. He goes from being a help to a hindrance, a contributor to a leech. Hetfield realizes it long after the audience, and is the first to say it out loud: the guy thinks he's part of the band. When trying to shake him off, as the psychobabble and touchy-feely buzzwords lose their meaning, they find he doesn't want to let go, and it becomes his final act of unifying the band. They come together to say they're done with him. It's also around the time Hetfield and Lars actually agree on something musically again, and both see it's because they actually listen to one another. (For his part, Hammett is always the voice of reason, the one who quietly says, "Come on, guys, let's just play some music.")

Some Kind of Monster should be required viewing for anyone who wishes to work in a creative endeavor that requires more than one person, the answer to what to do after Spinal Tap, when you can't laugh anymore. It's hard not to recognize yourself in it when you've been there, and thus not always easy to watch (I know it sadistically poked around in some of my more recent wounds), but man, is it worth it. Metallica fan or not.

Some kind of trouser monster. Metal, dude!

Current Soundtrack: Low, A Lifetime of Temporary Relief disc 2

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website

PICADILLY PALARE WAS JUST SILLY SLANG

I can't be the first one to make this joke, but iPod owners are the new pod people. I spotted two other pod people today. You can tell by the little white control pieces we have stuffed in our ears. Steve Jobs was beaming me messages all day!

Then again, I sure was glad to have it today when I went out to the NW Film Center to see a screening of the 1929 silent film Picadilly. Little did I know, when they said silent, they meant silent. The movie was being shown with no accompanying music whatsoever. Now, I know a lot of movies from the era have no official score, but it was more common than not that some sort of organist was playing along (my silent film fan friends can correct me if I'm wrong--Elin? Chynna? (yes, it's usually stylish chicks that dig silent films)) in the theatre. So, I whipped out my iPod and loaded up some Bernard Herrmann and Ennio Morricone. I had to skip some obviously inappropriate tracks from Once Upon A Time In The West, but it mainly worked out well. I can't imagine sitting in silence for 107 minutes. It'd kill me!

Directed by Ewald André Dupont, Picadilly is a wonderful film. It stars Gilda Gray and the inappropriately second-billed Anna May Wong as dueling dancing divas in a British night club. After the night club owner (played by Jameson Thomas, and you know the character is a Lothario, he's named Valentine) fires Gray's dancing partner because he clearly can't keep his hands to himself, attendance goes down. Thomas stumbles on the idea of having Wong's character, Shosho, take a slot on the dancefloor, having seen her entertain her fellow workers in the kitchen. In doing so, he inadvertently starts an early film catfight that predates All About Eve and similar tales of starlets who don't want to stare the spotlight.

Thomas becomes the object of a dance of seduction between Gray and Wong, both of whom know how to use their feminine sexuality to get what they want from men. Wong is the more aggressive, and thus the more successful, and quickly supplants Gray as the top performer on the circuit. But it's her boldness that will also be her downfall, as she keeps her musical accompanist, a Chinese man named Jim (King Ho-Chang), on her sultry hook, as well, and he doesn't like the competition from Thomas any more than Gray likes it from Wong. And when I refer to a "dance of seduction," I am speaking in a broad metaphor, as the word "dance," and the act itself, stands in for sex in the less-open '20s. The final straw for Gray is discovering that Thomas got a private performance from Wong late at night in his office, and Jim's discovery of a Buddha he had given Wong on Thomas' desk is all he needs to realize the same thing.

By the time Thomas and Wong go out on an actual date, Wong's victory is a foregone conflusion. Wishing to avoid being seen, they head to a lower-class, workman's pub, where their fancy dress clearly puts them out of place. They refer to the bar as their own personal Picadilly, as voluptuous women dance without restraint for the hooting and hollering patrons. Down in this part of town, they don't bother with pussyfooting around the issue, they simply get down and boogie. However, even here, there is a warning for our couple. When a white woman dances with a black man, this is going too far. They are chastised and pretty much chased from the bar. It's a clear signal that Wong and Thomas should tread carefully, and though they see it to a degree, exiting the pub, they quickly forget it as they head upstairs to Wong's apartment.

Here follows a series of wonderful sequences, as Wong places the key to her door in Thomas's hand. There is only a moment for eye contact, for the meaning of the gift to be clear, before a truck passes, covering the new lovers for a moment. Once it's gone, so are they.

Upstairs, Wong continues her dance. She removes all faculty for reason from her quarry via very simple movements, covering and uncovering her face with her lacey sleeve. It's extremely erotic, and the kiss that seals the deal feels absolutely redundant. Wong is now the biggest star at the Picadilly night club.

At this point, though, Dupont is also doing a dance with the viewer as well, moving between the apartment and the street, from the seduction to a woman's shadow cast over the entrance to the building, waiting for the dalliance to end. It is, of course, Gray. Holding a pistol, she has a well-choreographed argument with the dagger-wielding Wong. Both women wear some sort of shield in front of their faces--Gray has a veil on her hat, Wong again using her sleeve--perhaps suggesting that, generally, the faces they show are not the real ones they wear; they are keeping their true nature from view, masking it with a gorgeous visage. We fade to black before either attacks, only to discover by a newspaper headline that the Chinese dancer is dead.

The unheeded warning gives way to real consequences. Sex cost Wong her life, and Thomas is on trial for the murder. It seems clear that he is going to go down for it, too, until Gray shows up and says it was her there that night with his gun, but she blacked out and doesn't know what happened. That's when all eyes turn to Jim. He takes his own life, confessing as it trickles away.

One could choose to read the film in terms of race, and you'd have a pretty good case to say that Picadilly reinforces barriers. It's only the Chinese who pay for this transgression, for stepping out of place. The white couple gets to return to their lives, relatively unscathed. I'd like to give Dupont and the writer, Arnold Bennett, more credit than that, though. I would argue that Picadilly is more of a critique of class.

Though the pub chastises the interracial dancers, there is a familiarity between the black man and the white woman that suggests they mingle at the bar often. Their admonishment has more to do with remembering one's place, possibly only made important by the eyes of outsiders being on them. Thomas is intruding on this scene, and though Wong is from the area, she has left it for coats with fur collars. This idea is lent credence when the couple leave the pub; the white woman is standing outside with a mixed crowd, and as Thomas and Wong pass, she taunts them for their hoity-toity airs. She resents them slumming in her part of London.

The final clue comes in the last shot of the film. We are at a newsstand with papers declaring that the Chinese dancer's Chinese lover killed her and then killed himself. A man buying his paper is unconcerned with the news, more excited that he has won some money on a horse race. As he exits the scene, he is replaced by a parade of homeless-looking men with signs promoting a new show at the Scala called "Life Goes On." They are walking a circle, coming in and out of frame, stuck in the drudgery. Life does indeed go on. The common man continues to toil and suffer, while the upper classes live out their petty dramas unharmed.

For me, beyond seeing a good film, the true discovery is Anna May Wong. The blurb I read on the film before seeing it suggested in some ways there are parallels to her own life and struggles as an Eastern actress in Western movies. Her screen presence is incredible, and it's fitting that one of her most well-known movies is with Marlene Dietrich; if it weren't for the longstanding race hang-ups American culture still suffers from, she'd be remembered in much the same way as her more famous, sex symbol co-star.

Current Soundtrack: misc. mp3s

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website

IT'S JUST A BOY OR A GIRL, IT'S NOT THE END OF THE WORLD

My review of X-Day vol. 1 by Setona Mizushiro is now online at Artbomb. Go, read, buy!

First draft of Clamp Paranormal Investigators volume 3 is done!

Current Soundtrack: Brady, Afrodisiac

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website

I DON'T DREAM, I NEVER REALLY DID

By the by, the philosophy behind the Lance Scott journal is this: Lance is the main character of The Everlasting, and the proprieter of the Confessions123.com site that is a false front for my site. I plan for him to be a recurring character, comparable to Roth's Nathan Zuckerman. In fictional time, The Everlasting ends four years ago, in 2000, so there is a Lance in and out of time, who is older than the Lance I am writing for the novel. He has only appeared in one more story, which I wrote a few months ago, and is currently only called "Hair is Love" because I can't come up with a title (it features Helene, who was mentioned in the journal today). The journal serves as a place to play around with his "present," to explore, experiment, whatever. It's not gospel, and anything I write in it may be discarded later as not part of the "official history."

I don't know why I wanted to clarify. I just did. Now I am going to start plowing through the CLAMP novel again, see what I can get done tonight. In terms of the original edition, I am on page 156 and there are 187 pages. I am close, I just want to have the first draft done.

Current Soundtrack: The Cure, "The End of the World" single; Low, A Lifetime of Temporary Relief disc 3; China Cherry Cola to drink

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website

WORK IS A FOUR-LETTER WORD

I've been working pretty heavy on the CLAMP novel for the past three days and I am around halfway through, which isn't bad. I think I am doing it at double the speed of The Everlasting. To keep my mind a bit more in proper gear during this go-around, I am trying to re-kickstart my fictional live journal again, keep Lance Scott an active member of the team. If you check it out, keep in mind that Lance is fictional, this is fiction. This little exercise has confused some readers. While some of the entries spin out of actual things, you'd be surprised at how insignificant the seeds are. So don't overthink the possibility that Lance's diary may be a thinly veiled version of mine.

Also, for those interested, I have added two Amazon lists to their database, one with the tail end of my Oni work and one with the first volumes of all my manga work (an idea knicked from KS).

Finally, seeing as this is an all-business post, I will be attending the 35th Annual Willamette Writers Conference in August as a guest. Start here to learn more.

And for those of you who also didn't go to San Diego, this year's lame button:

[For the record, this was my joke.]

Current Soundtrack: Orbital, "Satan/The Saint" promo EP

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website

EVERYBODY'S CLEVER NOWADAYS

Several people, I think, expect me to have an epiphany this weekend where I am actually sorry that I am not at the San Diego Comic Con International. I hate to break it to them, but that isn't going to happen. Despite not being able to see cute faces like Kelly Sue and Jen and the rest (some of whom will e-mail me to whine about not being listed--for shame! you fell for it again!), I am more than content to sit this one out, let the media fracas and fanboy faraggo go on without me. It's been ten years since I've even had the option of not going. I'd be stupid not to take it. I know for a fact that very little of the actual con interests me anyway.

But, if I needed validation for this self-belief, it came at 6:27 this morning, when apparently my phone rang, a call from someone in San Diego, and the evil chuckle spontaneously rolled from my throat as I considered the many emergencies that might require a call to me. That chuckle was followed by a distinctly dastardly, "Fuck 'em."

Last night I went down to Powells Books on the recommendation of a co-worker to see Jonathan Ames read from his new novel, Wake Up, Sir! He was being accompanied by the band One Ring Zero, who were promoting their new album of klezmer-like music, As Smart As We Are, featuring song lyrics by famous authors with names like Auster, Gaiman, and Snickett. This was to be new territory for me, as I was unfamiliar with either.

Ames, it turns out, is hysterical. Wake Up, Sir is a tribute to the old Wodehouse books featuring Jeeves, and his reading of selected passages was hilarious (though, his voice could use some more modulation). The writing is full of obsessive, neurotic humor and long, rambling, yet unique observations of the quirks of life. (If anyone is wondering what to get Chynna Clugston-Major for her birthday next month, this book solves that problem. She'd love it.)

One Ring Zero turned out to be better than I would have expected. They reminded me quite a bit of They Might Be Giants--and not just for the superficial accordion comparison. There's also the nerdy wordplay and the two distinct male voices, one nasaly and one lower, one guy in glasses and one without. Ames joined in on the song he wrote for them--a tale about a childhood language he had created with two of his friends. One of those friends was in the audience, a Portland dweller now, and he joined in to help demonstrate, as well as play a song of his own, a cute tribute to Ames.

I didn't buy the One Ring Zero CD, though. It seems like the sort of thing that would get a couple of listens and then the novelty would fade. Plus, the title really says it all. It sounds like the writers involved got too caught up in their own cleverness rather than simply setting out to write a good, classic song. I'd be curious to hear the Atwood contribution, though, and I don't think they got Hornby, but one would wonder what he would do if given the chance. (I could be wrong. Amazon doesn't list the tracks, and I am too lazy to look elsewhere.)

Work: Started the third Clamp School Paranormal Investigators yesterday. Please, let it end soon.

I also had a dream last night where I was looking in the mirror and my beard had what is likely the equivalent of three or four days growth. Except I had shaved that morning and with a brand-new blade. This, folks, is what I call a nightmare.

Current Soundtrack: Hallucinations: Psychedelic Pop Nuggets From The WEA Vaults

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website

SHE'S THE SOFTNESS OF CINEMA SEATS

The sixth installment of "Can You Picture That?" is now online and reviews Martin Scorsese's My Voyage To Italy and Bernardo Bertolucci's The Dreamers.

In stores this week: On the manga front, you can buy Gravitation volume 7 and Abenobashi vol. 1. One of my last editing jobs for Oni, Scott Morse's excellent modern cowboy graphic novel, Spaghetti Western, is also going on sale.

Current Soundtrack: Sonic Boom & Spectrum, What Came Before After

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website

WHEN THE DAYS SEEM TO FALL THROUGH YOU

Yesterday I hung out with Laurenn McCubbin, Tristan Crane, and Michelle Tea, after completely missing the reading event for the book Rent Girl (which you should all buy) on Wednesday night. I arrived just as it was ending. I thought it was going to run later, and it was a hell of a bus ride. We went thrift shopping, and I didn't buy anything by way of clothes, but I did find Chynna's birthday present way in advance and picked up a copy of Zuckerman Bound.

All of which means I did no work yesterday, because I am a bad person. I will be getting on Gravitation 10's back half today, though, as I'd like to turn it in on Monday, completely clearing my manga decks through the end of August for the last of the CLAMP novels.

Weekend plans include re-watching one of my favorite films, the 1945 adaptation of Dorian Gray, after a long time of not having seen it. I want to sample one of the settings from it for The Everlasting, a seedy bar. It actually hearkens back to one of the scenes I had in the original Lance Scott novel when I was 17. I don't recall if I ever wrote that bit, though, or just planned it.

Writing on The Everlasting went really well this week. I made solid progress and I think have passed the halfway mark. Of course, given the nature of the story, I could get to the end, read it, and discover I have a meandering mess on my hands. But, the thing is to get a complete draft and then we'll see. It could need just a little bit of fine-tuning, or it could require a massive overhaul. We won't know until it's a Thing.

Current Soundtrack: The Cure, Carnage Visors

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website

 
 

I COULD TASTE A TRACE OF AMERICAN CHEMICAL WASTE

I've received letters complaining about my not having written about Morrissey here in a while. So, lucky for you, he has a new single out.

"First of the Gang To Die" is probably the most obvious choice off of You Are The Quarry. It's rocking, with a good hook, and an amusing recasting of violent Latino street gangs in a pretty 1950s leather jacket. Too bad the video didn't have Moz pouring out a 40 on poor Hector's grave. Sadly, they have wrapped this gem in what must be the worst sleeve of Morrissey's career ("Oh, I know...let's use the same photoshoot, but we'll make it look like he's behind a shower door!") and some truly not-that-great B-sides.

The best of the lot is "My Life is a Succession of People Saying Goodbye," a pretty ballad that is a big workmanlike, but a pretty face is a pretty face and I like it. It's the other two, "Teenage Dad On His Estate" and "Mexico," that fall flat, sounding more like Maladjusted album tracks. (Could it be that Morrissey has reversed his position? His last two albums weren't so hot and were easily outranked by the B-sides; is it now set up to be the other way around?) "Teenage Dad" is musically limp with a strange narrative about a rich man who is unhappy, who has disdain for the young man down the hill from his mansion who is poor, but enjoys his family. Okay. Oddly, in the next song, it feels like Morrissey becomes the rich man in his estate, looking south of the border with a tear in his eye in "Mexico." It's a somewhat embarrassing political screed about being rich and white in America from a rich, white guy who lives in America. This did the rounds on the tours that preceded this album, and there was a BBC radio performance of it, and if anything can be said of the new version, it's that producer Jerry Finn manages to pull of the impossible and give the backing track some new life. Shame he couldn't fix the lyrics. I'm sure they're well intentioned, though. (It's kind of sad. I was listening to The Holy Bible the other day and thinking we really need an album like that for right now. But from who? At least there is said to be a 10th anniversary edition in the works, and the Manics themselves are working on a new one with Tony Visconti--so maybe they'll surprise us?)

(It's weird to admit, but I find it a bit embarrassing that I've been listening to "Mexico" with my windows open, with a group of Mexican workers repaving some of my apartment building's courtyard outside. I keep expecting them to knock on my door and ask, "What the fuck is that? You trying to send us a message or something?")

So, as of now, a fairly disappointing second release for the Mozzfather. Smartly, he seems to be saving "Don't Make Fun of Daddy's Voice," a highlight of recent live shows with its ? & the Mysterians organ riff, for a future single. Possibly an A-side, like his great non-album singles from the early '90s?

Update: The Federal Marriage Act got sunk in the House this morning. But only by two votes? That's not nearly enough. We really need to kick some folks out of Washington.

Jibber Jabber: More linked to in this blog than Morrissey, Jen De Guzman hits at the same New York Times article I wrote about two days ago, in two posts from the 7/12 & 13 in her live journal. She also links to writer and colorist Rikki Simons, another person amongst indie comics who sees this is not the godsend the people it validates would like to proclaim. Yes, let's watch the circular world of blogging!

Current Soundtrack: Moz, "FOTGTD;" Interpol Antics; Rubettes, Best of...

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website

GODS OF NOT VERY MUCH

I just finished reading Charles McGrath's supposedly serious look at graphic novels that ran in yesterday's New York Times magazine and has been spreading its cancer across the internet. What a turgid piece of condescension. Here is a link if you can be bothered (you have to register). He rounds up the usual suspects and attempts to make a case for comics as a serious artform.

Except he doesn't, really. He works from the viewpoint that comics could possibly replace prose in a world where video games and TV are killing our attention spans and ability to absorb complex narratives, and then disimissing all comics books except for the ones he wants to focus on. This includes gettering rid of manga in one sentence, writing the whole of Japanese comics off as "books that feature slender, wide-eyed teenage girls who seem to have a special fondness for sailor suits." There is so much ignorance in those 17 words, I would have to go through each word one by one just to debunk it. He pushes Clowes, Ware, Sacco, Seth, Tomine, and Spiegelman to the forefront, not once acknowledging that this is a little like saying that no one knows how to read very well but Borges, Barthes, and Robbe-Grillet are going to change the course of illiteracy by making books accessible again.

And that's even if you agree with his theory that comics are somehow for a new generation of mouth-breathers who find the intricacies of John Grisham too much to digest. It's ludicrous. So, shove that assertion aside, and then let's ask, are these really the guys who are going to fuel the new generation of comics and keep the medium alive? To a degree, but I've been saying for a while now that this old guard of alternative comics, as good as most of them are, represent a world that is just as closed off from the bulk of the population as superhero comic books--and like the raging fanboys that this side of comics often decries (a bit like the closeted jock picking on the effeminate kid), they like it that way. They want to horde the crumbs of success and recognition because, like capes and tights, the chronic masturbator cartoonist is just as outmoded as the kid who wants to be Superman and beat up the bullies that pick on him.

I'm not trying to tear down this work, and must say that I've read and do read a ton of what the above-named folks do. I adore Seth, and think Sacco is amazing, to single out just two. What I am railing against is this condescension wrapped in glad-handing, and the myopic theory that this is all there is. Evan Dorkin once said something along the lines that all we tend to offer the world is a picture of comics as either B-movie slasher flicks or Akira Kurosawa films, ignoring the vast canyon of material inbetween. Artful comics are not just about McGrath's summation of "longing, loss, sexual frustration, loneliness and alienation," and certainly not the limited mode of expression that he espouses. (It's also not nearly the man's world he asserts. He can only come up with the names of four female cartoonists, missing people like Chynna Clugston-Major, Jill Thompson, Christine Norrie, Laurenn McCubbin, Ariel Schrag, Renee French, etc., all of who either fit his mold or show that there is actually much more to a comic book life than lonely guys who can't get dates).

Matt Wagner

Is R. Crumb the single most important figure in the world of modern comics? No, I'd say from the last twenty-five years, it's Matt Wagner. Wagner showed that you could work between the worlds of art and commerce much the way an auteur film director does, making your own arthouse pictures and then doing a big studio blockbuster. He also did it without being a poorly socialized shut-in, which McGrath suggests is almost required to be a successful cartoonist (Sacco being his exception to prove his own rule). Similarly, is Crumb the single biggest influence on the newest generation of cartoonists? Doubtful. Is even Chris Ware, arguably the top of the game? Not really. The names I saw over and over again as an editor were the Hernandez Bros. (mentioned several times in the article, to be fair), Paul Pope, manga artists like Rumiko Takahashi, Evan Dorkin, and Jhonen Vasquez, with Chynna Clugston-Major and Craig Thompson gaining speed in the last few years. Just as Frank Miller had shoved aside Jack Kirby to influence a whole new crop of mainstream artists, and himself started to take a backseat to Mike Mignola, Mike Allred, and some of the Image crew, so are these people at the forefront of creating a new language for alternative comics that will do more to push comics into the mainstream than anything that has come before. (Note: Allred and Mignola also carry with them a lot of influence in the indie world.)

In addition to those names, I'd be remiss if I didn't note that where McGrath got it right was by noting the vast influence of Alan Moore and Neil Gaiman, as well. He says they have "something like auteur status...writers whose comics are worth paying attention to no matter who draws them." I would agree with that. They brought to comics a sense that the writing should be taken seriously, a torch picked up by Brian Bendis, Greg Rucka, Neal Shaffer, Warren Ellis, Antony Johnston, and others.

God bless Evan Dorkin

McGrath knew enough about how the press at large has looked at comic books to make fun of all the "Zap! Pow!" headlines, but apparently is not self-aware enough to know he lives in the house across the street, which is just as blind to the reality of the comic book world as what he is ridiculing.

Current Soundtrack: Embrace, The Good Will Out

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website

LET ME GO WHERE MY PICTURES GO

This hasn't been my most productive week. I ended up covering two earlier shifts at the video store, one without much warning, and I have found that having to be at a job at 2:00 is not condusive to my usual schedule. It's actually around the early afternoon that I get warmed up and get my full momentum going. It also didn't help that I was in a bit of a rough patch with The Everlasting, completely ignoring advice passed on to me from Clive Barker via The Great Brain--that one must never close the file without knowing what one is going to type next, because if you write until you are spent, you end up starting the next time without an idea of what you are doing and spend some aimless typing hours hunting about. Since I am writing about relationships, there isn't a lot of point A to point B plot stylings. I don't have to plant guns in act I to be fired in act II, so it's often about finding the most logical and organic moment to show next.

There has also been the great tragedy of my beloved MP3 player dying on me. It boots up, but the screen no longer activates. Were I more skilled, I might be able to find the albums I am searching for without sight, but I am not. My warranty is long gone, so the Rio people are ignoring my pleas for aid; it may be an iPod for me. (And yes, as I have discussed with Kelly Sue, this is not the worst tragedy I could possibly have--but such is my life at the moment.)

Ande Parks gave me a great documentary on Orson Welles that I believe is shamefully out of circulation. It consists primarily of interview footage with him in the mid-'80s, and he is a very charming conversationalist. He is not an egomaniac at all and is pretty self-aware when it comes to his position in the world of film. In fact, one can only marvel at how much bitterness he lacks, when there is a lot of room for him to be bitter. His only failing seems to be to care too much about the things that are said about him personally that aren't true.

I know so many creative people who are aspiring to be or even currently working who whine about how tough it is to pursue their dreams, and they annoy me to no end. These are generally people who I expect to fail, because they don't have what it takes, really. They are often the kind who won't even sign their own name unless there is a dollar involved (you'd be surprised at how many would-be creative types don't spend as much time as they can practicing their craft). If I have any response to them, it's "Yes, it's supposed to be hard; if it were easy, everyone would be doing it." (It's practically a Jamie cliche at this point; it goes hand-in-hand with a defense of editors, publishers, studios, what-have-you, who supposedly crush the dreams of millions--but someone has to protect the gates.) Maybe in the future I will just give them a copy of this documentary and let them contemplate if they really have it so tough. Welles, in the end, says he probably should have gotten out of film, returned to the stage, done anything else, but he loved it too much. He loved stories too much. And he regrets nothing.

Welles has been a hero of mine for ages, ever since I read Citizen Welles when I was 17 (and at the time noted an uncanny resemblance between his early life and the life of the hero of Fitzgerald's This Side of Paradise). I even invoke his name and borrow from him in "T For True," the story I am doing with Andi Watson for Image. Except I have never seen the film F For Fake, only heard about it. I was rather shocked to see some clips in this documentary and hear them talking about the movie, because somehow I tapped into much the same idea (perhaps in the same way Fitzgerald tapped into Welles' childhood?). But I didn't steal it, I swear!

(Speaking of This Side of Paradise, who the hell is this guy and has he gone and fucked himself yet?)

I also started Gravitation volume 10 on Thursday, since it was going to be easier than digging into the novel before clerking. My word, they go to another stupid TV show. Sometimes I don't know about this book...

Current Soundtrack: Pet Shop Boys, Very; Morrissey, Songs to Save Your Life NME comp

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website

NEWS OF THE WORLD

Some new items...

Artbomb has published my review of Steven T. Seagle and Teddy Kristiansen's excellent It's a Bird....

I turned in my introduction for Queen & Country, vol. VI - Operation: Dandelion yesterday. I wrote a whole new piece, ended up a bit disenchanted with the one I wrote last week. This is much better. Greg liked it, but my editor failed to tell me he would not be working on the day of the deadline he gave me. Tut, tut.

Today I have an early day at the video store so it's a little shot. Going to finally proofread Ai Yori Aoshi volume 7, which I have been neglecting since last week.

Current reading: Life of Pi by Yann Martel and My Life by Bill Clinton

Current Soundtrack: Lux Radio Broadcast of The Third Man (on the DVD)

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website

AMERICA IS NOT THE WORLD

With all the clamor around Michael Moore's Fahrenheit 9/11, it's easy to forget that he's not the only one out there making a ruckus. In fact, this weekend I saw what is probably a better movie that is no less illuminating about some of what is currently going on in our world.

Control Room is a new documentary by Jehame Noujaime, the director of Startup.com. Control Room is a peek inside Al Jazeera, the Arab news network that the Bush administration calls the "mouthpiece for Osama Bin Laden" and several Saudi governments have banned for critiquing their regimes. Their controversial stance of showing everything and letting the public sort it out alternately suggests the most studied objectivity of any news agency and, strangely, its own bias.

Much of Control Room is centered around the media's interaction with American Central Command at the start of the invasion of Iraq. Many of the journalists and producers from Al Jazeera are interviewed and explain their side of things. We also see how other news organizations from around the world interact with Al Jazeera and share a common frustration with an often ridiculously evasive US Army. (There is a notable scene where the army representative announces the famous pack of playing cards with the targets of Saddam Hussein's regime on them, and after telling them there aren't enough packs to share with reporters but they can look at the set he has, he retreats from the press conference and refuses to share at all. The reporters are practically beating down his door in fury.)

One of the more interesting characters, though, is Lt. Rushing, one of the Army's media relations people. While when he's on the job and being questioned he often staunchly defends the indefensible, he comes off in more private moments as a nice guy who is in the middle of an eye-opening education. He openly interacts with the reporters, honestly gauging their opinions about public reaction. He isn't afraid to say that if Al Jazeera is slanted towards the Arab viewpoint, it's no more than how American news is slanted towards America. There is also a sobering moment for him when he realizes how wrong it is that he is more affected by the images of American casualties Al Jazeera showed than he was by the Iraqi casualties from the night before; he realizes that isn't right, that all life is worth mourning in equal measure.

But, Lt. Rushing is more of a sidenote. The more important element of Control Room is the flipside to what we see, the other side of the propaganda machine that seems to so easily win over the US media. It's amazing how differently they viewed the American soldiers entering Bagdhad and pulling down the statue of Saddam. What was presented as spontaneous love and joy amongst the Iraqi people when shown over here is entirely different to their eyes. Did any US news outlets report a suspicion that all the men that walked with the tanks were not Iraqis, but Kurds that the Army brought in with them? Did anyone ask why one of them had an Iraqi flag that was over a decade out of date with him?

Even worse, did anyone ask why no one was concerned any longer with US troops firing on three news buildings in Bagdhad, killing one Al Jazeera reporter and essentially crippling the Arab news services the day before they possibly staged their biggest media event since the start of the conflict? Was it that easy to believe it was a coincidence, that they had supposedly been fired upon from those buildings and were just defending themselves?

UPDATE FROM SATURDAY: Coincidentally, not long after my last post, my mail arrived and I received a policy letter from Senator Ron Wyden indicating that he opposed any Constitutional amendment defining marriage. He gave his voting record to back that up, noting, however, that he was often outvoted in similar issues. Still, at least I know one of the people representing me is on my side.

Current Soundtrack: The Creatures, Hybrids

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website

THE POLITICS OF DANCING

A couple of quick notes on various political things.

Go here to have a letter sent to your Congressmen to tell him you oppose the Federal Marriage Amendment.

Also, stop by MediaMatters.org's page about the controversy surrounding Rush Dimbulb's program being broadcast over the Armed Forces Network and consider signing their petition urging Donald Rumsfeld (why is he still here?) to reconsider this very biased decision.

These sorts of things are the very least we can do when it comes to getting our voices heard, to being involved. It may not seem like much, but consider all the people who never say a word.

Writer Neal Shaffer posted a link in his blog to an article about Bill Cosby's speaking out for what he believes. All I can do is echo Neal's sentiment of feeling it's about time that people start talking again about actual ideas and quit worrying about offending allegedly delicate sensibilities. Toes aren't as fragile as we make them sound, and it won't break them to have them stepped on occassionally. The only problem I've found in writing provocative pieces on subjects I was opinionated about is that people don't want to give the time to think about what you are saying, and by that I mainly mean the people said opinions don't apply to. Like, when I read an article that says, for example, most people who download music are doing it to get free music with no intention of ever buying it, I don't get huffy and say, "Fuck that guy, I always buy the stuff I like that I've downloaded! The jerk!" I think, "Hmmmm, this doesn't apply to me, but interesting point of view." You'd be surprised by how many people don't, and I imagine Cosby is finding that out as part of the backlash.

Truth be told, though, the problems he brings up transcend race. Just about every community has similar issues of squandered education and willful ignorance--but then, others don't have the added sting of having had several preceding generations fighting for something better.

Finally, if you were as amused and baffled by the ad I linked to from George W. Bush's campaign that interspersed images of Hitler with those of prominent democrats, then you have to stop back by GWB's site and watch "The New War?" In it, we learn John Kerry is fighting the Yakuza and the point is illustrated by an offensive attempt at Japanese anime! I keep expecting someone to tell me this site is a joke and I've been duped. It's amazing.

Current Soundtrack: Kings of Convenience, Riot on an Empty Street

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website

THE VIOLENCE OF SUMMER

I've been writing all over the place. Gotten a lot done on The Everlasting, did a couple of reviews for Artbomb, and I have the first draft of Ai Yori Aoshi vol. 7 done. Greg Rucka and James Lucas Jones asked me to do the intro to Queen & Country vol. VI, and I've done a draft but am giving it a couple of days to see how I feel.

It's also the first of July, so new video picks. A fellow employee didn't believe I could do a manly selection, and not only have I proved him wrong, but I still managed to get Audrey Hepburn in the list.

* Afraid to Die starring Yukio Mishima (yes, the novelist), directed by Yasuzo Masumura

* The Life & Death of Colonel Blimp by Powell & Pressburger

* Robin & Marian starring Sean Connery & Audrey Hepburn, dir. Richard Lester

* Three Kings starring George Clooney, dir. David O. Russell

* The Train starring Burt Lancaster & Jeanne Moreau, dir. John Frankenheimer

I was originally going to do several detective/film noir movies, but decided on Colonel Blimp and Three Kings since they both relate to the times we live in.

Current Soundtrack: Oasis, Familiar to Millions

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website