IFWHITEAMERICATOLDTHETRUTHFORONEDAYIT'SWORLDWOULDFALLAPART

"Daddy where's the sun gone from the sky?
What did we do wrong, why did it die?
And if you've got no love for me then I'll say goodbye"

The Oregon State Legislature is currently considering Senate Bill 1000, a gay rights bill that would grant same-sex couples the right to civil unions and equal protection under the law. It's a step towards healing the wound of 3,000 marriage licenses being invalidated by those "activist" judges in our State Supreme Court. (I'm sure when Tom DeLay heard that more members of the judiciary were pushing their own agendas from the bench, it totally ruined his corporate-sponsored vacation.) Yesterday, hundreds of Oregonians descended on the Capitol to express opinions on both sides of the issue. As a similar piece of legislation just got shot down in Washington state, it's time to stand up and be heard if we want this thing to pass.

I urge everyone from Oregon reading this to write or call their State Legislator. You can do so by visiting here. If you are from out of state, there is no reason you shouldn't speak up and urge Oregon to lead the way in civil rights. E-mail Representative Mitch Greenlick at rep.mitchgreenlick@state.or.us or Senator Charles Ringo at sen.charlieringo@state.or.us. Here is my letter (and Greenlick already wrote back to say he is supporting it):

Dear Representative Greenlick/Senator Ringo:

I am writing you in support of Senate Bill 1000. I believe this is an issue that is important to everybody, regardless of one's background and orientation. Equal rights are not special rights, and it's up to no government or outside person to tell another how to live and love. In fact, I believe that the only people demanding special rights are heterosexual married couples, who wish to have benefits exclusive to their narrow-minded group. Being straight or gay is not a lifestyle choice, but being married is: so, by their own argument, maybe their special rights should be revoked?

My agenda here is what's fair. I am a primarily heterosexual white male who grew up in a Christian household. I personally stand nothing to gain from SB1000; nor do I have anything to lose by letting other people live the way that is natural to them. I feel opposition to equal rights is morally reprehensible, and those who stand against SB1000 are seeking to horde their pieces of the pie with little regard to the nourishment they deny others by doing so.

It's time Oregon stands up and shows the rest of the country that we are at the forefront of human concerns and leading the charge towards what is right. As long as people like Senator Charles Starr can stand up at our Capitol and spout homophobic rhetoric, accusing homosexuals of suffering from "mental disorders," without his fellow legislators denouncing him, we can't do this. We can't rise above the embarrassment and shame that has dogged our state since we joined the ranks of the close-minded by voting down Proposition 36 in November. Let's set the record straight. Oregonians aren't Neanderthals, but people of the present who are moving forward into a better future. Vote yes for SB1000.

Thank you.

Sincerely, Jamie S. Rich

Okay, I get a little into the proselytizing at the end there, but whatever. I think we've reached a crucial time in our culture where we really have to define where we stand, and do so vigilantly. It's not enough to express our beliefs, but to vehemently shout down the opposition and remove any pretense of moral ambiguity in issues such as these. Yes, everyone has a right to their opinion, but that doesn't mean sometimes they shouldn't be told to sit down and shut up. To that end, I also wrote the above mentioned Senator Charles Starr (sen.charlesstarr@state.or.us), who is quoted in today's Oregonian (5/5/05) as saying "people are not born homosexual" and hawking the outdated assertion that homosexuality is a mental disorder.

Dear Senator Starr:

It was with great distress that I read your comments in today's Oregonian in regards to the gay and lesbian community and Senate Bill 1000. With all due respect, sir, I feel you have embarrassed our state by openly spouting such out-of-date rhetoric. Is this sort of hateful, retrograde thinking really how we want the rest of the country to view Oregon?

I feel you owe everyone an apology. Empty words won't do, either. Do some research, educate yourself on reality, and vote yes for SB1000. Then I'll believe you; otherwise, despite not living in your district, I will make sure I am part of whatever effort I can be to make sure that come the next election, Oregon relieves you of your duties.

Thank you.

Sincerely, Jamie S. Rich

If I get audited this year, we'll know why.

The political climate right now is really weird. The illusory divide between the supposed "red" and "blue" is lingering from the last election, despite the fact that, in reality, Americans agree on a lot of the important issues. (Read the excerpt from Robert F. Kennedy Jr.'s book Crimes Against Nature from the May 2005 issue of Vanity Fair for a detailed explanation of this situation.) It seems to me, though, where the real disagreements appear to exist are in issues regarding how one lives one's life. What consistently baffles me about the Right is that their fundamental belief that government should be small and not interfere with our lives seems to stop as soon as they run into lives that our different than theirs; yet, as I state above, these are often issues regarding things that don't effect them whatsoever. If two men want to get married and are afforded the same rights and benefits under the law as a man and woman getting married, how does that hurt the man and the woman? They don't give up any rights by including the men. In fact, wouldn't allowing gay marriage actually support the homophobic stance that "Those queers can do want they want as long as they don't do it around me." Trust me, leave them alone, and they will leave you alone. If they are married to each other, then you no longer need to hang on to your irrational fear that they might be attracted to someone like you.

As another example of this, consider the current debate over the legality of certain companies taking films and editing them to include only family content. They remove violence, language, drugs, and sex, and in some extreme cases, references to ethnicity and homosexuality. AMC recently ran a news special about it, and you can read a short piece about it here, as well as an impassioned editorial by Marshall Herskovitz here). Essentially, these people feel that Hollywood is not making films that fit their sensibilities or are not suitable for their family to view together, so they create these new versions to fit their mold, regardless of whether the film was ever intended for children or not. Why would you want your eight-year-old to watch a movie like Traffic in the first place? (One hysterical clip on the AMC show came when they went out to ask people on the street if film ratings were less stringent than they have been in the past. One woman said, completely oblivious to her own faulty logic, "I took my ten-year-old to see a PG-13 movie, and it was really racy for him.") Hollywood argues that altering films and then turning around to sell or rent them in order to make a profit violates copyright law; the censoring companies argue it is fair use of a privately purchased product, and for every censored version they sell, they have paid for a corresponding copy of the legitimate DVD.

There are two things that strike me about the goals of the people who are seeking to censor entertainment in this way.

(1) Just because someone throws a party, it doesn't mean you're invited. Now, on the surface, that statement sounds contradictory to the pro-Gay marriage stance I've taken. I would argue it is not. The civil rights issue is about denying individuals opportunities based on who they are, while what entertainment you choose is entirely up to you. No one says to these people, "Stop. You can't watch this movie because you're a Christian." Anyone has access to the material, and if it's not to their tastes, they can avoid it. There is other entertainment out there for them, or they can go out and create their own (hello, Mel Gibson!). The recent pseudo-documentary What the Bleep Do We Know? is thinly disguised propaganda for a religious cult that takes advice from the spirit of someone from the lost city of Atlantis (I'm not joking); I don't agree with their point-of-view, but instead of asking for a version of the film altered to fit my belief system, I choose not to watch it. Similarly, I don't go into someone's church and ask the preacher to cater his sermon to me or attend wine tasting parties and complain they don't have any scotch. Nor do I stop anyone from renting What the Bleep Do We Know?, going to their church, or drinking their wine. Particularly when you can do any of those things and not harm me one bit.

Classically, it has always been the non-white, non-Christian groups who have felt underrepresented in American entertainment. If that has truly shifted and now conservative White America no longer feels it has a voice, then isn't that a signal that the tide has turned against them, that they are on the wane? Is this like the dinosaurs seeing a big meteor hurtling at them from the sky and trying to dig a hole big enough to catch it?

(2) If you disagree with Hollywood so much, why do you keep giving them money? This one makes no sense to me. The defense that they pay for the movies they find so offensive makes this a spineless protest. Why would you support a business you find so reprehensible? You're aiding in making their enterprise profitable! If a guy robs your house, you don't reprimand him while letting him keep your stuff and handing him the keys so he can get in easier next time.

It's becoming my personal quest in life to become less tolerant in the name of tolerance. I'm an imperfect being, and I know I haven't always stood up against bigotry and stupidity as zealously as I should have in the past. It's a failing I am attempting to eradicate, and I urge everyone to do the same. We're at a crux in our history where we can't accept half-baked settlements. In some cases, it may require us to redefine words like "friends" and "family," but I'd rather be on the right side alone than on the wrong side surrounded by people who love me for what they think I am or wish I was.

Current Soundtrack: various Robbie Williams; Manic Street Preachers, various versions of Holy Bible tracks (the bad grammar in the post title is theirs; I know the difference between "its" and "it's"); The Raveonettes, Pretty In Black

Current Mood: infuriated

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website

[to leave comments, click on the time-stamp below, then scroll down on the new page] – All text (c) 2005 Jamie S. Rich

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, AUDREY

ALL MEN HAVE SECRETS

Time for my movie picks for the month of May, for Trilogy Video and for you folks in the cyber ether. This time around, the title of the post says it all.

* Christ In Concrete, dir. Edward Dmytryk

* Out of the Past, starring Robert Mitchum & Jane Greer, dir. Jacques Tourneur

* The Picture of Dorian Gray (1945), dir. Albert Lewin

* Port of Shadows, starring Jean Gabin, dir. Marcel Carne

* Seconds, starring Rock Hudson, dir. John Frankenheimer

I was also going to include Infernal Affairs with Tony Leung and Andy Lau, but it's still considered a new release and I wasn't able to put it in. But consider that your alternate for the month. (I will likely use it later, though.)

Current Sountrack: The Decemberists, "The Mariner's Revenge Song;" Antony & The Johnsons, I Am A Bird Now

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website

[to leave comments, click on the time-stamp below, then scroll down on the new page] – All text (c) 2005 Jamie S. Rich

DEVIOUS, TRUCULENT, & UNRELIABLE

The new installment of "Can You Picture That?" is now available to read. In it, I discuss my relationship to Orson Welles' F For Fake, and how it inspired my story "(T For) True" in Four Letter Worlds, despite having never seen it before yesterday.

Current Sountrack: Travis, Singles

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website

[to leave comments, click on the time-stamp below, then scroll down on the new page] – All text (c) 2005 Jamie S. Rich

COME ON AND AMAZE ME WITH YOUR MONEY

Amazon still has not added I Was Someone Dead, and I keep complaining. Trust me. But if you want to skip that and order it now, Khepri.com has it as a featured item here, and you can save 35% off cover.

Current Soundtrack: Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds, B-sides & Rarities disc 2

THERE'S A SONG PLAYING THROUGH ANOTHER WALL

Geez. I go and get all blog whiney and then someone points out to me that there's a new review of Cut My Hair on Amazon, and this reader, Sulia Serafine, couldn't have written a better message for me to hear. Not that I was so deathly low I was going to give it all up or anything, but I think everyone needs a reminder now and again of why they do what they do.

Another cause for celebration is that the debut single from The Tears comes out tomorrow. The Tears are the new band reuniting Brett Anderson and Bernard Butler, the creative duo behind the first two Suede albums. Butler left Suede after Dog Man Star and embarked on many different projects, and Suede continued with new creative personnel, but it was never the same. (Though, I personally feel Coming Up eclipses the self-titled debut for a pure glam rock jolt. But this isn't a post about Suede. If you'd like to read my feelings of the band, check this old post from when they split. Also, you can read Christopher McQuain's excellent write-up of The Tears here.)

Getting these songwriting greats back together worried me as much as it excited me. So often, bands can't go back again, can't rekindle whatever unique chemistry made their initial collaboration so thrilling. And for a band that was so important to me, it was particularly dangerous ground. What if they pulled a reverse Marty McFly and by their present actions made the past disintegrate?

Well, I'm happy to say that based on the live bootlegs and radio sessions circulating the internet, as well as the single and B-sides, we have gone back in time and it is 1995, and Brett has taken the energy he put into Coming Up and Bernard has taken the Wall of Sound he established for the pristine Sound of McAlmont & Butler album and they've found the natural step that would have followed Dog Man Star had they stayed together. Lest you mistake this as saying it sounds like some kind of dated nostalgia, it doesn't. The music of The Tears sounds more fresh and new then when Suede debuted in 1992. Given the current karaoke-stylings that are all over the radio, The Tears sound more pure and energized and are very much of the present than the new bands half their age.

Hyperbole? Yes. True and correct? Affirmative.

"Refugees" clocks in under three minutes, and it's like a tornado of sound. Bernard's guitar swirls and dips in front of a string section, backed by a hard-hit drumbeat and Spectorish sleigh bells. Brett has written one of his classic "me and you in love against the world" anthems, and if this music and these people don't make you feel young and alive, then I will personally help you find your burial plot, because you need to lie down, you look tired and peeked.

Of the B-sides, only "Feels Like Monday" sticks in the big-riff vein. It's got a day-of-the-week chorus, which I made fun of Morrissey for on "I Have Forgiven Jesus," but it's so right on here. "On Friday, well, I hatched a plan / On Saturday I wrote it down / I wrote it on my filthy hand to tell you it's over on Sunday / And now it feels like Monday." We also get treated to Anderson's fractured poetry ("my heart bleeds like a dee-vorce-ee"), high-pitched cooing, and the signature Bernard Butler pre-chorus chug.

The rest of the B-sides are moody and quiet, reminding us of the mythic Bs of yore (think "The Big Time," "The Living Dead," "High Rising"). "Southern Rain" is a gentle ballad of contentment in loneliness, of moving on from a severed relationship. It's sad while also cleansing. "Branded" sounds like doom and speaks of a prevailing despair in a consumer culture while steel and acoustic guitars fight it out with the tinkling piano that serves as rhythmic backbeat. "Break Away" is an updated version of "To The Birds" (Suede's own "There Is A Light That Never Goes Out") with Brett once more casting two lovers in an escape fantasy. In his world, we are all essentially alone against larger forces that can crush us ("this world is an apple rotting slowly/ other people are cattle dying lonely", but somehow by standing together, any two of us can beat it, can get away and find something more meaningful. Bernard backs him up on the piano again, wrapping it in swaths of ocean waves. It's otherworldly, reaching a crescendo that sounds like a spaceship launching. We are away.

It's a bit unfair of me to stack the new work up against the old so much, as any artist is going to view their latest endeavor as different from the last. The Tears are a different concern than Suede, with different goals, a different purpose--and yet, in the overall work of these two men, of Brett Anderson and Bernard Butler, it's of one piece. I've written before of growing with artists, of getting behind them on their path and following them to where they want to go, and I can think of no better example than the transition of this songwriting duo from their past glory to their current triumph. It's so rare to see this kind of creative magic remain so solid. If only more of our favorite people could figure out how to do it.

Current Sountrack: The Tears, "Refugees" singles and BBC performances

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website

[to leave comments, click on the time-stamp below, then scroll down on the new page] – All text (c) 2005 Jamie S. Rich

TALK-ACTION=SHIT

Portland is in the midst of the first ever Wordstock convention this weekend. It's a five day event focusing on literature, with an exhibitors hall and reading stages. There are also big "pay to see" events like Norman Mailer.

The exhibitors seemed to be mainly from the Northwest, and outside of some of the more arty small presses like Tin House and the PIPE Group, I wasn't all that impressed. It seemed like a lot of self-help and crap about mountaineering. I felt very out of place. Even browsing the selections at the reading areas for Powell's and Borders, I was wondering where the hell I fit in. I feel like I am almost too normal to be writing modern fiction. I'm not interested in oddball hooks or extreme tragedy. "It's about a one-legged male prostitute who falls for a transgender breast cancer survivor!" That's just not me, but it seems like what sells.

Ironically, the one event I did want to see (after my friend Bart King's presentation for The Big Book of Boy Stuff), was the reading by Wesley Stace (the music artist John Wesley Harding; and now that we know his real name is Stace, it brings new meaning to his album The Confessions of St. Ace) from his book Misfortune, about gender-bending in the 1800s. But it's more Tristram Shandy than exploitative crap like The Station Agent (to mix a movie in my analogy). For some reason I got nervous when having him sign Misfortune and giving him a copy of Cut My Hair, and I think I ended up sounding like a lunatic. If you happen to see him, apologize for me. I was the guy in the suit with the red and black striped tie. They probably put Cut My Hair in a tank and sprayed it with hoses to make sure it wasn't a bomb.

One thing that did strike me as I stood at the trolly station listening to the soundtrack to 2046 and thinking of my next novel, They Are All In Love, is that I do maybe have more in common with my hero Wong Kar-Wai than I was giving myself credit for. Writing the synopsis of The Everlasting was a strange experience because it doesn't have the kind of big capital-P plot that creative writing classes and writing magazines push at us. It's not about that. It's a series of moments strung together, the moments that comprise how we relate to one another. A plot is formed when they are put together, but you don't always have the obvious Conflict-Complication-Resolution basics. It feels like I'm walking a fine line when I go out to sell it, though, since you sell it on the basics--like a synopsis. I wish things operated on the simple concept of "Just read it, you'll get into it."

Still, one soldier's on. After all, I'd rather feel like the oddball. Belonging is so boring.

Current Sountrack: Brian Jonestown Massacre, Tepid Peppermint Wonderland: A Retrospective disc 2

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website

[to leave comments, click on the time-stamp below, then scroll down on the new page] – All text (c) 2005 Jamie S. Rich

REJECTION IS ONE THING...

Just about anything you read regarding proper conduct for writers when contacting editors and publishers will tell you not to pour out your personal story in your cover letter. For instance, no one really needs to know that you are currently bagging groceries while dreaming of literary success. I had someone try to pull that on me once, saying I was the only one who could save them from this fate. It didn't make the person's work any better.

Any similar descriptions of, say, a physical ailment would also be met coldly. Everybody's got problems, and prospective employers aren't going to be guilted into hiring someone whose work they don't enjoy.

So, how is it that I can be sent a rejection letter that begins like this: "Please forgive this form rejection letter. Personally I loathe the things and would never willingly use one. However, I have developed Carpal Tunnel Syndrome which may require surgery and am no longer able to write the personal notes to authors which is my usual custom."

What the hell? Personally, a form rejection letter doesn't bother me one bit, but I hate seeing someone on the other side indulge in behavior that would likely get my submission tossed in the garbage. And it really just makes me feel more odd about the experience than anything. Like I made this person's life difficult by asking them to move my manuscript from the envelope it arrived in to the one they sent it back in. Not only does my work suck, but I'm a schmuck, too! Thanks!

Current Soundtrack: John Wesley Harding, Here Comes The Groom

THIS IS WHY YOU LOVE ME

Four Letter Worlds, bless its little heart, got chosen as the best of the week by Randy Lander over at the Fourth Rail. Read the review here.

The "Fate" section gets singled out, which includes me. Snippet: Chynna Clugston delivers what may be the sweetest, most romantic thing she's ever written (and drawn) in "Anew," Jamie Rich brings his acerbic wit and cynical point-of-view to a tale of lying that could only have been drawn by Andi Watson in "True" and Antony Johnston and Mike Hawthorne had me laughing out loud with a couple of marketing guys trying to upsell the embodiment of fate on some new image enhancements.

Me? Acerbic?

This week has me tuckered out. We've been laying I Was Someone Dead to rest, and I've been fussing about with submission packages for The Everlasting, including writing a more detailed synopsis because you never know when you'll need such things. It's actually a pretty interesting process for reacquainting yourself with your book after a break. It's making me more aware of some of the things I've done.

Current Sountrack: Brian Jonestown Massacre, Peel Sessions collection (available on their website; but donate money if you take it!)

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website

[to leave comments, click on the time-stamp below, then scroll down on the new page] – All text (c) 2005 Jamie S. Rich

PICTURESQUE

In comics shops today: Four Letter Worlds.

Featuring "(T For) True" by myself and Andi Watson. The new DVD of Orson Welles' F For Fake is in stores next week. I will be writing a column for "Can You Picture That?" comparing my story and the movie, which I have never seen. Should be interesting.

The book also contains stories by my colleagues Chynna Clugston, Matt Fraction, Jamie McKelvie, B. Clay Moore, J. Torres, Scott Morse, Antony Johnston, and more!

Current Sountrack: Manic Street Preachers, "God Save The Manics" download EP

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website

[to leave comments, click on the time-stamp below, then scroll down on the new page] – All text (c) 2005 Jamie S. Rich

I'M THE LAST LIVING SOUL

Death to Oregon.

I'm ashamed to live here. This is what we expect from states we make fun of.

Shouldn't we be worrying a little more about the hate we engender than looking for love we can squash?

Current Sountrack: Gorillaz, Demon Days

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website

[to leave comments, click on the time-stamp below, then scroll down on the new page] – All text (c) 2005 Jamie S. Rich

THAT'S WHAT JAZZ IS TO ME

I wrote up the following for the Oni Press message board, in response to a question sparked by my interview with Ian Shaugnessy. It seemed worth posting here, since I already had it ready to go:

Jamie's crash course in the Novella:

Length is a determining factor, but not the only determining factor. In fact, the first novella, The Decameron, runs over 600 pages in my edition. Length often comes into play simply because the other determining factors in the study of novellas are things that can be found elsewhere. It ends up being a rather elusive form, nebulous and difficult to define.

Some of the less definable elements:
1. A sense of the fantastic
2. A vehicle for philosophical discussion (i.e. Faulkner's "The Bear")
3. A story that is purely symbolic (Hemingway's The Old Man & The Sea)
4. Writing itself as a matter of introspection (Philip Roth's The Ghost Writer)

Elements of structure and technique:
1. A compressed focus
a. details limited to the scene at hand
b. time, characters, and setting are isolated from the world outside the plot.
2. Repetition of events/themes for impact
3. The appearance of being grounded in reality while really being in fantasty, often relating back to the first section of this outline with stories as fables, or as a journey into the mind (Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness).

Boccaccio, Hemingway, and Conrad are the most strongly referenced in I Was Someone Dead, but in addition to those listed above, when I was originally working on this project (which in college was connected to a larger paper, the outline of which I keep at hand), I also really liked Solzhenitsyn's One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich and Melville's Billy Budd.

Quite some time ago, on the original Oni board, I advocated that comics get more in line with literary terms. It was after reading James Sturm's The Golem's Mighty Swing, which I felt was more like a novella than a graphic novel. Scott Morse also has called Visitations a graphic novella, which I think is spot on.

I should also mention that one of the people who was most influential on me as far as looking at the multi-tiered structure of stories was Dr. Charles May, author of Fiction's Many Worlds. It's a marvelous critical anthology with some great stories and analysis. The "new" price is scary, but you can buy used ones pretty cheap. He's mentioned on the dedication page for I Was Someone Dead.

I used to have a T-shirt that said "Novella Fella" on the front. It was given to me by some friends from my teenage years that were making fun of my high-minded goals. It was, for me, the final sign that we had grown apart. But, I wore it all the time...only backwards, because on the back they had put "Mr. Asshole."

Current Sountrack: Morrissey, Live at Earls Court; John Wesley Harding, Why We Fight

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website

[to leave comments, click on the time-stamp below, then scroll down on the new page] – All text (c) 2005 Jamie S. Rich

MORE HYPE

I Was Someone Dead and myself are also featured in this week's online newsletter of Brave New World Comics.

http://www.bravenewworldcomics.com/news/detail.aspx?NewsId=82

It's in the "Dear Atom" section, which is down the page. Atom is one of the cool guys at BNW, and he answers letters from fans and hype-seekers alike.

For those who don't know, Brave New World is a great shop in Newhall, CA.

Current Sountrack: Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds, B-Sides & Rarities disc 2

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website

[to leave comments, click on the time-stamp below, then scroll down on the new page] – All text (c) 2005 Jamie S. Rich

ALL HYPE

There is a new interview with me on the Oni site as part of Ian Shaugnessy's "Squeal Like A Pig" column. It's mainly to talk about I Was Someone Dead, but you know me. I talk too much, and we pretty much went all over the place.

The book is still not on Amazon, which pisses me off, but I understand it's being taken care of. What is on Amazon, though, is Four Letter Worlds, which is on its way to shops now. So, order yours, and read my short story with Andi Watson. (The shipping estimate will likely go down as supplies arrive.)

Current Sountrack: Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds, "The Girl at the Bottom of my Glass;" The Tears archived session on BB6

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website

[to leave comments, click on the time-stamp below, then scroll down on the new page] – All text (c) 2005 Jamie S. Rich

I AM A WRITER, I AM WHAT I SAY

I hate a lot of the accepted myths about writers, largely because they seem to establish an image of a writer as a slovenly basket case who suffers every moment of his life. You know, one must bleed to write well, writing is painful. Even worse than the image this creates of the lifestyle is how these misconceptions end up being excuses used by people struggling with the profession to indulge themselves in bad behavior. I have no patience for that, and expressing that impatience is likely going to be wholeheartedly disagreed with and make me unpopular with inkslingers everywhere; however, as we know, I have a cat, so my life is pretty much full of as much petulance as I need. Regardless, there is a place to leave comments below, so mewl and cry all you like. I may also just be strange and full of shit. I was once asked how I avoid missing deadlines, and the only answer I could give was, "I just don't." I have attitude problems.

The granddaddy of the myths is "writer's block." I often wonder if this is a syndrome created by publishers of how-to manuals and writing magazines to give themselves fodder for more books and articles to sell to unsuspecting suckers, like laxative manufacturers slipping clogging agents into popular food stuffs or greeting card companies cooking up even more fake holidays. Unfortunately, writers seem to love to perpetuate this stereotype as much as anyone. When was the last time you read a book or saw a movie with a writer protagonist who was humming along through his third novel, enjoying the process of creation?

I don't believe in writer's block. Sure, sometimes, the work goes easier than others, but in what occupation does that not happen? No writer is ever without something to write, not when there is another lame story about a writer with nothing to write about waiting to be birthed. I wish I remembered where it was, but I once read an article that posited that writer's block was a purely western syndrome, a creation of a spoiled class of people who didn't really rely on wordsmithing to put food on their tables (kind of like how people used to be just tired, and now they get chronically fatigued). This makes a certain amount of sense to me. I've always looked at lamentations about blocks as excuse-making to avoid work. Sadly, I only had this reinforced as a comic book editor. Artists have the same approach to work avoidance, along with a sister excuse of, "I got bored drawing the same characters." I usually translated it in my head to mean "Dorritos and Playstation." (Truth be told, most editors don't want to hear or care about your excuse, regardless of what it is, regardless of its validity. They just want to know when. Think about it. Could you not show up for a 9-to-5 job because you "didn't feel like it"? Or would you expect your boss to excuse your not coming in due to all the various and elaborate obstacles occurring in your life? You'd still have to report for duty, or use some banked sick time at the very least. You don't have that luxury in a freelance world.)

I think writer's block walks hand-in-hand with that other bogeyman, The Blank Page. Hacks love to talk about the fear of approaching a solid white wasteland that is the first page of a new story. Are they serious? The first page is exciting, it's the beginning of an adventure. I've always found getting started easy. It's only after the initial rush that ideas may run out of steam. If you're sitting down and staring at a screen and you don't know what you want to write about, get up until you have something. Maybe it's because I am a slow and laborious writer anyway, but I can't remember the last time I actually entered into anything without first having spent a good chunk of time mulling over my ideas. Ideas percolate, ripen, and then present themselves as the next in line. And in the times I've been asked to pitch something and opened a document and started at scratch, I just threw ideas around, pushed the words across the page, and had fun with it. It's only when you give that page some kind of mythic stature as a killer does it ever take on any kind of gruesome power.

Again, you're making getting started a chore just to avoid doing the real thing. It's better to just dig in and carve out some paragraphs you're going to throw away than toss yourself on your bed and bemoan your sorry lot in life.

Of course, it goes without saying that every writer is different. Some may struggle with the development process more than ones who find ideas come quick but for whom the execution takes longer. I am terrible at rewrites, for instance, largely because I am so laborious when it comes to thinking over what's in my stories. I literally spent half my life on one scene in The Everlasting, rewriting it over and over in my head. I came up with it when I was sixteen and have been holding onto it, re-examining it, and I was pretty secure with it when I finally committed it to paper. When something isn't working, though, the common advice just about any writer will give you is to keep going, keep whacking at it, even if it means moving on to something else. Neal Shaffer wrote of a recent incident where his work was moving slower than he desired, so he changed his tack and did something he doesn't normally do. This reboot made him productive while his mind sorted out whatever was causing the other project to stall. It's a good trick.

The concept of burnout is also not lost on me. Just like any other job, if you have a period of real intense work, it can deplete your energies and a break will be in order. The same can be said for the completion of a long-term project. I find work-for-hire can be one of the leading causes of such a burnout. There was one point when I was doing some ghostwriting for a novel based on a television property, and I spent many long nights writing my assigned chapters after working in the Oni office all day. I was wasted by the time the project was finished and had no desire to take on anything like it with any speed.. And hearkening back to comic book artists, chaps like Brian Hurtt and Mike Hawthorne who have worked on simultaneous monthly assignments, both penciling and inking themselves, can be forgiven if they eventually hit a wall of fatigue and need to dial it back. As much as constant work builds up your artistic muscles, you do have to pull away to recharge now and again.

I was eavesdropping on a conversation between two young screenwriters (I prefer to stand outside the cage rather than feed the animals directly), and these kinds of subjects came up. One conversant said, "I asked [an established screenwriter] if it ever gets easier, and he said, 'Sure. With the aid of alcohol.'"

Oh, dear. The drunk writer cliche. Ho-hum. Just because Charles Bukowski was a functional alcoholic doesn't mean you'll be one, too. And Bukowski only really had about five different poems anyway, so it was no real trick to recycle them. If you look at the trajectory of any of the famous drunks, like Fitzgerald or Hemingway, it didn't make it easier for them, it only made it harder as their brains became soaked through and their fingers turned to mush. Try writing while soused as an experiment, and I guarantee you that you'll churn out gobbledygook. Or think about the times you came home blitzed out of your mind on a Friday night and e-mailed cute girls. How poetic were you then?

Now, coffee on the other hand.... I wish there was a way to write it off on my taxes.

In the end, I think most of these misconceptions are born out of fear. If you can't start, or if you get stuck halfway through, you never have to finish, and if you never have to finish, you never have to run the risk of the work being bad. The terrible prose of an unfinished novel, for instance, can always be explained away because the book isn't done, it's still rough. After you type "The End," however (or more accurately, "# # #"), there is no way around judging it. If that prospect scares you, than you really have to ask yourself why you bothered showing up in the first place. If you didn't come to party, then why the hell did you come here?

Current Sountrack: Garbage, Bleed Like Me

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website

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

WEBSITE UPDATED

The fine ghosts over at Spookoo have haunted my house yet again and updated my website. Look for up-to-date info in the following sections:

Novels
Current Projects
Other Writing
Comic Book Work
Links

Current Sountrack: Nancy Sinatra, Lightning's Girl: Greatest Hits 1965-1971

CRIME & THE CITY SOLUTION, part IV: the finale

(Part I) (Part II) (Part III)

For the final weekend of Noir City, I was only going to be able to see one movie, due to previous engagements. I was slightly disappointed because I hadn't seen any of the three scheduled, but such is life. Tonight's was to be Union Station (1950), which I was curious about because I edited a great book at Oni with the same title. The stories bear no relation, as the film is set in Chicago and the Ande Parks/Eduardo Barreto graphic novel is based on real events in Kansas, but it would still be interesting to compare.

Unfortunately, the print arrived damaged and they were unable to show it, so they replaced it with an advance screening of what was to be Sunday's offerring, Born To Kill (1947), directed by the fantastic Robert Wise. I wish it had been tomorrow's film, The Killer that Stalked New York (1950), because it has never been available on video and Born To Kill is going to be in this summer's second Warner Bros. film noir box...but again, such is life.

Born To Kill is a melodramatic thriller about two people who are both pursuing the quick buck by marrying a rich spouse. They have an instant attraction to one another, as rotten attracts rotten, but things start to go wrong when Sam (Lawrence Tierney) decides to go after Helen's sister. Helen (Claire Trevor) knows that Sam killed two people just before they met, and she doesn't want to see her sister meet the same fate. When she's being totally honest, she also admits she wants Sam for herself. What results is a plot where they push and pull one another. Who will expose who? How far will they go to keep their secrets?

The movie was stolen by two bit players. First, Esther Howard as the bug-eyed, beer-loving landlord Mrs. Kraft. She plays it to the hilt, cackling and howling, swilling her drinks. It's a hysterical performance. The second is Walter Slezak as a private detective. On his search for answers, he gets doors to open for him through a self-deprecating wit and a penchant for verbose quotes from high-brow sources. He made me think of Peter Ustinov in Spartacus: charming even while he's extorting you for money; well aware of how he's perceived and willing to exploit it.

After the movie, it was the Ash show at the Crystal Ballroom. It was a radio concert, part of a series for breaking new bands called "I Saw Them When." Well, I first saw Ash ten years ago, so I guess for me it's "I Saw Them When Minus Ten." The Bravery were the other half of the bill, but I wasn't really too excited for them. They have about three decent songs on an otherwise lacklustre album. Our assumption was that they were the opening band, and all the promotion suggested as much, but Ash came on after the rather dismal opening act, Alaska! My guess is that since The Bravery has been getting more airplay, someone switched the order. Shades of when Suede headlined a co-tour with The Cranberries back in 1993, when "Linger" took off, and suddenly some towns started switching it up. How many shades of wrong is that?

Regardless, Ash rocked. They played a loud set of tunes dating all the way back to "Jack Names The Planets." Tim Wheeler was in fine form, jumping around the stage and tossing his guitar all over the place. And Charlotte Hatherley is, as always, too cool. Plus, we got to leave early, because, really, fuck The Bravery, you know?

And best of all, while I was dancing, I realized that I was the old fart at the rock show, and I was going to look like an ass regardless of what I did, so I had the freedom to dance however the hell I wanted. Take that you fucking college brats! I might even bump into you if I feel ornery enough!

Current Sountrack: Oasis, "D'You Know What I Mean?" EP, "Lyla" radio rip; Natalie Imbruglia, "Troubled by The Way We Came Together," Counting Down The Days

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website

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

THE ENGLISH DISEASE

April is upon us. I play no trick on you, as I know just being near me makes you realize that you are a fool, because I am so much more special than you. Why rub it in, you know?

Anyway, I paid the rent today, and am going through my favorite ritual of flipping all of my calendars, and I have another list of films to recommend in my capacity as an employee at an independently owned video store. This month, I started off thinking of doing something with the British kitchen sink dramas, and then extended it to include other generations, one that was the group supplanted by the young men of the kitchen sink-era (Tunes of Glory) and one that featured kids that came at the tail end, who were railing agains the system in their own way (Quadrophenia), and made after the fact. And with Darling I made sure the girls got some representation.

So, here's the list:

* Darling, starring Julie Christie, dir. John Schlesinger

* Look Back in Anger, starring Richard Burton, dir. Tony Richardson

* Quadrophenia, a spin-off of the Who album, with Phil Daniels

* Saturday Night and Sunday Morning, starring Albert Finney, dir. Karel Reisz

* Tunes of Glory, starring Alec Guinness, dir. Ronald Neame

I had originally intended to include A Taste of Honey, and in fact it was the film that made me want to start this list, but another employee got their picks in before I did and had it as one of theirs, so I replaced it with Look Back in Anger, since they share the same director.

Also, rather than Tunes of Glory, I was going to include Trainspotting, and go all the way forward, but it was a recent selection in a Trilogy feature of the month and I thought it was too soon to recommend it again. You can consider them both alternates.

Current Sountrack: Kaiser Chiefs, Employment

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website

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

JUNK GUN FEVER SINKING TO MY BRAIN

I wrote a short story over the last two days. It's a taut little number, clocking in at 2,300 words, and it's written for all my lovely boys out there. It's called "You Once Said That You Liked Happy Endings."

Speaking of, the Stolen Sweets finished their first residency tonight. That was two solid months of Wednesdays at the Laurelthirst Pub. They were a much tighter band tonight than when I first saw them eight weeks ago. That much playing out will do that to you. I wrote the last quarter of "Happy Endings" there. Check their site for future gigs.

But before that I went to the Dark Horse screening of the Sin City movie. I kept my expectations pretty low. I love the comics, especially That Yellow Bastard, but worried that they had bitten off more than they could chew by adapting three volumes in one. Also, I've never really been knocked out by a Robert Rodriguez film.

I have to say, though, I am impressed. Even though sometimes the style is a bit overwhelming or a little too much like a video game, Sin City is a special feat of visual excitement. The performances, the music, the look--it's all of its own world (though maybe they could have toned back some of the costumes on the women, that aspect got a little too fetishistic after a while). Co-directors Rodriguez and Frank Miller do pack a lot of story in one film, but it works. Plus, being such literal adaptations, it makes it fairly evident that Miller's original work in the graphic novels is a lot more concise than it appears. He lets his moments breathe, and it makes the books feel hefty. Yet, put into action, pages fly by like lightning.

In fact, there were a couple of story points in the That Yellow Bastard section that jumped out at me, things I never noticed on the page. In mulling them over, though, I think they illustrate a difference in the way we take in information in two different visual mediums.

If you haven't seen the movie or read the book, you may not want to read the next couple of paragraphs. They aren't major spoilers, but I still want to give fair warning. A picture separates this portion and the next for your convenience.

After Hartigan and Nancy run the Yellow Bastard off the road, they go to a nearby motel, unaware that the Bastard is hiding in their backseat. It's a standard device used in thrillers. Only, a big deal is made of how bad the Yellow Bastard stinks: first in the prison, second at the crash site, when Hartigan sticks his fingers in one of the many pools of gooey blood in the snow (the film is black-and-white for the most part, except for spot colors, including the Yellow Bastard's very yellow skin and blood). If this bad dude smells so rank, wouldn't they notice him in their car? Sure, it could have easily been explained by the fact that the odor could be on Hartigan from examining the scene, but no such explanation is made. I assume it happened the same way in the comic book, but it didn't bother me there. The comic would be evocative in a different way--bolder, but more static--whereas the Bastard's greasy skin and sticky blood is much more shiny on film, it moves. It activates our sense memories in ways comics don't often do. When we turned the page in the book, the thought of the Bastard's stench faded.

The other quibble would be down to the spatial and auditory nature of film versus comics. In the final issue of That Yellow Bastard, when Hartigan rushes to the farm to rescue Nancy, we get a panel where we see that Kevin is still there, putting us in a timeframe before the first story arc with Marv, The Hard Goodbye. It's a cute trick in the comic, and it helps establish how interconnected all the tales are, but it becomes troublesome in the movie. In the book, that panel once again drifts away as soon as we turn the page, and we don't associate Kevin reading on the porch with the barn where the Yellow Bastard is doing his dirty work around the corner. Nor do we have the sounds of Hartigan and the Bastard tussling, which would easily be heard from Kevin's vantage point. In the film, we can't forget Kevin is not very far away, nor ignore the volume of the violence, and we realize Kevin would most likely try to rescue his boss' nephew.

Minor points that didn't hurt my enjoyment of the film at all. I bring them up only to ponder the difference between two forms that are often compared. See the movie for yourself and make up your own mind. Just be prepared to immerse yourself in a brutally violent, darkly comic, alluring place: Sin City.

Current Sountrack: Suede, Dogmanstar

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website

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

THE FUTURE IS PRISMS AND MATH

Weird stats I didn't know existed 1: I wasn't aware Blogger kept track of such things:

User Stats
On Blogger Since October 2002
Recent Posts: 20
Avg Posts Per Week: 2
Posts Written: 300
Words Written: 139,885
Outbound Links: 2,132

I wonder, too, how accurate that is, considering my profile links to my "most recent posts," and those are dated November 2004.

Weird stats I didn't know existed 2: When did Amazon create the Statistically Improbable Phrase feature for books? Apparently, Cut My Hair leads the way in having more references to "striped girl" than any other book on the site. I clock in at 3. You can see the actual quotes of the instances and my competition here.

When I found this yesterday, I nearly plotzed when there were two typos in the three quotes. I quickly checked the printed edition, however, and the typos are Amazon's, not mine.

I also like if you follow their "A9 Search for 'striped girl'" that the link to Cut My Hair is eighth in line. A search to lead me right back to where I was!

Current Sountrack: Morrissey, Live at Earl's Court

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website

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

HE SELLS HEART, HE SELLS MEAT

I just received my copy of the third Clamp School Paranormal Investigators novel in the mail.

I don't have much perspective to judge these things, but one would hope I got better at my job as we went, and that this is the best of the bunch. I have had zero feedback on the series. I have no idea if anyone has enjoyed the books at all.

Current Soundtrack: Trash Can Sinatras, "Ghosts of American Astronauts (12-04-04);"

LIKE BONNIE & CLYDE WE'RE FREE, DON'T SAY THERE'S NOTHING BETWEEN US

The March edition of "Can You Picture That?" is now online. Its targets this month are Bambi and Popular: The Complete Second Season.

Coincidentally, last night I had a dream where Leslie Bibb and I started dating, but it was just like the episode where her character Brooke dates Harrison John in season 2, and they both have some ulterior motive that pushes them apart. It's like my own brain is my enemy, thwarting me at every turn.

Current Soundtrack: The All Seeing I, "Walk Like A Panther;" "Al Otro Lado del Río" from The Motorcycle Diaries; The Tears, "Refugees;" The Trash Can Sinatras, "Wild Mountainside"

EVERY ACTOR NEEDS AN AUDIENCE, EVERY ACTION IS A PERFORMANCE

I was talking with Lynn Adair, who did the copyediting on I Was Someone Dead, about what we were calling "glacial movies." These are films that move at a rather slow pace, letting the moments play themselves out and not necessarily explaining them, letting the viewer drift into the mood and feel along with the characters. Some of the movies we placed in this category are Lost In Translation, Krzysztof Kieslowski's Blue, Hiroshima Mon Amour, and the work of Wong Kar-Wai and Michelangelo Antonioni. A lot of my thoughts on the topic were prompted by my weekend viewing of the latter's L'eclisse, recently released as a Criterion DVD.

I've often said of Wong Kar-Wai that he makes films like a novelist in the way he rewrites as he goes, shooting footage that takes him down unplanned avenues and that often gets scrapped, something most directors can't do once the camera is rolling. I've posited, possibly even in this journal, that I can't figure out how to write novels like Wong Kar-Wai makes movies.

Pushing this idea further, I wonder if there is a way to capture those empty, still moments from these kinds of films as prose. (Both Lynn and I referred to the films as poetic, and maybe poems can capture similar feelings, but I set that question aside.) For instance, when Antonioni crafts a moment between Monica Vitti and Alain Delon where the two don't speak, where he stands stock still in the street as she moves slowly around a wooden fence and looks at a half-built (or is it half torn down?) building, he gives no explanation as to his intent. You can infer his motives by how he frames a shot, by the objects around the characters, even how long he lets it linger, but that engages the audience in an entirely different way. It compels each viewer to ascribe his or her own meaning to the moment.

But in prose, you don't have the benefit of blankness. I can't write, "The two don't speak, and he stands stock still in the street as she moves slowly around a wooden fence and looks at a half-built (or is it half torn down?) building," and then leave the rest of the page bare, picking up with a new sentence on the next page. And even in that simple of a statement, each word choice comes bundled with its own meaning. Saying they don't speak suggests it's intentional, there is a forced reason. Why "stock still"? Does it relate to "wooden"? If I choose to make it either half-built or torn down, the image of the building changes, and even to pose the question such as I do in the version of the sentence as it exists seems to have a particular thrust. Each word I would add to the statement would only fill in the gaps for the reader more and more, and any description of the mood of the characters would topple the whole experiment. It all also runs the risk of being too formalized, and then I create a truly excruciating reading experience a la Robbe-Grillet.

So, what to do?

Current Soundtrack: Pet Shop Boys, "Flamboyant (Scissor Sisters Remix);" Scissor Sisters, "Take Me Out (Franz Ferdinand cover);" Garbage, "Bleed Like Me;" Kaiser Chiefs, "Caroline, Yes;" Moby, "Temptation (New Order cover)"

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website

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

CRIME & THE CITY SOLUTION, part III

(Part I) (Part II)

“Isn’t there a story about a guy all alone in a desert for years and years, and he meets an ocean? I sure like the way you kiss.” – Cuddles, Underworld, U.S.A.

Noir City’s third week is a triple-threat of Samuel Fuller. For a film noir snob like myself, there are some quibbles I could have with these choices. For starters, the three films range from 1959 to 1964, and there is a case to be made for the movement having run its course already, with Robert Aldrich’s 1955 film Kiss Me Deadly providing the ultimate abstraction of the form (life is so incredibly meaningless that the destruction of it is no longer down to man vs. man, but man vs. a power bigger than us all) and Orson Welles’ 1958 masterpiece Touch of Evil perfecting it.

My second quibble is that Fuller’s pulpy gusto, particularly in this period, is not very noirish. Film noir’s inhabitants are often restrained, being held back by the sins of the past and a code of conduct (or a measure of fear?) that prevents them from throwing themselves fully into any experience. There is always a guard up, some kind of veneer, that keeps them from enjoying life. A Fuller character loves life, and he doesn’t mind if he looks foolish or if anyone sees the big, meaty, romantic heart beating in his breast.

Still, these Samuel Fuller movies are like a nice addendum to the noir tradition, and we’ll let them slide, because any excuse to see more Fuller is a good one.

The first movie in the series is The Crimson Kimono (1959), a cop drama set in Los Angeles. Fuller opens on a fictional Main Street, zooming through its seedy blocks to a strip club where Sugar Torch is just getting off the stage. She heads back to her dressing room, but someone is inside with a gun. She tries to run, but Sugar is shot down in the middle of the street. Enter our detectives, Charlie and Joe, played by Glen Corbett and James Shigeta (follow the imdb link above to check any actor resumes). Charlie is your average white meathead, and Joe is a Japanese American with a touch more sensitivity. They’ve been friends since they were in the same unit in the Korean War. Fuller makes several visual side notes about the war, including showing memorials for other Asians who served in the armed forces and a sly revelation of an Army propaganda sign on the streets of Little Tokyo (which pops up again in the background of Underworld, U.S.A.). In fact, Fuller shows a surprising sensitivity for race in this film, using real locations, Asian actors, and shining a spotlight on the friendship between the detectives and the questions of racism and interracial romance that come between them. In fact, he is so interested in this side trip, he pretty much lets the murder case drop for most of the final reel of the film. You see, the key witness is a young painter named Chris (Victoria Shaw), and Charlie falls for her pretty hard. Joe does, too, and the guy can’t help but lure her away just by being much more well-versed in the sorts of things an artist would be interested in. He doesn’t want to act on it, but the two can’t resist, and when the pair finally reveals their feelings to Charlie, Joe misinterprets the various reactions that follow as racism. Everything becomes wrapped up in Joe figuring out he’s wrong.

The murder does get solved. The plot is tied around the participants in creating a geisha-themed stage act for Sugar Torch, which is where the titular crimson kimono comes from. The hunt for the killer culminates in a chase through a parade in Little Tokyo, and its resolution directly relates to Joe’s getting his head straight. Fuller is always fun. He’s not interested in subtlety. Even when Joe talks about the way his artist father delicately painted cobwebs, Fuller hits you over the head with the poetry. But that’s the point of his movies. The audience straps itself in and rides with him. Unfortunately, the print the NW Film Center acquired was of inconsistent quality, and it was often badly spliced--not a good thing when you consider that Fuller’s editing here was rivaling Seijun Suzuki for jump cutting. Still, nothing bad enough to really mar the experience.

The second movie is 1961’s Underworld, U.S.A., which I ended up watching on video instead of going to the theatre (saving both time and money.) This is one of Fuller’s most tightly scripted films. It opens with a quick assault on the viewer. Our protagonist, age 14, is Tolly Devlin, and when he sees a drunk stumble out of a bar, he takes the opportunity and robs him. Another kid sees and demands a cut. When Tolly refuses, the kid smashes a bottle into his eye. The implication is obvious: we are Tolly, and Sam Fuller is going to put our vision under attack.

Immediately after, Tolly sees his father beaten in the street, a spectacular sequence played in shadow. He becomes determined to find the men who killed his old man, and we jump ahead thirteen years to when Tolly has become a safecracker. Played by Cliff Robertson, he’s a collection of tough guy tics, single-minded in his pursuit of his revenge. He ends up becoming part of a larger scheme, though: the men he is after are the heads of the city’s crime syndicate, and themselves part of a much larger, national organization that hides behind the façade of big business. Rather than take the conventional route of vengeance, Tolly gets involved with the crusading district attorney trying to topple the group, and sets an operatic drama into motion. The only problem is, he can’t keep his hands as clean as he thought, and jumping out of the game he started isn’t going to be so easy. He thinks there is a sweet life waiting for him with Cuddles (Dolores Dorn), the prostitute he first used for information and then fell in love with, but his gangster pals may have something to say about that. You don’t go from being tough as nails to soft as a pillow, and just as he opened with a striking visual cue, Fuller closes with one last image to drive this point home: Tolly, dead in an alleyway, his hand on his stomach, closed in a fist. The camera zooms in on all five knuckles, one final punch to the audience’s face.

Finally, this Thursday, the series will be showing 1964’s The Naked Kiss. I’ve already seen this film, thanks to the folks at Criterion, but it’s always worth another viewing. The Naked Kiss is Fuller at his gonzo best. Any movie that opens with a bald woman having her wig ripped off is okay by me! The plot here is actually pretty noirish: someone with a checkered past runs to a small, rural town to try to escape it. Except in this case it’s a not some chisel-jawed anti-hero, it’s a tired-out prostitute, Kelly (Constance Towers). As is to be expected, once her past is revealed, there is nothing Kelly can do to live it down. Even working with handicapped children isn't enough to make people forget you used to sell your body. All Kelly wants is a little love, but if there is anything film noir has taught us, we can’t escape our own misdeeds. I find The Naked Kiss’s story to be a little shaky at times, with the aforementioned tendency of Fuller’s to jump from point A to point C coming to full bloom, but instead of having a sought-after object as his Maguffin to hang the story on, the story in The Naked Kiss itself is its own Maguffin: just an unnecessary object for Sam Fuller to drape his crazy ideas over. Don’t ask why you just got socked in the jaw, just savor the taste of blood in your mouth.

Bonus Beats: A couple of days ago, I posted my new destop wallpaper, and I kept meaning to post the previous one, because it's a pretty cool image (which is why I chose it, obviously), and it serves my ego to imagine you care:

It's Scarlett Johansson.

Current Sountrack: The Smiths, Rank; Morrissey, Introducing Morrissey VHS

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website

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

I AM TWO PEOPLE, ONE YOU DON'T LIKE

I love the poster for the new Woody Allen movie, Melinda and Melinda. Don't you? The good news is, there is a pretty decent movie to back it up. One hates to hang posters on one's wall for movies that one can't get behind, doesn't one?

The film opens in a cafe, where four people are talking about their lives on Broadway. Two of the men are stage producers, you see, and one produces tragic dramas and the other produces light comedies. (The latter is played by Wallace Shawn, and Allen had to be playing with his audience when he cast him. I was having My Dinner With Andre flashbacks and had to go to IMDB to make sure the other actor wasn't actually Andre.) Their big question is which practice speaks more to the reality of life, and though they pretty much answer the query from the get-go (both, dear, both), it becomes the set-up for Allen's exercise: another of the diners poses a scenario of a woman bursting into a dinner party unannounced, and each man spins his version, showing how all of life's scenes has elements of both the miserable and the hilarious.

The rest of Melinda and Melinda criss-crosses between the two stories. Allen has cast both sides according to their form; Radha Mitchell, as Melinda, is the only actor to appear in both. Mitchell is brilliantly cast. Her switching between the two versions is more than a change of hairdo. She is somehow playing the same woman yet playing her different to fit the moment she finds herself in. On the tragic side, she has a manic fragility, whereas on the comedy side, it's more sweet--yet it's the same fragility. Regardless of the quality of the rest of the film, you'd want to watch Mitchell, just to see her fall apart and come back together over and over.

It's an interesting concept, and for the most part, Allen makes it work. It's only in the end where he loses his momentum. The drama actually comes to a relatively satisfying conclusion. On that side of things, Melinda has always taken the responsibility for her fate, and any tragedy that occurs she sees as the result of her own actions. It's only when she discovers a betrayal at the center of her rehabilitation that she is exposed as a victim. It's the last thing that can be taken away from her: her control over her own screw-ups. To have those close to her wreak havoc on her life is more than she can bear.

Unfortunately, on the comedy side of things, the story more runs out of steam than wraps up in any real way. In fact, the comedy seems to get short shrift throughout. For the first couple of scenes, it's not actually very funny, but Will Ferrell, playing his most subdued role to date as the usual Allen stand-in, pulls the laughs out of it by sheer determination (it's odd seeing such a big man be the Woody nebish). But then the script fails him and Mitchell. It's supposd to be a romantic comedy, so we know where it's heading, and it's how we get there that is what we are onboard for. When the story should get ridiculously complicated, so that the untangling of it is fun and the union a relief, Allen plays it passively, as if he is afraid to get too close to the romantic heart.

Still, Melinda and Melinda is one of Woody Allen's best movies in a long while, and the split-story device is a clever way to play with convention. There is an even further melding of two opposing yet intertwined mediums, as the film is essentially two imagined plays, and though Allen shoots it like a movie, he writes it as if for the stage. I couldn't help but wonder, though, how much more interesting it could have been if he had taken yet another stretch and switched the casts. What if, instead of casting Will Ferrell and Amanda Peet for the comedy, as is expected, he had made them the tragic actors, and Jonny Lee Miller and Chloe Sevigny could have played the clowns. If Allen truly wanted to show how the two forms really are one and the same, that would have driven the point home even further.

Low stopped in Portland last night, playing at the Bossanova. I am always excited to see them, and it was going to be interesting to see how some of my thoughts about their most recent album, The Great Destroyer, played out in the live setting. I'm happy to report that the songs sound great in person. Alan Sparhawk seems to have unleashed something, indulging his inner geek rocker with little jumps and guitar hero poses. He was also in the lightest mood I've ever witnessed in God knows how many performances, with none of the usual self-deprecation. One audience member kept tossing flowers onstage, prompting several Morrissey jokes and culminating in him sticking some in his back pocket, old-school Smiths-style. Plus, the old Alan wouldn't have been able to rebound from a set that began on a mistake. His microphone wasn't turned on when the trio took the stage. They started "Murderer" anyway, with Sparhawk singing the first couple of verses without amplification. It was thrillingly spontaneous.

The set was probably 70% The Great Destroyer, but they didn't shy away from old, quieter tunes like "Laser Beam" and the ever-excellent "Shame." Still, it was hard not to feel like something wasn't quite right. Low shows always felt like a communal experience: people packed into a room for over an hour to listen to incredibly hushed music. It was automatically intimate, and we'd often end up sitting on the floor, eyes closed, just listening. Now that a good portion of the music is loud and fuzzy, it's hard for it not to be just like any other rock show. Feet are tapping, people are dancing--is this Low?

Pedro The Lion opened, and man, what a dismal experience that was. How frightfully dull! There seems to be potential there: they actually reminded me somewhat of the Doves, but like the Doves if they were in their garage back in high school before they knew how to sing, play, or make their melodies soar. Regardless, the army of poorly bearded, thinning-haired saddoes came out to see their king, and he projected their image right back at them.

Current Sountrack: The House of Love, Days Run Away; Low, "Cue The Strings (alternate version)"

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website

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