Updates Galore

New articles, some recent and others previously in limbo but now finished:  ET and the joy of bike riding; 2001 and my first encounter with art; Billie Holiday and my love of classic singers + King Kong, Toy Story, James Bond, and the Sight & Sound poll.  Plus, more maximum cards, bad postmarks, the yearly wrap-up, a birthday greeting to my niece, and of course, Oscar season is under way.

Holiday

Given that he’s made nothing but crappy movies for the last 15 years or so, it’s easy to forget that Steve Martin used to be a small, cinematic treasure.  And revisiting The Jerk (C.Reiner, 1979) again, with its goofy unevenness, brought back to me a scene I had completely forgotten about: Navin and Marie (Bernadette Peters) singing the tender, poignant "Tonight You Belong to Me" on the beach, by firelight.

I’ve been told more than once that when it comes to music, I was born too late.  I don’t mind modern music, but the truth is that since I left college two decades ago, I’m exposed to it very little so don’t indulge in it much.  My heart truly belongs to the Great American Songbook and the great jazz singers of a bygone era.

But there’s something very curious about those songs that I love by Cole Porter and the Gershwins, Walter Donaldson and Rodgers & Hart.  I adore listening to them (and do so constantly), but never feel compelled to sing along to them.  My favorite sing-along album is We Shall Overcome, Bruce Springsteen’s covers of Pete Seeger songs, and if I ever do provide vocal accompaniment in my car, it’s usually to Johnny Cash or Marty Robbins. So the domain of classic folk and country are fertile territory for my (limited) vocal range.  But those jazz standards occupy a special place where I don’t feel entitled to tread.  

The USPS just announced that Cash will be getting his own postal issue this year.  And while many singing legends (Ella, Dinah, Frank, Patsy) got their own stamps years ago, it’s a tribute to his longevity that Cash was only recently eligible for the honor.  And while there are some legends of that time whom I’ve seen in concert (Blossom Dearie, Tony Bennett, Willie Nelson), I’ve always regretted never going to see him perform live.

We all, in our own ways, find connection and belonging through music, though most of what I listen to was made long before I was born.  Maybe that’s why one of my favorite musicals is Pennies from Heaven (Ross, 1981), also with Martin and Peters, because its entire soundtrack is full of these vintage beauties.  But as far as great musicals go, the film is still unusual because it inhabits the gulf between the fantasy life which music provides and the real life we actually face.  Throughout the film, nobody sings; rather, they all lip synch to those classics from the 20s and 30s.  But they never do these mimes as performers in the story.  What they do is lip synch in their own fantasy dreamscapes, psychologically allowing the songs to fill the ache, the emotional void that we feel every day but keep hidden.

As a result, I know of no other musical which is as heart-breaking, not because of the tragic things that happen in the plot, but because the movie reminds us how fundamental music can be to buoy our spirits and provide an escape valve for the darker truths that our choices and damaged lives represent.  I guess that’s why I never sing to those songs.  Because I’m too busy listening, inhabiting, breathing them in.  

But I love hearing them and have a sense of awe for people, professional or otherwise, who can sing them with such affection.  Singing in front of people solo is something I’ve never done (never even privately, one-on-one).  I always find safety in large numbers.  Church?  Fine.  Karaoke?  I’ve been tempted, but have never summoned up the courage.  Even the thought of such a simple duet as the one in The Jerk unnerves me—not  because I’m a bad singer (I’m not), but because it means opening up to something vulnerable (be it raw or playful) in myself.  That's something I rarely do.  Public speaking in front of large crowds scares some people but it’s never bothered me one bit.  But to sing is something different.  More naked.  Exposed.  Which is also why I admire people who can do it with joy and fearlessness.

But while solo singing might fill me with deep trepidation, there is something else that fills me with actual fear—and that’s the dentist.  I won’t go into the childhood trauma I had that’s resonated with me since I was very young.  My dentist at the time was not a sadist (unlike the musical Steve Martin from Little Shop of Horrors), but what happened still had an effect on me like few other moments in my life.  Even now, the closest I’ve ever had to a full-scale emotional meltdown as an adult was because of that chair.

But that fear has been tempered by one simple thing, and this, again, is where music sustains me.  For of all the singers I love, there’s one I never actually listen to for fun.  And that’s Billie Holiday.  I own her CDs, and while a jazz compilation may bring up a song of hers periodically, I never sit down for an hour of her music like I can do effortlessly with, say, Nina Simone.  And that’s because whenever I go to the dentist, it’s a Billie CD I listen to.  I discovered quickly that Ella’s warmth, Blossom’s flirtations, Nina’s soulfulness aren’t what work for me at that moment of dread.  Maybe that’s because they represent my own aural dreamscape of what I long to be and feel.

But Billie’s sadness, even in the face of love and redemption, have always spoken to me in a special way—not in how I long to feel, but how I usually do every day already.  And so that’s why I cherish her and secrete that voice away in my heart and head.  Because like anything that sweet and precious, I only bring her out at those times when I need to be so fortified and comforted.  So in that chair is when I need her the baddest, and treasure her the most.  Her blues are my solace and in her voice, my fear doesn't just take leave, but evaporates altogether.  Without fail.  There may be singers I love more, but none whom I rely on so fervently.  Fine and Mellow indeed.

The Billie Holiday stamp is Scott # 2856, Nat King Cole # 2852, Ella Fitzgerald # 4120.  The Jazz stamp is Scott # 4503.

If I had to list 10 songs from that school of songwriting which I revisit most regularly, I suppose I might pick these:

* "Ain't Nobody Here But Us Chickens" (Kramer/Whitney) - Louis Jordan
* "Do You Know What It Means to Miss New Orleans?" (DeLange/Alter) - Billie Holiday
* "I Loves You, Porgy" (Gershwin/Gershwin) - Nina Simone
* "If I Had a Ribbon Bow" (Prince/Singer) - Maxine Sullivan
* "Mr. Meadowlark" (Donaldson/Mercer) - Bing Crosby & Johnny Mercer
* "Shine On Harvest Moon" (Bayes/Norwoth) - Betty Carter
* "St. James Infirmary Blues" (Primrose) - Cab Calloway
* "Stardust" (Carmichael) - Nat King Cole
* "They Say It's Spring" (Clark/Haymes) - Blossom Dearie
* "What'll I Do?" (Berlin) - Johnny Mathis

2012 Yearly Wrap

 The Film Directors issue, including John Huston, Scott # 4671

The Pixar issue, including Finding Nemo, Scott # 4679.  Aquarium stamp is # 2866.

Jose Ferrer, Scott # 4666, here with Humphrey Bogart, Scott # 3152

 Choreographers issue, including Bob Fosse, Scott # 4701

Edgar Rice Burroughs, Scott # 4702

Earthscapes issue, including Highway Interchange, Scott # 4710o

Baseball All-Stars issue, including Joe Dimaggio, Scott # 4697, here with Marilyn Monroe, # 2967

My Oscar Ballot

Picture: Amour

Actor: Joaquin Phoenix, The Master

Actress: Naomi Watts, The Impossible

Supporting Actor: Robert De Niro, Silver Linings Playbook

Supporting Actress: Amy Adams, The Master

Director: Michael Haneke, Amour

Original Screenplay: Moonrise Kingdom

Adapted Screenplay: Lincoln

Cinematography: Skyfall

Art Direction: Life of Pi

Editing: Life of Pi

Costume Design: Mirror Mirror

Score: Life of Pi

Song: “Skyfall”, Skyfall

Sound Mixing: Life of Pi

Sound Editing: Life of Pi

Visual Effects: Life of Pi

Make-Up: Hitchcock

Foreign Language Film: Amour

Documentary Feature: Searching for Sugar Man

Documentary Short: Inocente

Animated Feature: Frankenweenie

Animated Short: Head Over Heels
Live Action Short: Asad

Dr. No Thanks

I really, really wish I liked James Bond movies.  With each one, I go in with high hopes and disbelief gladly suspended.  And each time, I usually come out with something to latch onto that I can say I liked or enjoyed.  But time and time again, a larger disappointment looms because they just come across as a little…desperate.  Too eager to please, to impress, to titillate (chastely), to push the envelope but never really get out of our comfort zones.

They certainly show up on TV enough that I give them a second chance, but quickly get bored or frustrated by the effort.  Maybe because long before Bond and Bond, I knew Roger Moore and Pierce Brosnan as The Saint and Remington Steele—the former still self-amused but less long in the tooth, the latter a suave and charming movie addict surrounded by mystery and not epic stupidity.  And as great as he is, most of the Connery films have fared quite badly over the years; even “classics” like Goldfinger only serve to remind you that more often than not, his Bond was actually a pretty incompetent spy.

And now we have Skyfall.  The raves were inescapable, and Daniel Craig was a more rough-and-tumble incarnation, which I preferred (I consumed the Ian Fleming novels in my youth), so I had my hopes up.  Certainly, Casino Royale was above average and had some terrific setpieces, but still took too long to get to the point.  Quantum of Solace made little sense from start to end.  And while there’s a lot to like in Skyfall—its believable stuntwork, its sense of franchise continuity, its earnestness in burrowing into Bond’s psyche—for me, like most Bonds, the whole is less than the sum of its parts.

There’s only one Bond film I really, really like: From Russia with Love (Young, 1963).  Maybe it’s because its villains are scary without being cartoonish (by comparison, Javier Bardem’s baddie practically plagiarizes Batman’s Joker’s rictus grin).  Maybe it’s because the stakes (a Cold War decoding machine) are proportionate to the proceedings; once world domination because the redundant goal in these films, everything had to be bigger, but rarely better.  In Russia, there are no crazy gadgets, and some Turkish flavor but little gratuitous globe-hopping.  Plus, there is a genuinely gorgeous woman (Daniela Bianchi) who doesn’t strain credulity by doubling as a brilliant scientist and sexual pushover.  The film as a whole is lean, gritty, exciting, but never overplays its hand.

For someone allegedly good at cards, Bond usually overplays his hand.  And Skyfall almost does, too. For as ably executed and well-cast as it is, there is only one thing genuinely special about it, but it’s a doozy.  Roger Deakins is the cinematographer this time and his contribution is nothing short of miraculous—perhaps the best below-the-line asset any Bond film has had since John Barry’s Russia score and Shirley Bassey’s brassy pipes (though Adele holds her own here, too).

The Bond films have always indulged in location photography, but it always played as mere travelogue porn (including my own Bay Area home here in San Francisco), settling for getting landmarks in frame and exploiting local “exoticism”.  But Deakins captures the exquisite details of lights, reflections, colors, and compositions.  Bond has always been about sex (literally or metaphorically), but this film brings something new to the series—visual sensuality.  It is glorious to gaze upon and elevates the film to something far more promising.  That the content (from story motivation to final resolution) doesn’t quite deliver the goods isn’t Deakins’s fault.  His work is masterful, and makes this Bond one that stands out.  

After wonderfully reliable work for Scorsese, Sayles, Mendes, and the Coens (among others), there’s something perversely irresistible at the thought he might win a long overdue Oscar for a Bond film.  But I hope he does.  For truly, nobody does it better.

The Chinese Year of the Tiger stamp is Scott #3895c.

Overkill

Now here’s an example of the bad postmark being 100% my fault.  You may remember the Toy Story card I had discussed earlier.  I really loved this assembly, since the Gene Autry stamp and the earlier science fiction stamp matched Woody and Buzz Lightyear perfectly.

I was incredibly surprised when the USPS issued two sets of Pixar stamps, though.  And when the first set came out with a set of 5 that included Buzz but not Woody, I knew Woody would be in the subsequent year’s issue.  So, now was an opportunity to get both on the face of the postcard, too!

Big Mistake.  As you can see, what was previously a wonderful looking postcard now is now an ugly, cluttered mess.  Part of the reason is the trend of the USPS of having their illustrated postmarks be much wider and denser with the ink.  

But the larger failing was mine.  The card would’ve been much better with the two separate Pixar cancellations on the back of the card, but the thought of having them both on the front was too irresistible, and what resulted in the long run is a big old garbled mess.  You can still make the images out, but the impact of the first combo of stamps is now mostly lost.

Here’s an example of one issue that I did right.

When the Quilts of Gee’s Bend issue came out, this stamp worked uncannily well.  Using it was a no-brainer.  So when Sinatra came out two years later, where should I put it?  Logic dictated the front but I couldn’t think of anywhere it could go without losing the effect from the previous stamp.  So I did this instead:

Putting the Sinatra stamp on the back meant I could add the drug abuse stamp without it cluttering things up further (Otto Preminger’s 1955 film was one of the first major Hollywood productions to deal with the subject).  Later, when the Jazz stamp came out, I added it to the reverse, too.  
 
I’ve made other similar judgment calls on both sides, but while I’m glad I have a scan of what it looked like before, the Toy Story example is the one I still regret the most.  

Buzz and Woody are Scott #s  4555 and 4680 respectively.  Sinatra is Scott # 4265, the Prevent Drug Abuse stamp is # 1428, and the Jazz stamp # 4503.

Premium Rush

Amidst all the big comic book adaptations and massive action tentpole films this last summer, the most exciting time I had in the theater was with a lean, modest movie about bike couriers called Premium Rush.

Confession: I don’t know how to ride a bike.  This surprises a lot of people, since learning to do so seems a ubiquitous part of growing up.  I guess I don’t have much of an explanation for it, except that there didn’t seem much point to when I was little.  I didn’t have any friends who lived near me.  In the suburban wasteland of San Diego, there was nowhere I wanted to go.  That I was nonathletic, physically uncoordinated didn’t help either.  I’m not sure how my younger sister learned, because the only advice my dad ever gave was “Don’t do that.”  But she wanted a paper route.  She was motivated, and I really didn’t care.

Then, as you get older, it becomes more embarrassing not knowing.  And more reasons come up to never learn.  I knew how to drive.  I moved to an urban center, where bicyclists appeared to take their lives into their own hands every day (when they weren’t having their bikes stolen).  I loved going for walks that went miles and miles.  Of course, as soon as someone would find out, they’d immediately offer to teach me, but that was usually just as quickly forgotten.  And the occasions to ride were so infrequent, it never really came up as an adult.  The one time I visited Amsterdam, the ideal place to make up for lost time, it was the middle of winter and completely iced over, so not even the most seasoned bicyclists were on the road.

So bike riding has an exotic allure for me that allows even simple movie scenes to have amazing power because of that visceral elusiveness.  The playfulness of Butch and Sundance.  The charming community of the Muppets on an outing together.  Or the excitement of Joseph Gordon-Levitt negotiating traffic, weaving around pedestrians, out-pedaling the bad guys with some McGuffin in his messenger bag.  Genuinely thrilling stuff.

This past summer was also the 30^th anniversary of E.T.: The Extra-Terrestrial (Spielberg, 1982).  I remember the movie vividly growing up, because I was Elliott’s age, socially awkward and stuck in my own California suburban malaise.  I was enchanted by the film back then, even though I loved all kinds of movies and was the only kid I knew who already was familiar with The Quiet Man (the film ET watches when he and Elliott share their intoxicated, psychic connection).

So when it popped up on TV recently, I watched for a bit (it had been ages since I’d last seen it).  And while it may not have the epic scope or depth of feeling that Close Encounters does (to my mind, still Spielberg’s one masterpiece), I thought it still held up pretty well.  Until the famous bike chase.  As soon as Elliott, his brother and friends start barreling through backyards, evading the feds on their two-wheelers to John Williams’ propulsive music, I was completely enraptured, every nerve tingling.

For a kid at that age and that time, bikes were empowering.  Liberating.  Emotions I never really understood or experienced until I was much older, my suffocating adolescence behind me.  So this was my favorite part of the movie, maybe one of my favorite sequences in any 80s movie.  

Because it represented for me something both energizing and absent growing up.  It doesn't last long, but it's marvelous to watch.  And as soon as ET uses his alien mojo to send the bikes flying into the air, I changed the channel.  Because what made the movie special to me was over.

They say it’s never too late.  And I suppose that’s true.  But I have no bike, no helmet, no one to teach me, no easy means of learning, and no one to ride with.  The time and cost are real investments now.  And any recreational biking would still involve a lot of driving to get to where I can do so safely, which itself seems its own sort of vanity.  But that’s OK.  Not all bucket list items are meant to be checked off.  And I still have the movies, where even the most pedestrian fantasies can be brought to life.

E.T. was honored with a stamp in the Celebrate the Century 80s issue (Scott # 3190m) and specifically in the Special Effects stamp of the American Filmmaking series (Scott # 3772i).  A highlight of the film is the liberation of the frogs in the science class, and the Wonders of America series kindly obliged me a stamp (Scott # 4055), as did the residential subdivision in the Earthscapes issue (Scott # 4710k).  The E.T. stamp from the Republic of Tatarstan was issued in 2001.