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.

That's a Wrap!

Well, my first Mill Valley Film Festival in the Programming Department is a wrap and what a terrific experience it was.  But I think we could all use a break so, because it's the 25th anniversary of their biggest hit making the Billboard charts (at #29) back in October 1987, here's a video of The Other Ones singing Holiday: 

Though not as famous as the Madonna hit with the same title from 4 years earlier, I've always loved this song, perhaps because it taps into my love of travel, though that's rooted less in escape than in joyful exploration and curiosity. In high school, when this song made the MTV rounds, I hadn't been many places yet but my wanderlust and urge to get out of suburban San Diego was undeniable.  "Distant lands are not so far away.  I don't know why we don't go."  The promise of a larger world held such romantic (in both meanings of the word) sweep, and by my senior year, I was incredibly impatient to get, well, anywhere.

As for the video itself, it's notable because it uses a lot of postcards as its visual theme, including one of the Golden Gate Bridge, which I cross weekly (since my office is in Marin and I often do something in The City after work).  You'll also note that some of the stamps used on the postcards are real: Scott #C101-103, part of the 1984 US Summer Olympics airmail release.  You can catch brief glimpses of them at time codes 0:32, 2:39 & 3:25.  Here's a better look at them below.

Shameless Plug

Though my job has nothing to do with postage stamps, it has everything to do with movies, so I thought it couldn't hurt to put in a quick shout out to my (relatively) new employer, the Mill Valley Film Festival, which runs from October 4-14 this year. It also seems unlikely that my collection will converge with our annual festival fare too often, but this year yielded a couple of offerings I couldn't ignore.

The first is the new documentary Wonder Women!, written and directed by Kristy Guevara-Flanagan and showing at our venues both in San Rafael and Mill Valley. Of course, this is a different film than the truly kick-ass 1973 Robert Vincent O'Neill one-sheet depicted, but the films (and stamps) dovetail nicely since this festival film is a self-described "Untold Story of American Superheroines" and mines the history of the DC Amazon princess and her pop culture legacy through print, film and TV that still resonates today.

Coincidentally, when these comic book stamps came out in 2007, I decided to use this postcard to feature all the women from the comics on postage stamps that I was aware of.  So featured here are Wonder Woman, Supergirl, Spider-Woman, and Elektra (Scott #'s 4084m, 4084i, 4159g & 4159i).

Also depicted is Brenda Starr from the USPS comic strip stamp series (Scott #3000t), plus two stamps from Canada of the comic book heroines Nelvana and Fleur de Lys (like the Brenda Starr stamp, issued in 1995)

Another film we're featuring is a 35th Anniversary screening of Star Wars, which originated from the mind of George Lucas, a Marin county resident (in fact, Skywalker Ranch isn't far from our offices here at the California Film Institute). For those who haven't had the pleasure of seeing it on a big screen in a while (or perhaps ever), it's bound to be an event to remember.

The Princess Leia & R2-D2 stamp is Scott #4143f.

I'll be doing film introductions and Q&A's every day throughout the festival, so who knows?  Maybe our paths will cross at the MVFF (it's our 35th anniversary, too).  Hope to see you there!

As You Wish

One of my most favorite people in the world—in my lifetime, in fact—is getting married today. And to the lucky couple, I wish nothing but good health and happiness, bliss and adventure, joy and security for the rest of their lives. It is a beautiful thing, this union, and a special, sacred day. One worth celebrating.

Bride of Frankenstein (Whale, 1935) is one of my favorite films. It has rich humor and genuine pathos. It has fantastic production values and a magnificent score (by Franz Waxman). It has tremendous acting and memorable, iconic setpieces. It has its own sly streak of perversity and boundless quantities of creativity and inspiration. And while never really scary, it has plenty of creepy and tension-filled moments, too. It is a cinematic marvel and joy.

But it is also a meditation on connection, and on the almost primal impulse to find a mate, a match, a kindred spirit. Things don’t quite work out in the end for the couple pictured here. But the film delves deep into the idea that finding someone else to pair up with is a defining trait of the human condition. The Monster (tenderly played by Boris Karloff) knows that. In a world of estrangement, he simply seeks to belong, to be accepted for what he is, even if it’s just by one other in the whole world. And it is this yearning that makes him the most relatable and sympathetic figure in the film, far more so than any of the “real” people.

Of course, the most memorable scene is between our “hero” and the blind man he encounters, isolated in his cottage in the woods. Oblivious to the monster’s appearance, he embraces him as a visitor and takes him into his home—the first sign of any kindness the creature has ever experienced and a simple, selfless act, free of judgment, which resonates with him (and us) for the rest of the movie.

And so it is sometimes—two lonely people who meet only for a moment, but who greatly impact each other’s life. A different kind of bond, but one with its own value and legacy. And so on this wonderful day, my thoughts and prayers go to those who found that special someone—for a moment or a lifetime. Each of those encounters is a blessing beyond measure.

Alone Bad. Friend Good.

A Long Time Ago...

So much has happened since then, it feels like a different life almost, but it's been a year since I left my job at Lucasfilm (something I only obliquely referenced in the past on this blog).  I'm sure I'll periodically post more about my experience there in the future, but this post serves as a tribute to over a decade commuting to Skywalker Ranch in Marin County.  Below are postcards you can buy on the property (which has a gift store). 

The top building is the Main House, where pre- and post-production occur.  It's a beautiful facility, particularly the research library which supports productions across a myriad of studios, in both film and television.

The bottom postcard is known as the Tech Building and is home to Skywalker Sound, including a variety of recording and mixing stages and a wonderful theater.  When I joined the company, Skywalker Ranch was overflowing with employees and the expansion to other complexes, including eventually the Letterman Digital Arts Center (LDAC) in the Presidio in San Francisco, all occurred during my time there (though my office never left the Ranch).  The Yoda statue is on the Presidio grounds and visible to the general public.

I came on between the releases of Episode I and II, and my job often meant a deep immersion into the history of the studio and the Star Wars productions in particular (though certainly not limited to that).  So the release of the Star Wars stamps by the USPS also occurred during my time there.  Below is just a small selection of the many hundreds of First-Day-of-Issue postmarks on postcards I have that are Star Wars related.  Maybe one day I'll see fit to part with a handful (I have quite a few duplicates) but for now, here's a sample that evoke different things about my memorable time working there.

The Star Wars stamp Scott #s are all 4143, with a letter denoting the different illustrations: Darth Vader (a), Millennium Falcon (b), Anakin vs Obi-Wan (d), Luke (e), Leia & R2 (f), C-3PO (g), Queen Amidala (h), Ben Kenobi (i), Boba Fett (j), Darth Maul (k), X-wing (m), Yoda (n) and Stormtroopers (o).  The other Yoda stamp (note the different postmark and date) is a re-release based on balloting of the fan favorites from all the original stamps.  That Scott # is 4205.

The stamp joined with Vader on the Main House card is the oldest movie stamp ever, Scott #926.  The two stamps other stamps on the Tech building card are the centennial of sound recording and the 50th anniversary of talking motion pictures (Scott #1705 & 1727 respectively).  The latter was actually released in 1977 (50 years after The Jazz Singer), which was also the year the original Star Wars rocked the world.

The Beginning of a Beautiful Friendship

For practically as long as I can remember movies, I have known and adored Claude Rains.

Probably the first movie I really fell in love with was Casablanca (Curtiz, 1942), and in a movie teeming with wonderful characterizations, Rains’s Renault stood out as enormously appealing and inscrutable, perhaps the best thing in an irresistibly fine film. While the rest of the characters seemed designed to fulfill their specific destiny, all the real crucial choices in the film are Louis’, and it’s his arc of redemption that sells the film, making Rick’s sacrifice satisfying because with nobility comes camaraderie. The term "bromance" didn’t exist when I was in elementary school, but this was the perfect balance of admiration, acceptance, and loyalty—two cynics who are up to the challenge when their self-interest is superseded by something greater.

 Casablanca is rich with broad strokes of romance, nationalism, and honor, so it’s up to Rains to provide any real complexity. Even after multiple viewings, his motives are never obvious, his allegiances seemingly open and yet always suspect. While Rick revels in mystery, throwing out opaque answers and assertions of indifference, Renault is always plain-spoken—about his affections, his corruption, and his obvious delight in straddling every fence he can. He plays both ends against the middle down to the very last scene and Rains makes his character so amused by his own self-awareness that the character is instantly likeable even when far from respectable.

But that was classic Rains. In The Adventures of Robin Hood (Curtiz/Keighley, 1938), Basil Rathbone’s (wonderfully portrayed) villain is so miserable in his seriousness, while Rains’s Prince John relishes every syllable that he utters. In Mr. Smith Goes to Washington (Capra, 1939), his Senator Paine is a realist, and while he’s positioned as the antagonist, he’s not a one-dimensional bad guy. In fact, he’s a model of networking and backroom compromise, and with our current political landscape of brinksmanship and line-in-the-sand thinking, is his type any less palatable than a Jefferson Smith?

But he could be enormously touching, too. Witness his psychiatrist in Now, Voyager (Rapper, 1942) or the loving husband in Mr. Skeffington (Sherman, 1944), turning in incredibly compassionate performances that ground these “chick flicks” in a generous emotional authenticity that’s never maudlin. In Hitchcock’s Notorious (1946), he may be the villain, but compared to mercenary Cary Grant and compromised Ingrid Bergman, he comes across as surprisingly sympathetic…for a Nazi. Just because he was short doesn’t mean he couldn’t control the room (Exhibit A: They Won’t Forget—LeRoy, 1937), but Rains could also use his size to convey a weakness or moral temerity, and his Alexander Sebastian is a man clearly in over-his-head, terribly pliable by the forces of love and fear that control, and eventually doom, him.  His last scene is as shattering as anything he ever did.

In short, he was usually the best thing in the movies he worked on, and given his filmography, that’s high praise indeed. Even late in his career, he steals every scene he’s in in Lawrence of Arabia (Lean, 1962). It isn’t until the desert that O’Toole really blooms, so Rains’s world-weary diplomat Dryden is the one character who has the big picture in mind, standing on the outside looking in, with bemused skepticism at the posturing from all sides.

I hope he gets a stamp one day, perhaps part of a 20-pane sheet devoted to cinema’s great character actors (joining Agnes Moorehead, Walter Brennan, Thelma Ritter and many more). The closest he ever came was missing the cut with the Universal Monsters release, since his first film was The Invisible Man (Whale, 1933). But even then, he wouldn’t have really been depicted (we never see his features in the film; his voice does all the acting)--just a bandaged head and mask, the ultimate chameleon who could blend into any situation and a memorable introduction to a tremendous career.

The Bogart, Hitchcock and Grant stamps are part of the Legends of Hollywood series (Scott #’s 3152, 3226, & 3692 respectively). Erich Wolfgang Korngold was part of the film composers series (Scott #3344) while Green Arrow (Scott #4084d) was part of the DC Comics release. The  American filmmaking series provided the Film Editing stamp (Scott #3772h).

This post is part of the TCM Summer Under the Stars blogathon.  Be sure to check out all the stellar entries.