"Hate to Talk About Myself"

I usually start answering memes and then don't finish them; too much like work, or Who Cares? But this one from Elspeth was fun and involves some word play:

Using only song names from ONE ARTIST, cleverly answer these questions. Pass it on to people you like and include me. Try not to repeat a song title.

Pick your band/artist: Fats Waller

Are you a male or female: The Sheik of Araby

Describe yourself: Keeping Out of Mischief Now

How do you feel about yourself: I’ve Got My Fingers Crossed

Describe where you currently live: Lounging at the Waldorf

If you could go anywhere, where would you go: I Wish that I Could Shimmy Like My Sister Kate

Your favorite form of transportation: Alligator Crawl

Your best friend is: My Very Good Friend the Milkman

Your favorite color is: Black and Blue

What’s the weather like: Russian Fantasy

Your favorite time of day is: Loafin’ Time

If your life were a TV show, it would be called: Blue Because of You

What life is to you: The Panic is On

What is the best advice you have to give: Squeeze Me

If you could change your name what would you change it to: Big Chief de Sota

Your favorite food is: Fat and Greasy

Thought for the Day: Ain’t Got Nobody to Grind My Coffee

How you would like to die: Pantin' in the Panther Room

Your soul's present condition: Numb Fumblin'

The faults you can bear: The Curse of an Aching Heart

Your motto: It's a Sin to Tell a Lie

Watching People Watch the Watchmen

I enjoyed the Watchmen film more than I thought i would, seeing it with friends who'd never read the book but were able to respond to the larger themes. But ye gods, keep the general audience away from this thing that we love. Our local theater felt compelled to print out a sign warning customers that this is not a "superhero" film like they're used to, and I've already had students complain after the fact that they didn't understand the story or were disturbed by the content. I'll show you "school improvement" as soon as you outlaw parents-- who are these people that take an underage child to see the R-rated Watchmen? Probably the same parents that complain (never to my face) about my PG-13 World History class.

Harlan Ellison used to talk about "the fan sneer", that peculiar expression on a connoisseur's face when everyone on the subway starts reading The Lord of the Rings, or drinking an obscure wine that you discovered, or quoting from a cult film. On the one hand you're pleased that something of value has found a wide audience; on the other hand, when the mob jumps into the pool, they inevitably start pissing in it. Now everyone can plop down a few bucks to see the film version of Alan Moore's The Watchmen, including those who can't read or don't read, which sadly includes the director.
I thought the performances were perfect, and visually it's a panel-for-panel recreation of Dave Gibbons art-- Hollywood's problem is that set designers and special effects artists have outpaced its writers and directors by twenty years, giving us gorgeous films without souls. Jackie Earle Haley is a wonderful Rorschach, despite the cuts made in his part and Patrick Wilson as Dan Dreiberg is a revelation in an emotionally complex but less showy, and therefore more complicated role to play. This could have been Adam West as Batman, and instead Wilson's humanity, contrasted with John Osterman's perfection, has us rooting for Dan all the way. Malin Ackerman has been unjustly criticized as eye-candy-- Sally and Laurie Jupiter represent the pin-up girl archetype, just as Rorsharch is the paranoid (Batman or the Shadow without funds), Adrian the genius, Eddie the murderous "patriot", John the Superman and Dan the high tech millionaire adventurer. It's not Ackerman's fault that Laurie Jupiter's emotional development was cut down to the one big scene when she puts together the circumstances of her birth. In the novel, Laurie figures it out for herself; in the movie, she can't do it without magical help from Osterman.
Visually gorgeous, and the actors put their hearts into it. But the director, Zach Snyder, is tone-deaf. The publicity mill keeps calling him a "visionary genius", but even Snyder knows the visions were piggybacked on someone else's hard work.

The problem is that whenever the director deviates from Moore and Gibbon's text, his additions are immature and gross. Snyder represents that part of Hollywood that panders to 15 year old misanthropes. He has no aesthetic common sense.
Snyder's Nixon wears a caricature nose. He rewrites jokes and blows the punchline. Violence in the film is drawn out from a panel or two to splatterporn in loving slow motion. Instead of Sally Jupiter scrabbling on the floor in ugly desperation to escape her rapist, Carla Gugino is bent aesthetically over a pool table, attempted rape as a Helmut Newton fashion spread. Snyder's film of 300, for all its fascist silliness, homoeroticism made palatable to an American audience, had a few genuinely beautiful images, but all of them based on Frank Miller and Lynn Varley's drawings-- and Snyder added a rape scene to that.
When it comes to Rorschach's murder of the pedophile, the text has Rorschach handcuffing the villain and then setting the place on fire; we've already had our dose of horror by contemplating the off panel death of the victim. In the film, we're treated to Rorschach whacking at a prop head of the criminal with a meat cleaver. I've come to expect this from Hollywood, something to make the Roman mobs squeal "ew, gross!", but it's as obtrusive, gross and laughable as the cock-blocking voice singing Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" during Dan and Laurie's sex scene. "Was offered Swedish love and French love-- but not American love. American love; like Coke in green glass bottles. They dont make it anymore."
Snyder's lip-licking violence, including two, count 'em, two slo-mo kung fu scenes for Laurie and Dan, leave no room for things like Rorschach's soliloquy as he watches the pedophile's factory burn: "Stood in firelight, sweltering. Bloodstain on chest like map of violent new continent. Felt cleansed. Felt dark planet turn under my feet and knew what cats know that makes them scream like babies in night. Looked at sky through smoke heavy with human fat and God was not there. The cold, suffocating dark goes on forever and we are alone. Live our lives, lacking anything better to do. Devise reason later. Born from oblivion; bear children, hell-bound as ourselves, go into oblivion. There is nothing else. Existence is random. Has no pattern save what we imagine after staring at it for too long. No meaning save what we choose to impose. This rudderless world is not shaped by vague metaphysical forces. It is not God who kills the children. Not fate that butchers them or destiny that feeds them to the dogs. It’s us. Only us. Streets stank of fire. The void breathed hard on my heart, turning it's illusions to ice, shattering them. Was reborn then, free to scrawl own design on this morally blank world. Was Rorschach. Does that answer your questions, Doctor?"

Only part of that speech survives. Snyder makes the climax of the story unrecognizable, and judging from my friends reaction, incomprehensible. After washing our face in gore, he wimps out and cuts Laurie's horrified reaction to New York streets filled with corpses, mass murder for the greater good. Instead we're looking at a big computer generated hole. I've no problem with filmmakers editing a work, but shouldn't they follow an artistic Hippocratic oath, and first do no harm?
This isn't a fanboy's plaint-- hell, I'd cut Hamlet or Macbeth for length-- but why are so many people who rise to this level in Hollywood-- the task of presenting a cultural touchstone to a mass audience-- have to be so tone-deaf?

The Can-Can's Such a Pretty Show

I wrinkle my brow at those who limit themselves to the music of their youth, but here I am with three acoustic songs written before 1980, one of them when Shakespeare was a toddler.

Poor old Granddad, I laughed at all his words
I thought he was a bitter man when he spoke of women's ways:
"They'll trap you and they'll use you before you even know; but love is blind, and you're far too kind-- don't ever let it show."

I wish that I knew what I know now
when I was younger
I wish that I knew what I know now
when I was stronger

"The can-can's such a pretty show; it'll steal your heart away
But backstage, back on earth again, the dressing rooms are gray.
They come on strong, and it ain't too long 'fore they make you feel a man,
But love is blind, and you soon will find you're just a boy again."

"When you want her lips, you get her cheek; makes you wonder where you are. If you want some more then she's fast asleep, leaves you twinkling with the stars. Poor young Grandson, there's nothing I can say; you'll have to learn, just like me, and that's the hardest way."

Ooh la la
Ooh la la, la la

The morning after seems like a good time to re-appreciate "Ooh La La" by Ronnie Lane.
The earliest surviving version of "John Barleycorn Must Die" dates to 1568, and even Robert Burns had a version; the one I know was recorded by Traffic in 1970.

I've always wanted to ask Bruce Cockburn if this really was based on an archetypal dream, or if he thinking of the lions playing on the beach in the dreams of The Old Man and the Sea.