Stirrer Crazy

Mr. Dockery just turned me on to this insane footage of a Richard Pryor interview done in 1979 on the set of Gene Wilder's Stir Crazy, at the height of Pryor's cocaine abuse.

Watching it, though, I couldn't help but think about how this video demonstrates just how far the media today has gone off into a territory formerly occupied only by tabloid rags like the National Enquirer. If any megastar of today gave a videotaped interview like this, filled with cursing, racial epithets, sexist and homophobic comments, and proud endorsements of drug use, they'd be crucified for life by the media. It would be a "celebrity meltdown", just like the contrived ones the media tries to build up around Britney Spears, Tom Cruise, etc. in their efforts to destroy them.

1979 was a much simpler time, of course. Jimmy Carter was President, the Internet as we know it didn't exist, hardly anyone owned a personal computer except for a handful of TRS-80 geeks (raising my hand), and the extent of the media's intent to ruin people's lives was pretty much found only in isolated incidents like Woodward and Bernstein, and gossip columnists like Rona Barrett (who was mostly ignored except by housewives anyhow). The concept of the "celebrity meltdown" hadn't been invented yet.

Then there was Pee-Wee Herman, who was set up, framed and destroyed by police and media, not once but twice, over total b.s. charges. Because of this, it's considered obvious that he could never, should never, be allowed to have a kid's show again. But back in the day, in that simpler, better time, no one batted an eye at the idea of Pryor hosting his own Saturday morning children's show even after making a name for himself as the black Lenny Bruce, and even after having freebase cocaine explode in his face and going to rehab when rehab wasn't cool.

Yes, those were better times, when a celebrity could say they wanted and do what they wanted, without having a swarm of moralistic media harpies blitzing you. If Pryor still lived today, I think he'd join me in saying this:

"Fuck the 21st century".

JSH's Oscar Picks

Best picture: No Country For Old Men. In a perfect world, this will come to pass. But it depends really on what unknown factors of behind-the-scenes politics occurs, in which the award may be given to one of the other films as a "consolation".

Actor in leading role: Johnny Depp in Sweeney Todd. Easily the correct choice. It has to be Depp. Not only did he pull out the performance of his life in his role where he sings, dances, and commits numerous counts of cannibalism and murder, it also has mythic pop-culture resonance in that it contains seemingly deliberate echoes of his past roles in Edward Scissorhands, From Hell, Cry-Baby, and others. Someday, people will see this movie as the quintessential centerpiece of Depp at the pinnacle of his game when looking back at his oeuvre.

Actress in leading role: Marion Cotillard in "La Vie en Rose". Even if you were lukewarm on the film itself (I wasn't. I loved every second of it) you still have to give Cotillard props for a bravura, career-defining performance as Edith Piaf.

Supporting actor: either Philip Seymour Hoffman in Charlie Wilson’s War or Hal Holbrook in Into the Wild. This is a toughie. Hoffman did some real acting here, unlike the cute pantomime he did in Capote. Capote was a great movie, but let's face it, anyone can comb their hair sideways, don some glasses and a scarf, and do a Truman Capote imitation. I can do it, you can do it, Robin Williams can, my mailman can, random dudes can. Hoffman is totally unrecognizable in Charlie Wilson’s War and does a hell of a job. On the other hand, although I haven't seen Into the Wild and don't know anything about Hal Holbrook's role in it, a have a feeling that the powers-that-be are going to give this award to Holbrook as a sort of "lifetime achievement award", as they often do with great but insufficiently recognized actors in the twilights of their career.

Supporting actress: Ruby Dee in American Gangster. Same thing applies here. There's a good chance that the 83-year-old Dee will take this one just because of her age. On the other hand, Dee has already garnered more awards in her career than Holbrook so she may not be considered as deserving of a "consolation prize". They may just be content to have given her a nomination (as they did with Gloria Stuart who was 87 years old when she was nominated for Titanic). Cate Blanchett in I'm Not There might be the alternate, as a consolation nod to her if they don't give her best leading actress for Elizabeth: The Golden Age.

Best director: Ethan Coen & Joel Coen - No Country For Old Men. Please, God, let the Coens sweep the Oscars with this one and reward them for making a Coen-like film again. Knowing their reactionary ways, it may also encourage to do something really out-there next time out, like that rumored project they've wanted to do for years with no dialogue whatsoever.


- - JSH

Duvel and Diabolique

I think it's interesting that the beer department in any store is one of the few things in life that's openly ordered in a honest social spectrum.

Start at one side, and you've got your bottom-feeder beers like Wiedeman, Falls City, Busch, Milwaukee's Best, and other such undrinkable swill. The light beers tend to gravitate to this end of the aisle as well. (Why would anyone pay money for Milwaukee's Best Light when you might as well drop a hot dog bun in a glass of water for ten minutes and you'd have the same thing? But I digress.)

In the midrange area, there's beers of low-to-medium quality like Icehouse, Michelob, etc. This is the cutoff point for me. In general, I can't drink any beer any lower on the evolutionary chain than Michelob. Anything to the left of that in the beer aisle is piss. Not that I'd ever walk out of a package store with any of that junk anyway - I'm talkin' like if I walked into a diner and the only beer they had was Michelob, I'd drink it. If the only beer they had was Coors, I'd say forget it, give me a Coke or something.

Which brings us to the other end of the beer aisle, which in a bourgeois supermarket might end in Corona or Red Stripe. In a fancier place, it's likely to end in the upscale belgian ales. If you think this means Blue Moon, you need to get out more.

For my money, the finest belgian ale on the planet - nay, the finest beer, period - would be Duvel, brewed by the Ommegang folks. It's super clean, rich, and golden, without the fruity-ish taste you find in a lot of Belgians like Three Philosophers, Delerium Tremens, Gulden Draak, etc. Best of all, it has a very high alcohol content and delivers, in my own personal experience anyway, a very clear, warm, healthy, glowing buzz.

Duvel should always be imbibed from the special Duvel glass, which you can pick up in any liquor store. Note the frosted etched letter D inside the bottom, which makes the beer give off a constant stream of effervescence while drinking. Some aficionados say you should pour it extremely slow and avoid getting a big frothy head (which it has a dangerously high tendency to do with even the slightest motion), but I spoke to an Ommegang spokesman during a trade show who told me that actually, it's desirable to have the head fill the top half of the glass. Well, it's their beer, so I guess they know what they're talkin' about, but me, I pour mine excruciatingly slow and avoid any head at all if I can. I find it makes the beer taste better and last longer. I also pour in the yeast sediments at the bottom, which some people avoid. It's all good.

Now, Hennepin is what I buy when I'm either feeling like a cheapskate or the store's out of Duvel and I'm too lazy to shop elsewhere. Hennepin (also made by Ommegang) is basically the Duvel formula with a few of the steps left out and the aging process shortened considerably. It's still a great beer, almost as good as Duvel itself (especially for the price) and many palates might not even really notice much of a difference. The buzz is somewhat dirtier though.

Recently I was in Whole Foods Market and happened upon what I thought was a deliberate Duvel knock-off. Diabolique's packaging and color scheme mimics Duvel's closely. However, it's a mixed blessing, this Diabolique: the taste is of that aforementioned slightly fruitsy and raisiny kind, and I usually just can't go there. But the wallop that this stuff packs outdoes even Duvel. If you honestly couldn't care less about the taste but want to get a high-class ale buzz from one big bottle, reach for Diabolique. But for combined buzz and taste, Duvel is and always will be the brew for me.

Your results may vary, of course. I tend towards what I call "strong but uncomplicated" beers, but my personal beer terminology has little or nothing to do with all the kooky folks who talk about beer like they're describing a witches brew, with "notes" of charcoal, tobacco, cloves, pears, and god knows what else.

- - JSH

Me & Cornell Woolrich with the Ladies of Noir Down by the Duck Pond

For whatever reason, although standing before God & everybody as a confirmed film noir-head, I had never watched Mildred Pierce all the way through. That said, I've probably seen the whole movie several times, but all in pieces of Pierce, Frankenstein-like, ya dig. And add to that, I've read almost all of the James M. Cain novel, but never finished it (I've heard it said that the Pierce picture is BETTER than the novel, unlike the other notable Cain-based noir, The Postman Always Rings Twice, of which I like the novel and the film for different reasons, in case you was wondering). It's just one of them, watchamacallit, things.

At this juncture in humanity's secret history of the velvety folds of what we call life, I've done seen about all the film noir I can hold. It's just in my bones, and I revisit things, or every once in while I discover a gem I've inexplicably missed (Fallen Angel, recently). The love for noir remains, but the hot and heavy days of intense passion belong a little bit more to yesterday. I got about three movies I ain't seen yet that I want to see, which are out of print, that I plan on digging up sooner or later. Yule hear about it here first, when I does.

This doesn't have much to do with anything. But in giving this tidbit it perhaps accounts for the fact that in missing giving a more studious study of Mildred Pierce first time around, I'm just now reporting on my scrutinous findings. Pierce is one of those films that in the context of its time, 1945, would have been more considered a "women's picture"(with an added prestige factor due to the source Cain novel). In other words, with Crawford, and the home-life melodrama, the appeal was regarded as leaning towards the feminine side of the spectator.

But if you're gonna have melodrama, it might as well be the uber-noir-melodrama of Mildred Pierce. I have to confess that what brings this picture together more than any other element for me is the cinematography by Ernest Haller (he also shot Rebel Without Cause for Nicholas Ray). Black and white never looked so gawdam good, and the deep shadows of this film make even the exterior shots set during the day appear somehow to be shot at night. Not night-for-day eggsactly, but the dark creeps into everything.

Mildred Pierce is probably my favorite Joan Crawford movie (besides in The Unknown w/Lon Chaney, in her younger days). She is perfectly cast as the anti-seductress frighteningly over-bearing mother who yet is a good person, in that sorta staunch neo-puritanical stoic, unrealistic and misguided fashion. The pre-Bad Seed plot rolls along at a clip. However, this ain't my fave flick by director Curtiz, for that I'd refer the reader to the Elvis Presley vehicle King Creole. This is not the best movie in the world, but like any film noir, it's perfectly capable playing companion to the lost soul in the dim hours twixt twilight and dawn.

William Faulkner apparently worked on the script uncredited. That's okay, he probably didn't remember working on it anyway.

--JTD

Cheeseburger & Fries Salute Bunk & Jimmy

People are just now waking up to the fact that The Wire is one of the greatest TV shows ever, and of course, this is its final season. There's a zillion reasons to love the show - its gritty realism, its copious footage of the backstreets of Baltimore, its brilliant ensemble cast that, truth be told, even eclipses that of The Sopranos. Not to mention I appreciate the way they tell it like it is, stickin' it to corrupt politicians, corrupt cops, corrupt journalists, etc.

But for our purposes here on this boy-blog, the best moments on The Wire are those in which Jimmy McNulty and Bunk Moreland blow off a little steam in the various noble time-honored ways men always have. Bunk and Jimmy sitting at the bar and kickin' back beers until they've got that one-o-clock lean. Bunk and Jimmy driving out to the railroad tracks out at the edge of town to continue drinking after the bars close, and throwing their bottles into the darkness. Bunk and Jimmy consorting with mysterious females of the night, in the night, for the night.

Bunk is an avid cigar smoker, and can often be seen running churchills dreamily under his nose for a full minute before lighting them. Unfortunately, I can't tell what kind he likes, because he's a remove-the-band kind of guy. I smoke 'em with the band on unless it's a shorty. Some cigar aficionados say it's pretentious to leave the band on, and say things like "ain't nobody gonna see what brand you smokin' from any distance anyway", but showing off the brand to others isn't the point. It's more of an aesthetic principle, to drunkenly gaze at the iconic imagery embossed on the tiny paper band in between puffs and shots of Ten Cane rum. And since I often save a partially-smoked cigar to finish later, it's handy to remind me which dead soldier is which.

So anyway, watch the damn show, already. And there's several choice drinking games you can play while watching it - I'll leave it to you to watch a couple shows and figure them out for yourself.

- - JSH

2 Nights, 2 Fights, 2 Cigars

I'll make a confession. I decided for the New Year that I'm going to pick up a different cigar and try it on each of the nights when I watch boxing, to enhance the experience, both of the smoking and the spectating. In other words, my New Year's resolution is to smoke more.

I've been enjoying Showtime's ShoBox/Championship Boxing, since I've had Showtime back in the summer. So, this past Friday/Saturday night I settled in each night with a cigar. Let me tell ya how it went, pilgrim.

Ultimately, on Friday the 4th with the Peterson brothers both fighting on the same night, the Macanudo Maduro that I smoked was more memorable than the fights themselves. Both brothers won each of their matches, first by KO, second one by decision. Of course, this is really no fault of ShoBox itself...the whole point of this series is to give national exposure to up-and-comers, and, thusly, these fights can be unevenly matched, etc. So they are always interesting to watch in my experience. It was a good night, a good smoke. But....

Saturday night was the humdinger. So I settle in with my Arturo Fuente Hemingway. Now, I had been reluctant, although digging an A.Fuente Double Robusto, to pick up the Hemingway. I figured, "the Hemingway?" What is that, for tourists? But some rave reviews of the cigar convinced me to be a tourist anyway. It didn't disappoint. Unlike the fight of the 5th.

Malignaggi vs. Ngoudjo was a title fight for the IBF Junior Welterweight. Just to fill you in, Malignaggi is an Italian from Brooklyn. Flashy, showbiz, and loud-mouthed, he promotes himself, and the Atlantic City audience was full of his people. He was the crowd favorite. But this was only the first defense of his title. Never have I watched a fight and wondered if I was somehow watching a different fight than what the commentary was speaking of. This was Ngoudjo's fight from top to bottom, yet Malignaggi won by decision. After the fight, Malignaggi, bleeding and looking out of breath, Ngoudjo stood without mark on his face, composed & smiling, seeming like he was fully capable of going another 12 rounds. It was as if mass hypnosis had the judges by the balls. I'm glad I had the smooth, pleasant Arturo Fuente cigar going to keep me calm, otherwise, I prolly woulda woke half the neighborhood (least of all the old lady, sleeping upstairs) with my cursing at the tv.

Luckily, I'm not the only one. Jack Todd, in his article for the Montreal Gazette, goes so far as to infer that the fight was fixed. However, my sense of the fight was that the boxing industry was really looking upon Malignaggi as the Great White Hope. And the fact is, from what I got out of watching this fight, is that he's merely the Great White Hype. Ngoudjo fought the better fight, but the only way Ngoudjo, a Cameroon-born fighter living in Montreal (thus perhaps Todd's hometown vehemence), would have won this fight was by KO.

The fix was in. Whether it was a fix of sentiment or a fix more formalized in money, a fix either which way. Anyway, this was merely one of the ways that one J.T. "Fries" Dockery passed a couple of winter weekend nights in the 21st century. Buck Rogers Smoking Ban Watusi With My 618 On, over.

--JTD

Quotations from Chairman Kinky

From Kinky Friedman's great book Cowboy Logic:

"Writing a novel is like frisbeeing your soul into hell and hoping that some three-headed flatulent dog might catch it".

"In Texas we all share the common belief that if we live a good life, when we die we go to Willie Nelson's house".

"I've been in outhouses, whorehouses, and White Houses, but I'm proud to say that I've never darkened the door of a spa".

"I've always been searching for a lifestyle that doesn't require my presence".

"Every time I stay in a fancy hotel, some employee always comes up to me with deep suspicion in his eyes and says, 'Can I help you?'"

"Find what you like, and let it kill you".

"Friedman's just another word for nothing left to lose".

The Future and the Past

Tonight I rented an amazing film from Wild And Woolly Video entitled I Am Cuba, and I'm still watching it right now even as I type. It's a quasi-documentary about life in Cuba, somewhat glorified but breathtaking to watch. Especially the early scenes shot in a crrrrazy tiki-bar casino lounge, and by a poolside beauty contest.

Several scenes in the film are done, a la Hitchcock's Rope, in one super-long continuous shot, without any cuts. How they achieved some of these shots, reportedly done without camera dollies, astounds me. And some scenes for the film were shot during all the chaos of the Cuban Missile Crisis, to boot.

For me, the best part about the film is just the sheer look and feel of it. The wonderful essence of the early 1960s is captured wonderfully here, with the bamboo, the cocktails, the lounge lizards and bar hookers, the cigars, the bikinis, the suits, the sailors, the giant fake tiki heads and outlandish showgirl costumes... my take on it is certainly not what the Cuban and Russian filmmakers intended, but así es la vida. The film's entrancing period visuals represent, for my own aesthetic purposes, what Fidel Castro referred to the "struggle between the future and the past."

- - JSH