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A long time ago, in the days before youtube and tiktok and satellite radio, the pop charts used to be a bit.... looser. There was room on the top 100 for a variety of genres: rock, soul, r&b, jazz--and comedy. The 1950s saw the groundbreaking comedy of Lenny Bruce and Tom Lehrer; the sixties had the Button Down Mind of Bob Newhart, Allan Sherman and the breakthroughs of Dick Gregory and Bill Cosby; and the seventies had charting albums from Monty Python, George Carlin and Richard Pryor (among MANY others).

Within that genre, comedy acts would put out the occasional musical single: "Hello Muddah, Hello Faddah" by Sherman, "Earache My Eye" by Cheech and Chong, "King Tut" by Steve Martin. All of these songs, along with the occasional oddball comedy release from the hinterlands would be proudly broadcast by Doctor Demento (the alter ego of deejay Barry Hansen) on his weekly radio show. In 1979, Doctor Demento debuted a parody of The Knack's "My Sharona" recorded in a bathroom at Cal Polytechnic by a student accompanying himself on accordion. That was the career launch point of Alfred Matthew Yankovic, known to his friends and classmates as Weird Al.

Comedy albums have disappeared from the charts. It's on premium cable or streaming. Goofy shit is everywhere on tiktok, but nowhere near a recording studio. And yet, nearly 50 years on, Weird Al Yankovic has not only survived, but thrived. He's graduated from those bare bones first singles to a full rock band and elaborate orchestrations. His original fans are nearing retirement (raises hand) but he has kiddies singing along to his Captain Underpants theme song (tra la laaaaaa!). He's been called an American treasure: songwriters consider it an honor to be the target of a Weird Al parody and celebrities line up to play in his videos. In between costume changes at last night's concert, Al showed clips of his countless guest appearances on TV, from serenading the Simpsons to palling around with Scooby Doo and the gang.

But Al hasn't carved out his unique place in American culture by just slapping funny lyrics on other people's songs. Under the silly parodist beats the heart of a genuine satirist, keenly attuned to the absurdities of that culture. "Dare to Be Stupid" not only duplicates Devo's costuming (flower pots included) and synth-heavy grooves; like Devo, it mocks the cliches that dull the American brain (like "you gotta buy one if you wanna get one free"). "Mission Statement" spews out an avalanche of meaningless corporate buzzwords, set to the music of Crosby, Stills and Nash. It is a bitter rebuke to the hippies who sold out the ideals of the sixties for the boardrooms of eighties. (The video adds another level of satire by showing how the yuppies have incorporated the imagery of the peace and love era into a corporate presentation.) And for those of you who don't have time to parse out cultural signifiers, "Stop Forwarding that Crap to Me" is exactly what the title says-- a full on rant to an unnamed "friend" to stop forwarding cat pics, moldy YouTube videos and conspiracy theories. In concert, "Stop Forwarding" is pitched at an almost apocalyptic level and it's very funny. (But also... it's not.)

The concert was fantastic, over two hours covering the breadth of Al's career. I do feel that maybe he should retire "Smells Like Nirvana" since the subject of the song.... well... isn't around to laugh at it anymore. And my wife thinks that maybe it's time to put away the "Fat" suit. (She might have a point.) Other than that, though, Al delivers as much or more entertainment bang for your buck than any "serious" music star.

It's been about three months since my last post, and I suppose I've been shocked out of lurker-dom by the sudden death of yet ANOTHER main cast member of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I posted my admiration for the multifaceted Anthony Stewart Head in shadowkat's tribute thread; but man, this is going past depressing into downright horrific. (Round the clock armed protection for Alyson Hannigan and James Marsters? I'm in.)

On the home front, we are dealing with medical conditions of mild severity but extreme annoyance. My wife is still recovering from ankle surgery and its attendant annoyances of Frankenstein-like boot and limited mobility. And, as you can tell from the post title, I had major oral surgery last week--all four of my lower middle teeth. (The consequence of 60+ years of eating factory-sweetened milk chocolate, I guess.) It'll take about four months to heal, post-extraction; when they put in the base for the implants, it'll take another two months to heal after that. So, by around Christmas, I should have a sparkling new set of choppers. Until then, though, no crunchy foods--and an extremely uncomfortable "flipper" that makes me feel like Freddie Mercury (without the singing talent).

In the "funny how time slips away" department, D.'s 17th birthday and my 20th wedding anniversary are both next month.

Movies? A lot of unexpected pleasures out there, especially in horror. Just caught Backrooms (directed by Zack Parsons) and it is an absolutely spectacular piece of film making, an entire universe that looks and feels like it was dredged up from the unconscious. You've probably read about the origin of Backrooms in 4chan and how Parsons developed the concept (and his fanbase) on the internet. But nothing on the internet can prepare you for the full impact on the big screen. In one breathtaking sequence set inside the alternate realm, we see a reproduction of one character's childhood living room. The camera descends one level and some of the details "drop out"; another level, and more details drop out and the remaining features are warped and distorted; until finally, at the last level, the room is empty, the walls are grey and featureless, and a single tunnel leads out into unfathomable darkness.

The movie is like a deep dive into the human subconscious: infinitely winding corridors covered in sickly yellow wallpaper, details that almost make logical sense, but others baffling in their irrationality. It kind of reminded me of Tarkovsky's Solaris in its themes, but Backrooms is definitely its own beast. Looking forward to the sequel.

I would also recommend Hokum (directed by Damian McCarthy) an excellent entry in the "haunted hotel" genre, an Irish cousin to Stephen King's 1408. Terrific lead performance by Adam Scott as a misanthropic novelist sorting out his childhood trauma in the least hospitable environment imaginable. And, finally, The Sheep Detectives. (Yes. Trust me.)

That's all for now. Supergirl is coming up at the end of the month. Anybody out there interested?

Sometimes it doesn't work out.

Sometimes there is no happy ending. Sometimes there is no redemption arc. Sometimes there is no second act.

The tragic part of Nicholas Brendon's death at age 54 is that his talent-- his very real and very rare talent--has been obscured by the controversies surrounding the production of Buffy, the flaws of its creator and Brendon's battles with his own personal demons.

But let's step back for a minute and celebrate that talent. There are few performers out there with Brendon's sense of comic timing, his ability to milk even the slightest snippet of dialogue for maximum laughs. Pair that with an equal gift for physical comedy and you have an A-level comedic actor. (A small example: in Doppelgangland, Xander holds up a cross to ward off what he thinks is VampWillow. It doesn't work. He pauses for a moment, confused... then gives the cross a shake to get it working again.)

But Brendon wasn't just a sitcom-y laugh machine; there was soul behind Xander Harris, and a willingness by Brendon to fully explore the darker regions of the character. Xander was loyal and courageous, but he could also be petty, petulant, jealous, and moronically impulsive. It wasn't until later seasons that we fully understood where the insecurity and anger came from, but the seeds were planted as early as The Pack and Brendon gave Xander a three dimensionality that anchored some of the more fantastic elements of the series.

Brendon was also a generous screen partner, developing unique relationships with each of his costars: hero worshipping Buffy and big brother to Dawn, his lust/hate romance with Cordelia; his blazing hot chemistry with Anya, his hatred and odd respect for Spike...and especially his near telepathic rapport with Alyson Hannigan, which shone through in every one of their scenes together.

When Buffy ended, I fully expected Brendon to land on a sitcom and park himself in our living rooms for another decade. It didn't work out that way. I thoroughly enjoyed his occasional appearances on Criminal Minds (where he developed a wonderful rapport with Kirsten Vangsnass' Penelope Garcia), but as much as it was great to see him, it was just a shadow of the work he did on Buffy. And as the years passed and he accelerated downward, you desperately hoped that he would pull himself out of the hole and maybe get that second great role....

But sometimes it doesn't work out.

Rest in peace, Nic.

My son's team won, 9-1.

Back to the reviews:

Thursday: took the train to Union Square in Manhattan for the 11:10am showing of "Highest 2 Lowest." (H2L is a remake of Akira Kurosawa's "High and Low": but the Kurosawa film was an adaptation of an Ed McBain novel, so Spike Lee is technically "repatriating" the material.)

I'm not going to focus on the plot here, because you get the impression Spike isn't that interested in the plot either. Other than one sharply directed sequence, a botched ransom drop set during the Puerto Rican Day Parade (guest starring salsa king Eddie Palmieri), Lee mostly uses the movie to work on his usual obsessions:

Loving, panoramic shots of New York City. Idolization of 1960s soul icons and New York athletes. Hating on Boston (especially the Celtics). NYC cops messing up shit. (Although Dean Winters is hilarious as a detective driven insane trying to keep track of the ransom money.) Fortunately, that also means he lets his actors cook, and we can luxuriate in Denzel Washington and Jeffrey Wright (as music mogul David King and his right hand man).

King is supposed to have been the greatest music producer of the early 00s, "the best ears in the business", and his Stackin' Hits label is a world wide brand. So why is the music in this movie such a needle scratch? For one thing, the basic score is terrible, a standard Hollywood orchestral score that melodramatically punctuates every emotional beat. This movie screams for a rap/hip hop pulse--but I don't think Spike Lee likes rap very much.

[Which brings up the point: what kind of music did Stackin' Hits produce anyway? The early 00s were the time of Snoop and Dr. Dre, Usher and Nelly. But Spike is too busy worshipping Aretha, Stevie Wonder and James Brown to make the music fit the character. It's about as realistic as 70 year-old Denzel chasing down 36 year-old A$AP Rocky in the climax.]

This could have been much better. (Lee's previous movie with Denzel, Inside Man, was a LOT better.) But it's still Denzel and Jeffrey Wright (together!) and there are worse ways to spend two hours.

After the flick, I popped down to Forbidden Planet to check out comic books and The Strand to ogle the rare book collection. I cut through Washington Square Park and stopped off at Generation Records on Thompson Street. (Yeah, I know, I don't own a turntable anymore. But I get a nostalgic thrill thumbing through the old vinyl.)

I went next door to Brown Bag Sandwich Co. for lunch--roast beef au jus and cheddar on Italian bread, and I got a Thin Cookies chocolate chip cookie in Soho. (Pretty good--not too sweet with just a touch of vanilla.)

*************

Back to work tomorrow. Sigh. Well, it couldn't last forever....

Friday morning. Puttering around the house; basic maintenance work. Vacation is going a little too fast... but I've been busy:

Monday: overlong bus ride to the UA Sheepshead Bay cinema for Zach Cregger's "Weapons." Cregger did the AirBnB nightmare "Barbarians" a few years back, and there's been a lot of buzz over his new one. The premise: one night, an entire second grade class of schoolchildren leave their homes, run off into the dark and disappear. The movie details how this suburban community deals with the disappearance (not well).

Cregger breaks the narrative down into individual character studies, Pulp Fiction like, each chapter relaying new information about the mystery. There are some outstanding performances: Julia Garner as the second grade teacher with severe boundary issues; Benedict Wong as her put-upon principal; and Amy Madigan.... well, I don't want to spoil it, but let's just say she cuts loose in a way you've never seen from her before. She is a hoot.

It's generally very entertaining, and there are some great scares and more than a few laughs. But critics have been talking up this movie as a look into the "dark heart of suburbia," and if that was the intention, I don't think Cregger quite earns it. Strictly speaking, the darkness doesn't come from inside the community, and that sort of kills the metaphor. Besides, once it becomes painfully obvious what's been happening, the tension built up in the first 45 minutes drains away, and the fancy narrative structure can't bring it back.

The climactic scene is brilliantly shot (and nice'n'gory) and I like that solving the mystery doesn't mean a happy ending. (But maybe it would've been better for the movie if the mystery were never solved at all.)

Tuesday: the wife and I go to a special evening preview of Spinal Tap II: the End Continues--with a live Q&A session with the cast after the movie! The original Tap is one of my all time favorite movies, so I was both looking forward to the sequel... and hoping I wouldn't be disappointed.

The big problem with the sequel is that the main satirical thrust of the first movie has been co-opted by the success of the first movie. The cleverly stupid songs of the original Tap have sort of become classics in their own right, and they evoke a warm nostalgia rather than a laugh. When the Tap plays "Rainy Day Sun" (the b-side to "Listen to the Flower People," you know), it's doesn't feel like a mockery of 60s psychedelia; it's a veteran rock band pulling out a deep cut, like the Rolling Stones dusting off a nugget from Their Satanic Majesties Request. It's well played; it just ain't funny.

There is some satire in the movie equal to the original, mostly coming from Simon, the band's new promoter (played by Chris Addison). Simon freely admits to having no feeling or understanding of music whatsoever, and will happily cross any ethical and moral boundaries to ensure the band's big comeback is a moneymaker. (He very casually asks if one--or more-- band members could die during the concert, as it would really help DVD sales.) The movie could have used more of that "sting."

But it's hard to complain too much when Michael McKean, Christopher Guest and Harry Shearer still have that same comic chemistry from 40 years ago; and the movie does have a spectacular finish, featuring a wildly enthusiastic New Orleans crowd, Sir Elton John, and ANOTHER catastrophic mishap during their prog rock classic, "Stonehenge."

[That momentum carried over to the Q&A session, where Tap and director Rob Reiner--all in character--fielded questions from movie audiences from around the country. (I thought my question was particularly funny, but they didn't use it. Oh well.) These guys are really good at in-character improvisation, and you wish some of their answers could have been in the movie. It'll probably be a bonus feature on the DVD, if you're interested.]

*********

I'm going to take a break here. My son's first soccer game of the season is in 90 minutes and I have to get ready. I'll be back tonight with a review of Spike Lee's Highest 2 Lowest and my jaunt around Lower Manhattan afterwards...

I am on vacation!

I took a full week off. It's been awhile since I've done that. But it was long overdue. I've been under a lot of pressure at the bank; with our assistant branch manager out on maternity leave (and no replacement coming), everybody gets a much bigger workload. I've been training the new tellers, and they've picked up enough of the job to the point where I can leave the line in their hands for awhile. (I'll clean up any messes when I get back.)

My birthday was on Sunday (#66...6). I already gave myself the best-est present ever (see previous post), but my wife wanted to know if I had anything in mind for the actual day. I had no idea. I hemmed and hawed and put it off (which irritated her no end).

Finally, she said: Hamilton is playing at our favorite Staten Island movie theater on Sunday morning. Wanna go?

Sold!

I was coming in to Hamilton cold. I hadn't studied the libretto, and I didn't know the numbers (aside from a brief snippet from a Tony awards ceremony). The performers? Those I knew: Lin-Manuel Miranda, Daveed Diggs, Jonathon Groff and Renee Elise Goldsberry were familiar from other projects. (And I have to compliment Miranda for giving these scene-stealers room to strut--literally, in Daveed Diggs' case. A less secure showrunner might not be so generous with the spotlight.)

Remember how I whined about the long runtime of Wicked (the movie)? Well, Hamilton ran just as long--but it flew by. I read about how much historical material was packed into this libretto, but I was still amazed by how DENSE it all was and yet didn't bog down into boring exposition. Miranda balanced the serious matter of nation building with biting humor and he used the anachronistic contrast of a hip hop soundtrack and colonial America to keep the audience off balance and engaged. (I freaking LOVED that cabinet meetings in the Washington administration were framed as rap battles.)

Diggs pranced like a rock star as Lafayette AND Jefferson(!!), and Groff was incredible, sauntering on stage as King George III, charming and terrifying the audience with a naked display of old world power. (Brilliant choice by Miranda to make the King's solo an old British music hall number. Made it SCARIER.) But the pleasant surprise for me was Philipa Soo as Hamilton's wife, Eliza. She was the emotional backbone of the entire production, and Miranda actually gave her the last word.

[Nitpicks? Not this time! Score, libretto, staging, performances--all top quality. I was puzzled, though, at the omission of John Adams as a major player. I guess Miranda had to cut somewhere; otherwise, we'd be running close to four hours.

The 10th anniversary edition has reminiscences from all the major players about the creation of Hamilton, the initial production off Broadway and the move to the Richard Rodgers Theater for its epic run. Pleasant, but not essential.]

To wrap things up, I was treated to a deluxe burger at the Parkway Diner and pastries from Villa Abbate.

Right now, I'm on the bus, heading for the UA Sheepshead Bay and an afternoon showing of Weapons. Tomorrow night: Spinal Tap! Thursday (or Friday): Spike Lee and Denzel! This weekend: Darren Aronofsky! (And maybe some actual house maintenance.)

I'll try to keep up with reviews. Watch this space.

There once was a note
Pure and easy
Playing so free
Like a breath / rippling by

"Pure and Easy"; Pete Townshend, Lifehouse

It's an essential aspect of the legend of The Who that their greatest album, Who's Next, was born out of the group's greatest failure.

As the follow up to Tommy, Pete Townshend conceived of an even grander project: Lifehouse, a science fiction epic that featured an early form of virtual reality, incorporation of synthesizers (at a level unheard of at that point in pop music), and even fourth-wall-breaking audience participation. The underlying philosophical concept was the Eternal Note: a vibration beyond physical forms that could unite human consciousness on a higher level--literally, the music of the spheres.

The rest of the band... didn't understand it. The preliminary concerts with audience participation? Utter disasters. So, discouraged and defeated, Townshend and his mates went into the studio to salvage the best songs from the project. And from those sessions we got:

Baba O' Riley. Behind Blue Eyes. Won't Get Fooled Again. Masterpieces.

I could ramble on about Lifehouse for a good long time (could I ever) but I just wanted to point out how it represents a pattern in almost all of The Who's music: in each of the band's greatest recordings, the protagonist is destroyed or defeated on the physical plane, but within that defeat is the hope of spiritual rebirth. Tommy loses his acolytes; Jimmy crashes his motorcycle on the rocks at Brighton (Quadrophenia); "meet the new boss, same as the old boss" (Won't Get Fooled Again); Pete Townshend hits bottom, wakes up in a Soho doorway after a drinking binge (Who Are You). Things may not work out, but the quest for spiritual fulfillment is what makes life worthwhile.

And maybe, maybe you need to be destroyed on some level to be open to growth. From perfect despair, there is hope. (Sound familiar, Buffy fans?)

I won't find what I'm after
Till the day I die

"The Seeker," Pete Townshend

They played "The Seeker" at MSG last night, that one and all the other songs of alienation and spiritual restlessness--songs that inspired The Clash, Pearl Jam, Green Day and everyone in between. Townshend didn't do any leaps or knee slides, but his guitar playing was as precise and ferocious as ever (he even treated us to a couple of vintage Townshend windmills).

[Pete was also chatty and funny: "I know you all work very hard at your jobs," he told the audience, "but this job? It's fucking easy!" Daltrey suppressed a laugh. "I don't know how we get paid for this!"]

The rest of the band? Ok, they're not Keith Moon and John Entwistle. But they played those parts with proficiency and passion. The big x factor that juiced up the ensemble was the second guitarist, none other than Pete Townshend's baby brother, Simon. Simon tore off the opening riff of "Pinball Wizard" and even took lead vocal on "Going Mobile"--a "Who's Next" gem never performed live before this tour (that's 54 years on the shelf).

As for Daltrey... he doesn't have the range he once did. His voice is rougher, and he can't sustain notes for long. ("We're fucking old!" said Pete, after Roger needed a re-take at the end of "Love Reign O'er Me.") But it didn't matter. He brought it when he had to and when he didn't, the audience was singing the song with him anyway.

Yes, me too. Every word.

We were just happy to see them, this last time. We wanted to show our appreciation for their music, for the stories they told that enriched our lives. That they were fallible, human, fighting the frailties of age, only brought them closer to us. They were rock gods, but they were also Pete and Roger, two mates who started out in 1961 hoping to make a living in music. In a sense, it was the communal experience that Townshend always wanted for Lifehouse.

[At the end of the show, Daltrey and Townshend stayed on stage to talk to the crowd, and Pete tried to explain the strange, wonderful chemistry he had with Roger. They're not friends. They don't socialize. But the combination, on some higher level, simply works.]

The final song from the full band was "The Song Is Over." It's mostly about the end of a love affair, but it's also about learning from that experience and moving on with your life in new directions. At the end of the song, the band repeated the refrain from "Pure and Easy" above, the Eternal Note showing us the way forward...

So is this really the end? (After all, The Who have retired before.) Whether or not they ever hit the Garden again, last night was special. It was more than enough.

Penn and Teller at Radio City Music Hall (8/21/25)

Busy social calendar this month. Last Thursday, the family unit ventured into Manhattan to see Penn and Teller on their 50th anniversary tour.

Penn and Teller's act really hasn't changed all that much in 50 years. They cycle in new magic tricks all the time, but the style remains the same: Penn Jillette, bombarding and distracting the audience with a stream of sarcastic patter; Teller, ever silent, Penn's able assistant and a fountain of physical comedy; and the tricks themselves--objects (envelopes, exotic needles, guys in gorilla suits) disappearing from plain sight or appearing where they simply could not be.

The real treat of a P&T performance is the high concept stunt that would tickle the brain on a deeper level than your average card trick. In the Radio City show, they opened the second half with two life sized inflatable Penn and Teller figures bouncing on to the stage. Penn's voice is coming out of the speakers, but are they really in there? (And should they be aiming sharp objects at Teller?) The show's conclusion was a brilliant, almost elegant stunt centered around the concept of entropy. (I'm not going to spoil it here; you can download it on the internet.)

One pleasant surprise for me was Penn's facility for working with audience volunteers, especially kids. He's still the same acerbic personality, but he knows when to dial it back to goose the trick along. Then again, as my wife reminded me, he's had 50 years of practice.

Great show. And on the way home, we bumped into an old friend of mine (from my international travel days) who I hadn't seen for at least a decade!

WICKED (on the Jumbotron) at Maimonides Park

Normally, I wouldn't pay to see a movie like Wicked. But if it's going to be FREE and projected onto a 50 foot screen? I can indulge my curiosity.

I'm going to be nice to any Wicked musical fans out there and praise the set design, costuming and choreography. Absolutely impeccable. Ariana Grande as G(a)linda and Cynthia Erivo as Elphaba? Divine. (I have loved Cynthia Erivo since Bad Luck at the El Royale.)

The problem? Every time I was really getting into the story, the damn musical got in the way.

It occurred to me--after we staggered out of the ball park, exhausted from the 160 minute runtime--that everything I loved about this movie was from the Gregory McGuire novel, and I would have been perfectly happy if it had been a straight drama. The ingenious inversion of the Baum story, with the wizard as a fascist dictator and the Wicked Witch of the West as the courageous freedom fighter, came through loud and clear without the singing and dancing.

[My favorite moment in the movie was non-musical: Grande's Galinda in a dramatic display of virtue signalling so spiritually empty that I had to laugh out loud.]

Were the musical numbers BAD? No, not really. (Except for the Wizard's. Jeff Goldblum is not much of a singer.) But I didn't feel they added much to the story, and it just went on... so... long.

So am I going to see the inevitable Part Two (Wicked: For Good)? Probably when it comes to TV.

THE WHO live at Madison Square Garden (8/30/25)

The farewell tour (and we mean it this time!). The last show at the Garden. There is no way in this universe I am missing this. I have my ticket. I'll tell you all about it on Sunday.

Fantastic Four: First Steps (directed by Matt Shakhman)

Well, it took five tries, but they finally got it right.

First Steps is a classic Fantastic Four adventure--almost literally. It's as if someone took a Stan Lee/Jack Kirby 1966 FF comic book and fast forwarded it to 2025. It has retrofuturistic analog technology, a cool crystal blue/white color scheme, and more full length dresses, starchy suits and Fedoras than you can imagine in a "modern" movie.

If we're coming in at FF#48, the first issue of the Galactus trilogy (which I guess we are), there's no need for an origin story. We know who the characters are, their relationships and their respective powers. (We've had four previous FF movies; we shouldn't need the hand holding.)

The movie hits all the relationships perfectly: Reed and Sue's marriage, loving (but suffused with underlying tension); Ben and Reed's friendship, shaded by Reed's guilt over Ben's condition, but undiminished; Ben and Johnny's constant, affectionate verbal jousting and Sue's den mother guardianship of her weird, super-powered family.

Vanessa Kirby plays all of Sue's traditional strengths--minus Lee's 1960s sexism; Joseph Quinn is a slightly less hot headed Johnny Storm (but it's balanced by a general boost in smarts and his well developed connection with Julia Gardner's Silver Surfer); and Ebon Moss-Bacharach nails Benjamin J. Grimm/The Thing--the idol o'millions who's still the scruffy kid from Yancy Street. The movie wisely tones down the "tortured monster" trope and gives us a Ben who's comfortable in his own rocky skin.

[Two nice touches: in an early scene, Ben is in the kitchen helping Herbie the robot cook the evening meal--just a reminder that Richie from The Bear is under all that CGI. And near the end, Ben stops in at a local synagogue to check on Natasha Lyonne. Yes, kids--Ben Grimm is Jewish! (Look it up.)]

But this is Pedro Pascal's movie.

Pascal brings a human dimension to Reed Richards that we never had in the previous movies or even in the comics. This Reed still has the sky high intellect and the problem solving compulsion--but Pascal's Reed is painfully aware of how his obsessions affect his relationship with Sue and the rest of the group. You can practically smell the flop sweat as the smartest man in the world deals with two life changing crises he can't problem solve away: a cosmic. planet-devouring monster....and impending fatherhood.

[Speaking of Galactus: love the design! Jack Kirby dimensions, but not so much Kirby style. It reminded me of Moebius (from Silver Surfer: Parable)--granular, totemic, as if sand accumulated for billions of years until it eventually formed this Being.]

And finally....dare I say it? I found the conclusion/solution to this Galactus story much more satisfying than the one in the original comic book!

So...well done, everybody. Can't wait for Avengers: Doomsday. Pedro Pascal vs. Robert Downey Jr.'s Victor Von Doom? BRING IT ON!

Thunderbolts (directed by Jake Schreier)

I think Marvel has learned a lesson here: give your movie a strong central character (with a well-plotted character arc) played by a top quality actor and your audience can forgive any minor flaws in the overall plot.

In this case, it's Florence Pugh as Yelena Belova, wrestling with her past as a brainwashed assassin for Mother Russia, bitching about her current, unsatisfying (to say the least) stint as a black ops agent for the CIA, and wondering whether she has any kind of future.

It's odd to have depression as the major theme for a superhero movie, but Pugh makes it work. She's ably assisted by the motley crew of fellow mercenary misfits she picks up along the way: David Harbour as Red Guardian, Yelena's adopted "father", uncut cured Russian ham, but a loving, sensitive man underneath the bluster; Wyatt Russell's US Agent, a would be Captain America and bit of a dick, who gradually confronts his dickishness over the course of the movie; and Sebastian Stan as Bucky Barnes, reluctantly baby sitting this crew of cast-offs with understated cool.

[Stan doesn't get much of a spotlight here, but one scene with a motorcycle shows that Bucky still has the goods as a dynamic action hero. Look for it.]

The main antagonist ("villain" isn't quite right), The Sentry, is a perfect mirror for Yelena's existential crisis. "Bob" is a dead-on super-powered metaphor for bipolar syndrome. When he's up, he's literally Superman (with the big "S" to prove it), a God among men; when he's down, he's the Void, a black hole of despair sucking the entire city into the darkness with him. The team's efforts to pull Bob out of his psychic pit (and Yelena out of hers) is a refreshing change from the usual brain dead action climax.

Not everything here is perfect. Hannah John-Kamen kind of fades into the background as Ghost (pun intended); the movie dispatches Taskmaster way too soon; and Julia Louis-Dreyfus (much as I love her) just doesn't make it as the cynical, cold-hearted head of the CIA. (She comes off more like an out-of-her-depth PR flack for the government.)

But, as I said earlier, Pugh is charismatic enough to obscure these minor glitches. (We'll be seeing her again in Doomsday... so check it out!)

Daredevil: Born Again

Finally, I highly recommend Daredevil: Born Again.

Well... mostly the second half.

When reviving the beloved Netflix series, you'd think the showrunners would reunite us with the characters we loved and load up on superhero action... red meat for Hornhead's devoted fans.

Doesn't happen.

Instead, they kill off Foggy Nelson (Matt Murdock's best buddy) and exile Karen Page (former law partner and soul mate) to the (ugh) west coast. Matt is so wracked with guilt over Foggy's death that he stops being Daredevil.

For five episodes.

Now, it's not BAD, really; this is still Charlie Cox in the role, and man, he owns it. But I don't want to watch Matt Murdock, Blind Lawyer with Superhuman Hearing and Sick Fight Moves; I want to watch Daredevil.

Things turn around when Matt visits Frank Castle, aka The Punisher, about a group of NYC cops who are using Frank's particular iconography. Frank is still loonier than Daffy Duck, but he does force Matt to confront his grief over Foggy's death. Cox delivers a beautiful speech about Foggy's basic decency and how "men like us" will never achieve that in our lifetime.

From there, the horns are back on, and the plot picks up speed until the parallel paths of Matt and Mayor(!) Wilson Fisk intertwine in a brilliantly shot sequence at a fundraising ball.

I could have used a bit more character development for Matt's new law partner; she's just not that interesting. The new psychiatrist GF is more plot device than main character. (When Karen shows back up near the end, you almost breathe a sigh of relief.) And Cherry (Homicide's Clark Johnson) mainly pops in to yell "you're blowing up your life, Matt!" and exiting, stage left.

Still...the series is (and has pretty much always been) the pas de deux between Charlie Cox and Vincent D'Onofrio as Wilson Fisk (the Kingpin). Fisk, an amoral, monstrous brute who has convinced himself that his taste in tailored suits and fine wine gives him a veneer of civilization; and Matt Murdock, a deeply compassionate human being who thinks of himself as the devil. The interplay between their similar, yet contrasting personalities is endlessly fascinating. This, the showrunners got right.

Season two is teed up and ready to go. Kristen Ritter is back as Jessica Jones! (Never a bad idea to bring Kristen Ritter into your series.) The fight against the Kingpin continues...

Super/Fantastic, Part One: Superman (written and directed by James Gunn)

(This is part one of a two part post. I'll deal with Superman here, and Fantastic Four: First Steps after I see it next Friday. Spoilers galore!)

AS the inaugural movie of James Gunn and Peter Safran's revamped DC cinematic universe, Superman has two main objectives: reintroduce Superman/Kal-El/Clark Kent and his relationships with his supporting cast; and give viewers a taste of a wider and (wilder) world that creative teams will develop in forthcoming projects.

Gunn gets the job done at both ends--but not without cost. In order to squeeze everything in that he feels necessary to cover his bases, Gunn hits some points a little too hard and the actual plot gets a little too messy. The characters are basically fine--but the script needed another run-through to knock out some of the remaining kinks (and maybe drop some plot-lets that don't work).

Let's start with the good stuff. David Corenswet is a fine Superman, maybe not as charismatic as Christopher Reeve, but a well-realized embodiment of everything we love about the character. He's as corny as Kansas at harvest time, he's passionately dedicated to the preservation of life (to a fault), he has a sneaky sense of humor and he's appropriately sad about his status as Krypton's orphan. I like that we're seeing him fairly early in his career; he doesn't have the confidence and commanding presence yet, and we empathize with him as he's working out his role in the world.

He also has mad chemistry with Rachel Brosnahan's Lois Lane, which helps the movie a LOT.

Brosnahan is the definitive live action Lois Lane (so far). Lois is supposed to be the world's greatest investigative reporter and Brosnahan sells it. She's whip smart, prickly, relentlessly inquisitive, and doesn't back down for anyone--not even her boyfriend, the most powerful man in the world. The marvelously uncomfortable "interview" scene between Clark and Lois is a both a stress test for their relationship and an insight into Lois' relentlessly confrontational personality.

But Brosnahan also shows Lois' soft side. When she visits the Kent farmhouse near the end of the movie and walks through Clark's boyhood bedroom, you can see her affection for Clark deepen, with a deeper understanding of how he was raised and why he is how he is.

(Lex Luthor? I'll get to him later. Hang on.)

As for the broader aspects of the new DCU, this is James Gunn's bread and butter: an assortment of metahuman weirdoes who both lend Supes a helping hand and drive our hero to distraction. Of COURSE Nathan Fillion is here, having way too much fun as Guy Gardner, an arrogant douchebag with a hideous bowl cut and a Green Lantern power ring. (How much did Fillion have to pay Gunn to get this job?) But the standout here is Edi Gathegi's Mister Terrific, a scientific wizard who matches Gardner in arrogance but has the brains, skill and confidence to back that attitude up. (Look for his miniseries in a couple of years...)

As you may have heard, Krypto nearly steals the entire movie.

[Aside: I want to give Gunn my heartfelt thanks for faithfully recreating a favorite obscure hero from my childhood--Metamorpho, the Element Man. When he changed into gaseous form and floated alongside Supes, it was like a panel from his own comic book, drawn by the great Ramona Fradon. A truly awe-inspiring moment of comic book geekery.]

See? The characters are all good! But now we have to deal with the plot.

To put it bluntly, I don't think the political plotline works. It brings up a serious issue-- and leads into that wonderful Clark/Lois scene I talked about earlier--but Gunn doesn't deal with the implications in any depth. If Superman can stop pseudo-Slobodan Milosevic from slaughtering everybody in that poor, fake east Asian country, who can stop him from sticking his super nose into every conflict around the world? If HE decides how humanity settles its conflicts, isn't he the dictator--however benevolent--that Luthor claims he is?

[One of my all time favorite Superman stories is "Must There Be a Superman" (written by Elliot S! Maggin and drawn by the immortal Curt Swan). The Guardians of Oa--the little blue guys who sponsor the Green Lantern corps--summon Superman to Oa for a chat. They suggest that maybe Superman's constant interference is holding back humanity's evolution. And Clark really DOES think about it, and considers resetting his boundaries. That story blew my mind as a kid. Gunn could have used some of that thoughtfulness here.]

But beyond that, these real world-ish plotlines force the viewer to consider the Superman character's limitations. We know he isn't going to drag Putin or Netanyahu to the world court. We know he isn't going to free North Korea. So we're straining our suspension of disbelief. Superman works best confronting supervillains and world-level catastrophes, crises no one else could handle. And if the threat is a metaphor for a real life problem? Great! (Rod Serling made his legend doing exactly that.)

Speaking of supervillains....

Another problem with the Borovia plotline is that it's tied up with yet another Lex Luthor land grab.

What? Again?

Why does every Superman movie with Lex have him angling for real estate? In the comics, Lex Luthor does not wake up, inhale the fresh morning air and exclaim: "Land!" (He's got bigger fish to fry.) It's an affectation from the Salkind movies that I hoped we could leave behind in the 70s.

Granted, Gunn does pull off that last minute swerve to reveal the underlying reason for Luthor's land dealings: Lex's burning envy of Superman (and his single minded dedication to Superman's destruction). But even that comes with some heavy handed exposition. Gunn should have just copied Grant Morrison (from All-Star Superman):

LEX: If it weren't for you, I could have saved the world!

SUPERMAN: You could have saved the world years ago if it mattered to you.

Short, and cuts to the bone.

Another leftover from the Salkind era is Eve Teschmacher, a character I had absolutely no desire to see again. I can believe that this version of Lex dates bimbos (they don't challenge him), but Eve just seems to be around to look pretty and excessively fawn over Jimmy Olson. (Why? Did Jimmy treat her with kindness and respect and she's really really grateful? The only other explanation is that Jimmy Olsen is an Unstoppable Sex Machine and my brain can't deal with that...)

************

My other major nitpick with the plot is the message from Jor-El and Lara. It's not the whole "Superman was sent here to rule" part; it's a relatively recent addition to the comics, but it's not a total shot from left field. No, my problem is that Superman, with all his advanced Kryptonian technology and after decades of trying, can't decrypt the message...

And Luthor does it in two seconds. (Who's the inferior species now, Jor-El?)

Besides, Supergirl is RIGHT THERE. She's part of the family. She probably could tell Clark that Kryptonians weren't all sweetness and enlightenment:

"Kara... did you know about this?"
"Well, yeah--everybody knew your dad was kind of a dick."
"WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME?!"

Minor nitpick: We could lose, oh, five minutes off the big Supermam/Engineer/Bizarro fight scene without much of a sweat.

***************

So, overall, a promising start. I'm actually now looking forward to the Supergirl movie next year. (Jason Momoa as Lobo! More Krypto! More partying under red suns!)

What would I like to see in a second Superman movie? Let's go cosmic! Bring on Brainiac (in its Kryptonian AI incarnation)! The bottle city of Kandor! The Green Lantern Corps! Have Mr. Mxyzptlk pop in to annoy everybody! Superman has over 80 years of fantastic adventures to draw on. We don't need Luthor every single time...

Let's go deep!

Catching Up; 20th Anniversary;"The Warriors" at Coney Island; Soccer at the Meadowlands; Super/Fantastic

Hi! Yes, I know it's been awhile. There's a lot to talk about...so let's get to it:

Catching Up; 20th Anniversary

"So, Mr. Lasky, how are we today?"

I am fine. I am in relatively good health. There has been no recurrence of my deep vein thrombosis--and it will probably stay that way since I will remain on Lipitor until the end of time. My cholesterol levels are under control. My weight is slowly sneaking back up, though. (I'll have to watch that.)

Am I doing WELL? Frankly, nobody in America with an income under a billion a year is doing "well" right now (but that's another post).

My wife and I just celebrated our 19th wedding anniversary and the 20th anniversary of our first date. We went out to dinner (without the boy) just like twenty years ago. I teased her that the date went well and maybe we should be exclusive. She went along with it, then deadpanned: "I gotta warn you... I've got a kid." (Perfect timing and delivery. This is why I love her.)

"The Warriors" at Coney Island

For our second date, my new GF and the aforementioned kid took the subway out to Coney Island for an evening screening of "The Warriors" on the Jumbotron at Maimonides Park.

[Formerly MCU Park, formerly Brooklyn Cyclones Park, future corporate sponsor name pending.]

Perfect combination of venue and movie. For those of you who haven't seen it, The Warriors (1980; directed by Arthur Hill) chronicles the odyssey of a Brooklyn street gang as they navigate the NYC streets and subways from the Bronx to their home base in Coney Island with every other gang in the city on their trail and out for blood.

The kick of The Warriors is the contrast between the RL location shots and the highly stylized appearance of the rival gangs. (They look like they've been studying Commedia Dell'arte; definitely more West Side Story than Blackboard Jungle.) Watching the Warriors return home with the lights of the amusement park twinkling behind the screen was a magical experience.

"Waaaaaarriors... come out to play-yay!"

(If you know the movie, you'll get it.)

Soccer at the Meadowlands

Third date on our little anniversary tour was a trek out to the swamps of New Jersey for some English Premiere League football (soccer) action! But let's face it--this one was for the Boy. We just tagged along for the ride.

If our son has one abiding passion, it is soccer. He follows all the international club play and European cup finals. He's already sizing up the competition for next year's World Cup here in the states. He can spend hours playing FIFA video games (time that should be spent on homework). He is a huge fan of Manchester United; he knows all the players, owns all the merch. An entire section of his closet is Red Devils red. So when he heard Man U was playing an exhibition at the Meadowlands against West Ham United? We were there.

Actually, there were TWO games played that day, with Bournemouth and Everton going first at 4pm. Turnout for that match was relatively light. I expected hordes of rabid football fans to pack the rafters; but I would say the stands were one-third full.

Man U vs. West Ham? That was different.

The lower tier of MetLife stadium was a solid block of red. The Man U fans came out in force. It was only an exhibition, but the crowd gave it all the energy of a regular league game. And--just for a moment--I truly understood why the rest of the world loves this sport so much.

(Man U 2, West Ham 1.)

Super/Fantastic

To cap off our anniversary weekend, my wife and I went to see Superman. I'm going to talk about Kal-El's return in a separate post, because I have SO MANY THOUGHTS about it. I'm also kind of doing a Barbenheimer thing, as I'm seeing Fantastic Four with Shadowkat next week, and I anticipate having many many nerdy thoughts about that one.

So....watch this space!

No.

At first, I couldn't believe what I was reading. It had to be a sick internet joke. But no--it was all too real. My last sustained memory of MT was the final episode of BUFFY and she was still a child. Now, she's dead before the age of 40, supposedly due to... natural causes.

"Natural"?! Dying at 39 is not natural.

As a BUFFY fan (and as a moderately empathetic human being) this was all upsetting enough. But then you dig into the reports about her life as a child actor, how she was abused by her schoolmates as "that girl on TV" during her pre-teen years and you wonder if the Hollywood that brought her fame and wealth also destroyed her health. And as a BUFFY fan, you are also forced to remember the horrifying rule on the set of BtVS:

Never, NEVER leave Michelle alone with Joss Whedon.

The reason behind that rule has never been made public, and until one of the cast breaks the silence, we can only speculate. But it's not speculation that her self image took a battering on that set. It's a chilling reminder that the Hollywood Dream Factory is, at its core, a factory. And factories often do not care who gets caught up in the gears.

Eagles 40, Chiefs 22

Trust me, the final score doesn't reflect how one-sided this game turned out to be. It was over halfway through the third quarter and Eagle backups played a good chunk of the fourth. It was embarrassing.

Nobody expected this. These are the Chiefs and this is Patrick Mahomes. They don't get manhandled. They don't ever lose control of a game. If they're down, they always find a way to adapt and come back strong. But there were no comebacks here.

In retrospect, you could see the iceberg looming on the port bow. There were nagging questions about this Kansas City team, warning signs obscured by their incredible string (12!) of razor thin victories. They had no running game. Their best wide receiver was out for the season. Travis Kelce looked like he'd lost a step. (Well, maybe not off the field....) The offensive line looked a liitle shaky. Still, the Chiefs went 17-1 in the regular season. It was all going to work out for them, the way it always does.

Not this time. The Eagles sacked Mahomes six times, and their front four blew through the KC offensive line like it was tissue paper. (And it was just those four guys! The Eagles didn't blitz once! Incredible!) Running in spirals to avoid the rush, Mahomes looked like a wounded osprey fluttering in the wind. Commentators dinged Mahomes for his performance, but he had no time to throw, to THINK! There were times when it looked like the Eagles were in the backfield with him right at the snap.

(And even when he did get those few precious seconds to throw, his receivers--Worthy, Brown, and yes, Kelce--could never separate from the Eagle secondary.)

On the other side of the ball, the KC defense shut down Saquon Barkley, an admirable feat. But that just left empty space for A.J. Brown and Devonta Smith to roam free. And even when the Chiefs locked down Barkley and the wide receivers, Jalen Hurts had plenty of room to run. Philly had too many weapons operating at peak capacity.

In short, a total humiliation on an international stage. (And if you think Drake feels bad, imagine how the Chiefs must feel....)

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I've read many comments on the proposed Buffy revival/reboot/sequel, and they seem to be split between "I'm so excited!" and "It'll never live up to the original."

I'd like to hit this from another angle.

Once upon a time, there was a TV series that broke the mold, a fresh and exciting idea that saw the universe from a different perspective, a series that galvanized a generation of young fans. The series creator was something of a problematic personality, someone who never quite lived up to the ideals of his creation; but with the help of his often underappreciated staff, his series earned a permanent place in American popular culture.

That series? Star Trek.

When Star Trek: the Next Generation debuted in 1987, many people doubted that it would ever match the popularity and influence of the original. But, after a bumpy beginning, TNG equalled and perhaps surpassed the original. The key was staying true to Roddenberry's idealism, that the spirit of cooperation and the hunger for knowledge and understanding would elevate humanity from its worst instincts. All the best Trek series--each reflecting its era--have stayed true to this principle.

Similarly, BtVS centers around another powerful idea: that the myths and tropes of horror movies are potent metaphors for the horrors in everyday life; and that in facing down these supernatural terrors, we can metaphorically conquer those everyday trials as well. Whatever you might think of Joss Whedon, the IDEA is still valid. If you get the right people working in the right spirit, a new Buffy could be magical in its own right.

Would I like to see Petrie or Espenson or Drew Goddard chip in on the writing? Sure. Would I like to see Giles or Willow drop in and say hi (the way Spock and Scotty did on TNG)? Of course. But none of that is essential. Stay true to the essence and make it relevant to now.

It'll be tricky...but it's been done before.

Happy holidays everybody!

Three very different, very entertaining and/or thought provoking pop culture nuggets for your perusal:

American Fiction (written for the screen and directed by Cord Jefferson)

I have to give it up to the screenwriter/director. Given the premise--"serious" novelist pens sterotypical ghetto tragedy potboiler as a joke and winds up with runaway best seller--this could have been a wild, uninhibited farce with our protagonist squeezed into ever more embarrassing situations and parodic scenes from the novel filling up the movie.

But Jefferson does something interesting: yes, some of the farcical elements are here, as Monk (Jeffrey Wright) slams head first into a white-dominated media world that only seems interested in black suffering. But he deliberately undercuts the farce with more grounded scenes with Monk as he deals with his troubled family and his own conflicted self-image.

As a result, the movie is less about white liberal hypocrisy or even black family life, and more about Monk's growth as a character; how his serious novels (based on updates of Ancient Greek drama) and his elitist views of literature reflect his own detachment from the forces that shaped him, and how his "joke" novel allows some of those conflicts to seep out.

The movie never settles into easy answers to Monk's issues. There are no pat resolutions to the family drama--and even the "sellout" author who provokes his vicious parody (played beautifully by Issa Rae) is given the chance to state her case.

Some critics wanted a more caustic satire, more like the original novel or in the vein of Spike Lee's Bamboozled. But Jefferson isn't as didactic as Lee. Character comes first--and in that, he has the perfect partner in Jeffrey Wright. I think Wright is one of the best actors on the planet and this movie has done nothing to change my opinion. Thelonious "Monk" Ellison could have been an abstraction; Wright makes this very difficult character feel real and he holds the center of the movie.

Guardians of the Galaxy Holiday Special (written and directed by James Gunn)

As I am not blessed with a Disney+ subscription, I missed out on this seasonal treat a few years ago; so I was delighted when FX picked it up for holiday viewing.

A GotG Xmas special sounds weird, but fans of the franchise know this is right up James Gunn's alley: an absolutely sincere tribute to the cheeseball Xmas specials of holidays past, with just enough of an acknowledgement of their absurdities.

Wedged in between the second and third GotG movies, the plot is simple: Peter Quill (Chris Pratt) is depressed, and Mantis (Pom Klementieff) wants to cheer him up with a present for that strange Earth holiday called Christmas. But what to get him? Drax (Dave Bautista) has the perfect gift idea: why not bring Quill that great warrior he keeps blabbering about...

Kevin Bacon?

So Drax and Mantis warp down to Earth and kidnap Kevin Bacon.

Yeah, it's every bit as ridiculous as it sounds, but Gunn fires off some great comic riffs as Drax and Mantis bounce across Los Angeles like a pair of demented Christmas elves, photobombing the tourists, partying at the club, and terrifying poor Kevin Bacon (who just wants to sit quietly at home until Kyra Sedgwick and the kids come back from New York).

But once the silliness subsides and Kevin chills out, Gunn flips over to the sentimental side of these specials and it fits nicely into Guardians lore: Drax tells Kevin that Footloose inspired the Starlord dance moves that saved the galaxy; and Mantis gives Quill the best Christmas present of all--the sister he never knew he had.

It's not an all-time classic, but it goes down pretty smooth, and for devoted Marvel maniacs, it's an essential piece of the GotG story. (I will say, tbough, that the, um, unusual take on the legend of Santa Claus by the alien rock and roll band should be a perennial.)

Wallace and Gromit: Vengeance Most Fowl (co-written and co-directed by Nick Park)

For a Wallace and Gromit fan, there is a feeling of happiness and reassurance from a simple trumpet fanfare. That familiar theme music tells you that you are back in the Claymation world of Nick Park and Aardman animation and you are safely in the hands of a master.

Vengeance Most Fowl is the first W&G movie in nineteen years, but Park and his team haven't missed a step. In fact, the backgrounds seem to be packed with more detail than ever before; the gags are even more exquisitely timed; and the supporting characters are better than ever in adding depth to Wallace and Gromit's world.

Thankfully, Wallace and Gromit themselves haven't changed at all. Wallace is still the model of dotty, kind hearted British eccentricity, tinkering with his gears and tubes and springs to the silent exasperation of Gromit, his ever loyal canine companion. (Ben Whitehead, taking over the voice of Wallace from the late Peter Sallis, is nearly flawless.) One of Wallace's inventions goes awry/falls into the wrong hands and Gromit has to dig in his paws and save the day.

The big improvement over the previous W&G movie is the return of the series' greatest villain: Feathers McGraw, the silent, beady-eyed penguin mastermind from The Wrong Trousers. One of the pleasures of the movie is watching McGraw's machinations slowly unfold. His plan to escape his prison (the local zoo, of course), get revenge on Wallace and Gromit, and complete his final theft is almost as detailed as the animation itself.

I could spend another ten paragraphs listing the great gags in this movie, from the terrifying antics of Wallace's automated garden gnome to the climactic barge "race"; but you should just see it for yourself. (Vengeance Most Fowl is in limited release in movie theaters, and debuts on Netflix in early January.)

BEAT (Adrian Belew, Tony Levin, Steve Vai, Danny Carey) Live at Kings Theater in Brooklyn 12/8/24

A bit of history first....

When King Crimson founder/lead guitarist/benevolent dictator Robert Fripp reconstituted the band in 1981, it was a fairly radical departure from previous incarnations. This was a progressive rock dinosaur surprisingly light on its feet, incorporating new wave rock and Indonesian gamelan music into Crimson's already heady mixture of classical and jazz motifs.

Along with long time drummer Bill Bruford, Fripp recruited guitarist Adrian Belew (whom he met while recording for David Bowie in Berlin) and ace bass player Tony Levin (snatched away from Peter Gabriel). Belew brought his guitar menagerie of roars, squeaks and squawks into the mix and his David Byrne-like yawp and surrealistic lyrics gave the oft-ignored singer/front man of the group an actual personality. (Often said, sadly true: nobody comes to King Crimson concerts to see the singer.)

This version of the band stayed together for three whole albums (a KC record!)--Discipline, Beat and Three of a Perfect Pair--and Belew fronted the group in the 90s and 00s long after Levin and Bruford had departed....

...which is why it came as a shock to Adrian when Fripp called him up in 2013 and told him his services were no longer required. Belew couldn't believe it. Fired? (Wasn't Crimson his band, too?)

But Fripp has been the guiding force and taskmaster behind King Crimson since its birth in 1969, and he has left a slew of talented musicians on the side of the road. And if Robert thinks it's time to move on....he moves on. Crimson toured in the 2010s with a new lead singer, an emphasis on the 50-year breadth of its catalogue--but with very little of the 80s material. (I caught them in 2017; they were faaaaantastic!)

But with a wealth of quality songs sitting there gathering dust, Belew petitioned Fripp for permission to take the 80s material out on the road. Fripp gave his blessing. That left one major road block: who do you get to play this shit?

Tony Levin was in. (Beats session work.) But if Fripp and Bruford were out, that's a problem. Guitar players have spent YEARS trying and failing to duplicate Fripp's technique. Most rock drummers can barely keep a four on the floor beat; let's see them keep up if the meter is in...oh, 21. 80s Crimson is some of the most rhythmically complex, knottiest music out there. Amateurs need not apply.

This time, though, the gods smiled on Belew. He reeled in guitar virtuoso Steve Vai (a fellow survivor from Frank Zappa's band) and on drums, he scored a major coup with Danny Carey from Tool--perhaps the one band working today that can legitimately call themselves Crimson's successor.

So when Belew took center stage at the opulently refurbished Kings Theater on Sunday, he was like a man playing with house money. The joy was palpable. The band ripped through two hours plus of Belew era material, and one powerhouse ringer from 70s Crimson ("Red"). Belew and Vai easily duplicated the hypnotic, interlocking guitar riffs that were a trademark of those 80s albums, and Carrey nearly stole the show with cascading drum fills played at maximum force.

So was it really a King Crimson concert--only without Robert Fripp? Not quite. Vai took great pains (literal and figurative) to duplicate a lot of Fripp's punishing finger work, but there were spaces in the show that left openings for solos and experiments that Fripp wouldn't allow. An extended version of "The Sheltering Sky" broke out of its meditative groove for some patented Vai pyrotechnics; Belew and Carey locked in for a gorgeous duet on standing drum kits on "Waiting Man"; and Belew went off the reservation on "Industry", veering away from the piece's metallic grind into Pink Floyd-ian ambient noise.

But if I went to this show to hear anything, it was songs from that first 80s album, Discipline. To me, Discipline is the platonic idea of a King Crimson album. Most lyrics on a Crimson album come off as superfluous or annoying, because the point of King Crimson is the process of four brilliant individual artists creating the music. The music doesn't help convey an idea in the lyrics; the music IS the idea. Discipline gets around the problem because all the lyrics are about the process of creating the album. (It's hilariously, perfectly meta.)

So when the guys played "Elephant Talk," "Frame By Frame," "Indiscipline" (spectacular!), and "Thela Hun Ginjeet" to close out the show, I was a happy camper.

Come back soon, guys! (Maybe some 90s material next time?)

It's been seven months since my last post? Really? Wow.

I have no excuse for my absenteeism. Yes, I've been busy at work, preoccupied with my health and hip deep in various household projects, but that doesn't mean I couldn't spare a minute to say hi. I guess it comes down to: I don't think anybody would be intetested in the details of my banal, domesticated tickytack life. (Hell, I'm not interested in the details half the time.) But maybe that doesn't matter. Maybe I need to talk about my banal, domesticated, tickytack life with you guys so I don't live in the echo chamber inside my head.

So what's been happening?

My job is my job. No change there.

The one truly positive development is that I've lost 20 pounds! I've bern carrying that extra weight for a couple of decades, and it's probably been a contributing factor to my elevated blood pressure. I'm on statins to bring the BP down and I'm hoping that the combination of weight loss and medication will bring me down to normal.

(There has been no recurrence of my deep vein thrombosis. But I will be on medication for that forever.)

BTW, my wife has lost 65 pounds! (Makes me look like an amateur.) The stress on her back and her ankles has disappeared. We go on extended walks together almost every night. It's kind of romantic--if passing the taco truck outside our local Walgreens can be romantic.

The Boy is in good health. He's 15 now, in his sophomore year at his Catholic high school. His soccer team made it to the city finals again! And they lost. Again.

He is....a teenager. He's hanging with his buds rather than mom and dad. (My wife refuses to accept this development.) He barely squeezes out two words when we ask him a question. If not properly motivated, he will sleep until dusk. He subsists on Doritos, peanut butter, chicken nuggets and Subway sandwiches.

He is also struggling with certain school subjects, which is new to him. I sometimes worry if he can handle the stress of the honors program and I wonder if we're pushing him too hard...or not hard enough. He's taller than both of us now, but there's still a lot of the quiet little kid in there. I want to protect him, stop him from making the same mistakes I did. But I know he's going to make mistakes
no matter what I do.

What else? We finished renovating the basement--it's basically my wife's GirlCave(tm)--and we had the entire first floor painted. The paint job is so beautiful my wife doesn't want to re-hang the pictures that were on the wall. (I'm going to have to wait her out on that one.)

I've been watching a lot of movies on our DVR, but nothing I felt worthy of a post. (The last movie I saw in the theaters was Deadpool and Wolverine--a massive disappointment.) I'm not particularly excited by the current and upcoming slate of movies. When is the Fantastic Four movie out? May? July?

I did venture out of my cubbyhole for two concerts recently: ELO at MSG (my first time at the Garden in decades), and last night, Beat at Kings Theater in Brooklyn. Adrian Belew, Tony Levin, Steve Vai and Danny Carey (the drummer from Tool) playing the 1980s King Crimson songbook. Now that concert was worthy of a post! Let's see if I actually write it. (Watch this space.)

Until then, take care everybody.

Most of the people on my flist have been, at one time or another, BUFFY obsessives.

We pored over episodes like sacred texts, overidentified with the characters, wrote fanfic, and yes, felt a little hollow inside when it all ended.

I often thought about writing a novel about the experience, that passionate connection with an image on your TV screen that you and maybe a few select others in your life could understand.

But now I don't have to.

There's a movie.

Writer/director Jane Schoenbrun's "I Saw the TV Glow" is about that strange bond between viewer and video, and how the experience warps your personal reality. And if there's any doubt whatsoever that the fictional TV show in the movie is a Buffy analog...

Amber Benson has a cameo.

It's playing in select theaters in New York and LA before going into wide release on the 17th.

I'm tempted to pop down to the Angelika in Manhattan to check it out.

(But what if I find it a little TOO relatable?)

I am currently in a bit of a holding pattern. I'm done with antibiotics, but my endoscopy has been postponed until next month. I'll be done with blood thinners after Sunday morning, but I won't know if they worked on the clot until May 9th. I'm waiting for waterproofers to come in and give me an estimate on my basement, but that's still ten days away.

(My wife also had some vital tests postponed until early May. We are very annoyed.)

In the meantime, a brief pop culture review while I'm waiting....

*****************

Late Night with the Devil (written and directed by Cameron and Colin Cairnes) is a neat little horror movie, a mostly successful "found footage" film with a unique twist: with the exception of a brief documentary introduction, it takes place entirely within one episode of a late 1970s late night talk show.

The talk show in question is Night Owls, hosted by the affable Jack Delroy (David Dastmalchian), who has been lagging behind Johnny Carson his entire career and is perpetually one step away from cancelation. In a desperate bid to boost ratings, Delroy turns his Halloween episode into a dive into the paranormal, featuring a 12 year old girl supposedly possessed by a demon.

The movie is most effective when it stays in its chosen lane and sticks to the confines of the talk show, with Delroy interacting with his sidekick, a psychic, and a Ricky Jay-like skeptic (played with bitchy flamboyance by Ian Bliss). The Cairnes subtly, incrementally ratchet up the tension, depending on their host to guide the action until the inevitable blood soaked finale.

And Dastmalchian, in the driver's seat for the first time in his career, delivers. He's made a living playing tragic weirdoes in the margins of big movies (Polka Dot Man anyone?), but he shows here that he's more than capable of handling a lead role. Throughout the movie, we wonder about Delroy's motives. Is he just interested in putting on a freak show for the rubes or does he have deeper motivations? Delroy never loses his show biz bonhomie, but Dastmalchian lets you see the struggles going on underneath. It's a finely tuned, engaging performance.

The movie is not perfect. There are "master tape" excerpts from the Night Owls studio during commercials and the camera is just a little too perfectly in place for key conversations. (It kind of breaks the illusion.) And in the hallucinatory final sequence, we find out that everything we thought we knew about Jack Delroy turns out to be... exactly what we thought. (It's not bad, but it's kind of anticlimactic.)

These flaws don't ruin the movie, though. It's a solid debut for the Cairnes, and it proves that Dastmalchian is ready for bigger things. He says he wants to play a vampire. Give this man some fangs!

[Late Night with the Devil is still in selected theaters and is currently streaming on Shudder.]

I hate taking pills. The idea of introducing potent chemicals into my body with the possibility of toxic side effects unnerves me. Taking multiple pills is even worse: who knows how the combination of drugs will affect my system?

So right now, I am not having a good time. Because I am taking nine pills daily.

Let me break it down for you:

Amoxicillin (antibiotic) - 2 pills, twice daily
Clarithromycin (antibiotic) - 1 pill, twice daily
Eliquis (blood thinner) - 1 pill, twice daily
Prilosec (acid blocker) - 1 pill daily

It's all (unfortunately) necessary, because I still need to wash out that blood clot, treat my ulcers and kill the bacterial infection nestled like a viper in my stomach. This is what I get for putting off a GI exam for fifteen years. Doesn't mean I have to like it. The antibiotics are screwing with my digestive system, and I have this chalky taste in my mouth that won't go away. But I just need to stick it out until next Friday; then I'm back down to the Eliquis.

(I have another endoscopy in six weeks to check out if the stomach medications worked. I hope that's the end of it.)

Nine pills. Last night, I wondered out loud if I needed one of those pill containers with a day of the week on each compartment. My wife glared at me: "You're not 100."

Time for my morning antibiotics. I'll be right back.....

*************************

Bleagh. That was awful.

Where was I?

Oh yes... Morbius!

My wife recorded it partly as a joke and partly as an exploration of bad cinema. Yes, we know it sucks, but why does it suck? We pulled out our notebooks in anticipation; and who knows?, I said, maybe the critics were wrong and it'll turn out to be a hidden gem!

Just kidding. No, it was pretty bad.

I don't want to go into too much detail.
You can read about the flaws in this movie in any internet review: the boilerplate script, the washed out characters, the unimaginative camera work and action scenes and the horrible (truly horrible) special effects. The movie isn't an all-time stinker, but it pounds you to death with its relentless mediocrity.

But thinking about it later, I had a realization: this movie was doomed from the get go.

The problem here is that Sony tried to create a Marvel level superhero movie on one-third of the Marvel budget. So you don't have the up and coming director, the quality screenwriter, the expert stunt coordinator and the top shelf FX studio. You spend the money on Jared Leto, but everything else looks and sounds like crap.

Could Morbius ever have been good? Hey, anything can be good, no matter how dumb the premise, if you put in the effort. Maybe they needed to scale things down a little, hone the screenplay, put more of an emphasis on practical effects, and hire an unknown as Morbius. The perfect example of this approach is (the Oscar-winning!) Godzilla Minus One; a franchise monster flick on a minimal budget, done with passion, strong characterization and visual flair.

I will give Morbius one thing though.

Matt Smith is having a ball. As the villain, he embraces his superpowerful vampiric state with wild enthusiasm. He struts, he poses, he dances in front of mirrors--he is groovin'. He almost makes the movie fun. (But not quite.)

Well, I put it off for as long as possible--fifteen years, as a matter of fact. But in the quest to discover the mysterious origins of my deep vein thrombosis, my doctor insisted it had to be done. So I finally gave in.

I had the colonoscopy.

(No really, the leg is doing much better now! Can't we just put it off for another fifteen years?)

I finally decided that I was being a scaredy cat and I needed to get an accurate assessment of my health for my family's sake (as well as my own). So I emptied out my gut and my colon smiled for the birdie.

The results? A few stray polyps (that my GI man didn't seem too worried about), but more seriously:

Ulcers.

This was kind of a surprise. I haven't had much of a problem with spicy foods; peppers don't bother me and I like my sushi with Wasabi. But, weirdly enough, I've had bad reactions to both AFTER the colonoscopy. (It's as if the procedure scraped off a protective coating around the ulcers...) I'm taking Prilosec for the next month, but I think I need to rethink my diet in general. That's not going to be easy.

***************

In between all the medical drama, I've caught up on some recent notable movies and TV miniseries and my reactions ranged from wild applause to total disgust (with a few milder opinions in between). Let's break it down:

The Good Stuff

I already raved about Oppenheimer in a previous post, so I'm not going to repeat myself. It won all the Oscars it deserved to win. Same goes for Poor Things (directed by Yorgos Lanthimos), a brilliant deconstruction of the Victorian mindset (which persists--in many ways--to the modern world). Emma Stone is amazing (of course), but she almost gets the movie stolen out from under her by Mark Ruffalo, as a would-be Bohemian cad who isn't nearly as free from his era's social conventions as he thinks he is. (It's just pure evil fun to watch as Bella's quest for personal liberation completely strips him of his self delusions, leaving him a gibbering wreck.)

The makeup, costuming and production design combine to create a thoroughly believable steampunk alternate late 1800s and Lanthimos handles this expanded pallette with confidence and flair. If I have one complaint about the movie--and maybe this is just me--it's that Bella's logical, empirical methodology creates a bit of an emotional distance between the audience and the character. You root for her (because, yes, she's that awesome), but you don't get a lot of warm moments with her. (You get one between Bella and the courtesan in the Paris brothel, but I would have liked a little more.)

Pay no attention to my nitpicking. This movie is great. And we have another Emma Stone/Yorgos Lanthimos team up all ready to go? I'm there!

I've heard descriptions of Beau Is Afraid (written and directed by Ari Aster) ranging from "technicolor nervous breakdown" to "the world's longest Jewish mother joke." I think the closest I can get to classifying this very bold, very long, very weird movie is the counterculture novels of Terry Southern (like Candy or The Magic Christian), where a naive protagonist would go on a surreal, satirical journey through modern society--a bildungsroman on acid. But since Aster is a horror director, this movie is more like an anti-bildungsroman--the deeper he goes, the more he realizes he's always been fucked.

Whether you're willing to sit through a three hour anxiety attack depends on whether you liked Ari Aster's previous movies (Heredity and Midsommar) and how much you like Joaquin Phoenix. But, love it or hate it, give Phoenix credit--the man commits. His Beau is a vibrating mass of jangled nerves, constantly on the verge of helpless tears or outright implosion. It's a version of Phoenix we've rarely seen before--softer, intensely vulnerable--and he capably guides us through Aster's narrative circus act until the bitter, bitter end.

Is this movie for everyone? No. A lot of people will give up halfway through, muttering "self indulgent crap". But I loved it. It was John Waters' favorite movie of last year. (Have we ever steered you wrong?)

Should Have Been Better

I've been a fan of Nicole Holofcener for awhile now, admiring her idiosyncratic romantic comedies, like Enough Said (starring Julia Louis Dreyfus and the late--sniff!--James Gandolfini) or her screenplays for The Last Duel and Can You Ever Forgive Me?

Holofcener's latest, You Hurt My Feelings, teams her up with JLD again, but the movie just isn't as sharp as their previous outing, and the central conflict--semi-famous author discovers husband doesn't like her novel--comes off as rich people's problems and relatively slight. There are mentions throughout the movie of the author's abusive childhood, but Holofcener doesn't put much emphasis on past trauma, perhaps afraid it'll spoil the warm, relaxed vibe.

The big problem with the movie, though, is that it's not very funny. It's witty and well-observed (as usual for a Holofcener joint), but the big laughs (mostly) aren't there. The exception is a series of riotous scenes with David Cross and Amber Tamblyn as a married couple receiving no help from their couples counseling sessions. Cross and Tamblyn (married in RL!) bounce acid comments off each other and their hapless therapist at breakneck speed and it supercharges the whole movie. Maybe next time, Holofcener needs to get a bit more down and dirty.

Feud: Capote and the Swans, detailing Truman Capote's friendship with--and ultimate betrayal of--the ladies of Manhattan society has an incredible pedigree: written by playwright Jon Robin Baitz, directed by Gus Van Sant, and stocked with a-list acting talent (led by Tom Hollander as Capote), it should have been a knockout...

But once the relationship between Capote and his "swans" has been defined--he's both attracted and repelled by the Lifestyles of the Superrich--the drama spins its wheels for the rest of the series. There are occasional breaks in the inertia-- Chris Chalk drops in as James Baldwin, dispensing gay solidarity and hard truths--but no amount of bon mots can disguise the tedium at the heart of the enterprise.

Naomi Watts is superb as practically perfect Babe Paley (wife of CBS chairman William Paley), and Hollander devours Capote like a fine pate de fois gras. I just wish they were in a better show.

Complete Botch

How could they have blown it this badly?

Scott Frank (The Queen's Gambit) and Tom Fontana (Homicide: Life on the Street) take Dashiel Hammett's Sam Spade (Clive Owen) on an adventure to the south of France, where he encounters beautiful scenery, beautiful women, spies, jaded gendarmes and lots and lots of murder. It can't miss.

So why is it so boring?

Frank and Fontana somehow, inexplicably, make every wrong choice. The most interesting characters, like Brigid O'Shaughnessy and Spade's rich and beautiful French wife, Gabrielle? Dead before the first commercial. The main villain, the Sydney Greenstreet of the piece? Lost in the shadows for most of the runtime. Brigid's annoying teenage daughter? Does not shut up.

There is murder at a convent AND a mysterious boy who could be a prophesied messiah AND teams of uninteresting spies working at cross purposes AND much hand-wringing about the French/Algerian war. (An endlessly fascinating topic for American audiences, I've heard.) It's so convoluted that Alfre Woodard shows up in the last 15 minutes(!) and basically tells everybody to go home.

Owen tries his best, but Monsieur Spade is a complete botch from beginning to end. Pray there is no Season Two.

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