Non-consensual Acting

I once had a co-worker tell me he thought Anthony Hopkins must be a "very spiritual man" because he had so convincingly played C.S. Lewis in a film. I retorted that we could just as easily assume Hopkins was also a cannibal, since he'd done such a swell job of that, too.

Acting is a consensual activity. There are varying degrees of persuasiveness (good and bad acting) but they all require a willingness on the part of the audience. A trip to Santa's chair, or Disneyland will quickly bear this out. Four years ago when our family visited Disneyland, my then-six-year-old daughter sought out Princess Jasmine and quietly informed her that she was my daughter's favorite princess.

"Why thank you!" said "Jasmine." She turned to "Aladdin" and said, "What a lovely thing to say. Did you hear that?"

"She's my favorite princess, too," said Aladdin, and the two characters made a show of being primly in love with each other.

I thanked the couple, and did my bit by staying in character as well. No broad winks, in other words. What a bizarre world for these actors to inhabit, I thought.

If this piece in L.A. Magazine is any indication, I had no idea just how bizarre it gets. A former Jack Sparrow tells all. Among the "minuses" to the job: low pay, unrelenting Disney surveillance and disciplinary actions, the occasional stalker and drunken hordes of groping cougars. Getting back to the bit about consensus: what is it about a guy in a pirate suit that suggests he's up for an ass-grab? Having said that, I still giggle to think of the short-lived "Tarzans" who were thrown out to the crowd like so much red meat.

On the "plus" side: "I already had a thing for the Ariels when I arrived. They have red hair, and I love red hair."

Horrific thought: sometimes we really do get the jobs we deserve.

Who Protests The Protest Song?

You sold us quite a show
Prosperous land with pregnant glow
Now it's like the Alamo
Nobody loves you anymore

Further to yesterday's posting: the two discs that are currently receiving the most (public) play in my house are Vegas by Martyn Joseph and Just Us Kids by James McMurtry. Both discs have acquired some notoriety for the “protest songs” that sit near the middle of their track lists. That these songs generate controversy at all is cause for some amusement. It brings to mind Mark Knopfler's line from a quarter-century ago, expressed with nicotine-stained faux shock: “That protest singer / he's singing a protest song!”

Fans of these singers, of course, don't bat an eyelash — it's all good. I guess it's the casual listener, possibly associating Joseph with “Let's Talk About It In The Morning” and McMurtry with ... I don't know ... “Restless”(?), who gets a little crusty at the inclusion of politics, particularly if the singer's politics don't quite line up with the listener's. And sometimes the clarity of protest can so dominate the spotlight as to make the song in question the ersatz centerpiece of the album.

If that is the effect on the listener, it's no fault of the singer's. Had Joseph or McMurtry meant their protest to take center stage, they'd have called their albums Nobody Loves You and Cheney's Toy (respectively). Instead, the two albums' title songs are evocative and, after a few spins, unsettlingly majestic in their scope.

Joseph starts “Vegas” with an 80-year-old cab driver, who's moved to Vegas after the death of his wife. The move is described as an act of whimsy and nostalgia, a chance for the old-timer to remember the sunniest days of his marriage. As the song picks up steam, the motivations of everybody in Vegas start to seem more urgent. Joseph concludes with the song's narrator holding on to the improbable vision of Elvis still being very much alive. The bizarre landscape of Vegas — “Blade Runner without the rain” — somehow appeals directly to the most absurd yearnings of the heart. Joseph might follow this up with “Nobody Loves You Anymore,” but “Vegas” has already countered that, effectively saying, “I don't just love you, I'm crazy for you.”

Similarly, McMurtry constructs “Just Us Kids” in lyrical short-hand that hearkens back to the High School nostalgia of John Mellencamp's “Jack & Diane.” Rather than settling there, however, McMurtry catapults into these kids' future: dot-com businesses, Mexican vacations that coincide with divorces, settling for early retirement and watching the kids go to college. “It's a damn short movie, that's for sure.” The song's lyrics and hook (like Mellencamp's) are deceptively simple. And though on other songs McMurtry sorts through emotional geography with a fine-tooth comb, every time I listen to “Just Us Kids” I'm left wondering, “How does this song manage to reach so deeply?”

Or, to quote the “kids”: “How'd we ever get here?” That's a question that runs through every song on the album — no less the “protest” songs. I can't get enough of either album right now. I suppose if we read to know we're not alone, we listen to music for much the same reason.

James McMurtry: website, MySpace, eMusic. Martyn Joseph: website, Amazon, eMusic, mp3 samples here, including "Vegas" in its entirety.

Vietnam Is Not Old News

This weekend's Globe & Mail has two in-depth articles on the continued toll of Agent Orange in Vietnam. I've said before, and still maintain, that the US (and Canada) can regenerate some of the global goodwill they've squandered in this latest war if they acknowledge the sins of the previous war and make reparation.

WALL·E

Pity the professional movie reviewer. Gene Siskel used to introduce his and Ebert's year-end list of ten worst movies by saying each of these stinkers took two hours away from their lives — two hours they would never get back. They would follow this up with a rueful chuckle then get to the business of roasting green weenies, which was usually more fun to watch than their ten best.

Ah, but critics live for those ten best and worst movies. It's the mediocre ones that take the toll — the movies that show charm, or potential, before succumbing to the banal. Hence, after Indiana Jones, Iron Man, The Incredible Hulk and now Hellboy, we get this summer's critical cri de couer: CGI death-matches lack the gravity and drama of physically co-ordinated stunt-work.

Oh really? Then why does the first candidate for this summer's best movie feature a little robot who gets the gears beat out of him — in state-of-the-art CGI? I'm hoping the folks at Marvel and DC and every major studio are taking notes on how this works, because it's not as if the narrative thread to WALL·E reinvents the wheel. Andrew Stanton's tight screenplay and exquisite direction are the very embodiment of what kicks Robert McKee into arm-waving, let's-give-a-cheer mode.

Just about everyone is moving WALL·E to the top of their list this year. For my critical money I think David Edelstein (once again) best sums up why this is. In Pixar we have one of the few technology-based industries sifting through things in an effort to recover our disappearing soul.

Save On Gas! (While Courting Death ... Or Worse)

Yesterday I spent about 20 minutes on the 401, Canada's largest and most lethal highway. During that 20 minute stretch I encountered a total of six motorcyclists, four of whom were courting nominations for this year's Darwin Award. One was carrying on as if a motorcycle surrounded by speeding hunks of metal was just a benign extension of playing Mario Karts. Two were wearing the legally required helmet -- and a pair of shorts. But the most peeving of these was a guy intent on riding not just his KLR 650, but my bumper as well. I gradually slowed down to 10 clicks below the speed limit, until he lost patience, peeled around me and rode the bumper of the next hapless motorist.

Having miraculously survived three spills, including one that left me standing over my totaled bike, I can say with some authority that most motorists don't have the slightest clue just how dangerous riding a motorcycle can be. To make matters worse, neither do most motorcyclists. This is why emergency crews are outfitted with flat-blade shovels and pressurized hoses (and a benefits package that includes trauma therapy).

I have a couple of friends who work in emergency centers, and they're pretty much agreed: drugs may be the biggest scourge in their workplace, but once the snow thaws motorcycle casualties place a close second. Many of these unfortunates are young yahoos, but there's also no shortage of men in mid-life. In the latter case, what's usually happened is a very large guy dropped a bundle on a very large bike (an oh-so-rebellious Harley, say), then went and dropped the bike on the first run. Welcome aboard, Hoss. Now meet your new wheels.

These are the thoughts that occurred to me after I read this consumer advice piece written by Sam Whitehead. It is, in his words, "an extremely broad and completely unscientific, yet infinitely wise, guide to what you [the first-time rider] might consider when buying a motorcycle or scooter." To be fair, he opens the piece with a recommendation for "some sort of training." Forewarning like that might not be as bold a statement as, "Dear reader, if this piece excites you into the motorcycle showroom, be forewarned the odds are you will live to regret the day you read my words -- or, if not you, your surviving family members." I would have also settled for a subtitle that read, "If gas prices are killing you, wait'll you get the bill from your HMO." But I suppose Whitehead's spongey caveat is enough to cover his butt.

Now that that's taken care of, my only other kvetch is the absence of the Honda 919 -- the bike most likely to entice me back to the dark side. It's not too large to lift up by yourself, nor too small to speed you out of a potential scrape. It's got a pleasant wind-against-yer-chest build, a sturdy wheel-base and tucked-in seating. It's built by Honda, and if my experience of 20 years ago is applicable today this makes it an easier, common-sensical bike to dis- and re-assemble than the other makes. Plus, it's good on gas.



*Sigh* Curious how candy-apple red just makes courting death and personal disaster that much more appealing.

Evil Urges by My Morning Jacket

As I increasingly embrace my inner crusty old man, I tend to dismiss outright any young group that runs with an esoteric name like My Morning Jacket. Still, it's a little hard to ignore the praise and promotion these spritely chaps are receiving. Is it all just ... hype? eMusic is offering Evil Urges to its subscribers, so I held my nose and hit "download album."

First off, it's well worth reporting that My Morning Jacket is committed to delivering songs that are not just genuinely musical (not something to be taken for granted in the current music market) but catchily so (whaaa?!). The lyrics are pleasant Byronian confections: neither too heavy on the chest-beating, nor too light to float free of their emotional tether, this is a disc worth its (deservedly) hyped summertime release. Amazon, Metacritic.

Persepolis

I see that Marjane Satrapi's Persepolis is now available on DVD. This is the only "grown-up" movie my wife and I made it out to see last year. I can't imagine another movie taking hold of my imagination more completely, or provoking feelings nearly as deep and conflicted. In my attempt to come up with something unique to say about this unusual movie, I paged back in my journal to see what my first impressions were coming out of the theater. I wrote one sentence: "Satrapi's voice is wholly authentic."

This observation still strikes me as being right on the money. Currently our cultural play with memoir and narrative is focused on experimental modes and outright fabrication: "made-up" stuff, in other words. No doubt a viewer could take the same approach with Satrapi's narrative, and attempt to glean the "police court" facts from the fanciful, but Satrapi's presentation is too beguiling and emotionally insistent. Caught between two soul-crushing cultures -- the fatuous self-indulgent West, and the spiteful religious fascism of her native country -- she patiently takes account of everything she has loved and lost. This is a very beautiful film, and not a bad primer for North Americans unsure of a people and geography we have committed ourselves to for decades to come.

Amazon, Metacritic.