It’s amazing how a little close examination can unpack a vast number of unexpected facets of many everyday phenomena.
Take suicide. I don’t mean to belittle it by calling it everyday, though I believe that someone, somewhere on the planet, does kill themselves every hour, let alone every day. It’s always there, a part of our existence that for most people is not much more than an object of mild curiosity. No one wants to encourage suicide, especially in anyone we know, and I guess we all support measures to reduce the number of times it happens, either through making people less inclined to do it or through preventative measures such as removing or limiting the equipment or circumstances that allow suicide.
The odd snigger about suicide being illegal in many parts of the world – a piece of crass legal pedantry - and that’s about it for most people. Yet a Google search yields more than 69 million results, so there is a major suicide industry encompassing medical, legal, academic and sociological considerations. You can get help to do away with yourself, and to have second thoughts, as well as interminable analyses of whether second thoughts do any good.
I was made to think about suicide by a lengthy but tetchy exchange between a prosecutor and an expert witness this week in the murder retrial of Phil Spector, the millionaire record producer responsible for the Wall of Sound in the 1960s. Spector’s defence is that the victim, a small-time actress called Lana Clarkson, committed suicide when she was shot in the mouth by Spector’s Colt 38 revolver.
Naturally the prosecution is working hard to discredit this suggestion. There is no proof either way – no suicide note, no declaration of intent to kill herself, and no fingerprints on the gun.
We have had intense examination of the crime scene, and minute measurement of where and how far Clarkson’s teeth and blood flew. Someone removed and wiped the gun, so its location gave no clues.
That leaves room for endless theorising over whether Clarkson was in a suicidal frame of mind – again, nothing conclusive so both sides are straining at every shred of evidence in their favour.
The latest expert to take the stand had written learned papers on the chances of an impulsive suicide. If impulsiveness was likely, that would help the defence as they would not have to show a lengthy history of suicidal tendencies by Clarkson.
Listening to the cross-examination, I realised that I had had an oversimplified view of the thought processes leading up to a suicide attempt. The simple distinction is between someone, like my mother-in-law, who plans the event, researches poisons or firearms or length of drop from buildings or bridges, thinks about it long and hard and – at the appropriate moment - takes a rational decision to go ahead, and the impulse suicide who happens on a lethal dose of pills or a loaded gun or a convenient method described on the internet and decides to do it there and then.
But life, and death, are more complicated than that. Interviews with failed suicide attempters suggest a an in and out, up and down process that might go on for days, weeks, months or years. It might or might not involve acquiring plenty of information. It might involve screwing up courage, not amassing enough and going on with normal life until the next time.
The Spector trial exchanges highlighted San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge, a famous suicide site. The witness said that there was a proposal to raise the parapet from its present four and a half feet, which sounds ludicrously low in view of the history, to around eight feet. This might not be insurmountable, but it would at least force would-be suicides to think a little longer about what they are contemplating. Apparently a proportion will be sufficiently deterred, physically or emotionally, to give up and go home. It will save lives.
But much of the courtroom discussion centred on whether someone who takes the trouble to travel to the bridge can be said to be impulsive. No one lives on the bridge, so every would-be suicide has to travel there. Most live within Marin County, the territory which includes San Francisco. But many come from other parts of America and even from other countries, after journeys that must take days if you allow for getting to and from airports – even more if you include the need to book and buy a plane or train ticket, or drive from the US east coast.
Can such long-distance travellers be impulsive suicides? Surely they have all planned their deaths, whether or not they succeed? But that doesn’t take account of the up and down process leading to an attempt.
Quite a few are in effect tourists – with a special interest, certainly, and with varying degrees of purposefulness and determination. Some may just want to see the site, imagine what it’s like, how easy it is at a practical level, where you might have to park your car, all the mundanities that can get in the way. And, while going over all that minutiae, some say to themselves ‘This looks easy, I think I’ll just go and do it.’ And they do, hence the value of a higher parapet. Others visit several times before making a final decision to go ahead or not.
So, like most human activities, it’s messy. But are all these people impulsive or are they planners?
In one sense it’s an academic question, literally. All that really matters is whether people die. We know that people have an infinite range of reasons for wanting to kill themselves, and there have been many studies of the biggest risk factors – depression, excess alcohol, loss of job or marriage or house and so on. Unfortunately these cannot be eliminated by edict or they might have been already (though being locked in a job or marriage can be as much a reason for suicide as losing them unwillingly, I’d have thought).
Court cases can easily get bogged down in tiny disputes, and whether Lana Clarkson killed herself on the spur of the moment is just such an issue. For what it’s worth, as a non-expert who has attended only a few days of a trial which began at the end of last October, what I’ve heard of the blood and teeth evidence suggests to me she did not pull the trigger – but I could be totally wrong. Like many 40-year-old actresses whose career was probably on the slide, she seemed to be emotionally volatile, so in the small hours of the morning with a load of drink inside her and a loaded gun to hand, who knows what might have happened. And the Spector side argue that the bloodstains on the jacket he was wearing show conclusively that he could not have been near enough to fire the gun.
The jury will decide, but I have had a free lesson in the nature of suicide that has taught me that it is a far more complex business than I had really appreciated before. And if you are ever tempted, just lie down and count to 100. With any luck the feeling will pass.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Monday, March 2, 2009
Buddy can you spare a Buddy? by Bill Kay
Old people applying to be lifeguards. Young and old queuing for food, drink, anything free. Real beggars - not the con merchants looking for an easy living, but the sad, sad losers with that awful combination of hope, despair and desperation in their eyes, with a facial expression that is preparing them and you for your refusal.
These are just some of the daily snapshots of the 21st century depression that leap out every day in southern California, one of the richest territories on the planet.
There are hundreds more around America. Some are only indirectly related to the economy, like the even older people being moved from private Florida nursing homes to taxpayer-funded county hospitals because they had entrusted their entire life savings to Bernie Madoff and could no longer pay the fees of the private refuge.
But LA hits me hardest because I live near there and the unemployment rate is one of the highest in the country - 10.5% compared with 8.7% for the whole of California and 8.3% for the entire US. I suspect that, as so often, LA is merely setting the trend. Within a few months the national jobless rate will be over 10% and where will LA be then? 15%? 20%?
These are the dry statistics of thousands after thousands losing jobs, homes and dreams. January's cinema attendances boomed just as Hollywood threw 23,000 on the street, many never to work again. No beggars to mar the Oscars, though: the streets were closed, guarded by police.
As is often the case, misfortune is polarising people. A commodities trader - presumably successful - has been on youtube asking why his taxes should be spent on giving economic stimulus to losers. Better to let the banks foreclose on their houses and he and his pals will put money into the economy by buying those houses cheap.
In a way it's a mercy that we don't have a red-toothed Republican in the White House. Instead, we have the freshly blooded Barack Obama, honeymoon over, thrown into announcing his first Budget, trying to keep faith with his millions of still dewy-eyed supporters for whom he can do no wrong and who yet expect so much. It's an impossible combination that I fear is bound to end in disillusion and resentment.
He has not started well, pandering to the view that he can walk on water by unveiling a Budget that offers a painless way out of the worst economic quagmire for at least 70 years - some say for a century. Tax the rich and improve efficiency and we'll all be OK.
I don't think so. There aren't enough rich, and those that are happen to be the most tenacious at holding onto their money - yes, that's why they're rich - and also have the best tax advice. As for eliminating waste, in the 20th century it took a Margaret Thatcher at her most ruthless to get anywhere at all with such a campaign, such are the forces of inertia ranged against anyone trying to ditch pet projects and jobs for the boys. But maybe Obama is simply letting us down gently, and can't bring himself to say so.
Meanwhile in LA we have an election for a new mayor, an exercise in democracy that seems as irrelevant as translating Shakespeare's sonnets into Urdu and transcribing them onto a grain of rice.
And yet, depending what bubble you inhabit here, there is a strange unreality about the downturn. You still hear radio hosts insisting it isn't really happening and reports of it have been got up by the meeja or the politicians or the fat cats in order to... well, at that point the explanation gets a little hazy.
But, apart from the growing number of boarded-up shops, there is little direct visible sign of what is happening. The story about 156 people applying for 25 lifeguard jobs at Huntington Beach, one of the big surfing beaches, appeared on TV this morning.
In Pasadena life has been continuing almost normally. A restaurant is opening on the main street, Colorado Boulevard. Our local Pavilions supermarket, part of Safeway, is holding a grand re-opening, not coincidentally timed to get in ahead of the opening across the road of a new branch of Fresh and Easy, the experimental west coast grocery chain launched by Tesco of the UK.
So there is economic activity. Most of my friends are unaffected because they weren't working anyway - except on 'projects' that don't pay right now but might if they get optioned by some sugar daddy who didn't give zillions to Bernie Madoff or Allen Stanford.
These are just some of the daily snapshots of the 21st century depression that leap out every day in southern California, one of the richest territories on the planet.
There are hundreds more around America. Some are only indirectly related to the economy, like the even older people being moved from private Florida nursing homes to taxpayer-funded county hospitals because they had entrusted their entire life savings to Bernie Madoff and could no longer pay the fees of the private refuge.
But LA hits me hardest because I live near there and the unemployment rate is one of the highest in the country - 10.5% compared with 8.7% for the whole of California and 8.3% for the entire US. I suspect that, as so often, LA is merely setting the trend. Within a few months the national jobless rate will be over 10% and where will LA be then? 15%? 20%?
These are the dry statistics of thousands after thousands losing jobs, homes and dreams. January's cinema attendances boomed just as Hollywood threw 23,000 on the street, many never to work again. No beggars to mar the Oscars, though: the streets were closed, guarded by police.
As is often the case, misfortune is polarising people. A commodities trader - presumably successful - has been on youtube asking why his taxes should be spent on giving economic stimulus to losers. Better to let the banks foreclose on their houses and he and his pals will put money into the economy by buying those houses cheap.
In a way it's a mercy that we don't have a red-toothed Republican in the White House. Instead, we have the freshly blooded Barack Obama, honeymoon over, thrown into announcing his first Budget, trying to keep faith with his millions of still dewy-eyed supporters for whom he can do no wrong and who yet expect so much. It's an impossible combination that I fear is bound to end in disillusion and resentment.
He has not started well, pandering to the view that he can walk on water by unveiling a Budget that offers a painless way out of the worst economic quagmire for at least 70 years - some say for a century. Tax the rich and improve efficiency and we'll all be OK.
I don't think so. There aren't enough rich, and those that are happen to be the most tenacious at holding onto their money - yes, that's why they're rich - and also have the best tax advice. As for eliminating waste, in the 20th century it took a Margaret Thatcher at her most ruthless to get anywhere at all with such a campaign, such are the forces of inertia ranged against anyone trying to ditch pet projects and jobs for the boys. But maybe Obama is simply letting us down gently, and can't bring himself to say so.
Meanwhile in LA we have an election for a new mayor, an exercise in democracy that seems as irrelevant as translating Shakespeare's sonnets into Urdu and transcribing them onto a grain of rice.
And yet, depending what bubble you inhabit here, there is a strange unreality about the downturn. You still hear radio hosts insisting it isn't really happening and reports of it have been got up by the meeja or the politicians or the fat cats in order to... well, at that point the explanation gets a little hazy.
But, apart from the growing number of boarded-up shops, there is little direct visible sign of what is happening. The story about 156 people applying for 25 lifeguard jobs at Huntington Beach, one of the big surfing beaches, appeared on TV this morning.
In Pasadena life has been continuing almost normally. A restaurant is opening on the main street, Colorado Boulevard. Our local Pavilions supermarket, part of Safeway, is holding a grand re-opening, not coincidentally timed to get in ahead of the opening across the road of a new branch of Fresh and Easy, the experimental west coast grocery chain launched by Tesco of the UK.
So there is economic activity. Most of my friends are unaffected because they weren't working anyway - except on 'projects' that don't pay right now but might if they get optioned by some sugar daddy who didn't give zillions to Bernie Madoff or Allen Stanford.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
The long and short of Oscar shorts by Bill Kay
I went to a movie event this week that is growing in importance and could rival the main Oscars night within a few years. It's the Academy of Motion Pictures' annual presentation of the films nominated for the two shorts categories - animated and live action.
At one time overlooked as a geeks' backwater, the short films (defined by the Academy as under 40 minutes) are becoming more and more popular. I am not sure why this is, except that a virtuous circle seems to be operating: as better directors make shorts, more people want to see them. But it's not clear where the original impetus came from, other than some directors treating this category as a stepping stone to full-length movies.
Jon Bloom, the Academy governor in charge of this category, suggested that more directors welcome the freedom of being creative without having to accept the discipline of the box office. These films are usually financed by benefactors of one sort or another, for the public good.
But that is all by way of background. What matters is what gets on to the screen.
This is my second year and this week's were every bit as good as those of a year ago. They are international, quirky, funny, sad, dramatic and in some cases made a profound point. So, compared to watching one or two full-length films, ten shorts are emotionally much more demanding and fulfilling.
Here is a brief summary of the ten. Sit back and enjoy.
ANIMATION
La Maison en Petits Cubes
Despite the French title, this is a Japanese film which definitely falls into the 'quirky' slot. It's about a man who lives in what appears to be a lighthouse, in the middle of a sea. As the water rises, he has to build a higher, smaller floor in which to live. Then he acquires a diving suit and dives right down to the seabed and we see his life history down through all his previous homes. Didn't do much for me, a little too quirky maybe.
Lavatory - Lovestory
A Russian entry, about a female lavatory attendant who is left flowers by a mystery admirer/customer who eventually reveals himself. (It is the custom in European public toilets, to have women attendants for both sexes) The form is simple cartoon line drawing and it is in places quite funny, charming, touching.
Oktapodi
A French film with a strong if simple plot. A man in a Greek seaside village buys an octopus and gets in his van to drive home. He doesn't know that the octopus has a mate who does not want to be separated from the one that has been bought. The animation is hilarious as the van clatters down steps and the octopusses flit from swimming pool to swimming pool. It's a great chase movie with wonderful facial expressions.
Presto
This has the stamp of Disney and Pixar all over it. Very professional but somehow not as personal as the first three - not that they were amateurish, just not hammered out of a major corporation. It's about a magician and his rabbit. The magician denies the rabbit a carrot before the show and then exploits the magician's limitations on-stage through a series of surreal revenges. It is funny, but has much more of the feel of what you get from watching any other Disney animation.
This Way Up
OK, I'll admit I'm biased. This is the British entry and the wacky humour was much more to my taste. It's about two undertakers taking a coffin to a graveyard and all the obstacles put in their way, from an enormous boulder to falling off a cliff. Very professionally animated and drawn.
All the animations except for the first played for laughs - and got them. I think the Oscar will be between the last two. Much as I'd like This Way Up to get it, my bet is that Presto will win as a consolation prize for Pixar's Wall-e being overlooked in the main Best Picture category. That's the way it often works round here.
(I was wrong. The Oscar went to La Maison en Petits Cubes).
LIVE ACTION
Auf der Strecke (On the Line)
This runs 30 minutes and is a bit like a TV drama. Security guard fancies sales assistant in the shop where he works, unbeknownst to her he sees her brother being beaten to death on a train and does nothing about it and they get together. OK, but nothing special.
Manon on the Asphalt
A female cyclist is killed in an accident and we see her life flashing past her. This didn't leave much impression on me either.
New Boy
An Irish film about a 10-year-old black boy's first day in an Irish school - how he is teased, makes an enemy and befriends his enemy as schoolkids do. It's well-made, though the teacher comes across as a bit lame. The kids are engaging, though, and play their roles well. It packs a lot into 11 minutes.
The Pig
A real contender, as far as I'm concerned. It's about an elderly man who goes into hospital and likes the picture of a pig on his bedroom wall. Then the bedroom is divided to make room for a Muslim patient. His family take down the picture, and another one drawn by the first man. It then becomes a classic confrontation of two conflicting priorities and why either should win. Very well argued, showing how this sort of dispute is futile.
Spielzeugland (Toyland)
Another strong film, basically a 14-minute version of Schindler's List. Two boys play the piano together, one Aryan and the other Jewish. The Jewish family are to be taken to a concentration camp but they tell their son it is Toyland - so his friend wants to come too.
It's pure coincidence, but again I think the last two were the best. Given Hollywood's predeliction for anti-Nazi films, Toyland may take it. I liked The Pig, though.
(I was right - Toyland did win)
I am grateful to Will Ryan, a member of the Academy and voter in the Oscar process, for giving me a valuable insight into the thinking behind the shorts:
'Your predictions of what may actually win are based on how "Hollywood" and "the Academy" voters may act. Luckily, the short films and documentaries (short and long) are the only categories wherein the voters are limited to people who have actually seen all the films nominated in each of those categories, with IDs shown to Pricewaterhouse Coopers personnel and Academy attendants who verify your identity simultaneously at the special screenings. We are told not to discuss our opinions with other voters. Because of these strictures, I believe the results in these categories are the most meaningful of all the Academy Award categories. We are uninfluenced by trade ads, campaigns, etc. In other categories, e.g., Best Picture, Best Supporting Actress, Best Sound Editing, etc. nobody verifies whether the voter has actually SEEN all the nominated films (or ANY of them, for that matter), whether the voter is actually voting or letting his secretary DingDong or her idiot cousin Kuku fill out the form, whether the voter is deaf or blind or capable, etc. These short film (and doc feature) categories are oft considered the "wild cards" for predictors, though most people don't realise exactly why. Granted, we voters DO work in "Hollywood" and ARE members of the "Academy", but you get a lot of non-studio-ish, independent types attracted to these screenings (like wacky artist/animators and weird independent film-makers), and the voting reflects that more eccentric frame of mind. Yep, there is that one Pixar short this year, and there could be Disney/Pixar block-voting (consciously or not), but each of the five animated nominees have received votes from people I've spoken with since voting closed - and that's only about 5 or 6 people in total I've spoken with on the subject.'
It's good to know that these categories are freer of Hollywood politics than those for the mainstream awards. I'll be delighted if one or more of the more offbeat entries wins an Oscar on Sunday, as that will only encourage the growth of the shorts.
Another friend, the worldly-wise Ian Whitcomb, makes the very cogent point that it is hard to see shorts breaking through the current rigid distribution system sufficiently to be shown in the big cinema chains. But it will be an achievement for them to be shown in indie houses or clubs such as American Cinematheque. Shorts are also very well suited to television or the internet, where the audience for filmed drama is growing rapidly. And, to be fair to the big chains, they can be persuaded to show small-budget movies - Little Miss Sunshine, Blair Witch Project - if they get the right backing. The fact that Fox, Warner and others have specialist brands shows that they are alive to the possibilities if the audience is there. I know that's a chicken-and-egg dilemma, but we are seeing rising demand for shorts and it is not beyond the wit of the cinemas or big studios to come up with a suitable package or framework. An awards evening like last Tuesday is inevitably going to be showing a random collection, but if the shorts culture takes off there is no reason why a cinema couldn't put together a couple of hours of shorts on a particular theme such as spurned love, sci-fi or spectacular failures. For one thing, it would be an inexpensive way for the studios to try out promising people in almost any movie role from directing to a walk-on part.
At one time overlooked as a geeks' backwater, the short films (defined by the Academy as under 40 minutes) are becoming more and more popular. I am not sure why this is, except that a virtuous circle seems to be operating: as better directors make shorts, more people want to see them. But it's not clear where the original impetus came from, other than some directors treating this category as a stepping stone to full-length movies.
Jon Bloom, the Academy governor in charge of this category, suggested that more directors welcome the freedom of being creative without having to accept the discipline of the box office. These films are usually financed by benefactors of one sort or another, for the public good.
But that is all by way of background. What matters is what gets on to the screen.
This is my second year and this week's were every bit as good as those of a year ago. They are international, quirky, funny, sad, dramatic and in some cases made a profound point. So, compared to watching one or two full-length films, ten shorts are emotionally much more demanding and fulfilling.
Here is a brief summary of the ten. Sit back and enjoy.
ANIMATION
La Maison en Petits Cubes
Despite the French title, this is a Japanese film which definitely falls into the 'quirky' slot. It's about a man who lives in what appears to be a lighthouse, in the middle of a sea. As the water rises, he has to build a higher, smaller floor in which to live. Then he acquires a diving suit and dives right down to the seabed and we see his life history down through all his previous homes. Didn't do much for me, a little too quirky maybe.
Lavatory - Lovestory
A Russian entry, about a female lavatory attendant who is left flowers by a mystery admirer/customer who eventually reveals himself. (It is the custom in European public toilets, to have women attendants for both sexes) The form is simple cartoon line drawing and it is in places quite funny, charming, touching.
Oktapodi
A French film with a strong if simple plot. A man in a Greek seaside village buys an octopus and gets in his van to drive home. He doesn't know that the octopus has a mate who does not want to be separated from the one that has been bought. The animation is hilarious as the van clatters down steps and the octopusses flit from swimming pool to swimming pool. It's a great chase movie with wonderful facial expressions.
Presto
This has the stamp of Disney and Pixar all over it. Very professional but somehow not as personal as the first three - not that they were amateurish, just not hammered out of a major corporation. It's about a magician and his rabbit. The magician denies the rabbit a carrot before the show and then exploits the magician's limitations on-stage through a series of surreal revenges. It is funny, but has much more of the feel of what you get from watching any other Disney animation.
This Way Up
OK, I'll admit I'm biased. This is the British entry and the wacky humour was much more to my taste. It's about two undertakers taking a coffin to a graveyard and all the obstacles put in their way, from an enormous boulder to falling off a cliff. Very professionally animated and drawn.
All the animations except for the first played for laughs - and got them. I think the Oscar will be between the last two. Much as I'd like This Way Up to get it, my bet is that Presto will win as a consolation prize for Pixar's Wall-e being overlooked in the main Best Picture category. That's the way it often works round here.
(I was wrong. The Oscar went to La Maison en Petits Cubes).
LIVE ACTION
Auf der Strecke (On the Line)
This runs 30 minutes and is a bit like a TV drama. Security guard fancies sales assistant in the shop where he works, unbeknownst to her he sees her brother being beaten to death on a train and does nothing about it and they get together. OK, but nothing special.
Manon on the Asphalt
A female cyclist is killed in an accident and we see her life flashing past her. This didn't leave much impression on me either.
New Boy
An Irish film about a 10-year-old black boy's first day in an Irish school - how he is teased, makes an enemy and befriends his enemy as schoolkids do. It's well-made, though the teacher comes across as a bit lame. The kids are engaging, though, and play their roles well. It packs a lot into 11 minutes.
The Pig
A real contender, as far as I'm concerned. It's about an elderly man who goes into hospital and likes the picture of a pig on his bedroom wall. Then the bedroom is divided to make room for a Muslim patient. His family take down the picture, and another one drawn by the first man. It then becomes a classic confrontation of two conflicting priorities and why either should win. Very well argued, showing how this sort of dispute is futile.
Spielzeugland (Toyland)
Another strong film, basically a 14-minute version of Schindler's List. Two boys play the piano together, one Aryan and the other Jewish. The Jewish family are to be taken to a concentration camp but they tell their son it is Toyland - so his friend wants to come too.
It's pure coincidence, but again I think the last two were the best. Given Hollywood's predeliction for anti-Nazi films, Toyland may take it. I liked The Pig, though.
(I was right - Toyland did win)
I am grateful to Will Ryan, a member of the Academy and voter in the Oscar process, for giving me a valuable insight into the thinking behind the shorts:
'Your predictions of what may actually win are based on how "Hollywood" and "the Academy" voters may act. Luckily, the short films and documentaries (short and long) are the only categories wherein the voters are limited to people who have actually seen all the films nominated in each of those categories, with IDs shown to Pricewaterhouse Coopers personnel and Academy attendants who verify your identity simultaneously at the special screenings. We are told not to discuss our opinions with other voters. Because of these strictures, I believe the results in these categories are the most meaningful of all the Academy Award categories. We are uninfluenced by trade ads, campaigns, etc. In other categories, e.g., Best Picture, Best Supporting Actress, Best Sound Editing, etc. nobody verifies whether the voter has actually SEEN all the nominated films (or ANY of them, for that matter), whether the voter is actually voting or letting his secretary DingDong or her idiot cousin Kuku fill out the form, whether the voter is deaf or blind or capable, etc. These short film (and doc feature) categories are oft considered the "wild cards" for predictors, though most people don't realise exactly why. Granted, we voters DO work in "Hollywood" and ARE members of the "Academy", but you get a lot of non-studio-ish, independent types attracted to these screenings (like wacky artist/animators and weird independent film-makers), and the voting reflects that more eccentric frame of mind. Yep, there is that one Pixar short this year, and there could be Disney/Pixar block-voting (consciously or not), but each of the five animated nominees have received votes from people I've spoken with since voting closed - and that's only about 5 or 6 people in total I've spoken with on the subject.'
It's good to know that these categories are freer of Hollywood politics than those for the mainstream awards. I'll be delighted if one or more of the more offbeat entries wins an Oscar on Sunday, as that will only encourage the growth of the shorts.
Another friend, the worldly-wise Ian Whitcomb, makes the very cogent point that it is hard to see shorts breaking through the current rigid distribution system sufficiently to be shown in the big cinema chains. But it will be an achievement for them to be shown in indie houses or clubs such as American Cinematheque. Shorts are also very well suited to television or the internet, where the audience for filmed drama is growing rapidly. And, to be fair to the big chains, they can be persuaded to show small-budget movies - Little Miss Sunshine, Blair Witch Project - if they get the right backing. The fact that Fox, Warner and others have specialist brands shows that they are alive to the possibilities if the audience is there. I know that's a chicken-and-egg dilemma, but we are seeing rising demand for shorts and it is not beyond the wit of the cinemas or big studios to come up with a suitable package or framework. An awards evening like last Tuesday is inevitably going to be showing a random collection, but if the shorts culture takes off there is no reason why a cinema couldn't put together a couple of hours of shorts on a particular theme such as spurned love, sci-fi or spectacular failures. For one thing, it would be an inexpensive way for the studios to try out promising people in almost any movie role from directing to a walk-on part.
Not so magical mystery trip by Bill Kay
It all started out so straightforwardly. And, I suppose, ended straightforwardly. But in between was a bizarre road trip that just reminded that, after umpteen vacations and living here for two and a half years, I can still get caught out by the complexities of the LA road system.
The plan was to attend a journalists' meeting at the Metropolitan Water Board offices next to Union Station. It's a mess round there, and the first time we made several missteps, but we'd been before and knew the routine. You get to the front of Union Station, turn to the right and go round the back of the Water Board building to the underground parking lot.
But, having not made the trip lately, I consulted my new best pal, the map application on my iPhone. I entered Union Station and it helpfully told me to go down Pasadena Freeway and take the 5 south to Mission Street, just a mile or so down the road. The traffic wasn't too busy but, this being just before 6pm, it was the rush hour and the regular commuters weren't taking prisoners. Fine.
So, off the slip road, turn right on Mission and right on Cesar Chavez back into downtown. Then left on Vignes.
This didn't look very familiar, but it seemed like we were approaching from the back of the station, not too much of a problem, minor adjustment maybe.
So I went into the approach road, round in a circle and out again, not onto Vignes but a strange little open space which should have set alarm bells ringing. One exit said No Entry but the next seemed OK though (or maybe because) it had no sign saying where it led.
That, though I naturally didn't realise it at the time, was the point of no return. It led into a one-way channel with concrete walls on either side. Other cars were using it, which was reassuring and by now there was no way out. I thought it might lead back to Vignes or Cezar Chavez and the worst would be that I would have to start again.
But this little rat run went on. And on. And on. And on.
After a while I noticed we were travelling alongside a freeway, which I correctly guessed to be the 10, and we looked to be going east, out of town. But there was no turn-off, no way out.
I have checked the map - masochism is my middle name - and I calculate we went 25 miles before finding a turnoff.
Everything seemed upside down. I found Del Mar Boulevard, which I know a little bit, and took that without realising I was going south instead of north. We nearly got down to the 60 before correcting that mistake and eventually pulled into the side in San Gabriel to check the iPhone map. With touching innocence, I trusted it to take us over to Alhambra where we thought we might have a Chinese meal - the journalist meeting would have started by now and we were on to Plans B, C, D and E.
It directed us back to the 10 and recommended going back west for a few miles then north. Looked good - until I mistakenly took the eastbound ramp.
"Ah, there's an exit for Rosemead Boulevard, Route 19, I know that," I cried as if I were foraging through the Amazon jungle.
We took that and it did indeed take us to what I might loosely call civilisation. We swapped our Chinese meal in Alhambra for a Thai meal in east Pasadena, at a restaurant I'd been meaning to try for years. It wasn't a bad meal, not particularly memorable, but the important thing was that I knew where I was. Home was only a ten-minute ride away. We had been in a huge circle, the meeting was lost - and I learned to be more precise about telling a computerised map where I wanted to go.
The plan was to attend a journalists' meeting at the Metropolitan Water Board offices next to Union Station. It's a mess round there, and the first time we made several missteps, but we'd been before and knew the routine. You get to the front of Union Station, turn to the right and go round the back of the Water Board building to the underground parking lot.
But, having not made the trip lately, I consulted my new best pal, the map application on my iPhone. I entered Union Station and it helpfully told me to go down Pasadena Freeway and take the 5 south to Mission Street, just a mile or so down the road. The traffic wasn't too busy but, this being just before 6pm, it was the rush hour and the regular commuters weren't taking prisoners. Fine.
So, off the slip road, turn right on Mission and right on Cesar Chavez back into downtown. Then left on Vignes.
This didn't look very familiar, but it seemed like we were approaching from the back of the station, not too much of a problem, minor adjustment maybe.
So I went into the approach road, round in a circle and out again, not onto Vignes but a strange little open space which should have set alarm bells ringing. One exit said No Entry but the next seemed OK though (or maybe because) it had no sign saying where it led.
That, though I naturally didn't realise it at the time, was the point of no return. It led into a one-way channel with concrete walls on either side. Other cars were using it, which was reassuring and by now there was no way out. I thought it might lead back to Vignes or Cezar Chavez and the worst would be that I would have to start again.
But this little rat run went on. And on. And on. And on.
After a while I noticed we were travelling alongside a freeway, which I correctly guessed to be the 10, and we looked to be going east, out of town. But there was no turn-off, no way out.
I have checked the map - masochism is my middle name - and I calculate we went 25 miles before finding a turnoff.
Everything seemed upside down. I found Del Mar Boulevard, which I know a little bit, and took that without realising I was going south instead of north. We nearly got down to the 60 before correcting that mistake and eventually pulled into the side in San Gabriel to check the iPhone map. With touching innocence, I trusted it to take us over to Alhambra where we thought we might have a Chinese meal - the journalist meeting would have started by now and we were on to Plans B, C, D and E.
It directed us back to the 10 and recommended going back west for a few miles then north. Looked good - until I mistakenly took the eastbound ramp.
"Ah, there's an exit for Rosemead Boulevard, Route 19, I know that," I cried as if I were foraging through the Amazon jungle.
We took that and it did indeed take us to what I might loosely call civilisation. We swapped our Chinese meal in Alhambra for a Thai meal in east Pasadena, at a restaurant I'd been meaning to try for years. It wasn't a bad meal, not particularly memorable, but the important thing was that I knew where I was. Home was only a ten-minute ride away. We had been in a huge circle, the meeting was lost - and I learned to be more precise about telling a computerised map where I wanted to go.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
All that Jazz by Bill Kay
It is disconcerting when a perfect stranger yanks a bar stool away from under your feet - all the more so when she is a striking blonde in the throes of performing in a play and you're practically sitting on the stage of the theatre.
We were at the Blank Theatre Company's 2nd Stage, one of the run of small venues on a shabby stretch of Santa Monica Boulevard known as Theatre Row. For Brits, it brings back memories of the Edinburgh Festival - no frills, seemingly impromptu, lots of scruffy guys in their twenties running about everywhere fixing seemingly vital last-minute problems. And nowhere to eat. We arrived early and wandered around for half an hour, finally settling for Winchell's Donuts on Fountain and Vine, a good half-mile away.
Our friend Ian Whitcomb has composed a musical background for the show - The Jazz Age - and is playing in it with his band, the Bungalow Boys (Fred Sokolow on guitar, Dave Jones on bass). Like anyone involved in a play, Ian has been agonising for weeks whether it will be a success and whether any of the countless changes will improve it or otherwise.
So my expectations were low. All the more of a surprise, then, to applaud the actors' final bow with the feeling that this was the best theatrical experience I had had for years.
It began as farce. The tiny foyer was crammed when we were allowed to go to our seats. You climb straight up to the back of the auditorium - capacity 55 - and then hare down to the front, no reserved seats, first come first served. We landed in the front at extreme stage left - by one of two bar stools.
The other facility that was first come, first served was the one and only restroom - and we were repeatedly reminded that there would be no intermission, the show was two hours straight through and the restroom was at the back of the stage. The Bungalow Boys were above us in a gallery, playing music to get us in the 1920s mood, as we lined up. The time for curtain up (or lights down, no curtain) was decided by the moment when the last satisfied customer made her way contentedly back across the stage to her seat.
The Jazz Age is as much a misnomer as the title of the recent film, Australia. Its only relevance is that the action takes place 1920-40. It tells the story of the developing relationship between Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway, spiced by Zelda Fitzgerald (the blonde). I'd call it Scott, Zelda and Ernie, but what do I know? I'd probably have called King Lear Keep It In the Family.
The plot has a natural shape, as Fitzgerald goes on a steady, drink-fuelled decline while Hemingway grows into an international celebrity who ends up punching Louis B Meyer, the Hollywood studio magnate - in the play, anyway.
In one way I'd liked to have gone armed with more than my very skimpy knowledge of the actual threesome, but in another way I was probably better off not knowing any more or I could have been irritated by the inevitable inaccuracies, short-cuts and liberal use of poetic (or playwright's) licence.
As it was, the three characters didn't need names. They played themselves out in a timeless drama that Shakespeare would have loved to get his teeth into. I am not saying the writing - by Allan Knee - was up to Shakespeare, but it was tight and muscular, building the tension relentlessly with the help of three terrific actors: Luke MacFarlane, Jeremy Gabriel and Heather Prete. The beauty of it was that, like all good art, it felt complete and rounded and gave a sense that by the end the viewer knew all that he or she needed to know about that subject.
I came out on Santa Monica Boulevard feeling drained, but satisfied. And very glad that I hadn't fatally entwined my legs in that bar stool.
We were at the Blank Theatre Company's 2nd Stage, one of the run of small venues on a shabby stretch of Santa Monica Boulevard known as Theatre Row. For Brits, it brings back memories of the Edinburgh Festival - no frills, seemingly impromptu, lots of scruffy guys in their twenties running about everywhere fixing seemingly vital last-minute problems. And nowhere to eat. We arrived early and wandered around for half an hour, finally settling for Winchell's Donuts on Fountain and Vine, a good half-mile away.
Our friend Ian Whitcomb has composed a musical background for the show - The Jazz Age - and is playing in it with his band, the Bungalow Boys (Fred Sokolow on guitar, Dave Jones on bass). Like anyone involved in a play, Ian has been agonising for weeks whether it will be a success and whether any of the countless changes will improve it or otherwise.
So my expectations were low. All the more of a surprise, then, to applaud the actors' final bow with the feeling that this was the best theatrical experience I had had for years.
It began as farce. The tiny foyer was crammed when we were allowed to go to our seats. You climb straight up to the back of the auditorium - capacity 55 - and then hare down to the front, no reserved seats, first come first served. We landed in the front at extreme stage left - by one of two bar stools.
The other facility that was first come, first served was the one and only restroom - and we were repeatedly reminded that there would be no intermission, the show was two hours straight through and the restroom was at the back of the stage. The Bungalow Boys were above us in a gallery, playing music to get us in the 1920s mood, as we lined up. The time for curtain up (or lights down, no curtain) was decided by the moment when the last satisfied customer made her way contentedly back across the stage to her seat.
The Jazz Age is as much a misnomer as the title of the recent film, Australia. Its only relevance is that the action takes place 1920-40. It tells the story of the developing relationship between Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway, spiced by Zelda Fitzgerald (the blonde). I'd call it Scott, Zelda and Ernie, but what do I know? I'd probably have called King Lear Keep It In the Family.
The plot has a natural shape, as Fitzgerald goes on a steady, drink-fuelled decline while Hemingway grows into an international celebrity who ends up punching Louis B Meyer, the Hollywood studio magnate - in the play, anyway.
In one way I'd liked to have gone armed with more than my very skimpy knowledge of the actual threesome, but in another way I was probably better off not knowing any more or I could have been irritated by the inevitable inaccuracies, short-cuts and liberal use of poetic (or playwright's) licence.
As it was, the three characters didn't need names. They played themselves out in a timeless drama that Shakespeare would have loved to get his teeth into. I am not saying the writing - by Allan Knee - was up to Shakespeare, but it was tight and muscular, building the tension relentlessly with the help of three terrific actors: Luke MacFarlane, Jeremy Gabriel and Heather Prete. The beauty of it was that, like all good art, it felt complete and rounded and gave a sense that by the end the viewer knew all that he or she needed to know about that subject.
I came out on Santa Monica Boulevard feeling drained, but satisfied. And very glad that I hadn't fatally entwined my legs in that bar stool.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Best meal of my life
I know, I know, it's hard to justify a headline like that. But, for once, I really think it's true: last night I had what I believe was the best meal of my life. Anywhere. Certainly in California and I'm pretty sure in the whole of North America. Now I must admit there is some competition with forty years living high off the hog and well above the salt in London, so I concede my memory may be letting me down. Some excellent meals were, I admit, blurred by alcohol. For that I must apologise to Raymond Blanc, chef at the Manoir aux Quat' Saisons in Oxfordshire, proud holder of two Michelin stars. That was a blissful occasion in December 2005, but the details have melted away. http://www.manoir.com/web/olem/olem_menus_classiques.jsp gives the flavour, though.
Memory is part of what constitutes the best anything, unless it can be objectively measured - which food or drink cannot. So let us say that last night's gastronomic heaven has supplanted all others as the one I regard the best, and I have seldom sat back at the end of a meal and said 'That was it.'
And while the Manoir indulgence ran to six courses, with a different wine for each, this was a mere four, accompanied by gently sparkling mineral water.
OK, I will tease no more. The restaurant was Fatty's, a renowned vegetarian restaurant in Eagle Rock, a trendy community between Pasadena and Glendale. It's named after the owner's dog.
We had never been before, but kept meaning to go. At last we made it.
The unmistakable sign of brilliant cooking was the absolute necessity to taste one another's dishes, just to believe how good they all were.
I started with what was called a garlic feast. It was really a multiple bruschetta: a pile of tomato, garlic and cheese in the middle of a large plate, surrounded by slivers of toast. Very garlicky, very refreshing.
That was followed by a small dish of butternut squash soup, which could have had some carrot in it.
But the bigget surprise and simply exquisite was the entree: moussaca, as the menu spells it and best describes it: a mildly spicy gratin of chickpeas, red lentils, mushrooms and onions between layers of roasted eggplant and garlic mashed potatoes; topped with a crust of artisan dry Jack cheese - all the cheese is rennet-free, to meet the vegetarian stricture. It was surrounded by a tomatoey, but not plain tomato, sauce.
I finished with the cheese plate: five delicious cheeses, hard, soft and blue, with strawberries, olives and glacee walnuts. I also had a taste of apple pie and the peanut butter soy cream cup with dark chocolate syrup.
It was the sort of menu that I just want to return to again and again, until I have tasted the lot. The standard of cooking and presentation was second to none.
Yet this was not a foodie shrine. The surroundings are spartan, with huge windows looking out onto Colorado Boulevard. No tablecloths (but linen napkins). Very swift and friendly service, everything explained knowledgeably and painstakingly.
It was a meal where you just pushed your chair back and realised that you had had a completely fresh experience, unlike anything ever before. The bill was not cheap, at $25 a head without drinks, but for the quality of the food it was a giveaway.
At the next table were a couple aged 91 and 83 who had been married only five years and could have each been 30 years younger - no thanks to Fatty's, alas, as this was their first visit too. But I suspect that, like us, they'll be back.
Memory is part of what constitutes the best anything, unless it can be objectively measured - which food or drink cannot. So let us say that last night's gastronomic heaven has supplanted all others as the one I regard the best, and I have seldom sat back at the end of a meal and said 'That was it.'
And while the Manoir indulgence ran to six courses, with a different wine for each, this was a mere four, accompanied by gently sparkling mineral water.
OK, I will tease no more. The restaurant was Fatty's, a renowned vegetarian restaurant in Eagle Rock, a trendy community between Pasadena and Glendale. It's named after the owner's dog.
We had never been before, but kept meaning to go. At last we made it.
The unmistakable sign of brilliant cooking was the absolute necessity to taste one another's dishes, just to believe how good they all were.
I started with what was called a garlic feast. It was really a multiple bruschetta: a pile of tomato, garlic and cheese in the middle of a large plate, surrounded by slivers of toast. Very garlicky, very refreshing.
That was followed by a small dish of butternut squash soup, which could have had some carrot in it.
But the bigget surprise and simply exquisite was the entree: moussaca, as the menu spells it and best describes it: a mildly spicy gratin of chickpeas, red lentils, mushrooms and onions between layers of roasted eggplant and garlic mashed potatoes; topped with a crust of artisan dry Jack cheese - all the cheese is rennet-free, to meet the vegetarian stricture. It was surrounded by a tomatoey, but not plain tomato, sauce.
I finished with the cheese plate: five delicious cheeses, hard, soft and blue, with strawberries, olives and glacee walnuts. I also had a taste of apple pie and the peanut butter soy cream cup with dark chocolate syrup.
It was the sort of menu that I just want to return to again and again, until I have tasted the lot. The standard of cooking and presentation was second to none.
Yet this was not a foodie shrine. The surroundings are spartan, with huge windows looking out onto Colorado Boulevard. No tablecloths (but linen napkins). Very swift and friendly service, everything explained knowledgeably and painstakingly.
It was a meal where you just pushed your chair back and realised that you had had a completely fresh experience, unlike anything ever before. The bill was not cheap, at $25 a head without drinks, but for the quality of the food it was a giveaway.
At the next table were a couple aged 91 and 83 who had been married only five years and could have each been 30 years younger - no thanks to Fatty's, alas, as this was their first visit too. But I suspect that, like us, they'll be back.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
A five-star weekend by Bill Kay
For the second time in three weekends, Lynne and I had a real kulturfest that shows what varied entertainment there is in and around LA, and how similar the audiences are - even though we were probably the only two people who went to all five, yes five, events.
It started last Wednesday, Jan 19, at the Huntington Library with a lecture on the social side of scientific discovery in the eighteenth century - no, it doesn't sound promising, but it was a real gem.
Thursday we were two of only a dozen or so who went to see the 1967 film of Truman Capote's In Cold Blood at the Egyptian.
Friday we had $20 tickets for Minsky's, a new musical at the Ahmanson.
Saturday we went to hear Ian Whitcomb and the Bungalow Boys at the Fret House in Covina, preceded by dinner at One World vegetarian restaurant in West Covina.
Sunday was a trip to the Pasadena Playhouse for Stormy Weather, a bio muscial of the life of Lena Horne - with a quick dinner beforehand at Gale's.
We made our usual visit to Conrads on Monday, so by the Tuesday we were gagging to stay in and watch TV - American Idol was about all we could manage, and a chance to catch up with the by-then highly neglected newspapers.
The Huntington lecture was given by Jan Victor Golinski, despite his name a Brit living in New Hampshire who has specialised in the history of science since he left Cambridge. it was all about how scientists used to meet in London coffee houses in the 18th century and how they thereby restrained (and stimulated) one another - as opposed to Frankenstein, Mary Shelley's creation, who worked on his own in an attic. It was very lively, with lots of questions afterwards - including one by me on whether this social scene crossed over with the stock and insurance markets, which also grew out of coffee houses. Apparently it did.
We always enjoy going to the Egyptian, something warm and comforting about it, and we discovered a new restaurant, Mediterranean Fresh, on the other side of Hollywood Boulevard.
In Cold Blood is a grim tale, grimly told. No overt blood - it is in any case in black and white - but lots of suspense. Lots of smoking too: this was a 1960s film. But no mobile phones. It showed how easily the two murderers could have got away with it, if they had only stayed in Mexico or just laid low. Remote farmhouses will never seem the same again.
Minsky's couldn't have been more different, a standard hoofers show, not an original note in it, but professionally presented and a really light evening out - and we had good seats, at the end of Row E in the stalls.
On Saturday we were among only 26 at the Fret House, which couldn't have made money for someone, either the venue or the band. Ian took the first opportunity to plug his forthcoming book, a collection of Letters from Lotusland, about Rollo being groomed for stardom. I took care of the real Rollo, who was a bit fractious.
Back to more sombre fare on Sunday, with a show that I thought didn't really work. We went with our friend Diana Cole, who had alerted us to the Minsky's tickets. Stormy Weather was too lopsided, because everything happened in the first half, being discovered, going to New York then Hollywood, breaking up her family, facing racial prejudice then the communist witchhunt. It slowed to a crawl after the interval, until we got the 'Stormy Weather' finale with Leslie Uggams in a gold lame evening gown.
it says something for American education and culture that any of the audiences for these five events could have been transposed to any of the others and felt entirely at home. There is an acceptance of entertainment that is completely different from the restlessness you can find in London theatres and cinemas, where everything seems very stratified.
Of course there were differences, because the Huntington lecture was in effect for members although anyone could attend for free. But in front of me at Stormy Weather was an irritating little man in a beard and check shirt who could easily have been at the Fret House or In Cold Blood.
It started last Wednesday, Jan 19, at the Huntington Library with a lecture on the social side of scientific discovery in the eighteenth century - no, it doesn't sound promising, but it was a real gem.
Thursday we were two of only a dozen or so who went to see the 1967 film of Truman Capote's In Cold Blood at the Egyptian.
Friday we had $20 tickets for Minsky's, a new musical at the Ahmanson.
Saturday we went to hear Ian Whitcomb and the Bungalow Boys at the Fret House in Covina, preceded by dinner at One World vegetarian restaurant in West Covina.
Sunday was a trip to the Pasadena Playhouse for Stormy Weather, a bio muscial of the life of Lena Horne - with a quick dinner beforehand at Gale's.
We made our usual visit to Conrads on Monday, so by the Tuesday we were gagging to stay in and watch TV - American Idol was about all we could manage, and a chance to catch up with the by-then highly neglected newspapers.
The Huntington lecture was given by Jan Victor Golinski, despite his name a Brit living in New Hampshire who has specialised in the history of science since he left Cambridge. it was all about how scientists used to meet in London coffee houses in the 18th century and how they thereby restrained (and stimulated) one another - as opposed to Frankenstein, Mary Shelley's creation, who worked on his own in an attic. It was very lively, with lots of questions afterwards - including one by me on whether this social scene crossed over with the stock and insurance markets, which also grew out of coffee houses. Apparently it did.
We always enjoy going to the Egyptian, something warm and comforting about it, and we discovered a new restaurant, Mediterranean Fresh, on the other side of Hollywood Boulevard.
In Cold Blood is a grim tale, grimly told. No overt blood - it is in any case in black and white - but lots of suspense. Lots of smoking too: this was a 1960s film. But no mobile phones. It showed how easily the two murderers could have got away with it, if they had only stayed in Mexico or just laid low. Remote farmhouses will never seem the same again.
Minsky's couldn't have been more different, a standard hoofers show, not an original note in it, but professionally presented and a really light evening out - and we had good seats, at the end of Row E in the stalls.
On Saturday we were among only 26 at the Fret House, which couldn't have made money for someone, either the venue or the band. Ian took the first opportunity to plug his forthcoming book, a collection of Letters from Lotusland, about Rollo being groomed for stardom. I took care of the real Rollo, who was a bit fractious.
Back to more sombre fare on Sunday, with a show that I thought didn't really work. We went with our friend Diana Cole, who had alerted us to the Minsky's tickets. Stormy Weather was too lopsided, because everything happened in the first half, being discovered, going to New York then Hollywood, breaking up her family, facing racial prejudice then the communist witchhunt. It slowed to a crawl after the interval, until we got the 'Stormy Weather' finale with Leslie Uggams in a gold lame evening gown.
it says something for American education and culture that any of the audiences for these five events could have been transposed to any of the others and felt entirely at home. There is an acceptance of entertainment that is completely different from the restlessness you can find in London theatres and cinemas, where everything seems very stratified.
Of course there were differences, because the Huntington lecture was in effect for members although anyone could attend for free. But in front of me at Stormy Weather was an irritating little man in a beard and check shirt who could easily have been at the Fret House or In Cold Blood.
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