On my way to the greenmarket on Saturday, I overheard this behind me:
She: "It's such a great movie."
He: "Yeah."
She: "Jeffrey Wright was so brilliant."
He: "Yeah."
She: "Honestly, I wasn't sure he could play Muddy Waters--"
He: "But he sure did."
I'm guessing they, like me, wondered why Cadillac Records didn't receive a single Oscar nomination.
Beside Wright as Muddy, the film was full of indelible, Oscar-worthy performances: Columbus Short as Little Walter, Eamonn Walker (Howlin' Wolf), Beyoncé Knowles (Etta James), Adrien Brody (Leonard Chess), in particular.
Granted, writer-director Darnell Martin took a few liberties with the facts--combining the two Chess brothers into one, leaving out Bo Diddley, etc.,--but no more than Hollywood films typically take with history. She brought a bygone world powerfully to life, and I left that world moved and exhilarated, feeling I'd seen one of the great movies of the year. I assumed it would be an Oscar contender in many categories, including script and direction, and was shocked when it didn't receive a single nomination.
What didn't Sony do to help this film find its audience? And why wasn't it on the Academy's radar?
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Friday, February 20, 2009
Script First
Jack Webb may have been one of the world's most wooden actors, but as director of Pete Kelly's Blues, he had some pretty cool moves. One memorable shot early on is from inside a pizza oven, beginning as a pie is pulled out, flames coyly dancing at the left of the Cinemascope frame--as if from the point-of-view of the alchemy that turns dough into bread, or weaklings into toughs.
But my favorite moment in this atmospheric film has nothing to do with camera moves or plot twists or acting moments. It's part of the credits. They begin with Warner Bros. (of course) and Webb--but as actor, not director. Nothing is said about "a Jack Webb film" or anything else of that ilk. Instead, right after "Jack Webb as Pete Kelly" come words to warm this writer's heart: "in a screenplay by Richard L. Breen." Not "in a film by Jack Webb" or "in a Mark VII Production." It's an acknowledgment, rare these days, that the script comes first, that without it there would be no film: no producing, directing, gripping, gaffing, editing, and photographing; no roles for Jane Leigh, Peggy Lee, Lee Marvin, and their fellows.
They don't make 'em like that anymore, but I'd sure like to see somebody try. Maybe one of these days, a generous and innovative director will relinquish the usual vainglorious opening credit and put the script first again.
But my favorite moment in this atmospheric film has nothing to do with camera moves or plot twists or acting moments. It's part of the credits. They begin with Warner Bros. (of course) and Webb--but as actor, not director. Nothing is said about "a Jack Webb film" or anything else of that ilk. Instead, right after "Jack Webb as Pete Kelly" come words to warm this writer's heart: "in a screenplay by Richard L. Breen." Not "in a film by Jack Webb" or "in a Mark VII Production." It's an acknowledgment, rare these days, that the script comes first, that without it there would be no film: no producing, directing, gripping, gaffing, editing, and photographing; no roles for Jane Leigh, Peggy Lee, Lee Marvin, and their fellows.
They don't make 'em like that anymore, but I'd sure like to see somebody try. Maybe one of these days, a generous and innovative director will relinquish the usual vainglorious opening credit and put the script first again.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Where the Heart Is
Some years ago, I was extolling the pleasures of eating doves my dad had shot, when someone exclaimed, "You ate the bird of peace!" I wish I'd had the wit to answer: "And I enjoyed every bite!" I didn't think of those doves as birds of peace, but as succulent morsels--and a rare treat (or more likely, given his cooking style, well done).
I grew up eating quite a few things friends find yucky--like brains and eggs (swimming in butter) when visiting Grandma Paulsen..
Now and then Dad cooked kidneys (lamb, I think), and although the predicable smell that filled the house was hard to take, the results were tasty.
One of my favorite dishes as a child was Heart Soup--another special treat. My sister Joanne thinks we'd have it maybe twice a year, but I remember it as dinner on Christmas Eve.
In my early days in New York, I sometimes bought a veal heart, sliced it, and sauteed it, but I've never actually made the soup, though I must have asked my mother for the recipe.
Here it is as I found it recently on a yellowing page that included other family favorites:
Heart Soup
For the amount that you would want, buy a veal heart if possible, and a soup bone with some meat on it. Put in your dutch oven, probably, and cover with cold water. Cook for several hours, at least 2 to 2 ½ to get the broth strongly flavored. Add the last hour some onion, carrot, celery, parsley and anything else you want. The last 20 min. or so of cooking I add some canned tomato or you could add several small fresh tomatoes. Season with salt and pepper. If you cannot get a soup bone, several pieces of beef ribs, it just adds additional flavor to the soup, especially when you use only 1 or 2 hearts.
Especially when you use only 1 or 2? If Mom were still with us, I'd ask just how many hearts did you use, and how many should I?
Not that I'm going to make it anytime soon. Unfortunately, I'd probably have to eat it all myself.
I grew up eating quite a few things friends find yucky--like brains and eggs (swimming in butter) when visiting Grandma Paulsen..
Now and then Dad cooked kidneys (lamb, I think), and although the predicable smell that filled the house was hard to take, the results were tasty.
One of my favorite dishes as a child was Heart Soup--another special treat. My sister Joanne thinks we'd have it maybe twice a year, but I remember it as dinner on Christmas Eve.
In my early days in New York, I sometimes bought a veal heart, sliced it, and sauteed it, but I've never actually made the soup, though I must have asked my mother for the recipe.
Here it is as I found it recently on a yellowing page that included other family favorites:
Heart Soup
For the amount that you would want, buy a veal heart if possible, and a soup bone with some meat on it. Put in your dutch oven, probably, and cover with cold water. Cook for several hours, at least 2 to 2 ½ to get the broth strongly flavored. Add the last hour some onion, carrot, celery, parsley and anything else you want. The last 20 min. or so of cooking I add some canned tomato or you could add several small fresh tomatoes. Season with salt and pepper. If you cannot get a soup bone, several pieces of beef ribs, it just adds additional flavor to the soup, especially when you use only 1 or 2 hearts.
Especially when you use only 1 or 2? If Mom were still with us, I'd ask just how many hearts did you use, and how many should I?
Not that I'm going to make it anytime soon. Unfortunately, I'd probably have to eat it all myself.
I Paid for It .
Jim and I were making Caldo Verde, a Portuguese soup, to take to Jim's parents' place for Thanksgiving. The beans were on, the onions were in, Jim was rinsing and tearing the kale, and I was slicing the chorizo--the dry kind, from Spain--more thinly than I usually do so that 14 diners could all perceive a satsifying amount of sausage in their bowls.
"Please don't cut the fat out," said Jim. "I figure I paid for that fat."
He was eluding to the habit I'd developed, when making the soup by myself, of using the tip of a paring knife to extract whatever globules of fat I could from the chunks of chorizo.
What about the casing, I asked? I usually peel it off. He said he'd paid for that, too.
I can't say I noticed that our full-fat soup tasted any different from my lightened version, and I realize that the amount of fat I typically remove is likely neglible. So back home, making the soup alone this week, I did it Jim's way, except for the casing.
Though my obsessive/compulsive side kind of missed the delicate task of fat extraction, the process of sausage prep went a lot faster.
When it came time to do the kale, Jim's words leapt to mind: "I paid for that, too." So shouldn't I use the kale stems instead of dumping them? I thought about chopping them and adding them to the soup, but there were plenty of kale leaves in there, so I bagged them and stuck them in the freezer.
One of these days I'll throw them into a vegetable stock pot, or maybe chop them and use them as the chicken replacement in mock chicken rice soup. I tried that once, and it wasn't bad.
You can find many versions of Caldo Verde online; here's mine:
Portuguese Kale Soup (from Carol Ames and Philippe Perebinossoff)
1 pound of pea beans (or navy)
10 cups of water
1 pound of sausage or less (I use one package of spicy Spanish chorizo, around 8 oz), sliced if you like
1 medium onion, chopped
1 pound of kale
2 cups of chopped potatoes
salt and pepper if you like
Bring water to boil with beans. Add onion and sausage, and simmer 2-3 hours. Tear kale leaves from stems, and add them about 3/4 to 1 hour before the soup will be done. Then add the potatoes, and finish cooking.
"Please don't cut the fat out," said Jim. "I figure I paid for that fat."
He was eluding to the habit I'd developed, when making the soup by myself, of using the tip of a paring knife to extract whatever globules of fat I could from the chunks of chorizo.
What about the casing, I asked? I usually peel it off. He said he'd paid for that, too.
I can't say I noticed that our full-fat soup tasted any different from my lightened version, and I realize that the amount of fat I typically remove is likely neglible. So back home, making the soup alone this week, I did it Jim's way, except for the casing.
Though my obsessive/compulsive side kind of missed the delicate task of fat extraction, the process of sausage prep went a lot faster.
When it came time to do the kale, Jim's words leapt to mind: "I paid for that, too." So shouldn't I use the kale stems instead of dumping them? I thought about chopping them and adding them to the soup, but there were plenty of kale leaves in there, so I bagged them and stuck them in the freezer.
One of these days I'll throw them into a vegetable stock pot, or maybe chop them and use them as the chicken replacement in mock chicken rice soup. I tried that once, and it wasn't bad.
You can find many versions of Caldo Verde online; here's mine:
Portuguese Kale Soup (from Carol Ames and Philippe Perebinossoff)
1 pound of pea beans (or navy)
10 cups of water
1 pound of sausage or less (I use one package of spicy Spanish chorizo, around 8 oz), sliced if you like
1 medium onion, chopped
1 pound of kale
2 cups of chopped potatoes
salt and pepper if you like
Bring water to boil with beans. Add onion and sausage, and simmer 2-3 hours. Tear kale leaves from stems, and add them about 3/4 to 1 hour before the soup will be done. Then add the potatoes, and finish cooking.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
The Endless Commercial
A few Saturday nights ago, my boyfriend, Jim, and I watched "Saving Private Ryan" on TNT.
"More movie, less commercials" boasted the station's tagline. You mean "Fewer" I muttered upon noticing it, but two hours later, grammar was the least of my objections to the phrase.
The problem is, the only time you don’t see that tagline is DURING the commercials.
What this grossly misleading phrase really means: fewer commercials from the other guys, but one long, omnipresent commercial for the friendly station that's bringing you the movie–a station that insists on reminding you of its existence for every second of the film it's showing you.
Now whatever you might think about the merits of "Saving Private Ryan," it’s a movie that deserves better than to have its every frame branded with a broadcaster’s advertising.
TNT isn't the only station that does this. Recently, I watched enough of "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" to ascertain that E! is among those who routinely violate the cinematic integrity of the films they show by plastering logos on them for the entirely length of the broadcast.
Yet another reason to watch movies where they were designed to be shown–or at least on DVD.
"More movie, less commercials" boasted the station's tagline. You mean "Fewer" I muttered upon noticing it, but two hours later, grammar was the least of my objections to the phrase.
The problem is, the only time you don’t see that tagline is DURING the commercials.
What this grossly misleading phrase really means: fewer commercials from the other guys, but one long, omnipresent commercial for the friendly station that's bringing you the movie–a station that insists on reminding you of its existence for every second of the film it's showing you.
Now whatever you might think about the merits of "Saving Private Ryan," it’s a movie that deserves better than to have its every frame branded with a broadcaster’s advertising.
TNT isn't the only station that does this. Recently, I watched enough of "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" to ascertain that E! is among those who routinely violate the cinematic integrity of the films they show by plastering logos on them for the entirely length of the broadcast.
Yet another reason to watch movies where they were designed to be shown–or at least on DVD.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Joanne for President
I'm a former Hillary supporter now doing whatever I can to see Obama and Biden elected. I'll of course vote for them in November.
During the primary season, a friend of mine emailed me that she was convinced this would be the only chance in her lifetime to elect a Democratic woman President.
Unlike my friend, I believe we'll see a female chief executive sooner rather than later, and she won't be Sarah Palin (whose nomination would seem like a bad joke were it not for the risk that she might be elected).
For every Hilary Clinton or Nancy Pelosi or Janet Napolitano, there are dozens if not hundreds of women doing terrific work in state or local government--women like the dedicated and dynamic Andrea Stewart-Cousins, NY State senator from Yonkers. Among the ranks of volunteers in this year's campaigns are young women who'll be inspired to embark on political careers. We'll be voting for them before you know it.
I've long thought that my wonderful sister Joanne would make an excellent President, and for her birthday some years ago, told her so in the following poem, which I've just updated. When you read it, think of women you know or know of, whom you'd like to one day see in the top job.
A Nomination
When times are rough and portents grim,
I think it like a mantra:
Joanne for President.
A thankless job, but someone's got to do it.
Her day will come.
Age ten or so, worried that having been born in Newfoundland
(we called her Newfie) disqualified her for the job,
she wrote the President to ask.
The attorney general wrote back,
assuring her that being born a U.S. citizen
took precedence over any accident of geography
(or, he might have added, gender).
Strange to find yourself suddenly thinking of
your pesky little sister as your future leader.
What seems strange now is only that
she hasn't yet taken her first public step
to the White House. She's taken many privately:
As former baseball mom, PTA president,
ombudsman helping other Navy wives,
psychology student, secretary, seller of advertising,
she's had years of experience honing her
diplomatic, care-taking, and managerial skills.
Co-owning and managing a new restaurant gave her
experience in high-pressure, out-of-the-frying-pan-into-the-fire
entrepreneurship--and a great place to win friends and influence voters.
Now a dedicated and beloved early elementary teacher,
she's helping to get some lucky future voters off to a good start.
She gardens, collects baskets ( sometimes makes them),
babysits her grandchildren, has raised and sold beagles,
enjoys reading, traveling, and riding roller coasters.
Vivacious, imaginative, thoughtful, curious,
empathetic, down-to-earth, she'll talk sense to the Senate,
charm the House, and build a dream
administrative team, filled with spirit and skill.
Without presuming to speak for her, I can
assure you that she does not believe in astrology,
numerology, or patriarchy. She does believe in
good education and health care for all, fair wages,
equal opportunity and rights, thoughtful
conservation of the environment, and generous,
peaceful relations with other nations.
You might think I'm prejudiced because she's
my sister. But who more than a sibling
would know all the reasons, if there were any,
she was unworthy of your support?
You can still see in Joanne the bubbly, spunky kid
with an imagination as boundless as the great
plains of Oklahoma, where she spent those years.
And the adolescent, up north in Michigan a few years later,
who let our little sister come along with her on dates
so that she wouldn't feel left out
(and maybe as a chaperone).
In a few years, I'd like to see her run
for local office. Before you know it, she'll
be looking for a campaign manager for a House,
Senate, or gubernatorial race. By the time she's,
say, 60 or so, the country should be ready
for its first chief executive with some
really good cookie recipes.
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Joanne--
our future, first female President,
from the great state of California!
During the primary season, a friend of mine emailed me that she was convinced this would be the only chance in her lifetime to elect a Democratic woman President.
Unlike my friend, I believe we'll see a female chief executive sooner rather than later, and she won't be Sarah Palin (whose nomination would seem like a bad joke were it not for the risk that she might be elected).
For every Hilary Clinton or Nancy Pelosi or Janet Napolitano, there are dozens if not hundreds of women doing terrific work in state or local government--women like the dedicated and dynamic Andrea Stewart-Cousins, NY State senator from Yonkers. Among the ranks of volunteers in this year's campaigns are young women who'll be inspired to embark on political careers. We'll be voting for them before you know it.
I've long thought that my wonderful sister Joanne would make an excellent President, and for her birthday some years ago, told her so in the following poem, which I've just updated. When you read it, think of women you know or know of, whom you'd like to one day see in the top job.
A Nomination
When times are rough and portents grim,
I think it like a mantra:
Joanne for President.
A thankless job, but someone's got to do it.
Her day will come.
Age ten or so, worried that having been born in Newfoundland
(we called her Newfie) disqualified her for the job,
she wrote the President to ask.
The attorney general wrote back,
assuring her that being born a U.S. citizen
took precedence over any accident of geography
(or, he might have added, gender).
Strange to find yourself suddenly thinking of
your pesky little sister as your future leader.
What seems strange now is only that
she hasn't yet taken her first public step
to the White House. She's taken many privately:
As former baseball mom, PTA president,
ombudsman helping other Navy wives,
psychology student, secretary, seller of advertising,
she's had years of experience honing her
diplomatic, care-taking, and managerial skills.
Co-owning and managing a new restaurant gave her
experience in high-pressure, out-of-the-frying-pan-into-the-fire
entrepreneurship--and a great place to win friends and influence voters.
Now a dedicated and beloved early elementary teacher,
she's helping to get some lucky future voters off to a good start.
She gardens, collects baskets ( sometimes makes them),
babysits her grandchildren, has raised and sold beagles,
enjoys reading, traveling, and riding roller coasters.
Vivacious, imaginative, thoughtful, curious,
empathetic, down-to-earth, she'll talk sense to the Senate,
charm the House, and build a dream
administrative team, filled with spirit and skill.
Without presuming to speak for her, I can
assure you that she does not believe in astrology,
numerology, or patriarchy. She does believe in
good education and health care for all, fair wages,
equal opportunity and rights, thoughtful
conservation of the environment, and generous,
peaceful relations with other nations.
You might think I'm prejudiced because she's
my sister. But who more than a sibling
would know all the reasons, if there were any,
she was unworthy of your support?
You can still see in Joanne the bubbly, spunky kid
with an imagination as boundless as the great
plains of Oklahoma, where she spent those years.
And the adolescent, up north in Michigan a few years later,
who let our little sister come along with her on dates
so that she wouldn't feel left out
(and maybe as a chaperone).
In a few years, I'd like to see her run
for local office. Before you know it, she'll
be looking for a campaign manager for a House,
Senate, or gubernatorial race. By the time she's,
say, 60 or so, the country should be ready
for its first chief executive with some
really good cookie recipes.
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Joanne--
our future, first female President,
from the great state of California!
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Let's be more like Patti.
August 24 was a lovely evening in New York City, and, wrapping up the free Roots of American Music festival at Damrosch Park, Patti Smith and her band were in typically great form.
Early on, she presented herself to us as a New York City neighbor, saying something like, "If you see me walking down the street and my shoelaces are untied, tell me. I am clumsy. If you see me going down the subway stairs and my shoelaces are untied, please tell me. I can be clumsy."
But she sure wasn't clumsy on stage. Rocking her way through her own songs--"People Have the Power," "Because the Night," and lots of others--and great covers including "Smells like Teen Spirit" and a version of "Are you Experienced" packed with improvised extras, she brought the audience to their feet and their arms into the air.
She urged us to vote (more than once, I think), asked us to remember those suffering elsewhere (not that we shouldn't enjoy our evening), and, at the end of the encore ("We've only got four minutes and we're going to pack in everything we can"), stopped while misspelling "Gloria," to say, "Fuck it, I can't spell--I should be in the Bush cabinet."
Afterwards, waiting for the bus on 9th Avenue, I heard a man jogging past the woman beside me say to her, "If you see me in the subway and my shoelaces are untied, tell me."
"You're not Patti," she answered with the ghost of a smile.
Early on, she presented herself to us as a New York City neighbor, saying something like, "If you see me walking down the street and my shoelaces are untied, tell me. I am clumsy. If you see me going down the subway stairs and my shoelaces are untied, please tell me. I can be clumsy."
But she sure wasn't clumsy on stage. Rocking her way through her own songs--"People Have the Power," "Because the Night," and lots of others--and great covers including "Smells like Teen Spirit" and a version of "Are you Experienced" packed with improvised extras, she brought the audience to their feet and their arms into the air.
She urged us to vote (more than once, I think), asked us to remember those suffering elsewhere (not that we shouldn't enjoy our evening), and, at the end of the encore ("We've only got four minutes and we're going to pack in everything we can"), stopped while misspelling "Gloria," to say, "Fuck it, I can't spell--I should be in the Bush cabinet."
Afterwards, waiting for the bus on 9th Avenue, I heard a man jogging past the woman beside me say to her, "If you see me in the subway and my shoelaces are untied, tell me."
"You're not Patti," she answered with the ghost of a smile.
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