Music: I Got Your Yule Log Right Here

Chez K. “The Christmas Waltz” plays in the background.

Me: I never liked that phrase “you and yours.” I think it sounds kinda dismissive.

Rosemarie: That’s because you’re from Queens.

Later. “Here Comes Santa Claus” is playing.

Rosemarie: I always hated that “Hang your stockings and say your prayers, ‘cause Santa Claus comes tonight.” Yeah, say your prayers ‘cause he’s going to kill you in your sleep.

Me: That’s because you’re from Queens.

Rosemarie: No. It’s from a much deeper place.

Miscellaneous: Links

Earlier this week I read George Packer’s fascinating New Yorker article on using anthropology to combat insurgency in Iraq and beyond. It includes a startling new use for the movie Fight Club. I was all set to write a post about it, but Jim Emerson handles the heavy lifting for me.

Chapter One of Eddie Muller’s Grindhouse is up at GreenCine.

MSN revives Moments out of Time, which used to be a year-end Film Comment staple. It’s assembled by FC veterans Richard T. Jameson and Kathleen Murphy, who now coincidentally write for the Queen Anne News, the paper that covers my Seattle neighborhood.

Music: It’s A Sugar Date

The Chez K philosophy is a simple one: treat every day like a low-key holiday. So when the genuine article rolls around, we don’t make much fuss. Our yuletide soundtrack is close to what we usually listen to. Christmas With The Rat Pack has been getting a workout. I want those bells to ring-a-ding-ding.

My favorite song is Frank and Dean’s version of “Marshmallow World,” recorded for Dino’s 1967 Christmas special. (Regis Philbin and Craig Ferguson recreated this duet on The Late Late Show last Christmas. I’ve already emailed Craig asking him to rerun it.) The boys did the song live; you can hear the audience reacting to their hijinks. And the sound has been driving me mad. What’s so funny? What are they laughing at?

Now, at last, I know. Behold a genuine Christmas miracle, courtesy of YouTube. Consider it an early gift from me to you.

TV: Ghost of Christmas Specials Past

Matt at Scrubbles.net asks about neglected holiday specials. Hard to believe any are left, considering that this month ABC Family has blown the dust off lesser Rankin-Bass offerings like Nestor, The Long-Eared Christmas Donkey and The Leprechauns’ Christmas Gold. I know I must have seen the Family Circus show Matt describes, but I can’t remember a thing about it.

I do, however, remember two other such programs. The Bear Who Slept Through Christmas featured the voices of Tom Smothers, Barbara Feldon and Arte Johnson. It was set in a parallel ursine universe, complete with airlines and catchy jingles (“Fly Bear Air to your lair!”). Said universe shuts down entirely for hibernation, but one bear wants to stay up and experience Christmas. He struggles not to fall asleep, meets Santa, and is ultimately given to a little girl as a present even though he’s, you know, alive. I wonder if Stephen Colbert has seen it. The soundtrack includes “Where Can I Find Christmas?,” a song so sappy it could bring a tear to the eye of Vladimir Putin, who would only deny the tear’s existence after dousing it with radioactive polonium. If I sing the opening line in a pathetic voice, Rosemarie is guaranteed to well up and then smack me.

The other is an all-mime version of the O. Henry story “Gift of the Magi.” I’m 90% sure it starred Shields & Yarnell, but I can’t find a record of it anywhere. Maybe it only aired in New York.

Music: Jingle Bell Rawk!

I’ve always thought of Trans-Siberian Orchestra as music to synchronize your Christmas lights to. But this New York Times article set me straight. The brains of the outfit is a product of Flushing, Queens, like Rosemarie. And the core of the group are members of ‘80s metal band Savatage. Behold the video for their biggest hit, “Hall of the Mountain King.” It plays like a Tenacious D NyQuil dream. Awesome!

Miscellaneous: King of the Silver Screen

Stephen King names his ten best movies of 2006 in Entertainment Weekly. I love King’s column: the odds of any other writer for a mass-market magazine singling out the old-school ‘70s-style urban action flick Waist Deep for year-end honors are mighty slim. I missed Waist Deep in theaters, but I’ll make a point of watching it now. King knows whereof he speaks when it comes to pulp.

Still, I can’t get behind his central thesis that it’s harder to go out to movies with all the media options now available. I know it’s true, but I can’t get behind it. The whole "let’s binge on an entire TV season in a single weekend pausing only to order Chinese and attend to biological urges" thing eludes me. But apparently only me; in the same EW issue, no less a celestial being than Oprah Winfrey claims that on a recent Saturday she never took her pj’s off and consumed 13 episodes of Grey’s Anatomy in one sitting.

Don’t get me wrong. I use technology to my advantage. I powered through the fourth season of The Wire on my schedule via On Demand. But I move at my own erratic – read: slow – pace. If I tried to compress all of Battlestar Galactica Season Two into a long weekend I’d go to bed the way I did every Halloween of my childhood, having gorged on candy: feeling kind of shaky and not a little bit greasy.

Plus there are some movies that have to be seen on the big screen if you have any interest in them. I’m sure Waist Deep will play just fine in the living room at Chez K. But King admits he was too busy watching Jericho on his computer to check out Clint Eastwood’s WWII epic Flags of Our Fathers. When he catches up with Flags, which I liked, on video – or if he goes to see the companion film Letters from Iwo Jima, now garnering huge acclaim – he’s going to be kicking himself no matter how big his home theater is.

Miscellaneous: My Holiday Gift-Giving Guide

Because I’m not just some blogger. I’m a lifestyle consultant.

No links to extravagant purchases like the Dolce & Gabbana Razr or a full-size replica of the Lost in Space robot (hat tip to Ken Levine). Instead, two affordable items guaranteed to play big at the most wonderful time of the year.

Candles are a standby gift. Why not bring them into the new millennium with LED candles? Long-lasting battery-powered flames that flicker like the genuine article. Not only can you blow them out, you can blow them on, too. They came in handy during last night’s storm, the Northwest equivalent of a nor’easter. (Update: they’re already sold out at ThinkGeek, but they’re available at plenty of other locations.)

Next, the new Deluxe Edition DVD of Patrick Swayze’s Road House. I’m a late convert to this movie’s charms, which are manifold. Gratuitous sex, gratuitous violence, gratuitous monster trucks, gratuitous mullets. (When are mullets not gratuitous?) Now this celebration of all that was right about Reagan-era America finally receives the video treatment it deserves. Comes complete with feature on real-life bouncers called “What Would Dalton Do?” and commentary track by longtime fans Kevin Smith and Scott Mosier that pinpoints every homoerotic nuance. Trust me, it can’t miss.

Miscellaneous: Links

As award season approaches, Variety asks prominent critics to consider what Oscar got right, got wrong, and overlooked in the past 20 years. Genre movies, as always, hold up best. I’m just saying.

Speaking of awards contenders, many have wondered what Queen Elizabeth II would make of The Queen. Now we know.

Great news: GreenCine Daily will be serializing Eddie Muller’s out-of-print book Grindhouse.

Word usage conundrum of the day: Abraham Foxman of the Anti-Defamation League says that Jimmy Carter’s controversial new book on the Israeli/Palestinian conflict propagates a “shameless, shameful canard.” Is it possible to be both? After consulting a dictionary, I think it might be.

Peter Boyle, R.I.P.

When a much-loved actor passes away, it’s funny the first thing you think of. Sometimes it’s not the obvious high points, which in Peter Boyle’s career are numerous. His long run on Everybody Loves Raymond, his legendary performances in Young Frankenstein and Joe.

Sometimes it’s not even your personal favorites. Like Boyle’s work as the crafty campaign manager in The Candidate. Or the double-dealing bartender in The Friends of Eddie Coyle, the kind of guy who’d feel right at home in The Departed. Or his Chief Orman in Honeymoon in Vegas. (To this day, whenever I hear the score from South Pacific, I mime putting a phone to my ear at the line “Bali H’ai will call you” in tribute to Boyle.) Or his dual turns as cabbies in The Shadow and Taxi Driver. Or his Emmy-winning appearance as morose psychic Clyde Bruckman on The X-Files, delivering what may be my favorite line from the show to Agent Mulder: “You know, there are worse ways to go, but I can’t think of a more undignified one than autoerotic asphyxiation.”

No, sometimes what occurs to you is an offbeat tidbit that seems to capture an individual’s personality. And in Boyle’s case, it’s from a 2003 New York Times article on the madness of owning a car in Manhattan.

“I consider using my car unnecessarily as one of the great joys of my life,” said Peter Boyle, the actor ... Mr. Boyle starts most days with a stroll to the bank for a roll of quarters (he considers it unsportsmanlike to use a garage when he is out and about). He takes his Mercedes station wagon everywhere, even to Elaine’s, which is only a block or two away from his home. “Being dedicated to your car here is a test of patience and cunning,” he said. “And there’s better radio reception than in the house.”

That says it all, really. He will be missed.

Miscellaneous: Link

Wired magazine asked notable SF, fantasy and horror writers to come up with six word short stories as Ernest Hemingway did. This feature proves once again that Alan Moore is a genius. Read the results in the photo versions in the lower right corner to experience the full effect of the graphics.

Miscellaneous: Grab Bag

I thought I had an entire post prompted by Sarah Weinman’s question: whither noir? Specifically, is there any truth to a critic’s charge that many contemporary writers are “knowingly catering to a minority audience of crime buffs”?

It was going to be a thing of beauty, this post, a heartbreaking elegy for the generalist that would use this website as an example. Then I thought about it for three seconds and realized how self-serving it would be. Instead, I’ll make the one small point that has some merit. Sarah’s post springs in part from Tribe’s interview with Christa Faust. Swing by my links page and you’ll see all three of these fine bloggers there. Meaning that if there is “a minority audience of crime buffs,” I’m probably in the thick of it.

So to buttress my generalist bona fides, some quick takes:

Volver. Almodovar’s latest suffers only in comparison with his extraordinary recent run – All About My Mother, Talk to Her, Bad Education. It’s a bit self-conscious at times in its return to his older style, but still completely captivating. It’s like an entire rainy day afternoon of Joan Crawford movies rolled into one film. I trust all those Penelope Cruz naysayers are queuing up for crow.

Déjà Vu. The second hour isn’t as good as the first. But it’s packed with giddy moments and high-grade hokum. The car chase in which the present pursues the past is the reason why I go to the movies.

And, to burnish my crime buff credentials:

Hose Monkey. Author Tony Spinosa is actually Reed Farrel Coleman, creator of the award-winning Moe Prager series. The focus of this book is Joe Serpe, a one-time NYPD detective disgraced in a corruption scandal. He’s drawn into a murder investigation with the unlikeliest of partners: his former Internal Affairs nemesis, now dealing with demons of his own. A solid mystery made memorable by rich Long Island atmosphere and a great dynamic between the two lead characters.

Miscellaneous: Birthday Girl

Friday was Rosemarie’s birthday. Part of the gala celebration was ceding control of the TV to her.

We began the week with Wordplay, the winning documentary about crossword creators and fanatics. By the end of the movie Rosemarie, who tackles Saturday’s New York Times puzzle in ink, had jumped out of her seat and was shouting answers at the screen. She has now made it her goal to enter the American Crossword Puzzle Tournament at least once. Considering that her last such goal was to appear as a contestant on Jeopardy!, Stamford here we come.

She also wanted to revisit one of her favorite films, 1933’s Design for Living. Bohemian artists and longtime pals Fredric March and Gary Cooper both fall for Miriam Hopkins. The problem is that Hopkins falls for both of them. Ernst Lubitsch directs, with Noel Coward’s play adapted by Ben Hecht. That’s quite the writing combination, one graceful and sophisticated, the other brash and voluble, both of them as witty as all get-out. I’d draw a parallel, but modesty forbids.

For once, the birthday was not the signature event of Rosemarie’s week, or even her Friday. She delivered her presentation How Not To Do It: Scientific Misconduct in the Cinema, to her largest audience to date. Based on a paper she prepared for the Society of Research Administrators International, it uses movies to illustrate ethical dilemmas faced by scientists in matters like animal testing (Deep Blue Sea), human trials (Extreme Measures), and reporting conclusions (Hollow Man). Not many academic lectures refer to both the German Expressionist classic The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari and Diane Ladd’s performance in Carnosaur.

What kills me is that in her presentation, Rosemarie has to set up film clips. I wanted to be the first one in this marriage to do that. Damn.

Sort-Of Related: The Wonga Coup, by Adam Roberts (2006)/The Dogs of War (1981)

There’s art imitating life. And there’s going through the looking glass.

In his book Roberts, a correspondent for The Economist, recounts the fascinating tale of an attempted coup in the West African nation of Equatorial Guinea in March 2004. It reads like a real-life version of a Ross Thomas novel. You’ve got mercenaries with names like Nosher, Captain Pig and Victor Dracula. Shadowy arms dealers. Cannibalistic dictators. Mystery men signing checks. And figures from various intelligence services who may or may not approve of what’s going on. Even the charmless son of former British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher gets caught up in the action.

But the strangest aspect of the story is how it’s a pop culture hall of mirrors. The coup’s mastermind, former SAS officer Simon Mann, was inspired by the derring-do of a fellow mercenary whose exploits were fictionalized in the movie The Wild Geese. Mann briefly left professional soldiering for the film business, serving as actor and technical advisor on Bloody Sunday. When he set out to overthrow Equatorial Guinea’s government, his blueprint was the 1974 Frederick Forsyth novel The Dogs of War, a near-documentary account of a previous coup attempt in the country – which, Roberts discovers, Forsyth had a hand in organizing and financing. When Mann runs short of capital, he allegedly receives support from another novelist, Jeffrey Archer, who in 1980 wrote his own story of overthrowing an African government. Meanwhile, Mann’s failed effort has already been turned into a BBC film, with Roberts as consultant. Is that clear to everyone?

The 1981 movie version of The Dogs of War has been parked on my DVR for months. Roberts’ excellent book finally prompted me to watch it. It’s smartly made but not exactly fleet of foot. There’s a memorable scene in which Christopher Walken, playing a mercenary masquerading as a nature photographer, reels off the scientific names of several species of bird. You haven’t heard Latin until you’ve heard it from Christopher Walken.

Miscellaneous: Who Reviews The Reviewers?

I may have a point here. Bear with me.

My morning media routine starts with the New York Times. Today that meant Manohla Dargis’ rave review of the new David Lynch movie Inland Empire. Ms. Dargis describes it as:

one of the few films I’ve seen this year that deserves to be called art. Dark as pitch, as noir, as hate, by turns beautiful and ugly, funny and horrifying, the film is also as cracked as Mad magazine, though generally more difficult to parse.

Next, to the internet. At Movie City News, David Poland ran an email from screenwriter Larry Gross that calls the Dargis review “‘important’ film criticism” comparable to Pauline Kael’s landmark essay on Bonnie & Clyde, which “helped that film find a place for itself in the minds and hearts of the mass audience.” Poland himself also weighs in:

I was also struck by the sense that this piece was one of (Dargis’) most significant at the NYT. It’s not that it is her best writing or that the film is the most complex she’s written about. It’s that the review reaches well past traditional reviewing and speaks in a very interesting way to how we watch movies and how we should be watching movies.

MCN then followed up with a longer piece by Gross. The ever-reliable GreenCine Daily augmented the discussion by collecting other reactions to the movie and the review. Inland Empire, and specifically Dargis’ take on it, are the talk of the film blogging world.

Then I swung by another daily stop, Andrew Sullivan’s blog. As a rule, I don’t read political sites. I disappear down enough rabbit holes as it is. I read Sullivan because he’s a blogging pioneer, and because I find his point of view fascinating. A gay, Catholic, conservative Republican who turned against President Bush, he’s chronicled his struggle to hold true to his philosophy in a party that seems to have no use for him.

Sullivan also linked to Dargis’ review, under the headline “Poseur Alert.” He gives a hat tip to National Review columnist John Podhoretz. The title of his post on Dargis?

The Most Pretentious Piece of Writing in All of Recorded History

Rabbit hole entered. A Technorati search revealed that both echo chambers are working. Right-wing blogs pick up Podhoretz’s dig, while left-wingers mock earlier attempts at film criticism by Podhoretz and friends.

That’s the summary. Whew.

My point – and as I said, I may have one – is that the film community has declared Dargis’ review a significant event while those who view life through the prism of politics dismiss it as self-indulgent.

But ‘twas ever thus. Whenever an avant-garde work is praised, people will scoff. And to be honest, the section of Dargis’ review excerpted by Sullivan does make the movie sound like a tough sit. All that hooey about mirrors and entrances and exits.

Still, this seems like more than a knee-jerk response. There’s an undercurrent of judgment, a sense that there’s something unseemly about displaying such passion in print. “Doesn’t Manohla know that we’ve moved past that? She should save her enthusiasms for her blog.”

Here’s what I think. You can’t call a review pretentious unless you’ve seen the work in question. The word does mean making unjustified or excessive claims, after all. Manohla Dargis can get carried away with herself; she’s written reviews where I don’t know what the hell she’s talking about. But this isn’t one of them. This is her making a pitch for a movie that clearly moved her, and one that might get overlooked not only because of the crush of year-end titles but because of its odd release pattern. (Lynch is distributing Inland Empire himself. Its Oscar campaign consists of him sitting on various Los Angeles street corners with a cow.)

But ultimately, the review doesn’t matter to me. It’s for a David Lynch movie. I would have seen it anyway.

Movies: The Gambler and The Lady (1952)/Heat Wave (1954)

Onward into the Hammer Film Noir Collection I go. Here’s installment one.

This DVD serves up quite the double bill; Leonard Maltin’s Classic Movie Guide describes one film as “tepid” and the other as “tame.” Sadly, I can’t entirely disagree. The movies are primarily of interest to genre completists who want to see familiar noir tropes played out against unfamiliar English locales. Still, the collision of twisted psychology and the stiff-upper-lip mentality of our cousins across the pond yields a few interesting moments.

Heat Wave, also known as The House Across The Lake, also known as the tame one, answers the question “What would a film noir from the director of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang be like?” Ken Hughes even adapted it from his own novel. The story is the classic set-up of loner (here a visiting American novelist suffering from writer’s block), scheming dame, and wealthy husband. But Hughes adds the wrinkle of the loner and the husband meeting first and becoming friends, with the husband even giving tacit approval to his own cuckolding. The hubby is played by Sid James, a staple of the Carry On series who delivers solid performances in several U.K. noirs. The rest of the movie plays out exactly as you’d expect, with the husband’s murder almost an afterthought.

Hammer often imported American actors for their crime dramas, either those on the downswing of their careers or recognizable faces who never hit the big time. The Gambler and The Lady – that would be the tepid one – features one of the latter in Dane Clark. He’s a Yank who fled the States after a manslaughter beef. His obsession with joining high society has him taking etiquette lessons, but the poor sap doesn’t realize that the British upper crust is every bit as treacherous as the gangsters he left behind. The movie’s slow to get started and somewhat obvious once it does, but the story’s an interesting one. Plus the object of Clark’s affections is played by Naomi Chance, an appealing actress reminiscent of Kate Winslet. I haven’t seen anything else she’s been in, but one of her credits stands out: a 1964 television adaptation of Isaac Asimov’s The Caves of Steel, written by Doctor Who guru Terry Nation and starring Peter Cushing as Lije Bailey. According to Wikipedia, it no longer exists.

Miscellaneous: Links

Via Bill Crider, we have the ten hottest alien babes of TV and film. And from GreenCine Daily comes the 50 greatest commercials of the ‘80s. That should keep you busy for a while.

Miscellaneous: Any Bonds Today?

It takes more than box office for a movie to become a genuine phenomenon. I learned Casino Royale reached that stage from my regular perch in Seattle’s finest bar. Not because three people marched in and ordered Vesper cocktails, but because I discovered such people have been coming in since the movie opened. Seattle’s best barmen were ready with the drink’s history, while I pitched in by clearing up some confusion regarding the earlier, allegedly comic version of Casino Royale. I do what I can to make myself useful.

The 007 fervor won’t die down. Writers Javier Grillo-Marxuach and Lee Goldberg are just the latest to have listed their Bond favorites; Lee’s gone so far as to rank the title songs.

I’m not prepared to do likewise. Beyond a handful of generalizations, rating the Bond movies is such fine work that it requires the use of an electron microscope. Herewith, however, are those generalizations.

Connery is tops. (I am prepared, on the strength of Casino Royale alone, to grant Daniel Craig the #2 slot.) From Russia With Love is a notch better than Goldfinger. The thing everybody loves about You Only Live Twice – the volcano hideout – is the reason I don’t care for the movie. Diamonds Are Forever is the kinkiest Bond film. I really should watch it again.

Yes, On Her Majesty’s Secret Service is a damned good movie.

The Spy Who Loved Me is Roger Moore’s best. The nuclear sabotage at the circus plot in Octopussy may be my favorite 007 storyline (Frederick Forsyth told a similar yarn in The Fourth Protocol, which became a movie starring ... Pierce Brosnan), but I can never remember how it ties in with the movie’s actual villain Louis Jourdan. A View To A Kill has the dumbest title and the highest inverse theme song/movie quality ratio.

Timothy Dalton makes a very underrated 007, and The Living Daylights is perhaps the most underrated Bond film. But I don’t like his second outing, Licence to Kill, at all.

Brosnan was a fine Bond, but he’s even better when he riffs on the character in other movies like The Tailor of Panama and The Matador.

As for the theme songs, I’m with Lee. There are the obvious winners (including k.d. lang’s “Surrender” from Tomorrow Never Dies), and then there’s the rest. I’d rather talk up the parody Bond songs. The runner-up is Weird Al Yankovic’s theme from Spy Hard, complete with mock title sequence.

But the champ is Robbie Williams’ “Man For All Seasons” from Johnny English. “So charismatic/With an automatic/Never prematurely shooting his load.” Noel Coward couldn’t top that.

Miscellaneous: Link

All the year-end Oscar hopefuls in the pipeline, and what movie am I most excited about? Hot Fuzz, the latest from the Shaun of the Dead team. It even has Timothy Dalton in it. Here’s the trailer.

TV: The Wire

Great interview in Slate with the show’s creator David Simon. It lays out what’s in store for the fifth and final season. Here’s my favorite quote:

On THE WIRE, we were trying to explore this stuff you don’t see – the dope on the table, all that has been done to death. Sometimes the real poetry of police work is a couple of detectives with their feet on a desk in the backroom looking at ballistics.

That’s the essence of the show: avoiding obligatory scenes, digging drama out of the everyday. I also love how Simon praises HBO’s other series while admitting that he doesn’t watch them. It confirms my long-held suspicion that The Wire works as well as it does because it’s made by people who don’t know or care about TV conventions. I can’t believe Simon conned HBO out of five complete seasons.

Miscellaneous: YouTube Treasure of the Day

My prayers have been answered. Some kind soul has finally uploaded the video for Saga’s “Wind Him Up.” Why have I been searching for it for lo these many months?

1. I actually like the song. I was always a sucker for prog-rock keyboards.

2. The video is unintentionally hilarious. It’s got everything. Cheap tuxedos, a Camaro, and a degenerate gambler who’s hooked on ... roulette. Those are the worst kind.

3. The last shot. It’s why this video has haunted my brain for 20 years. It’s so stupendously literal-minded that I can’t think of it without laughing. Watch and you’ll see.

Movies: Man Bait (1952)/Bad Blonde (1953)

Let’s talk about old movies. Feels like I haven’t done that in a while.

England’s Hammer Films is synonymous with horror. But in the 1950s Hammer also churned out its share of noirs, low-budget tales of doomed love and murder. Mother’s milk to yours truly. Neglected for decades, these movies are finally surfacing on DVD.

This is where I’m supposed to say that Hammer’s noirs are overlooked gems. Sadly, no. But they’re solid enough films. As screenwriter Lem Dobbs observed in his Double Indemnity commentary track, noir is the only genre that always satisfies. You won’t find a bad movie in it.

Although Man Bait (known as The Last Page in Britain) comes close. For starters, it’s set in that most hardboiled of environments ... a book shop? Considering the line-up behind the camera – directed by Hammer horror staple Terence Fisher, adapted by Frederick Knott (Wait Until Dark, Dial M For Murder) from a play by noted U.K. crime writer James Hadley Chase – I expected more than the standard mélange of blackmail and murder. Still, Diana Dors – England’s Marilyn Monroe, the Siren of Swindon – registers as a bombshell unsure of how to use her power over men who finds herself in the sway of a sociopath.

Bad Blonde (released in England as The Flanagan Boy – why do they fear lurid titles so?) starts out as a decent thriller with a boxing backdrop but eventually goes off the rails. The climactic scene requires not one but two characters to doze off. It doesn’t help that the femme fatale is played by Barbara Payton, whose life story is more twisted than anything unfolding onscreen.

VCI Entertainment’s animated logo looks like an outtake from Gun Crazy the videogame. And they could have taken more care with the extras. I enjoyed the brief, informative commentaries by film historian Richard Roberts delivered in Winchellesque style, but would it have hurt to edit out Roberts’ request for a retake?

Still, the company is to be credited for bringing these movies back. It’s always interesting to see another nation’s take on noir. Yes, the French know their way around it, but I always think of it as an American genre. This is the land of optimism and eternal sunshine, after all. When shadows fall here, they fall dark and deep.

Book: The Ruins, by Scott Smith (2006)

Sometimes I go months – years – without reading any horror fiction. Then I read two books in a row.

You can see why Smith would try the genre if you’re familiar with his first novel A Simple Plan or the film adaptation which Smith wrote. Plan moved like a bad dream, with the main character aware of every terrible thing bearing down on him yet powerless to stop it.

But The Ruins plays out like a full-blown nightmare. Four young, happy-go-lucky Americans take a cheap vacation to Mexico before getting on with grad school and their adult lives. They meet some Europeans much like themselves, one of whom has a brother who has vanished while visiting an archeological dig. They decide to take a day trip to track him down and ...

I won’t even attempt to describe what follows, for fear I’ll make it sound ridiculous. It’s like something a fevered ten-year-old would cook up in his first night away from home at summer camp. It starts bad and goes downhill (well, technically uphill) from there. I can’t say that I enjoyed the book, but I couldn’t stop reading it. I had to know just how much worse things were going to get.

The Ruins didn’t truly terrify me, because it’s about an outdoor excursion gone awry. You’ll never find me in these situations. I won’t even venture to 7-Eleven without a flare gun and an all-in-one tool.

TV: Fill In My Blank

Yes, I watched a documentary on the history of Match Game, and I don’t care who knows it. When I was a kid, Match Game was the height of sophistication. It taught me all I know about the art of the double entendre.

I enjoyed the clips of the earlier, more “cerebral” version of the show. (Not too cerebral, though; one of the celebrity guests was Jayne Mansfield.) But I refuse to buy the documentary’s contention that Richard Dawson was Match Game’s villain. Dawson was the game’s best player. He made the show. I have patterned my life on his teachings.

Movie: El Aura (U.S. 2006)

As usual, I spent much of the Thanksgiving holiday watching movies. Some good, at least one lousy. Don’t expect to hear about that one; I’ve reached a point with this site where I only feel like talking about my enthusiasms. Apparently an attribute I share with Chuck Klosterman. (And the similarities don’t end there. Like Chuck, I sleep late, write fast and watch sports documentaries. Does this mean that I, too, am the voice of a generation?)

I don’t have a complex formula for figuring out what I like. There are no set criteria of the kind Jeffrey Wells describes. A movie simply resonates with me. The truly special ones provoke a feeling that’s the opposite of déjà vu: you’ve never been here before, but already you know that you will be again.

Normally by this point in the year I’ve seen at least one movie I can clutch to my breast and call my very own. Not so in 2006. I’ve seen plenty to like, but not much to love. And then came El Aura, the second and sadly final film from Fabián Bielinsky, who died of a heart attack earlier this year at 47. I had high expectations for this movie; Bielinsky’s debut, the con man caper Nine Queens, is a personal favorite. El Aura only makes it plain what a huge talent was lost.

The protagonist (Queens star Ricardo Darin) is an Argentinean taxidermist who suffers from epilepsy; the title is his word for the not unwelcome feeling that suffuses him before a seizure. He’s detached from life and obsessed with crime. During a hunting trip, he accidentally kills a man – only to discover his victim was a professional thief whose plans for a heist are already in motion. The taxidermist can step into his role and live out the life he’s always dreamed of. Think of it as Richard Stark meets Oliver Sacks.

Put simply, I love everything about this movie. Two scenes in particular stand out. One, a breathtaking sequence in which Darin narrates how he would rob a museum, his fantasy playing out around him as he describes it, proves Bielinsky was a born entertainer. The other, a series of cuts moving Darin from his empty apartment to the Patagonian countryside, reveals him to be a born filmmaker.

The strange thing is that I watched El Aura on TV. It’s part of IFC Films’ First Take, meaning it’s available via cable services on demand as it slowly makes its way around the country theatrically. It’s not slated to open in Seattle until March 2007, and I wasn’t about to wait. Odds are you could watch the movie in the comfort of your own home right now. Go ahead. You won’t spend a better $5.99 this holiday season.

Robert Altman, RIP

Years ago I instituted a three-strikes policy for directors. Make three movies I don’t like and I never have to see another one. Life, I decided, was too short.

But I made one exception to the rule from the outset. That was for Robert Altman.

Altman made a number of movies that didn’t float my boat for one reason: he made a lot of movies. As Jaime Weinman points out, “he was an auteur who actually liked to work.” And across a wide range at that; Altman was the living embodiment of Whitman’s sentiment, “I am large, I contain multitudes.” If I didn’t care for one of his films, I knew there would be another soon enough that would be more to my liking. Alas, that is no longer the case.

When an Altman movie did work, the result was unlike any other. McCabe & Mrs. Miller remains one of the great movie-going experiences of my life. I hiked through the rain to see a revival print, the weather outside extending onto the screen. The Long Goodbye, an endlessly fascinating and occasionally maddening update of Raymond Chandler. California Split, a personal favorite and one of the best explorations of addiction that you’ll ever see. Secret Honor, which pulls off the singular trick of making me feel bad for Richard Nixon. The Player, Gosford Park, so many more.

His shadow looms large. Many contemporary filmmakers have embraced his technique of overlapping dialogue and plots. But with Altman that interconnectedness was never the point. It was simply the way he saw the world. We are all of us the focus of our own stories, and occasionally those stories converge.

He also has less obvious heirs who have adopted his work ethic if not his style. The Coens, Steven Soderbergh, and others who make movies year in and year out, always experimenting, having no fear of genre. That’s also quite a legacy.

A Prairie Home Companion is one of my favorite films of 2006. It’s about reaching the end of things and recognizing when it’s time to leave the stage. Strange that it’s also Altman’s last movie. That’s exactly the kind of ending that he always strove to avoid, and that I always find suspect. Once again, though, I’ll make an exception.

Update: Shame-Faced

The spin-off blog lives! Rosemarie crosses The Bridge at San Luis Rey.

Movie: Casino Royale (2006)

Loved it. Coming from someone who has cited James Bond and Bugs Bunny as his two formative influences, that’s high praise.

The black-and-white intro, followed by a dazzling title sequence, had me in the movie’s corner. (The song, not so much. Chris Cornell is no Shirley Bassey.) The ending completely won me over, especially that closing line. For a lifelong 007 fan, it packed a wallop. As the credits roll, you realize that they’ve rebooted the entire franchise. Leaner, meaner, darker, more relevant. Hell, it even has parkour in it.

I have to single out the final action sequence, set in a Venetian villa, as a model for how slambang ought to be done. Nowadays these scenes typically rely on flashy editing, but nothing generates suspense like knowing where characters are in relation to each other within a well-defined space. Director Martin Campbell – a craftsman in the best sense of the word, whose BBC miniseries Edge of Darkness remains one of the finest programs I’ve ever seen on television – conveys all the particulars in a handful of shots. Within seconds you know that those tanks are keeping the building afloat, and that elevator is going to be a problem. Don Siegel would be proud.

Sports: Suited, Not Booted

The NFL’s sideline dress code is actually a cover for a fat merchandising deal with Reebok. But two head coaches – the 49ers’ Mike Nolan and Jacksonville’s Jack Del Rio, who has a name right out of a Gold Medal paperback – lobbied for and received permission to wear suits in a throwback to the days of Vince Lombardi and Tom Landry. They donned the Reebok-designed duds this weekend, so I rooted for the sharp-dressed men. This meant going against the Seahawks and the Giants, two teams I normally pull for. But standing up for men’s fashion is more important, damn it.

For the record, both teams won. And Reebok is now considering a men’s suits line. Meaning we’re all winners.

Miscellaneous: Shoptalk

Regular readers – hoo, that’s a good one – may have noticed that I don’t talk about work much. At some point in the inception of this site, I decided to focus on subjects that interested parties could check out for themselves. Which is why I’m happy to steer you toward my flash fiction or letters to the New York Times, but generally reserve comment on my current writing projects. I’m not sure why I made this decision; I’m a fan of several blogs where writers provide updates on novels and screenplays that may never see the light of day. Maybe I think going into that kind of detail on my own work is too personal.

Today, I’m making an exception.

John August is a successful screenwriter. His website is essential reading for anyone interested in the movie business. He regularly takes questions on all aspects of the industry from the writer’s perspective. Recently, he started a follow-up feature in which he asks those questioners to report in on what has happened to them since.

Two years ago, what I then laughingly called my career had stalled. (Actually, it had slipped into reverse, but through sheer force of will I convinced myself otherwise.) I started reaching out to anyone I could think of for guidance, including John August. He was kind enough to take my question seriously, and responded with some thoughtful advice.

Which I then proceeded to ignore. Still, things have worked out OK, as I report to him here.

I sent this update in for two reasons. One, I felt I owed it to Mr. August for taking the time to answer me. And two, I know if I were still in the position I was in two years ago, it would do me a world of good to hear that if I kept writing perhaps my fortunes would turn. So for the sad and curious few who have ever wondered what I do when I’m not watching monster movies and infomercials, this will tell you. And now back to the usual.

Miscellaneous: Links

All my regular stops – Ed Gorman, Bill Crider, Arts & Letters Daily – have linked to this fine 2 Blowhards piece on Gold Medal paperbacks and their continuing influence on film and fiction, so I will, too. I’ll also toss in a link to the Onion A.V. Club interview it mentions with my spiritual uncle Donald E. Westlake.

Here’s a great, heartbreaking New York Times article on the demise of a classic film buff’s video store.

TV: First Impressions

It’s ‘Impressionists Week’ on The Late Show With David Letterman. If anything can get me to skip the interview segment on The Colbert Report, it’s a theme.

All of the segments are available on the Late Show website. Things kicked off on Monday with – who else? – Rich Little. Fred Travalena was on the next night. I hadn’t seen Fred in ages. When I was a kid, he was everywhere: game shows, talk shows, variety specials, and the unholy tandem of The Love Boat and Fantasy Island.

Last night’s performer, Frank Caliendo, had a killer set. His George W. Bush is hands down the best I’ve ever seen, but his John Madden is nothing short of channeling. Make sure you watch the Christopher Guest clip, which also involves an impression. For what it’s worth, I think the idea is almost as funny as Dave does. It all wraps up tonight with Kevin Pollak.

Here’s my impression of impressionists, having watched several ply their trade this week. Politics forces them to keep their acts current. (Right now I’m sure one of them is brushing up on outgoing Massachusetts governor Mitt Romney, just in case.) But in terms of pop culture, the staples – Nicholson, Eastwood, Stallone – have been around for a while. The only contemporary star mimicked on Letterman this week was Jim Carrey, and that was actually a take-off on Ace Ventura. Changes in acting styles mean those big public personas simply don’t exist anymore. Try to imagine Frank Gorshin sending up, say, George Clooney and Will Smith the way he’d do Kirk Douglas and Burt Lancaster. Makes me wonder who the big impressions will be twenty years from now.