Good gawd almighty! That was my first reaction once I'd finished watching Italian horror maestro, Dario Argento's version of the oft-filmed "Phantom of the Opera". I think it's safe to say that there's never been another "Phantom" quite like it. It starts out as a sort of twisted variation on the Tarzan legend, with an abandoned baby in a foreign environment being rescued and raised by the resident wildlife. As most people know, with Tarzan it was apes who did the child-rearing. But it may come as something of a surprise to learn that with the Opera Phantom, it was, er, um, rats who did the parenting. At least according to Argento. Which begs any number of questions, none the least of which are: how did the rats nourish and feed the baby, change his diapers, bathe him, teach him to speak English, and play the piano, for crying out loud? Of course, the rats are telepathic, as is the Phantom, so I guess that could explain it. However, that's only the beginning of a film that goes so far over-the-top that I suspect it's still in orbit.
The gore and violence, a staple of most Argento films, are present, but not in the abundance that might be expected; there's a decapitation and a tongue being ripped out, in a grotesque parody of a French kiss, and a few more nasty deaths but, all things considered, it could have been worse. What's not a staple of Argento films is the graphic sex and nudity, (which I'm normally fine with) that includes a bordello scene in which the Phantom's nemesis, Raoul, lies on a chaise lounge, wrapped only in a towel, sucking on a hookah, while surrounded by a phalanx of nightmarish, Fellini-esque characters, all naked and looking like they stopped by the baths enroute to a "Night of the Living Dead" shoot. When a frisky prostitute takes a nose dive beneath Raoul's towel, he's not pleased--he's saving himself for heroine, Christine--and he shoves her away, with no little show of force. There are two vile, yet somehow Disneyesque ratcatchers, who tool around the sewers beneath the opera house in what looks like a modified dune buggy that snatches up rats and...oh, don't ask. At about the time that the Phantom unbuttoned his shirt and let some of the more amorous rats run across his chest and nipples, I started getting bug-eyed. When he got excited and began undoing his pants to allow them access to his manly business, my hair was standing on end. At that moment, I knew that this movie had gone so far over the mark that it wasn't ever coming back. And yet, I found myself hoping that these sex partner-rats weren't the Phantom's mum and dad, because that would be just...eeeeuuuuwwwww. And then, of course, a little voice rose within me and said they're rats, idiot!
Aside from the rats, there are some pretty good performances, believe it or not. Julian Sands is appropriately weird as the murderous, yet romantic, Phantom of the Opera. I was disturbed that he didn't wear a mask (disfigured or not) but his long, stringy, greasy hair was fairly eerie in itself. As demonstrated in earlier efforts such as "Warlock", Sands is adept at playing haughty, mysterious creeps who are vaguely aristocratic and mostly evil. I think if he had portrayed Lestat in "Interview With the Vampire" (reportedly Anne Rice's original intention), it would have been an entirely different movie; there's a certain sexual ambiguity that Sands projects onscreen that would have been entirely suited to that character (and which Tom Cruise didn't have). Plus, he looks good naked. He'd have made a perfect "Dorian Grey", as well. Argento's daughter, Asia, assays the role of Christine, the sopranic understudy who becomes the object of the titular character's affections. Asia Argento doesn't seem to be sleepwalking so much here as she has in other of her father's films. She's a lively and passionate heroine who is confused by the two men vying for her charms. That she beds down with the Phantom on more than one occasion, further muddles the poor girl. These scenes could have had a genuine erotic power (Argento looks good naked, too) and they are well filmed, but I just kept thinking of what the randy Phantom had been up to with the rats in his pants and...oh brother, I just hope he showered before joining Ms. Argento in bed. As rival, Raoul, Andrea di Stefano looks a little like Prince in "Purple Rain" (only with long, stringy hair--what is it with these guys?)--he's brave, but seemingly addled (perhaps by too much toking on the hookah); by the time, he attempts to save the day, he's moving at a snail's pace through the tunnels beneath the Paris Opera House, looking debauched and disheveled and almost as crazed as the Phantom.
Basically a remake (or re-imagining) of Argento's much better "Opera", "Phantom" is a freaky, beautifully filmed head trip that, in spite of its many difficulties and ludicrous plot developments, has a certain queasy charm that will definitely not appeal to all. Dario Argento is an imaginative creative genius who seems incapable of being reigned in, but what would he be otherwise? I sort of like him like this.
Monday, January 5, 2009
Monday, December 29, 2008
From My Amazon Review of "Doubt"
A Hard Habit to Break
In "The Devil Wears Prada", Meryl Streep armored herself in an icily glamorous veneer and struck terror into the hearts of subordinates with a deadly combination of haughty contempt and soft-spoken venom. Her turn as an Anna Wintour-ish magazine editor was funny, yet subtle, never succumbing to over-the-top theatrics that would have propelled the performance into caricature. As the formidable Sister Aloysius in John Patrick Shanley's new film version of his Broadway hit, "Doubt", Streep again assays the role of an unlikable character, this time with a terrifying earnestness that eschews subtlety for the ferocious passion of a woman for her beliefs.
Set in an urban Catholic school circa 1964, "Doubt" unfolds in a rapidly changing America that many aren't yet ready to embrace. The Kennedy assassination is still fresh in everyone's minds, and the civil rights movement has resulted in the enrollment of the first black student in the Italian-Irish parish school. The parish priest, a forward-thinking and open-minded (relative) newcomer, is destined to clash with the school's principal, an old-school, fire-breathing dragon of a nun. When a question of priestly impropriety with the black student arises, all hell breaks loose, as Sister Aloysius jumps at the opportunity to rid her world of a man whom she clearly considers unworthy of wearing the robes of the priesthood. Whether her certainty of the priest's guilt is a manifestation of her dislike for the man, or a show of genuine concern for the welfare of the young student, becomes a point of contention between Sister Aloysius and the younger, sweet-natured Sister James who, naively, started the ball rolling in the first place. As Sister Aloysius relentlessly presses on with her unofficial (and unsanctioned) witch hunt, the filmmakers play on the audience's doubts, not only about the nun's motivations, but whether or not the priest actually engaged in an improper relationship with the boy.
As already noted, Meryl Streep's Sister Aloysius is a force to be reckoned with. A black clad harpy who eats nails for breakfast and has acid for blood, she's a likely descendant of Vincent Price's witchfinder general in "The Conqueror Worm". Utterly humorless, Sister Aloysius inhabits an archaic world in which everything can be viewed as either black or white, right or wrong. There are no grey areas and, thus, no room for doubt. That the times are changing is not lost on Sister Aloysius and, with her stern, strident face and quick, huffy mannerisms, the frustration is evident, even as she tries to enforce her sense of normalcy and values---her draconian Catholicism--on an institution that she fears will soon find her obsolete. It is not just the boy's welfare that is at stake, nor that of the priest, nor even the Catholic Church---it is the future of Sister Aloysius, herself, that hinges on evicting the interloper and his near-blasphemous (in her mind) ideas of progress and forward movement (thus calling into question the Sister's own authority). But just when think you've had enough and are secretly hoping that the priest, Father Flynn, will throw this merciless, headstrong woman out of a window, the actress gives us something--a gesture, a look, a tone--to remind us that Sister Aloysius is not invulnerable, that she is a real person who, behind the corporeal severity, is afraid and all-too-human.
Meryl Streep has long been regarded as one of the world's premier film actresses. There's a reason for that, and it's on display right here in this film. She has always had the ability to totally inhabit the characters that she's portraying, but in "Doubt", she goes a step further, causing me to momentarily forget that I was watching Meryl Streep giving a performance. For the duration of the film, she actually was Sister Aloysius. She's such a good actress that it's almost impossible to imagine her leaving the set to drive one of her kids to soccer practice. Or going home to prepare dinner. She's uncannily, impossibly, almost inhumanly good, and her performance in this film reminded me, once again, of what a spectacular talent she is.
For all of five minutes, Streep is nearly matched in the acting department by Viola Davis, a little-heralded actress who excels (all-too briefly) as the mother of the alleged victim. The scene where she and Streep walk along a sidewalk, discussing the implications of what the Sister is suggesting, and the subsequent reaction of the child's mother, is shattering. It is completely moving, without ever seeming maudlin or manipulative, the way plays-to-movies sometimes are.
As Father Flynn, Philip Seymour Hoffman does a fine job of bringing to life a conflicted, ambitious priest who wishes only to connect with the larger community and make the Church more inclusive, less intimidating. Being parish priest, Father Flynn occupies a loftier position than Sister Aloysius (demonstrated when he casually takes over her desk during meetings), but to her, he clearly occupies a lower moral plain: he smokes, he laughs and jokes with the students, he uses sugar in his tea---it's not a great leap from there to child molesting in Sister Aloysius' mind. On the surface, Hoffman's Father Flynn is a sincere, genial character, but as with other Hoffman roles, there's something edgier (and possibly a little perverse) going on underneath; in "Doubt", the question of guilt is never proven, and yet the ambiguity of Hoffman's performance causes doubts to remain long after the movie is over.
As Sister James, the true moral center of the story, Amy Adams is (as usual) luminous, even without makeup, and brings a convincing emotional depth to her character. Initially suspecting some sort of impropriety between Father Flynn and his pupil, Sister James almost immediately comes to regret her decision to confide in Sister Aloysius. An immensely watchable actress, Adams seems to be branching out and testing her mettle in more serious pieces of work, after a string of frothy, feel-good films of varying quality.
In shifting his Broadway success from stage to screen, director Shanley does an admirable job of making a smooth transition; I never got the impression that I was watching a filmed play, and the (roughly) 105 minute running time flew by so quickly that I'm not sure I ever blinked. Sitting in an audience composed largely of senior citizens, I noticed that not one of them got up to go to the bathroom during the movie, so that alone, speaks volumes.
In "The Devil Wears Prada", Meryl Streep armored herself in an icily glamorous veneer and struck terror into the hearts of subordinates with a deadly combination of haughty contempt and soft-spoken venom. Her turn as an Anna Wintour-ish magazine editor was funny, yet subtle, never succumbing to over-the-top theatrics that would have propelled the performance into caricature. As the formidable Sister Aloysius in John Patrick Shanley's new film version of his Broadway hit, "Doubt", Streep again assays the role of an unlikable character, this time with a terrifying earnestness that eschews subtlety for the ferocious passion of a woman for her beliefs.
Set in an urban Catholic school circa 1964, "Doubt" unfolds in a rapidly changing America that many aren't yet ready to embrace. The Kennedy assassination is still fresh in everyone's minds, and the civil rights movement has resulted in the enrollment of the first black student in the Italian-Irish parish school. The parish priest, a forward-thinking and open-minded (relative) newcomer, is destined to clash with the school's principal, an old-school, fire-breathing dragon of a nun. When a question of priestly impropriety with the black student arises, all hell breaks loose, as Sister Aloysius jumps at the opportunity to rid her world of a man whom she clearly considers unworthy of wearing the robes of the priesthood. Whether her certainty of the priest's guilt is a manifestation of her dislike for the man, or a show of genuine concern for the welfare of the young student, becomes a point of contention between Sister Aloysius and the younger, sweet-natured Sister James who, naively, started the ball rolling in the first place. As Sister Aloysius relentlessly presses on with her unofficial (and unsanctioned) witch hunt, the filmmakers play on the audience's doubts, not only about the nun's motivations, but whether or not the priest actually engaged in an improper relationship with the boy.
As already noted, Meryl Streep's Sister Aloysius is a force to be reckoned with. A black clad harpy who eats nails for breakfast and has acid for blood, she's a likely descendant of Vincent Price's witchfinder general in "The Conqueror Worm". Utterly humorless, Sister Aloysius inhabits an archaic world in which everything can be viewed as either black or white, right or wrong. There are no grey areas and, thus, no room for doubt. That the times are changing is not lost on Sister Aloysius and, with her stern, strident face and quick, huffy mannerisms, the frustration is evident, even as she tries to enforce her sense of normalcy and values---her draconian Catholicism--on an institution that she fears will soon find her obsolete. It is not just the boy's welfare that is at stake, nor that of the priest, nor even the Catholic Church---it is the future of Sister Aloysius, herself, that hinges on evicting the interloper and his near-blasphemous (in her mind) ideas of progress and forward movement (thus calling into question the Sister's own authority). But just when think you've had enough and are secretly hoping that the priest, Father Flynn, will throw this merciless, headstrong woman out of a window, the actress gives us something--a gesture, a look, a tone--to remind us that Sister Aloysius is not invulnerable, that she is a real person who, behind the corporeal severity, is afraid and all-too-human.
Meryl Streep has long been regarded as one of the world's premier film actresses. There's a reason for that, and it's on display right here in this film. She has always had the ability to totally inhabit the characters that she's portraying, but in "Doubt", she goes a step further, causing me to momentarily forget that I was watching Meryl Streep giving a performance. For the duration of the film, she actually was Sister Aloysius. She's such a good actress that it's almost impossible to imagine her leaving the set to drive one of her kids to soccer practice. Or going home to prepare dinner. She's uncannily, impossibly, almost inhumanly good, and her performance in this film reminded me, once again, of what a spectacular talent she is.
For all of five minutes, Streep is nearly matched in the acting department by Viola Davis, a little-heralded actress who excels (all-too briefly) as the mother of the alleged victim. The scene where she and Streep walk along a sidewalk, discussing the implications of what the Sister is suggesting, and the subsequent reaction of the child's mother, is shattering. It is completely moving, without ever seeming maudlin or manipulative, the way plays-to-movies sometimes are.
As Father Flynn, Philip Seymour Hoffman does a fine job of bringing to life a conflicted, ambitious priest who wishes only to connect with the larger community and make the Church more inclusive, less intimidating. Being parish priest, Father Flynn occupies a loftier position than Sister Aloysius (demonstrated when he casually takes over her desk during meetings), but to her, he clearly occupies a lower moral plain: he smokes, he laughs and jokes with the students, he uses sugar in his tea---it's not a great leap from there to child molesting in Sister Aloysius' mind. On the surface, Hoffman's Father Flynn is a sincere, genial character, but as with other Hoffman roles, there's something edgier (and possibly a little perverse) going on underneath; in "Doubt", the question of guilt is never proven, and yet the ambiguity of Hoffman's performance causes doubts to remain long after the movie is over.
As Sister James, the true moral center of the story, Amy Adams is (as usual) luminous, even without makeup, and brings a convincing emotional depth to her character. Initially suspecting some sort of impropriety between Father Flynn and his pupil, Sister James almost immediately comes to regret her decision to confide in Sister Aloysius. An immensely watchable actress, Adams seems to be branching out and testing her mettle in more serious pieces of work, after a string of frothy, feel-good films of varying quality.
In shifting his Broadway success from stage to screen, director Shanley does an admirable job of making a smooth transition; I never got the impression that I was watching a filmed play, and the (roughly) 105 minute running time flew by so quickly that I'm not sure I ever blinked. Sitting in an audience composed largely of senior citizens, I noticed that not one of them got up to go to the bathroom during the movie, so that alone, speaks volumes.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Consumerism Runs Amok: Death at Wal-Mart
While the news was awash, last week, with reports of the terrorist attacks in Mumbai, an equally disturbing atrocity was being perpetrated much closer to home: in the suburban, decidedly non-exotic, seemingly safe confines of a Long Island Wal-Mart store, to be precise. On the day following Thanksgiving, aka Black Friday among bargain-hunting shoppers and merchants alike, a herd of animalistic, frenzied, sorry excuses for human beings descended upon temporary Wal-Mart employee, Jdimytai Damour, who was trying to maintain some sense of order and calm in the early morning rush. These miscreants proceeded to stomp and trample the man to death within a matter of minutes, injuring even those who attempted to come to the aid of the dying employee. They then went on to shop, as if nothing was amiss, as if running over and trampling another human being was just another obstacle to overcome in the bloodthirsty quest for, of all things, Christmas bargains. Keep in mind that the people responsible for this are not terrorists, either of the homegrown or of the foreign variety. They are suburban dads, soccer moms, congregants of various churches and synagogues, members of local benevolent organizations that collect money for the poor and needy. They are parents who probably have a son or a daughter in school with your own kids, someone you have sat next to at a football game, gossiped in line with at the supermarket, had coffee with at a nearby diner, or attempted to outbid at a weekend garage sale. They wear the friendly faces of the people next door, but behind the masks, lie savage, thoughtless monsters, more devious and diabolical than anything out of a fifties sci-fi flick. Whoa, what the fuck are you talking about? My neighbors are pod people? Can that assessment possibly be right?
Because we know these people, how do we reconcile what we know with their inexcusable and horrifying actions? How do we make it make sense? Maybe if it were the actions of two or three, then we might, somehow, fathom the events that transpired in that Long Island Wal-Mart on that blackest of Black Friday mornings. But this was not a handful of people responsible for an inhumanly bleak tragedy; this was a crowd estimated to number somewhere around two thousand, and the herd mentality that day was a monstrous thing, indeed. Was there no one in that crowd capable of displaying the most basic acts of decency and human dignity, and helping that man? When did mankinds most basic instinct become bargain shopping?
This is a disgusting, seriously sick incident that I don't think bodes well for our future. It reflects the irrationality, the barely contained hysteria and rage lurking just below the surface whenever a feeling, thinking individual, in essence, gives up his soul, however temporarily, to become part of some larger entity, something sub-human that expands the most mundane and fragmented of annoyances into an intolerable thing that must be removed or destroyed. It reflects badly on all of us, as human beings, because it's something that could as easily have happened in Florida, or a dozen other places throughout the United States alone. And just because there are other cities or states in this country where I don't believe that an incident like this could have happened, the citizens of those places have proven to be just as capable, with their violent pasts and herd mentality, of acting with equal heartlessness and self-serving savagery that have resulted in lynch mobs, soccer-game riots, legalized discrimination, and the denials of equal rights to those deemed to be, somehow, different. There's actually a name for this in science fiction: it's called the Hive Mentality, except in sci-fi, the members of the group are specifically committed to performing in every way to benefit the Hive. In real life, it's not quite like that, is it? I mean, the group behaves as one raging, out-of-control, perfectly insane entity, but its members, for the most part, aren't acting out of anything but self-interest. But, no matter what the extent of the damage is, there will always be excuses and explanations exonerating the group itself. Fingers will be pointed at a few disturbed, overly excited, highly agitated, deeply remorseful--take your pick--individuals; charges may be brought against them--or not. There could be community service, there's even the extremely remote chance of a jail sentence, which will, undoubtedly, be overturned through the efforts of overpaid, overzealous defense attorneys arguing (correctly) that one or two people can't be singled out for punishment when there was clearly an entire group responsible for the death at Wal-Mart. This is a case that I don't believe can ever be fully prosecuted. To be sure, everyone who stepped on that man in Wal-Mart should be tried for second-degree murder, but we know that that's not going to happen.
Which leaves me to wonder. What happened when the group ceased to function as one, when the shoppers retired to their respective and respectable suburban homes, their suburban lives, when they picked up their collective children from their tidy, suburban schools? Was there any guilt or remorse? Did any of them, even for an instant, ponder turning themselves in to the Nassau County Police Department? When these people were separated from their unfeeling, uncaring group, did their sense of humanity return? When their children unwrap their gifts this holiday season, I wonder if these parents will reflect on the true price of this year's happiness. As they watch their shiny-eyed offspring joyously admiring their new acquisitions, will it even occur to them that Josh's X-Box or Amanda's I-Phone cost Jdimytai Damour his life? Is this symptomatic of the moral code that we are passing on to our children, or is it something more complex, something indefineable that happens when something takes on a life of its own, governed by the overriding two words that define its very existence and propel every action performed by all its members: I WANT! Seemingly benign two words that have given rise to every evil, calculated and not, throughout history: I WANT!
Make no mistake about it, Jdimytai Damour was sacrificed on the altar of the reigning gods of American culture: greed and selfishness. Almost certainly, it was not a pre-determined act of violence and yet it seems almost comparable to the blood sacrifices early heathens used to make to their god, Baal, and early Christians made to satiate their own bloodthirsty god. This season makes it all the more ironic, but I usually like to reserve irony for humorous references, and this is anything but that. I have many questions, but very few answers as to how and why this happened. I only know that this man's death diminishes us, both as Americans, and as human beings, and that each and everyone responsible should come forward and confess their actions to the authorities. Maybe by acknowledging their wrongdoing, they can publicly atone for their actions by displaying that they do, indeed, have some remorse, and, thus, some shred of humanity that, by all accounts, separates us from the animals. That would certainly offer some hope to all of us, especially during a time of terrorism and widespread narcissism, and during a season that, for many, seems increasingly hopeless.
Because we know these people, how do we reconcile what we know with their inexcusable and horrifying actions? How do we make it make sense? Maybe if it were the actions of two or three, then we might, somehow, fathom the events that transpired in that Long Island Wal-Mart on that blackest of Black Friday mornings. But this was not a handful of people responsible for an inhumanly bleak tragedy; this was a crowd estimated to number somewhere around two thousand, and the herd mentality that day was a monstrous thing, indeed. Was there no one in that crowd capable of displaying the most basic acts of decency and human dignity, and helping that man? When did mankinds most basic instinct become bargain shopping?
This is a disgusting, seriously sick incident that I don't think bodes well for our future. It reflects the irrationality, the barely contained hysteria and rage lurking just below the surface whenever a feeling, thinking individual, in essence, gives up his soul, however temporarily, to become part of some larger entity, something sub-human that expands the most mundane and fragmented of annoyances into an intolerable thing that must be removed or destroyed. It reflects badly on all of us, as human beings, because it's something that could as easily have happened in Florida, or a dozen other places throughout the United States alone. And just because there are other cities or states in this country where I don't believe that an incident like this could have happened, the citizens of those places have proven to be just as capable, with their violent pasts and herd mentality, of acting with equal heartlessness and self-serving savagery that have resulted in lynch mobs, soccer-game riots, legalized discrimination, and the denials of equal rights to those deemed to be, somehow, different. There's actually a name for this in science fiction: it's called the Hive Mentality, except in sci-fi, the members of the group are specifically committed to performing in every way to benefit the Hive. In real life, it's not quite like that, is it? I mean, the group behaves as one raging, out-of-control, perfectly insane entity, but its members, for the most part, aren't acting out of anything but self-interest. But, no matter what the extent of the damage is, there will always be excuses and explanations exonerating the group itself. Fingers will be pointed at a few disturbed, overly excited, highly agitated, deeply remorseful--take your pick--individuals; charges may be brought against them--or not. There could be community service, there's even the extremely remote chance of a jail sentence, which will, undoubtedly, be overturned through the efforts of overpaid, overzealous defense attorneys arguing (correctly) that one or two people can't be singled out for punishment when there was clearly an entire group responsible for the death at Wal-Mart. This is a case that I don't believe can ever be fully prosecuted. To be sure, everyone who stepped on that man in Wal-Mart should be tried for second-degree murder, but we know that that's not going to happen.
Which leaves me to wonder. What happened when the group ceased to function as one, when the shoppers retired to their respective and respectable suburban homes, their suburban lives, when they picked up their collective children from their tidy, suburban schools? Was there any guilt or remorse? Did any of them, even for an instant, ponder turning themselves in to the Nassau County Police Department? When these people were separated from their unfeeling, uncaring group, did their sense of humanity return? When their children unwrap their gifts this holiday season, I wonder if these parents will reflect on the true price of this year's happiness. As they watch their shiny-eyed offspring joyously admiring their new acquisitions, will it even occur to them that Josh's X-Box or Amanda's I-Phone cost Jdimytai Damour his life? Is this symptomatic of the moral code that we are passing on to our children, or is it something more complex, something indefineable that happens when something takes on a life of its own, governed by the overriding two words that define its very existence and propel every action performed by all its members: I WANT! Seemingly benign two words that have given rise to every evil, calculated and not, throughout history: I WANT!
Make no mistake about it, Jdimytai Damour was sacrificed on the altar of the reigning gods of American culture: greed and selfishness. Almost certainly, it was not a pre-determined act of violence and yet it seems almost comparable to the blood sacrifices early heathens used to make to their god, Baal, and early Christians made to satiate their own bloodthirsty god. This season makes it all the more ironic, but I usually like to reserve irony for humorous references, and this is anything but that. I have many questions, but very few answers as to how and why this happened. I only know that this man's death diminishes us, both as Americans, and as human beings, and that each and everyone responsible should come forward and confess their actions to the authorities. Maybe by acknowledging their wrongdoing, they can publicly atone for their actions by displaying that they do, indeed, have some remorse, and, thus, some shred of humanity that, by all accounts, separates us from the animals. That would certainly offer some hope to all of us, especially during a time of terrorism and widespread narcissism, and during a season that, for many, seems increasingly hopeless.
My Amazon DVD Review: "Flesh for Frankenstein", November 26, 2008
Little Joe and the Frankenstein Saga
Moving at a sometimes glacial pace, Paul Morrisey's 1973 trash-art classic, "Flesh for Frankenstein" is, nevertheless, a beautifully filmed and elegantly turned out psychodrama that is in equal parts, horror film and satire. In this restored version (originally for inclusion in the esteemed Criterion Collection), the movie is so gorgeous to look at that even the excessive gore has an artistic sheen; it's as if a Renaissance painter tackled the Frankenstein legend via a charnel house.
Warhol protege' Paul Morrisey made his first (sort of) big-budget feature directing this film, and, truth be told, he manages to outshine his mentor, at least in terms of moviemaking. Filmed on locations in Europe, "Flesh for Frankenstein" evokes other Italian films of the period, while, none-too-faithfully, referencing Mary Shelley's source novel. As stated, the movie is extremely gory (some might say "exquisitely", because of the aesthetic quality of the scenes), although it is never sufficiently frightening to qualify as genuinely scary.
Dependable Euro-standby, Udo Kier (who is still going strong in movies almost forty years later), delivers a campy, over-the-top performance as Baron Frankenstein, a creepy, castle-dwelling mad doctor who lives with his sexually frustrated wife/sister (Monique van Vooren) and their two strange, pre-teen offspring. While Kier is busy stitching together body parts with henchman Arno Juering, and plotting to rule the world, the wife/sister is shacking up with Warhol superstar, Joe Dallesandro, cast as the local handyman/stud whose inexplicable New York accent is jarringly out of tune with the European accents of the other actors. This is, somehow, not terribly detrimental to the film as it adds yet another endearingly loony level of camp to this already insane sideshow. Following some gruesome starts and stops, the mad doctor comes up with a female creature (played by the ravishing Dalila di Lazzaro), whom he immediately proceeds to sexually fetishize in scenes that must be viewed to be believed. Meanwhile, studly Joe and his chaste (and probably gay) sidekick (played by the equally ravishing Srdjan Zelenovic) visit a local brothel where the horrified younger man opts to wait outside while Joe does the deed with a pair of bosomy damsels. Unfortunately, the young man runs afoul of the Baron and his assistant, losing his head, before Joe finally hitches up his studly breeches and realizes that a murderer is afoot. It's not long before the young friend is transformed into the male monster, but the mad doctor's plans go awry when he realizes that his male creation isn't the least bit interested in climbing aboard his female counterpart, and thus thwarting Frankenstein's plans to create a superior race from the two.
In addition to the graphic gore, there's a lot of nudity (mostly female) and simulated sex, and the ending is truly a spectacular grand guignol with internal organs and body parts aplenty strewn across the screen. Not for the squeamish or faint-hearted, the movie has a fair amount of humor, which makes up for the lack of suspense and the occasionally stumbling narrative.
Moving at a sometimes glacial pace, Paul Morrisey's 1973 trash-art classic, "Flesh for Frankenstein" is, nevertheless, a beautifully filmed and elegantly turned out psychodrama that is in equal parts, horror film and satire. In this restored version (originally for inclusion in the esteemed Criterion Collection), the movie is so gorgeous to look at that even the excessive gore has an artistic sheen; it's as if a Renaissance painter tackled the Frankenstein legend via a charnel house.
Warhol protege' Paul Morrisey made his first (sort of) big-budget feature directing this film, and, truth be told, he manages to outshine his mentor, at least in terms of moviemaking. Filmed on locations in Europe, "Flesh for Frankenstein" evokes other Italian films of the period, while, none-too-faithfully, referencing Mary Shelley's source novel. As stated, the movie is extremely gory (some might say "exquisitely", because of the aesthetic quality of the scenes), although it is never sufficiently frightening to qualify as genuinely scary.
Dependable Euro-standby, Udo Kier (who is still going strong in movies almost forty years later), delivers a campy, over-the-top performance as Baron Frankenstein, a creepy, castle-dwelling mad doctor who lives with his sexually frustrated wife/sister (Monique van Vooren) and their two strange, pre-teen offspring. While Kier is busy stitching together body parts with henchman Arno Juering, and plotting to rule the world, the wife/sister is shacking up with Warhol superstar, Joe Dallesandro, cast as the local handyman/stud whose inexplicable New York accent is jarringly out of tune with the European accents of the other actors. This is, somehow, not terribly detrimental to the film as it adds yet another endearingly loony level of camp to this already insane sideshow. Following some gruesome starts and stops, the mad doctor comes up with a female creature (played by the ravishing Dalila di Lazzaro), whom he immediately proceeds to sexually fetishize in scenes that must be viewed to be believed. Meanwhile, studly Joe and his chaste (and probably gay) sidekick (played by the equally ravishing Srdjan Zelenovic) visit a local brothel where the horrified younger man opts to wait outside while Joe does the deed with a pair of bosomy damsels. Unfortunately, the young man runs afoul of the Baron and his assistant, losing his head, before Joe finally hitches up his studly breeches and realizes that a murderer is afoot. It's not long before the young friend is transformed into the male monster, but the mad doctor's plans go awry when he realizes that his male creation isn't the least bit interested in climbing aboard his female counterpart, and thus thwarting Frankenstein's plans to create a superior race from the two.
In addition to the graphic gore, there's a lot of nudity (mostly female) and simulated sex, and the ending is truly a spectacular grand guignol with internal organs and body parts aplenty strewn across the screen. Not for the squeamish or faint-hearted, the movie has a fair amount of humor, which makes up for the lack of suspense and the occasionally stumbling narrative.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
When Sleeping Dogs Wake
When I arrived at my doctor's office this morning, I walked into a waiting room so jam-packed with gay men that, for a brief moment, I thought I'd stumbled into a time warp and found myself returned to Sunday Tea Dance at the Sea Monster. But then again, the whole day has had that sort of "Twilight Zone"-ish feel to it. I awoke in a foggy shmear this morning, stumbled out of bed and into the shower, where I tried, without much success, to wash the weariness away. At least I smelled good when I climbed into the van and headed for my tri-monthly bloodletting at the medical lab (conveniently located inside my doctor's office). After fighting my way through an interminable brigade of heavy traffic, I made the eight mile drive to the doctor's office in 35 minutes. Luckily, as soon as I entered, a man was called back to see the doctor, and I was able to grab his seat before anyone else could react. Apparently, my reflexes were working better than I'd imagined. After determining that I hadn't been previously acquainted with any of the waiters in the waiting room, I thumbed through a copy of the Advocate. Suddenly, the door opened and a vaguely familiar figure entered the office and walked to the reception desk. He spoke his name in a loud, clear voice and I stopped reading. Surely, that name was ringing big time bells, but what...when...where? And, soon enough, it came to me, and the comparison to the Sea Monster seemed like a premonition that I should have heeded. He had put on a few pounds, in muscular bulk, not fat, had grown a neatly trimmed beard, he had a few more wrinkles, and had his hair colored the same unlikely shade of dark brown that I remembered from before, but--it was, indeed, the man with whom I had a history that was not something I looked upon with much fondness. I'd often wondered what had become of him. It had been six long years since we'd last seen one another, or by mutual consent, even spoken. And here he was. Still mortified by several unfortunate incidents that cut brief what had looked to be a promising series of one-night stands, I buried my face behind the Advocate and prayed that my name would soon be called to come back to the lab. And, indeed, a name was called, but it wasn't mine, so I peeked surreptitiously over the Advocate and watched the man approach the seat that had just been vacated, right next to mine! Holy Mary, Mother of God, I thought, get me out of this mess! You see, our history, and the memories thereof, do not serve me well to this day, and I thought I'd die if he said anything at all to me. He could have said hello, and I'd have fallen flat on the floor from horror and shame.
To make a long story short, and to eliminate some of the messier details, we had a monumentally fantastic first encounter one night when he picked me up at the Ft. Lauderdale Eagle, which, thanks to the homophobic, piece-of-shit mayor of Ft. Lauderdale, has moved on to provide a more incognito-like, private membership service in an inconspicuous location in Pompano Beach. At any rate, we had a really good time, but then, it was a given that we were both taking a walk on the wild side and not inclined to attach any romantic expectations on the situation. A few days later, we arranged for another rendezvous at his apartment. Suffice it to say that the action was a lot of steamy fun until it got rather out of hand and his uber-expensive comforter became a repository of all manner of accoutrements and bodily fluids that I managed to upend. He was clearly not pleased but tried to put on a game face. However, the fun was finished. We went ahead and had lunch at a local eatery, after which I expected never to see him again. BUT...he apparently had some silly notion of chivalry. I'd arranged for him and several of his friends to have front row seats to a performance of "Mamma Mia" (on its first of many subsequent go-rounds in Ft. Lauderdale) and he insisted that I accompany them. So, to break the ice, we got really stoned, had dinner at a Thai restaurant in Wilton Manors, and attended the show--which was, of course, a lot of fun--especially for two stoned queens. Expecting to be taken home, I was, instead, taken back to his apartment, where it soon became evident that his chivalry was not going to extend as far as he'd hoped. If we'd had a crane, he wouldn't have been able to get that big boy to rise. Feeling a bit chivalrous myself (and stoned again, to boot), I offered to top him to see if that might make things better. He quickly ix-nayed my offer, saying he was simply too fucked up to get it up. However, I was pretty sure that the horrific memories of our last encounter was still lurking not far below his way-too-pretty surface. So I slunk home, thinking that was that, and glad that things didn't end too badly. I mean, we hardly knew each other, really, but still, I hate it when you wind up being on bad terms with someone you barely even know. We had a lot in common, after all, and there could have been a decent friendship come out of it. Could have been. If I hadn't been hanging on to a deep sense of humiliation and content never to see the man again. However, the Fates, as is so often the case, were not kind.
I was at the Sea Monster one night, tagging along with my then-roommate, who was only marginally less drunk than I. At some point, a man walked up to me, got right in my face, and accused me of fucking his boyfriend. I was appalled and declared that I didn't know what he was talking about. When he mentioned the name of the man from the above paragraph, my face must have immediately registered, oh yeah, hiiiimmmmmm. And then, thwack! He slapped me right across the face, the same way that Faye Dunaway/Joan Crawford slapped Diana Scarwid/Christina Crawford in "Mommy Dearest". At that moment, my eyes flew open with such fury that the doors of the club simply must have slammed shut as the fire hoses unwound themselves and prepared to hose down the unrepentant mischief-makers a la "Carrie". I flung myself onto the unfortunate drunkard and down we went, with me pummeling him in the sodden heap we'd become. Immediately, two burly arms wrapped around me, dragging me off the man, lifting me off the floor, and carrying me out the door, where I was deposited rather gingerly, all things considered, on the stoop by the bouncer, who told me to go home. I won't delve further into the events that followed. Let's just say that the police were involved, profanities were exchanged, guns were drawn, and it was only due to the intervention of my now-sober roommate that I wasn't carted off to the hoosegow.
I don't know exactly when my "friend" was informed of my fisticuffs with his "boyfriend" (not), but it didn't take long for the gossip to make the rounds. He called me to explain that the guy was crazy and that they weren't lovers. Oh yes, and to ask if I could meet him at the softball tournaments on the following Sunday. Well, being the ass that I sometimes am, I figured that he just wanted to have a friendly chat and, perhaps, buy me a hot dog or something (which was probably the case), so I didn't think much about it when I went out the Saturday night prior and engaged in some unsavory (but very satisfactory) activities that left me profoundly relieved and with a neck covered in hickies! I managed to drag myself home at 11:00 a.m. on that Sunday, showered, and was at the softball field by 12:00. I still didn't think that this was going to be much of anything, so I didn't make any efforts to hide the hickies. It wouldn't have done much good, anyhow, since it looked like all the Brides of Dracula had feasted long and hard on my neck. Yet, when he finally walked over, his smile quickly evaporated in... shock? ...horror? disgust? I'll never know. He said a few curt, pseudo-friendly words and was off with his friends. And, at that moment, I felt, once again, totally humiliated in his presence. And I vowed, then and there, that that would be the last time. And it was. That was the last time I saw him. Until today.
As I sat in my chair in the waiting room of the doctor's office, trying to somehow fold the magazine over my face, I could feel his eyes on me. In fact, I gave a rapid eye dart in his direction, and caught him looking, but he quickly returned to the magazine that he was pretending to read. I haven't changed much physically, so I'm sure he was trying to place me. Who is that guy? I could almost hear the words going through his mind. I'm not sure if he'd figured it out or not, but when the receptionist did, indeed, finally call my name, I glanced over to see him peek, wide-eyed over his magazine. Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I thought, he remembers! I fled from the waiting room in such haste that I'm surprised I didn't leave char-broiled footprints behind in the carpet. Luckily, I was escorted to another smaller waiting room in the back, to wait with the other candidates for blood withdrawal, so it took even more time before I was called up. Afterwards, I took my time getting back to the waiting room, sashaying past various examination areas with the desultory insousiance of Prissy singing "Just a few more days for to tote the weary load...". Dear God, don't let him still be sitting out there! When I ascertained that he was nowhere in sight, I hurried through the door and raced down the hallway to the elevator. Of course, the elevator that I first summoned was out of order, according to the woman waiting for another, so I stood with her, glaring grimly at the UP/DOWN button and hoping that the man I was hoping to avoid wouldn't arrive before I was able to depart. The elevator doors swung open and I leapt in with the grace and speed of a gazelle, shortly being deposited on the ground floor, where I made my way to the van with a mixture of high adrenaline, relief, and a certain puzzlement at my behavior. For God's sake, it's been six years! If he's still upset about that stuff--admittedly not my best moments--then it's his problem, not mine. And yet, it was my problem--it is my problem. Otherwise I wouldn't have reacted like a moose in Sarah Palin's rifle scope when confronted with this man's presence in the doctor's office. I have to say that I was definitely shaken (not stirred). Humiliation can be profoundly humbling, but it can also be silly and needless, and I wish now that I'd reacted in a more civil way to someone who once tried to make the best of an (increasingly) bad, albeit (mercifully) brief situation. Maybe I'll see him again sometime in my doctor's office and maybe I'll try to be gracious and not act like the lunatic that he almost certainly thinks that I am. Of course, acts such as that always seem to backfire in these type of situations. For me anyway. By trying to put my best foot forward, it will undoubtedly wind up in my mouth. Maybe it's best to let sleeping dogs lie.
To make a long story short, and to eliminate some of the messier details, we had a monumentally fantastic first encounter one night when he picked me up at the Ft. Lauderdale Eagle, which, thanks to the homophobic, piece-of-shit mayor of Ft. Lauderdale, has moved on to provide a more incognito-like, private membership service in an inconspicuous location in Pompano Beach. At any rate, we had a really good time, but then, it was a given that we were both taking a walk on the wild side and not inclined to attach any romantic expectations on the situation. A few days later, we arranged for another rendezvous at his apartment. Suffice it to say that the action was a lot of steamy fun until it got rather out of hand and his uber-expensive comforter became a repository of all manner of accoutrements and bodily fluids that I managed to upend. He was clearly not pleased but tried to put on a game face. However, the fun was finished. We went ahead and had lunch at a local eatery, after which I expected never to see him again. BUT...he apparently had some silly notion of chivalry. I'd arranged for him and several of his friends to have front row seats to a performance of "Mamma Mia" (on its first of many subsequent go-rounds in Ft. Lauderdale) and he insisted that I accompany them. So, to break the ice, we got really stoned, had dinner at a Thai restaurant in Wilton Manors, and attended the show--which was, of course, a lot of fun--especially for two stoned queens. Expecting to be taken home, I was, instead, taken back to his apartment, where it soon became evident that his chivalry was not going to extend as far as he'd hoped. If we'd had a crane, he wouldn't have been able to get that big boy to rise. Feeling a bit chivalrous myself (and stoned again, to boot), I offered to top him to see if that might make things better. He quickly ix-nayed my offer, saying he was simply too fucked up to get it up. However, I was pretty sure that the horrific memories of our last encounter was still lurking not far below his way-too-pretty surface. So I slunk home, thinking that was that, and glad that things didn't end too badly. I mean, we hardly knew each other, really, but still, I hate it when you wind up being on bad terms with someone you barely even know. We had a lot in common, after all, and there could have been a decent friendship come out of it. Could have been. If I hadn't been hanging on to a deep sense of humiliation and content never to see the man again. However, the Fates, as is so often the case, were not kind.
I was at the Sea Monster one night, tagging along with my then-roommate, who was only marginally less drunk than I. At some point, a man walked up to me, got right in my face, and accused me of fucking his boyfriend. I was appalled and declared that I didn't know what he was talking about. When he mentioned the name of the man from the above paragraph, my face must have immediately registered, oh yeah, hiiiimmmmmm. And then, thwack! He slapped me right across the face, the same way that Faye Dunaway/Joan Crawford slapped Diana Scarwid/Christina Crawford in "Mommy Dearest". At that moment, my eyes flew open with such fury that the doors of the club simply must have slammed shut as the fire hoses unwound themselves and prepared to hose down the unrepentant mischief-makers a la "Carrie". I flung myself onto the unfortunate drunkard and down we went, with me pummeling him in the sodden heap we'd become. Immediately, two burly arms wrapped around me, dragging me off the man, lifting me off the floor, and carrying me out the door, where I was deposited rather gingerly, all things considered, on the stoop by the bouncer, who told me to go home. I won't delve further into the events that followed. Let's just say that the police were involved, profanities were exchanged, guns were drawn, and it was only due to the intervention of my now-sober roommate that I wasn't carted off to the hoosegow.
I don't know exactly when my "friend" was informed of my fisticuffs with his "boyfriend" (not), but it didn't take long for the gossip to make the rounds. He called me to explain that the guy was crazy and that they weren't lovers. Oh yes, and to ask if I could meet him at the softball tournaments on the following Sunday. Well, being the ass that I sometimes am, I figured that he just wanted to have a friendly chat and, perhaps, buy me a hot dog or something (which was probably the case), so I didn't think much about it when I went out the Saturday night prior and engaged in some unsavory (but very satisfactory) activities that left me profoundly relieved and with a neck covered in hickies! I managed to drag myself home at 11:00 a.m. on that Sunday, showered, and was at the softball field by 12:00. I still didn't think that this was going to be much of anything, so I didn't make any efforts to hide the hickies. It wouldn't have done much good, anyhow, since it looked like all the Brides of Dracula had feasted long and hard on my neck. Yet, when he finally walked over, his smile quickly evaporated in... shock? ...horror? disgust? I'll never know. He said a few curt, pseudo-friendly words and was off with his friends. And, at that moment, I felt, once again, totally humiliated in his presence. And I vowed, then and there, that that would be the last time. And it was. That was the last time I saw him. Until today.
As I sat in my chair in the waiting room of the doctor's office, trying to somehow fold the magazine over my face, I could feel his eyes on me. In fact, I gave a rapid eye dart in his direction, and caught him looking, but he quickly returned to the magazine that he was pretending to read. I haven't changed much physically, so I'm sure he was trying to place me. Who is that guy? I could almost hear the words going through his mind. I'm not sure if he'd figured it out or not, but when the receptionist did, indeed, finally call my name, I glanced over to see him peek, wide-eyed over his magazine. Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I thought, he remembers! I fled from the waiting room in such haste that I'm surprised I didn't leave char-broiled footprints behind in the carpet. Luckily, I was escorted to another smaller waiting room in the back, to wait with the other candidates for blood withdrawal, so it took even more time before I was called up. Afterwards, I took my time getting back to the waiting room, sashaying past various examination areas with the desultory insousiance of Prissy singing "Just a few more days for to tote the weary load...". Dear God, don't let him still be sitting out there! When I ascertained that he was nowhere in sight, I hurried through the door and raced down the hallway to the elevator. Of course, the elevator that I first summoned was out of order, according to the woman waiting for another, so I stood with her, glaring grimly at the UP/DOWN button and hoping that the man I was hoping to avoid wouldn't arrive before I was able to depart. The elevator doors swung open and I leapt in with the grace and speed of a gazelle, shortly being deposited on the ground floor, where I made my way to the van with a mixture of high adrenaline, relief, and a certain puzzlement at my behavior. For God's sake, it's been six years! If he's still upset about that stuff--admittedly not my best moments--then it's his problem, not mine. And yet, it was my problem--it is my problem. Otherwise I wouldn't have reacted like a moose in Sarah Palin's rifle scope when confronted with this man's presence in the doctor's office. I have to say that I was definitely shaken (not stirred). Humiliation can be profoundly humbling, but it can also be silly and needless, and I wish now that I'd reacted in a more civil way to someone who once tried to make the best of an (increasingly) bad, albeit (mercifully) brief situation. Maybe I'll see him again sometime in my doctor's office and maybe I'll try to be gracious and not act like the lunatic that he almost certainly thinks that I am. Of course, acts such as that always seem to backfire in these type of situations. For me anyway. By trying to put my best foot forward, it will undoubtedly wind up in my mouth. Maybe it's best to let sleeping dogs lie.
From My Amazon Review of "Zack & Miri Make a Porno", Nov. 3, 2008
Kevin & Co. Make a Turkey Dinner
The operative question for "Zack & Miri Make a Porno" seems to be how many times Kevin Smith can utilize the word "FUCK" (and all variations thereof, plus every conceivable term for the male and female sex organs)and still keep his material fresh and funny. The answer: zero. The script and dialogue seem like stale leftovers that have been reheated one too many times.
The titular Zack and Miri are a pair of male/female roommates barely scratching out a living in the Pittsburgh area. Having known one another since early childhood, the pair have long sublimated any physical or romantic attraction they may have, and are, seemingly, content to be roomies and best friends. That is, until the runaway expenses of their unpaid utility bills prompt Zack to click on the improbable idea of the two of them producing and starring in a porno movie. Gathering a stereotypical (and largely unappetizing)cast and crew, Zack and Miri realize their porno dream with unconvincing determination, thereby causing a rift in their, heretofore, unbreakable bond.
As Zack, Seth Rogen assays, essentially, the same character he did in "Pineapple Express", "Knocked Up", and pracically every other thing else I've seen him in. At his best, Rogen has a hangdog quality that can be amusing and touching, if he's reigned in. Otherwise, he's the acting equivalent of a bull in a china shop; in "Zack and Miri", his antics quickly become tiresome and not remotely amusing. Elizabeth Banks, on the other hand, is cast, not only against type, but against believability, as the hard-livin', hard-lovin' good-time girl, Miri. I didn't buy that bit for a second, nor did I buy the romantic developments that occur later on in the film.
The supporting cast, which includes Smith regular, Jason Mewes, Traci Lords, and Jennifer Schwalbach, do their best but their characters aren't believable or funny, either.
Everything about this film, right down to the camera work, is repetitive and ugly. According to IMDB, Kevin Smith is approaching forty, but "Zack & Miri" seems as if it was made by a 14 year old boy. It certainly seems designed for that particular audience, even though they aren't old enough to see it. It's a shame that Smith doesn't use his evident skill and intelligence to broaden the scope of his talent, and to mature as a filmmaker.
The operative question for "Zack & Miri Make a Porno" seems to be how many times Kevin Smith can utilize the word "FUCK" (and all variations thereof, plus every conceivable term for the male and female sex organs)and still keep his material fresh and funny. The answer: zero. The script and dialogue seem like stale leftovers that have been reheated one too many times.
The titular Zack and Miri are a pair of male/female roommates barely scratching out a living in the Pittsburgh area. Having known one another since early childhood, the pair have long sublimated any physical or romantic attraction they may have, and are, seemingly, content to be roomies and best friends. That is, until the runaway expenses of their unpaid utility bills prompt Zack to click on the improbable idea of the two of them producing and starring in a porno movie. Gathering a stereotypical (and largely unappetizing)cast and crew, Zack and Miri realize their porno dream with unconvincing determination, thereby causing a rift in their, heretofore, unbreakable bond.
As Zack, Seth Rogen assays, essentially, the same character he did in "Pineapple Express", "Knocked Up", and pracically every other thing else I've seen him in. At his best, Rogen has a hangdog quality that can be amusing and touching, if he's reigned in. Otherwise, he's the acting equivalent of a bull in a china shop; in "Zack and Miri", his antics quickly become tiresome and not remotely amusing. Elizabeth Banks, on the other hand, is cast, not only against type, but against believability, as the hard-livin', hard-lovin' good-time girl, Miri. I didn't buy that bit for a second, nor did I buy the romantic developments that occur later on in the film.
The supporting cast, which includes Smith regular, Jason Mewes, Traci Lords, and Jennifer Schwalbach, do their best but their characters aren't believable or funny, either.
Everything about this film, right down to the camera work, is repetitive and ugly. According to IMDB, Kevin Smith is approaching forty, but "Zack & Miri" seems as if it was made by a 14 year old boy. It certainly seems designed for that particular audience, even though they aren't old enough to see it. It's a shame that Smith doesn't use his evident skill and intelligence to broaden the scope of his talent, and to mature as a filmmaker.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Gratitude
It is the day after what was, arguably, the most important election in American history. And though I argued against causing myself further stress by watching the proceedings, I relented at 8:30 p.m. (EDT), plotzed down in a rocking chair in front of the television set, and remained there long after President-Elect Barack Obama gave his victory speech before a crowd numbering in the hundreds of thousands in Chicago's Grant Park. I watched history being made, an historical event that ranks right up there with the first moon landing; it's importance cannot be underplayed. For the first time in American history, an African-American man will become our president. It is an unprecedented event in this country that many thought unlikely ever to happen, at least in the forseeable future. The racism upon which our country was built, and which has remained steadfast, however subtely, in many quarters is, at long last, being run asunder by a new, vital voting majority that has chosen to eschew the fear-mongering and hate, arrogance and belligerance that has characterized the interminable Bush years. We have a changing populace that has been very open to Barack Obama's message, and to his massive efforts to reach out to them: a growing Hispanic population, the re-emergence of a once-disenfranchised Black community, a whole slew of young people who are voting for the first time, a sizable and supportive gay community, and those middle-class, white voters, both blue- and white-collar alike, who, because of the current economic disaster, have found themselves in reduced circumstances they'd never foreseen. And there were those who were, finally, just sick and tired of the neverending, self-serving, All-White Good Ol' Boy's Club that has dominated the American political scene from the beginning. Those days are gone, at long last, gone, hallelujah, praise the Lord, AMEN! Let us learn from the shameful, painful past so that we never, EVER, revisit it!
I received an e-mail from a good friend this morning, and in it, was a link to an article in which the author declared that his overwhelming post-election feeling was one of immense gratitude. And that summed up so perfectly exactly what I felt the moment that Barack Obama was declared the winner. Like that author, I also felt relief that the election--this long, draining journey--was having a happy ending. But mainly, it was gratitude, enormous and complete, that filled me up and caused my eyes to brim over with tears. Gratitude to the majority of Americans who, for whatever reason, chose to forge their alliances and stake their futures with a young Black man, largely untested, who, nevertheless, is our best hope for a better America, and a break from a past that has destroyed our credibility and reputation in the world. Gratitude to a higher power that I fervently prayed to last night, even though I gave up believing a long time ago. Gratitude for being alive in this country, in this time of change, when there is a renewed belief that anything is possible if you believe in it strongly enough.
Florida's anti-gay Amendment 2 managed to pass, as did California's Proposition 8. These are victories for the right-wing extremist hate- and fear-mongers, but these victories are temporary because, if last night's presidential election results show us anything, it is that, in the end, what is right and what is just will triumph. And we gay Americans will come back from this. We got shoved to the back of the bus, but our time will come, just as sure as Barack Obama's time has come. He gives me such hope for the future that I can't feel bitterness or disappointment over a temporary setback. For that, I owe my gratitude to Barack Obama, the man himself.
I received an e-mail from a good friend this morning, and in it, was a link to an article in which the author declared that his overwhelming post-election feeling was one of immense gratitude. And that summed up so perfectly exactly what I felt the moment that Barack Obama was declared the winner. Like that author, I also felt relief that the election--this long, draining journey--was having a happy ending. But mainly, it was gratitude, enormous and complete, that filled me up and caused my eyes to brim over with tears. Gratitude to the majority of Americans who, for whatever reason, chose to forge their alliances and stake their futures with a young Black man, largely untested, who, nevertheless, is our best hope for a better America, and a break from a past that has destroyed our credibility and reputation in the world. Gratitude to a higher power that I fervently prayed to last night, even though I gave up believing a long time ago. Gratitude for being alive in this country, in this time of change, when there is a renewed belief that anything is possible if you believe in it strongly enough.
Florida's anti-gay Amendment 2 managed to pass, as did California's Proposition 8. These are victories for the right-wing extremist hate- and fear-mongers, but these victories are temporary because, if last night's presidential election results show us anything, it is that, in the end, what is right and what is just will triumph. And we gay Americans will come back from this. We got shoved to the back of the bus, but our time will come, just as sure as Barack Obama's time has come. He gives me such hope for the future that I can't feel bitterness or disappointment over a temporary setback. For that, I owe my gratitude to Barack Obama, the man himself.
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