New Address, New Name

Midnight Breakfast With Exiles on Mars has moved and shortened its name (to Midnight Breakfast):



www.midnightbrkfast.blogspot.com

Mark Kermode: A Different Kind of Movie Critic

Imagine meticulously deconstructing "Spaceballs" in some high falutin lecture hall, perhaps at one of those televised panel discussions at the CUNY Graduate Center, or at Cambridge, or maybe the Sorbonne.

This begins to describe the tenor of British film critic Mark Kermode's reviews on his BBC Radio 5 Live. I had never heard of Kermode until last night when a friend from my Japan days recommended I check out his podcasts (I went to YouTube instead). Turned out to be a good suggestion.

Kermode speaks at a caffeinated clip about blockbuster schlock like "What Happens in Vegas" and "Pirates of the Caribbean 3" (neither of which I saw, in all fairness), with occasional interjections by his sidekick/moderator Simon Mayo.

It's as if some very brainy, very dorky high schoolers took a break from their weekly Dungeons & Dragons tournament to showcase their superior wit, but made sure to keep all their insight focused tightly around low art, and even the jocks and cheerleaders had to suppress their amusement.

Here he is on "Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull," encapsulating his opinion of the entire film in a description of Shia LeBeof's hairdo:

Now here's a couple of problems. Now firstly, I don't that Shia LeBouf is, is entirely charismatic. I mean the thing he's probably most famous for is "Transformers," although a lot of people know him from television. I think, in the end, he's a television actor. When he turns up in, the first time you see him, he's done up to look like Marlon Brando in "The Wild One," and, the first thing you think is 'well, that's no Marlon Brando.' And the second thing you think if you're me is, 'that's the worst D.A. I have seen since Henry Winkler in uh, you know, 'Happy Days'as Fonzie.' He's got-something about his hair--and his hair really started to bother me after awhile--there's something about his hair that makes it look like he's wearing a D.A. wig even though you can see he's not. It's actually his hair, it just hasn't been done into a very convincing D.A.--

Simon Mayo: Only you would get hung up on this.

Kermode: No, no, but this, this is critical. Because then I started thinking, 'with all this other stuff
happening, why am I worrying so much about Shia LeBouf's hair?' And the answer is, because the other stuff wasn't gripping enough to take my attention to the fact that it looked like the person that got in to do his D.A. hadn't done it properly.

The entire review: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d0bA_LMZAHA

"Transsiberian"

It's always fun to spot sleepers -- movies, songs, books, whatever. Yesterday I saw "Transsiberian," which while favorably reviewed, didn't show up on my radar at least.

One reason flying so great (for up to a certain amount of hours), is that it's a way for those who live in or who find themselves in a temporary state of limbo, to separate themselves physically from their circumstances. Those responsibilities are on the ground and these torn wanderers are in a place that air rights aside, no one really owns, and where nothing is demanded of them. It's similar to the kind of an escape some feel on trains.

One person who fits this profile is Woody Harrelson's character in "Transsiberian," a hardware store owner and model train enthusiast named Roy, who along with his wife, Jessie (Emily Mortimer), decides to board the Trans-Siberian Express, (or at least a train that will take them across to Moscow from Beijing where they have just finished some kind of charitable church-sponsored project).

Naturally there's more wrong with this ride than the cramped sleeping quarters that they end up sharing, first with a couple -- a Spaniard (Carlos Noriega), and his American girlfriend Abby (Kate Mara) -- and then by a Russian police detective (Ben Kingsley).

The young couple claims to be coming from an English-teaching stint in Japan, but their story is murky from the start. But due to a combination of Roy's gregariousness and the setting they've been thrown into together, they form the kind of unlikely alliance that is often seen in youth hostels, workplaces and universities.

This proves to be a grave mistake for Roy, and Abby, whose past is about to catch up with her.

This is one of the best thrillers I've seen in a long time. Its reminiscent of books like "The Sheltering Sky" and movies like "Babel" and "North by Northwest" (or at least the portion of North by Northwest I saw).

It moves along nicely, without wasting time on unnecessary exposition or subplots. And as many commentators have written, it keeps the pyrotechnics to a minimum because the story and the characters, and the stark beauty of the snow-covered Russian landscape is enough to propel it along.

And forgive the symbolic interpretation here, but just as you don't know when the train will derail or collide or change course, you are equally uncertain about whether Jessie will stay on her newer chosen path since temptation is always somewhere in the background.

It's all so wonderfully chilling because of the way it exploits the delicate bonds between people who love each other, and the vulnerability the past can create for someone -- and that in-between state where the decision to trust people who walk into your life randomly is a process not much more scientific than grabbing at straws.*





*And as always, Ben Kingsley is the shit.

$kill$ to Pay the Bill$

I'm not going to recount my resume for purposes of anonymity, but let's just say it's, eclectic. And long for someone who has been out of school for less than ten years.

Yup, I'm a job-hopper and ... proud of it? Not really. Somehow when your job history starts running into the double-digits, the romance starts to die.

I'd like to claim that the timing of this article from Narrative Magazine, has eerie, cosmic implications, but the truth is, what better to write about during an economic crisis, in a literary journal, than how writers pay the bills.

The article is just okay, but the comments are fun to read, insightful, and I'm sure they'll continue to gather. At least one commenter was obviously hoping some unknown reader would evaluate the quality of his writing and perhaps offer him some unknown opportunity, but despite this ulterior or motive or maybe because of it, his story is especially illustrative of the twists and turns that often gets in the way of a writer's ambitions and persistence.

A former editor of mine was adamant, after I lost my most recent gig, that I not even consider going into anything that not writing-related or writing-centered. My thinking now, though, is that not only is that impractical, but that when you write or do editorial work of some kind full-time you, or at least I eventually associate it with the grind of reporting to the plant every day at a specified time, squeezing out as much productivity as I can before distraction and procrastination win me over, and finding myself watching the clock and listening for the steam whistle to blow so I can make my escape to rerun and junk food land. The potential for resentment at this is regrettably high. If I end up resenting some other vocation, it's not something to celebrate. But if I end up resenting writing, I'm lost.

I've always known what my life's work was and is and that's lucky. My trade's out there somewhere, too, even if I've been chasing it around in the dark for what seems like forever. I'm still young, and the prospect of impending homelessness (more like displacement, fortunate as I am to have a freeloader's network) may be just the right fire to move things in the right direction.

(Relatively) Free Elections

Imagine a democracy where the citizens don't actually choose their most powerful leader. Does such a government still retain the right to call itself a "democracy." Is it "democratic" or is it "democracy-ish." Kind of like the difference between fresh-squeezed orange juice and Fanta. (No offense to either beverage.)

For all the passions likely aroused by the foreign policy debate between Obama and McCain tonight, I have to keep reminding myself that while I am a registered voter, my vote doesn't count, not really, not in New York.

A recent conversation between me, a former supervisor and former coworker:

Supervisor: "I think I'm going to vote for Hillary as a write-in."

Me: "But she's not in the election anymore. That would be a throwaway. I mean, unless you want to make some kind of a symbolic gesture..."

Coworker: "It would be a symbolic gesture."

Me: "But why make a symbolic gesture? Why not make your vote count?"

Coworker: "It wouldn't matter anyway. New York always goes Democratic."

And he was right. Anything is possible, but New York's electoral vote is reliably blue. Apparently people stopped caring enough to protest after 2000 or maybe 2004, but as long as there is still an electoral collage, your vote, my vote, the people behind the counter at the convenience store down the street's vote -- doesn't count.

It's astonishing that such a fundamental part of our identity doesn't entirely exist, and that so far it hasn't. "We are the free-est nation in the world," our parents and teachers tell us. But if there were fine print might say something like this: Does not apply to presidential elections. Popular vote may or may not affect election results, but basically does not count in any real sense. See Bush, George W. 2000. All inquiries into this tradition should be directed local elected officials and or the Federal Election Commission. Elected officials, especially on the federal level bear no responsibilities in the event of disparities between popular and electoral votes.

I am not so naive as to try and graft the values of the present on those of the distant past. In other words, I understand that the pasty white dudes who made our improbable experiment in democracy a lasting reality had their reasons, namely the whole laundry list of 'isms, for creating the electoral collage. And maybe they even thought they were being generous to lesser life forms under their authority by making their decisions for them in closed, sequestered rooms. But one man's training wheels are another man's shackles. Either way, it's 2008 and they've gotta come off, already.

Is anyone going to bring this up, ever again? Or will it take another Dubya?

The Untouchables

Okay, maybe I don't know much more about economics than a turtle knows about Formula One racing. But I know a little more. And even if I didn't, does it take Warren Buffett to realize that bailing out giant banks that enrich themselves through legalized loan-sharking is more than a little...messed...up.

After all, no one's bailing out the recently homeless who took out subprime mortgages from these banks. And to have a cent of it come from taxpayers just adds insult to injury, doesn't it?

I'm going to oversimplify here, but the basic principle is the same. And while it's not news that the powerful get a better deal than us plebes almost always do, consider this:

a. A non-violent person without a criminal record walks into a convenience store and, either out of compulsion, stupidity and/or desperation, takes a newspaper, a bottle of shampoo, a small bag of chips and a can of beer from the cooler and slides them under his windbreaker, holding onto them with his hands in his pockets. As he begins to approach the exit, the owner detains him, ignores his denials, and then his pleas and later the police arrive to pick up the newly-branded shoplifter.

b. A fourteen-year-old in suburbia is bored. His father is asleep in his favorite chair and has left his car keys on the coffee table in the living room. The fourteen-year-old snatches the keys, slips out the door and takes her dad's SUV for a joy ride. She's actually a natural, but makes the mistake of forgetting to signal on a street that is empty except for a patrol car whose driver is almost as bored as she is. He pulls her over and takes her in for driving without a license.

c. The President of the United States and his colleagues repeatedly lie to and mislead the American people and the rest of the world resulting in an unnecessary war with no end in sight, that has cost over 4,000 servicemen their lives, not to mention tens of thousands of civilian deaths in Iraq. For his stewardship, the president was able to sail comfortably past the possibility of impeachment. (There actually were impeachment hearings this year, but the corporate media was afraid to give it more than the most anemic coverage.)

d. A staff member from the Vice President's office is found guilty of lying to investigators searching for the partisan leak that allowed a CIA operative's identity to be revealed in a nationally-syndicated newspaper column, endangering her life and the lives of those she associated with while working undercover. He is sentenced to 30 months in prison, but is then pardoned by the President.

E. And finally we have these giant financial institutions who are fortunate enough to be rewarded for their own failure and malfeasance. It helps when you have a healthy number of U.S. Congress members on your shareholders list. Check out AIG. The insurance behemoth counts both Republicans and Democrats among its shareholders. And you thought there was no bipartisanship in this country?

It's no secret that both McCain and Obama have ties to Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac, but I, for one, didn't know that McCain was a Freddie Mac shareholder as recently as 2006, according to data made available on Stockpickr.com. Here's (Obama's Stockpickr file.)

In his easy listening Times column yesterday, David Brooks pointed out the pathway this favoritism creates for the small in number, but obese, group of gluttons who already control so many areas of our societal infrastructure, to cement an even firmer, tighter barricade around their coterie. Ok, maybe the whole "North American Union" thing is a fiction driven but conspiracy nuts who managed to wire their log cabins for Internet access, but Brooks seems at best acquiescent, at worst amused by the whole mess. Nothing like raising a glass of champagne to the wind while your house burns down.

Clutter no more. Well, not for awhile anyway.

"A cluttered environment breeds chaos." Uttered by a"Law & Order" defendant, this is probably my favorite obsessive compulsive line.

Had said defendant, played by one of those character actors you see just about everywhere, seen my bedroom until about two hours ago, he probably would have committed a second crime, probably second degree murder if anyone else were in the room when he opened the door.

I am not obsessive compulsive, but I do hate clutter. I hate it yet I produce mountains of it wherever I go. This clean-up took me about three and a half hours, spread out over two days.

The walls are still covered with scratchy,stained, dark papyrus-colored paper; the floor is still buried under a mossy bed of seasick orange carpet from, I'm assuming, the 1960s. And the plastic cover affixed to the sliding light switch is long gone, and when you dim or brighten the light or the fan attached to the light, you are holding bare metal that is flimsy to the touch.

But despite all this, I now find myself in an airy (if dusty -- vacuuming is next), room that is cavernous in comparison to the room I began to clean after much procrastination. The effect this has on the psyche is one of those simple yet profound phenomena thingies.

You don't have to be a Feng Shui master to align your books along the walls in lieu of a book case or shelf space, throw out all the excess paper, maybe wipe down the glass surfaces, step back and feel the calm.

Enjoy it while it lasts.