Slice of Stasis
Now Playing: Saint Etienne--"Kiss And Make Up"
The "Michigan Year," so gorgeously elegized by Alex Robins, has reached the stage where it jerks back and forth between (on the one hand) temperate, sun-drenched glory, not a cloud in the sky, and (on the other) heavens the color of scrubbed-to-the-bone Brillo, with Louhi, the Crone of the North, belching (or worse) freezing wind and sleet from every direction. Yesterday was primarily the latter, but it dissipated towards the end of the evening, letting the moon loose against the clashing canvas of cloud and night sky. I saw the moon come up in the "bay windows" of my residence. I don't know if they're actually "bay windows"--I don't think the house I presently inhabit is really grand enough for bay windows, but it is pretty old. Probably late Victorian, stripped and gutted inside and out to equip it for students and the working poor. Forsaking The Rick Mercer Report on CBC, I rushed outside to get a better look. The weather had grown milder, which meant that my parts were in no danger of freezing. I stayed to watch the moon for about a minute, my socks soaking up the cold from the sidewalk along Geddes Avenue, and felt dissatisfied. I ran back in the house, up the stairs two at a time, and tried to get a gander from my bedroom window (which is definitely not a bay window). My window faces the north, and it was still pretty early. Opening the window, I stretched three-quarters of me outside and watched the moon rise over the house next door for a couple of minutes. If my meager spiritual instincts took a more primeval turn, I'd certainly be a moon-worshipper. You can see the moon; you can rarely see the sun without a tiny bit of pain. The urges which compelled me to share this half-hour have now subsided.

Learn To Work The Saxophone
Now Playing: Rocket From The Tombs--"Amphetamine"
My almost complete ignorance of last year's Oscar-nominated films convinced me to return to the theatre. Whorishly enlisting in the Borders Rewards savings card program, I discovered that doing so also entitled me to a free ticket Tuesday evenings at the Michigan Theater (for a limited time, natch). I prised myself loose from my weekly routine and went to see Timur Bekmambetov's Night Watch (2004), the latest in the mass of neo-vampire flicks that show no sign of abating. Based on a series of novels by Sergei Lukyanenko, Night Watch tells of conflicts among "The Others," supernatural beings divided into "light" and "dark." It looks great and benefits (at least for this American viewer) from its setting in modern-day Moscow. The locations, the look, and some of the performances (especially lead Konstantin Khabensky as Anton, the mopey, sweater-vested clod who becomes a troubled vampire hunter) partially compensate for a rather derivative story--light against dark, prophecies, a "Chosen One", etc. It doesn't help that a Buffy clip is shown in one scene. The ending's pretty downbeat and limp, but if they're filming it as part of a trilogy... well, that's still not much of an excuse. For Russian cinema, I much preferred Sadko (1953), Aleksandr Ptushko's fantasy classic shown for Cinema Guild last week. It's a little more refreshing these days to watch a poor medieval Novgorod merchant-warrior search for the "Bird of Happiness" in gorgeous color shots and snappy musical numbers (in the process racing a seahorse, surfing--perhaps inadvertently--running afoul of city elders, a devious maharaja, and the King of the Sea, whose pet catfish and giant octopus looooove to dance). Good stuff, and great for nightmares!

Wednesday night I went to volunteer at Planned Parenthood, where I hung with Jess, Ingrid and Angela, and we all shared our indignation at the recent lunacy in South Dakota. There's always more to do, and things aren't getting any better. Tuesday I hope to plow through the rest of cataloging the WRAP library. I'm trying to keep active; Ann Arbor's pretty liberal on the surface, but it's very complacent, and some of the class implications of how society works escape many people (the modern-day difference, I think, between "liberalism" and "progressivism").

Saturday, I saw Annie and Actual Birds delvier an enjoyable little set at Crazy Wisdom. Dustin gave us "Crooked Smile" and some other songs, a couple of which, such as "Art and Commerce" hint at the political divide I mentioned earlier. There need to be more of these: songs that seek change through subtlety and understanding, not rote preaching. Annie gets better and better; "Jerk" is simply wonderful, and the melodies are gorgeous. We even got a couple of covers--one of Misty's and one of Tim Monger's--which was a nice bonus. Even with all that, though, I was a little depressed. It was probably my fault for watching Hearts of Darkness and Hotel Terminus the day and night before.

Hearts of Darkness: A Filmmaker's Apocalypse (1991) came out around the same time I first saw Francis Ford Coppola's Apocalypse Now (1979). It was an obvious thing to compare the two, a comparison the movie doesn't have to go far to shove down one's throat. Hearts revolves around the film diary kept by Eleanor Coppola, the director's wife, during filming in the Philippines during the late 1970s, which chronicled the ups and downs of the notoriously tortuous production. Just as Apocalypse Now allegedly "was" Vietnam, as Coppola put it in his Cannes interview, Hearts is similarly linked: the material overkill, the drugs, the delusions of grandeur, the increasing insanity. In the end, it's a weirdly inspiring story, vividly demonstrating the pitfalls of going too far for art. Coppola and Co. pulled back just before the brink, but not before getting a good long look into the darkness.

Hotel Terminus: The Life and Times of Klaus Barbie (1988) is a different kind of animal, but is also a study in extremism. Klaus Barbie (1913-91) was an SS officer and head of the Gestapo in Lyon, France, during the Second World War, eventually responsible for the deaths, torture, or deportation of almost 30,000 people. During the immediate postwar period, he was recruited as an intelligence asset by the US in the ruins of Germany, collecting information from his former comrades on the other side of the Iron Curtain. Eventually fleeing to Peru and Bolivia, he became involved in local politics and drug trafficking. Hunted by the French government and Nazi-hunters like Simon Wiesenthal and Beate Klarsfeld, he was returned to France in the 1980s and came to trial at the same time the film was made. In 1987, he was convicted to life imprisonment and died in 1991. There's some interesting information here about the trial, unavailable for the film. Even at four and a half hours long, it never flags. Filmmaker Marcel Ophuls interviews former soldiers, civilians, and spies from France, Germany, the US, Bolivia, and Peru, painting a mesmerizing picture of life during the war and after. The ending, when one of the French Jewish deportees almost accidentally confronts a ghost from her past, is a knockout. The great strength of the movie is how it emphasizes the conflicts between the allies during the war, (challenging the simplistic historical narrative of the Second World War that, though it still exists today, was a hell of a lot more powerful back in the 1980s), and demonstrating how the issues that brought about the war linger on into the present day. Interviews with 1960s luminaries like Daniel Cohn-Bendit, Regis Debray, and Gunter Grass bring the notion to the fore--the Nazis are gone, but the root causes that brought them to power still remain to resist. As Debray observes of Barbie's bizarre, sinister adventures in Bolivia during the 1960s and 1970s (providing the government with his services in state repression and mixing with right-wing German mercenaries), the fact that governments of the present would hire people like Barbie show that the root causes of the war continue. There's always more to do, and things aren't getting any better.

Glamorpusses
Now Playing: Darius Milhaud--"Suite Provencale"
Believe it or not, I'm glad I watched the Oscars. I wasn't particularly enthused over any of the awards, except for Philip Seymour Hoffman's win; I love that guy. It was more for the spectacle itself, and what it says about the people who try and rule our imaginations. Now, while I think the Oscars have serious issues, it's hard to truly despise a ceremony whose high points are 36 Mafia, Itzhak Perlman, and a brief shot of Peter Sallis sitting behind Tim Burton. In what's probably a personal record, I only saw one of the movies nominated for an award over the past year, and that was March of the Penguins. Jon Stewart proved shockingly flat as a host; I haven't seen The Daily Show for over two years, but I've never thought he'd lose any of the funny (and therefore I blame the occasion). Ludacris and a few others aside, the introductory speeches were cowed and lame, like all the life had gone out of the ceremony. It was painful watching Lauren Bacall wrestle with that film noir tribute, but overall there was a healthy sense of schadenfreude about the whole thing. The film industry is (or believes itself to be) in trouble, and it was fun to see the results. My favorite moment was the speech from the President of the Academy (whoever he is). While not up to the standard of the RIAA president (whoever he was) who delivered that rousing "hunt-and-destroy" speech at the Grammies a few years back regarding MP3 downloads, it was still pretty stirring stuff. If it weren't for him, I would have gone wholly ignorant of the crime I've perpetrated on the American film community, and my own aesthetic sensibilities by not making damn certain I caught visionary masterpieces like Yours, Mine, and Ours, Cheaper By The Dozen 2, and In the Mix in the only way to truly appreciate them--on the big screen (TM)!! I'll have to have a good long think; where did I first go wrong?

Actually, In the Mix looks pretty entertaining.

It's The Arts
Now Playing: The Velvet Underground--"What Goes On" (live)
The Passion of Joan of Arc (1925): Carl Theodor Dreyer's masterpiece seemed to last less than its ostensible running time of two hours. A straight retelling of the last days Joan (who'd been canonized only five years before) spent on earth, it seems a little creaky in places, and I was worried that it would be one of those "good-for-you" movies that make me wish I'd the ninety minutes or however long back. Fortunately, Dreyer manages to leaven the high moral tone with his actors, whose remarkable faces in closeup would have credited the weirdest spaghetti westerns. Chief among them, of course, is star Renee Falconetti, with unspeakably luminous eyes set in a face that alternately resembles Isabella Rossellini and Dave Foley.

The Canterbury Tales (1971): Good times, good times. Like many, I read this in high school, and it was funny to think of the haute-couture gloss given it (and the relentless emphasis on symbolism that made me despise Hemingway and almost ruined Mark Twain) and then watch this and remember that the whole thing fundamentally consists of smutty jokes, peole farting and pissing on each other (Jenny Runacre and Robin Askwith*, respectively), bed-hopping and pustules. All this is fine by me, and I'm coming to the conclusion that few people make better movies about this sort of thing than Pier Paolo Pasolini (it helps that Tonino Colli's his cinematographer, but still). Pasolini was apparently a huge visual influence on Terry Gilliam, and it shows in the gritty, sometimes showy realism of the different scenes. I could have done without the stupid Chaplin references, courtesy of Ninetto Davoli, Oedipus' servant from Edipo Re (Oedipus himself, Franco Citti, also shows up as a mysterious rent collector). Given these echoes from earlier Pasolini films, I briefly hoped that Silvana Magnano and Maria Callas would show up in half-clad, unbilled cameos, but I apparently can't have everything. There's a languid feel to The Canterbury Tales that makes me relax, as if it doesn't matter how long it lasts. It's fun watching all these sordid shenanigans, all the acne-scarred youth fucking their way across Merrie Olde England, as well as noticing various character actors pop up in minor roles (Nicholas Smith as a monk, Phil Davis as a catamite, Tom Baker stripping). The scenery's gorgeous, by the way--apparently Pasolini (who plays Geoffrey Chaucer) shot much of it in the West Country and the Cotswolds, and it's beautiful. I could definitely watch this again.

Canada at the Blind Pig: I saw them last night, with the Dollfaces and the High-Strung. I hadn't heard the latter, and left in the middle of their second song, feelnig distinctly uninspired (there was also a lame chorus, which I--fortunately?--can't remember right now). The Dollfaces were marginally better than I remember them--large beat and small lyric, for the most part, with many songs simply sounding the same, but there were a couple that were rather beautiful melodically, which means I'll probably have to go to one more show before I decide I've had enough. Canada's "Hexenhaus" opens with cellist Eileen playing the Dies Irae, which is awesome (hey, it worked for Berlioz). Their set was an agreeable batch of songs that benefited strongly from the relatively unusual instrumentation; again, the cello, like the accordion, lends music an automatic baseline of cool. Towards the end, though, I found myself feeling melancholy. The music made me think of quirky, artistic young lovers, separated somehow and finding themselves casting eatch other hateful yet longing looks at underground art shows and music gigs like, well, Canada at the Blind Pig. Fortunately, one play of Syd Barrett's "Octopus" (which I've decided is the song that really says, "me") was enough to get me out of the mood. I think they're better live than on their EP, but I don't think I regret buying it. Incidentally, I read all of the Sindbad stories from Burton's translation of The Arabian Nights during the show. He definitely didn't go to Finland, so it'll be interesting to see how Alexei Ptushko explains it all away.

Canada (and its music):
1. I somehow ended up awake at one-thirty Saturday morning (and remained so for nearly the next twenty-four hours). I read Jan Morris' last book of essays, The World(I think Morris has become my favorite living writer) and listened to "Weekender" on the CBC. I found a treat: they played all of Glenn Gould's 1955 recording of Bach's Goldberg Variations, with some outtakes featuring snippets of Glenn at his weirdest. The guy's fantastic; I never really paid attention to actual styles of piano before, but there's a power and at the same time a serenity you can sense in the way he handles the music. As I listened and read, the sun slowly came up in the crisp, clear sky over Forest Hill graveyard past Geddes, and it was one of those transcendent moments that I know will never come again.
2. Steven Page of the Barenaked Ladies, whenever I see him being interviewed on TV, always strikes me as a very thoughtful and articulate character. Why, then, does his music make me want to strangle him? Funny, that.

* Askwith's scene might be considered by some as a physical manifestation of his entire career. I haven't seen enough of his movies to judge for myself, but the controversy exists. I must say, though, after watching him literally waggle his cock over innocent tavern-goers, that I wish he'd been cast as "Ass #2" in "The Miller's Tale", a role some might say he was born to play.

Keep The Faith, Strannix
Now Playing: Wilco--"Nothing'severgonnastandinmyway(again)"
Read it and marvel. My thanks to Mr. Paul Mudie of Edinburgh, Scotland, for directing my attention there.

That's How We All Died That Night
Now Playing: Sing-Sing--"Emigre"
Local supergroup Descent of the Holy Ghost Church is no more. I had the privilege of attending their final show last Saturday, amidst a weekend replete with good music. Already jazzed by the Halfass benefit show, featuring Patrick Elkins (weird and strident, who can be an acquired taste but is, as Joseph Cotten said of Orson Welles, "never, ever dull"), Kelly Caldwell (see here and there), and the Dollfaces (rather flat Detroit r'n'r--apparently the Von Bondies were supposed to show at some point but didn't), in a ramshackle mini-palace on North Division reminiscent of the house in Fight Club, I found myself in a very agreeable mood for Saturday night's show. There's a curious and unexpected transcendence to be found in listening to a lovely, dulcet female voice trilling her exquisite "Daffodils" while crammed against the house fridge with a forty of Budweiser held aloft in order to facilitate the movement of passersby--I always seem to be in the way. There was more room at the Blind Pig.

Descent included two great solo performers--Chris Bathgate (guitar) and Matt Jones (drums)--another solo performer--Jansen Swy (keyboard; who pleasantly surprised me at an earlier show but whose stuff I didn't hear too much)--as well as the masterful Ross Huff on trumpet and the unstoppably vivacious Carol Gray on violin. That night they added Louis Dickinson and some other fellow whose name I didn't catch. Whether it was my general position in the audience of each of their shows, or previous expectations based on the languid, introspective styles of Chris and Matt's solo shows, I always expected them to sound different. The sound, which I thought finally, truly came together that night in time to convince me that they were much more than the sum of their parts, was an agreeably messy melange of indie-folk with strong jazz and funk undercurrents (the latter, I think, mainly due to Jansen and Ross) that I wish had been recorded somehow. The audience, primed by the promising sounds of the Dardanelles (what a great name for a band) got into the act, singing along like it was a Kelly Caldwell show and cheering wildly at the end (although failing to get an encore). The band was crisply turned out in nice suits, with Carol completely rocking a wedding dress--it was one of the great shows, up there with the Madison House and Bad Idea finales, or the No Fun Records showcase of 2004. Dithering for a bit afterwards while watching Misty "pony" across the empty floor of the Blind Pig (and failing a half-cocked flamenco myself), I decided to attend the afterparty, where we all danced, drank, and sang ("Like A Prayer" and "The Star-Spangled Banner" among others) into the wee hours, governed by the impish whims of a temperamental iPod. Many, many thanks, DHGC and everyone who helped to make the weekend so enjoyable.

I like to think I'm a pretty tough hombre when it comes to pop culture. There's a clean fun to be had out of truly wrongheaded moments that touches the spiritual. Having said that, I was at a commercial break in the Olympics a few nights ago when I flipped channels for the hell of it. I stopped at a gleaming villainous lair with an oily miscreant in a white robe threatening two captive females. What seemed like an eternity passed before I realized that the females were Hilary Duff and Law and Order's Angie Harmon. The shock of not wanting to believe that the villain was Ian McShane (oh, sure, he's been in crap before, but still...) nearly sent me out into the snow, screaming in preparation for "accidentally" stumbling and running my head into the sidewalk pavement. Oh, the movie was Agent Cody Banks, if anyone was curious. It's all right now, though; I'm cool.

"Curse of the Shepherd House" was better. Screened for the Michigan Theater's Cinema Slam last night, it featured closing music by local country-folkies Dabenport and a screenplay by Bang! impresario Jason Gibner. Plot: Mild-mannered fellow moves into a nicely-colored house, aided by a chirpily untrustworthy realtor. Bizarre visions and manifestations ensue, leading to... well, something involving blood that results in the house changing hands again at the end. For ten minutes, there was a good deal of meat. The beginning and end gave off that "sun-drenched" vibe that worked so well for Valerie and Her Week of Wonders and Let's Scare Jessica To Death. The vision scenes were very well-done and the climax had a rough feel that made things a little scarier than if it had been done in a more polished manner. All in all, it was better than I expected--a worthy reason to venture into the theater again after half a year (the ticket being only five bucks helped a good deal, too). The entire program was actually pretty strong. There were some dopey two-to-three-minuters, "Phone Physical," a highly amusing short that wouldn't have been out of place as a Kids In The Hall sketch, and two outstanding works: "Tahara" featured an Arab-American woman's grisly memories of her circumcision (better known as female genital mutilation) and its consequences for her own daughter, and "The Act" starred the great Debra Jo Rupp (Kitty Foreman of That 70s Show)as a standup comedienne with a secret. Now I actually want to go to Cinema Slam again--wasn't expecting that either.

Midwinter Varia
Now Playing: Family--"Normans"
I haven't been writing a great deal, but I've at least started, so this reduction in blog volume is beginning to have the intended effect. It's nice, too, to take a couple of days off from the internet. I'm a little spoiled in that I don't have internet at home, but it's still nice. I'm presently slogging through Austin Tappan Wright's colossal and curiously uninvolving classic of speculative fiction, Islandia (1942). Hopefully I'll still be able to claim victory. Once I'm done, I think I'll give not buying books a whirl. My brain feels oversaturated. As a result, scattered thoughts from the past few weeks...

The Olympics: I'm actually into them this year. Torino looks gorgeous. Snowboarding looks fun as hell. I actually managed to enjoy figure skating (the NBC personality profiles with Johnny Weir looking like someone's about to feed him grapes made me laugh my ass off). The French guy's coach in the men's short program was scaaaaaary.

The Halfass February Show: Slumber Party, Showdown At The Equator, and Marie and Francis played the Halfass on the 10th. There was a confusing amount of space and so I was able to move around and breathe, in contrast to the Descent and GLMS show a couple of weeks previous. This meant, of course, that the show didn't sell out, probably due to fanbase issues. From what I've seen at other shows, the garage-rock and prog-folk scenes in this town have their own cohesive and enthusiastic audiences that can generally be counted on to attend well-publicized shows like the last two. The show February 10 may have been a little too eclectic to sell out. That's never been a problem with me, of course, and the first two acts were tremendous fun. Marie and Francis, featuring former Saturday Looks Good To Me vocalist Betty Marie Barnes and, I'm told, various members of Pas/Cal (who I haven't heard yet), came first, with a collection of sweet little country-tinged songs that, while not particularly groundbreaking, were pretty and slightly offbeat. Showdown At The Equator's been around for a while--lead vocalist Kelly Caldwell, previously elegized here (sometime last April--I'm too lazy to link right now), was absent, but Bryce Burasinski and Scott DeRoche held down the fort with some great, loungy sets that fit very well with the laidback mood I'd achieved that night. The spell broke on Slumber Party, "doom rock" which turned out rather blah (the phrase "doom rock," I think, raises certain expectations). I went home not too unenthused about leaving.

Valentine's Day: Can, in the words of Johnny Weir, "eat it." I'm so glad that diseased double-twelve is gone for another year. It's not my holiday, so get out of my face.

Work: A glut of new people. I always hate training people at work. Once you arrive at a natural rhythm, daily duties are difficult to convey to anyone else. It doesn't help that my superior's personality has rendered my workplace attitude somewhat robotic. The last thing I want to happen while on autopilot is for someone to ask me about... anything, really. The newbies seem pretty cool, though; maybe they'll make the old place tolerable again. One's already told me a few bloodcurdling kitchen stories about a certain redolent-with-European-charm-my-ass Main Street restaurant (it can't be any worse than Don Carlos, but I'm still miffed that they never seem to have employment applications ready when I ask for them; what is wrong with that fucking printer???). Anyway, life goes on, and my food-service philosophy (most people in this country should count themselves lucky that they have enough to eat, let alone enough to pay for it) continues to try and fit with making a slow buck in the cause of the service "industry." It's twisted as hell, but then so can I be.

Cheney's "Quail": Of course it was an accident, but the way the White House handles these things... Jesus. Things were appalling before, but this little incident takes us further and further into some surreal Marie Antoinette territory. Every time I look at these guys, I get the feeling my country's basically over and done with. I obviously hope not, but it's hard to fight the pessimism.

Doomwatch (1972): I went over to Lou's house last weekend to watch a few movies--the crappy, not-bad-enough-to-be-funny, not-good-enough-not-to-suck The Mysterians (1958) and Doomwatch. I haven't been renting movies recently--"The New Stringency" is working wonders. Lou's going to run Alexei Ptushko's legendary "Sinbad in Finland" movies (that's the plot of one, I swear--it was on MST3K and everything) for Cinema Guild in March, but he's taking a break for now. Doomwatch is fantastic--I expected it to be mildly diverting, but it turned into nearly as much of a Brit horror classic as The Wicker Man. Not that Doomwatch is anywhere near as good as The Wicker Man, but most movies aren't, really. Ian Bannen stars as a hotshot doctor working for the title environmental watchdog organization, and travels to a remote Cornish island to investigate weird medical symptoms among the clannish islanders. With the help of cute schoolmarm Judy Geeson (I'm not usually into her, but she was great in this), he unravels the secret (involving shady chemical companies, natch), which leads to a fateful decision that could destroy the whole island. Veteran Hammer Dracula director Peter Sasdy manages to work some eerie, refreshingly nonexploitative horror into the proceedings, and the end is a haunting affair, offering no easy answers, heroes, or villains. Nice work.

CBC Radio 2 (Windsor): I love you. I'm surprised that when well-meaning Canadians were advising people here on emigration after November '04, they didn't mention the high quality of the airwaves as a selling point. It's a terrific mix of orchestral, jazz, and indie rock (the latter courtesy of Radio 3 during the wee hours, but whatever) that, unlike WCBN, can be relied on not to play anything from the Yoko Ono school of music for a half-hour (I'll support local radio, but I don't really listen to it that much). They do play an awful lot of Telemann, though. I don't care if the guy's been dead for two and a half centuries; someone at CBC's getting their backs scratched. They are on 89.9 FM in southeast Michigan, though, if anyone's interested.

Rage Less
Now Playing: Cream--"Deserted Cities of the Heart"
The frequency of entries in this blog will probably decrease. I've decided to start writing again, and I suspect the effort that goes into these rambles could be better employed elsewhere. I won't stop doing it--I just won't blog as much.

I've tried to cut down on going out, too, and have only seen two shows in the past couple of weeks. The Satin Peaches, with Without Misty and Mason Proper, played the Blind Pig Wednesday before last, and I decided to alter my ban on weeknight shows for just one minute. The Peaches give a welcome and rather old-fashioned form of tub-thumping rock, a needed antidote to midweek doldrums. I didn't see Mason Proper, but Without Misty gave a good set as well, with a rousing cover of the Buzzcock's "Ever Fallen In Love." Friday, the Halfass hosted Great Lakes Myth Society, Descent of the Holy Ghost Church and Canada. The place was packed--not the most congenial environment for movement or breathing, but it was a good show nonetheless. Canada was a pleasant surprise--jammy folk rock with some heavy cello action. The set was livened considerably by an impromptu dance on stage by some random audience member (who went on to piss on the men's room floor, grab cash out of the cover box, and assault a concertgoer before being arrested), as well as snotty anti-Canada comments by some know-it-all behind me. Descent and GLMS were great--it was the biggest crowd I'd ever seen for a Descent show, and the good feeling in the air was palpable.

Saturday, I stayed home and watched a pair of hilariously perverse cinematic gems. Lost and Delirious (2001) demonstrates that everything one suspected of Canadian girls' private schools was true--the lesbian affairs, the impassioned fencing, the mystical connections with stranded birds of prey... it's all there, man. I went to see Coyote Ugly because of Melanie Lynskey, but left with a fond regard for Piper Perabo. She's terrific in Lost and Delirious as the wronged lover, with a surprisingly good young Mischa Barton (before she started annoying the crap out of everyone as Marissa on The OC) as her timorous sidekick. Despite some drawbacks--inappropriate use of slo-mo, the dopey riot-grrl slogan "rage more!" which threatens to become this flick's "seize the day!", an ending which is rather patronizing to one of the main characters--it's a decent little flick. Quebec has never looked better.

Mark of the Devil (1969)--also known, I understand, as Burn, Witch, Burn!, to judge by the video cover, is "positively the most HORRIFYING film ever made!" It's not, really, but it is an unexpectedly good expose of bloodthirsty witchhunts in 1770 Austria. Herbert Lom (who's fantastic; I don't think I've ever seen him as good in anything else) and Reggie Nalder play the sleazy witchfinders, with Udo Kier as Lom's conscience-stricken young assistant. There's a lot of gore and nastiness (I actually had to turn away my eyes for a couple of scenes), presumably to appeal to the Euro-exploitation market, but it's all in the service of a gripping story (with gorgeous locations and relatively lavish production design). Even the discordant musical notes add some charm--the opening scenes, showing a party of monks and nuns waylaid and molested by thugs, are set to luscious soft-core nonsense that would sound more appropriate to scenes with Alain Delon (for instance) arriving in his swinging bachelor pad to find Jane Fonda or Jane Asher in his bathtub. It all turns very grim, with a cathartic but downbeat finale. Don't let the packaging fool you--it's not that bad. Austria has never looked better. Unless The Last Valley was filmed in Austria, in which case it has. Actually, I'm not all that sure that Mark of the Devil was filmed in Austria, so--stop listening to me.

Thursday, I went to Planned Parenthood to hear longtime prochoice activist Jean King discuss the implications of the present political situation for reproductive rights, as well as her experiences with organizing to defeat state antichoice referenda back in the 1970s. Coupled with seeing Lost and Delirious, the talk made me realize I shouldn't flag on the volunteer stuff. The WRAP library nears completion--at some time next week I must begin cataloging titles for the database.

So. Not very stirring, but that's how it goes.

Peanuts, Mr. Bond?????
Now Playing: Chris Bathgate--"I've Been Saving Up"
Now for some poetry.

Give me one good reason why I shouldn't--

Nah, that didn't work.

Saturday night, I had dinner at the Fleetwood, chatted with Kathy, and walked over to my friend Lou's house to watch a couple of movies, stopping at Washtenaw Dairy for a sixpack of Labatt. My way took me through some of the more southerly tracts of the Old West Side--a little less well-heeled, perhaps--up and down hills, skirting Allmendiger Park, all among a crisp, brilliant night ruled by a full and luminous moon. As I put this memory to words, I can see the moon through my own window, solitary and bisected by a tree branch, in the midst of an evening made darker by the harsh light of my room. Sometimes (okay, often) I wish I lived in the middle of nowhere, or at least some place that didn't have such a tyrannical array of streetlights (Geddes Avenue, to be precise). In any event, I haven't enjoyed a walk like that in quite a while.

Lou's cozy house is a testament to the collector's instinct, one I used to have but which has been increasingly slipping away. It's a little awe-inspiring to see all the videos marked with such exact precision--Godard, Cassavetes, von Sternberg--all filed away in neat cardboard boxes and marked with Post-Its. I cast a gimlet eye over my shambolic CDs and books and wish I was able to still do that. We talked a bit and then adjourned with our beers to the basement, where Lou had set up a DVD projector.

Moonfleet (1955): A late Fritz Lang adventure flick, with Stewart Granger as a slick yet tormented swell who returns to 18th-century England having successfully imported a variety of silks and brandies, as well as a hot flamenco dancer. He almost immediately inherits a whey-faced, helium-voiced child with a mysterious connection to his past. This complicates matters, for, this being the southwest coast of England, Granger naturally turns out to be a smuggler (with, believe it or not, Dan Seymour and Jack Elam as two of his henchmen) and runs afoul of the auhorities and the always awesome George Sanders. He barely has time to romance "the Purr" (as I call Joan Greenwood) as he Lorna Doones and Jamaica Inns his way through the clutches of the authorities and in search of buried treasure. It's no masterpiece, but it's all in good fun--even in the most desperate straits, Granger's indomitable smugness is hard not to enjoy.

Tales of Mystery and Imagination and/or Spirits of the Dead (1968): Triple play based on three Poe short stories, directed by Roger Vadim, Louis Malle, and Federico Fellini. "Metzengerstein" (Vadim): Hot, depraved noblewoman (Jane Fonda) farts around her castle in a series of revealingly depraved outfits and pays the price for her... depravity. Great cinematography. "William Wilson" (Malle): Tremendous asshole (Alain Delon) discovers he has an inconvenient doppelganger (and thankfully pays the price for his depravity--guy's a prick). "Toby Dammit" (Fellini): Swinging yet incoherent actor (Terence Stamp) sees a whoooole lot of weird shit (including one of the creepiest apparitions I've ever seen in a horror movie). Everyone's apparently depraved, but only one person actually pays for anything. I wrote my Rome-set, dream-based story "Hotel Naiade" over a year before I saw this, and "Toby"'s atmosphere is exactly what I had in mind--it's magnificent.

The next day in Angell Hall, we saw Afraid To Die (1958), a Yasuzo Masumura yakuza flick with some serious stunt casting: legendary right-wing literary giant Yukio Mishima as a conscience-stricken mobster trying to go straight. It's allegedly Masumura's worst movie, but I enjoyed it--there are some clever twists and one of the most hilariously suggestive songs I've ever heard. Again, if anyone in the Ann Arbor or Ypsi area is interested in Cinema Guild, contact Lou Goldberg at louisg@umich.edu.

Afterwords is closing!!!! One of the coolest bookstores downtown is shutting its doors over the next couple of weeks (and is marking everything 20% off). It had nowhere near the selection or prices of Dawn Treader, but you could often find the coolest stuff there when just popping in on the off-chance. This will unfortunately cut into my determination to get rid of more books, but what the hell.

A Prayer Won't Serve You Well
Now Playing: Sade--"Paradise"
I intend the following italicized comments as my contribution to a religious discussion on the British Horror Films forum:

Anyone who knows me will know that I'm not religious, and that I consider myself a thoroughgoing agnostic; both religious and atheistic belief, for me, rest on suppositions that can never be proven or disproven. My present convictions have been pretty much in place since I was twelve or thirteen, and have rarely changed since. My views, of course, don't prevent me from appreciating the good things religion has given the world--an extra buttressing of tradition to human decency (the abolition of slavey might have taken a good deal longer if it hadn't been for the religiously inspired fervor of some of its foremost advocates*) and countless literary and artistic achievements (I've mentioned before that I consider the Beatitudes one of the supreme human moments, and Velasquez and Caravaggio--the latter a pimp and murderer--are two of my favorite painters). I have friends both very religious and very atheistic, and we all get along famously. It's important to remember that most religious people DON'T fly planes into buildings, explode themselves in crowded public places, burn mosques (and the people inside), blow up abortion clinics and day care centers, or target doctors for assassination.**

That said, I can understand why so many people in Britain and secular areas like Western Europe and Canada are so worried about the corruptive powers of religion and how they influence the leaders of countries such as the United States and Iran. Watching the high and mighty in my country prattle on about the great influence of Christ in their lives--while acting like they've never even SEEN the Gospels, let alone read them--is a nauseating experience, and I hate to think that we've all got at least three more years of this crap ahead. It's important to remember, though, that a lot of the religious bullshit--in the United States, certainly--is fairly recent historically, at least on the official level. "In God We Trust" dates from McCarthyism, and even the celebration of Christmas wasn't really widespread until the arrival of the last century. In many cases, the "ancient traditions" allegedly "threatened" by my fellow secular humanists exist in the span of living memory. Religious belief isn't what this country's about--it's the toleration and protection of religious belief AND non-religious belief. So as far as I actually have a religion, it essentially lies in the Constitution and the Bill of Rights, inspired by the finest sentiments of religious belief but not dictated by or beholden to them. I have no problems with people who believe otherwise, but let's remember the reason this country came into being in the first place.

*In fairness, of course, much of the pro-slavery side was backed by religious arguments as well.

**Which, despite the literally deadly seriousness of the subject, always makes me think of the Hank Murphy line on "Sealab 2021": "On Mars, doctors and other wizards are FORBIDDEN!!" It's a hilarious line, but I suspect there are people out there who actually think that way.

I spent the first part of Friday evening at Conor O'Neill's using my Christmas bonus gift certificate. Conor's is Ann Arbor's theme-park Irish pub, with pictures of James Joyce and concordant quotations and limericks on the walls. Conor's blows hot and cold for me. It can be pretty pleasant during the daytime--I recall watching the Michigan-Ohio State football game there the year before last, and have rarely spent such an enjoyable Saturday afternoon (at least in this town). On weekend nights it becomes an amalgam of Dante's Inferno and some of the divier frat-oriented bars toward campus; "meat market" doesn't come close to doing it justice. I had a good time last night, though. The fisherman's pie was sinfully delicious, and I had the added treat of watching some of our regular customers disporting themselves barely two tables away like frenzied, hooting chimps. They all work at one of those generic downtown companies that involve computers or investment or something, and they always seem such saddened creatures, pinched by the cold and secretly furious at having to waste their lunch break standing in line for anything (and some awful purty ones, I have to admit). I almost certainly exaggerate, but it was good to see them cut loose. While unable to avoid the young women growing rosier and less inhibited, I managed to complete the meal's thematic unity by reading the chapter on Parnell in James Morris' Heaven's Command: "This maddening new kind of revolutionary accepted the abuse of the House [of Commons] with steely calm, infuriating his enemies by the imperturbable Britishness of his responses. He was every inch a gentleman, which made it all the worse."

Afterwards, I walked up Main Street to Crazy Wisdom for a terrific show, courtesy of Matt Jones, Jim Roll, Colette Alexander, Carol Gray, and Margaret Gray (whose delightfully vocal coterie of friends and fans--"Marry me, Margaret Gray!" was one of the night's unexpected highlights). The Jimmer opened, and was traditionally fab, bearing the welcome news that a new album would soon be in the offing. Margaret Gray gave a short but punchy set, many Ani DiFranco songs made slightly harder, I thought, by her voice. A Matt Jones show is always a pleasure, and Friday night's was enhanced by Colette and Carol's wonderful backup (cello and violin, respectively). One song, as yet untitled, had Colette melding bowing and pizzicato to create something which sounded very like the Philip Glass Koyaanisqatsi soundtrack with soul. And as if that weren't enough, we all watched the rain turn to snow through the colossal second-floor window behind the performers. I behaved like a bit of an ass, quite frankly, at one point gleefully waving my scarf, but we all seemed to have a great time. Getting back to religion for a moment, before the show I went browsing through the religion and spirituality section (did you know Mary Magdalene had her own Idiot's Guide?), and found a book on Sikhism founder Guru Nanak Singh in the Islam section. The relationship between Sikhism and Islam has never been very happy, especially in the first couple of centuries, and I hope some sharp-eyed staff member spots the incongruity. I chatted with a bunch of people, mainly Colette, Sari, Laura and Vince, endured a blueberry smoothie, rehydrated... it was all in good fun.

But then, in a perfect world, so would be everything.