Sunday, October 18, 2009
Saturday, July 11, 2009
On the Proper Length of a Blog Entry
By Nicholas Stix
The “blog”—the contraction of “Web” and “log”—is a type of technology. Some people project onto blogs and those who use them a mystical significance; others are contemptuous of both. The dependent variable is usually the political allegiances of the writer and the observer, respectively.
People who write using blogs are typically referred to as “bloggers.” Many people call me that; I’ve been called worse.
The primary virtue of a blog is ease of use. One does not need to know any HTML (hypertext markup language), in order to use a blog. But let’s not exaggerate the medium’s virtues. My first Web site, at bcity.com, also required no knowledge of HTML, and looked better than any html-free blog. Unfortunately, corporate parent CNET shut down bcity in 2001, in the wake of the dotcom bust.
Most “bloggers” write very brief entries about their personal lives. I’m not concerned with them, however, and virtually no one else is, either, but rather with political bloggers. Most political bloggers typically excerpt a news article or op-ed, adding a pithy observation or criticism, and often linking to an article of related interest. The value of the ensuing product is wholly dependent on the intelligence and judgment of the blogger in question.
However, some bloggers will devote several hundred or even thousands of words to a given piece. I submit that the term “column,” “essay,” or “article” is proper to such an exposition, even though it appears at a blog.
Some people are wed to a particular form, but it seems to me the value of a blog is that one can use it to publish works of all different lengths. The criterion should not be the word count, but whether the writer has said his piece.
By Nicholas Stix
The “blog”—the contraction of “Web” and “log”—is a type of technology. Some people project onto blogs and those who use them a mystical significance; others are contemptuous of both. The dependent variable is usually the political allegiances of the writer and the observer, respectively.
People who write using blogs are typically referred to as “bloggers.” Many people call me that; I’ve been called worse.
The primary virtue of a blog is ease of use. One does not need to know any HTML (hypertext markup language), in order to use a blog. But let’s not exaggerate the medium’s virtues. My first Web site, at bcity.com, also required no knowledge of HTML, and looked better than any html-free blog. Unfortunately, corporate parent CNET shut down bcity in 2001, in the wake of the dotcom bust.
Most “bloggers” write very brief entries about their personal lives. I’m not concerned with them, however, and virtually no one else is, either, but rather with political bloggers. Most political bloggers typically excerpt a news article or op-ed, adding a pithy observation or criticism, and often linking to an article of related interest. The value of the ensuing product is wholly dependent on the intelligence and judgment of the blogger in question.
However, some bloggers will devote several hundred or even thousands of words to a given piece. I submit that the term “column,” “essay,” or “article” is proper to such an exposition, even though it appears at a blog.
Some people are wed to a particular form, but it seems to me the value of a blog is that one can use it to publish works of all different lengths. The criterion should not be the word count, but whether the writer has said his piece.
Elmer Bernstein’s National Geographic Theme (Full Length)
By Nicholas Stix
I’d call this, “Ode to Copland in Four Movements.”
Note that it has the structure of a fanfare (allusion to “Fanfare for the Common Man”), and at 0:32, it hits its musical climax, in an allusion to the musical climax that comes early in the first movement of Applalachian Spring, in what my mom calls Copland’s “wild sweetness.”
If there’s a more brilliant, ambitious, and at the same time, touching—since the whole thing is an homage to Copland—TV theme, I hope someone will tell me.
(A word of warning: The guy who put this together went a little nuts with images of the weird. Some of them might be relevant to the theme of National Geographic, but most either express his own preoccupations, or resulted when he went in a certain direction, and just kept going.)
By Nicholas Stix
I’d call this, “Ode to Copland in Four Movements.”
Note that it has the structure of a fanfare (allusion to “Fanfare for the Common Man”), and at 0:32, it hits its musical climax, in an allusion to the musical climax that comes early in the first movement of Applalachian Spring, in what my mom calls Copland’s “wild sweetness.”
If there’s a more brilliant, ambitious, and at the same time, touching—since the whole thing is an homage to Copland—TV theme, I hope someone will tell me.
(A word of warning: The guy who put this together went a little nuts with images of the weird. Some of them might be relevant to the theme of National Geographic, but most either express his own preoccupations, or resulted when he went in a certain direction, and just kept going.)
Thursday, July 09, 2009
John Wayne in The Shootist (1976): Swan Song of a Giant
By Nicholas Stix
As a child, I was never much of a John Wayne fan. The idea of someone calling himself by a royal moniker (“Duke”) should be repugnant to every red-blooded American. My hero was “Coop.”
It was only many years later that I learned that Wayne’s nickname came not from royalty, but from local firemen. Young Marion Michael Morrison delivered newspapers, accompanied always by his trusty Airedale Terrier, “Duke.” Local firemen who’d befriended Marion dubbed the pair, “Big Duke and Little Duke.” That was fine by Marion, who hated his name, and took to calling himself, “Duke Morrison.”
And so he would remain until 1930, when Fox studio heads changed his name to “John Wayne” for his first starring vehicle, The Big Trail, which bombed.
The other reason I was underwhelmed by Wayne was that his best pictures were rarely shown on New York TV channels, and I usually missed them, when they were. (In contrast, Coop and “Bogey” and “Jimmy C” and Jimmy Stewart’s classics were on all the time.) Meanwhile, most of his new pictures were duds, as the directors of his great vehicles had all retired, died, or lost their touch. Wayne had outlived his era.
In recent years, I’ve been able to watch most of Wayne’s best pictures, and come to appreciate what a fine actor he was.
The Shootist was Wayne’s last picture, about the title character—they called them “shootists” or “assassins,” rather than “gunfighters”—“John Bernard Books.” Like the man playing him, Books has outlived his time, is dying of (prostate) cancer, and wants to go out with as much dignity, and as little pain as possible. But his reputation as a legendary shootist, who has killed 30 men, keeps getting in the way.
The year is 1901.
There is a symmetry between life and art, because although Wayne’s stomach cancer had not yet metastasized, if it had even yet appeared, and he would hang on for another three years, he was a sick man when he made The Shootist. It wasn’t clear if he would even make it through the shooting. He had had one cancerous lung removed in 1964, and the Shootist crew had to shoot around him for two weeks at one point, while he was laid up with the flu. And Wayne was by then a Hollywood dinosaur. He was 68 and, having smoked entire fields of tobacco, and drunk rivers of Scotch, looked every day of it.
(When I was a boy, 68 made you an old man. The average “life expectancy” was ten years shorter than it is now, which in practice meant that men usually died of heart attacks or cancer while still in the full possession of their faculties. Today, they more frequently end their days in nursing homes in their eighties or nineties, confined to wheelchairs while drooling, staring into nothingness with empty, glazed-over eyes, and wearing soiled diapers. But, by God, they lived healthier lives!)
Indeed, as they knew Wayne was ailing, producers Mike Frankovich and William Self had initially offered the role to George C. Scott, who accepted. But once Wayne heard about the picture, he had to have in, and so they withdrew the offer to Scott.
The Shootist has a stunning opening sequence, unique to its star. And that’s all I’m going to say about it. Let yourself be pleasantly surprised.
And yet, between the opening and the climactic showdown at the end, there isn’t an awful lot of action. This is a character study. The young John Wayne couldn’t have carried off a character study, but as he had already shown in his Oscar-winning performance in True Grit (1969), the old man could, and did, splendidly.
J.B. Books has a simple creed, which fits John Wayne who, although he became the biggest star in the universe, was known for treating people pretty decently:
The strong supporting cast is full of old friends who had asked to be in the picture, in order to support the ailing star, in every sense—Jimmy Stewart, as the town sawbones, who gives Books the bad news; Richard Boone, who wasn’t long for the world himself, as an old nemesis seeking to avenge his dead brother; Harry Morgan, in the movie’s funniest role, as the cowardly, talkative, town marshal; Hugh O’Brian, as a casino dealer and shootist (O’Brian, by the way, had offered to perform for free). Lauren “Betty” Bacall, who plays the widow (Mrs. Rogers) who owns the local boarding house where Books spend s his last days, wouldn’t otherwise have made a Western. Ron Howard plays the Bacall character’s son, who is growing up without a strong man around, his soul torn between his murderous thug of an employer (Bill McKinney) and his strait-laced mother, with the thug definitely gaining the upper hand. The boy is star-struck by Books, who tries to show him another way to go.
The story, from Glendon Swarthout’s eponymous novel, with a screenplay by Swarthout’s son, Miles, and Scott Hale, has a real feel for the vernacular of the time and place. The great action director Don Siegel sets the right tone, whether a scene is quiet and atmospheric, slow and talky, or violent.
Unfortunately, Elmer Bernstein’s score is not up to the standard he set in The Magnificent Seven, To Kill a Mockingbird, and The Great Escape, and while strong during the opening sequence, is exhausted there. Late in the picture, a brief, poignant moment is made all the more moving by Bernstein’s delicate music, which however does not fit the rest of the score. He cannibalized that passage from his “music box” score for Mockingbird.
Bruce Surtees' photography captures the washed-out, colorless look of the mountains and scrub of a Carson City, Nevada, winter.
John Wayne had churned out five straight duds before The Shootist, but in his swan song, he went out in style.
By Nicholas Stix
As a child, I was never much of a John Wayne fan. The idea of someone calling himself by a royal moniker (“Duke”) should be repugnant to every red-blooded American. My hero was “Coop.”
It was only many years later that I learned that Wayne’s nickname came not from royalty, but from local firemen. Young Marion Michael Morrison delivered newspapers, accompanied always by his trusty Airedale Terrier, “Duke.” Local firemen who’d befriended Marion dubbed the pair, “Big Duke and Little Duke.” That was fine by Marion, who hated his name, and took to calling himself, “Duke Morrison.”
And so he would remain until 1930, when Fox studio heads changed his name to “John Wayne” for his first starring vehicle, The Big Trail, which bombed.
The other reason I was underwhelmed by Wayne was that his best pictures were rarely shown on New York TV channels, and I usually missed them, when they were. (In contrast, Coop and “Bogey” and “Jimmy C” and Jimmy Stewart’s classics were on all the time.) Meanwhile, most of his new pictures were duds, as the directors of his great vehicles had all retired, died, or lost their touch. Wayne had outlived his era.
In recent years, I’ve been able to watch most of Wayne’s best pictures, and come to appreciate what a fine actor he was.
The Shootist was Wayne’s last picture, about the title character—they called them “shootists” or “assassins,” rather than “gunfighters”—“John Bernard Books.” Like the man playing him, Books has outlived his time, is dying of (prostate) cancer, and wants to go out with as much dignity, and as little pain as possible. But his reputation as a legendary shootist, who has killed 30 men, keeps getting in the way.
The year is 1901.
There is a symmetry between life and art, because although Wayne’s stomach cancer had not yet metastasized, if it had even yet appeared, and he would hang on for another three years, he was a sick man when he made The Shootist. It wasn’t clear if he would even make it through the shooting. He had had one cancerous lung removed in 1964, and the Shootist crew had to shoot around him for two weeks at one point, while he was laid up with the flu. And Wayne was by then a Hollywood dinosaur. He was 68 and, having smoked entire fields of tobacco, and drunk rivers of Scotch, looked every day of it.
(When I was a boy, 68 made you an old man. The average “life expectancy” was ten years shorter than it is now, which in practice meant that men usually died of heart attacks or cancer while still in the full possession of their faculties. Today, they more frequently end their days in nursing homes in their eighties or nineties, confined to wheelchairs while drooling, staring into nothingness with empty, glazed-over eyes, and wearing soiled diapers. But, by God, they lived healthier lives!)
Indeed, as they knew Wayne was ailing, producers Mike Frankovich and William Self had initially offered the role to George C. Scott, who accepted. But once Wayne heard about the picture, he had to have in, and so they withdrew the offer to Scott.
The Shootist has a stunning opening sequence, unique to its star. And that’s all I’m going to say about it. Let yourself be pleasantly surprised.
And yet, between the opening and the climactic showdown at the end, there isn’t an awful lot of action. This is a character study. The young John Wayne couldn’t have carried off a character study, but as he had already shown in his Oscar-winning performance in True Grit (1969), the old man could, and did, splendidly.
J.B. Books has a simple creed, which fits John Wayne who, although he became the biggest star in the universe, was known for treating people pretty decently:
I won't be wronged, I won't be insulted and I won't be laid a hand on. I don't do these things to others and I expect the same in return.”
The strong supporting cast is full of old friends who had asked to be in the picture, in order to support the ailing star, in every sense—Jimmy Stewart, as the town sawbones, who gives Books the bad news; Richard Boone, who wasn’t long for the world himself, as an old nemesis seeking to avenge his dead brother; Harry Morgan, in the movie’s funniest role, as the cowardly, talkative, town marshal; Hugh O’Brian, as a casino dealer and shootist (O’Brian, by the way, had offered to perform for free). Lauren “Betty” Bacall, who plays the widow (Mrs. Rogers) who owns the local boarding house where Books spend s his last days, wouldn’t otherwise have made a Western. Ron Howard plays the Bacall character’s son, who is growing up without a strong man around, his soul torn between his murderous thug of an employer (Bill McKinney) and his strait-laced mother, with the thug definitely gaining the upper hand. The boy is star-struck by Books, who tries to show him another way to go.
The story, from Glendon Swarthout’s eponymous novel, with a screenplay by Swarthout’s son, Miles, and Scott Hale, has a real feel for the vernacular of the time and place. The great action director Don Siegel sets the right tone, whether a scene is quiet and atmospheric, slow and talky, or violent.
Unfortunately, Elmer Bernstein’s score is not up to the standard he set in The Magnificent Seven, To Kill a Mockingbird, and The Great Escape, and while strong during the opening sequence, is exhausted there. Late in the picture, a brief, poignant moment is made all the more moving by Bernstein’s delicate music, which however does not fit the rest of the score. He cannibalized that passage from his “music box” score for Mockingbird.
Bruce Surtees' photography captures the washed-out, colorless look of the mountains and scrub of a Carson City, Nevada, winter.
John Wayne had churned out five straight duds before The Shootist, but in his swan song, he went out in style.
Tuesday, July 07, 2009
Karl Malden’s Father Barry in On the Waterfront was the Greatest Supporting Performance of All Time
By Nicholas Stix
Karl Malden’s “Christ Stands in the Shape-Up” Speech in On the Waterfront.
By Nicholas Stix
Karl Malden’s “Christ Stands in the Shape-Up” Speech in On the Waterfront.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
The Lonesome Dove Suite, from the Miniseries
by Basil Poledouris
by Basil Poledouris
Obama Man Can
By Greg Morton
This parody was written and performed by comic Greg Morton on Bob & Tom TV. My Oak Park, IL journalist and blogger friend, Jim Bowman, who writes Blithe Spirit, directed me to it, at Newsalert.
Bob & Tom TV is a condensed, WGN TV version of the Bob & Tom Show, Bob Kevoian and Tom Griswold’s syndicated, Indianapolis-based, five-day-a-week talk radio show.
Enjoy.
By Greg Morton
This parody was written and performed by comic Greg Morton on Bob & Tom TV. My Oak Park, IL journalist and blogger friend, Jim Bowman, who writes Blithe Spirit, directed me to it, at Newsalert.
Bob & Tom TV is a condensed, WGN TV version of the Bob & Tom Show, Bob Kevoian and Tom Griswold’s syndicated, Indianapolis-based, five-day-a-week talk radio show.
Enjoy.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Kodak’s 1960s’ “Turn Around” Commercial
By Nicholas Stix
Via ghfowler, with a tip ‘o the hat to Lyrr’s Blog.
This is a classic 1960s’ Kodak ad, which I vaguely recall from my childhood. I always appreciated the song’s beauty, but now that I have a son growing up and almost as tall as me, I find the music and pictures even more poignant.
The song, “Where are You Going?” was written by Malvina Reynolds and Alan Greene. Officially, Harry Belafonte is also credited, but according to Charles H. Smith and Nancy Schimmel, Reynolds maintained that Belafonte’s involvement was limited to misunderstanding the original lyrics, which spoke of “Little sunsuits and petticoats.”
G.H. Fowler believes that the singer is Ed Ames; commenter 1964inahlee1968 argues that the singer is someone else bearing vocal similarities to Ames.
I recently heard a stunning version sung by the late Rosemary Clooney, on Jonathan Schwartz’ weekend show on NPR’s New York City station, WNYC, at 93.9 FM.
The media were no less ruthless in 1960 than they are now, but at least then, they understood the importance of at least projecting the image of decency. As La Rochefoucald said, “Hypocrisy is the tribute that vice pays to virtue.” But under racial socialism, vice is a free rider, and has kicked virtue off the latter’s own bus. Knowledge of this state of affairs takes the commercial beyond an occasion for nostalgia and poignancy, to an occasion for grieving.
Where are You Going?
Music by Alan Greene
Lyrics by Malvina Reynolds
(Version sung by Harry Belafonte and the singer in the Kodak commercial.)
Where are you going, my little one, little one,
Where are you going, my baby, my own?
Turn around and you're two,
Turn around and you're four,
Turn around and you're a young girl going out of my door.
Turn around, turn around,
Turn around and you're a young girl going out of my door.
Where are you going, my little one, little one,
Little dirndls and petticoats, where have you gone?
Turn around and you're tiny,
Turn around and you're grown,
Turn around and you're a young wife with babes of your own.
Turn around, turn around,
Turn around and you're a young wife with babes of your own.
Malvina Reynolds’s Original Version
(Note that it has verses for a son and a daughter.)
Where are you going, my little one, little one,
Where are you going, my sonny, my own?
Turn around and you’re two,
Turn around and you’re four,
Turn around and you’re a young man going out of my door.
Where are you going, my little one, little one,
Little sunsuits and petticoats, where have you gone?
Turn around and you’re tiny,
Turn around and you’re grown,
Turn around and you’re a young wife with babes of your own.
By Nicholas Stix
Via ghfowler, with a tip ‘o the hat to Lyrr’s Blog.
This is a classic 1960s’ Kodak ad, which I vaguely recall from my childhood. I always appreciated the song’s beauty, but now that I have a son growing up and almost as tall as me, I find the music and pictures even more poignant.
The song, “Where are You Going?” was written by Malvina Reynolds and Alan Greene. Officially, Harry Belafonte is also credited, but according to Charles H. Smith and Nancy Schimmel, Reynolds maintained that Belafonte’s involvement was limited to misunderstanding the original lyrics, which spoke of “Little sunsuits and petticoats.”
When Harry Belafonte recorded the song, he sang “Little dirndls and petticoats” instead of “Little sunsuits and petticoats,” saying that you don’t wear petticoats with sunsuits. “I wasn’t thinking of wearing,” said Malvina. “I was thinking of ironing.” Since dirndls aren’t popular any more, people may want to revert to the original line.
G.H. Fowler believes that the singer is Ed Ames; commenter 1964inahlee1968 argues that the singer is someone else bearing vocal similarities to Ames.
I recently heard a stunning version sung by the late Rosemary Clooney, on Jonathan Schwartz’ weekend show on NPR’s New York City station, WNYC, at 93.9 FM.
The media were no less ruthless in 1960 than they are now, but at least then, they understood the importance of at least projecting the image of decency. As La Rochefoucald said, “Hypocrisy is the tribute that vice pays to virtue.” But under racial socialism, vice is a free rider, and has kicked virtue off the latter’s own bus. Knowledge of this state of affairs takes the commercial beyond an occasion for nostalgia and poignancy, to an occasion for grieving.
Where are You Going?
Music by Alan Greene
Lyrics by Malvina Reynolds
(Version sung by Harry Belafonte and the singer in the Kodak commercial.)
Where are you going, my little one, little one,
Where are you going, my baby, my own?
Turn around and you're two,
Turn around and you're four,
Turn around and you're a young girl going out of my door.
Turn around, turn around,
Turn around and you're a young girl going out of my door.
Where are you going, my little one, little one,
Little dirndls and petticoats, where have you gone?
Turn around and you're tiny,
Turn around and you're grown,
Turn around and you're a young wife with babes of your own.
Turn around, turn around,
Turn around and you're a young wife with babes of your own.
Malvina Reynolds’s Original Version
(Note that it has verses for a son and a daughter.)
Where are you going, my little one, little one,
Where are you going, my sonny, my own?
Turn around and you’re two,
Turn around and you’re four,
Turn around and you’re a young man going out of my door.
Where are you going, my little one, little one,
Little sunsuits and petticoats, where have you gone?
Turn around and you’re tiny,
Turn around and you’re grown,
Turn around and you’re a young wife with babes of your own.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
