A Tale of Two Movies: A Lousy Winner and a Fabulous Loser

I had the great misfortune last weekend of watching what has got to be among the worst Best Picture Oscar winners ever: Chariots of Fire, 1981’s victor in a field of forgettable movies (Raiders of the Lost Ark notwithstanding).  Ask my family to trust me again with a movie selection and you’ll likely start a fist-fight. 

I’ve been trying to get the five of us to watch films none of us have seen before, and it seemed reasonable that a PG Oscar winner with a hummable theme might fit the bill.  After all, we all saw The King’s Speech at a theater a few months ago with great success (albeit with a bit of restlessness from my son), so I know that my kids are able to handle a movie that doesn’t offer explosions, wizards or fart jokes.  And my first attempt to expand our horizons, 1973’s Paper Moon, while not a resounding success, was deemed enjoyable enough to allow me another crack at picking a movie.  Unfortunately, not only does Chariots of Fire not have explosions, wizards or fart jokes, it also doesn’t have Tatum O’Neil and lacks what I deem to be essential in filmmaking: a reason to be filmed. 

My daughter’s summation of 1981’s Oscar winner: “It wasn’t about anything.  Nothing happened.  There wasn’t even a main character, really.”  Well, there kind of was a main character, but why we should care about him is beyond me.  The guy has to overcome anti-Semitism, which you would think might offer just a hint of interest for a Jewish family, but…um…no, actually.  And the synthesized music clashes with a period piece that takes place in the 1920s, and not in a cool, ironic “Moulin Rouge” sort of way, but in a “man, this music is just plain awful” sort of way. 

Lousy film.  If I’m being generous, I give it a two-stars on a four star scale, four on a scale of one to ten.

On the flipside, I had the pleasure of re-watching a film that didn’t even make the Best Picture category in 1989: Do the Right Thing (and no, I didn’t watch this one with the kids).  Viewing it for the first time in twenty years, I was amazed at how this movie still cuts to the core of race relations.  When the film was originally released, some reviewers were critical of the tumultuous ending and the motives behind it, and at the time I was probably among those who agreed with these criticisms.  Viewing it again, however, made me appreciate how deftly Spike Lee illuminated multiple sides of racial divide, exposing prejudices and failings of all people while humanizing the characters with witty and biting dialogue. 

The biggest flaw in this film is the same as it ever was: Radio Raheem, whose death incites a riot, isn’t shown to be a fully fleshed out character, but rather a cardboard cutout of a man.  We don’t particularly care when he dies because we’re not given a reason TO care about him.  But never mind.  When Kim Basinger announced at the Oscar ceremony in 1990, “The best film of the year is not even nominated and it's Do the Right Thing.” she was spot-on.

So add Do the Right Thing to the ever-growing list of notorious Oscar snubs.  And is Chariots of Fire the worst Best Picture winner ever?  Well, I still haven’t seen Gladiator, so it’s hard to say.  But I’ve read that Spike Lee likes to refer to 1989’s winner, Driving Miss Daisy, as Driving Miss Motherf***ing Daisy.

So I guess we know what Mr. Lee’s vote is.

The Latest Biography on Mickey Mantle

Author Jane Leavy’s latest biography has a preposterous title, but that doesn’t take away from its achievements.  The Last Boy: Mickey Mantle and the end of America’s Childhood is an expertly researched and well-written tale about a sports icon whose legacy might be as exaggerated as the book’s implication that somehow Mickey Mantle paralled the end of America’s innocence. 

This whole idea that America’s purity was soiled in the 60s and 70s has been exploited countless times, but bittersweet nostalgia still sells books to a generation that believes America’s best years have passed.  Depending on which book you read, America lost its innocence with the assassination of JFK, the assassinations of Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King Jr., the Vietnam War, Watergate, or the “me” decade of the 80s.  All of these notions are overblown, but at least within the realm of reason.

But Mickey Mantle?  That’s a bit of a stretch. 

The title notwithstanding, Jane Leavy’s book is hardly a trip down nostalgia lane, but rather a look at where reality and legend intersect and diverge. 

During his best years, from 1952 to 1964, Mantle was among the greatest baseball players ever, rivaling New York’s other center field stars, Willie Mays and Duke Snyder (not to mention another outfielder, Henry Aaron, the most underappreciated player of them all).  Mantle won the Triple Crown in 1956, earned the top spot in three MVP contests, and appeared in twelve World Series, winning seven of them.  The injuries he endured were numerous and devastating, starting with his rookie season in 1951, when he tore his knee in game 2 of the World Series so badly that he would never play without pain again.  Some of the stories surrounding Mantle’s baseball career are so grandiose, so epic in proportion, it would take a Hollywood movie to properly capture them, and in some sense they were in Barry Levinson’s The Natural, albeit through the fictitious Roy Hobbs.  But Mantle really did drive a ball off a the façade of Yankee Stadium  – twice, some 510 feet had the balls travelled unimpeded – and he really did play with blood seeping through his jersey in the ’61 World Series.  Roy Hobbs had nothing on this guy.

Throughout the 387 page book, Leavy interweaves a personal encounter she had with Mickey Mantle in 1983, and this very effective tactic (borrowed from Doug Write’s play, I Am My Own Wife) helps to illuminate not only the various traits of one of the greatest ballplayers to play the game, but also how the public’s perception of the Mick changed over time.  As is so often the case with sports figures, Mantle’s off-the-field activities undermined the heroic status he garnered from so many star-struck fans in the 50s and 60s (Tiger Woods, anyone?).  Starting prior to his retirement in 1968, and especially in the twenty years that followed, Mantle’s life degenerated into one long binge of drinking, philandering and selling himself with no less shame than Orson Welles did during his final years.  As a result, the public became more aware of Mantle’s humanity, for better or for worse, and it’s this realization the Leavy attempts to link to the end of America’s childhood, a broad attempt that falls short.  But as a personal journey of disillusionment, it works beautifully.

Mickey Mantle’s greatest achievement may have been his sobriety for the last eighteen months of his life, perhaps the first grown-up decision he’d ever truly made, and no doubt the most difficult.  Appearing on the cover of Sports Illustrated in 1994 to talk about his alcoholism was more important than any of his 536 home runs.  This turn around, along with the revelation of Mantle’s own sexual abuse as a child and the portrayal of his stern and discontented father, help end Mantle’s story on notes of empathy and redemption.  Mantle was no human being to emulate, but he was human through and through.

Something Old, Something New: Yes at the House of Blues

Here’s something to consider about the current incarnation of the prog-rock group, Yes, who played on March 19 and March 20 at the Chicago House of Blues: its two newest members, Benoit David, just one of a growing number of lead singers who’ve ousted their famous predecessors (think Styx, Journey and now – so I’m told – Boston), and Oliver Wakeman, son of Rick, who takes nepotism to a whole new level (thanks Dad!), are both – get this – OLDER than any of Yes’s band members were when I saw them perform in Milwaukee’s Mecca Arena in 1984, a full fifteen years after the band’s debut album.  With that iteration of Yes, Jon Anderson was the most senior member of the band at age 39, no doubt reveling in the comeback story of the year, as Yes transformed itself into a modern day force, achieving the commercial success that had eluded them since the early 70s.  “Owner of a Lonely Heart,” the most recent song the band played last weekend, reached number one on the Billboard Hot 100 in January of 1984, ousting Paul McCartney and Michael Jackson’s “Say, Say, Say.”  Not bad for a group that had only three years earlier disbanded in the wake of major personnel changes.

Now the band is back, and its two youngest members – both 39 or over – have breathed new life into the performances, begging the question of whether two-fifths of this band could eventually evolve into a very good tribute band once its old-timers call it a day. 

Chris Squire, Steve Howe and Alan White (only one of whom is an original member, though the latter two have been mainstays since 1971 and 1972, respectively) can still wow the audience with their obvious virtuosity, especially Howe, who I’ve never seen play more expertly.  His acoustic version of “To Be Over” never gets old, and it harkens back to a time when Yes’s creativity reigned supreme. 

Squire, whose large frame and tight pants offered a less-than-agreeable sight for the audience of approximately 500, can still dazzle with his trailblazing bass riffs, but he clearly struggled through the runs in “Machine Messiah,” the opening track from 1980’s Drama, an album which had been ignored in concert for nearly 30 years largely due to Jon Anderson’s pushback.  Still, there is no denying Squire’s greatness, though he never seems to tire of his very predictable shtick during “The Fish” and “Starship Trooper.”  I’ve seen the band six times in the last decade, and he does the same thing every time, hamming it up with the audience that supplies the adoration he so unabashedly craves.

Benoit’s vocals are pitch perfect and strong, and he exudes the enthusiasm befitting someone who just three years ago was singing in a tribute band.  Imagine one day being a minor novelty on Youtube, and the next touring with an iconic band.  The guy clearly has lots to be thankful for, and he commanded the stage with grace, never fretting even during those moments when he couldn’t hear himself.  A more reserved Wakeman was still fun to watch, and moreso than when I saw his father play in 2004, who by that time appeared to be phoning his performance in.

Yes’s set list has become a little less adventuresome on this tour, shelving the previous showstoppers, “South Side of the Sky,” and “And You And I,” as well as the more obscure, “Onward.”  And after watching Alan White pound his heart out for two hours, appearing spent by the end of the show, one gets the feeling that more adventurous songs like “Awaken,” “Perpetual Change” and “Heart of the Sunrise” might be forever relegated to archival footage from tours past.  The one track that surprised was the opening song, “Parallels” from Going for the One, a tune that hadn’t been played for over a decade (if memory serves).

Yes fans are a whole different breed, and I enjoyed meeting a few while waiting for the doors to open.  I met a man whose wife was clearly taking one for the team that evening, celebrating her husband’s birthday.  And a guy named Chris, who sported a shirt commemorating his favorite Yes album, Relayer, informed me that not only had he attended seven shows from Rush’s last tour, he even appeared in last summer’s documentary on the band.  It was good to meet you, Chris, and I’ll take up your band recommendations in the near future.

As for the House of Blues, it’s a terrific venue to watch a show, and I regret not having taken full advantage of this resource since moving to Chicago a decade ago.  This error in judgment will be corrected over the next decade.

An R Movie For the Whole Family - The King's Speech

In 1980 I asked my father to take me to see the movie “Alien” for reasons that now escape me.  Apparently I hadn’t been sufficiently scarred from viewing The Exorcist (on TV no less, but no less horrifying).  Asking my father was a cunning ploy, for he’d moved out the year prior and I thought he might be up for overruling my mother’s wishes.  Seeing “Alien” could be a little secret among us men; mom would never have to know.  Turns out I was wrong.  After initially giving a “sure, we do that,” I reintroduced the topic a few weeks later only to be told that because it was rated R, “Alien” was off the table.  A year later, my mother took me to see my first R-rated film, “Ordinary People,” which was no ordinary movie, but was certainly appropriate for a 12 year old despite the rating. 

I recently followed my mother’s example by taking my entire family to see “The King’s Speech,” including my almost-nine-year old son and two thirteen year-old daughters.  I’d already read the opinions of several movie critics who blasted the Motion Picture Association of America for rating “The King’s Speech” the same as “Hostel” and “Saw 3D” due to a string of profanities used not in a spiteful or sexual way, but as a tool to help overcome a stutter that had plagued England’s King George VI since childhood. 

The criticisms aimed at the MPAA are entirely justified, and the organization should be dismantled not so much for its most recent blunder, but for its decades-long condoning of violence and torture while demonizing the unclothed human body and the occasional F-bomb.  Talk about having one’s priorities completely backward.

Luckily, I have the final say in choosing what’s appropriate for my children and what isn’t, and the Internet is an especially helpful tool in this regard.  After reading a parent review on-line, I knew that “The King’s Speech” was going to be fine.  All my children have heard the F-word, but never in a more innocuous manner than that of Colin Firth’s King George VI.   They’ve been exposed to much worse on their daily bus rides to school.

The movie definitely tested my children’s patience, particular my son’s.   “The King’s Speech” is a slow-moving, methodical portrayal of the royal family’s precarious pre-war years, and there’s as much silence in the movie as dialogue.  Regardless, I’m all for testing children’s patience, especially for such a well-done fictionalized version of real events.   The day after viewing the film, my children and I went on youtube to listen to the real speech made by King George VI on September 3, 1939.  Anytime a film inspires inquiries of history, it’s hard to deem it anything other than an unqualified success.

I suspect that just as I recall seeing my first R movie, my children will remember theirs.  And just as “Ordinary People” upset the critical favorite “Raging Bull” for best picture of 1980, “The King’s Speech” could do the same to my favorite film of 2010, “The Social Network.”  It wouldn’t be undeserving.

The Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup of Collaboration?

LONELY AVENUE, by Ben Folds and Nick Horby

Never mind that Jim DeRogatis and Greg Kot on their radio show Sound Opinions recently gave “Lonely Avenue,” the new collaboration by musician Ben Folds and author Nick Hornby, a “trash it” on their “trash it, burn it or buy it” scale.  Jim even called the album “one of the worst albums of the year” and a particular song, “Levi Johnston’s Blues,” as perhaps the worst song of the decade.  Whenever critics lean that heavily on hyperbole, I can’t help but shake my head.  After all, Jim and Greg are the same guys that praised Lady Gaga not so long ago, so they can’t be taken too seriously. 

For those unfamiliar with Folds and Hornby, the former is a successful singer-songwriter who gained popularity in the 90s with his band, Ben Folds Five, and has maintained a prolific output during the last decade (of both songs and wives).  Nick Hornby is the English author of “High Fidelity,” “About A Boy,” “A Long Way Down,” and “Juliet, Naked.”  Both artists are among my favorites in the medium they most often represent.

So the question is, does the collaboration lead to Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup perfection, or is the outcome more akin to chocolate-covered bacon?  Goodness knows that many highly anticipated collaborations end up not working particularly well.  Remember bands like “The Firm” and “Bad English?”  Sometimes supergroups aren’t so super. 

Ben Folds has always been an insightful and clever lyricist in his own right, so I was curious to see what Nick Hornby would bring to the table, and I even wondered if the lyrics would be less vulgar and therefore more kid friendly (they’re not – my son has been given strict instructions NOT to play this album for his friends).  Truth be told, Nick Hornby could have spent a little more time offering lyrics that were, well…more lyrical, and on this one point I have to agree with critic Jim DeRogatis.  On many of Hornby’s lyrics, he seems to have started with a fine idea, and then slapped down the first words that came to mind with no consideration of meter, hook or rhyme.  There’s no rule of course that all lyrics need to fit nicely into a pop song format, but “Lonely Avenue” is, in fact, an album of pop songs, and outside of “Picture Window” and the addictive “Levi Johnston’s Blues,” a listener would be hard pressed to remember and sing along to any of Hornby’s lyrics.  Sometimes this is okay, but since I offer this same criticism of a well-schooled musician like Elvis Costello, I can’t let Nick off the hook.

Say it with me: sometimes less is more.

Musically, Ben continues to mix straight-ahead piano arrangements with more electronic embellishments that were also prevalent on his previous release, “Way To Normal.”  His vocal layering is back with a vengeance in songs like “Your Dogs,” the Moog synth returns with hypnotic effect on “From Above,” and Ben’s mastery of production is evident throughout.

But to me the most meaningful collaboration on “Lonely Avenue” isn’t that of musician and author, but of musician and arranger.  On this album, Folds summoned the services of arranger/conductor Paul Buckmaster, the man responsible for creating so much of the musical landscape on Elton John’s early material.  Remember the frantic percussive strings on “Madman Across the Water?”  They’re back on “Levi Johnston’s Blues,” and Buckmaster adds a touch of brilliance to four other tracks, even elevating “Picture Window” to a modern day masterpiece.

Yes, I can use hyperbole too, if only to cancel out the comments of overzealous critics.