Simply More of the Best-The Docs

 

Like I said, my list of my favorite films of the 21st century (see previous: SIMPLY THE BEST)  is incomplete, so I took another dive to round up a few worthy documentaries. Again, there are more, but this should tide you over until the cows come home. Where did they run off to anyway?

THREE IDENTICAL STRANGERS

Triplets separated at birth finally coming together made for a fascinating character study times three.

20 FEET FROM STARDOM

So many music docs to choose from, but I preferred the unsung heroes like the studio musicians of THE WRECKING CREW and MUSCLE SHOALS. This one about backup singers took the prize though.

DICK JOHNSON IS DEAD

A filmmaker puts her dying father through a series of possible death scenarios on film, helping the two of them cope with his inevitable demise. Sounds morbid? Sure. The resulting film is more of a celebration of life that you might imagine.

ROOM 237

Conspiracy theorists invade the film world, this time with Stanley Kubrick's adaptation of THE SHINING. Even the skeptical can't deny the fascination this film exudes. Maybe lil' Stevie King would actually concur if he removed the stick Stanley stuck up his ass.

CUTIE AND THE BOXER

Sweet-ass love story of a pair of artists, navigating their married life after 40 years together as she finally emerges from her husband's shadow. About time.

THE DEVIL AND DANIEL JOHNSTON

A manic depressive singer/songwriter, long existing in the shadows, finds his way into the sunlight at long last. SEARCHING FOR SUGAR MAN about the "lost" musician known as Rodriquez would be a great companion piece.

WINGED MIGRATION

After this hypnotizing film, I became a huge fan of Canadian geese, mainly because they flock to this area. Yeah, they're huge pains in the ass, crap everywhere and take their goddamn time to cross the road in traffic. People are worse.

CITY OF GOLD

So many food pics to choose from, I went with this about LA restaurant critic Jonathan Gold who championed many an underdog in the face of trendiness.

KING OF KONG: A FISTFUL OF QUARTERS

This rivalry of video game nerds is a whole lotta fun, especially to mock. I used to be one. Now I declare myself a geek and proud of it.

AKA MR. CHOW

Having no clue who this guy was beyond the owner of a bunch of restaurants, I came away inspired by a man who can constantly reinvent himself. Maybe it's frustrating for those who are close to him, but it makes for a great story. 

THE WOLFPACK

A great bookend to THREE IDENTICAL STRANGERS, another family saga about a group of kids who were locked away in a New York apartment, closed off from the outside world by their wacky  tyrannical father. They learn about life from the movies. Kinda like me.

There you have it. Seek these out and see if your assessments coincide with mine. If you want to compare notes, you know where to find me.  

(Sorry. POOP CRUISE didn't make the cut.)

Simply the Best

The New York Times decided to compile a list of the best films of the 2000s thus far since it's 2025 and all. The fact that the year's not over is beside their point unless they have inside info that the remaining lineup of releases are going to suck burro balls. 

I've seen quite a few myself, don'tcha know and my list, while incomplete since my movie appetite is voracious but my memory is nearly gone with the wind, follows in no particular order.

CITY OF GOD (2002) Brazilian director Fernando Meirelles' brutal look at gang violence mesmerized me.

HERO (2004) Difficult to pick a favorite between CROUCHING TIGER, HIDDEN DRAGON, HOUSE OF FLYING DAGGERS and this from Zhang Yimou, but that's what I went with, mainly because it afforded one of the best nights in a cinema I had spent in a long time. All three of these offer superb, albeit tragic love stories, making the selection of a favorite even more daunting.

WES ANDERSON Fell in love with the filmography of this gentleman early on in the century with THE FANTASTIC MR. FOX,  MOONRISE KINGDOM, THE GRAND BUDAPEST HOTEL and THE ROYAL TENENBAUMS (numero uno in my book)

THE ASSASINATION OF JESSE JAMES BY THE COWARD ROBERT FORD (2007) Sumptuous, simply sumptuous, Andrew Domink gave the world the best western of the modern era with a performance by Brad Pitt that finally made me sit up and take notice.

BEST IN SHOW (2000) The mockumentary style had been done to death by now, but ignoring that is Christopher Guest's timeless comedy with a cast made in heaven

GOSFORD PARK (2001) Robert Altman got one more classic in before he kicked. Thank you, Jesus. Julian Fellowes wrote the screenplay, so you can thank this film for DOWNTON ABBEY. You're welcome.

THE HURT LOCKER (2008) Goddamn right, Katheryn Bigelow. You deserved it.

ONCE UPON A TIME IN HOLLYWOOD (2019) Quentin Tarantino's output in the 2000s contained quite a few home runs, but this was a grand slam.

PIXAR Once the gold standard, its very name was enough to put butts in seats and deliver the goods, which were great by the way. FINDING NEMO, WALL-E and RATATOUILLE all made the grade and beyond, but nothing moved me more than UP (2009). Maybe I identify with Carl too much.

LORD OF THE RINGS TRILOGY. For three years in a row, these served as my birthday movies and no greater presents did I give myself. Too bad Peter Jackson can't find a way to move on, but I suppose this was his STAR WARS. You get it, don't you, George?

WOLF OF WALL STREET (2013) Martin Scorsese finally won his Oscar for THE DEPARTED, but I refused to believe this sucker was the work of a filmmaker well into his seventies. 

ANIME My grandson, then about 5, introduced me to the magical world of Hayao Miyazaki by way of SPIRITED AWAY (2001) and I became instantly hooked. I have my grandson, then 6 years old, to thank since we watched it together. It also led me to the unfortunately truncated work of Satoshi Kon whose PAPRIKA (2006) prompted me to seek it out on the big screen.

SIDEWAYS (2004) Big Alexander Payne fan, especially with this one which hit me right where I live, reminding me of fine times with my best friend Max and my struggles as a budding writer. Still budding, by the way.

SKYFALL (2012) Everything I've ever wanted in a James Bond film and so much more. (See blog post: SKYFALL: THE LEGEND FINALLY CONTINUES) 

PAN'S LABYRINTH (2006) Guillermo Del Toro. Need I say more? 

LET THE RIGHT ONE IN (2008) Best vampire film of this century.

OLD BOY (2003) Twenty years hence, I'm still reeling from this one from the amazing Park          Chan-wook. NOTE: Not the Spike Lee remake. Got it?

CHRISTOPHER NOLAN- Yet another excellent reason to continue  seeing a film in an actual theater what with INCEPTION (my fave), DUNKIRK, MEMENTO and OPPENHEIMER

WHERE THE WILD THINGS ARE (2009) Spike Jonze's adaptation of Maurice Sendak's children's classic has been unjustly forgotten. 

THE COEN BROTHERS- Still my go-to filmmakers, I adore O BROTHER WHERE ART THOU (2000) overall and not NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN because it threw me for such a loop with a twist I didn't expect or necessarily want that it's still hard for me to get over it. I guess I should just grow the hell up already. 

CLINT EASTWOOD- His Oscar win for MILLION DOLLAR BABY proved UNFORGIVEN wasn't a fluke, but MYSTIC RIVER (2003) the previous year was off the charts. 

BEASTS OF THE SOUTHERN WILD (2012) Another superb debut from a promising director who should be working more. Where the heck are you, Behn Zeitlin?

JUNO (2007) Big fan-yesterday, today and tomorrow. 

SIN CITY (2005) Robert Rodriquez and Frank Miller elevated the graphic novel on film to new heights.

SLUMDOG MILLIONAIRE (2008)  I danced out of the theater after I saw this. Someone had to post bail, but it was worth it.

TIME CRIMES (2007) One of those time travel mind-fucks that I crave. 

REQUIEM FOR A DREAM (2000) Probably the best film I will never see again. It will mess you up. You have been warned.

STEVEN SPIELBERG- Taking the reins from the deceased Stanley Kubrick, A.I. finally saw the light of day or a projection screen for that matter. I'll defend it to the death. The same with his version of  WAR OF THE WORLDS.

NIGHT WATCH/DAY WATCH (2004/2006) The only Russian films I saw were these two pieces of a bat-shit crazy fantasy/horror/action saga. How can anyone hate a moovie where a guy drivesup the side of a skyscraper?

TELL NO ONE (2006) French version of a Harlan Coben novel, brilliantly executed.  

DISTRICT NINE (2009) Neill Blomkamp's debut with the sci-fi allegory set in Johannesburg has not been equaled, especially by himself. Still rooting for you, Neill.

WATCHMEN (2009) Zack Snyder. The name conjures up ire, scorn and, from me, admiration, for giving my number one comic book series the film it deserved.

SCOTT PILGRIM VS THE WORLD (2010) Yes, a Michael Cera movie is on this list.  Shut up. It's Edgar Wright.

TAKE SHELTER (2011) Gloom and doom on a personal level made for a fascinatin picture from Jeff Nichols and an overlooked performance by Michael Shannon.

THE INVITATION (2015) Not the 2022 horror film , this is a masterful slow-burner from Karyn Kusama that pays off in spades. (Is that a bridge reference? I thought so. I don't play cards. I just watch movies.)

MIDNIGHT IN PARIS (2011) Did this make the list because I saw it during that amazing summer I spent in Brooklyn? Partly. It's also the last Woody Allen movie I admire. So there. 

BAD SANTA (2003) A holiday favorite. Still. 

MUHOLLAND DRIVE (2001) David Lynch, one mo' time.

SINNERS (2025) This is bit of a cheat. Ryan Coogler's film is flawed and unwieldly, but contains what has to be the most amazing sequence about midway through, an incredible feat of filmmaking that will be discussed for years to come. I may come around on the movie as a whole upon a second viewing, but knowing what waits in the center will most certainly draw me back in.

As I said, an incomplete compilation. There isn't one documentary here and there have been several. If I delved deeper, I'd never get this together, so take this as it is. While I agree with many on the NYT list, but they didn't make here. Taste is subjective, especially mine. Your mileage may vary. Six months to go, people!

Tales from the VIlle-Life is a Cabaret (Kinda, Sorta) Conclusion

Wrapping this sad saga up with either a pretty bow or a hangman's noose, here is the blissfully final installment of my Palace Showboat directorial debut.

After the final dress rehearsal and less than 24 hours to go, it was coming right down to the wire. Set pieces we're still being constructed and painted that would hopefully be dry and nailed/glued/stapled/duct taped together by the time the curtain rose om opening night. That didn't stop the reception of another kick to my groin. In finale, set in a heavenly nightclub called Pair O' Dice, I envisioned tables with paper mache' fronts on either side stage painted to resemble clouds, Maxfield Parrish puffballs. My tortured heart sank to anew low when I saw the end result: two giant ice cubes that just tore a hole in the hull of the Titanic. What a metaphor. Too late to redo them, my final directorial decision was that to shit-can them both and keep them as boring cocktail tables. Blah, humbug.

For me, the opening weekend of LEGEND OF THE ROGUE/LIFE IS A CABARET was an absolute blur. Apparently, all was well, for the most part. The melo went swimmingly, a triumph I wasn't able to enjoy with the Sword of Damocles vaudeville hanging over my head. But CABARET, lumbering mess that it was, plodded along without a hitch with the exception that it was so bloody long. The entire show didn't let out until close to midnight, 30 to 45 minutes over.  

DW Landingham. Naturally.

In the following week, damage control was put into place without my participation. In effect, Goldie, in her venerable role as producer, basically took my show away from me, an act of mercy perhaps that should have happened weeks before opening. Instead of being led behind the barn with a bullet put to my head, I chose to suffer the consequences, namely staying with the show as a cast member only. (My director credit remained on the program.) More numbers were sliced, diced and tossed in the trash bin, replaced by a couple of old favorites from the Ville catalog, more irony for me to chew on. The great D.W. Landingham came in to save the day, becoming a special guest star cast member as the top banana in the DR. CURE-ALL sketch and THE HECKLER. Naturally, he excelled, guaranteeing his spot on the Pollardville Mt. Rushmore. This is how it went down for the entire run which continued without major incident or my input. By the show's end at the end of the summer, I was relieved for it to be over and put behind me.

But was it? Here I am over forty years later. dragging myself over the coals, though I'm doing so to gain some perspective and complete this apology tour. In retrospect, LIFE IS A CABARET had its moments, a very adequate second half,  though I know goddamn well that it is nobody's favorite. (In case you haven't guessed, I count myself in the mix) The musical numbers were all fine, throwing a tap number into the finale and a solo spot for our superb drummer Joel Warren playing the conga and singing Kenny Rogers' "The Hoodooin' of Miss Fanny DeBerry". However, there was a big gaping hole I didn't fill and that was COMEDY.  The one thing I had built my reputation upon had been sorely lacking. Two bits I conceived had been given the heave-ho and I had zippity doo dah to replace them. Thank Buddha for D.W. and some classic material at our disposal.

Quite frankly, as if I haven't been, the whole premise of the show was flimsy at best and, under scrutiny, fell apart at the seams. The only word to describe it all would be disappointing. It's like that phrase parents use to cut kids to the quick, "I'm not mad. I'm just disappointed." Among those I let down were Goldie, who gave me this shot, Bill, who I treated poorly as both a friend and never a collaborator, the cast, who always gave their best and elevated the material each and every performance and even the Ville itself for taking my back on its legacy because I wanted to put my own spin on things I knew nothing about. The previous show, GOODBYE TV, HELLO BURLESQUE, was a big step forward while mine barely made it own of the starting gate before tripping over its own feet. 

Mercifully, it wasn't a complete boondoggle. The melodrama did maintain the spirit of excellence that SEVEN WIVES FOR DRACULA (GOODBYE TV's companion) set forth, both on stage and behind the scenes. For that I was grateful enough to keep my head above water. While the cast excelled throughout, I have to award the Most Valuable Player Award to Ed Thorpe for going above and beyond with his contributions to the whole show. Cast as Rhett, one of two henchman of the villain and the smallest role in THE ROGUE, he created a demonic Tasmanian Devil-like character that blew the roof off the joint. I had created a character for him in the second half, a hick stand-up comic named Jim Bob Cornhusker, that he brought to brilliant light but was unfortunately short-lived. To make up for it, he received an important role in DOCTOR CURE-ALL where he once again exploded onto that stage like the seasoned Pollardville pro he was and always would be.

What I have come to realize in reliving this episode of my Ville life is that prior to accepting the role of vaudeville director, things were too damn easy for me and when it became hard, I floundered like a tuna on the deck of a fishing boat. My inherent immaturity overrode my talent. What I failed to recognize is the plain truth (or life cliche', if you must) that it is the hard that makes it good. If putting a show together was so easy, everyone could do it. It isn't, they can't and at that pivotal moment, neither could I. But, hey, wasn't I supposed to be Orson Welles? Uh-uh. Neither was he at first. Orson didn't suddenly appear out of the blue with CITIZEN KANE in his hot little hands. He had years of training and stage experience under his belt before his career took off, albeit at an early age. Me, I'm self-taught at just about everything, which served me well initially, but the arrogance of youth, my own, exposed my shortcomings and damn near did me in for good.

Following THE ROGUE/CABARET came Bob Gossett's melodrama PIRATES OF THE GOLDEN SEA  (or KEEP YOUR HANDS OFF MY CHEST) and Ed's VOYAGE TO PARADISE. I wasn't about to jump into the frying pan again, so I stayed off the stage for quite a stretch. Goldie, bless her lil' pea-pickin' heart, played into my strengths again and allowed me to pen a couple of sketches and gags for it as I did for the next production as well. I kept my feet in the water, but I wasn't ready to go back into the deep end again. Not yet anyway. 

That's a story for another time. Just not this one. 

SEE ALSO;

LIFE IS CABARET PART ONE

and PART TWO

AND THE REST OF THE POLLARDVILLE STORY ALL ONE PAGE ENTITLED

TALES FROM THE VILLE

Tales from the Ville-Life is a Cabaret (Kinda, Sorta) Part Two

The continuing misadventures of my directorial debut at the Palace Showboat Theater at Pollardville. Pardon me as I purge.

Time has never been my friend. In fact, I would venture to say it was my arch-nemesis. This indisputable fact came into play as I scrambled to put my show LIFE IS A CABARET together. By the time auditions rolled around, I had perhaps 2/3 glued together. (Maybe 3/4 if I was being generous, which I'm not) The pressure was definitely on, but my finger hadn't hit the panic button. Yet. 

Tryouts were, unfortunately, rather turbulent. We had a decent turn-out of past Showboat players, many of which were highly complimentary of my melodrama script (LEGEND OF THE ROGUE) which gave me a necessary boost. But egos came to the forefront when one actor we wanted as the villain of the piece gave us (producer Goldie Pollard, melo director Bill Humphreys and yours truly) a set of demands that included being excluded from any cast numbers in the second half of the show as well as a solo specialty number. Since it was my vaudeville, I put the nixed these suggestions and he went on his merry way, a pity since I always liked this guy as a performer and he would have been perfect for the villain. Another actor who really wanted the lead got a supporting role, became butt-hurt in the process and also decided to set his own terms. Goldie met them all because this actor was always an asset, despite being a royal pain in the ass when things didn't go his way. What he walked away with was trivial beyond measure, but he felt victorious, though the chip remained on his shoulder throughout. 

 One bright note was a hearing impaired actor who absolutely crushed his audition and had been cast in a supporting role in the melo. I saw him as a potential breakout star. He had dramatically interpreted a song that I don't recall utilizing ASL (American sign language) and I felt this would make a great number for my show. Unfortunately, he reconsidered and dropped out before the first rehearsal. Goldie  insisted I take over the role which I reluctantly accepted. There's nothing I love more than being on stage, but I needed to focus on the second half and saw this as an unnecessary distraction. And I wrote the goddamn thing! As a result, the decision for the cast was set in stone and turned out to be all heavy hitters, as good a bunch as to ever set foot on the stage, a winning combination of the past, present and future.

Even though he was already directing THE ROGUE, I chose Bill to act as my assistant AD because I needed a safety net, even though my insecurity began to take hold, causing me to keep him at arm's length and pretty much in the dark. His experience was far greater than mine and I thought he'd take over. Was I being a control freak or merely a neurotic fool? You make the call! On a rare positive note, I had a musical director in my corner who interpreted everything I heard in my head. I couldn't read music, but I could point to what I wanted. He validated my instincts enough to show I had been on what I considered to be heading in the right direction. Unfortunately, he disappeared, POOF!, never to be heard from again. I have no idea what occurred only rumors that have never proven to be true. All I knew was he was gone and replaced by another musical director whose second guessed just about absolutely everything in my original arrangement. On top of that, I had to provide the new guy a dreaded solo number that had to be jerry-rigged into the show. My choreographer also wasn't too keen on my concepts either and attempted outlandish ideas that went nowhere, especially the girls performing their number on roller skates. My ode to female sexuality became a slapstick roller derby number. Mother of Mercy, was this the end of Cherney?. The roller skates mercifully went bye-bye in short shrift since it was a ridiculous notion and, you know, potential injuries, lawsuits and the like. The can-can number and my slapstick 10 Tango were both scrapped, the latter right after I cast myself as a bumbling waiter, but not before I took a fall off-stage smacked the back of my noggin with a curtain weight. A couple of other pieces dropped by the wayside as well including my ode to English music halls and a salute to Marlene Dietrich's rendition of "Lilli Marlene". 2/3 of a show line-up had become 1/2. The word dire became part of my vocabulary.

Creatively, I had hit a brick wall hit head first and came to a screeching halt. Confronted by people who still considered me as their friend for some unknown reason, I was taken to task for my inability to deliver the goods and keeping my cards close to my chest because I knew damn well I had nothing in my hand.  This was indeed an intervention. It was the moment that many people in the creative arts, be they actors, writers, directors, artists, what have you, dread most in their lives: when you have been exposed as a fraud. Your ego had been writing checks that your meager talent and lack of experience couldn't cash. I found myself breaking down and tearfully confessed to Goldie that I was in over my head. Without mollycoddling me, she talked me off the ledge with straight talk and cold-hard facts. What I had was enough to put on some kind of a show because, as it turned out, I actually had too much material. It was unwieldly and a frickin' mess, but a show nonetheless. 

Hell Week of rehearsals lived up to its name in more ways than one. The melodrama played quite well and, not surprisingly, Bill did a bang-up job along with the excellent cast and a spectacular set design by the brilliant Karen Van Dine. On the other hand, the vaudeville was a shambles. The cast had less faith in me as each passing rehearsal. Two of my former collaborators had completely turned against me and began working on their own show, but the worst was yet to come. Four days before opening, my father had a major stroke. While it didn't kill him, it was enough to change the remaining years of his life to their very worst. Understandably, I missed a couple of rehearsals and returned with two days to spare, a shell of my former self. My heart wasn't in it as it was and this only served to confirm that horrible reality. It didn't matter. For better, for worse or both, opening night was happening no matter what. 

The show must go on, don'tcha know?

TO BE CONCLUDED

SEE ALSO:

PART ONE OF LIFE IS A CABARET (KINDA, SORTA) 

 THE REST OF THE POLLARDVILLE STORY, ALL ON ONE PAGE TALES FROM THE VILLE

Tales from the Ville-Life is a Cabaret (Kinda, Sorta) Part One

As I continue to chronicle my time at the Palace Showboat Theatre at Pollardville, I have to be as true to myself as I possibly can and admit to my own failures, this one in particular. These next few posts are pretty much of a purge, but necessary to my story.  

Because I was (am) a moony eyed dreamer, one of the early heroes I claimed in my creative development was Orson Welles. Using CITIZEN KANE as a benchmark, I aspired to achieve what he had with that classic film, that is, write, produce and star, by the tender age of 25. The title of wunderkind had appealed to me as well. Little did I fathom that I couldn't claim that for myself, but to have it bestowed upon by others. (There's a parallel here with the first appearance of a delusional Wile E. Coyote in a Bugs Bunny cartoon referring to himself as a "super genius".) This wasn't the only misconception I had about either myself or Mr. Welles at this point in time. To paraphrase Junior Soprano, what I didn't know could fill a book...or at least a couple of blog posts. 

Following my stage debut at the Ville, I unwisely opted out of auditioning for the next show, SEVEN BRIDES FOR DRACULA/ GOODBYE TV, HELLO BURLESQUE for a couple of fairly valid reasons. The first was my commitment as Entertainment Director for a second year at then titled Tule Flats Ghost Town. The second, I wanted to create my own show for the Palace Showboat stage. Though Ed Thorpe and I wrote LA RUE'S RETURN, I wanted to go off and thus my first solo melodrama, THE LEGEND OF THE ROGUE, was chosen for the next show, another feather in my cap of growing plumage. But that wasn't all, as I soon found out. Producer extraordinaire Goldie Pollard granted me the honor of directing the vaudeville portion of that same show. Therefore, the next production was to be a Scott Cherney joint from top to bottom. This incredible leap of faith on Goldie's part was insurmountable. Destiny itself had blown its majestic trumpet as I had been given the keys to the kingdom...at the age of 25. Orson who?

Over the moon and back again, I dove in head first. Following the current show would be a daunting effort to say the least. DRACULA/GOODBYE TV had pretty much changed the landscape of what was possible on that stage, ushering in a new era. I felt up to the challenge and set out to do it all by myself. After all, I wrote THE ROGUE in a week's time, so how hard could it be? 

Reality check, please! 

#1: This would be my directorial debut. On stage. I was a babe in the woods. I had staged a few gunfights in the ghost town the summer before, but what else? Zippity-doo-dah. 

#2: I wanted to re-invent the wheel...again, namely the concept of a Pollardville vaudeville show. Bill Humphreys had done this with GOODBYE TV and I chose to follow in his footsteps until I headed down my own path.  My arrogance (and ignorance) prompted me to turn my nose up to what I considered to be the cornball Pollardville formula. After all, I knew better, didn't I? 

#3 My theater experience overall was pretty slight, especially in terms of music and choreography. What the hell did I know? I had been a bit player in a high school production of DAMN YANKEES and struggled through the singing and dancing portions of  UNDER THE BIG TOP. I certainly couldn't read music and as for dancing, my closet was full of left shoes. 

Yup. The odd were against me, but what did I care? I'd show 'em. I'd show 'em all.  But first, I had to pass GO, with or without $200.

All summer long, I delved into the research and development of my show . In those pre internet days, my best friend was the public library for the wealth of information at my disposal. Initially I considered to go with a vaudeville centered around my favorite subject-the movies. I had no idea why I decided against it, probably because it was too easy. I went in to deep dive of material and soon, my concept became thus: A show that celebrated the elements of a Palace Showboat vaudeville from various venues around the world such as British music halls, Paris' Folies Bergere, American nightclubs, Germany's cabarets and so on, and so forth. Following that last piece of the puzzle came the title LIFE IS A CABARET. 

Despite this rather vague, unformed concept, my creative juices began overflowing with ideas. As a fan of THE MUPPET SHOW, I wanted puppets to serve as a background chorus for a voodoo number. A can-can dance was a necessity. I conceived a slapstick tango number to go to the tune of Ravel's Bolero. (Blake Edwards' 10, was a major film at that time). The guys' number was another rock and roller ala "Hot Patootie" from the current show. I wanted Spencer Davis Group' "Gimme Some Lovin'",  featuring Chicago gangsters for some reason I don't recall. I wanted the girls' number to be the absolute epitome of hot, a combination of  "Fever" and "Steam Heat". The opening of course had to be John Kander of Fred Ebb's "Cabaret". The finale I actually derived from a very racist Warner Brothers cartoon called GOIN' TO HEAVEN ON A MULE. In it, a lazy worker drinks a jug of hooch, passes out  and dreams he lands in heaven, which turns out to be a nightclub called Pair O' Dice. I kept that same setting with the addition of the numbers "This Joint is Jumpin'" and "It Don't Mean a Thing". Sounds horrible in a 21st century context, doesn't it?  I justified it all in the belief that whitewashing we'd apply would make all that nasty racism go away. In retrospect, I didn't have a fucking clue. However, no one else called me on this either. Not many years before, the Ville staged their own Caucasian minstrel show, so my ignorance ran concurrent with past productions. Unintentionally offensive is still offensive, but that was then, this is now. Can't change the past, but I sure can own up to it.

Let the cancellations commence. 

To Be Continued

See also: GOODBYE TV, HELLO BURLESQUE TALES FROM THE VILLE-HI YO, SILVER! 

                THE LEGEND OF THE ROGUE THE LEGEND CONTINUES

                 THE REST OF THE STORY, ALL ON ONE PAGE TALES FROM THE VILLE

The Agony and the Irony

Hindsight may be 20/20, but sometimes it requires bifocals. That is, of course, if you care to take a closer look. You might not want to, lest it interrupt your  rush to judgement. But if you take a breath, you might be surprised.

Take, for example, the recent fallout from Trump 2.0, already in progress. Tesla car dealerships have become hotbeds of recent protests, often resulting in vandalism and, on a few occasions with the use of firearms. Howcum, you might ask when you emerge from under a rock? It's all directed at Tesla CEO and Trump human shield Elon Musk, whose Doge is running rampant. hacking and a hewing at government waste. At least that's what they're leading us to believe. 

Now kids, let's head back into the Way Back machine set, for say two decades ago during the age of one GW Bush. That's when we got the long-awaited sequel to Desert Storm. The battle cry of protesters  back then was "No blood for oil!"  Progressives far and wide begged for the end of fossil fuel from our lives. And please, please please give us the electric car, you war mongering profiteers! There was even a semi-popular documentary that liberals dearly loved called WHO KILLED THE ELECTRIC CAR? The antithesis of this miracle that were clamoring for was the Hummer, a gas-guzzling knockoff of the military truck and utilityvehicle  called the Humvee. Hummers, the douchemobiles of yore, were perceived as middle fingers to the left and were often vandalized at this point in time. 

Flash forward a few years later to when Elon Musk was THE media darling in a post-Steve Jobs world when it seemed everyone else was bored to tears by Bill Gates and Mark Zuckerberg. Elon the Genius was going to be our savior, cementing that stature when he formed a car company that would make wait for it, ELECTRIC VEHICLES. (Cue the Hallelujah chorus) Praise be to him! 

But wait just a gosh darn minute...he's switched allegiances. Musk is leaning right now... standing right to Satan himself, POTUS Don John Trump? That bastard! What else has changed about him? Hard to say. Maybe nobody was listening over all the Hossanas (unless you're Jewish). He's still the same tech weirdo, spreading his seed far and wide like Nick Cannon and his past accomplishments are being erased due to his current association with said Demon Incarnate. What's his end game? Couldn't be misanthropic...or could it? 

So here we are now. Those who yelled the loudest for the EV are focusing their ire at the one company that has popularized the very notion of the non-gas consuming cars. They are turning Tesla dealers into Target stores. Is it misguided anger? Well, not quite. Now they're going after the next entry on the list, the privately owned Muskmobiles themselves, just like in the Hummer days. (The Cybertruck is already its own joke and punchline, the Edsel of the 21st century. They could recoup their losses by selling them to the circus as clown cars) After that, the Tesla owners themselves, collateral damage in this War Between the States of Mind. 

And let's not ignore the MAGATS who believe electric vehicles are Satanic since oil is from the Lord but are now Elon Musk's biggest cheerleaders.

This is how it starts. They're playing us off against each other, a familiar tactic, a simple case of misdirection for the simple-minded, which is how they see us no matter where you stand. It takes the attention off of them. It's happened before. It'll happen again. History tends to repeat itself, sometimes exactly, sometimes abstractly. Look up from your phones every so often and see what going on around you. It doesn't cost anything to pay attention unless you don't. Then it might be too late and the price too great..

Tidbits

In years past, I would pontificating, criticizing and generally waxing on and off poetic about the Academy Awards which take place this Sunday, but I'm done with all that and especially the Oscars themselves. They finally wore me down enough so that I just don't care anymore. I'll watch it, basically out of habit, but that's about the size of it and not a fun size at that.

Instead, here are takes on some recent movies, some of which that may even get some Oscar, as if that means anything anymore. 

This year's big birthday blockbuster, a present I give to myself: Robert Eggers' version of NOSERATU. (There was another one with Jimmy Durante in the thirties: NOSEFERATU) So pleased to see it in the cinema, the last day before heading to streaming. It would not have worked its black magic on me at home as it did on the big screen. Loved it, but quite frankly, it scared the shit out of me and that almost never happens, the first time since Blair Witch. Dread lurks in every single scene and pays off in ways I did not expect. It's a one note movie like Oppenheimer, one that is a dirge that may be hard to take for some, but how does one extend a light touch during a rat-infested plague? It's ultra-violent as well, though I didn't find it gratuitous. The dialogue was an issue here and there, which could have been my ancient ear-drums or thick accents especially by the main blood-sucker himself. He actually was an issue, not the nightmarish demon of previous versions I really desired, but more a drunken uncle from the old country. Performances were superb all around with Lily-Rose Depp proving to be a force of nature equal to a howling storm. And any movie with Willem Dafoe is a plus no matter what. Eggers is awesome and so is his film. Happy birthday to me.

Starting off with a couple I heartily endorse instead of merely saying merely say "I like 'em both." NIGHTBITCH could be seen as a feminist diatribe by nitwits or a pointed view of motherhood and identity that resonates to even someone like me. Amy Adams nails it and has been sadly overlooked here in awards season. The same can be said about Marielle Heller's direction. Both make me want to howl at the moon. (or more likely, chase a parked car) Jesse Eisenberg's surprisingly triple threat work on A REAL PAIN gives him the major career lift he rightly deserves. And to allow Kieran Culkin to dominate the proceedings is almost a selfless act in itself, even though it's all in service of his film.

Here are a couple of recommendations (with reservations) from a genre I don't usually wade in-the dreaded rom-com. I wanted to see WE LIVE IN TIME mainly because I have a mad crush on Florence Pugh. (It's true. I love Pugh) The non-linear approach to this love story saves it from scrutiny while I watched it until later when I tore it apart. Still, it has its moments and worth a look. THE STORIED LIFE OF A.J. FIKRY was the nicer surprise and although not a traditional romancer, there is a lot of love to be found so it works for Val's Day. It ain't perfect and has its share of clunky scenes to be sure, but I got all misty-eyed toward the end. Then again, I cried when my team lost in the Puppy Bowl. I lost fifty bucks.

Finally, a question of the day. it doesn't have to be this day. It could be tomorrow or next month for all I care, but here it is anyway:

Do the people of Boston consider the title of WICKED to be cultural appropriation?

Discuss and never get back to me.

What A Novel Idea

Been teasing the fact that I have been attempting, nearly in vain, to complete my novel, something that has taken 27 years of my life. At long last, loves, I can finally announce that I am done. Finished. It's ain't over 'til it's over and it damn well is.

What began as this:

Became this: 

To this: 

Until finally, this:

 

Typing that title meant everything to me. Even though I had changed it from CHEAP THRILLS (the original name of the piece since its inception in the 1970s. It's true, it's true...), I've never been able to fully commit to BURY ME NOT until I finished the bloody thing. The experience gave me a myriad of emotions. First of all, a sense of relief. It's been a long haul after all. This wasn't meant to be my life's work but here I am to finally tell the tale. So pride reared its grinning head next. I accomplished the, uh, unaccomplishable...or so I believed in my bleakest moments. Without puffing out my chest too much, something else entered my consciousness. Loneliness. Odd, isn't it? This story has been my constant companion and now that it's nearly over, I can't help but miss it. There's a gap where it used to be, hopefully to be fulfilled by taking the next necessary steps on this LONG Cherney Journey.

But make no mistake. I'm not delusional, at least I head to the Grand Finale. BURY ME NOT is not a book. It is a manuscript. When it is published, one way or the other, I can indeed deem it as such. Not until then, my friends. 

These words have both guided and haunted me since they first crossed my ears. 

"The dreams that possess you will blossom and bless you...or run you insane."-El Gavilan (The Hawk) written by Kris Kristofferson

TO BE CONTINUED 

More posts about the same damn thing:

FIRST DRAFT DODGER

THE GRATING AMERICAN NOVEL