Cutting Both Ways

Ah, that fabled double edged sword swings again, slicing and dicing anything and everything in its path.

I don't post much about recent events on social media. Sure, I want my voice to be heard as much as anyone because I too am under the delusion that what I say matters and since I am beloved on-and-off-line, the world is waiting with bated breath for whatever brilliant bon mot I am about to present free of charge. But be sure to like me, love me, send me a virtual hug from your adorable emoji of choice. But for Odin's sake, don't challenge me or my valued opinions in any way, shape or form because I won't engage you in a spirited debate, at least not in an reasonable span of time.

You see, I usually get online before work, not spending more than a half-hour total. If I were to post some comment stating "Trump is going to have us all killed his first year in office" or "Hillary should be led away in chains", it is bound  to get a reply that I won't be able to answer for at least nine hours. I'd get "You liberal morons are all alike" or "St. Hillary will save us all", then when I answer with "Go fuck your mother" or something else just as pithy when the sun goes down, the piss has been totally taken out of it and render the entire enterprise moot.

(Hey, wait a second. I might be on to something.)

But honestly, kiddies, this hit and run tactic, if I were to engage in it, reeks of cowardice, the kind that the Internet perpetuates on a regular basis. That is, of course, if I didn't respond at all. And if and when I do, the chances for a civil discussion on any potentially touchy subject in any of these forums are slim, fat and no. It's an increasingly niche society and we're all breaking off into our like-minded groups, ready to jump down the throat of any dissenter with an even slightly different point of view. But anyone who agrees with me can sit at the cool kids' table anytime they want. C'est la guerre.

On the other hand (or blade), I haven't said anything lately because I don't know where to start and have this sinking feeling how it's going to end. Not to get all FDR here, chillun, but fear is one of the main problems if not the core to the whole shooting match (morbid pun intended). Fear is a crippler. it closes your eyes, your ears, your voice and your mind. It weakens you to the point where you can do nothing at all. You wait for it all to blow over like a bad storm, only it not going to go away, is it? It keeps returning again and again, worsening with each cycle. Soon you won't be able to hide any longer and when it's time to finally cry out for help there won't be anyone to hear you. This fear of what-each other? The outside world?  No. Our own shadows will do us in and there ain't a dang thing you do about it because it'll too late, baby. 

Then there's the guilt factor, too. If I don't comment about Orlando or Dallas or whatever wretched man-made disaster has occurred in the world, I feel like a wimp for not speaking up. The same goes for the fallout every blithering idiot feels compelled to share with the masses, which is generally the case of preaching to the choir, rousing the rabble into the ugly mob it most certainly is. But at least I get to learn a few fun facts along the way. Thanks, everyone, for schooling me that the AR in AR-15 doesn't stand for assault or automatic rifle. It does stands for something the public shouldn't be allowed to own. Like a bazooka. Might be fun to shoot, but I don't want my neighbor to wield one on the Fourth. I've held my tongue-or typing finger-about this sewage dump known as an election season because the bile I would hork up from the pits of my soul will damage my keyboard. But if I lay down some plastic, I will. Black lives matter. Blue lives matter. Let's face it. We're all black and blue from the pummeling this world gives us on a continuing basis since we've forgotten or never learned to defend ourselves.

(So what exactly is the thrust here, Cherney? You're going back and forth like a crackhead's racquetball tournament.)

I suppose I want to direct this to those extreme Facebook friends o' mine who run the gamut from soup to nuts. I've got God-fearin', gun-lovin', raw meat eatin' conservatives on one side, red diaper doper baby liberals on another, crazed conspiracy theorists so far on the left they make Abbie Hoffman look like Roger Ailes over to one side and survivalist snickerdoodles who are waiting for instructions to attack from the Big Giant Head  bringing up the rear. (Diversity. It's what for dinner.) I try to respect everyone's opinion and not delete them entirely because I disagree with any given post not matter how insipid, offensive or out and out motherfucking stupid I find it to be. This is nothing more than passive aggressive culling on this increasingly Anti-Social Network. But not responding to your nonsense isn't helping either. I'm going to start calling you on your bullshit. You see, I have a mouth and I must scream. Of course, these will only be my opinions too. And if you call me on my crap which will be expected  since I can jerk a knee with the worst of them, it may take awhile before I reply. You'll have to be patient. Or you can be the answer to the age-old question, "How do you keep an asshole in suspense?"

Excuse me now. I've got a sword to sharpen, both sides now. Hope I don't cut myself in the process. But even if I do, let it bleed.

The Cinema of My Mind's Eye

On the occasion of the publication of the Special Edition of In the Dark: A Life and Times in a Movie Theater, I offer the following, a piece that says a lot about me and the inner workings of my cinematic mind.

Most people have a memory bank. Some unfortunate souls, merely a savings and loan. But me, I have something entirely different sitting inside of my skull and that would be a movie theater.

It’s certainly not one of those generic multiplexes that are so prevalent, they have become the standard of how we view film in today’s world. They aren’t theaters so much that they are just screening rooms, stacked together like so many shoeboxes. What kind of nostalgic memories will those conjure up for future generations? You might as well get all warm and fuzzy for a parking garage.

Not for me.

My internal cinema is an ornate structure from an era before my very own, a time when attending the movies was so special, they were shown in a palace. The huge marquee out front, over lighted in all of its bombastic neon glory announces the current attraction in typical Hollywood hyperbolic fashion. The art deco lobby is trimmed all in gold, including the staircase to the fabled and forbidden Loge section where the really good seats are. The concession stand is not ostentatious, almost a footnote rather than the lobby’s primary focus. It sells treats that can only be purchased in a movie theater like Raisinettes and ice cream Bon Bons.

Inside the slightly darkened auditorium, the air is always cool, no matter what the time of year. Illuminated by black lights on each wall are identical day-glo murals of a wild white stallion in full gallop, ridden by who appears to be the Greek goddess Athena, flying back to Mount Olympus after an all-nighter at Bacchus’ place. The intermission music, set at an appropriately low volume, contains classic motion picture soundtrack music by such composers as Max Steiner, Dmitri Tiomkin and Miklos Rozsa. The massively wide screen is draped over by a majestic burgundy colored velvet curtain.

While the seating capacity of the auditorium can easily accommodate several hundred, there is always an audience of just one. That would be me, sitting smack dab in the middle with my feet up on the seats in front of me, thank you very much. I’ve got the place all to myself ‘cuz that’s the way, uh-huh, uh-huh, I like it.

Now playing in the Cinema of My Mind’s Eye are not only recollections of what I’ve seen on the Silver Screen in my lifetime, but also the life and time I’ve spent doing so. As the years pass, so goes the memory, yet I still retain near-total recall of my tenure as a movie patron. Give me a title. I can tell you if/where/when I saw it, who (if anyone) I was with and how I was feeling at the time. “Going to the show”, as we used to call it, was a very special time for me. It formed the nucleus of this passion I have for an art form that has enriched my spirit and consistently given me great joy over the years.

This passion in question has manifested itself into an obsession to be sure. It’s harmless, but not entirely healthy either. Maybe the hermit-like existence I’ve spent at the movies has been instrumental in the creation of the oddball I am today, one whose quirks, phobias and eccentricities can be easily traced back to way too much time spent in a celluloid trance and not nearly enough human interaction.

My belief system is cockeyed as well to be sure. Film, after all, is my religion and a theater is my church. For me, attending a film is not unlike attending Mass, except with Coming Attractions. (Your theological debate begins here) With very few exceptions, I prefer to fly solo in my own particular pew so I may worship in peace. If I had my druthers, I would actually watch movies Elvis Presley style. Big E would rent out a theater after hours for private showings and insist that any guest he invited act accordingly. Keep your yap shut. I’m tryin’ to watch a movie here. You don’t like it? Lump it, Jack. Hit the road and don’t step on my blue suede shoes.

You could say that mine has been a life of too much viewing and not enough doing. If that’s a crime, it’s victimless because the only person that could possibly have been hurt is yours truly. If I’ve wasted my time on Earth by going to the picture show, at least I’ve been entertained in the process.

As far as the theater inside my brainpan, I guess, for lack of a better term, you could call it my Happy Place. (Normally, I would send anyone using that particular phrase to a Sad Place by way of the back of my hand. But, I’m unable to perform that task upon myself. The angle is all wrong.) Safe Haven might be more apropos, but doesn’t that sound more like a halfway house? How about Sanctuary? How about who cares? Whatever name or label you want to slap on it means nothing to me. All I know is that when I am there, I find solace.

I am one of those who Norma Desmond referred to in Sunset Boulevard as “one of the wonderful little people in the dark”. In that darkness, I have found enlightenment. Sure, I know it comes from the lamp of a motion picture projector, but it would be unfair to call it artificial. How is that possible when that light can recreate dreams? My dreams. My past. My present. My future.

As I close my eyes, I open my mind into the theater inside of my head. I sit listening to the final moments of Ernest Gold’s “Theme from Exodus” and I smile at Athena’s ascension to the heavens. The lights begin to fade and the curtain starts to rise. Suddenly, I am basking in the glow of the illuminated screen. It is then that I realize that the world-THIS world-is mine, all mine.

Copyright 2011 by Scott Cherney

In the Dark (Special Edition) is now available at Amazon.com in paperback and Kindle

Face/Off at Facebook or What the F Am I Doing here?

Yes, another Carrie Bradshaw title. I am a hack.

So I'm doing the Facebook thing. I figured it was time, but then again, that's also the problem.

Time.

Between searching for friends, receiving friend requests, approving said friend requests, sending messages to my friends, who the hell has time for anything else? It took me forever just to set the dang thing up with a few photos. But some people sit on this site all the ding-dong day and take surveys, send virtual rounds of drinks...and what the name of Mark Zuckerburg does "poking" mean?

Honest to Jehovah, it wears me out.

So anyway, I'm on Facebook. Wanna be my friend?

https://www.facebook.com/writtenbyscottcherney

David Carradine's sudden death took the world by surprise, but then again so did his life. His demise, rumored to be of the Michael Hutchence variety, has been the subject of many a blog, gossip rag and site, not to mention those merry pranksters on radio and TV that feel compelled to fill their airtime with anytime except substance.

Carradine had built an impressive abundance of credits over the years, rivalling his father, John, in the low-budget department. But leave us not forget, David was also an Academy Award Best Actor nominee for his role of Woody Guthrie in Hal Ashby's BOUND FOR GLORY.Naturally, his iconic role of Caine in KUNG FU will be at the top of his legacy, but there are other landmarks in his canon as well. His take on Cole Younger in Walter Hill's brilliant western THE LONG RIDERS fit him like a glove, the only film he appeared with brothers Keith and Robert. In 1975, Carradine starred as a character called Frankenstein in the sensational satire DEATH RACE 2000 for Roger Corman's studio. And naturally, his most recent rebirth courtesy of Quentin Tarantino as the title character in KILL BILL.

But one Carradine film that has been omitted from his obits really deserves to be revived, the kung fu fantasy CIRCLE OF IRON from 1978. In 1969, Bruce Lee and James Coburn conceived the screen story for IRON (originally titled THE SILENT FLUTE) with the full intention of starring in it themselves. This is a few years before Lee's ascension as a major star in Hong Kong films, so the project was an uphill battle at best. The project remained on the shelf long after Lee's death in 1973. Oscar winning screenwriter Sterling Silliphant (IN THE HEAT OF THE NIGHT) devised a workable screenplay and David Carradine, capitalizing on his KUNG FU fame, took over Lee's quadruple play.

CIRCLE OF IRON is almost a greatest hits package of Zen parables.Sample dialogue:
BLIND MAN: A fish saved my life once.
CORD: How?
BLIND MAN: I ate him.

I love this kind of stuff.

It contains some very decent fight sequences attached, wrapped in a serviceable story about the quest for the Book of Knowledge. Directed by cinematographer Richard Moore in his one and stint in the captain's chair, handles the whole package with a light, but deft touch. And Carradine plays each of his characters in his easy, laconic-and iconic-style. CIRCLE OF IRON is a fine testament to the man, the legend, now the salacious rumor.

Now that the dust has settled, maybe now we can remember Carradine for something other than the weirdo way his life ended and get back to more serious discussion.

Like what?
Like the fact that Jon and Kate are separating! Yay!

Frankly I smell a rat. (Maybe it's under Kate's hairdo. What the hell is that thing anyway? Didn't Brad Pitt wear a similar helmet in TROY?) I have a feeling it's all a set up. They saw how big the ratings were for these "troubled relationship" shows of theirs, the biggest in TLC history. (Shame on them and anyone who watched them. That's right. Shame. Remember that feeling?) The next set of shows will be them living separate lives and how they deal with the kids which will all culminate in their reconciliation., resulting in even bigger ratings for these boorish freaks.

And the kids? Maybe they'll get their own spin-off series, one for each kid. I hope it involves therapy...or even foster parents. They can go live with The Duggars. They need eight more kids. That'll put 'em in well into the twenties.

What a world.