Thor at the Bus Stop This review will be a little different than usual. I am reviewing a movie that hasn’t been released yet. And, I am also pitching the movie. All will be explained.
Thor at the Bus Stop is a local production. It was written, produced, filmed, edited . . . everything . . . here in Las Vegas. It is an off-beat, quirky little existential comedy about the God of Thunder (Thor) and his date with Ragnarök, in which he is destined to fight a really big snake, die, and usher in the end of the universe. We find him, as the movie opens, sitting at a bus stop somewhere in Summerlin (a suburb of Las Vegas for you out-of-towners), with an annoying little girl, trying to find a ride to his destiny. From then on we loosely follow Thor’s progress—or lack thereof—and the myriad odd but memorable characters which inhabit this contemporary fantasy. We are treated to—as the trailer says—Thunder Claps, Fruit Snacks, and the Power of Cool.
We meet Big Zed and L’il Ned, two petty thieves who specialize in lunch boxes, White Trash Chuck who wants to be good but is having a bad life, Passenger-seat Pete, who intends to slide through life with as little effort as possible, and several others. My two favorites are the wounded guy, who has a yield sign stuck in his chest throughout the movie, and someone known only as “Milk Strider”, who we see countless times, always hurrying, wearing boxers, a tee shirt and a robe, and carrying several gallons of milk. All will be revealed.
Several people are killed, including the annoying little girl who opens the film, and two cops are on the job, trying to find clues in the small mounds of ash which is all that’s left of them. Bernard Bernard, an apparently agency-less news man with a camera-slash-sound man, a van, and a satellite dish made out of cardboard, follows the cops, trying to beat them to the scoop. The eternal questions about life, relationships, the meaning of Cool, God, and why it’s so hard to find good medical help in an emergency, are all asked and answered—sort of. In the end, everyone learns something, and Thor accepts the inevitability of his fate, enters the cavern, and faces the serpent. I quite liked it, despite the obvious lack of a budget or any name-actors. I don’t think it has been rated, but I would give it a PG. There is no cussing (White Trash Chuck used to cuss until his little sister was born—he is obviously frustrated but trying hard), no sex or skin, and only one attempted, then aborted, murder. Cool Prevails. Any violence is off camera except for our petty thieves roughing up a few elementary school kids, and Thor killing a basketball standard and the Serpent of Midgard.
The music was done by local talent as well, by two groups, “A Crowd of Small Adventures” and “Hungry Cloud”. Both are fronted by Jackson Wilcox, who is credited with the soundtrack. (Jack is a cousin, my uncle’s grandson, but those of you who know me, know I have thousands of cousins.)
Now, here is why I am pitching it. My daughter’s boy friend and his brothers made the movie. Mike and Jerry Thompson wrote and directed it, G. Scott Thompson (the boyfriend) co-produced and plays Big Zed, and they all took part in the filming and editing. One of the brothers plays White Trash Chuck, and another is Thor. Even Chani, my daughter, has a two-second scene near the end. ( Hint—She is the reason for all the milk.) The movie has played at several film festivals, including Sundance, and won some acclaim. They managed to put together a week at the Brenden theaters here in town. (At the Palms Resort). The premier is September 25 (the day after Thorsday—get it?).
I highly recommend the film on its own merit. Beyond that, I think we should do what we can to support and encourage the arts in this valley. So I am inviting everyone to go see it that week. If enough people go, the stay will be extended, and we might start a phenomenon, like we did with Napoleon Dynamite. Take a friend or twelve, make an evening of it. If nothing else think of the awesome trivia questions you’ll be able to generate, and annoying quotes you can share with friends in the know!
Those of you who live out of town are welcome to come and stay with us for a day or two while you take in the movie.
Addendum: The film is out now. We went to the world premier here in Vegas. It was kind of a family reunion for the Thompson boys. It gets better every time I see it.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Thursday, September 17, 2009
IGM: Mary Travers
Inter-Galactic Memo
To: All Personnel
Fr: W. Leavitt
Re: Mary Travers
9-17-09
It is with a profound sense of loss and a quiet sense of personal satisfaction that I announce the death of Mary Travers. After a long and painful struggle with leukemia, she has finally won the battle at age 72. Loss because I will miss having her in the world, and satisfaction because of a life well-lived and one of the greatest gifts I have ever been given. The gift of music.
Many of you will not be familiar with Mary. She was the full-throated blonde in the folk trio, Peter Paul and Mary. They hit it big in the early sixties singing traditional folk songs, and then expanded their repertoire to include protest music, and uplifting songs about peace and love and stuff like that. They won five Grammys and maintained an active career well into the eighties, and accidently got rich. I have no idea how many albums they sold, but I have one or two of all of them. (And by album, I mean vinyl.)
I was probably fourteen or so when I first heard them, and they changed my life forever. Peter Paul and Mary remain the single biggest musical influence in my life. By the time I was in high school in the late sixties I was playing guitar and singing their songs, then jointly formed a trio (two guys and a girl) of my (our) own and we became PP&M clones. We eventually branched out a little and did Dylan (so did PP&M . . . so did everybody) and Donovan and other, less well know stuff—like the Sons of the Pioneers—including some of our own. We played the coffee house circuit between Baltimore and D.C. In some ways, that was the “best time of my life”, to quote Bryan Adams. It is difficult to describe the extent to which their music touched me, moved me, and still does today. Those beat-up, scratchy records are still the ones that get played the most, despite the size and breadth of my collection. My kids were all raised on folk music and classic rock and roll, but if you asked them, I think they would tell you the folk was their favorite when they were growing up. (Their kids have all been raised listening to Donovan’s “For Little Ones”, among others.) Their arrangements and harmonies, their passion and technical superiority affected me immensely, and informed my own brief career in the music business.
PP&M were socially conscious. They stood for principles. Not always shared by me, but they were sincere and consistent. They donated huge sums of money to causes and did nearly as many benefits as paying concerts. They were one of several acts who performed on the Mall in DC when MLK gave his famous “I have a dream” speech. It is one of the main disappointments of my life I never got to see them live, but in his later years Nita and I went to see Peter Yarrow at a small venue in Albuquerque. He was just out of prison for cavorting with under-aged groupies (he says they lied to him) but it was a great show. Now I never will.
Mary will be missed. Her oddly put-together face, the way she snapped her head and made her hair flop around when she wanted to emphasize something. Those bangs. That throaty, hard-driving voice of hers and her sense of humor. Late in their careers they made an album called Peter Paul and Mommy, a collection of tunes for children, which is an absolute gem. At one time I knew most of the songs on that album and wore out my guitar singing them to our kids and their friends.(“Daddy’s taking us to zoo tomorrow . . .”) In fact, doing some of those songs for my wife’s little nieces (Nita and I had just met) at dinner one night, was instrumental in her deciding to marry me.
Mary will never stop singing. One of the best things about technology is our being able to save—and savor—music and art into the eternities. Peter and Paul (Noel) will eventually die as well, sooner, later, who knows? And So will I. But until I do, I will be listening to their music, and, in that sense, keeping them alive forever.
To: All Personnel
Fr: W. Leavitt
Re: Mary Travers
9-17-09
It is with a profound sense of loss and a quiet sense of personal satisfaction that I announce the death of Mary Travers. After a long and painful struggle with leukemia, she has finally won the battle at age 72. Loss because I will miss having her in the world, and satisfaction because of a life well-lived and one of the greatest gifts I have ever been given. The gift of music.
Many of you will not be familiar with Mary. She was the full-throated blonde in the folk trio, Peter Paul and Mary. They hit it big in the early sixties singing traditional folk songs, and then expanded their repertoire to include protest music, and uplifting songs about peace and love and stuff like that. They won five Grammys and maintained an active career well into the eighties, and accidently got rich. I have no idea how many albums they sold, but I have one or two of all of them. (And by album, I mean vinyl.)
I was probably fourteen or so when I first heard them, and they changed my life forever. Peter Paul and Mary remain the single biggest musical influence in my life. By the time I was in high school in the late sixties I was playing guitar and singing their songs, then jointly formed a trio (two guys and a girl) of my (our) own and we became PP&M clones. We eventually branched out a little and did Dylan (so did PP&M . . . so did everybody) and Donovan and other, less well know stuff—like the Sons of the Pioneers—including some of our own. We played the coffee house circuit between Baltimore and D.C. In some ways, that was the “best time of my life”, to quote Bryan Adams. It is difficult to describe the extent to which their music touched me, moved me, and still does today. Those beat-up, scratchy records are still the ones that get played the most, despite the size and breadth of my collection. My kids were all raised on folk music and classic rock and roll, but if you asked them, I think they would tell you the folk was their favorite when they were growing up. (Their kids have all been raised listening to Donovan’s “For Little Ones”, among others.) Their arrangements and harmonies, their passion and technical superiority affected me immensely, and informed my own brief career in the music business.
PP&M were socially conscious. They stood for principles. Not always shared by me, but they were sincere and consistent. They donated huge sums of money to causes and did nearly as many benefits as paying concerts. They were one of several acts who performed on the Mall in DC when MLK gave his famous “I have a dream” speech. It is one of the main disappointments of my life I never got to see them live, but in his later years Nita and I went to see Peter Yarrow at a small venue in Albuquerque. He was just out of prison for cavorting with under-aged groupies (he says they lied to him) but it was a great show. Now I never will.
Mary will be missed. Her oddly put-together face, the way she snapped her head and made her hair flop around when she wanted to emphasize something. Those bangs. That throaty, hard-driving voice of hers and her sense of humor. Late in their careers they made an album called Peter Paul and Mommy, a collection of tunes for children, which is an absolute gem. At one time I knew most of the songs on that album and wore out my guitar singing them to our kids and their friends.(“Daddy’s taking us to zoo tomorrow . . .”) In fact, doing some of those songs for my wife’s little nieces (Nita and I had just met) at dinner one night, was instrumental in her deciding to marry me.
Mary will never stop singing. One of the best things about technology is our being able to save—and savor—music and art into the eternities. Peter and Paul (Noel) will eventually die as well, sooner, later, who knows? And So will I. But until I do, I will be listening to their music, and, in that sense, keeping them alive forever.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Movie Review: 9
9 Here is a strange movie. The advertizing made a big deal of it being a Tim Burton production, But a guy named Shane Acker directed it, and Shane and Pamela Pettler wrote it. I guess Tim fronted the money for it. This full-length feature is animated, but it is not a cartoon. It is directed at a specific audience, like all Burton movies.
The story is post-apocalyptic. A terrible war has been fought and there are no survivors, at least in the area where the story takes place. Several small, doll-like “creatures”, automatons, are all that is left and they have no clue what is going on. They find each other, have scary, dangerous adventures, and slowly follow clues that lead them to the discovery of who (what) they are, and how they came to be. Sort of. They were made by a scientist who was pessimistic about the survival of humanity. He built a device that was able to transfer parts of his soul to each of his nine, diminutive creations.
The movie is worth seeing because of the masterful animation and the over-all style of the production. It is engaging. One of the fascinating features is the technology extant in this imaginary world. It is very similar to the retro Sci-Fi sub-genre called Steampunk, which deals with fantastic inventions of a mechanical nature, as if revisiting Jules Vern. The little entities are very inventive, building weapons and armor and all kinds of devices out of the scraps and detritus of the just-ended war. The look and feel of the movie is wonderful. The characters are fairly-well developed within the limitations of the plot. There’s the usual tension, antagonism, rivalry and even redemption.
Ultimately, however, the story seems weak. We are thrown into the situation along with the Numbers, (the only identification of the characters.) And we never really find out much about what happened or what the fate of the little creatures might be. They are mechanical, imbued with some of the essence of a human, and that’s about all they, and we, know. Can they reproduce? Will they survive an obviously mega-hostile world? There are no real answers in this story. It starts and it ends.
The one great thing it has going for it is the cast. The voices are Christopher Plummer, Martin Landau, John C. Reilly, Crispin Glover, Jennifer Connelly, Elijah Wood, and several others.
It’s rated PG-13. I recommend it for Burton fans and precocious kids. Not for very young, or overly-sensitive children. People who go to movies for entertainment value only need not bother.
The story is post-apocalyptic. A terrible war has been fought and there are no survivors, at least in the area where the story takes place. Several small, doll-like “creatures”, automatons, are all that is left and they have no clue what is going on. They find each other, have scary, dangerous adventures, and slowly follow clues that lead them to the discovery of who (what) they are, and how they came to be. Sort of. They were made by a scientist who was pessimistic about the survival of humanity. He built a device that was able to transfer parts of his soul to each of his nine, diminutive creations.
The movie is worth seeing because of the masterful animation and the over-all style of the production. It is engaging. One of the fascinating features is the technology extant in this imaginary world. It is very similar to the retro Sci-Fi sub-genre called Steampunk, which deals with fantastic inventions of a mechanical nature, as if revisiting Jules Vern. The little entities are very inventive, building weapons and armor and all kinds of devices out of the scraps and detritus of the just-ended war. The look and feel of the movie is wonderful. The characters are fairly-well developed within the limitations of the plot. There’s the usual tension, antagonism, rivalry and even redemption.
Ultimately, however, the story seems weak. We are thrown into the situation along with the Numbers, (the only identification of the characters.) And we never really find out much about what happened or what the fate of the little creatures might be. They are mechanical, imbued with some of the essence of a human, and that’s about all they, and we, know. Can they reproduce? Will they survive an obviously mega-hostile world? There are no real answers in this story. It starts and it ends.
The one great thing it has going for it is the cast. The voices are Christopher Plummer, Martin Landau, John C. Reilly, Crispin Glover, Jennifer Connelly, Elijah Wood, and several others.
It’s rated PG-13. I recommend it for Burton fans and precocious kids. Not for very young, or overly-sensitive children. People who go to movies for entertainment value only need not bother.
Movie Review: INglorious Basterds
Inglorious Basterds I have a love-hate relationship with Quentin Tarantino. I’ve had it ever since I saw Reservoir Dogs, thought it was brilliant, and wished I hadn’t. I haven’t seen all his movies, the previews of a few of them were enough for me. And I wasn’t going to see this one either, but my daughter and her boyfriend (he’s a movie-maker) said it was awesome. And it is. Awesome, I mean. Terrible and awesome.
(In order to assuage my guilt at having to say anything positive about Tarantino’s work, I will add a negative qualifier to each positive adjective. Thus, this movie was perversely brilliant. See how that works?)
Hopefully, by now, no one goes to a Tarantino movie innocently. Either we know to stay away or we have seen Pulp Fiction and know, more or less, what to expect. This kind of movie finds its own audience and everyone else leaves them alone. You know who you are.
Inglorious Basterds is a WWII fantasy. It has nothing, as far as I know, to do with reality other than to borrow the time period and locations of the war. It stars Brad Pitt as an easy-going hick from Tennessee who is tasked to put together a commando group of American Jews, jump behind enemy lines and kill, torture, disfigure, disembowel, dismember, and whatever other dis they can think of, Nazis. Their job is to strike fear into the hearts of the rank-and-file German soldier, a task they succeed at with obsessive glee. There are a few other threads, stories, being woven flawlessly into the weave of the Basterds story, having to do with a punctilious and flamboyant—but ruthlessly efficient SS Colonel, a young Jewess he allows to escape her families massacre for sport, and an American double-agent who is a famous German actress plotting to destroy half the high-command at the Parisian premier of the Third Reich’s propaganda minister’s latest epic movie. (Nice sentence, right?)
Tarantino works the camera like the demented genius he is. He gets brilliant work from each of his actors. Pitt as the laconic “Apache” , Aldo Raine, and a wonderful Diane Kruger (National Treasure) as the German actress, Brigit Von Hammersmark, but the best performance is Christoph Waltz as the insidiously pleasant and urbane Colonel Landa, the amoral, vainglorious, and brilliantly efficient SS “Jew Hunter.” Watching Waltz create and imbue this character is worth the price of admission. Pitt does this bizarre and creepy-charming Brando-as-Don-Corleone-thing with his face in a few scenes that is fun to watch as well. Even the guy who plays Hitler is perfect. Everything is done to perfect detail, down to the use of German, French, and Italian, with subtitles where needed. Tarantino throws in those Chapter Headings (Kill Bill) he’s so fond of, and a few asides to introduce certain characters and let us know why they are important or just that Quentin apparently really likes this one or that one. He chooses music from his favorite era, the “Spaghetti Western”, a sub-genre the rest of us like to call “terrible movies.” (Don’t get me wrong . . . I love those movies too. It’s just that Quentin seems to worship them and wants to bring them to the level of masterpiece.) This one has lots of hi-reverb harmonica and guitar—music to kill by.
I doubt I would like Tarantino if I ever met him. I can only go by what I’ve seen in interviews on television and a few of his acting parts, but he seems to be on meth all the time. He is frenetic, nervous, hyper, talks to fast, and knows way to much about the movie industry and its history. And he knows how smart he is and seems to revel in it. I don’t think he uses the violence and gore for which he is infamous in a gratuitous fashion though. I think he really, truly, loves it. It’s what he grew up with and he wants to let everyone know how he feels about it. I think he’s one of those “if you’re going to shy away from the ugly stuff you don’t deserve the pretty stuff” kind of guys, but of course, that’s a lot of BS.
Okay, down to brass tacks. This movie is, as I said, absolutely, disturbingly, brilliant. If you do not want to see violence and gore (lots of Germans are scalped for example), and are not interested in a good deal of profane language, stay away from this, or any, Tarantino movie. If you know what you’re getting into, this is a good as Pulp Fiction, maybe better. As I said, it is sheer make-believe. I won’t give then ending away; suffice it to say it does not agree with history as we know it. As usual, it is Tarantino living out another adolescent fantasy. It is rated R and deserves every bit of that rating. Oddly, there is no sex and no skin. Nita would still have to be hospitalized after seeing it.
(In order to assuage my guilt at having to say anything positive about Tarantino’s work, I will add a negative qualifier to each positive adjective. Thus, this movie was perversely brilliant. See how that works?)
Hopefully, by now, no one goes to a Tarantino movie innocently. Either we know to stay away or we have seen Pulp Fiction and know, more or less, what to expect. This kind of movie finds its own audience and everyone else leaves them alone. You know who you are.
Inglorious Basterds is a WWII fantasy. It has nothing, as far as I know, to do with reality other than to borrow the time period and locations of the war. It stars Brad Pitt as an easy-going hick from Tennessee who is tasked to put together a commando group of American Jews, jump behind enemy lines and kill, torture, disfigure, disembowel, dismember, and whatever other dis they can think of, Nazis. Their job is to strike fear into the hearts of the rank-and-file German soldier, a task they succeed at with obsessive glee. There are a few other threads, stories, being woven flawlessly into the weave of the Basterds story, having to do with a punctilious and flamboyant—but ruthlessly efficient SS Colonel, a young Jewess he allows to escape her families massacre for sport, and an American double-agent who is a famous German actress plotting to destroy half the high-command at the Parisian premier of the Third Reich’s propaganda minister’s latest epic movie. (Nice sentence, right?)
Tarantino works the camera like the demented genius he is. He gets brilliant work from each of his actors. Pitt as the laconic “Apache” , Aldo Raine, and a wonderful Diane Kruger (National Treasure) as the German actress, Brigit Von Hammersmark, but the best performance is Christoph Waltz as the insidiously pleasant and urbane Colonel Landa, the amoral, vainglorious, and brilliantly efficient SS “Jew Hunter.” Watching Waltz create and imbue this character is worth the price of admission. Pitt does this bizarre and creepy-charming Brando-as-Don-Corleone-thing with his face in a few scenes that is fun to watch as well. Even the guy who plays Hitler is perfect. Everything is done to perfect detail, down to the use of German, French, and Italian, with subtitles where needed. Tarantino throws in those Chapter Headings (Kill Bill) he’s so fond of, and a few asides to introduce certain characters and let us know why they are important or just that Quentin apparently really likes this one or that one. He chooses music from his favorite era, the “Spaghetti Western”, a sub-genre the rest of us like to call “terrible movies.” (Don’t get me wrong . . . I love those movies too. It’s just that Quentin seems to worship them and wants to bring them to the level of masterpiece.) This one has lots of hi-reverb harmonica and guitar—music to kill by.
I doubt I would like Tarantino if I ever met him. I can only go by what I’ve seen in interviews on television and a few of his acting parts, but he seems to be on meth all the time. He is frenetic, nervous, hyper, talks to fast, and knows way to much about the movie industry and its history. And he knows how smart he is and seems to revel in it. I don’t think he uses the violence and gore for which he is infamous in a gratuitous fashion though. I think he really, truly, loves it. It’s what he grew up with and he wants to let everyone know how he feels about it. I think he’s one of those “if you’re going to shy away from the ugly stuff you don’t deserve the pretty stuff” kind of guys, but of course, that’s a lot of BS.
Okay, down to brass tacks. This movie is, as I said, absolutely, disturbingly, brilliant. If you do not want to see violence and gore (lots of Germans are scalped for example), and are not interested in a good deal of profane language, stay away from this, or any, Tarantino movie. If you know what you’re getting into, this is a good as Pulp Fiction, maybe better. As I said, it is sheer make-believe. I won’t give then ending away; suffice it to say it does not agree with history as we know it. As usual, it is Tarantino living out another adolescent fantasy. It is rated R and deserves every bit of that rating. Oddly, there is no sex and no skin. Nita would still have to be hospitalized after seeing it.
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